‘Must be great to have all the answers, Sarah.’
She reaches across and grips my hand. ‘I’m worried about you, Kim. You’re going off the rails, hon.’
‘You have no idea about my life. I gave up work for a reason. And if Ian doesn’t like me as I am, screw him. I’m my own person. I won’t be pushed around and made to feel less than I am.’
She bites her lip.
‘Anyway. Enough about me. Let’s order. And talk about you.’ Her favourite subject.
‘All right,’ she says grudgingly. ‘Just one thing – leopard-skin lingerie – never fails.’
Despite myself, I laugh.
So golf on Saturdays it is. And, what with his post-golf rest, he becomes The Invisible Man.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A surprising thing happens. I grow to like his absences. His not being around means I can relax. Be myself. Do my own thing – well, our own thing; I still have the kids obviously. Weekends become a continuation of weekdays, just the three of us at our own pace. I suppress feelings that we should all be together and manage to succeed until confronted by scenes of happy families, especially tricky when they are people we know. Initially they ask where Ian is. Eventually they stop.
I develop a game. It’s called, ‘Who Loves You?’ and it goes like this:
‘Who loves you, Sammy?’
‘Poo.’
‘Who loves you, Samuel?’
‘Poo, Poo.’ He collapses into laughter. At least he has a sense of humour, however warped.
I have another go. ‘Who,’ tickle, ‘loves,’ tickle, ‘you?’
‘Mummy.’
‘Yep and who else loves you?’
‘Chlo.’
‘And who else?’
‘Dad.’
Mission accomplished but I keep going. ‘And who else?’
‘Gwanny Flowence’
We go through all the grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, even pets until I’m satisfied that they feel very, very loved.
One Saturday, I’m walking by the sea with two ice-cream-covered children. One of Dublin’s most high profile, society couples zips by in their Mercedes Sports Convertible, top down. No sign of their peculiarly named children. At first, I envy them. Then I look down at Sam and Chloe and feel so much love. My kids are fun. More fun, now, than my husband.
‘Can you iron this?’ he asks. No, ‘please’. No, ‘would you mind?’ No, ‘whenever you get a chance’. To him, I am The Scrubber, Mrs Kavanagh. I wouldn’t mind so much, if he’d show some appreciation. That’s all I’m after. Acknowledgement. I am a person. I do exist.
The children aren’t blind. Despite my games, they notice.
At bedtime, Sam asks the all-too-familiar question. ‘Whay’s my dad?’
‘At work, sweetie.’
His head drops and he makes a muffled sound.
‘How about a story? How about two?’
A car pulls up outside.
Sam jumps from the bed and races to the window, shouting, ‘It’s my dad! It’s my dad!’
I glance out only to confirm what I suspected – it ain’t him.
I ruffle Sam’s hair and lift him up. ‘He’ll be home soon, sweetie. Would you like a Winnie the Pooh ice-cream?’
‘Don’t want ice-cweam, want my dad.’ He starts to cry.
Not far behind, I take a deep breath. ‘I’ll tell you what; why don’t we all stay up late tonight ’til Dad comes home? Wouldn’t that be great?’
‘Yaay!’
I set them up on the couch with a quilt and ice creams. I put on a DVD. ‘Back in a sec,’ I say lightly.
In the kitchen, I ring Ian to see if he can get home early or at least earlier than late. When he doesn’t answer his mobile I try his direct line. A woman answers.
‘I’m sorry. Mr Kavanagh is unavailable. Can I take a message?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘His secretary, Melanie.’
Didn’t know he had one. ‘Could you ask him to call Kim as soon as he gets out, please?’
‘Does he have your number?’
‘He should. I’m his wife.’ Ha, ha.
‘Oh, Kim, hi! So good to talk to you! I’m Melanie. I just started here. I’m sure Ian’s told you.’
Actually, no. ‘Congratulations. And welcome to the firm.’ A joke for myself. ‘The firm,’ has become one of Ian’s favourite expressions. When he actually expresses.
‘He’s so great to work for,’ she gushes.
Why is she telling me this? Does she want me to pass it on? ‘When do you think he’ll be free, Melanie?’
‘He’s in a meeting but he should be out soon. I’ll get him to give you a call.’
‘Thanks.’
He calls – to let me know he has another meeting.
‘Until when?’
‘I don’t know. It could go on.’
‘OK. Fine. But they’re staying up till you get home. They need to see you.’
‘Kim, they’ll be exhausted.’
‘I know. But they need to see you.’
He sighs. ‘I’ll do my best.’
Sam has fallen asleep on the couch by the time Ian gets home. Chloe is tired and cranky and more interested in the treats he has brought than in seeing him. Silently, I put them to bed. I wish him back to his old job. He mightn’t have been happy but at least we saw him. And he wasn’t Superman, just Ian. Approachable, fun, Ian.
‘Sorry,’ he says, when I come back downstairs.
‘Why do you have to work so hard?’
‘It’s the business I’m in. Everyone around town’s working this hard at the moment.’
Around town? Seriously? Any day now, he’ll start using ‘going forward.’
‘Ian, I don’t know much about corporate finance but do you really have to be busy all the time?’
