The Break Page 10

  Hugh’s hold on my shoulder tightened so much that it hurt. Both of us were trying not to cry.

  So, Sofie moved in and became potty-trained almost overnight. She began speaking fully formed sentences in English. She slept through the night, stopped the incessant sucking of her two middle fingers, started calling Hugh ‘Dad’ (I was still ‘Amy’), never asked about her mum, which was just as well, because phone calls from her were infrequent, and treated Joe with benign indifference.

  Unlike poor Neeve, who remained obsessed with her ‘bio-dad’ (grim phrase) and his new wife and daughters, Sofie blossomed in our care.

  15

  ‘If we’re going,’ Hugh shouts from the kitchen, ‘we need to go RIGHT NOW!’

  I hurry down the stairs, and he is standing with Neeve, rummaging through the pile of stuff by the draining board. ‘Is it this one?’ He holds up a lip-glaze.

  ‘No,’ she says.

  ‘Is it this one?’ Another lip colour.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is it this one?’

  ‘Yaaaaassss.’ She snatches a liquid lipstick from him.

  ‘Put it on in the car! We haven’t time.’

  And, thank God, here’s Sofie, coming up the path. But to my enormous shock, she’s shaved her hair off.

  In a way, she looks adorable, like a duckling, with her white-blonde stubble and huge blue eyes. But you could also say she looks like a medieval penitent, atoning for some obscure sin. She walks straight into Hugh’s arms and sobs against him. He holds her tight and lets her cry it out. Eventually she pulls away, pats his arm, gives him a watery smile and they’re friends again.

  ‘What d’you do to your hair, you mad yoke?’ Neeve asks.

  Thank God someone addressed it head on.

  ‘Got extensions,’ Sofie says.

  We all have a laugh.

  ‘Is Jackson coming?’ Hugh asks, making a move to the front door.

  ‘We’ll meet him there.’

  Neeve asks, ‘Should I change my jeans?’

  ‘NO!’ the rest of us yelp.

  Squabbling, talking over each other and finalizing last-minute grooming, the five of us are all finally in the car and Hugh reverses out with a squeal of tyres.

  At the theatre, the girls and I usually go into the foyer together while Hugh parks, but today I stick with him because I want us to arrive together and deliver a DOEU (Display of Extreme Unity).

  He’s been instructed on the matter, so we step through the automatic doors with our arms around each other, then pause momentarily so that anyone who’s interested can take a good long look at us. Check this out. My husband may be leaving me for six months, perhaps even for ever, but we seem really together, right?

  In the foyer the wine o’clock merchants are out in force – hollow-eyed women, who’re swilling glasses of Merlot like they’ve just received word that the grape harvest has failed, and suburban wannabe-hipster dads, downing craft beer and alarmingly expensive Basque ham. (‘Hand-reared, acorn-fed, cries easily and enjoys reruns of Columbo.’)

  A couple of heads jerk in our direction but it’s not like that scene in Gone with the Wind where Scarlett O’Hara brings a ball to a complete standstill because she’s been caught up to no good with Ashley Wilkes. (The precise details escape me.)

  Hugh starts to move forward but I tighten my hold on his waist. Not just yet. A few more seconds to fix the picture in everyone’s head. I feel fake and exposed, and I wonder if this is like being the spouse of a disgraced politician, doing a photoshoot as a display of All Grand Here, No Homosexuality or Embezzlement to Worry About.

  Okay. That will do. I loosen my hold on Hugh, then someone bangs into us from behind, sending us tumbling apart. ‘Sorry!’ they cry.

  ‘No, no, we’re sorry!’

  ‘No, we’re sorry.’

  We’re all sorry, but as they move off I hear one of them say to the other, ‘What the hell were they doing just standing there anyway?’

  I spot Posh Petra.

  ‘Right,’ I say to Hugh. ‘There’s Petra. You can go to the bar.’

  Petra is downing the Merlot good-oh, but when she sees me, she hurtles in my direction. ‘Sweetheart.’ She’s talking like she’s trying to not move her mouth. ‘I messaged you a billion times.’ She pulls me close. ‘What’s going on?’

  Once again I’m paranoid. Is every single person here watching me with pity as they eat their costly anchovies? But a quick flick doesn’t reveal anything unusual.

