‘But I can’t just give up now. I’ve only been at it three months.’
‘You have your whole life. Don’t always be in a rush. Enjoy the kids. Trust me, Kim, they grow up very quickly.’
‘But I have to earn an income!’
‘And you will,’ she says calmly. ‘But you’re getting nowhere at the moment. You’re just tying yourself in knots. Step back. Have a special summer, one that you’ll never forget, let the inspiration come to you and when the kids go back in September, then start writing it all down.’
I nod. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should just let it come. Stop trying to force it. Press releases were so much easier. I miss the short deadlines, the immediate results. I miss sending out invoices and getting paid. This is just so broad and fuzzy. It feels like I’m getting more and more lost.
‘Apart from the writing, how are things?’
‘OK.’ I look out at the kids. Sam’s sporting a builder’s bum as he loads sand into the back of a pick-up truck. Chloe is sifting sand through a strainer while bossing her family of Baby Born, a mangy monkey and Buzz Lightyear. ‘Sometimes, I feel like I’m falling through the cracks. I don’t have a career and I’m not exactly an earth mother. I don’t really fit in anywhere anymore.’
‘Why don’t you go back to tennis? You used to have a great serve. Tennis clubs are great for meeting people.’
‘Maybe when I make a little progress on the book.’
‘Don’t try to do it all, Kim.’
‘Right.’
‘Have you spoken to Deirdre French?’
I try to throw her off the scent. ‘How do you know each other anyway?’
‘We were in secretarial college together.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Smart. Ambitious. She wanted to study English but her parents didn’t have the money to send her to college so she got a job in a publishing company and pretty soon convinced them she could write.’
‘I remember reading that somewhere.’
‘Probably when she had a book coming out,’ Mum says, uncharacteristically cynical. ‘I’m not sure I’d completely trust her. I hope you didn’t tell her too much of your plot.’
‘I’ve abandoned that plot.’
‘Did she give you any tips?’
‘Yeah. She was pretty helpful.’ I share some of the advice.
‘She’s a busy bee,’ Mum says. ‘Always was.’
She gets up and starts to clear the table.
I help.
‘Dad’s anniversary is coming up,’ she says, suddenly. ‘Will you be around?’
‘Of course. What’ll we do? Same as last year?’
She nods. ‘He never liked a fuss and you know what he thought of organized religion. So no ceremony.’
‘Will James be over?’
‘He’s busy but he said he’d call.’
‘OK, so it’s just the two of us.’
She smiles and pats my hand.
‘Are we rich, Mum?’ Chloe asks as I tuck her into bed. We are so late it’s not funny.
‘Why d’you ask?’ Keep it brief.
‘Well, there’s loads of money all over the house.’
Coins, unfortunately. ‘We’re not rich, honey. That’s small money. You need lots of big money to be rich.’
‘Oh.’ She sounds disappointed.
‘We’re not rich. We’re not poor. We’re somewhere in the middle. We don’t have to worry about money. That’s the most important thing. Now go to sleep.’ I ruffle her hair and kiss her forehead.
‘You should go back to work. Then we’d be rich.’ Maybe it was a mistake to tell her we couldn’t get certain things because I’ve given up work.
‘What’s so great about being rich?’ I ask.
‘We’d have lots of money and we could buy anything.’
‘Would you like me to go back to work?’
‘What’s this about rich?’ Ian asks, swashbuckling into the bedroom after a hard day down the mines or financial equivalent.
‘We’re not rich, Dad.’
‘Not yet.’ He winks at Chloe then kisses her goodnight.
Sam is asleep. We cover him back up and kiss the top of his head.
I made an effort with dinner – roast chicken isn’t actually that hard – and Ian seems to appreciate it.
‘Let’s get a babysitter,’ I suggest.
He grimaces.
‘Just for an hour. To go for a walk.’
‘We need to cut back. We can’t go on spending like we are.’
