All We Have Lost (8 page)

‘Sure?’

He nods.

‘Because if something’s bothering you, you should tell me.’

‘Nothing’s bothering me.’

‘OK. Well, if anything does again, please don’t take it out on me. I’m doing my best. I know I’m not an earth mother but I
am
trying.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘We shouldn’t fight.’

‘No. Come here.’

I scooch over to him.

He takes my hand and traces a finger over the back of it. ‘Look, I know how hard you work especially with the book and everything.’

Oh crap.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What’s up?’

I grimace. ‘I think I might be suffering from writer’s block.’

‘Suffering?’ An eyebrow rises.

‘Yes, suffering. The harder I try, the worse it gets. I’ve tried changing the plot, the genre, starting over – twice. I’m going to leave it for a few weeks and try again.’

‘Maybe you should speak to Sarah. She might have some advice.’

‘I
have
spoken to her. She told me to write erotica.’

He laughs. And I feel like he’s just told me I’m not sexy. Which I know is total paranoia.

‘Kim, you’ve only just started. You don’t want to stop now.’

‘I want to settle into this whole mother thing.’

‘What do you mean, “this whole mother thing”?’

‘I want to be a good mum.’

‘You are.’

‘So why do you always make me feel I’m not?’

‘I don’t.’

‘You do.’

‘I think you’re doing a great job with the kids. Sally’s a hard act to follow.’

‘Sally’s not their mum.’

‘Kim, I just said you’re doing great.’

‘Yeah.’

‘About the writing, though… Aren’t you afraid that if you stop you’ll get out of the habit? You’ve never wanted to be just a housewife.’

‘What’s wrong with being “just a housewife”? My mother was “just a housewife” and my dad didn’t have a problem with that. Would you have a problem with me being just a housewife?’

He hesitates. His, ‘No,’ is too quiet.

‘You don’t sound convinced.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Kim. Do what you want. You do anyway.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You didn’t want me to quit work, did you?’

‘Let’s not talk about this now.’ He’s getting up.

‘You didn’t want me to quit and now you resent me for it. Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t want me to stop? I gave you enough chances.’

‘I was happy for you to give up work. You had the novel. I’m just disappointed you’re giving up on it so soon.’

‘I haven’t given up on it.’

‘You quit work to write and now you’re not.’

‘For a few weeks.’

His sigh is dramatic. I look at him, really look at him. ‘It’s like your opinion of me is tied to what I do.’

‘I just don’t want you to become my mother. Or the woman at the party.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘You’ve started nagging.’

‘No I haven’t.’

‘You nag about emptying the dishwasher. Putting the bin out.’

‘Dear Jesus, Ian, how do you live with me?’

‘You see? There you go.’

‘No. There
you
go.’

He sighs again and walks out. Minutes later, I hear the front door slam.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘I’m taking up golf,’ he says one Saturday morning. No discussion.

I look at him. ‘Why?’

‘I have to. They’re all doing it.’

‘Who’s they all?’

‘You know, people in the business.’ I hate the way he says, ‘in the business’, as if he means, ‘in the know’, as if I’m not in the business or in the know.

‘I thought you hated the idea of golf – the fact that it breaks up the weekend, takes you away from your family.’

‘Yeah but this is important. You’re not working now.’

My arms fold automatically and an eyebrow pops up.

‘You know what I mean.
I have to make this work, OK? I have to play ball.’

‘There’s a difference between “have to” and “want to”.’

‘All right then, if you insist, I want to. I want to play golf.’ He walks around with both arms raised.

‘Oh for God’s sake, Ian. No one’s under arrest here.’

He lowers his arms. ‘I’m playing golf,’ he says slowly, calmly. ‘I’ll be back by lunchtime.’

‘Well, don’t expect a pipe and slippers.’

He stares at me as though I’ve transformed into his mother.

Say nothing, say nothing. Count to ten. Count to one hundred. Don’t, whatever you do, scream.

