All We Have Lost

by Alexander, Aimee

  ‘How many?’ It’s a regularly expressed concern of hers. She’s probably got them counted.

  ‘Nine. One a year. And maternity leave?’

  ‘You know how I felt about that. I still can’t believe you insisted on bringing your phone into the labour ward.’

  ‘Kim Waters PR – contactable between contractions.’ I roll my eyes at myself. ‘I’m just too busy, all the time, no let up. The phone is always ringing. Clients always want more. The kids need their mum and, since Ian started his new job, we’re both home late most evenings. It’s not a life.’

  ‘That’s desperate. I didn’t realise you were under such pressure.’ She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. ‘You must stop.’

  I let go the breath I seem to have been holding for a very long time.

  ‘Spend more time with Chloe and Sam.’ She smiles. ‘And that lovely mother of yours. Oh and don’t worry about the cooking – I can give you loads of recipes.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

  She laughs. But persists. ‘How about my Bolognese sauce? You all love that.’

  ‘Let’s start with that ready-made sauce you mentioned that you just add to pasta?’

  She hesitates. ‘Usually I add bits and pieces to that, to give it texture – a few chopped peppers, mushrooms…’

  ‘But I could just stir it in as it is, couldn’t I?’

  ‘You could but…’

  ‘Sure, I’ll start with that. Thanks.’

  She gives me a jar to get me going. I turn it around in my hand, automatically wondering who does their PR. I dismiss the thought.

  ‘Let me give you the Bolognese recipe as well. It’s so easy.’

  ‘Mum, if I do quit, it’ll be to write a novel and spend time with the kids. I won’t have time for culinary delights. Just the basics.’ Enough to keep starvation at bay.

  ‘Really? A novel?’ asks my mother the reader, recipe forgotten.

  I nod.

  She clasps her hands together. ‘You’ve always loved books. Oh Kim this is wonderful news. What kind of novel?’

  ‘A murder mystery, I think.’

  She covers her mouth. She’s a crime fan, the gorier the better. She leans forward.

  ‘Have you any of it written? Can I’ve a little peep?’

  ‘I haven’t started it yet.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, a little deflated but by no means put off. ‘And love scenes? Are there going to be any love scenes?’

  ‘You mean SEX scenes?’ It’s good to scare your mother, occasionally.

  ‘You know what I mean, you monkey.’

  Thirty-three and she still calls me monkey.

  ‘I don’t know. There’s not a lot of passion in murder mysteries, is there? They’re more plot-driven, aren’t they?’

  ‘Well, maybe you should have just a little one.’

  I love this woman.

  Then I think of her – and everyone I know – reading the ‘little’ sex scene and projecting Ian and me into it. I shiver.

  ‘I’ve such admiration for you,’ she says. ‘You’ve always done your own thing. You’re great.’

  I grimace. ‘Is it the right thing, though, giving up my independence? It’s not really me, is it?’

  She considers that. ‘Well, you’ve always valued your independence but it would be a mistake to let it hold you back. Don’t let it stop you from following your dream.’

  Wow. She’s starting to sound like me. Only it makes more sense when she says it.

  ‘You’re lucky to have Ian’s support. Lean on it for a change. You supported him to go back to college and you weren’t even married then. Anyway, it won’t be for long. You’ll be producing bestsellers in no time.’

  Mum’s dangerous. Tell her you’re about to jump off a cliff and she’ll be right behind you, cheering you on, thinking of all the ways she could possibly help.

  ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ she asks.

  ‘Ian isn’t made permanent?’

  ‘You could always get another job.’

  ‘You have a point.’

  ‘There’s a reason you’re sitting in my kitchen.’

  We smile.

  ‘Thank you, oh wise one.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Grasshopper.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  D-day. Today, I break the news to my clients that I’m winding up the business. How, though? I’ve a nine-year relationship with my favourite client, Frank. That’s longer than I’ve been married.

  I should start by getting out of bed.

  There, over the first hurdle.