  ‘Hugh’s going travelling for six months.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean he’s leaving Ireland and going to other countries. He’ll be gone six months.’

  ‘Without you? What the actual fuck?’

  Usually I love to hear Posh Petra swear.

  I shrug. ‘He wants to self-actualize.’

  ‘Self-actualize?’ Petra is so scornful that I think I’d better drop that line.

  ‘Maybe he deserves time off for good behaviour.’

  Her face is a mixture of wonder and sympathy. ‘But … and sorry for probing, is it also time off for bad behaviour?’ Posh Petra is clearly appalled. ‘Amy, but that’s … It’s awful, isn’t it? Are you okay?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I don’t think I’ll know until he’s gone. Which is Tuesday morning.’

  ‘So soon! You know I love you.’ Petra looks me in the eyes. ‘And it’s not just me, you have good friends. Together we’ll take care of you.’

  Normally I hate being pitied but I’m tired and frightened and so very sad.

  ‘You’re welcome at mine any time of the day or night. You can even move in if you like.’

  Baked beans, I think. Baked beans in my hair.

  Petra catches my thought. ‘It’s those two little bitches, isn’t it?’ Her eyes are too bright. ‘They’ve ruined my life, Amy. They’re ruining my friendships. They’re ruining my career.’ Petra works in an art gallery. ‘Hey,’ she says, ‘will you come to the opening on Thursday night?’

  I consider it. Then, ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, Amy, do. They’ll have wine.’

  ‘I’ve wine at home.’

  ‘It’ll be good for you. An education.’

  This is an ongoing bone of contention between the two of us. I’ve a thing for simply painted village or rural scenes: they make me feel safe. Petra likes grim, gloomy ‘challenging’ art. Like, for why? Life is challenging enough, why add to our burdens?

  ‘If you come,’ she tries to sound tempting, ‘I’ll ask the dealer if he knows anything about your mystery artist.’

  One of my many, many obsessions is with an artist from Serbia, a woman.

  You know when you see something phenomenally beautiful – like a Tom Ford eye palette in silvers and greys? Or those embellished Miu Miu handbags? And it has such a powerful impact on you that it’s almost like being hit?

  Well, this woman’s paintings do that to me.

  The first time I saw them was on Pinterest and immediately I started googling but I’ve unearthed feck-all except that she’s Serbian. I don’t even know if she’s still alive. Most frustrating of all, I’ve found no opportunity to buy her work. God knows if I could afford even a square inch of her paintings, but I’d appreciate an opportunity to find out.

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Let’s see how the week pans out.’

  Petra tries to drink from her empty glass. ‘I need more wine. That’s what it’ll say on my gravestone.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you to the bar.’ But I’m intercepted by Jana.

  ‘Amy, honey-bun, I’ve been calling –’

  ‘I know, sorry.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Hugh’s going travelling for six months. Time off for bad behaviour.’ I attempt a laugh. It’s a fail. ‘Then he’ll be back.’

  She seems confused. ‘Are you upset?’

  My heart sinks. Maybe Derry is right about Jana. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Sorry. Sorry, Amy. Of course.’


  ‘I know you’ll tell Genevieve but could you pretend that I’m not devastated?’

  ‘I won’t tell Genevieve anything.’

  ‘Jana …’

  ‘Okay,’ she admits. ‘I’ll tell her the facts but I’ll say you’re cool with it. I promise.’ Her face is earnest with sincerity and who knows? Maybe she will.

  ‘But, Amy, do you get time off too? For bad behaviour, like? Because that’s something, right?’

  God, no. This is almost worse than pity.

  ‘Yeah, you go, girl!’ She raises her wine glass and gives a small whoop that has heads turning. Loudly, Jana declares, ‘Look at us! Drinking wine before six o’clock, eating pintxos, about to see a Malaysian film, and now one of us has an open marriage – you’ve got to hand it to us, we’re a sophisticated bunch!’

  16

  Monday, 12 September

  ‘Morning,’ Tim mutters. He barely looks up from his screen.

  ‘Morning.’ I don’t know which is worse, people wanting to hear every ghoulish detail of Hugh’s plans or – as Tim is doing – behaving like nothing is up.

  And here comes Alastair, dressed way too casually in faded jeans and a pale blue collarless shirt, which probably means he met some girl on his stupid weekend course and hasn’t been home yet. ‘Morning.’ His teeth glint around the room. ‘Good weekends?’