‘I know. I’ve totally cut back but I need to get out. I’ve had the children all day.’
‘Right, then, you go. I’ll go later.’
‘Who’ll I talk to?’
‘I’m serious, Kim. Once a week is enough for us to go out, for the moment – at least until I’m permanent. We’ve the mortgage to think about.’
No point suggesting a new kitchen then. I grab my keys and phone, briefly worry about axe murderers, then remind myself I’ll become one if I don’t get out.
‘See you later then.’
‘See you later.’
His kiss feels like a consolation prize.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After a day of tantrums (Sam), whining (Chloe) and total frustration (me), I do not greet my husband with a warm bosom, slippers or even the standard, ‘How was your day?’ What he gets is a flat, ‘I’m going for a walk.’
He looks at me.
‘It’s either that or lose my mind. They’re in bed.’ I head for the door before he finds out Sam’s still awake.
‘But I’m just home,’ he says, like another child.
‘You’re dinner’s in the oven.’
‘I was talking about your company.’
‘I’ll be great company – when I get back.’
There’s a gentle thud from upstairs and then a succession of smaller ones. Sam appears at the top of the stairs. The demon child looks so suddenly adorable, all soft and squishy, hair defying gravity.
‘Sam, back to bed.’ I turn to Ian. ‘Or you could have a man-to-man chat while you’re eating dinner? I’ll put him to bed when I get back. I won’t be long. Promise.’
‘All right, go on then.’ He sighs and heads up the stairs to our son.
I try to ignore the permission-granted tone of voice and hurry into our neighbour’s house for a pee. I can’t risk going back – I might never get out again. I also borrow a hat. It’s freezing. It’s summer and it’s freezing.
I walk fast, arms pumping. I even break into a run. It does help. By the time I get home, I’m feeling almost human. Ian is unconscious on the couch, his arm around our sleeping son. I take a moment to admire them, then slip Sam out and carry him up to bed.
I take out my laptop and try to fix Peripheral Fear, the novel that is proving a peripheral nightmare.
Friday and Connor is throwing a party.
‘Guess who’s babysitting tonight?’ I ask Sam to distract him from the fact that I’m washing his hair.
‘Sally?!’
‘No, Sally wasn’t free. Guess again.’
‘Angela?’
‘Got it in two, mister.’ I turn to his sister. ‘Chloe, I need you be a little more careful about what you say to Angela, this time. No more talk about hairy arms.’
‘I was just trying to help.’
‘I know, sweetie, but you’ve got to trust that Angela can look after her own body, OK?’
Last time, Chloe suggested that Angela shave her arms because they were ‘hairy like a man’s’. By way of encouragement, she added that I always shave mine. When Angela suggested that I might shave under my arms, Chloe insisted, ‘No, she shaves her arms.’ The fact that Angela relayed the story in vivid detail gives me hope that she wasn’t too upset by the unintentional hairy arms insult.
Angela arrives to a hero’s welcome – from all three of us. I hurry upstairs to get ready.
I throw on the outfit I managed to select earlier. I stand in front of the mirro
r, something I haven’t been doing much of, lately. Good God, are those my hips? I try different trousers. And look worse. I resort to black and promise to exercise.
In the bathroom, I put on make up, another forgotten activity. I squint and lean in to the mirror. Is that a grey hair? Jesus Christ. There’s a full-length silver strand amongst the black. I literally run for the tweezers. I am thirty-three and ageing. Worse: I’m euphoric at the thought of a night out. What is happening to me?
Ian is in no rush to the party. He wants to go for a walk and have a quiet drink first. No argument from me. I, am, out.
‘Any news?’ he asks, as we stroll along the sea front.
I remind him of the hairy arms incident.
We laugh and I think that’s all we need, time alone together. It’s so good to be just the two of us that I don’t care how late we are for the party.
