by Marian Keyes
He lifts me and I pull my legs around his waist, pressing his hardness right against the part of me that wants him most. The relief and longing makes me groan.
‘The bed,’ I order.
He lays me down and lifts my dress to take off my knickers. ‘Lie on me,’ I say. ‘I need to feel the weight of you on top of me.’
He slides himself along me, pressing his erection against my pubic bone, making me groan again.
‘Has he moved out?’ He means Hugh.
‘You know he has.’ Josh and I have talked almost every day since Serbia.
‘Has he been back to the house since?’
‘You know he has.’ I’m opening his jeans and taking him in my hands, such soft, delicate skin covering such promising hardness. ‘I have to smell you.’ I roll him off me and bury my face in his musky heat – but there’s something else, a faint scent of lemon. ‘Hey, Josh, on Tuesdays, don’t have a shower.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you smell so good and I don’t want shower gel in the mix.’
‘Stop changing the subject – how often has Hugh been over?’
Most days. Picking up his clothes, seeing Kiara and Sofie, there are a hundred legitimate reasons he needs to drop by. ‘Josh, don’t talk about him.’
‘Why? Got something to hide?’
‘Please, Josh. My time with you is so precious, please let’s just …’
‘You’re serious.’ He’s pleased.
I am. This night with Josh has been the only bright spot on the horizon for the past twelve days. Being at home has been tough going: Hugh showing up, looking stunned with grief; Kiara angry and tearful; Neeve seething with suspicion; Sofie blithely – bizarrely – upbeat.
As for me, I can’t contain my sorrow. I keep trying to box it away but it persists in leaking out and, in moments of horrible pain, breaking the surface.
The trigger is the frequency of Hugh’s visits. Carl and Chizo’s house is only a fifteen-minute drive from ours. In addition, Chizo hasn’t let Hugh move all his stuff into theirs, so he often has to call into mine to get things.
In his defence he’s doing nothing wrong. Like, he swung an unexpected meeting with the bank to discuss remortgaging the studio he co-owned with Carl and needed to call in to pick up his lone suit. Or Sofie wanted his insight into a physics conundrum for school.
Even I’ve been complicit. On Saturday night a fuse blew, plunging us into darkness. Flicking countless switches while holding a wobbling torch didn’t restore power. So when Sofie said, ‘We could always call Dad,’ I didn’t take much persuading.
He was over in a quarter of an hour, and after he’d found the right fuse, I offered him a beer.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said.
As soon as he opened the fridge, there was a time-slip in my head and, for a split second, I forgot that this was now. I thought I was back then, when life was settled and comfortable and a little dull, when Hugh was my husband and we all lived together, mostly happily, even if that happiness was rarely noticed.
For a sliver of time, that safety-net feeling filled me and shifted my entire sense of myself on this earth: I was secure, I was safe, I belonged and I was carried. Then I remembered and all was confusion until I crash-landed into hard, cold reality. These time-slips and the consequent feelings of loss, like falling into an abyss, keep happening – they’re probably happening to all five of us.
Clean breaks suit me better. Constant contact with Hugh is keeping the ground beneath my feet perpetually shifting, and if it wasn’t for the girls, I’d make it my business never to see him.
But the girls are the most important people in this.
All I can do is ask myself to live through it, one day at a time, and at some stage it will become easier. The weirdest, most painful situations eventually become normal.
‘So,’ Josh asks, with a smirk, ‘how did you like our FaceTime sex?’
I swallow. ‘Oh, my God, the hottest …’
It was probably the most thrilling, exciting sex I’ve ever had in my entire life. We’d done it on New Year’s Eve – Josh was alone in his house, I was alone in mine, and I saw in the new year watching Josh do … that to himself. Even thinking about it starts my blood pounding in my veins, and sets off a throbbing in me that needs immediate attention.
‘We could do it again,’ he says. ‘You know, during the week …’
‘No. And you know why not. I won’t do it with Marcia in your house.’
‘I could ask her to leave.’
I roll over and face him. ‘Don’t ever do any such thing.’ I’m fierce. ‘I can just about cope with my guilt the way things are. Don’t push it.’
