by Marian Keyes
‘A loan?’
‘Maybe. The most obvious thing is the deposit for my flat.’
As I’d suspected, Chizo hasn’t let Hugh move back into her fancy gaff. I’m not even sure I believe her story about family coming from Nigeria. So he’s still living in Nugent’s garage. But we’ve just about assembled enough to pay for a deposit and the first month’s rent for a small flat for him. ‘But, Hugh, you’re borderline homeless.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘I’ve a roof over my head, Wi-Fi, access to a bathroom. What more does anyone need?’
‘You’re living in a garage. Oh, Hugh, it’s too fucking sad!’
‘Stop, Amy, it’s cosier than it sounds. And we’re only deferring things for a few weeks. In a month’s time, I’ll be in my own place.’
If some other unexpected financial demand doesn’t land on top of us.
‘C’mon, Amy. Be brave. It’s fine. Sofie can go on the course and I’ll have a flat in a month.’
‘Okay.’ Almost in admiration, I say, ‘Look at us, Hugh. Talking about our kids. Being adult and civil. We’re getting there.’
‘Yep.’ He swallows hard. ‘We are.’
We look at each other a little desperately.
‘Hugh … I want to ask you something.’
‘Mmm?’ He looks wary.
‘When we were together, before your dad was diagnosed, were you happy? Before you automatically say yes, please think about it. What would you have changed about us? I’m not talking about more money or any external stuff. What would you have changed in our relationship? And don’t say, “Nothing”. Be honest.’
He goes quiet. He’s acting like he’s thinking, but I’m certain he knows his answer. He’s just too shy to say it.
‘Sex.’ I put it out there. ‘You’d have liked better sex. Different sex?’
‘I’d have liked more of it. With you,’ he adds. ‘Just with you.’
‘But you’d have liked me to send you saucy Snapchats, or sexts?’
‘I wouldn’t have said no to them. But mostly I would have liked it to happen more often. It’s not nice, feeling like some horny beast pawing you when you’d no interest.’
‘I was always tired,’ I say defensively.
‘I know.’ Now he’s defensive. ‘I know how hard you work. But you asked me to be honest. It was difficult fancying you, wanting you, and knowing there wasn’t a hope of getting near you. And before you dismiss me as just some horny man,’ he adds hotly, ‘it was the intimacy I missed as much as the physical stuff.’
I’m not liking what he’s saying. I feel stung by criticism. But I’d asked for this, it’s no more than I’d suspected, and I know he’s right.
‘Once we were actually doing it,’ I say, ‘I was glad. Getting me from vertical to horizontal was the part I found …’ Disruptive, irritating, a waste of my time when there was always a meal to be cooked, laundry to be sorted, online clothes to be looked at. ‘But once my body was switched on, it was …’ Actually, now that I remember, fabulous.
Hugh took charge in bed. He was big and confident and knew what he wanted – in sharp contrast to his easy-going, gentle, everyday demeanour. He didn’t have a sex-god body, he’d never had abs in all the years I’d known him, but he was self-assured and unapologetic.
‘I felt like I was last on your list,’ he says.
And he was right. Having sex with him was just another item on my to-do list, way down at the bottom.
‘It’s difficult,’ I say. ‘Making the sudden jump from being housemates and … colleagues, almost, to seeing each other as smouldering sex objects.’
‘Not for me.’
But it was for me. Nobody sets out to become a cliché but it’s what happens.
‘How do other people do their sex lives?’ I wonder out loud. Because sex is the one thing people don’t talk about. ‘I used to think everyone else was at it non-stop. Far more than you and me. Then I decided they were just saving face. It’s hard to know what normal is.’
‘So what would you have changed?’ he asks. ‘And don’t say, “Nothing”.’
‘I felt like I was last on everyone’s list. But I don’t know if that could have been avoided – we didn’t have enough money to do everything that all of us wanted.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He looks woebegone. ‘Is that what you liked about Josh? Him taking you to Serbia and all?’
‘He treated me like I was special. If you gave me the special treatment, I’d have just thought it was to persuade me to have sex with you.’