When we do arrive, it’s to a buzz. Connor introduces us to various couples already deep in conversation. He settles on ‘Frances and Simon’ who seem to be experiencing a chat-lull. We exchange ‘heys’.
‘Kim’s a novelist,’ Connor announces. ‘The next Deirdre French, they say.’
I blush.
‘Wow. That’s great,’ Frances says. ‘What kind of novels?’
‘It’s just a hobby.’ I turn to glare at Connor but already he’s slipped away.
‘Murder mystery,’ Ian says with a confidence I don’t feel.
‘Wow! Gosh. I’d love to write.’
‘You should,’ I enthuse, diverting the focus to her.
‘Ah, I’d never have time. I work full-time in the home. Our kids are very small.’
I nod, hoping that Ian is listening.
‘Maybe if I got some support from this guy…’ She points a thumb at her husband then leans in to me, conspiratorially. ‘What is it about men? As soon as you become a full-time mum, they think they can treat you like a full-time slave.’
‘Nice to meet you both,’ Simon says and walks away.
Oh my God, the poor guy. He looks so hurt.
Frances rolls her eyes. ‘Now I’m the bad guy.’
Ian and I exchange a glance.
‘Look at him,’ she continues. ‘Guzzling away, assuming I’ll drive home because I’m breast-feeding.’
Ian starts to move. I tighten my grip. He is not leaving me with her.
‘Now I know why he encouraged me to breast-feed. Who has to get up in the middle of the night, every time? I’m living proof that sleep-deprivation is torture.’
Ian turns to me and squints. ‘Isn’t that Connor calling us over?’
It isn’t. ‘Think so, yeah. It was so lovely meeting you, Frances.’
‘Oh sure, no problem.’ She sounds disappointed. ‘Good luck with the books.’
‘Thank you.’ The really worrying thing is that I feel her pain. Highway to the Danger Zone.
As soon as we’re out of earshot, Ian stops and turns to me. ‘Promise me you’ll never turn into that.’
‘Hey, thanks for the vote of confidence.’
‘Sorry. It’s just like my mother all over again. Please don’t become a nag.’
‘I’ll do my best, Ian,’ I say sarcastically.
‘Sorry. She just freaked me out.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Come on.’ He links my arm like we’re an old couple; this on the day I discovered a grey hair.
Before we can reach Connor, he jumps up on his coffee table and taps the side of his glass with a spoon. The room falls silent.
‘So, thank you all for coming. Great to see everyone I care about here together in one room. Well, this is a going-away party, folks. I’m moving to London.’
‘You haven’t landed that MD job with Excell, have you?’ calls a guy beside me.
Connor’s smile says it all.
There’s a round of applause and some whooping.
‘So I’m standing up here like a tool to remind you all that I’ll be under an hour away by plane. And I have a spare room. A big one. So…come!’ He raises his glass. ‘To continued friendship.’
‘To continued friendship,’ rises a united voice.
He steps down and is surrounded by well-wishers, mostly female.
Ian hands me his glass. ‘Got to take a leak.’
I lower myself onto the arm of Connor’s couch to digest the news. Friend Number Two down. Maybe I should think about tennis.
‘Shove up,’ Connor says.
I move along. ‘I didn’t even know you were job hunting!’
‘I wasn’t. I got head hunted. Poor fools have no idea what they’re taking on!’
I laugh.
‘Let’s book your visit now.’
I give him a look.
‘I’m serious.’
‘Connor, I’m at home with two kids,’ I say, feeling a bit Frances-y.
‘Bring them. And Ian.’
I don’t drag up the issue of money. Knowing Connor, he’d offer to pay.
‘Sure I’ll see you when you’re in Dublin. I assume you won’t forget us.’
He looks at me, serious suddenly. ‘How could I?’