99
Wednesday, 11 January
I fly home from London. Thursday passes, as does Friday, then the weekend and next thing it’s Monday again. The time is passing. Yes, agonizingly slowly. But we’re more than halfway through January. It is happening.
In the office on Monday afternoon, Alastair keeps hitting Refresh, hoping for Neeve’s latest vlog because he has ‘a feeling’ that it features Mum.
And, sure enough, it does!
‘How did you know?’ I’m suspicious.
‘Intuition.’ He shrugs, then freezes in the act. ‘Jesus Christ, I think she’s getting inked!’
‘What?’
‘A tattoo!’
‘My mother?’ I hurry to Alastair’s screen, as do Tim and Thamy. It looks like Alastair is right.
Mum reclines in a chair and a woman – riddled with piercings and inkings – is poised over her, holding a needle.
‘So you’re ready for the pain, Lilian?’ the tattooist – her name is Micki – asks.
‘How sore can it be?’ Mum asks.
‘Yeeeesh,’ Neeve says, off camera.
‘Try childbirth if you want to talk to me about pain.’ Then Mum adds anxiously, ‘I don’t mean actually try it. Never have children, Neevey. They ruin your life.’ Mum looks directly at the camera. ‘No offence to my own five.’
Alastair, Tim and Thamy crease up laughing.
‘I’m not having kids.’ Neeve sounds scornful. ‘But seriously, Granny, being inked can really hurt.’
‘But you’re giving me the anaesthetic spray? And we can take breaks?’
‘Wow,’ Alastair says. ‘Locmof is my hero. Inkings are torture.’
‘What have you?’ Thamy asks.
‘Let me guess,’ I interrupt. ‘Some Sanskrit shite across your lower back that you think means, “The greatest generosity is non-attachment”, but actually says, “2 for 1 on the family bags of marshmallows”.’
‘Feck off,’ he says, while I howl laughing.
‘Shut it.’ Tim is serious. ‘We’re watching this!’
‘Sorry.’ I make my face solemn but quickly I mouth, ‘Marshmallows,’ at Alastair and he mouths back, ‘I hate you.’
On screen, Micki is asking, ‘Why do you want a Lapras?’
‘I was playing Pokémon Go with my grandsons over Christmas –’
‘Was she?’ Tim asks.
Actually, I haven’t a clue. I was so deep in Hugh’s shock return, then off on my jaunt to Serbia, that Mum playing Pokémon Go with my nephews entirely passed me by.
‘I got a bit addicted,’ Mum says.
‘Wow. Like, wow.’ Micki is having her ageist assumptions challenged. ‘So Lapras is your favourite?’
‘No, Lapras is super-rare –’
‘Super-rare!’ Alastair yelps. ‘She’s too cute!’
‘Would you shush!’ Tim says.
‘We never managed to catch one.’
‘And you want a tattoo so your grandsons can “catch” it?’
‘I do not! I want it to annoy them! To rub their noses in their failure.’
At this, everyone – Micki, Neeve, me, Alastair, Tim and Thamy – erupts into mirth.
‘They treated me like some – some moron but I caught more than them. Wait, can I say that bit again, Neeve? Edit out the first
line. I totally caught more than them.’
More convulsions from me and my colleagues.
‘She didn’t edit it out,’ Thamy says.
That’s because Neeve is no fool and knows what appeals to people.
‘Oh-kaaay,’ Micki says. ‘And you’re totally sure you want it just above your wrist? Because if you, like, change your mind, it’s gonna be hard to cover.’
‘I’m certain,’ Mum says. ‘The blue part of the Lapras is the same colour as my favourite cardigan and it’ll save me wearing a bracelet.’
The rest of the video doesn’t dwell on the nitty-gritty. Now and again, a sweaty-with-pain Mum takes a break and speaks to the camera. ‘It hurts but it’s not as bad as labour, and at least at the end I’ll have something I actually want and not a baby.’
She winks and Alastair murmurs, ‘I’m in love.’
They fast-forward to the finish and a big plaster covers the inked area, then jump ten days to the big reveal, when the plaster is removed. And there’s my mum, with a tattoo of a Pokémon Go character on her arm.
