by Marian Keyes
But I don’t love Josh, and Josh – despite whatever he might be telling himself – doesn’t love me. I suspect I’m being played and in ways I don’t understand. All I know for sure is that I don’t want it to be over because without Josh I have nothing. Actually, that’s not true and I feel guilty for even thinking it – I have Neeve, Sofie, Kiara, Mum, Pop, Derry, even Alastair …
I look at my phone. It’s ten to five. ‘I’m calling it a day,’ I say. ‘It’s Friday after all.’ I switch off my computer, put on my coat, then squint at Alastair. ‘What will you do if you don’t have a girlfriend by Valentine’s Day?’ I’m curious.
He shrugs. ‘She may not be the woman of my dreams but I could probably scare up somebody.’
With undeniable affection, I say, ‘I despise you.’
‘And I love you. Although not in that way. Have a nice weekend.’
Well, that would be wonderful. I can but hope.
However, when I get to Mum and Pop’s, I discover that Sofie, Jackson and Kiara have hatched plans to go to the cinema club on Sunday night – with Hugh!
‘Why don’t you come too, Mum?’ Kiara says. (Kiara, after her initial suspicion that a freshly returned Hugh was going to be making overtures to every woman in Dublin, has warmed to him again.)
‘Do, Amy.’ Jackson is all smiles.
‘Ah, do,’ Sofie says.
Goggle-eyed, I stare at them. Are they insane? I don’t want to spend any time with Hugh. Like, never. Every time our paths cross – when he picks the girls up or delivers them home again – I can hardly breathe from the assault of my emotions. All that out-of-control sorrow, jealousy, rage, guilt …
But to go to the cinema club – I can’t think of anything worse! I haven’t been there in ages, not since before Hugh came back, and I’ve no plans ever to go again. It’s the place where I feel most exposed and most judged. Too many ‘friends’ of mine go there. And to show up with Hugh, to masquerade as a happy family, to know that everyone is speculating about us would be too shaming.
All these thoughts explode in my head as Sofie, Kiara and Jackson smile encouragingly at me.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Um. No. It’s okay. I don’t want to. No.’
Such a clamour of objections breaks out – ‘Ah, Mu-um!’ And ‘Oh, Aaa-mee!’ – that I have to leave the room, go upstairs and wait for the high water of feelings to abate.
As a result, every second of Saturday and Sunday is infused with a type of angry dread. I don’t want all those bitches – Genevieve Payne and her ilk – checking out Hugh.
Maybe it won’t happen, though. Maybe Hugh will realize what a bad idea it is.
But at four thirty on the dot on Sunday, he arrives to pick up Sofie, Kiara and Jackson. It hurts terribly to see how handsome he’s looking. He’d always been burly, which I’d loved, but every time I see him these days he’s slightly thinner. He’s now at the stage where his clothes are noticeably looser; any woman’s nurturing instincts would be alerted. It’s even happening to me. I want to hold his body and comfort him, sit him down in my kitchen and feed him.
‘Sure we can’t persuade you?’ His tone is gentle.
‘Quite sure,’ I mutter.
Sofie, Kiara and Jackson troop down the stairs and out of the house. I close the front door behind them. But as soon as the car has gone, I open it again and slam it with all my might, then sit on the stairs and sob hot, angry tears. They mutate into howls of sorrow because the stupid, mortifyingly middle-class cinema club had represented something rare and precious. It was the one part of my life where the people I love the most came together harmoniously – Hugh, me, the three girls, even Jackson.
If I look back over my life I can honestly say I’ve never been as happy as I have been in Pizza Express on some random Sunday evening after seeing a very odd Iranian film.
Separation, then divorce … It really is one of the hardest things any person will ever go through. Well, maybe not everyone. Other people fall out of love gradually and in perfect synchronicity, so by the time they realize it’s all over, both of their landings are super-soft and they’re able to be friends.