  Stuck at the second, though. Can’t decide what to wear. Not my favourite red jacket. Too cheery, too aggressive to bring down the axe in. Better to hide behind charcoal grey. I look in the mirror and wonder what I’m doing – turning my back on a great income, security, independence. I’ve no agent, no publisher, and no idea for a book. It’s not too late to change my mind.

  Sam wanders in, sporting a ruffled just-woken-up look, as he does twenty-four-seven. He’ll know what to do.

  ‘Sam, say yes or no.’

  ‘No.’

  His favourite word. We can therefore disregard it.

  ‘Ian, tell me I’m doing the right thing. I mean it’s not logical, is it?’

  No answer, though I know he’s awake.

  At breakfast:

  ‘Chloe, what do you think?’

  She examines me seriously then puts down her Coco-Pop-filled spoon, squints at me, then smiles like she has an answer. ‘Sea horses, Mum.’

  Okaaay.

  One last attempt at Ian. ‘What do you think, honey?’

  ‘I think I’m late for work.’ He stands, grabs a slice of toast, pecks my forehead and heads for the door, flinging his tie around his neck to be knotted, en route.

  My ‘Bye’ comes out as a sigh as I watch him disappear down the hall. He trips over an Action Man truck, but – heroically – keeps going.

  Then, it hits me. That is what I have to do. Keep going. Stick to the plan. Go after the life I want. Anything else would be selling my soul.

  Frank is first on my list. I take one last look around his office before breaking the news. His Yucca plant is as disinterested as ever. His geometrical screen saver is gyrating at the same slow pace. The blatantly branded coffee cups are looking a little sad but that’s nothing new. I realise that life will glide on without me.

  And so I get to the point.

  He leans back in his chair, face impassive. He folds his arms.

  He thinks me mad. He sees my invoices. He knows what I earn.

  ‘Well, fair dues to you, Kim. Just going for it. To hell with the consequences.’

  Really?

  ‘We all dream,’ he says dreamily.

  I wonder what his is.

  He sighs. ‘But Mary’s not working. I’ve the mortgage to think about, school fees, pension plan....’

  Suddenly, I feel on the edge of some great adventure. I am Sinbad. I am Jules Verne. I am still terrified.

  Maeve suddenly sees me differently.

  ‘Where’ll I find someone as good as you – and at your rates?’ She taps her pen against the side of her forehead. Repeatedly. ‘Are there any agencies you’d recommend?’

  Suddenly, I feel sorry for her. ‘I’ll have a think.’

  She squints. ‘Are you sure you want to do this? It seems a bit drastic.’

  I nod.

  ‘Shouldn’t you have a stab at the writing first just to make sure it’s for you?’

  I smile. ‘Probably.’

  She thinks for a moment. ‘OK,’ she says then, like she’s granting me permission.

  I wonder about the people in her life. Is she like this with them, too?

  ‘Would it be all right to call you, occasionally?’ she asks.

  ‘If you’re stuck, I guess.’ But basically NO.

  ‘You’re giving me a month’s notice of course…’

  ‘Of course.’

 
; ‘Good. Good.’ Then she looks at me for a long time. ‘I’ll miss you, Kim.’

  Suddenly, I’m humbled.

  The rest of my clients take the news almost disappointingly well. I arrive home in a state of mild shock that I’ve done it. Actually taken the first step towards changing my life. I send Sally home for the day and hug the kids.

  We make Rice Krispie buns with Jelly Tots on top. And eat too many.

  Ian arrives with a bottle of Moët and a ‘body hug’.

  I get emotional. ‘I didn’t think you cared.’

  ‘Of course I cared. I just had to let you decide for yourself.’

  ‘But the decision involved you too.’

  ‘I had to step back, Kim. You kept changing your mind. One minute you wanted to quit and that was fine by me. The next minute you didn’t, and that was fine too. But when you kept switching, I started to stress. With every change of mind, you were changing our future. I had to stop listening.’

  I grimace. ‘If it’s any consolation, I was driving myself mad too.’

  ‘No. No consolation.’ He kisses me. ‘Congratulations! You’ve done it. Now, let’s get on with our lives.’

