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