Hugh and I, though, it’s different. We were so tightly bonded and our sundering has been shocking and brutal. His departure was too sudden; the wrench was ragged and rough. We’ve been pulled apart as carelessly as someone tearing off a piece of baguette. The destruction couldn’t have been cruder and I am raw.
But one day I won’t be, I remind myself. Even if it doesn’t feel like it, I’m already healing because every second that passes is bringing me closer to a new normality. One day I’ll be in the middle of something and I’ll suddenly see that I’m happy and everything will be okay.
It will come. I just need to be patient.
107
Tuesday, 7 February
‘Fuck me, Josh, harder!’
He duly slams into me with more force. I moan and thrash about a bit on the hotel bed … but something’s wrong.
I don’t want to be doing this. I actually hadn’t wanted any of it – being yanked into the room, discovering Josh already undressed and naked, having my knickers whipped off, lowering myself on to him, moving with deliberate calculation on top of him, listening to him plead for me to remove my shirt and dispassionately watching his face as he disappeared inside his climax.
It’s just what we always do, he hoicks me inside and we start tearing into each other, but if it hadn’t been so habitual, I wouldn’t have done any of it, not today.
Instead we should have talked. Too many serious considerations erupted last week and it was a mistake to think we could sex our way past them.
I’m not going to come. I just want it to stop. He’s behind me, going for it hammer and tongs, and I wonder if I should fake it.
But faking it is the worst, it’s a violation of intimacy and I haven’t done it in literally decades, not since I was with the nice-but-dull single dad from Neeve’s crèche, back in the day.
Also, I haven’t the energy to fake it.
However, if I don’t come, it’s a line in the sand. Josh will take it personally.
But something worse seems to be happening … For a moment I think I’ve imagined it, then I feel it again, the floppiness, the lack of control, he keeps thrusting but he’s slowing and I’m not stupid enough to rub it in with another yelp of Fuck me harder.
Then he exclaims in frustration and my heart sinks like a stone.
It’s gone. It’s over. His weight lifts off me and angrily he disappears into the bathroom. When he comes back and climbs under the covers, he won’t meet my eyes.
I say nothing. Josh is not a man you discuss that kind of masculinity fail with.
‘Do you want me to …?’
‘No!’ Whatever he’s offering, to help me come, I don’t want it.
More silence ensues while lines run through my head. There’s no shame in it. It happens to every man at some stage. Anyway, he came already. Even if normally he comes two or three times with me. None of them seems suitable.
‘Yeah, you know, I’m going to go,’ he says.
‘Okay.’
With short, angry movements, he’s dressed and gone within seconds. I wait ten minutes until I’m certain that he’s really gone, then I leave too.
The following day is just as bad – an emotional hangover from the previous night. It feels as if everything’s dying.
I fly back to Dublin, go home, and I’m wearily removing the remnants of my make-up when Neeve sidles into my bedroom. Instantly I know that another ending is happening. ‘Mum,’ she says. ‘Promise me you won’t cry.’
‘You’re moving out?’
She nods, almost as if she’s afraid she’ll burst with happiness.
I fake excitement. ‘Oh! Neeve! That’s great! Well, I’m heartbroken, but tell me.’
‘It’s Daddy,’ she confides gleefully. ‘He owns an apartment.’
All of a sudden Richie seems to be a lot more involved in Neeve’s stuff. It wo
uld be nice if it isn’t connected to her recent change in profile but that’s delusional thinking.
‘Wait till you hear where it is.’ She pauses dramatically. ‘Riverside Quarter.’
‘Wow.’
Riverside Quarter is a development of luxury apartments on the Liffey. It’s very high spec, has its own gym and viewing room, and is right in the city centre.
‘Well, he actually owns four apartments there. He bought them just after the crash for, like, nothing and now he lets them out.’
Oh, Christ, I absolutely hate him. Rents in Dublin are at an all-time high, and people are crippled with the payments. There are no properties available for first-time buyers because vultures like Richie Aldin swoop in and take advantage of the insolvency of others. His own daughter – Neeve – is a victim of this: can’t afford to rent and can’t afford to buy. Sofie and Kiara will be too. Even Hugh.
