All We Have Lost

by Alexander, Aimee

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘I mightn’t have tits the size of melons but I’m not stupid.’

  ‘Well you sound pretty stupid, right now. For crying out loud. Do you know what you’ve just implied? Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?’

  I smile rather than puke. ‘Don’t ever take up poker, Ian. You’re a shit bluffer.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Attack has always been your chosen form of defence.’

  He looks stunned.

  ‘And for the record, I don’t give a shit how you feel. Your clubs are under the stairs. And the children are in the garden. Mind them for a change.’ I walk out.

  I run upstairs, heart pounding. There is no golf, no James. And the aftershave? Camouflage. To remove the scent of her. And maybe I knew that this morning. But I trusted him – or needed to. I grab a pillow and fling it at the wall. He’s right. I am stupid. How long has this been going on? I have to know. Everything. Though it will kill me.

  The desperate hunt for receipts begins. Receipts for what, though? Lingerie? Romantic meals? Chocolates? Spa treatments? Movies I haven’t seen (i.e. anything non-animated)? Where does he keep them? He doesn’t do the accounts at the kitchen table any more – that, in itself, is suspicious. Where does he do them, now? And where does he hide the receipts? I throw my hands in the air. Who am I? Jessica Fletcher? And why Jessica Bloody Fletcher? Why not Temperance from Bones? Or some other gorgeous creature.

  Maybe he keeps them in the attic.

  I can’t search, not properly. Not while he’s in the house.

  I hear Sam and Chloe on the stairs. Sam calls me. Can’t Ian do that one thing – just keep an eye on them while I implode? I hurry into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face.

  ‘What are you doing up here?’ Chloe asks.

  I turn off the tap and scrub my face with a towel. I look at her and smile. ‘What are you doing up here? I thought Dad was minding you.’

  ‘He’s cross.’

  I sigh. ‘OK.’

  I bring them back down. And the only reason they stay is because I put on Monsters Inc. and give them ice cream.

  ‘I’ll be down soon,’ I tell them.

  At the end of the stairs, I see his briefcase, tucked behind the coat stand. I don’t bother to check if the coast is clear, just grab the black rectangle and run upstairs. In the bathroom, I lower the lid on the toilet seat. I sit staring at the combination lock. I used to know the magic numbers – my birth date. It used to be in all his passwords. I hold my breath and move the dials. The snap pops open and I’m filled with despair. He hasn’t even tried to hide this.

  I sit looking at the interior of the briefcase, unable to take the next step. You see, I know this briefcase. I bought it. We joked about the secret compartment. If he has used it to hide his dirty secret, it will be the final blow.

  And yet I can’t sit here forever.

  I take a deep breath. And open it.

  My heart is pounding, my palms sweaty. Part of me wants to know. The other part chooses denial.

  The strong part wins.

  I reach for the compartment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Eight hundred euro for two nights in Rathsallagh House Hotel, a nice, cosy remote spot. I check the dates against my calendar. Working in London, supposedly. Sneaky, slimy, sniveling…shit. But there’s more. Meals at Mao, Guilbaud’s – and Bang (appropriately enough). But these are public places. And Guilbaud’s is our place. I feel my heart rip open.

  We’ve been so generous with our joint account. We’ve bought her a trip to a spa. We’ve funded outings to the National Concert Hall and the Gaiety Theatre. All the things I’ve been missing while he’s been nagging me to cut back. I know what I’d like to cut. Why couldn’t he have done any of this with me? She gets all this for what, a little acting, a little pretending he’s fantastic? Maybe she really believes he is. Try living with him; try being his wife. No picnic, I can tell you – whoever you are. But I know who you are. It couldn’t be more obvious.

  How long has it been going on? When did it start? Did she move in on him or he on her? Does anyone suspect? They must. It’s probably the office joke. Six days a week he sees her. Saturday mornings and nine-to-five. More. Do they both ‘work late’ every day? Or do they go somewhere? Her place? Where is her place? My money is on Malahide, home of the invented James. Has Ian moved in an extra toothbrush, razors and, let’s not forget, aftershave? Does he complain to her when he has to go home?

