‘I need it,’ he’d told me. ‘I can show up in every other part of my life if I have this.’
So he’d disappear over to Nugent’s for several hours, rolling in during the early hours of Friday morning smelling of sweat and weed.
Whatever happened in Nugent’s garage, involving amps and plectrums, remained a mystery to me. I’d less than zero interest – and I sort of despised myself for not being a cool muso-girl, with a Chrissie Hynde fringe and winkle-picker shoes, who nurtured ambitions herself to play lead guitar.
But I guess I had my own thing – ‘vintage’ clothing – and just because Hugh and I were close, we didn’t have to be identical twins, right?
Oddly – interestingly? – well, whatever it was, I didn’t like being around Hugh when he was hanging out with the other guys from the band. They were nice men, and they were just as ordinary and coupled-up as Hugh. But he was slightly different when he was with them – he’d drink more and his voice would get louder and he’d make in-jokes that I was excluded from. I was so attuned to my version of Hugh that any other versions, no matter how minute the difference, jarred. I often got narky and wanted to yell at him, ‘Why are you talking shite and shouting?’
About once a year he and the lads went to a foreign city – Copenhagen, Berlin, Manchester – to a gig, and there was an afternoon a couple of years ago when I ended a call from Maura and said to Hugh, ‘Big news. Joe’s putting a ring on Siena on September the twenty-ninth.’
‘September the twenty-ninth?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll be in Amsterdam at the Smashing Pumpkins.’
‘Nuh-uh.’ I shook my head. ‘No Amsterdam. Sorry, honey. It’s my brother’s wedding.’
‘I’ve my ticket to the gig. I’m going with the boys. It’s all booked.’
There were other issues tied up in this – mostly that Hugh thought Joe was a total arse – and it seemed clear that all that was needed was a little persuasion. ‘But –’
‘I’m going to the gig, Amy.’
‘Hugh …’ It was inconceivable that he wouldn’t do what I wanted.
‘I’m not going to Joe’s wedding. Not unless he moves the date. Then I’m happy to go.’
It was rare for him to front me out, but the moment I felt the rigour of his resolve, my capitulation was instant. I learnt something that day: you could push Hugh and push Hugh and push Hugh and he’d give in over and over and over, with gracious ease. And then one day you’d hit solid rock and nothing would budge him.
18
‘What’s for dinner?’ Kiara comes into the kitchen.
‘Takeaway.’
‘On a Monday?’ She’s delighted.
Monday is my night to cook. Hugh does it Tuesday to Thursday. But … ‘I’m not fucking cooking tonight.’
Kiara’s smile vanishes. ‘Yikers.’
Yikers is right. There’s no way I’m preparing food to launch Hugh’s Big Adventure.
‘What can we get?’ she asks.
‘Whatever you like.’
‘Even Eddie Rocket’s?’
‘Yep.’
Eddie Rocket’s is only for special occasions because we all eat far too much – we’re incapable of stopping even when we feel sick – but tonight I don’t care.
‘Oh-kaaay,’ Kiara says. ‘And maybe we’ll just get pizzas.’
‘Honey, I’m sorry.’ It’s all kinds of wrong to be taking this out on Kiara. ‘Get Eddie Rocket’s.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I mean, it’s not like it’s a celebration, is it? But pizzas are a good compromise. Oh, here’s Dad. Hey, where were you?’
‘The tropical-medicine place, getting my jabs!’ After all those months where he’d been practically mute, he’s chatty and exuberant. I hate him.
‘Then I went to Boots,’ he indicates his shopping bags, ‘and bought a full medicine kit.’
I feel like asking if he’d bought condoms on his chemist run, but manage not to. I mean, he’d better have. If he thinks he can have unprotected sex with countless girls and then come back to me – Oh, my God, Hugh having sex with other women …
‘We’re getting pizzas for dinner,’ Kiara says.
‘Oh? We are?’ He gives me an uncertain look and I busy myself making a cup of tea. ‘Okay, I’ll have my usual.’
‘Mum, what would you like?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Amy …’ Hugh says.