‘So he’s letting you live in one of them?’
‘Yep.’
It’s hard to ask the next bit but I must. ‘For free?’
‘Not free! Mu-um! Like, he has to cover the mortgage payment on it.’
But interest rates are low, his mortgage payments must be fuck-all.
‘He’s only charging me half the market rate.’
‘Well. Great.’
‘And he’s going to help me find a place to buy. We’re going to go scouting together. He says he can’t actually come into the places because as soon as the estate agent sees him the price automatically goes up by twenty per cent. It’s a Richie Aldin tax!’ Her tone is upbeat.
Okay, so this is capitalism. But he is loathsome. Worse, Neeve admires it.
‘So he’ll check out the area, see if the neighbours are scumbags, all that.’
Scumbags! If Kiara heard her, she’d literally cry.
‘When are you going?’
‘Saturday.’
‘This Saturday? Three-days-away Saturday?’
‘That’s the one. Daddy’s hired me a van.’
No, no, no, no, no. It’s too soon.
108
Saturday, 11 February
At nine thirty a.m., Neeve’s removal van parks outside and I feel as if my heart has been smashed, as fragile as an empty eggshell.
I’ve wanted Neeve to be independent and to live a fun, single life. Not like this, though. Not having crossed over to the dark side under the sway of Richie Aldin. I’ve no right to dislike her choices, and I can’t wish for her independence but only on my terms. My head is well aware of the facts, but no one has told my heart.
All day long, the girls and I are up and down the stairs, carrying boxes of Neeve’s clothes, moving her equipment, emptying her room. It feels almost as if I’m experiencing her death. Finally everything is in the truck.
‘Right!’ Neeve is super-cheery. ‘Well, I’m off!’
‘You won’t forget about us, will you?’ I’ve managed not to cry all day, but now my face is wet with tears.
‘Oh, Mum, you giant douche! I’m only four miles away.’
How can I tell her that I’m afraid her move is more than merely geographical? As I stand and wave her off, I have a ridiculous fear that none of us will ever see her again.
Sunday I spend in bed crying, mourning Neeve’s absence, and Monday morning is a disaster – it takes me ages to get up and I’m thirty-five minutes late for work. I put in a half-baked performance and it’s a relief when the day ends so I can leave Tim’s gimlet-eyed stares. Monday night won’t be any better, though – Hugh is coming over for a grown-up talk. He’s been back in Ireland for six weeks, it’s time to grapple with our problematic finances and formulate a plan so that we all have a place to live.
Life feels like one ordeal after another after another. My only relief was Josh and I’m ominously aware that we’re about to sputter into an ignominious ending. I really hope that Hugh will cancel but, exactly at the agreed time, the doorbell rings. Shite. There’s a very real chance this conversation might get ugly, so I’ve sent Sofie and Kiara over to Derry for a couple of hours.
I open the door, and there he is, looking forlorn and even thinner. He’s starting to become gaunt.
‘Come in,’ I say. ‘We could probably do with wine to help us get through this, but we need to have our wits about us so we’re having tea. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
The box file of documents is waiting on the kitchen table. Face to face, we take our seats, warily watching each other. We’ve only been alone with each other a couple of times since he came back.
I hate having to do this. Being with him, even just catching a glimpse of him every time he drops the girls home, makes me tired to my bones.
‘Before we start crunching numbers,’ he says, ‘can I say something else?’
‘What?’ My stomach shrinks. What is it?
‘It’s less than a month before my six months is up. You and I, we need to talk about telling the girls.’
‘Oh, God.’ It’s going to be so difficult. Neeve won’t care but Sofie and Kiara will be devastated. I’m too beaten down to come up with any great plan, so I say, ‘I think we have to be honest with them.’
‘Me too.’
The biggest worry is Sofie, she’s sitting her Leaving Cert at the end of May. Yes, the timing is bad but Hugh can’t move back in with us, I simply couldn’t endure it. Nor can we string the girls along for another three months.