‘What can I do? I’m trying to make an impression. I thought you’d understand.’
‘I do. At least I’m trying to but I’m beginning to wonder what’s the point of working so hard if it means you’re never around. What’s life all about?’
‘Have you been reading that crap again?’
‘If you’re referring to my self-help books, I got rid of them. But that’s not what we’re talking about here. We’re talking about us growing apart as a family.’
‘Are we?’
I look at him for a long time. ‘Yes, Ian.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Spend more time at home.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Well maybe I could bring the kids to see you some lunch-time?’ It would be worth wading through traffic for.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not always free.’
‘I know but you must be sometimes. You could give us a ring.’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you want to see us?’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake. I don’t want you dragging yourselves into town to meet me for half-an-hour, OK?’ He sounds like he’s talking to a child.
‘What about weekends? You could take them swimming again. They really miss that.’
‘We’ll see.’
The old chestnut parents have been trotting out for generations. I give up. What’s the point?
He’s not happy with the quality of the dry cleaning.
‘So bring it back,’ I suggest.
‘Why didn’t you check it?’
‘Why didn’t you bring it yourself in the first place?’
‘I was busy.’
‘As was I but I managed to do it – despite having two toddlers in tow. Couldn’t you have held up the world of corporate finance for five minutes? I don’t think it would have ground to a halt, do you?’
‘I didn’t think I was asking too much.’
‘I didn’t mind doing it, Ian. But if it’s not up to scratch, you bring it back.’
He mutters something.
‘What did you say?’ I ask.
/> ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘What did you say?’
Nothing, apparently.
‘You know, Ian. If you’re not happy, you can leave at any time. Any time.’ Whoa, where did that come from?
‘How about now? How does now suit?’
‘Now suits just fine.’
My heart is pounding. We stand glaring at each other, neither wanting to back down, yet neither wanting to move forward either. How did an argument about dry cleaning turn into this?
Suddenly Sam is shouting, ‘Leave my mummy alone.’
Jesus. When did he come into the kitchen? How much has he heard?
‘It’s OK sweetheart, Daddy was only joking.’ I bend down and take him up into my arms. I look at Ian. ‘Weren’t you, Dad?’
‘Yes, Sam, Daddy was only joking. I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m really sorry. Daddy loves Mummy. And Mummy loves Daddy.’
Then Sam does a wonderful thing. He rubs my back, round in circles, finishing off with a few gentle pats. ‘OK, now?’
I nod and smile but I’m fighting tears. ‘Thanks, Sammy. OK, now.’ That’s when I see Chloe standing inside the doorway, sucking her thumb. ‘Hey, little lady,’ I start but she turns and runs out. Still carrying Sam, I go after her.
I end up bringing them to McDonalds – the comfort zone of family.
Later, we sit in bed, reading, Ian The Economist, me an article claiming that parents who neglect themselves have poorer relationships with their children. I have counted twelve out of the twenty signs that show I’m in danger.
‘Jesus,’ I whisper.
‘What?’
I pass him the magazine. ‘This is me.’
He puts down The Economist and skims the article. ‘That’s not you at all.’
‘It’s not?’
‘You don’t take drugs.’
‘Not yet! What about the other points?’ I’m referring to such things as rushing around, doing several things at once, being repeatedly late, rarely saying ‘no’ to demands, having no time for self, having little or no leisure time or social outings, lacking exercise, being over-tired, rarely or never asking for help and, unfortunately, over-eating. ‘You can’t recognise me in that?’ Maybe he genuinely doesn’t know how I live.
‘Well, they’re me too.’
‘You?’
‘I do nothing but work.’
‘You golf.’
‘For work.’
‘At least you get to be by yourself.’
‘Maybe I’d like to see you. Maybe I’d like to see the kids. Did you ever think of that? Who wrote this shit anyway?’ He slaps the magazine with the back of his hand. ‘Psychologist! Should have known.’ He throws it on the bed.
I turn over angrily and flick off my bedside light. I am the parking ticket on his windscreen; if he doesn’t see me, I’m not there.
In the morning, we’re getting dressed when I hit on a solution.
‘Let’s get an au pair.’
‘An au pair? Why?’
‘She could help with the kids and do light housework.’
‘Haven’t you time to do all that now that you’ve given up on the book?’
‘I was thinking it might allow me to get back to the book.’
‘Where would she stay?’ He is finished knotting his tie but still looking at himself in the mirror.
‘We could put her in Sam’s room and move the kids in together.’
‘But you did it up for him. He loves it now.’ He’s baring his teeth at himself, checking them out.
‘Sam and Chloe like sharing. You’ve always said so.’
‘What about our privacy? Having someone around all the time. I’d hate it.’ Now he’s squinting at himself.
‘Our quality of life would be better, though. We could go out for a walk in the evenings.’
‘What about sex? You don’t think we could have sex with a stranger in the house.’
What sex? ‘We could try it for a while and see how we get on.’
‘Not interested.’ He drags himself away from his reflection.