‘I’m not hungry.’ I haven’t eaten all day.
‘Get her some garlic bread,’ Hugh tells Kiara.
‘Don’t get me some garlic bread,’ I say.
He’s scared I’m going to cry – he can never cope with seeing me in tears. But he needn’t worry: I’m tense and dry. Every part of me has seized up.
‘Sweetie, I’m sorry,’ I say to Kiara.
‘No need to apologize.’ She scoots from the room and calls up to Neeve. ‘We’re getting pizzas. What do you want?’
Hugh tries to hold me and I wriggle away from him, go into the sitting room and bury my face in my iPad. He follows me in. ‘Amy,’ he starts. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah.’ If I had any sense, I’d make sure his last memory is of me being lovely but I’m sick of ‘being understanding’. What he’s foisted on me is a big, big ask. Another woman would be shouting the odds or mainlining hefty sedation under these circumstances. Probably just point-blank refusing to let him go. I’ve been extremely well behaved, all things considered. Mind you, it’s a pity I couldn’t have managed it for a few more hours …
‘Would you like some wine?’
‘Nope.’ I’m afraid to start drinking because there’s a real chance I’ll get scuttered and lose the head.
‘Can I get you anything at all?’
‘Nope.’
‘How about a lie-down?’
‘Yepppp.’ I was doing very brief answers, finishing each word with an excellent smacking noise. It was immensely satisfying. Maybe if I did a Tinder profile I could include it as a hobby.
‘Come on, I’ll walk you upstairs –’
‘Noppppppe. Because you’ll be in and out of the bedroom all evening, finishing your fucking packing. Anyway!’ I say fake-cheerily. ‘Soon you’ll be gone and I’ll have the room all to myself.’
He hangs his head. ‘I’ll come back.’
I do an elaborate shrug. ‘We’ll see.’
I lie on the couch and absent myself from all the to-ing and fro-ing and think back to the early days. Yes, we were always tired, yes, we were always short of money, but we were so together.
There was one day, one random day, nothing unusual about it, maybe twelve years ago, when I came home and heard shrieks and screams of delight. I followed the sounds of laughter up the stairs and found Hugh lying on our bedroom floor while Neeve, Kiara and Sofie scribbled on his face with my make-up. This happened a lot and Hugh often went to work wearing glittery nail varnish.
‘My spendy lipstick!’ I yelped.
‘Look at the lady!’ Kiara presented Hugh’s decorated face – she’d been about four at the time. ‘He’s a beautiful lady.’ And all of them had collapsed into helpless laughter.
‘Take it off,’ I said. ‘We’re going out! Taney summer fête!’
‘Cleanse, tone, moisturize!’ Sofie ordered Hugh, scurrying off to get cotton-wool pads.
‘Everyone get ready,’ I said. ‘Quick! All the good stuff will be gone!’
‘What good stuff?’
‘Cakes!’
Fifteen minutes later we assembled at the door, Hugh, his face now free of make-up, apart from the occasional hint of glitter in his shaggy hair, wore a Psychedelic Furs T-shirt and black jeans. Neeve was in her footballing kit, while Kiara was dark, sturdy and grave, favouring a 1940s-style look – an embroidered dress, a formal navy coat, ribbed tights, mary-jane shoes and neatly brushed hair secured with a sober black slide. She even carried one of my mum’s old handbags, a prim leather affair, in the crook of her elbow.
Sofie, by contrast, looked like she’d been douse
d in glitter: yellow and black striped bumblebee wellington boots, matching tights, a sparkly pink tutu, a green cardigan covered with shiny embellishments, a pair of twinkly wings attached to her back, fluffy deely-boppers, a plethora of crystalline bracelets on each little arm and a wheely ladybird case. As Pop so often said about her, ‘That one’s so girly she probably cries glitter.’
‘I can carry the cakes in my ladybird,’ Sofie confided, in her husky, lispy voice.
‘Good thinking, Batgirl.’
I eyed our messy rag-tag bunch and muttered, a little ruefully, to Hugh, ‘When I was a kid, all I wanted when I grew up was to live in a family of two-point-four dullness.’
