All We Have Lost

by Alexander, Aimee

  ‘You had the easy lines,’ she says. ‘Right. I better go.’

  ‘Good luck.’ I suppress the mummy in me who wants to remind her to use condoms.

  ‘Thanks, hon.’

  And then I can’t help it: ‘Be careful out there.’

  ‘I’ll leave being careful to you.’

  ‘Hilarious.’

  ‘Joking. Ciao, hon.’

  ‘Ciao yourself.’

  I call Jackie in Girlfriend and a few of my old contacts. If I could land a column, it would give me a profile which would make me more attractive to publishers.

  Turns out, no one wants a column by Kim Waters. Why? Because Kim Waters doesn’t have a profile.

  That settles it; Peripheral Fear is on official holidays. I need to do something about the kitchen before the kids break for the summer even if it’s to just paint the cupboards.

  ‘Any luck with the column?’ Ian asks over dinner.

  I shake my head, then explain.

  ‘I can see their point. Who’d want to read about coffee mornings and cellulite?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Joking.’

  I raise my eyebrows. And fail to mention the break from writing. Normally, I tell him everything.

  I start to clear up. ‘Want to go to an art exhibition tomorrow? I’m going with Connor.’

  He looks surprised. ‘Who’ll mind the kids?’

  ‘I’m just going to let them here on their own.’ Jesus. ‘Mum will mind the kids, Ian. So, you coming?’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Six.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Won’t be finished.’ Then he looks at me. ‘Why are you going to such hassle getting into town for six?’

  ‘It’s not a hassle. It’s the opposite. I never get out. Connor is moving to London next week. And the wine’s free.’ The last one’s a joke to lighten the mood.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘OK? I don’t need your permission, Ian.’

  He looks at me like I’ve turned into Frances From The Party.

  I am in love with a sculpture of an elongated, skinny man.

  Connor, standing beside me says, ‘It’s good to have you all to myself.’

  ‘It’s good to be all by myself,’ I reply without taking my eyes from my new love interest.

  ‘You’re not. I’m here.’

  I laugh. ‘You know what I mean. It’s just good to get out.’

  ‘I could be Quasimodo here and you’d still be happy – as long as you’re out.’

  ‘You know it.’ I laugh. But it is good to be out on my own. Not as a mum. Or wife. Just me. Kim – the person who is becoming less familiar with every passing day.

  ‘You love it, don’t you?’ he asks of the sculpture.

  I nod. ‘It’s like a Modigliani.’ I continue to gaze at it, trying to record every detail to memory.

  ‘Buy it.’

  I take out my phone and photograph it.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Buying it for free.’

  ‘Buy it, Kim, for Christ sake.’

  And I hate to sound like Frances but: ‘I’m not working.’

  ‘Ian is.’

  ‘Yeah and I already hate relying on him for basic survival.’

  ‘What about the bestsellers?’

  ‘Bestsellers take time.’ I take a deep breath and turn to him. ‘Anyway, I’m taking a break.’

  ‘What? From writing?’

  ‘Just for the summer; don’t tell Ian.’

  He looks at me in surprise. ‘Not like you to keep something from him.’

  ‘I know. I know. I’ll tell him. When the time’s right.’

  ‘Then let me buy it. A going-away pressie.’

  ‘Connor, the idea of a going-away pressie is to give it to the person going away.’

  ‘When have you ever known me to do anything the right way round?’

  I look at him and smile. ‘Thanks but no thanks. I’ll buy it for myself – when I can.’

  ‘It won’t be here. It’ll be in someone else’s front room.’

  I shrug.

  ‘Right then, let me buy it for myself and when you’re in the money you can buy it from me – if you still want it. How’s that?’

  I look at him hopefully. ‘Seriously?’

  He gives me an evil scientist look. ‘I have ulterior motives.’ He takes out his wallet. ‘Come to London or you’ll never see your little friend here again.’