But then again, when Josh had given me the special treatment, it was for the same reason, wasn’t it? If we’d been deluded enough to try to build an actual life together, the incendiary sexual shenanigans would have died a speedy death.
‘Maybe if we’d had these conversations a couple of years ago, things wouldn’t be the way they are today.’
‘But we didn’t. And they are.’
115
Friday, 14 April
All the time I move in lockstep with my predictable routine – Crazy Ex-Girlfriend with Hugh on Monday nights, London on Tuesdays and Wednesday, Dublin the rest of the week, Derry or Petra on the weekends.
Work stays marginally too frantic to be coped with and generates income that’s just slightly too modest to quieten my chronic financial anxiety.
Mum’s EverDry campaign keeps me busy right up to Easter. After Alastair got her head back in the game, she’s been on message. For a couple of weeks in late March and early April, she seemed to be everywhere – in every paper, on every light-entertainment show. Admittedly much of the coverage was slightly patronizing, but who cares? Publicity is publicity.
As we finish up work on Good Friday, there’s an air of completion: a successful campaign coming to a satisfying close.
Mrs EverDry drops in and gives Tim, Alastair, Thamy and me Maltesers Easter eggs. In a giddy holiday mood, I wrestle mine out of the box, peel off the tinfoil, hit it a sharp crack with my phone and eat a giant chunk.
‘I’ll have what she’s having,’ Alastair says, and attacks his own. Moments later, Thamy does the same.
Tim stares disdainfully.
‘Go on,’ Alastair mocks. ‘Eat yours.’
‘It’s not Easter Sunday yet.’
‘Go crazy,’ Thamy says.
‘At least try,’ I say.
High from sugar, we keep at him until he succumbs. Frankly, I’ve never seen him so unwound: his tie loosened, his hair mussed, chocolate around his mouth.
Alastair and I are in fits. ‘Tim, you look like the nun from the chocolate helpline on Father Ted!’
The worry is that this will snap Tim out of his relaxed state. Instead he tells us to knock off work.
‘You’re not our boss,’ Alastair says.
‘But he is mine.’ Thamy is scarpering before Tim rescinds his order. ‘Man says I can leave. Happy Easter, y’all.’
‘Go,’ Tim says. ‘Amy, Alastair, go. Have a nice Easter. Get some rest.’
My plan is to sleep an unholy amount. But first Robert’s ashes have to be scattered.
Easter Saturday is a blue, blustery day, as we tramp up Howth Head. It’s where Robert walked his dog every morning and evening. He loved it here. The urn is carried by John, the eldest of the Durrants, who has come from Sweden with his husband Rolf and their son Krister.
Clustered behind that photogenic trio are Brendan, Nita and their three girls.
Next is me, flanked by Kiara and Sofie. And behind us, Hugh is walking with Carl, Noah, the Boy Wonder, and Chizo, who’s yelling instructions at all of us.
Neeve didn’t show and right now I hate her.
The worst part was down in the car park when, as time ticked on without any sign of her zippy little Audi, it became obvious that she wasn’t coming.
‘No Neevey?’ Hugh asked me.
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
‘Ah, well …’ He looked unbearably bleak.
‘Hugh.’ My throat felt swollen and
sore. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ he said.
But it wasn’t okay. It was a rejection of Robert, who’d filled her biological grandfather’s empty shoes, and an even bigger kick in the face to Hugh, who’d loved her and cared for her for so many years.
‘Stop walking,’ Chizo yells. ‘This is a good spot.’
Obediently the cavalcade comes to a halt.
‘So line up,’ she instructs. ‘Take a scoop of ashes, have your moment, and just before you scatter, look at me. Photo op.’
Anxiously I turn to Hugh. ‘Should I?’
‘Of course.’ He’s fierce. ‘You’re part of this family!’
John goes first, he scoops a small amount of the ashes. ‘Thanks, Dad, for being a great dad. I’m glad you’re out of pain.’ Then he releases the specks into the wind.
Nita goes next. ‘Thanks, Robert,’ she says. ‘For raising four great sons and for welcoming me into the Durrants.’
One by one, we all say our goodbyes.
‘Thanks, Granddad,’ Sofie says, ‘for showing me how to drill a hole and for making Dad so kind.’
