Sofie’s face changes: she’s picked up on the loaded atmosphere and now so has Kiara. Nervously, they look from Hugh to me, then delicately back out of the room. ‘Just going to …’ Kiara says.
‘Me too.’ Sofie calls, moving up the stairs. ‘See you Saturday.’
When I hear their bedroom doors close, Hugh exhales and says, ‘I’ll go.’
‘Do that. You’ve a real talent for it.’
109
Tuesday, 14 February
Josh asks to meet me in the bar of the hotel, instead of our usual bedroom. I’m guessing he hasn’t actually booked the room, which means he knows what’s coming – he must do. Why would he shell out eighty pounds if there was going to be no sex? So here we are in the little bar in the hotel.
What an irony that today is Valentine’s Day.
We mumble our hellos and I sit down.
‘Go on, then,’ Josh says.
Shite. I have to do it?
‘Go on,’ he repeats.
I settle my elbows on the table and try to form the words.
‘I thought you’d have a speech prepared,’ he says.
Well, I had, several speeches, and now none of them seems right. Instead I surprise myself by asking, ‘Josh, has this happened to you before?’
‘Someone like you breaking up with me?’ He nods. For a moment there’s a suspicious shininess in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry.’ Gently I take his hand. ‘But I’m not your answer.’
‘To what?’
‘You think the hole inside you will be filled if you set up a sparkling new life with me. But it won’t.’
‘And what’s your excuse?’
‘The same – I really fancied you and I wanted to escape from my life.’
‘You used me.’
Now I’m ashamed. ‘I guess we used each other.’
In the last week I’ve come to see our set-up as tawdry and tragic, as two flawed people trying to transcend their disappointing ordinariness. I’d always known there was no future in this but I didn’t think it would be over so abruptly. And it is over.
‘People who do crazy stuff in mid-life,’ I say, ‘and that’s nearly the entire human race, from what I can see, apparently they’re trying to defy death. But for both of us, I think we were mourning youthful promise that was never realized.’
‘If we lived in the same place,’ he says, ‘and there weren’t other people, like, if we weren’t married, do you think we’d …?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You do know.’
I sigh. ‘Okay. I don’t think so, Josh. We’re different kinds of people. I’m not wildly upbeat but after a while my chirpiness would irritate you.’
‘And how would you feel about me?’
‘I think I’d find you too … pessimistic. And that’s not a judgement,’ I add, very quickly. ‘People are the way they are. You don’t have to change. You just have to find someone who’s happy with your pessimism.’
He half smiles at this.
‘Like, you and Marcia. I don’t know the ins and outs of your marriage, but she seems well able for you.’
He nods. ‘Maybe. And you? Getting back with your husband?’
‘No.’
‘Aw, Sackcloth, come on. As soon as he came home, I knew we were done for.’
Trying not to raise my voice, I say, ‘Two weeks ago you said I was cold. Maybe I am. Because it’s never going to happen. I miss him, the way we were, and I don’t want anything bad to happen to him, but we’re done, me and him.’
‘Okay.’ Is he convinced? Who knows, and does it matter?
‘So what are you going to use next to fill up the hole inside you?’ he asks.
‘Nothing. There’s nothing.’ And that’s a hard truth to face. I’ll just have to live alongside the unfillable hole. ‘Josh, thank you. For everything, all of it.’ More than anything I mean the sex, but I’m not naming it because I want nothing to be misconstrued as flirting. ‘It was … lovely.’
‘It was lovely,’ he says.
And now I want to cry. I get to my feet. ‘I hope you’ll be happy. Bye, Josh.’
Every bubble in the galaxy has burst. The million shards of sparkle suspended in the air have turned to wet ash. All the colour has leached away and the world is just grey, grey, grey.
110
Monday, 27 February
In the days that follow, I feel as if I’ve slammed hard against unforgiving granite. During my time with Josh it was like dancing through a luminous universe where paths of stars formed themselves under my glittering feet. Now the magical music has stopped, and all I’m left with is me and my feelings.