  I laugh. And hate that he’s going just when we had begun to hang out again.

  I have to lie down with Sam to get him off to sleep. He gazes across at me.

  ‘What’s you favwit twain? Pewcy or Thomas?’

  I know what he’s up to and press his nose. ‘Sleep, mister.’ I turn over or we’ll be chatting all night.

  He plays with my hair.

  ‘Sam if you don’t sleep, I’ll go.’

  Big sigh. ‘’K.’

  I wake to the sound of Ian coming in. I check my watch – ten past ten. He gets later every day. I get up, grab a hoodie and go down.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, coming into the kitchen.

  He turns around. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Upstairs, lying down with Sam.’

  ‘Well for some.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Swanning around art galleries, napping whenever you want.’

  ‘What are you talking about? I have the kids twenty-four-seven. Have you any idea how draining they can be?’

  ‘They’re good kids.’

  ‘I know they’re good. They’re great. But they’re kids. They demand, they fight, they whine. And they’re a constant responsibility. You’ve only yourself to look after. You can come and go as you please, do what you want, when you want. Leave the office. Meet people for lunch. Buy things for yourself.’ I look at yet another Brown Thomas bag he’s arrived home with.

  ‘Thought you said you weren’t going to become a nag.’

  ‘It’s you that’s becoming the nag, implying I’ve a great life and you don’t. I don’t have a great life. I’ve an OK life, like everyone else.’

  ‘Yeah but you’re doing what you want. And you’re still complaining.’

  ‘I’m not complaining. I’m defending myself – which I shouldn’t have to do. You think you’re the only person working around here and you’re not. You’re bloody not.’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘I had a glass of wine. So?’

  ‘You’re drinking and minding children?’

  ‘One glass of wine.’

  ‘What’s for dinner?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What d’you mean? What am I supposed to eat?’

  ‘Whatever you want. You’re a grown man. Work something out. Am I supposed to have something on the table for you every evening? Today I didn’t get time. OK?’

  ‘Right. I’m eating in the canteen in future.’

  ‘You do that.’

  ‘Right, I will.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘McBloodyDonald’s.’

  I hope you choke, does not actually escape from my lips.

  He slams the front door.

  ‘Anyone home?’ he asks an hour later, pulling back the duvet.

  I’m under here, still trying to recover.

  ‘What was that about?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I sniffle.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.’ He sits on the side of the bed.

  I sit up. ‘Is everything OK at work?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re not stressed or anything?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Sure?’

  He nods.

  ‘Because if something’s bothering you, you should tell me.’

  ‘Nothing’s bothering me.’

  ‘OK. Well, if anything does again, please don’t take it out on me. I’m doing my best. I know I’
m not an earth mother but I am trying.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘We shouldn’t fight.’

  ‘No. Come here.’

  I scooch over to him.

  He takes my hand and traces a finger over the back of it. ‘Look, I know how hard you work especially with the book and everything.’

  Oh crap.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  I grimace. ‘I think I might be suffering from writer’s block.’

  ‘Suffering?’ An eyebrow rises.

  ‘Yes, suffering. The harder I try, the worse it gets. I’ve tried changing the plot, the genre, starting over – twice. I’m going to leave it for a few weeks and try again.’

  ‘Maybe you should speak to Sarah. She might have some advice.’

  ‘I have spoken to her. She told me to write erotica.’

  He laughs. And I feel like he’s just told me I’m not sexy. Which I know is total paranoia.

  ‘Kim, you’ve only just started. You don’t want to stop now.’

  ‘I want to settle into this whole mother thing.’

  ‘What do you mean, “this whole mother thing”?’

  ‘I want to be a good mum.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘So why do you always make me feel I’m not?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘I think you’re doing a great job with the kids. Sally’s a hard act to follow.’

  ‘Sally’s not their mum.’

  ‘Kim, I just said you’re doing great.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘About the writing, though… Aren’t you afraid that if you stop you’ll get out of the habit? You’ve never wanted to be just a housewife.’