  I stare fixedly at my blank screen. Obviously he’s been on one of his frequent, short-lived digital detoxes.

  ‘Timothy?’ You can always tell that Alastair is in the giddiest of good form, when he starts calling people by their full names. Thamy had probably been given her full name of Thamyres and doubtless I’ll be Amelia’d. ‘Nice couple of days, Timothy? Let me guess, you cut the grass? Fixed a leaky tap? No, it’s all coming back to me – a party, right? A sixth birthday?’

  Tim has five children – five! The youngest is twenty months and the oldest is sixteen. His wife is a surgeon who, all credit to her, won’t even change a nappy; Tim is very hands-on.

  ‘You made Rice Krispie buns?’ Alastair asks.

  ‘I did,’ Tim says.

  ‘Any visits to A and E? A child fell out of the tree-house? Or swallowed a battery?’

  ‘The dog got sick and I had to go to the emergency vet with nine six-year-olds.’

  ‘The usual mayhem. Well, I’d a very productive weekend. My course was excellent.’

  ‘You’re cured now?’ Tim asks.

  ‘Cured. Happy. That’s me.’ It’s impossible to tell if he means it, but even if he does, it won’t last. It never does. ‘So how about you, Amelia? Nice weekend?’

  There’s a horrible pause.

  ‘What?’ Alastair asks. He looks from me to Tim and back again. ‘What?’

  ‘Ehmmmm. Hugh is taking time out for six months.’ I listen to myself saying the words. ‘Going back-packing. Leaving tomorrow.’

  ‘Hugh?’ Alastair chokes. ‘Your husband Hugh?’

  Almost worse than Alastair’s shock is Tim’s silence – he’s totally got the entire situation.

  ‘When you say “time out”?’ Alastair asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Time out. Or time off, whatever you want to call it.’

  ‘Even, like, other women? Jesus Christ.’ Alastair looks scandalized. ‘I always thought you guys were rock-solid.’

  Yes, well … I am dying here.

  ‘And what about you?’ he asks. ‘Are you on time off too?’

  ‘Stop it!’ This is Tim’s first comment.

  ‘I’m not … I don’t mean it like that.’ Alastair’s hurt is genuine. ‘I’m only asking. Amy’s like a sister to me. You are, Amy. Like a sister. I care. So, was it a sudden decision? Or coming for a while?’

  ‘Sort of both. It was a shock, a big one. But it probably goes back a while.’

  ‘Since his dad died?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Or maybe even longer. Try sixteen months.

  ‘Stop with the interrogation,’ Tim says to Alastair. Then, to me, ‘Would you like a break from here? A few mental-health days?’

  People say that Tim isn’t much craic, and even though that’s probably true, he can be deeply kind. I shake my head. ‘I need to be busy.’

  ‘If Hugh is leaving tomorrow, you want Alastair to take your meetings in London? You can stay in Dublin and say goodbye properly,’ Tim says.

  No. No way am I going to the airport to wave Hugh off, like he’s going on a gap year, like I approve. Nor am I running the risk of having a public meltdown. No, we’ll say goodbye the way we do every Tuesday morning at five thirty. He’ll be still in bed, barely awake, and I’ll give him a quick kiss before I hare out of the door to the airport. For a while I’ll let myself pretend that when I get home on Wednesday night he’ll be there, like he always is, and not halfway across the world.

  ‘Would you like a hug?’ Alastair asks.

  ‘From you?’ I ask doubtfully. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’ Then I add, ‘But thanks anyway.’

  ‘If you change your mind …’

  I wouldn’t. ‘Lads, please, I don’t want a big deal to be made of this,’ I say. ‘I’m ashamed and afraid and I just want life to be normal. Come on, let’s get to work.’

  ‘Give us a minute.’ Alastair goes to ‘his’ cupboard. Tim and I widen our eyes and exchange a knowing nod as Alastair takes a little volume of Rumi’s poetry from a pile of about twenty he keeps in there.