A week passes, without my hearing anything from him – not an email, a text, not even a like on Facebook. Another week commences and still there’s no communication. As I head towards the two-week mark, I begin to relax.
It’s looking like it really is over – my relief is huge. Not entirely unalloyed, though: I’m ashamed about what I did to his wife. I broke my own rules and that’s a fairly shitty feeling. And I’m ashamed about using him. It wasn’t deliberate or cynical but it still happened. Unless all relationships are transactional? Whatever, it’s over and I won’t do it again. Not with a married man and, actually, not with any man. I don’t want one. I don’t need one. I can manage grand on my own.
Admittedly, though, life doesn’t feel in any way pleasurable or joyous.
Work is particularly tough because I’m spending most of my time on the EverDry account – working with my own mother. From someone who didn’t want to be the ambassador in the first place, she’s surprisingly opinionated about her role: she didn’t like the cosy clothes we bundled her into for the photoshoot (‘They make me look ancient’), she doesn’t want any of the bus-shelters in her neighbourhood to feature the ads (‘In case anyone I know sees me’), she won’t do any interviews with the Guardian (‘Badly dressed’) and so on. This, coupled with Mrs EverDry’s conflicting but equally implacable will of iron, has meant that going to work, these days, feels more like going into battle.
I haven’t seen Neeve since the Saturday she drove off behind her removal van. I text her a lot, probably too much, and though I keep things light, she still won’t commit to a visit.
Nor have Hugh and I had another meeting about our finances – not after the last one got so ugly. God knows that conversation needs to happen – apparently he’s still living in Nugent’s garage. We’ve crossed paths only once since the ding-dong when we exchanged an awkward nod as he dropped Sofie and Kiara home. Right now the issue is on ice. In fact, there’s a sense that everything is suspended in perpetual winter.
Then, one Monday morning, Alastair brings an armful of vibrant orange tulips into work. They glow with life and light.
‘It’s like you’ve declared spring open!’ I say.
‘I thought we needed something.’
‘I know February is the shortest month of the year,’ I say, ‘but this one feels like it’s gone on for years.’
‘First of March, day after tomorrow,’ Alastair says. ‘Reasons to be cheerful!’
‘I had another horrible dream last night,’ I announce to the office.
‘Nooooo,’ Alastair whimpers softly.
I’ve been having vivid dreams in the past week, then relating them to my colleagues.
‘Don’t tell us,’ Alastair begs. ‘It’s as bad as having to admire someone’s baby photos.’
But I don’t care. ‘There was a man,’ I say. ‘He was homeless and it was really cold and he needed new boots. So I took out a hundred euro but before I could give it to him, I woke up.’ Tears leak down my face. ‘It made me so sad.’
‘She crying again?’ Thamy calls in from the outer office.
‘Yep,’ Alastair says.
‘Your feet were probably cold,’ Tim says. ‘Our body creates stories to keep us asleep.’
Alastair shakes his head, like he knows better.
‘What?’ I demand
of him.
‘Nothing.’
‘You think I’m thinking about Hugh sleeping in Nugent’s garage, don’t you? You think I feel sorry for him.’
‘You do.’
‘He deserves it. But I’m allowed to be sad about it.’
‘The crying is hard to take,’ Tim says, ‘but at least you’re not still biting everyone’s head off.’
‘I never bit your head off. Only Alastair’s.’
‘And mine,’ Thamy calls.
‘Because you booked the wrong flight.’
‘She didn’t!’ Tim and Alastair yell. ‘You got it wrong.’
Well, maybe I had, but it’s nicer to blame someone else.
‘It’s up!’ Tim calls. He’s talking about Neeve’s vlog and I hurry for a look because this is literally the only time I see her, these days.
This week she’s showing us her fancy new crib.
‘Whoa!’ Alastair recoils. ‘It’s all a bit …’
‘Flash?’
‘Yeah.’
‘She’s gone over to the dark side.’ The tears start again. ‘She’s been seduced by that asshat’s money and connections.’
