All We Have Lost

by Alexander, Aimee

  ‘When did you become so cynical?’

  ‘Not soon enough, Mum. Not soon enough.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have told you.’

  ‘You absolutely bloody should.’

  ‘So you’ll take him back?’

  ‘I don’t see how the two are connected. Apart from me being surrounded by cheating men.’

  ‘I only told you so you’d see how lucky you are.’

  Lucky is not how I feel. I stand up before I fall down. ‘I’ve a lot to think about, OK?’

  ‘You won’t tell James, will you, love?’

  ‘No, Mum. I won’t tell James.’

  She lets out a long breath. Then she stands too. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Not particularly, no.’

  ‘I’m sorry for snapping at you.’

  ‘OK. Listen, I gotta go.’

  She reaches out and holds my hand. And it strikes me: I’ve known this woman thirty-four years without knowing her at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I set Sam and Chloe up on the couch with pillows and a quilt. I put on The Little Mermaid.

  ‘I’m just going upstairs for a minute,’ I say.

  But they don’t hear me.

  I climb into bed feeling like I’ve been stepped on. I go over events from my past and see them as they really were. Birthday parties, holy communions, confirmations…. He was there because he had to be. I get up and root out old family albums. I check the background of every shot for any trace of Deirdre French. What would she have looked like, then? Glamorous, no doubt. Thinner maybe. Elegant. But I don’t find her ghost. That was probably part of The Deal too. Not to come near us. I wonder what he thought when The Deal was published? Did they argue about it? Or did he forgive her everything? I gaze at a photo of him, standing behind James and me, a hand on each of our shoulders, as if to say, ‘These are my children of whom I am proud.’ I have always loved this picture. Was it taken on a Friday – before he left us for her?

  He died on a Friday. Did she get to say goodbye? Did she creep into the hospital under cover of darkness? Did she feel the pain I did? Hope so. Hope she still feels it. Hope it keeps her awake at night. When I spoke to her that time, she asked how my mum was. Wow. The nerve of that.

  My phone vibrates, reminding me that I put it on silent before going in to see the psychologist. There are six messages. The first three are from Ian and all say the same thing: he’s sorry; it’s over; and we have to talk. The next message is from Connor; he’s coming to Dublin. A text from Mum is irrelevant because we’ve seen each other since. The last message is from Ian asking me to call him.

  Easier to make dinner. Keep busy.

  The fridge contains an empty milk carton, blue cheese (that’s meant to be orange), expired yoghurts, a sad lettuce and a bottle of wine. With a sigh, I go to get my bag. Then I stop. What if he’s cancelled the credit card? He wouldn’t. He wants to talk. Still, I can’t risk loading up a supermarket trolley, children in tow, only to be turned away at the checkout.

  I could call him. But that is the last thing I want to do.

  Finally, I hit on a solution. Takeaway! I order over the phone, remain invisible and discover that, hallelujah, the credit card still works.

  My relief doesn’t last long. He could cancel it at any time.

  For now, the pizzas arrive.

  Afterwards, the children make history by asking to go to bed. They’re asleep almost immediately.

  I’m sampling one of the contents of the fridge (not the lettuce) when the doorbell goes. I put down my glass, thinking: Ian.

  It rings again.

  Shit. He’ll wake the children.

  At the door, I inhale deeply. Then I open it.

  The relief.

  ‘Connor!’

  Suspended in the warm evening air are all things yet to be said. So much has changed, our positions reversed, overnight, almost. He lowers his bags and hugs me. I try – so hard – not to cry. At last, I pull back.

  ‘Where’s Sarah?’

  He smiles. ‘Her publishers went ballistic when they discovered she’d taken off in the middle of her publicity tour. They said she was in breach of contract and better get back to London ASAP. So that’s where she’s headed. She’s so sorry she can’t be here but she’ll ring in the morning.’

  ‘You needn’t have come.’

  ‘I wanted to. We have a pact, remember?’

  I think of the other pact, The Deal. Then try to forget about it again.

  We negotiate scattered toys, children’s clothes, shoes and unfinished Liga to reach the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry. The place is a mess.’

  ‘I think you’re entitled to a mess.’