Now it’s my turn. In my head I say, Thank you, Robert, you were such a nice man. Thank you for being so good to all three of my girls, and even though it’s over, thank you for Hugh. He’s kind because you showed him how to be. And I let the ashes blow into the breeze.
‘Okay!’ Chizo claps her hands. ‘Let’s go!’
The private dining room at Maldive is suspended on stilts over the sea. The long table is covered with snowy-white linen, glinting silverware and light-reflecting crystal. Beautiful – unfunereal – flower arrangements are distributed throughout the room.
Chizo, a master at these things, discreetly disposes of Neeve’s place-card and commandeers a handy waiter to vanish her cutlery. ‘Lil bitch has fucked with my seating plan,’ she whispers hoarsely into my ear.
We take our seats and I’m between Chizo and Kiara. Opposite me is Rolf, and beside him is Hugh. I wish he wasn’t. Looking directly at him still hurts me.
I turn my attention to the set menu, there are vegetarian and vegan options, the meat is all organic and locally sourced, the vegetables direct from the garden here.
‘This looks wonderful.’ Rolf surveys the menu. Very polite, the Swedes.
‘Mmm, yes, delicious.’ To my distress, tears start to trickle down my face.
‘Amy?’ Hugh sounds concerned. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine.’ Except I seem to be crying. Crying quite a lot.
‘But –’
‘You heard her. She’s fine.’ Chizo presses a tissue into my hand. This is an order to cease and desist with all tears.
But it’s way beyond my control.
‘Why are you crying?’ Chizo whispers.
Because Robert is dead. Because I loved Hugh and he loved me but it’s all ruined. Because this was my family and now it isn’t. Because something went wrong and maybe I made it happen. Because everything is losable. Because pain is inevitable. Because being human is unbearable.
‘I’m pre-menstrual,’ I manage.
‘Not today you’re not. Cop on, Amy.’
A lot of work has gone into this lunch, I know that, and it’s costing plenty. It’s been styled to perfection and people are expected to display grief but only in a dignified way: some sad smiles, and if there really must be tears, they must be discreet and quiet, none of this ugly, heaving, gaspy stuff.
‘Stop crying,’ Chizo hisses.
And I try so hard because I am shit-scared of her. ‘I can’t.’
‘So go to the Ladies room.’
‘Okay,’ I choke. ‘Scuse me.’
Once the door of the Ladies has shut behind me, my crying really gathers force. Oh, Christ, and here’s Chizo.
‘Get a hold of yourself! Today isn’t about you. Leave. Go home. Get a taxi. Don’t drive.’
‘’Kay.’
Hugh is hovering outside the Ladies. ‘Oh, Hugh!’ I fling myself against him and he wraps himself around me and I convulse into his chest.
‘I know, babe, I know.’
I look up at him. ‘You do, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’ He’s crying too, and our tears are being shed for a lot more than the loss of Robert.
‘I’ll drive you home,’ he says.
Gratitude makes me weak.
‘What?’ Chizo says. ‘No way. You can’t leave.’
She’s right.
‘Stay,’ I tell him. ‘Please. I’m fine.’
‘You’re not fine.’
‘You have to stay.’ Chizo snaps her fingers and, as if she’s conjured her from the air, Kiara materializes, followed by Sofie.
‘Take your mother home,’ Chizo commands.
‘I need my bag,’ I manage. ‘And I should say goodbye.’
I dart in before Chizo can stop me, but she catches up, grabs my bag and hustles me back out of the room, muttering, ‘Very fond of Robert. She was very fond of Robert. Overcome. But carry on enjoying yourselves. Amuse-bouches arriving in five.’
116
Monday, 1 May
Days pass and I hear nothing from Neeve. It hurts terribly. Then a week has gone by, another starts, and I have to wonder if she and I will ever talk to each other again.
But there are other things to worry about: the calendar clicks into May, which means that Sofie’s exams start in just over a month. She – we – have only five weeks for her to learn everything she needs to know. I’m not alone in my anxiety; every parent in the country with a kid doing the Leaving Cert is feeling it.