I take Chloe and Sam to the sea and try to forget as we search for shrimps in rocky pools.

‘Dat’s a puggle,’ Sam says.

Do I explain that it is, in fact, a rock pool or teach him how to say puddle?

‘Puddle, honey, puddle.’

‘Puggle.’

‘Puddle.’

‘Puggle.’

‘Say de, de, de, puddle.’

‘De, de, de, puggle.’

I kiss the top of his head. Puggle it is. Side by side, we crouch, motionless, like three herons. Sam turns to me, reaches up his two chubby hands and places them on either side of my face and turns my head to him. He looks right into my eyes and says simply, ‘My Mum’ – just two words, less than ‘I love you’ but meaning more to me. My eyes smart and I laugh as camouflage.

‘I see some! I see some shrimps!’ Chloe says pointing.

Sam picks up a stone and dive-bombs them.

My phone rings. It’s Sarah wanting to know if I can meet her for lunch. She’s home!

The minute Ian walks in the door, I walk out. I get the DART into town and find the trendy new restaurant that she’s suggested and I’ve never been to. There was a time – not so long ago – I’d have been invited to the opening of any new venue in town.

She’s at a table, whiskey in hand. She smiles that slow Jackie Brown smile of hers, then stands and hugs me. She waits till I’m seated to ask:

‘Jesus, Kim, what happened to you?’

I improve my posture and keep my jacket on. ‘If you’re talking about my weight, it’s nothing I can’t shift.’

‘I was talking about your hair.’

My hand moves to it automatically. ‘It needs a blow-dry.’

‘Kim, that hair needs more than a blow-dry.’ She reaches across and picks up a strand. ‘It’s full of split ends.’

I focus on the menu.

‘And
what
are you wearing?’

‘Something that fits.’ It’s meant to be a joke but comes out as a sad statement of fact.

She snaps open her designer bag.

‘Membership card to my gym. Use it,’ she says handing it to me.

I open my mouth to refuse but she holds up a hand. I take it to keep her quiet.

‘Pop in any spare time you get,’ is spoken like a person in a childfree zone, a place where nothing is ever broken or scribbled on and silence reigns, where one can hold a telephone conversation without interruption and have a pee in undisturbed peace on a dribble-free toilet seat. ‘You’re coming to Manuel with me tomorrow. No buts.’

‘Bu
t
…’

‘
When
were you last at a hairdresser?’

‘I didn’t come here for a makeover, Sarah. There are mirrors in my house. I know, OK? I know.’ And just like that I’m crying. In public.

‘Oh God. I’m so sorry, Kim. I was just trying to help. This is all surface stuff, easily fixed. You’re still beautiful. You’re still a stunner.’

I blow my nose but the tears keep coming. ‘I’ve stopped writing.’

‘That’s OK,’ she soothes.

‘I never see Ian. He’s gone at half-seven and not back ’til nine or ten. All we do is fight.’

‘He’s probably under pressure in the job. Maybe he has a deal going down. You know how corporate finance is.’

‘No, I don’t know how corporate finance is and I don’t care.’

She raises an eyebrow but says nothing. She passes me a fresh hankie.

‘He used to bring Sam and Chloe swimming at the weekends. Not any more.’

‘Probably exhausted.’

‘He never does DIY. And there are so many things that need fixing.’

‘Fuck DIY. Get a man in.’

‘We can’t afford a man. If we could, I’d be getting a new kitche
n
.’

‘OK. Stop right there.’

‘What?’

‘Since
when
are you interested in kitchens?’

‘Since I started spending most of my life in one. It’s prehistoric. And dangerous. The cupboards are so crammed that opening them is a health hazard. A can of tuna nearly killed me yesterday.’

‘Enough, about, kitchens.’

‘At least things are good with the kids. I know them so much better now. I’ve time to listen, to understand that, usually, what they’re asking or doing is just what I’d do if I were in their shoes.’