  Does he love her?

  I throw the briefcase and its grubby secret at the wall, loosening plaster and sending receipts, documents and a random apple flying. I leave it all behind me, racing downstairs and grabbing the keys from the hall table. I’m gone.

  A sunny Saturday afternoon and all the happy families are out. I leave suburbia. Fast. I hit the open road and press my foot to the floor. Has he told her yet that I know? Will she be relieved? Will she tell him that now is the perfect time to leave? The cliché, the secretary. I could find her number – so easily. I could ring and hang up. Give her something to worry about. Become a psycho. Plead insanity if caught.

  My phone rings. I ignore it. At last, it stops. Almost immediately, it starts up again. This happens over and over until finally, I reach for it. His face is up on the screen. This man I loved. I want to fling the phone from the car. Instead, I put it on silent.

  What do they talk about? Sex? Me? Does he tell her he doesn’t love me, that he’s only staying because of the children, that he’s planning to leave, that it’s only a matter of time? Does he mean it? How does she make him happy? I’d like to know because I’ve been married to him for seven years and, clearly, I can’t. Is she good in bed? Is she an animal? Insatiable? Does she have multiple orgasms? What are her wildest fantasies? Come to think of it, what are his? What’s she like naked? Does she have a tattoo, birthmark, extra toe? Does she have cellulite? Even a little? Does she insist on condoms? She’d better. Does she have a brain? But then does she need one? Grey matter might get in the way. Does he have a pet name for her and vice versa? I want to know everything. And nothing. Were any of those late evenings at the office real? He knows, obviously, but I don’t.

  Only when I find myself driving into Wexford town do I wake up to how long I’ve been on the road. I’ve done a two-hour drive in one-and-a-half. I pull over. Take stock. Or try to. All I know is I’m not going back.

  I drive to the only hotel I know in Wexford. We stayed here once just before Sam was born. I was an entrepreneur then and could afford four stars.

  The receptionist swipes our credit card – our credit card for three.

  ‘Actually, why don’t you make it a suite, please? Go crazy.’

  ‘Certainly.’ She smiles as if to say, ‘I like your style.’

  In the suite, door closed behind me, I do something I never do. I open the mini bar.

  I raise a miniature bottle of gin to the sky. ‘Cheers, Ian. You prick.’

  I knock back a gin and tonic, then go rock star and throw the tiny, plastic bottle at the wall.

  I run a bath. I fill it to the top with scalding water and bubbles. I lie, soaking, trying to block out thoughts. But they invade my head like a mistress does a marriage.

  What am I going to do? I can’t stay here forever. There has to be a solution. I see Sam and Chloe’s faces in my mind. Innocent. Soft. Round-eyed. I wail into my hands. I take deep breaths. Try to calm down. Think.

  What do I want? Just focus on that. What, do, I, want?

  Outside of murder, I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.

  One thing’s for sure, there’s no going back.

  And maybe I don’t fucking want to.

  Despite a constant assault on the mini bar, my mind won’t stop. I want him out. Gone. But can I do that to Chloe and Sam, make their Dad go away? I could give him an ultimatum – she goes or I go. But I’m going nowhere; he’s the one who’s going. If he’s g
oing. Maybe he’ll leave anyway. Maybe he’s been planning to all along. Wow, the hurt of that. Did he wash their teeth? Did he remember to put a nappy on Sam? And. What am I going to do?

  The morning sun pierces my eyes. I sigh deeply and get up.

  I feel the psychological pull back to the kids.

  But they are with him.

  What do I do?

  I start with a full-Irish breakfast and have it served on the balcony. I inhale the briny sea air and watch the sun spark off the sea.

  Maybe I should never have got married. Stayed like Sarah. But…the kids.

  I go down to the beach.

  I pelt stones, one by one, at the breaking waves, but really at him. Did he sleep? The fucker.

  Stone after stone. After stone.

  Screeching children run into the sea beside me. I cease fire, turn and wake to the world around me. Children fill moats with water. Two fight over a bucket. A boy pees on the sand. A crying girl stands over an upturned ice cream. Beyond the chaos, a woman lies on a sun lounger, reading. An oasis of cool, she reminds me of Sarah. Calmly, she turns a page.