  ‘You look so happy.’

  ‘You know me, always happy.’

  He’s joking but it’s actually true. Probably the most positive person I know.

  I see him glance at the wine on the table.

  ‘Damn. I’ve nothing to offer you, no Coke, no juice. I need to go shopping.’

  ‘Do you’ve tea?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You have no idea how much a man can miss a proper cup of tea.’

  I go to make it but he raises a hand. ‘Sit. I’ve been on planes for sixteen hours. I can’t feel my limbs.’

  I sit at the table and top up my glass.

  ‘So did you speak to Peter?’ he asks of the ‘psychologist’.

  ‘Yeah. He wanted me to get back with Ian. I mean, for Christ’s sake.’

  He looks surprised. ‘What did he say about telling Sam and Chloe? Did he have any advice on that?’

  I sigh. ‘He said to give them security by telling them when they’ll see their father.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable.’

  ‘Only I haven’t spoken to Ian since the punch-up at his office on Tuesday.’

  ‘Punch-up?’

  I close my eyes. ‘OK don’t judge me.’ I fill him in.

  He listens incredulously, then laughs. ‘Go you.’

  ‘No. I should have held onto my dignity. It’s all I’ve bloody left.’

  ‘You have Sam and Chloe.’

  ‘Who need their father. What if I’ve ruined it for them?’ I think of Mum and how big she was, really. How powerful. In her own quiet way.

  ‘You’re not the one at fault, here. Did you get on to the lawyer?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Want me to call him?’

  ‘No. I’ll do it,’ I say, instead of, ‘please go.’ It’s too much. It’s all too much.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ he suggests.

  I don’t forget the wine.

  In the sitting room, I turn around. But he’s not there.

  He appears then with duty-free bags. ‘Thought you might need some cheering up.’

  He sits on the couch and starts to produce a range of pampering products from Molton Brown, which, one by one, he places on the table. The last one out is a massive candle. ‘Got a lighter?’

  Doesn’t he see that he’s moving deckchairs on a sinking ship?

  ‘I don’t know. Try the third drawer in the kitchen. If we, I, have one, it’ll be there.’

  He comes back holding one to the sky.

  I smile but I’m just so tired.

  ‘So. What are we celebrating?’ he asks.

  ‘The newly-weds.’ I raise my glass. ‘To Connor and Sarah. A long and happy life together.’

  He smiles. ‘To Connor and Sarah. What were they thinking?’

  And suddenly I feel so much love and hope for them. I take a sip of wine, then circle my shoulders. Everything’s so stiff.

  ‘You know what you need? A Connor special.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A head massage.’

  I laugh.

  ‘I’m serious. Bet you’ve a headache.’

  My head has been pounding since Discovery Number One. I’m amazed I still have a head since Number Two. ‘A bit.’

  ‘Right, sit back and I’ll come at you
from behind.’

  I laugh. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Such a child.’

  We take up our positions.

  ‘Now, just let your mind go blank. Empty it completely. Actually, hang on. Where did I leave my phone?’

  Soon, lovely soothing pan-pipey music floats on the air. And I know I’m in good hands.

  He applies gentle but firm pressure to my scalp with his fingertips. He works in circular movements until he has covered my whole head. I feel the tension ease. He stops.

  I open my eyes. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No. That’s not it. I need to get at you from the front.’

  I laugh. ‘Connor. Seriously. Change your vocab.’

  ‘Can’t help your filthy mind.’ He takes the body oil from the table, tips it into his hands and rubs them together. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I feel like I am in a spa. This is good.

  I feel the cushion lower as he kneels beside me. He starts to work on my forehead. Oh my God. It’s so good. His thumbs circle my temples, easing the tension there. I could fall asleep. He moves to my cheeks and finally the area around my mouth, which he circles with a finger. It feels sensual. I find myself blushing. I force my eyes to stay closed. Connor is my friend, my very platonic friend, my very married platonic friend.

  I open my eyes and utter an embarrassed, ‘That’s great, Connor,’ to wrap it up.

  But I catch him looking down at me with such tenderness that even I, in my numbed state, see it. He shuts it off immediately. But knows he’s been caught. Neither of us speaks. Seconds feel like days.