‘They’re young women,’ he says. ‘Not kids any more.’
‘They are young women, but it won’t be easy for them. We’ve got to be really there for them.’
‘Especially Sofie.’
‘How do you think she is?’ I’m interested in his opinion, it’s been difficult carrying the worry all by myself.
‘Good. Maybe better than she used to be. Less anxious.’
‘Does she speak to you about the abortion?’
‘Sometimes. She seems at peace with herself.’
‘And why wouldn’t she be?’ My tone is sharp.
He looks surprised. ‘I wasn’t saying anything.’
But a ball of rage that I didn’t even know was there is bursting out of me, like the thing in Alien. ‘You left me alone!’ I blurt. ‘Sofie was pregnant! I had to take her to London.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
My face is hot and suddenly tears of fury are spilling from my eyes. ‘While you were shagging your way around South East Asia, I was handling a medical crisis!’ I’m almost spitting with emotion. ‘One that could have had me arrested!’
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers.
I’m worried I might hit him again, the way I did the night I got back from Serbia, so instead I thump my fist hard against the table. ‘You fucking bastard!’
‘Amy …’ He stands up.
‘Don’t fucking touch me. Sit down!’
He obeys, watching me cagily.
Angry sobs erupt from my gut and I cry and cry and cry. I cry until my eyes feel swollen and my face is sore with salt.
Long minutes pass. Now and again, he makes a move to come to me and I shriek, ‘Don’t come fucking near me!
‘You’re selfish,’ I hurl at him, needing to hurt him, insult him, shame him. ‘You’re weak. And pathetic!’
‘I know.’
‘The sex I have with Josh, it’s waaaay better than anything I ever had with you.’
He blanches.
‘It’s fucking fantastic!’
That Josh and I are going to finish tomorrow night suddenly becomes clear. But I’m not telling Hugh.
A fresh bout of bitter tears heaves up from my gut. ‘I only slept with one person, while you slept with hundreds.’
‘You can sleep with more people,’ Hugh says. ‘As many as you want.’
‘Were there hundreds?’ I ask thickly.
‘Two and a half.’
‘What’s the half?’
‘We didn’t have sex. I just wanted to sleep in the bed with her and pretend she was you.’
‘H
ow was the sex you did have?’
He hesitates, and before I yell at him again, he says quickly, ‘Terrifying. Different. New.’
‘Say it was great. Because of course it was great.’
‘It was great.’
I thought it was what I wanted to hear but it isn’t.
‘But they weren’t you,’ he says.
‘They!’ I’m racked with jealousy and fury at the thought of all the steps Hugh would have gone through in order to slide his mickey into those other vaginas – the eye-meet on the beach, the smile, the offer of a drink, the grazing of hands against each other, the promise in his eyes, the kissing, the touching, the undressing, the intimacy, all of it. ‘You were meant to be mine!’
And I was meant to be his, but I don’t care about that right now.
‘This is healthy,’ he suggests tentatively. ‘You’ve a right to be angry.’
‘Just shut up with your fucking platitudes! You and Alastair!’ I really can’t bear this. Jerkily, I stand up, stomp to the fridge, pour some wine, head into the living room with the glass and the bottle and thump myself down on to the sofa. A few moments later, Hugh follows, keeping his distance.
We sit in thick silence for a long, long time, me slugging the wine, him staring at his hands.
Eventually I say, ‘Steevie said I should break all your vinyl.’
‘Would it make you feel better?’
‘No.’
‘Is there anything that would make you feel better?’
‘No.’ Then, ‘Except maybe if you died.’ After a moment I say, ‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘And maybe you did.’
‘Oh, stop being so fucking reasonable!’
A noise from the hall startles me. It can only be Kiara or Sofie – they weren’t expected back until later. But a quick glance at my phone establishes that it is later – Hugh and I have been locked in this bitter exchange for two and a half hours.
‘Dad! Dad!’ They’re both delighted. ‘We thought you’d be gone.’
‘No, I … ah …’