‘No matter what anyone says,’ she says, with a wicked smile, ‘if you want to do something, it’s never too late.’
And there it ends.
‘Don’t be over,’ Alastair says sadly.
‘That’s her best vlog yet,’ Tim says, as we all drift reluctantly back to our desks.
‘Did you know about this?’ Thamy asks.
‘There’s a lot going on for me right now.’ I feel defensive.
Last Friday, at the weekly dinner, Mum probably had the plaster covered with her sleeve. But even if she hadn’t, like I say, I probably wouldn’t have noticed.
I try to resume work, but my concentration is patchy. It has been since the start of the year. I really want to get a handle on it – everything in my life is so uncertain that I must retain control over my income. But it’s hard, the connections in my head just won’t happen, the ideas won’t come …
‘Amy!’ Alastair yelps, startling me from my introspection. ‘Come and look!’
‘What the hell? You scared me!’
‘You’ll like this.’
It’s guardian.com, the caption is ‘InstaGranny’ and there’s a fuzzy shot of Mum from the video.
An Irish grandmother, who’s been making guest appearances on her granddaughter’s YouTube channel Bitch, Please, has become the latest unlikely YouTube star. Lilian O’Connell’s most recent post, where she gets inked with a Pokémon Go figure, has been viewed forty thousand times since it went live earlier today.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I say and look at Alastair. ‘This is … It’s mental!’
‘I told you she was special,’ he says.
‘I feel bad for Neeve. She’s been slogging away at Bitch, Please for more than a year, then her granny pops in a couple of times and the whole thing takes off.’
‘But it was Neeve’s idea to include Locmof. Props for that. And traffic is traffic. Either way, Neeve will benefit from this. More ad revenue, more product placement …’
‘Alastair!’ I clutch his arm. ‘Imagine if she could afford a place of her own to live!’
‘Wouldn’t you miss her?’
‘Yes … yes. But she can’t keep living with me for ever.’
100
On the way home I buy a bottle of Prosecco – dry January be damned – to celebrate Neeve’s vlog going viral. But Neeve doesn’t come home, and both Sofie and Kiara are in swotty mode and don’t want any. For a moment I contemplate opening the bottle anyway, but there’s a danger I might drink it all by myself. So I summon the willpower from the soles of my feet and manage to stick it at the back of the fridge. It’ll do for another time.
I’m upstairs, desultorily flinging things into my wheely case, when the doorbell rings. I flinch. Please, God, don’t let it be Hugh.
Down I go and, to my great surprise, it’s Steevie who’s standing on my doorstep. I goggle at her. She looks exactly as she always does: same little pixie face, same excellent haircut, same wantable coat. She’s the last person I expect to see on this miserable sleety Monday evening.
‘Oh!’ I’m stunned almost into silence. ‘… hi.’
‘Amy, I’m sorry.’ She sounds close to tears.
‘Aaah.’ I’m not sure I’m able for her. I feel exhausted. I seem to be tired all the time. ‘Um … come in.’
We go to the kitchen where I open a bottle of wine. Not the Prosecco, she doesn’t deserve that. But tea won’t do either, not for this.
She slides her coat on to the back of her chair, then squares her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, Amy,’ she repeats.
In the absence of knowing what to do, I take a hefty swig from my glass. Christ, that’s nice.
‘When Hugh went away.’ Steevie sounds like she’s rehearsed this. I have to admit I’m touched. She swallows about half of her wine and starts again. ‘When Hugh went, the way I’d felt when Lee first left, those feelings came flooding back, and it sent me a bit mental.’
I nod.
‘It felt good not being the only one to be humiliated. But when you wouldn’t bitch about him, I felt … I’m sorry, Amy, I felt betrayed.’
I remember now how I’d wanted Hugh’s dick to turn green and drop off after I’d seen those photos on Facebook. But all that rage had dissipated – right around the time I starting doing the sexing with Josh. I don’t want to tell Steevie any of this. Not yet. We’ve been friends for a long time and I hate being on the outs with her. It took a lot of guts for her to show up here without advance warning but I can’t forget that she ghosted me for two months, defriended me and turned Jana against me.