‘Get back to Ian.’

‘I don’t know, Sarah. We’ve lost the balance. We used to be a team, both out working, both seeing equal amounts of the children, both independent. It wasn’t perfect but we had loads of time alone together. We got on so well. Now it’s all changed. He’s the breadwinner – as he keeps reminding me. I depend on him and I don’t want to. He’s paranoid I’ll turn into his mother.
I’m
paranoid I’ll turn into his mother. We can’t seem to talk any more. We argue all the time. There’s nothing to laugh about. And we never,’ I whisper, ‘have sex.’

‘OK. This is serious. A woman can’t live without a shag.’

‘Yes, a woman can live without a shag. Shagging is the
least
important thing. Just getting on, chatting, laughing, touching. They’re the things I miss most.’

‘Right. You need to get back working. And fast.’

‘I didn’t quit just to go back. I want a different life.’

‘Don’t you miss the buzz of work?’

‘No. Not the buzz, not the endless meetings, not the impressing clients. None of it. Staying at home is hard; I’m an entertainer, barmaid, bum-wiper, cook, nurse, psychologist, teacher, cleaner, negotiator, fight-breaker-uppe
r
….’

‘Stop, stop, for Christ’s sake. No wonder he’s never home – you’re boring him to death. Will you for God’s sake get a job, woman, before it’s too late? You need your independence. You need to remember who
you
are. And you need to start fucking your husband.’

‘Must be great to have all the answers, Sarah.’

She reaches across and grips my hand. ‘I’m worried about you, Kim. You’re going off the rails, hon.’

‘You have
no idea
about my life. I gave up work for a reason. And if Ian doesn’t like me as I am, screw him. I’m my own person. I won’t be pushed around and made to feel less than I am.’

She bites her lip.

‘Anyway. Enough about me. Let’s order. And talk about you.’ Her favourite subject.

‘All right,’ she says grudgingly. ‘Just one thing – leopard-skin lingerie – never fails.’

Despite myself, I laugh.

So golf on Saturdays it is. And, what with his post-golf rest, he becomes
The Invisible Man
.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A surprising thing happens. I grow to like his absences. His not being around means I can relax. Be myself. Do my own thing – well,
our
own thing; I still have the kids obviously. Weekends become a continuation of weekdays, just the three of us at our own pace. I suppress feelings that we should all be together and manage to succeed until confronted by scenes of happy families, especially tricky when they are people we know. Initially they ask where Ian is. Eventually they stop.

I develop a game. It’s called, ‘Who Loves You?’ and it goes like this:

‘Who loves you, Sammy?’

‘Poo.’

‘Who loves you, Samuel?’

‘Poo, Poo.’ He collapses into laughter. At least he has a sense of humour, however warped.

I have another go. ‘Who,’ tickle, ‘loves,’ tickle, ‘you?’

‘Mummy.’

‘Yep and who else loves you?’

‘Chlo.’

‘And who else?’

‘Dad.’

Mission accomplished but I keep going. ‘And who else?’

‘Gwanny Flowence’

We go through all the grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, even pets until I’m satisfied that they feel very, very loved.

One Saturday, I’m walking by the sea with two ice-cream-covered children. One of Dublin’s most high profile, society couples zips by in their Mercedes Sports Convertible, top down. No sign of their peculiarly named children. At first, I envy them. Then I look down at Sam and Chloe and feel so much love. My kids are fun. More fun, now, than my husband.

‘Can you iron this?’ he asks. No, ‘please’. No, ‘would you mind?’ No, ‘whenever you get a chance’. To him, I am The Scrubber, Mrs Kavanagh. I wouldn’t mind so much, if he’d show some appreciation. That’s all I’m after. Acknowledgement. I
am
a person. I
do
exist.

The children aren’t blind. Despite my games, they notice.

At bedtime, Sam asks the all-too-familiar question. ‘Whay’s my dad?’

‘At work, sweetie.’

