by Marian Keyes
Sofie’s soon-to-be-husband David was a researcher in the hospital lab where she worked. He understood her in the way Jackson had.
(Nevertheless, I thought, they were ridiculously young to get married. But we all had to live our own lives. No one else could do it for us.)
‘We should go,’ Maura said.
‘Go on, then,’ Mum replied. ‘No one’s stopping you.’
‘You’re coming with me,’ Maura said.
‘I am fecking not. I’m going in Derry’s convertible. Can we put the roof down, Der?’
‘Ma, no. Our hair.’
‘I don’t want to go on my own.’ Unexpectedly Maura’s voice wobbled.
‘The Poor Bastard will see you at the venue, right?’
‘But I want company for the drive!’
Hugh stepped closer to me. ‘Soon,’ he muttered, ‘they’ll all be gone and we’ll have the house to ourselves again.’ He gave me a wink.
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Oh, yeah.’
Suddenly I was reminded of that summer, all those years ago, when Hugh had come home again.
It had been the most extraordinary time – the empty house, all that freedom, the never-ending thrill of rediscovery. It had felt almost as if we’d just met and were in the throes of the giddy early days of a love affair. We felt – and acted – young. We ducked out of work early to see each other, we went out and got drunk together, and spent entire weekends in bed.
Everything went to hell.
We stopped cooking – if we ate at all, it was impromptu dinners at ridiculously fancy restaurants or, just as enjoyable, late-night drunken kebabs. All housework was abandoned, and so was any semblance of a budget. Hugh took me shopping in Brown Thomas, plucking things from the rails and insisting I try them on. There was a Sandro dress I loved but wouldn’t let him buy. The next day, when I got home from work, a Brown Thomas bag was waiting for me.
The entire two months were like that, a phase of our relationship that somehow we’d missed out first time round.
‘We’re making up for lost time,’ he said, often.
And it wasn’t just about sex – although there was plenty of that – it was the novelty of having each other’s undivided attention. We talked so much during those two months, rarely deep-and-meaningfuls but instead lots of light-hearted fun and the occasional nugget that surprised one of us. I mean, how had I been with him for eighteen years without knowing that, for three months during his teens, he’d been a motorbike courier? Or how had he not known that I’d once milked a cow? After all, it was one of the things I was most proud of!
Now and again the old fury would erupt in me and I’d rage at Hugh for half a day. But he took it without complaint and never reminded me of my flirtation with Josh, which had preceded his shenanigans.
I didn’t smash his record collection – I didn’t subject him to any dramatic punishment. I’d no heart for it. We’d been through enough – both of us – and the idea of piling on more pain repelled me.
I could have hazarded a guess at what Steevie thought of me, but I could live with it.
All that I knew for sure is, I wanted to be as happy as possible for as long as I’d got, and my every second was so much better with Hugh than without him.
At the end of that summer, Sofie and Kiara came home from Switzerland. In some ways, life was easier: there were fewer people thronging the house now that Neeve had her own place. For the same reason, we had more money. In addition, Sofie had matured so there was less drama, less worry.
But it was as if Hugh and I had embarked on a new marriage. Our expectations of each other were more realistic and the previous innocence was gone. It felt somewhat sad.
And then, you know, it didn’t. Then we just got on with things.
Eventually, my anger storms dispersed. (Probably around the same time as our sex life reverted to normal levels.)
‘We need to go.’ Kiara brought me back to the present. ‘Sofie and Dad can’t leave until we’ve all left.’
Everyone ran for their cars and the front lawn cleared with remarkable speed, until only Hugh, Sofie and I were left.
‘See you there.’ I kissed Hugh.
‘Mum!’ Neeve yelled from her car. She was driving Kiara and me. ‘Come on.’
‘Can’t you come with me?’ Hugh asked.
‘In the wedding car with you and Sofie? No, you big eejit.’
‘I don’t want to be without you.’
‘You’ll see me in forty minutes.’ But I knew what he meant. As we’d got older, we’d become more dependent on each other.
‘What if I make a show of her, walking her up the aisle? If I cry? If I trip and take her down with me?’
That made me laugh. ‘You won’t.’
‘Mum!’
‘Coming!’
As Neeve drove, she revisited the matter of Sofie’s wedding being held outdoors.
‘An open-air ceremony in Ireland, even in August, is risk-taking that borders on psychopathy.’ Despite countless people ‘having a quiet word’ no one had been able to dissuade Sofie from having her wedding at Apple Blossom Farm.
‘But the weather today is lovely,’ Kiara said.
‘For now,’ Neeve said darkly. ‘It could change at the drop of a hat, right? What kills me is that Sofie pretends to be such a pushover, but she’s the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.’
‘Maybe everything will turn out grand,’ I said.
And maybe it would.
‘Where the hell is this place?’ Neeve asked.
We’d turned off the motorway on to a narrow road, made even narrower by the lush vegetation of late summer crowding over walls and fences into our path.
‘It’s menacing, isn’t it? The way those bushes are?’
‘It’s here!’ I cried. ‘In here.’ We turned off the road and bumped along a track, past a whitewashed farmhouse. ‘Here they all are!’