‘So he’s back?’ she says.
‘We’re not together.’
‘But, like, what are you planning?’
I’m confused. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Key his car? Cut one leg off all his trousers?’
‘Ah …’ Is this a joke?
‘I heard a really good one!’ She’s suddenly animated. ‘This woman caught her husband cheating and threw every left shoe he owned into the Thames. And he, like, loved his shoes – he collected Nikes. So he was left with dozens of single trainers that were no good to him.’
I have a think. ‘I could do something with his music collection, maybe snap all of his vinyl records in half.’
‘He’s so precious about his vinyl, right?’ Now she’s laughing. ‘He’d hate that. And you need to YouTube it.’
‘Of course!’
‘We could have a party.’ She leans towards me, her eyes sparkling. God, I’ve missed this – I’ve missed her, she’s so much fun. ‘We could get Jana over. Not Tasha or Mo. I’m so sorry about that lunch. But good women. Petra. Derry. How about it? Friday? This coming Friday night?’
I can’t quite get a handle on her tone, but she’s got her phone out and starts texting.
‘What time should I tell them?’ she asks.
‘Are you, like, serious, Steevie?’
‘Yes.’ She’s surprised, and disappointment slides from my heart.
Steevie realizes that we’ve misunderstood each other. ‘But, Amy,’ she sounds almost angry, ‘you can’t do nothing. You’ve to punish Hugh.’
That’s not what I want. I just want never to see him again. But because Steevie and I have been friends for so long, I offer, ‘Well, I hit him a few times. Would that do?’
With a short laugh, she says, ‘Got to be lots worse than that. He cheated, so you punish. Then you can take him back with your self-respect intact.’
‘That’s not happening.’
‘Stop, Amy. You can be honest with me. I hear he wants you back.’
I bump over the discomfort of knowing people are talking about my marriage. ‘Me and Hugh are done.’
She goes white with surprise.
After a few moments, I try to lighten the mood. ‘Do people really do that stuff to cheating men? Cutting off their bollocks and nailing them to a lamppost? Planting prawns in the curtain poles of thei
r new bachelor shag-pad?’
She makes a cute-funny face. ‘Ladies be cray when their man stray.’
‘I’m not cray.’
‘Why not?’ She’s confused.
‘Sad is what I feel.’
After a long, long pause, she says, ‘You’re too passive.’
‘I will never get back with him. That’s hardly passive.’
We eye each other warily. Neither of us knows what to say – which feels strange and tragic.
‘So, listen.’ She stands up and puts her coat on. ‘It’s good to see you. But Monday night, you know, work tomorrow, better head, loads to do, see you soon, yeah?’
‘Um … Soon. For sure.’
We give each other an uncomfortable half-hug and Steevie darts out into the cold dark night.
I’m not sure what happened there except that, once again, she thinks I’ve let her down.
Her unexpected arrival had given me hope that I wouldn’t be quite as alone as I have been. Now, as she scoots off as fast as she can, I understand that Steevie won’t be plugging any gaps in me, and I feel bereft.
Instantly I flick through everything good I can think of –KiaraWineDerryFoodSofieNeeveNewShoes – to try to make the loneliness go away and nothing works. Then I think of Josh and it’s like the sun has come out. I’ll see him tomorrow night. I give thanks for Tuesday nights. As long as I have them, I can keep going.
101
Tuesday, 17 January
‘Josh, tell me about your movie scripts.’
We’re lying in bed, wrapped tightly around each other, and I feel him tense up. He pauses before he answers. ‘That’s all in the past.’
I’ve tried a couple of times in the previous weeks and he’s shut me down, but I know it’s an important part of him. ‘Tell me anyway.’
After another taut silence, he mumbles, ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘I want to know about you. Everything.’
‘I hate talking about it.’
‘Why?’
Another stretch of nothing. Then, ‘At twenty-one, I thought I was so talented and, you know, original, that it was all mine for the taking. I didn’t realize that everyone is arrogant and clueless at that age. But my talent was nothing like as big as my self-belief.’