  I look at him and worry that I am asking too much of him. ‘You are happy about this, aren’t you?’

  ‘Do you want me to kill you?’

  I laugh. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Look, Kim. As always – if you’re happy, I’m happy.’

  I smile. ‘I am. I’ll make this work. I promise.’ Writing is my new career. I’ll treat it as such. Nothing will get in my way.

  He raises his glass. ‘To the next Agatha Christie.’

  ‘God. Couldn’t you pick someone more contemporary?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I don’t read crime.’

  ‘Patricia Cornwell.’

  He tries again. ‘To the next Patricia Cornwell.’

  My glass is a sword I raise to the sky. ‘Let the adventure begin.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  A month later, I exit the world of PR the same way I entered, quietly. No big party. No grand finale. I hate letting Sally go. Worse, I hate that the kids will be separated from her. She promises to babysit. And I promise myself I’ll be the best mum ever.

  Work commitments evaporate. Mornings free at last.

  At the kitchen table, I face a blank screen. And can’t decide. Should I plot the whole thing out first or just start writing? I heard or read somewhere that you should start with a character – an interesting character – and give him or her a dilemma.

  Given that I’m writing crime, I decide to go with plot. I need one that’s never been done before. I root around in my brain. Without success. I pace the kitchen. They say that every plot is in the Bible. I should get a Bible…. Actually, I should buy a book on writing. And some crime novels.

  I go straight to Amazon. And browse. Who’d have thought there would be so many books on writing? It reminds me of the gold rush; the people making the money were the ones selling the shovels.

  I can’t decide on my shovel.

  I check my emails. There’s one from Sarah – who I still haven’t told. Ironically, I didn’t want her to think I was copying her.

  So I email her. She replies instantly, wishing me luck – and calling me a kept woman. To Sarah, relying on a man would be like selling her soul in a mail order catalogue. It’s not something I’m shouting about either. But it’s temporary. Like going back to college. Or losing a job. It’s a blip. And it’s character building. How much more rounded will I be having faced rejection from publishers? Because there will be rejection. I’m not naïve enough to believe otherwise.

  It occurs to me that my inbox is crowded with emails I no longer need. Browsing through such subject headings as, ‘Head-above-the-rest mousse’ and ‘Just Smell It,’ I wonder how I did this for a living for so long. A lovely thought hits: I don’t need to deal with this any more. I delete the most recent. Bing! Instant freedom. Bing, bing, bing! An actual buzz. Only one thousand-three-hundred-and-eighteen to go. Maybe I should keep some excitement for tomorrow.

  An email from an old, dear friend reminds me of his existence. I should never have stopped sending Christmas cards. How many others have I forgotten? Connor used to be my closest friend before I met Ian. We told each other everything, shared promises. My friend became our friend. The kids arrived and time, well, it evaporated.

  I reach for the phone.

  He laughs when he hears my voice.

  And it’s like we never lost contact.

  ‘Interesting,’ he says of my news.

  ‘Define interesting.’

  After a pause, he asks, ‘What are the chances of getting published, a hundred to one?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Actually, a hundred to one is probably optimistic.’

  And still he manages to wangle a dinner invitation out of me. For later today.

  ‘So eager,’ I say.

  ‘Just a lazy chef.’

  ‘A word of warning: you have sampled my culinary delights in the past.’

  ‘I like to live dangerously.’

  As soon as I hang up, Ian calls with a newsflash. O’Donnell Haskins PR has just been sold to an international firm for fifteen million euro. It’s all over the business pages. I try to remember helpful suggestions from the numerous self-help books I’ve devoured over the years. Don’t look back. Ne regrette rien. Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. I didn’t want to build an empire and sell it. And yet, a nest egg would be nice. Especially a nest egg that size. Kim Waters hacking back undergrowth in the Amazon basin. Kim Waters breaking the sound barrier. Kim Waters opening a funky art gallery.

  The phone call stimulates an urgent return to the computer. And Amazon. I pour over books and finally end up buying five – three on writing, one on finding agents and publishers, and a crime novel that catches my eye.