  ‘What’s wrong with being “just a housewife”? My mother was “just a housewife” and my dad didn’t have a problem with that. Would you have a problem with me being just a housewife?’

  He hesitates. His, ‘No,’ is too quiet.

  ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Kim. Do what you want. You do anyway.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You didn’t want me to quit work, did you?’

  ‘Let’s not talk about this now.’ He’s getting up.

  ‘You didn’t want me to quit and now you resent me for it. Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t want me to stop? I gave you enough chances.’

  ‘I was happy for you to give up work. You had the novel. I’m just disappointed you’re giving up on it so soon.’

  ‘I haven’t given up on it.’

  ‘You quit work to write and now you’re not.’

  ‘For a few weeks.’

  His sigh is dramatic. I look at him, really look at him. ‘It’s like your opinion of me is tied to what I do.’

  ‘I just don’t want you to become my mother. Or the woman at the party.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  ‘You’ve started nagging.’

  ‘No I haven’t.’

  ‘You nag about emptying the dishwasher. Putting the bin out.’

  ‘Dear Jesus, Ian, how do you live with me?’

  ‘You see? There you go.’

  ‘No. There you go.’

  He sighs again and walks out. Minutes later, I hear the front door slam.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘I’m taking up golf,’ he says one Saturday morning. No discussion.

  I look at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘I have to. They’re all doing it.’

  ‘Who’s they all?’

  ‘You know, people in the business.’ I hate the way he says, ‘in the business’, as if he means, ‘in the know’, as if I’m not in the business or in the know.

  ‘I thought you hated the idea of golf – the fact that it breaks up the weekend, takes you away from your family.’

  ‘Yeah but this is important. You’re not working now.’

  My arms fold automatically and an eyebrow pops up.

  ‘You know what I mean. I have to make this work, OK? I have to play ball.’

  ‘There’s a difference between “have to” and “want to”.’

  ‘All right then, if you insist, I want to. I want to play golf.’ He walks around with both arms raised.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Ian. No one’s under arrest here.’

  He lowers his arms. ‘I’m playing golf,’ he says slowly, calmly. ‘I’ll be back by lunchtime.’

  ‘Well, don’t expect a pipe and slippers.’

  He stares at me as though I’ve transformed into his mother.

  Say nothing, say nothing. Count to ten. Count to one hundred. Don’t, whatever you do, scream.

  I take Chloe and Sam to the sea and try to forget as we search for shrimps in rocky pools.

  ‘Dat’s a puggle,’ Sam says.

  Do I explain that it is, in fact, a rock pool or teach him how to say puddle?

  ‘Puddle, honey, puddle.’

  ‘Puggle.’

  ‘Puddle.’

  ‘Puggle.’

  ‘Say de, de, de, puddle.’

  ‘De, de, de, puggle.’

  I kiss the top of his head. Puggle it is. Side by side, we crouch, motionless, like three herons. Sam turns to me, reaches up his two chubby hands and places them on either side of my face and turns my head to him. He looks right into my eyes and says simply, ‘My Mum’ – just two words, less than ‘I love you’ but meaning more to me. My eyes smart and I laugh as camouflage.

  ‘I see some! I see some shrimps!’ Chloe says pointing.

  Sam picks up a stone and dive-bombs them.

  My phone rings. It’s Sarah wanting to know if I can meet her for lunch. She’s home!

  The minute Ian walks in the door, I walk out. I get the DART into town and find the trendy new restaurant that she’s suggested and I’ve never been to. There was a time – not so long ago – I’d have been invited to the opening of any new venue in town.

  She’s at a table, whiskey in hand. She smiles that slow Jackie Brown smile of hers, then stands and hugs me. She waits till I’m seated to ask:

  ‘Jesus, Kim, what happened to you?’

  I improve my posture and keep my jacket on. ‘If you’re talking about my weight, it’s nothing I can’t shift.’