Sofie needs proper nutrition to survive this route march, so I buy twenty energy bars, hoping she’ll eat them. Then, miracle of miracles, she comes to me with a shopping list: avocados, eggs, salmon, berries, almonds and pumpkin seeds.
‘Of course!’ I’m thrilled. ‘I’ll go right now and get them.’
‘Calm down.’ She’s laughing. ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking. I need a job for the summer. I need to save money for when I start college in September.’
Hopefully when she starts college. If she gets the right grades. Her stumbling block is physics and, much as I’d like to help, I’d be more use if she needed to be tutored in Martian. Hugh, however, can do science and has been working with her. (I sometimes wonder if Sofie decided she would focus on science subjects just to show how alike she and Hugh are.)
‘Could Derry help me find a job?’ she asks.
Christ, I don’t know. Probably. ‘What sort of thing were you thinking of?’
‘Maybe in a hotel. Waitressing? Preferably in Europe, because the pay is better than it is in Ireland.’
Well, she’s thought this through very carefully. ‘Just for you. Or for you and Jackson?’
‘Just for me. And maybe Kiara.’
‘Not Jackson? What’s going on?’
‘He’s working for his dad this summer. We’re not breaking up, if that’s what you were thinking.’
Well, good. Just … This needs to be said. ‘Honeybun, you’d be apart for three months, you and Jackson. You’re both at an age when people change a lot.’
She looks surprisingly wise and twinkly. ‘We both know that. But we’re together, me and him. We’ve talked about it. We’ve decided.’
Yes, but what if she meets someone else and gets torn in two with guilt? ‘You’ll be coming into contact with all kinds of other people. It’s not inconceivable that you might fancy another –’
‘I’m with Jackson. I belong to him, he belongs to me.’
‘All I’m saying, sweetheart, is that going away for three months is risky.’
‘Everything’s risky, Amy. There are no guarantees, not when you love someone. But we want to stay together so we’ve decided we’re giving it our best shot.’
‘Um, very good, then.’ I feel I should say more but nothing comes to mind.
Luckily, my phone rings. ‘Mum?’
‘Amy, will there be any more work for me? In my role as ambass
ador?’
‘No, Mum. Didn’t Alastair tell you all of this?’
‘Well, he did, but I thought there might still be interest in me.’
‘I’m sure there’s lots of interest in you.’ Jesus, the fragile ego! ‘But Mrs EverDry is satisfied with all that you’ve achieved so there’s no need to do more.’
‘I don’t mind, though. She doesn’t even have to pay me.’
But she’d have to pay me and the lads and that’s not going to happen. ‘Mum, the campaign is over. It’s been a huge success so you should be proud.’
‘I’m finding it hard, though, settling back into ordinary life, stuck here in the house with Pop.’
‘Dominik’s around, though? You can go out whenever you like?’
‘Yeeees. I know. It’s just …’
I’ve seen this before, the comedown from fame. It’s brutal.
On the second Tuesday in May, the Press Awards are on in London. It was at this same do, two years ago, that I propositioned Josh and invited him up to my hotel room. It’s very hard to believe that I – me – behaved so recklessly. He may be here tonight and I fear I’ll bump into him. But things go well. All the speeches and awards take place without me clapping eyes on him.
Then, just after the formal part of the night ends and the throng have started circulating, I spot him, standing with a crowd of about six people, all of them talking animatedly.
My mouth goes dry. It’s the first time in nearly three months since I’ve seen him. He’s not looking my way and I’m able to study him covertly. To my surprise, he’s almost nothing like I remember.
I’d thought he was so hot, so sexy, but here in this hotel ballroom, among all of these people, he looks, well, ordinary. I must have projected a huge amount of wishful thinking onto him because all through that time I’d thought he was extraordinary.
Images of that night two years ago rush at me. It was only the third time I’d ever met Josh and I’d invited him up to my bedroom. What the hell? Like, seriously, what the hell?
Worse still, the following day I went home to Hugh, sat in our kitchen and tantalized him with murky allusions.
Subsequently Hugh told me he’d known something was up and I’d believed him. But astonishingly, in a visceral way, I can now feel it. It’s as if every one of my cells have lit up with guilt: my body is alive with it.