‘But, babe, look at us, we’re great!’
He was right. In our offbeat way we were great and Hugh was the glue that held us together.
I – whisper it – had a happy marriage. This was a truth I had to tiptoe into gradually, so great was my fear of tempting Fate. Not that it was actually a marriage for some years.
Hugh didn’t mind whether or not we made it legal. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I will love you for ever. But we can do it if you want.’
I shivered. I didn’t want. Mad as it sounded, it actually felt safer not to be married – if a ring was put on my finger, it might, one day, have to be taken off again.
But the schools thing eventually forced our hand. The state schools in Ireland were controlled by the Catholics so people ‘living in sin’ had no chance of their kids being admitted. There were some lovely non-denominational schools but they cost money and that was something we remained woefully short of.
So, when Kiara was four, we had a low-key registry-office wedding. Neeve was the ring-bearer, Sofie and Kiara were our flower girls, Derry and Carl the witnesses. I wore a blue satin dress, and afterwards we went to Eddie Rocket’s, where every time my wedding ring flashed past me, I felt as if icy water had been flung over my soul.
‘It’s okay,’ Hugh kept whispering. ‘It’s only a bit of paper. It’s not going to alert the Fates. This changes nothing. Remember I love you and I’ll always love you.’
19
‘I don’t want a big tearful scene when I leave in the morning,’ I tell Hugh.
‘Okay.’ He looks relieved.
‘I’m just going to get up and go.’ My flight to London was leaving Dublin at six forty-five, so I’d be getting up at five as usual.
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll miss you.’
‘I’ll miss you.’
‘Then why are you going?’
He twists away from me.
‘If you’d properly left me at least I’d know where I stood.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘This is so weird. I don’t know how I should feel.’
What is astonishing is how much I’ve changed – when I’d first met Hugh, self-reliance ran through my core. Somewhere along the line, I’d been reconfigured into someone who was just one half of a marriage, but that fearless woman might still be inside me – there had been a thing in Psychologies saying we carry all our earlier selves inside our current self, like those sets of Russian dolls. If I could just reconnect with that version of me, everything would be grand.
‘What if I do start to enjoy myself while you’re gone?’ I ask Hugh. ‘What if you come home, all set to slot back into our old life and I don’t want to?’
‘If that happens, we’ll deal with it.’
‘If that was meant to make me feel better, it didn’t work.’
He laughs, and all of a sudden he’s Hugh again, my best friend, my most favourite person in the whole world – and I laugh too.
We both go to bed early, but I’m too sad and angry for sex.
In the darkness I lie on my side and he snuggles up behind me, fitting his body to mine. He puts his arm around my waist, pulls me tight against him and our breathing patterns fall into sync.
This is the last time we’ll ever be together like this, I think.
But maybe not. Maybe we’ll be together exactly like this at some unspecified time in the future. But there’s so much horrible stuff to be endured to get to that point.
My alarm goes off at five a.m., but I’m already awake, curled in silent misery, wishing time would stop. I pull myself out of bed and under the shower, hoping the fall of water might loosen the terrible tightness clamping my chest.
Back in the bedroom, Hugh is also awake.
‘Be asleep,’ I say. He doesn’t reply, just lies, motionless, looking as forlorn as I feel. It’s hard to accept that when I get back from London tomorrow night, he’ll be gone.
Silently he watches as I do my make-up, then hoick open my underwear drawer and pull out my favourite bra, a bright fuchsia one.
I hesitate. For the first time ever, it feels shaming to be naked in front of him. I don’t want him heading off with a memory of my less-than-perky bosoms, which would fare badly in a comparison with any younger ones he might meet on his travels. I pick up all my clothes and finish dressing behind the bathroom door. Then I step into my ankle boots, take the handle of my wheely case and – unexpectedly – in a swift, efficient gesture, snatch up my hairbrush and fire it across the room. It hits him on the temple.
‘Amy! Go easy!’
‘Did that hurt? Good.’ I move towards the door. ‘Bye.’
He moves aside the duvet and the sweet male smell of him, warm from the bed, billows out. ‘Get in for a second.’