‘Amy,’ Tim says, and there’s a note of warning in his voice, ‘why don’t you go on home? Cry it all out.’
And start afresh tomorrow, restored to mannered professionalism – that’s his implication.
‘Hugh’s coming over this evening,’ I say. ‘We need to decide how we tell the girls he’s not coming back.’
Tim and I stare each other down. ‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘The crying goes on for a while longer.’
‘If you’re that sad,’ he’s exasperated, ‘why don’t you just get back with him?’
For the love of God, why do people persist in un-nuanced thinking? ‘I don’t want to be with him. But I’m allowed to be sad.’
Hugh and I sit at the kitchen table and I say, ‘Next Monday, that’s the sixth of March, a week before the deadline, that’s when we tell them.’
‘Okay.’
‘So we start by telling them how much we both love them,’ I say.
‘Which of us should say it?’
‘Can’t we just wing it?’
‘We need to present a confident front. We can’t display doubt because it’ll make them feel insecure.’
‘Okay, you say the first bit, and I’ll nod and smile, like I’m agreeing. Then I’ll say that even though you and I aren’t together any more, we’ll always be a family.’
‘And I’ll nod and smile through that bit?’
‘Yes.’ Oh, Christ, I just want it to have already happened. ‘But, Hugh, they might be angry. Or cry.’
‘We let them do what they need to do.’
‘They might be very angry with you,’ I say.
‘I deserve it. I can take it.’
Guilt twangs in me. Maybe Hugh isn’t entirely responsible for the failure of our marriage. ‘Where should we tell them?’ I ask. ‘Which room?’
‘I think the living room. Sitting at this table would be too formal.’
‘Should you and I sit next to each other? Or should I be on the couch and you on the chair?’
‘Optics is your speciality.’
‘Grand. We’ll sit together on the couch. Should we hold hands?’
‘No.’
‘To demonstrate a united front?’
‘It would only confuse them. You think Neevey will come?’
I doubt it. She never comes here now – she doesn’t even text except when she wants something. The last time was because she needed a baby photo of her with Richie. Apparently they’ve done the ‘Relative Values’ interview for the Sunday Times. ‘Let’s not depend on it,’ I say.
His tone is wry. ‘It’ll be a shame to miss her happy face.’
He’s right. She’ll be delighted. Or maybe she won’t even care.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Let’s have a practice. You start.’
‘You mean say the words? Now? Hold on, gimme a minute. Right.’ He takes a breath and stares at nothing. ‘Sofie, Kiara,’ his voice is hoarse, ‘Amy and I both love you very, very much.’
I nod and try to smile, but my mouth is wobbly.
‘Now your turn,’ he says.
‘Hugh and I aren’t together … or should I say “won’t be getting back together”?’ I look at him for confirmation, then wipe away tears with my sleeve. ‘I think “aren’t getting back together” is the best thing to say.’
‘Amy …’
‘It’s so sad, Hugh. It’s just so sad.’
‘I know, baby. C’mere …
‘C’mere,’ he repeats. And even though I know it’s probably a bad idea, I get up, go to the other side of the table and sit myself on his lap. It’s what I always used to do when I was upset. This will probably come back to bite me, but for a few blissful moments I let myself settle into the comfort of his arms, the heat of his body, the scent of his skin … His arms tighten around me – then, with a huge effort of will, I murmur, ‘Boundaries.’ I sit up straight and look into his face and there he is, Hugh. My Hugh. One of those time-slips happens.
‘Oh, God.’ I clutch my head and slide off his lap.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Just a time-slip. Sometimes I forget. I think things are the way they used to be.’
‘I know, babe, me too.’
‘You do?’
‘Of course.’
Back safely on my side of the table, I ask, ‘But it’ll pass. It’ll feel more and more normal as time goes on.’
‘Will it?’ He looks miserable.
‘Of course. It’s how life works.’ I’m in my chair again. ‘Okay. Let’s get back to things … Next I think we should say that we’ll always be there for each other. All of us.’ I stop. ‘Oh, Hugh!’ Another bout of crying overtakes me.