  Alastair has definitely met someone, a new lady-friend, on his course – we always know he has a new girl on the go when we see him putting one of the books into a Jiffy-bag, along with a handful of dried crocus petals, then trying to slip it into the outgoing office mail. The poor girls are usually gullible enough to think the Rumi means that Alastair is deeply spiritual, but as Tim says, he’s so heart-centred he won’t even pay the price of the postage. (Although, these days, Alastair makes a big deal of putting a fiver on Thamy’s desk and announcing loudly, ‘To cover the cost of mailing a personal item,’ then giving Tim a baleful stare.)

  But Alastair flicks through the pages of the book, finds one that he likes, then puts it in front of me. No! The Rumi poetry is for me! ‘Read that.’

  Tim looks appalled and sympathetic.

  I read the poem.

  This being human is a Guest House

  Every morning a new arrival.

  A joy, a depression, a meanness,

  Some momentary awareness comes

  As an unexpected visitor.

  Welcome and entertain them all!

  Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,

  Who violently sweep your house

  Empty of its furniture.

  Still treat each guest honourably,

  He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

  I don’t want any ‘new delight’ – and by ‘new delight’ Alastair doubtless means I should sleep with some new man. Not himself, that’s not what he’s getting at. But some man. Honest to God, everyone is fixated with sex – last night in the cinema foyer three separate women friends made you-go-girl noises. As if it’s a good thing that Hugh is going, when what I feel is nothing but loss, terrible loss.

  17

  Thamy puts an elaborate arrangement of autumnal branches and berries on my desk.

  Unlikely as it is, I get a surge of ridiculous hope that they’re from Hugh, saying he’s changed his mind. I tear open the card: ‘Thank you for giving me back my life. Bryan (Sawyer) xxx.’

  Oh.

  ‘Who from?’ Alastair asks.

  ‘Bryan Sawyer.’

  ‘The klepto?’

  ‘Ex-klepto,’ Tim says. ‘All shiny and new and respectable again, thanks to Amy.’

  Tears of disappointment gather in my eyes, then spill down my face. Discreetly, I swipe them away: I can’t be a person who cries at work. Behind me, I hear Tim get up and I try harder to compose myself. Something is put beside my mouse – a small box of tissues. Surprised, I turn to thank him, but he’s already back behind his screen. His silent kindness
makes my tears flow faster.

  I sniff, trying to do it quietly but Alastair hears.

  ‘Y’okay?’

  ‘Hay-fever.’ I indicate the bouquet from Bryan.

  ‘Hay-f–? Oh, right, hay-fever.’

  ‘I can see you’re hurting.’ Alastair corners me later for a pep-talk. ‘But you should make the most of this time.’

  I know exactly what he’s getting at. ‘Stop, would you? My confidence is in bits. I’m forty-four and feeling every second of it, and even if I wanted to, there’s no way I’d reveal this elderly body to a new man. It’d be like Game of Thrones when Melisandra takes off her necklace and ages nine hundred years.’

  ‘You’re not that bad,’ Alastair says. ‘Seriously. I would.’

  ‘I thought I was like a sister to you?’

  ‘Weeeell, I could probably get past that.’

  ‘Could you?’ For a moment I’m genuinely curious.

  ‘Sure!’ He sounds way too emphatic to be believed.

  Nevertheless, I consider him for a long moment – the cheekbones, the jaw, the famous mouth – then think, Reverse cowgirl, and the notion vanishes. It would be AWFUL.

  ‘Ames, are you certain you can’t talk Hugh out of this?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘But he’s so … easy-going.’

  ‘Only up to a point.’ Because when Hugh wanted something, really wanted it, he did it.

  ‘Well, look, I’m your friend. If I can help, let me know.’

  Off he goes, leaving me alone with a memory of something that happened a couple of years ago.

  Hugh is a bit of a muso, always was, and he often says that if Carlsberg did lives, his would be as front man for one of those jangly guitar bands. He loves going to gigs. But for me they’re a living hell – being slopped with beer, unable to see anything because of my shortness, having to wear flats because heels sink into the grass … misery, all of it.

  When we moved back to Dublin, Hugh got in touch with three other lads he’d been in a band with as teenagers (The Janitors) and they decided to start it up again. Hugh played lead guitar and shared the singing with Clancy (they called each other by their surnames, just like they had as kids, Hugh is ‘Durrant’), and all four of them took the endeavour semi-seriously. Thursday night was ‘band practice’, and it didn’t matter how inconvenient it was, Hugh staked that time out for himself.