His head drops and he makes a muffled sound.

‘How about a story? How about two?’

A car pulls up outside.

Sam jumps from the bed and races to the window, shouting, ‘It’s my dad! It’s my dad!’

I glance out only to confirm what I suspected – it ain’t him.

I ruffle Sam’s hair and lift him up. ‘He’ll be home soon, sweetie. Would you like a
Winnie the Pooh
ice-cream?’

‘Don’t want ice-cweam, want my dad.’ He starts to cry.

Not far behind, I take a deep breath. ‘I’ll tell you what; why don’t we all stay up late tonight ’til Dad comes home? Wouldn’t that be great?’

‘Yaay!’

I set them up on the couch with a quilt and ice creams. I put on a DVD. ‘Back in a sec,’ I say lightly.

In the kitchen, I ring Ian to see if he can get home early or at least earlier than late. When he doesn’t answer his mobile I try his direct line. A woman answers.

‘I’m sorry. Mr Kavanagh is unavailable. Can I take a message?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘His secretary, Melanie.’

Didn’t know he had one. ‘Could you ask him to call Kim as soon as he gets out, please?’

‘Does he have your number?’

‘He should. I’m his wife.’ Ha, ha.

‘Oh, Kim, hi! So good to talk to you! I’m Melanie. I just started here. I’m sure Ian’s told you.’

Actually, no. ‘Congratulations. And welcome to the firm.’ A joke for myself. ‘The firm,’ has become one of Ian’s favourite expressions. When he actually expresses.

‘He’s so great to work for,’ she gushes.

Why is she telling me this? Does she want me to pass it on? ‘When do you think he’ll be free, Melanie?’

‘He’s in a meeting but he should be out soon. I’ll get him to give you a call.’

‘Thanks.’

He calls – to let me know he has another meeting.

‘Until when?’

‘I don’t know. It could go on.’

‘OK. Fine. But they’re staying up till you get home. They need to see you.’

‘Kim, they’ll be exhausted.’

‘I know. But they need to see you.’

He sighs. ‘I’ll do my best.’

Sam has fallen asleep on the couch by the time Ian gets home. Chloe is tired and cranky and more interested in the treats he has brought than in seeing him. Silently, I put them to bed. I wish him back to his old job. He mightn’t have been happy but at least we saw him. And he wasn’t Superman, just Ian. Approachable, fun, Ian.

‘Sorry,’ he says, when I come back downstairs.

‘Why do you have to work so hard?’

‘It’s the business I’m in. Everyone around town’s working this hard at the moment.’

Around town? Seriously? Any day now, he’ll start using ‘going forward.’

‘Ian, I don’t know much about corporate finance but do you really have to be busy all the time?’

‘What can I do? I’m trying to make an impression. I thought you’d understand.’

‘I do. At least I’m trying to but I’m beginning to wonder what’s the point of working so hard if it means you’re never around. What’s life all about?’

‘Have you been reading that crap again?’

‘If you’re referring to my self-help books, I got rid of them. But that’s not what we’re talking about here. We’re talking about us growing apart as a family.’

‘
Are
we?’

I look at him for a long time. ‘Yes, Ian.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Spend more time at home.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Well maybe I could bring the kids to see you some lunch-time?’ It would be worth wading through traffic for.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not always free.’

‘I know but you must be sometimes. You could give us a ring.’

‘No.’

‘Don’t you want to see us?’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake. I don’t want you dragging yourselves into town to meet me for half-an-hour, OK?’ He sounds like he’s talking to a child.

‘What about weekends? You could take them swimming again. They really miss that.’

‘We’ll see.’

The old chestnut parents have been trotting out for generations. I give up. What’s the point?

He’s not happy with the quality of the dry cleaning.

‘So bring it back,’ I suggest.

‘Why didn’t you check it?’

‘Why didn’t you bring it yourself in the first place?’

‘I was busy.’