‘What is it, honey?’
‘You’re so thin.’
‘I’m fine.’
Tonight I’ll probably dream about a hungry man, and just before I feed him, I’ll wake up. ‘Can you not eat?’ I ask.
‘Ah, you know …’
‘I’m sorry.’ I’m sincere. ‘I’m sorry I can’t mend my heart. I’m sorry I can’t feel the way I felt before I saw those photos. But I can’t help the way I am.’
‘It’s why I love you.’
‘Don’t, Hugh, please don’t. Listen, we’ll be okay, both of us. We’ll be fine in the end.’
‘And if we’re not fine –’
‘No!’
The Marigold Hotel quote is one that neither of us can stand. Him attempting it lightens the mood.
‘Maybe we’ll knock it on the head for tonight.’ He looks exhausted. ‘See you next Monday.’
‘Next Monday.’
111
Monday, 6 March
The week I spend waiting to have that conversation is the toughest so far. I’m fairly certain I feel worse now than I did in the beginning, after he first left, and that’s weird.
But back then I was in shock. That’s obvious now. Stunned and reeling. The full depth and breadth of his departure hadn’t revealed itself to me. That’s how humans bear the unbearable: we expose ourselves to just as much pain as we can take in a day or an instant. Only when we’ve processed that can we absorb some more.
It might explain why life’s big losses take so long to metabolize.
However, I am moving through this. At times my progress can be measured – the initial disbelief has gone and the out-of-control shopping has calmed to normal levels. I’ve stopped trying to behave as if nothing is wrong so when I meet people, such as Bronagh Kingston, I don’t slap on an exhausting veneer of fake cheer. Instead, without weeping all over everyone I meet, I indicate that my circumstances are still a struggle.
Even my incendiary rage has abated – at least for now. At the moment my overwhelming emotion is sorrow, and that will eventually pass too. The end of my marriage will never not be sad, but the grief won’t cripple me the way it does now.
> Sometimes I look back and wonder how this all happened. From the outside, you’d never have thought that Hugh and I were likely to split up. We never exchanged a cross word, like, not really, we weren’t that kind of shouty couple. But I suppose things don’t have to end with a bang, they can also expire with a whimper.
Other times it seems entirely inevitable that Hugh and I wouldn’t last. Not just the double-whammy of Gavin dying so soon after Hugh’s dad and the existential impact it had on Hugh. But I had to look at my caper with Josh the summer before last. Like, what was that all about?
I still can’t make sense of it. The best I can come up with is that I’d felt like I had nothing, ever, to look forward to. But billions of people have hard lives – mine was hardly tough – and they don’t start flirting with someone they shouldn’t be flirting with.
I had loved Hugh, I had loved the family we’d created, and still I had wanted extra.
We’re meant to learn from our mistakes, but if I don’t understand why, there’s nothing to stop me doing it again.
‘So.’ I try smiling at Kiara and Sofie. ‘We need to have a talk.’
‘Shouldn’t we wait until Neeve gets here?’ Sofie asks.
‘Neeve isn’t coming.’
‘Oh,’ Kiara says. ‘Anyway, we know what you’re going to tell us.’
Both Hugh and I tense.
‘Dad won’t be moving back in with us, will he?’
‘No, honey,’ I choke out.
‘It’s okay,’ Sofie says softly.
But this is all wrong. Hugh and I were supposed to do our reassuring two-hander.
‘I kinda guessed,’ Kiara says. ‘We all did. We understand. We’re sorry you’re both so sad.’
‘Don’t.’
‘We’ve had time to get used to living without you,’ Sofie says.
Well, that’s good. That had been the idea, after all.
‘But we’re totally going to see you all the time, right?’ she asks.
‘Totally,’ Hugh answers. ‘Of course, honey, any time you like.’
‘But we want to see you and Mum together,’ Kiara says. ‘Not just us with you, then us with Mum. All of us together.’
‘Ah …’ Hugh glances at me for the right answer.