It’s official; the earner has become the decision-maker.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
An invitation arrives for Ian and, quelle surprise, his family. It’s a barbecue organized by his ‘firm’. On the plus side: it’s a day out together. But there is also this: I will spend my time chasing children while Ian talks business with work colleagues. And this: The women will probably be gorgeous.
‘I think I’ll give it a skip,’ I say to him when he arrives home from work.
‘You can’t.’ He shoots me a look.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s a family day.’ He thinks for a second then adds, ‘and they know I’ve a family.’
I laugh. It’s like he already considered the option of pretending we don’t exist. ‘You could say I was sick or something.’
‘Why don’t you want to go?’
Hmmm. Do I want to point out that I’m now a size fourteen and no longer in the workforce? ‘I dunno.’
‘Ah, come on. It’ll be great. Dave’s bringing his family. You’d love his wife, Emily.’
I don’t know Dave. What makes Ian think I’d like his wife? ‘Does she work?’
‘No.’
Ah, my answer, right there. Neither of us works therefore we will get on famously.
‘Please come, Kim. You’re always saying we don’t spend enough time together.’
It’s his first offer of time with us. I can’t throw it back in his face. ‘OK, I’ll go.’
‘Great! What’ll you wear?’
‘What?’
‘Just wondering what you’ll wear.’
‘Why?’ Is he afraid I’ll turn up in a shiny tracksuit and a pair of Sarah’s shoes? I’d have to buy a tracksuit. But I could. It’d be worth it just to see his face.
‘I’m trying to have a conversation. Isn’t that what you wanted? Jesus.’
‘Did I ask you what you’d be wearing?’
‘No but I’m happy to tell you. I’m wearing my chinos, this shirt and the navy rugby top thrown over my shoulders.’
I laugh. Then realise he’s serious.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing. I thought you were joking. You don’t usually plan your wardrobe.’
‘I’m still new – or at least I still feel it.’
‘The chinos would be perfect,’ is my apology.
‘Can you wash and iron them for me? I’d like them to be fresh.’
That’s it. Where are the Golden Pages? I’m getting a new husband.
Barbecue Day dawns sunny. A sign, I hope. I have adopted the cunning use of posture and loose clothing. Sam and Chloe look respectable. Ian is immaculate. His recently commenced early morning jogs are paying off. Maybe Sarah is right. Maybe he is my sexy husband.
We arrive at Fitzwilliam Square on time. Ian introduces me to a few of his colleagues, then his boss. She reminds me of my ex-client, Maeve, not just in appearance but demeanor. Ice, basically. Superior Ice. Which sounds like a decent brand of vodka.
I’m glad when the formalities are over, though Ian, as expected, leaves me with the children. It’s a challenge keeping them out of trouble, what with the ready availability of raw meat and things to knock over, including themselves, the barbecue, other children, their father’s work colleagues and catering staff carrying hot food. I divert them to the bouncy castle and stand guard, ready for rescue.
And then I see her. She is every man’s dream – a blonde Betty Boop. But forget dreams – what’s she doing all over my husband? Touching his arm, whispering in his ear, hanging on his every wonderful word. If Ian notices, he doesn’t let on, chatting casually to people I don’t know. Every so often she throws back her blonde head and laughs – with her whole body. I try to invoke calm. Breathe in blue, breathe out orange (advice of sadly-missed colour therapy book). I grip my sparkling water.
Ian glances over and when he catches me looking gives me an e
ncouraging it’ll-all-be-over-soon smile. She follows his eyes and sees me. Lock on. I have never worried about other women; I will not start now. I turn back to the bouncy castle where life just couldn’t get any better. I can’t help it though: I glance back. Oh my God, she’s on her way over. I find myself pushing up my sleeves.
‘Kim?’ she breathes. She offers her hand, ‘I’m Melanie. We spoke on the phone?’
‘I remember,’ I say coldly. I also remember she was working late.
‘Ian’s such a great guyyyy. It’s so great working for him.’
‘Great.’ What can I say?
‘You’re so luckyyy.’
‘I am?’
She throws back that beautiful head as she laughs.
‘And what do youuu do? You’re at home, right?’
‘Actually, I write. Fiction,’ I say, hoping she won’t ask if I’ve a publisher, an agent or even a basic plot.
‘From hooome?’
‘Yup.’
She looks into the bouncy castle. ‘Which ones are yours?’
I point them out.
‘Sooo cute.’
‘You like children?’
‘Oh my God. I so love them.’
‘Maybe you’d like to mind mine for a while?’
She looks at me, unsure for the first time. Then she laughs but nervously. The suggestion gets rid of her. Off she totters, her excuse being an empty glass.
He never told me she was attractive. Correction. He never told me she existed.
I’m standing at the bathroom door, leaning against the frame. Ian is cutting his toenails into the toilet.
‘So when did you get a secretary?’
‘Melanie?’ He looks up casually. And I can’t tell if it’s too casually. ‘We took her on a few weeks ago. Didn’t I tell you?’
‘No. You didn’t.’
‘Yeah, well. Things have been hectic.’
‘I know.’
He turns and his voice softens. ‘There’s a big deal going through, should be finished soon.’
‘Maybe you could take a few days off.’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ he says uncertainly. ‘There’ll be a lot to tie up.’
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