  Then he stuns me with, ‘I love you, Kim. Always have. Since the moment we met.’

  I stare at him, trying to take it in.

  ‘But you were always with someone else and so was I. One of us was always with someone. And still, somehow, I believed we’d end up together. Then you met Ian and I knew, everyone knew, that was it. I told myself it wouldn’t last but didn’t really believe it. I came to your wedding, hugged you, congratulated you and smiled a lot. I got on with my life, met other women, lots of other women, even got married.’ He smiles sadly. ‘It was all working out. Until you opened your eyes.’

  I don’t know what to say.

  ‘If I’d thought for one second that you’d ever be free again, I’d never have married. That’s the truth.’

  ‘But you are married, Connor. And so am I.’ Officially.

  He sighs so deeply. ‘I know.’

  Silence.

  ‘Can I kiss you, Kim? Just once.’

  ‘No,’ I say but it’s a yes and we both know it. One kiss won’t change anything.

  But it does. It leads to another. And another. And another. Until they melt into one, long passionate embrace. I let go, don’t care any more, don’t care about anything. This man loves me. That’s all that matters.

  His hand supports the back of my neck, his fingers stretching out into my hair as he plants kiss after kiss on my face then throat until he reaches that spot where a vampire sinks its teeth in. Do it, I think. Bite me dead. His excitement arouses me. He wants me. And I want him. I want it. Or maybe I just want someone to want me. Oh, I don’t care.

  I lie back.

  His hands are everywhere. His mouth. And the pressure of his body on mine. Our legs entangle. Our hips press together. I whisper, ‘please.’ One by one, and slowly, he undoes the buttons on my shirt, planting a kiss on my skin where each one used to be, like an explorer leaving a flag on each spot he’s conquered. I wriggle out of my shirt and tear at his. How have I never noticed his body? He is Michelangelo’s David. Perfection. There is something powerful about the way he unbuckles his belt. Then pop, pop, pop go the buttons on his jeans and there he is in all his glory.

  I’ve never had sex sitting up. There’s a lot to be said for it. Like ‘Oh my God,’ and ‘Oh Jesus,’ and ‘Oh Connor,’ and a groaned, ‘Kiiiim’, as he comes. He turns me over and starts to drive me wild. What is he doing? Jesus, it’s bottom bites, thousands of tiny bottom bites. And there I was sorry I had an ass at all. This changes everything. High Ho Silver! What is happening to me? What kind of weirdo am I becoming? But I get what Sarah sees in him after so many men – he is instinctive, knowing what I like even though I don’t. Sarah. Don’t think of Sarah. Oh God, Sarah. What are we doing?

  The next, ‘What are we doing?’ is said aloud and it breaks the spell. There is a fumbling with clothes and more with words.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he utters. ‘I didn’t mean….’

  ‘Sarah!’ I say. ‘God. What have we done?’ I’m surrounded by cheats. I’m a cheat; Connor’s a cheat; Ian’s a certified cheat. My father cheated for twenty-nine years. But I’m the worst because I cheated knowing what it does to the people you love. I’ve deceived Sarah, my family, myself. Not Ian. I haven’t cheated on Ian because how can you cheat on a cheat?

  Just one week. That’s all it took for my life to unravel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I wake at six. And go downstairs. Connor, supposed to be asleep on the couch, is in the kitchen nursing a mug of coffee and looking so miserable it’s almost funny.

  ‘We need help,’ he says.

  ‘Speak for yourself.’

  ‘I’m serious. We need to understand what happened here.’

  ‘We fucked up. That’s what happened.’ Holding my head, I find juice and a painkiller.

  ‘What if it happens again?’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Connor, I know. For starters, I was drunk.’

  ‘I wasn’t. What’s my excuse?’

  ‘I don’t know. What is your excuse?’ I turn on him. It’s the easiest thing to do.

  ‘I have none. That’s why we should see someone.’

  ‘Then you see someone.’

  ‘Look, Kim. I’ve thought about this all night and keep coming back to the same thing. We won’t be able to stay friends unless we sort this out. And we won’t sort it out on our own. Look at us now, for Christ’s sake. You can’t even look at me. If I walk out of here now and pretend this never happened, I won’t be able to look you in the eye again which means I won’t be able to see you again without Sarah knowing. And that’s not on. It’s not on for Sarah.’