‘As was I but I managed to do it – despite having two toddlers in tow. Couldn’t you have held up the world of corporate finance for five minutes? I don’t think it would have ground to a halt, do you?’

‘I didn’t think I was asking too much.’

‘I didn’t mind doing it, Ian. But if it’s not up to scratch, you bring it back.’

He mutters something.

‘What did you say?’ I ask.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘What did you
say
?’

Nothing, apparently.

‘You know, Ian. If you’re not happy, you can leave at any time. Any time.’ Whoa, where did that come from?

‘How about now? How does now suit?’

‘Now suits just fine.’

My heart is pounding. We stand glaring at each other, neither wanting to back down, yet neither wanting to move forward either. How did an argument about dry cleaning turn into this?

Suddenly Sam is shouting, ‘Leave my mummy alone.’

Jesus. When did he come into the kitchen? How much has he heard?

‘It’s OK sweetheart, Daddy was only joking.’ I bend down and take him up into my arms. I look at Ian. ‘Weren’t you, Dad?’

‘Yes, Sam, Daddy was only joking. I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m really sorry. Daddy loves Mummy. And Mummy loves Daddy.’

Then Sam does a wonderful thing. He rubs my back, round in circles, finishing off with a few gentle pats. ‘OK, now?’

I nod and smile but I’m fighting tears. ‘Thanks, Sammy. OK, now.’ That’s when I see Chloe standing inside the doorway, sucking her thumb. ‘Hey, little lady,’ I start but she turns and runs out. Still carrying Sam, I go after her.

I end up bringing them to McDonalds – the comfort zone of family.

Later, we sit in bed, reading, Ian
The Economist
, me an article claiming that parents who neglect themselves have poorer relationships with their children. I have counted twelve out of the twenty signs that show I’m in danger.

‘Jesus,’ I whisper.

‘What?’

I pass him the magazine. ‘This is me.’

He puts down
The Economist
and skims the article. ‘That’s not you at all.’

‘It’s not?’

‘You don’t take drugs.’

‘Not yet! What about the other points?’ I’m referring to such things as rushing around, doing several things at once, being repeatedly late, rarely saying ‘no’ to demands, having no time for self, having little or no leisure time or social outings, lacking exercise, being over-tired, rarely or never asking for help and, unfortunately, over-eating. ‘You can’t recognise me in that?’ Maybe he genuinely doesn’t know how I live.

‘Well, they’re me too.’

‘
You?
’

‘I do nothing but work.’

‘You golf.’

‘For work.’

‘At least you get to be by yourself.’

‘Maybe I’d
like
to see you. Maybe I’d
like
to see the kids. Did you ever think of that?
Who wrote this shit anyway?’ He slaps the magazine with the back of his hand. ‘Psychologist! Should have known.’ He throws it on the bed.

I turn over angrily and flick off my bedside light. I am the parking ticket on his windscreen; if he doesn’t see me, I’m not there.

In the morning, we’re getting dressed when I hit on a solution.

‘Let’s get an au pair.’

‘An au pair?
Why?
’

‘She could help with the kids and do light housework.’

‘Haven’t you time to do all that now that you’ve given up on the book?’

‘I was thinking it might allow me to get
back
to the book.’

‘Where would she stay?’ He is finished knotting his tie but still looking at himself in the mirror.

‘We could put her in Sam’s room and move the kids in together.’

‘But you did it up for him. He loves it now.’ He’s baring his teeth at himself, checking them out.

‘Sam and Chloe like sharing. You’ve always said so.’

‘What about our privacy? Having someone around all the time. I’d hate it.’ Now he’s squinting at himself.

‘Our quality of life would be better, though. We could go out for a walk in the evenings.’

‘What about sex? You don’t think we could have sex with a stranger in the house.’

What sex? ‘We could try it for a while and see how we get on.’

‘Not interested.’ He drags himself away from his reflection.

It’s official; the earner has become the decision-maker.