  ‘I was talking about your hair.’

  My hand moves to it automatically. ‘It needs a blow-dry.’

  ‘Kim, that hair needs more than a blow-dry.’ She reaches across and picks up a strand. ‘It’s full of split ends.’

  I focus on the menu.

  ‘And what are you wearing?’

  ‘Something that fits.’ It’s meant to be a joke but comes out as a sad statement of fact.

  She snaps open her designer bag.

  ‘Membership card to my gym. Use it,’ she says handing it to me.

  I open my mouth to refuse but she holds up a hand. I take it to keep her quiet.

  ‘Pop in any spare time you get,’ is spoken like a person in a childfree zone, a place where nothing is ever broken or scribbled on and silence reigns, where one can hold a telephone conversation without interruption and have a pee in undisturbed peace on a dribble-free toilet seat. ‘You’re coming to Manuel with me tomorrow. No buts.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘When were you last at a hairdresser?’

  ‘I didn’t come here for a makeover, Sarah. There are mirrors in my house. I know, OK? I know.’ And just like that I’m crying. In public.

  ‘Oh God. I’m so sorry, Kim. I was just trying to help. This is all surface stuff, easily fixed. You’re still beautiful. You’re still a stunner.’

  I blow my nose but the tears keep coming. ‘I’ve stopped writing.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ she soothes.

  ‘I never see Ian. He’s gone at half-seven and not back ’til nine or ten. All we do is fight.’

  ‘He’s probably under pres
sure in the job. Maybe he has a deal going down. You know how corporate finance is.’

  ‘No, I don’t know how corporate finance is and I don’t care.’

  She raises an eyebrow but says nothing. She passes me a fresh hankie.

  ‘He used to bring Sam and Chloe swimming at the weekends. Not any more.’

  ‘Probably exhausted.’

  ‘He never does DIY. And there are so many things that need fixing.’

  ‘Fuck DIY. Get a man in.’

  ‘We can’t afford a man. If we could, I’d be getting a new kitchen.’

  ‘OK. Stop right there.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Since when are you interested in kitchens?’

  ‘Since I started spending most of my life in one. It’s prehistoric. And dangerous. The cupboards are so crammed that opening them is a health hazard. A can of tuna nearly killed me yesterday.’

  ‘Enough, about, kitchens.’

  ‘At least things are good with the kids. I know them so much better now. I’ve time to listen, to understand that, usually, what they’re asking or doing is just what I’d do if I were in their shoes.’

  ‘Get back to Ian.’

  ‘I don’t know, Sarah. We’ve lost the balance. We used to be a team, both out working, both seeing equal amounts of the children, both independent. It wasn’t perfect but we had loads of time alone together. We got on so well. Now it’s all changed. He’s the breadwinner – as he keeps reminding me. I depend on him and I don’t want to. He’s paranoid I’ll turn into his mother. I’m paranoid I’ll turn into his mother. We can’t seem to talk any more. We argue all the time. There’s nothing to laugh about. And we never,’ I whisper, ‘have sex.’

  ‘OK. This is serious. A woman can’t live without a shag.’

  ‘Yes, a woman can live without a shag. Shagging is the least important thing. Just getting on, chatting, laughing, touching. They’re the things I miss most.’

  ‘Right. You need to get back working. And fast.’

  ‘I didn’t quit just to go back. I want a different life.’

  ‘Don’t you miss the buzz of work?’

  ‘No. Not the buzz, not the endless meetings, not the impressing clients. None of it. Staying at home is hard; I’m an entertainer, barmaid, bum-wiper, cook, nurse, psychologist, teacher, cleaner, negotiator, fight-breaker-upper….’

  ‘Stop, stop, for Christ’s sake. No wonder he’s never home – you’re boring him to death. Will you for God’s sake get a job, woman, before it’s too late? You need your independence. You need to remember who you are. And you need to start fucking your husband.’