‘No.’
‘Please.’
So I climb into bed, fully clothed and let him take me in his arms. We hug fiercely, his arms pressing so tightly against my back that it hurts. I bury my face in his neck, trying to capture the smell of his hair, his skin, his breath, knowing that it’ll have to last for the next 181 days. And maybe for ever.
His face is wet with tears and my urge is to comfort him. But the only way to help him is to let him leave.
My throat aches and I wrench myself free and hurry down the stairs. I shut my front door behind me, sick at the notion that the next time I open it Hugh will have been swallowed up by some unknowable life on the other side of the world. The early-morning air is cool and smells autumnal, adding to the sense that everything is darkening and dying.
DURING
* * *
It’s too dark to see the sea now but I can still hear it, sucking and splashing on Brighton’s stony beach.
‘We could have our own disco here, stick on some songs. Really! It’ll be great!’
He starts fiddling with the hotel sound system and some dancy thing comes on that I half-recognize. Then I hear ‘Groove Is In The Heart’ and my heart soars. ‘Oh, I LOVE this song!’ I jump to my feet and kick off my shoes. ‘Turn it up!’ I’m drunk, maybe a bit drunker than I’d realized, but I love this song and I want to dance. ‘Turn it up.’
Instantly the music is ten times louder and pulsing off the walls. The bassline is inside me and the melody is all around me and I feel alive. I twirl myself around the room and briefly all my worries lift away. There’s just me and the music, and I feel happy and free.
Then I notice him watching me dance, his face tense and still. He’s relaxed his body against the sofa, his arms spread along the top. His black tie has disappeared, his shirt collar is open three buttons – I don’t remember that happening – and out of nowhere I’m super-aware of undercurrents. It’s like I’m giving him a lap-dance. The thought makes me excited, uncomfortable, then a queasy mix of the two.
‘Louder!’ I say.
Moving only his arm, still watching me avidly, he reaches his hand behind him and, without looking, twists the volume knob.
His silent gaze is too much. ‘Come on, get up and dance.’ I take his hands and pull him out of the seat.
He’s on his feet now but he’s still not dancing, just watching me. ‘Dance with me,’ he says.
‘I am.’
‘No, you’re dancing at me. I want you to dance with me.’ He pulls me against him.
‘No!’
I don’t want to slow down, I don’t want to stop. But in a fluid motion, he sweeps my hair to one side, buries his face in my neck and gives it a small sharp bite. Suddenly he’s got my attention.
I’m not dancing any more.
I whisper, ‘What was that?’
I want to get away but his arms are hard against my back and, caught in his force-field, all I can do is look at him.
His face is coming closer to mine. He’s moved one hand to the back of my head and he’s pulling me towards him. Then his mouth is on me, he means business, things aren’t going to end at this –
I wrench myself free. ‘We can’t, I can’t!’
I’m panting, he’s panting. His shirt is crumpled and his eyes are wild.
He groans and I repeat, ‘We can’t.’ I push myself away, creating distance.
‘I’m not sorry.’ He steps towards me again. ‘I’ve wanted to do that since for ever.’
‘You have?’
‘Since the first time I saw you.’
20
Tuesday, 13 September, day one
Irritably I weave through the dithery throngs in Heathrow – I keep hitting little pockets of rage, like emotional turbulence – and finally reach the tube.
Since I left home I’ve been afraid a full-blown panic attack will grab me, and the way we’re squashed into the train makes me feel even more tight-chested and gaspy. This is going to be a tough day.
With no internet to distract me, worry about Hugh starts to gnaw. What if the blow from my hairbrush causes bleeding in his brain? There had been something on Grey’s Anatomy – he could have an aneurysm. The thought of him collapsing in some foreign city, surrounded only by strangers, makes me cold.
He might die.
Yeah, well, we’re all going to die. And he’s brought it on himself. If he hadn’t decided to take off for six months, he wouldn’t have had a hairbrush thrown at his head. I’ve been with him for more than seventeen years and I’ve never thrown a hairbrush at him before today. Go figure.