  Once more, I confront the empty screen. I should start with a title. Titles sell books. Eats, Shoots and Leaves. The title sold that book.

  Or maybe I should start with the ending, so I know where I’m going.

  I put on music for inspiration.

  I make coffee for stimulation.

  I hear the post arrive. Maybe the walk to and from the front door will trigger something.

  I open the post.

  Bills, mostly.

  I try to think of a brilliant twist. But to have a twist you need a story.

  I make another coffee.

  I check Twitter and Facebook for possible inspiration but, really, I’m procrastinating.

  My alarm goes off. I stare at my phone in horror. The morning’s gone! I have to pick up the kids! I can’t believe it!

  A quick analysis of my first day as a writer reveals the following:

  Word count: zero

  Plot: non-existent

  Characters: unborn

  Title: Murder…

  And I’m not sure that the word ‘murder’ in the title isn’t a bit obvious.

  But it is good to see their little faces, to be there for them as they burst out into the sunlight, to pick them up and swirl them around, to feel their arms around my neck, to hear that they love me.

  We go to the park and have ice cream.

  We watch a DVD together.

  I feed them at five like they’re used to. We chat. No rush now. Just time.

  I bathe them in 60% bubbles, 40% water.

  Putting them to bed, I nuzzle Sam’s tummy. Chloe screams when I tickle her. Their love is so physical, so huggy. When finally they sleep, I’m not far behind. But it’s a different kind of tired than I’m used to. A satisfied kind.

  I go downstairs to put on fresh pasta. The laptop sits on the kitchen table like a dare. I remind myself that it was my first day. It’ll get better. Once I get started. Once I have momentum.

  I’m stirring in the non-homemade sauce and trying to think of titles when Ian arrives home. Hungry.

  I sense his disappointment when he sees the pasta. He says nothing just grind
s a lot of pepper onto it. I’m passing him the Parmesan when the doorbell rings.

  ‘Oh my God! I forgot Connor!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I invited Connor to dinner.’

  Ian looks down at it as if to say, ‘not much of a dinner’.

  And I forgive him. Because he’s right.

  Standing at my front door, Connor looks very Christian Grey. Expensive suit. Equally expensive hairstyle. His smile hasn’t changed, though. And he hugs the same.

  He holds up a bottle of wine. ‘Brought your favourite.’

  I examine the label. ‘Ah yes, excellent year.’

  ‘You’d swear you knew something about wine.’

  ‘I know more than you.’ Though that wouldn’t be hard. Connor doesn’t drink. Can’t. ‘Come in. It’s so good to see you.’

  In the kitchen, Ian stands. ‘Connor.’

  Connor produces a smile and a casual wave. ‘Ian.’

  ‘Sit down,’ I say. ‘Connor, it’s either pasta or pizza.’

  He takes one look at the pasta. ‘Pizza.’

  ‘Good choice,’ Ian says.

  I hit him. Then hand him the wine to open while I turn on the oven and take the pizza from the freezer. I go to the fridge.

  ‘Connor, I don’t have Coke. Sorry. Will juice do?’

  He smiles. ‘You forgot I was coming, didn’t you?’

  I grimace. ‘Sorry. It was a weird day. New routine and stuff.’

  ‘How did the first day’s writing go?’

  ‘Did a lot of… thinking.’ Even that seems like an exaggeration.

  ‘Always the best place to start,’ Ian says.

  And I feel like weeping in gratitude.

  ‘Have you thought about what you’ll do if the writing doesn’t work out?’ Connor asks.

  ‘Jesus, Connor! A bit of faith!’

  ‘Just wondering if you have a Plan B, that’s all. The publishing world’s in shit, isn’t it?’

  ‘I won’t need a Plan B. I’ll get there.’

  ‘You could run an art gallery! That, I can see.’ Connor tips his chair back as his eyes wander the kitchen, taking in the paintings. ‘Cool gallery. Lots of oils. And sculptures. Those chunky bronze horses you love. Abstract human shapes. I can picture you now, deciding how to hang your latest collection, allowing your customers to browse, then pouncing just at the right moment.’