And I remember how close we once were.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I drive Mum to Kilcoole, a pebble beach at the foothills of the Wicklow Mountains. Mum and Dad first met here when Dad’s football landed on her picnic rug. Five years ago, we followed Dad’s last wishes and scattered his ashes here. If we wanted to visit him, he said, at least we’d get a trip to the sea. I was only glad that he opted for cremation. It meant that we finally got the cancer. Burned it to ashes, every last bit.
So here we are, sitting in silence on the very same picnic rug, looking out to sea.
‘Remember the dolphins,’ Mum says with a smile and I think she must be psychic.
I nod, smiling too. Dad stayed in the water while we shot out, fearing shark attack. The dolphins came right up to him and they swam together. He called us back in. And we went. Such was our trust in him. God, how I loved him, a bigger kid than us always, a total messer. I don’t remember any of my friends’ fathers being such fun.
‘He was a great dad,’ I say.
‘He loved you both so much.’
‘Wish he’d got to see Chloe and Sam.’
‘He does see them, sweetheart. I’m sure of it. I know he was a stubborn man when it came to his lack of faith but I know he got through those gates somehow.’ She smiles again, staring at the horizon. ‘He had his own way of doing things, your Dad, his own way of looking at the world; but he was a good man, Kim, a good man.’
On the way back, we stop off at a little church. Dad might have had his own way of doing things, but Mum does too.
If anyone ever asks me for advice on writing (unlikely), this is what they’ll get: Don’t tell anyone that you’re doing it. All you get is pressure. Sarah, on the line from Bangkok, has just asked if I’ve set myself a deadline.
‘What kind of deadline?’
‘You know – if you’re not published by a certain date, you’ll move on to something else.’
‘No, Sarah, no deadline.’
‘OK, change that.’
‘Why?’
‘It will keep you focused.’
‘Right.’
‘Well?’ she asks.
‘Well what?’
‘Have you come up with one?’
‘What, like now?’
‘No time like the present.’
I bite my hand – rather than her head off.
‘I’m waiting.’
‘All right then! Two years! I’ll give it two years. Happy?’
‘Seems a little on the long side.’
‘Call me patient. We can’t all be an overnight success.’
‘Did you get on to Jackie?’ Jackie is acting editor at Girlfriend. Sarah suggested to her that I write an opinion column for the magazine.
‘She said she’d get back to me.’
‘Let me call her, put a bit of fire under her ass.’
‘Maybe don’t. She
might just resent me.’
‘No. She’ll resent me.’ She laughs. ‘OK, let’s flick ahead two years. What’ll you do if the novel doesn’t work out?’
‘I’ve two years to worry about that.’
‘True. But it’s always good to have a back-up plan. What’s yours?’
I hate the way Plan B keeps popping up – especially as it’s invalid – no money, no qualifications, no experience. ‘Open an art gallery.’
‘I can see that,’ she says as if she can’t see me as a novelist.
‘Anyway, how’s Bangkok?’
‘I’d give it a two on the dick front.’ She goes on to explain why, in sordid detail.
‘How’s Perfect Man?’
‘I’m keeping him keen.’
‘What, you’re not talking to him?’
‘No.’
‘But…’
‘I know what I’m doing.’
OK, that’s a line I need to learn. I hear her pull on a cigarette. ‘Wait. Are you back smoking?’
‘I wasn’t cut out to be good.’
I smile. ‘So where to next?’
‘Kenya. Then home, I think. I’m a bit shagged.’
‘Literally.’
She laughs – deep and hoarse. ‘Literally.’
‘Bet you miss the rain,’ I say, sarcastically.
‘What I miss about home is the rain, the greenness…’
‘…and the pint of Harp.’
‘And the friends coming in…’
‘And the pint of Harp…’
‘And Sally O’Brien and the way she might look at you…’
‘And the pint of Harp…’
‘You could fry an egg on the stones here…’
‘If you had an egg…’
‘And you could certainly sink a pint of Harp…’
‘If you had a pint of Harp.’
We laugh.
‘I can’t believe we remembered. That ad is ancient.’
All We Have Lost Page 6