  I look at him.

  ‘Please, Kim. For Sarah.’

  This is so weird. ‘When you say help, you better not mean Peter. I’m not going back to him. On principle.’

  ‘I was thinking of Peter. He was great with my… problem.’

  ‘Not mine.’

  ‘Because he told you something you didn’t want to hear.’

  ‘You’re right. I didn’t want to hear that I should forgive and forget so I can be walked on again.’ I go to the sink and clatter around not knowing exactly what I’m doing.

  He comes over. Then he’s tearing off a sheet of kitchen paper and handing it to me.

  ‘Peace offering.’

  I take it from him and blow my nose. I look out at my neglected garden.

  ‘We could go together,’ he says. ‘For moral support.’

  ‘That would be a first – therapy for a couple married to two separate people.’

  ‘Will you be able to look Sarah in the eye? Because I won’t.’

  I sigh deeply.

  ‘He never judges, just tries to understand and help you sort it out for yourself.’

  ‘That’s not how it felt to me.’

  ‘Will you give it a try? Just once. Please. For Sarah. For all of us. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out. And we’ll know we did our best. OK?’

  I look down at the white line on my wedding finger. Then I look up at him. I want one of our marriages to work.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Aw, great.’ He sounds so relieved. ‘Thanks, Kim. I’ll ring Peter.’

  ‘Warn him not to bring up Ian.’

  ‘Is, is, is today summa school, Mum?’ asks Sam, who has just shuffled in, rubbing his eyes. The sight of him in all his inn
ocence makes me want to lift him up and say over and over, ‘Mummy is sorry. Mummy didn’t mean it.’ Instead it’s, ‘Yes, pet.’

  ‘Aw.’

  ‘Last day, sweetie. Tomorrow’s Saturday and then you’ll have a whole week off before you go back to Montessori.’ I can’t believe that Chloe is starting school – and that her father will miss it. He probably wouldn’t have made it anyway, even if we were still a family.

  ‘Don’t want Chlo to go to big school. Want Chlo to stay with Sam.’ He looks at Connor and then me.

  ‘Whay’s my dad?’

  ‘Guess,’ I say.

  ‘Wuk.’

  A wink is not technically a lie.

  ‘My dad’s always at wuk.’ His head flops down, as do the corners of his mouth. He kicks the air.

  ‘Say hi to Connor.’

  ‘Hi.’ Another kick.

  ‘Do you want a drink of apple juice?’ I ask to distract him.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘What do you want for breakfast?’

  ‘Poo poo.’

  I smile in relief, then offer his favourite cereals. Ian wouldn’t know his favourites if they came up and bit him. I’d like something to bite him, something big. Like a killer whale. Or a lot of small somethings (ideally piranhas).

  ‘Toast,’ says Sam.

  I pop bread in the toaster. ‘Is Chloe awake?’

  He doesn’t reply. He has found Percy The Tank Engine.

  I head upstairs, preparing for objection. My daughter does not like to be woken.

  But she is already up and getting dressed. ‘Is Dad downstairs?’ she asks with a hope that pierces my heart.

  ‘No, sweetheart, he’s at work.’ He probably is by now.

  ‘But I heard him!’

  ‘No, sweetheart – that’s Connor.’ Normally that’d be enough to send her running downstairs. Not today.

  ‘Mum, Dad works too hard.’

  ‘I know, sweetie. But you’ll see him soon.’ Why did I say that?

  ‘Today?’

  ‘We’ll see. Come on, let’s get brekkie.’ We go downstairs holding hands.

  And I feel so guilty that I haven’t been able to hold our little family together.

  A cancellation. Connor and I are seen first thing. Our behaviour is analysed, explanations given. I can’t argue with mine: I was feeling lonely, discarded; I needed someone to show me love. Connor needed ‘closure’ on his infatuation with me before he could move on with Sarah. We are lucky – apparently – that we came to him at this stage (he loves himself) because everything can still work out for the newly-weds. Connor needs to get back to London and make it work. And, wait for it, we should not confess.