  Sarah. What would she do? The answer comes instantly. She’d tell him to leave. But Sarah doesn’t know the responsibility of keeping a child’s world safe, secure, steady. They need their father. But. They’ve needed him for quite a while now and he’s been off enjoying himself elsewhere. What kind of father would they actually lose? And what kind of mother would I be if I allowed them to witness me lose all respect for myself – because that is what would happen if I do anything other than tell him to go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I can’t confront him until the children are in bed. Fine! Let him have them for the day and see that it is work. I arrange a late checkout and buy a swimsuit in the fitness centre. I return to the beach where I swim out past the waves. I turn and pound through the water, parallel to the shore. Suddenly, I’m swimming and crying, gulping air and water. I struggle towards the beach and, when my feet reach sand, I stand, coughing and gasping.

  Recovering, I see my sad little pile of clothes on the beach and wonder what would happen if a current took me. They’d find the clothes and think I’d given up. A roar rises inside me. I will not give up. I will not lie down. I will not roll over.

  I have lunch, a full-body massage and a haircut. I buy an amazing red dress in a boutique attached to the hotel. It’s five when I – reluctantly – leave. I would like to say that I’m all fired up – in chest-beating mode. But I am ending my marriage. Leaving the man I’ve loved. Sending my children’s father away. So, actually, there’s only one word for the way I feel: sick.

  Their curtains are closed. My heart aches. Can I do this?

  I have to.

  I take a deep breath and go inside.

  ‘Skip your teeth,’ comes Ian’s voice from the landing.

  Sam cheers.

  ‘I want to do my teeth,’ Chloe insists.

  And I think: Go, Chloe.

  ‘All right, hurry up,’ Ian snaps.

  ‘Whey’s my mum?’ Sam asks.

  Suddenly, I want them down here in my arms. I want to wrap them up, protect them from this. Instead I’m going to hurt them.

  ‘She’ll be home soon,’ Ian says.

  Oh yeah?

  ‘Come here, little man. Let me put your nappy on.’

  That he remembered the nappy seems such a big thing. When it shouldn’t be. Oh, God. Here come the tears. I hurry into the kitchen where I try to get a grip. But the pitter-patter of their little feet upstairs sends me over the edge and I escape to the garden. I gulp air. Tell myself I can do this. I have to.

  ‘Kim?’

  I turn. The relief in his eyes almost melts me. But then I think of them together.

  ‘Hi,’ is the feeler he puts out.

  ‘Hello, Ian.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  He looks so sad. Good.

  ‘How are you?’ he asks.

  I stare at him. ‘Really? Really?’

  ‘We’ve finished that deal.’ His voice is hopeful.

  ‘What deal?’

  ‘The Eirplay deal that had me working so late for so long. The big buy-out everyone’s talking about. It’s all over the papers. Surely I told you about it?’

  ‘No, Ian. You didn’t.’ I sound tired. I am tired.

  ‘Anyway, I just wanted to tell you, I won’t be spending so much time at the office. I’m taking a few days off, a week off and I’ve just booked flights to Rome.’

  ‘For who? You and me or you and her?’

  The colour seems to drain from his entire body. ‘I’m not going to deny it.’

  ‘It’s not like you can – any more.’

  ‘I’ve too much respect for you to….’

  ‘You know nothing about respect, you…you shit.’

  ‘Kim. Listen to me,’ he says softly, coming to me.

  ‘Don’t come near me.’ I glare hatred.

  He stops, takes a step back.

  He may be shocked but nowhere as shocked as I am. It’s been confirmed. Those few simple words, ‘I’m not going to deny it’, have killed any tiny hope that there might have been some mad, crazy explanation for those receipts. I walk past him, into the kitchen because the break up of this marriage is not a spectator sport.

  He follows me inside. ‘Kim, you have to listen to me.’

  ‘I don’t have to do anything.’

  ‘We have to talk.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘For the sake of the children, please.’