Suddenly lots of people were milling around in the sunshine, their fancy duds fitting in unexpectedly well with all the verdant beauty. I spotted Joe and Siena, Declyn and Hayden, and the groom, looking somewhat grey around the gills. Close by were his mother and two sisters, rocking some serious hat action. I caught a glimpse of Mum’s face: she seemed extremely put out.
And there was Urzula, looking haggard and as thin as ever. I was glad to see her: it would have hurt Sofie if she hadn’t come.
Joe’s sons, Finn, Pip and Kit – each more lanky and awkward-looking than the next – were acting as ushers. Kit, his Adam’s apple the size of a small car, said, ‘Amy, would you like to be ushered?’
‘Right so.’
‘That way.’ He pointed at a path through gnarled trees, their branches heavy with fruit.
At least there was a wooden walkway so that my heels didn’t sink into the soft earth.
The clearing opened up to reveal a hundred white chairs, organized on two sides of a makeshift aisle, which led to a delicate pergola threaded with flowers and small apples.
The chairs were garlanded with lustrous ribbons blowing in the light breeze. I could actually smell the apples from the orchard – then, right into my ear, Neeve said, ‘One heavy shower, and those chairs and the pergola, the whole lot’ll be swept away!’
‘Stop it, you killjoy. This is lovely.’
‘She’s here,’ someone called. ‘Seats. Positions!’
David darted to the pergola, followed by his best man and the celebrant. The guests filed hurriedly into seats, then the music started.
First up the aisle, walking at the speed of a tortoise, as instructed, came Maisey the ring-bearer, then Kiara, followed by Neeve, smirking away good-oh. Finally, Sofie and Hugh stood where the red carpet began. Sofie looked extraordinarily happy and beautiful. I knew I couldn’t shed a single tear because if I started I might find it hard to stop.
Hugh said something to Sofie, she patted him reassuringly, tucked her hand inside his arm and they began their walk.
Swallowing the painfu
l lump in my throat, I watched them. In his unfamiliar suit Hugh looked like a handsome stranger. There was so much love in my heart for him and for Sofie and for Neeve and for Kiara that it pained me.
Hugh was smiling and smiling, and his eyes were shiny, as if he might burst with pride. When he and Sofie reached the pergola, he gently released her hand and ‘gave’ her to David, then stepped out of the aisle into the spot I’d been keeping for him. He slid his hand into mine.
‘Yes,’ I whispered, answering his unspoken question. ‘You were great. You couldn’t have been better.’
Acknowledgements
Thank you to everyone at Michael Joseph for publishing me with such enthusiasm, flair and attention to detail, with particular gratitude to the renowned Liz Smith.
Thank you to Jonathan Lloyd, king of the agents, and all at Curtis Brown for taking such lovely care of me and my books.
Thank you to Annabel Robinson and all at FMcM for keeping my books in the public eye.
Thank you to my foreign language publishers around the world, I’m very grateful for the chance to connect with so many readers.
Several people read this book as I wrote it and gave invaluable feedback – sincere thanks to Suzanne Benson, Jenny Boland, Roisin Ingle, Cathy Kelly, Caitriona Keyes, Mammy Keyes, Rita-Anne Keyes, Colm O’Gorman and Louise O’Neill.
Especial and heartfelt gratitude to Kate Thompson, who read countless drafts of this book and kept the faith when I’d none left myself.
Thanks to Betsey Martian from Twitter for the word ‘Scandilusts’.
Thank you to Bronagh Kingston, who donated to Carol Hunt, to have a character named after her.
Thank you to Caroline Snowdon who donated to Highgate Has Heart (who help refugees), to have a character named after her.
Thank you to Himself, who is forever in my corner. His belief in my writing is unwavering, his support is constant and his criticism is kind and constructive. None of it would be possible without him.
Thank you to you, my beloved readers, for sticking with me all these years and in particular for your patience for this book. I hope it won’t be as long for the next one …
Some information on the Serbian trip that Amy makes: Dušanka Petrović is real, she lives in Jagodina, an hour and a half’s drive from Belgrade. I love her paintings but could find almost no information about her. However, in November 2016, connections were made and I went to Serbia to meet her.
Thank you Ljiljana Keyes for making the phone calls which eventually tracked Dusanka down. Thank you to Marica Vračević, Nina Krstić and all the wonderful staff at the Museum of Naïve and Marginal Art in Jagodina who faciliated the introduction. Thank you to my beloved nieceling, Ema Keyes, who came with myself and Himself and translated admirably in the museum, the hotel and with Dušanka herself.
Sadly, Hotel Zaga in Belgrade is imaginary. Instead I stayed in a hotel called Square Nine – it’s fabaliss, but instead of the folk art décor of the imaginary hotel, it’s sleek and mid-century modern.
Finally, Louise Moore has been my editor, publisher and beloved friend for the past twenty years. From the word go, she championed my writing and galvanised entire teams of people to go to bat for me. She is visionary, passionate, fierce and unstinting on behalf of my books. She has made my career and as an expression of my gratitude, this book is dedicated to her.
THE BEGINNING
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MICHAEL JOSEPH
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
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Michael Joseph is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published 2017
Text copyright © Marian Keyes, 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-1-405-91877-0