  ‘Don’t use the children.’ And then I’m imagining their little faces. ‘How could you do it to them? They’re too small for this. Too innocent. How do I tell them? How do I explain? No, hang on, you explain. You explain it to the children. And while you’re at it maybe you could let me in on a secret. Why? Why did you do it, Ian? Wasn’t I good enough for you, exciting enough? Didn’t I boost your ego enough? Is that it?’

  ‘Kim. I’m sorry.’ He starts towards me again.

  ‘Stop! If you value your life, you won’t take another step.’

  He stops. ‘It meant nothing. I love you and the children more than anything in the world. I’m sorry…’

  ‘That I found out?’

  ‘It’s over. I’m going to move job.’

  ‘I don’t care. I don’t want you near me. I can’t even look at you. Get out. Just get out of my life.’

  ‘No.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘It’s over with her,’ he insists.

  ‘You expect me to believe a word you say? I don’t know when this started. I don’t know what was a lie or what was the truth. You know but I don’t. Do you think that’s fair?’

  ‘No,’ he says, voice hoarse.

  ‘So, go,’ I say, so terrifyingly calmly.

  ‘Don’t do this. Don’t block me out.’ So he knows me after all. He knows how I am if people mess me around. I snap the shutters down. Forget their existence.

  ‘Kim, you have to listen to me. I wasn’t thinking; it was a mistake.’

  ‘Oh, is that all? In that case, I think I’ll go out and have a little mistake myself. Oh, wait. I forgot. I’m already having a mistake with Connor, amn’t I?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘You hypocrite. You asshole. Trying to make me feel guilty for something totally innocent when you were having an affair.’

  ‘I genuinely thought…’

  ‘So this time you thought? But the other time you didn’t think?’

  ‘I was worried about us. OK, maybe jealous of Connor, but – the other thing – it just happened. I didn’t plan it.’

  ‘Oh well then that’s OK.’

  ‘We should see someone.’

  I could laugh; I choose to misinterpret. ‘You’re already seeing someone.’

  ‘I mean a therapist.’

  ‘I thought they were useless.’

  ‘Our marriage is on the line. I’ll go to a therapist.
’

  ‘Our marriage is over the line. It’s over, full stop.’

  He opens his mouth to speak but I’ve too much to say.

  ‘I tried to keep it together, Ian. I suggested a therapist, an au pair, a holiday, even going for a bloody night out. But you were too busy – with her.’ I will not cry. I will not give him the satisfaction of that.

  ‘Please, Kim. There has to be a way forward.’

  I look at the door. ‘There is.’

  ‘I’m not going. This is my home too. I pay the mortgage. I’m the children’s father.’

  ‘I don’t think the divorce courts will see it that way.’

  ‘Jesus, Kim.’

  ‘Just go. I’ll send on your stuff… Malahide, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Malahide. Where James – aka Melanie – lives, yeah?’

  ‘Melanie?’ He looks confused. ‘My secretary? But it’s not Melanie.’

  I try to hide my shock. I’ve got this all wrong. ‘Who then?’

  ‘Jackie,’ he says quietly.

  ‘Your boss?’

  He looks down and nods.

  ‘Go, Ian. Just get the fuck out, OK?’

  This time he does. He actually goes.

  And as I hear the front door close, it hits me: I’ve sent him straight into her arms.

  I tell myself I don’t care. A woman deserves loyalty; a woman deserves respect.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I wake at 4am, the time I went into labour with both children, the time they used to wake for feeds. Tonight there’s no sound. No one breathing beside me. He’s with her. I fill my lungs; I have to be strong now, not just for me, but for the kids.

  Suddenly, it’s not enough that he’s physically gone; I want every trace of him gone too. I start to throw open wardrobes and drawers. I fling all his stuff into a heap. There’s the shirt he wore at the barbeque. It reminds me of Melanie, whose only fault was her enthusiasm. I mentally apologise to her for all the hate vibes I sent her way.

  I tear around the house. Heaps form like molehills. None of the art is his. The furniture is staying put. I remember the golf clubs and fling them onto a pile when really I’d like to wrap them around his neck.