‘God.’ I’m striving for humour. ‘You might as well be living back here, I see you so often!’ This is in reference to the meet we’d had on Saturday afternoon to straighten out our finances.
He indicates his key. ‘Was that cool? To use it.’
‘It’s what we agreed!’ Once again my tone is slightly too breezy. Well, it’s a process. We’ll get there. Soon we’ll be one of those divorced couples who are in and out of each other’s lives and the very best of friends.
Well, maybe not soon. But sometime.
‘Hey!’ Hugh exclaims. ‘I saw one of your mum’s ads! On a bus-shelter. I nearly crashed the car with shock.’ He’s laughing. ‘She looks fantastic.’
‘I know!’ Kiara cries. ‘It’s mad, right? Like, Granny.’
‘Good for her.’
It is good for her. It’s also good for me because Mrs EverDry has paid Hatch a bonus, a lovely lump of cash that went straight into the yawning hole of my joint account with Hugh. It’s bought us a bit of wriggle room.
‘C’mon, Mum, c’mon, Dad.’ Kiara sweeps us into the front room.
‘There’s beer in the fridge,’ I say to Hugh.
‘Oh. Ah. Thanks.’
He looks slightly stunned and I say, ‘Time-slip?’
‘Yep. Time-slip.’
Awkwardly I pat his arm. ‘It’s shit, I know, but it’ll eventually pass.’
‘Sofie!’ Kiara calls up the stairs. ‘Come on!’
Sofie scampers down and into the living room, and we all clamber on to the couch. Hugh and I park ourselves at each end, as far away from each other as we can get. None of us mentions Neeve, even though her absence feels huge.
We pass the popcorn back and forth, Hugh and I drink beers, and we all watch Crazy Ex-Girlfriend.
This was a habit for us every Monday night but we’re unable to replicate the true experience. It’s like eating chocolate brownies made with artificial sweeteners – they might look the same but something is definitely off.
When the episode ends, my mood is low but Hugh and I have been pleasant to each other and I’m willing to declare the evening a qualified success. A little too quickly the girls hug Hugh goodbye and disappear off to bed, leaving me standing alone in the hall with him.
‘While I remember,’ he says, ‘there’s a date for scattering my dad’s ashes. Easter Saturday.’
‘Oh? You mean … Am I invited?’
His face darkens. ‘Of course! You’re part of the family, you and the girls.’
‘Still?’
‘Yes! Nothing changes that.’
‘Christ, it’s so weird, all this new etiquette to cover separated couples. You know, who’s invited to funerals and who isn’t.’
He nods, looking very sad. ‘I still can’t believe it’s happened. I never thought we’d split up. I never thought we’d be that couple.’
‘Me either. I thought we were different.’
‘But I suppose everyone thinks they’re different.’
‘So.’ My throat aches with the onset of tears. ‘Tell me about the ashes.’
‘Like I said, Easter Saturday morning, that’s five weeks away. Howth Hill, then a fancy lunch in Maldive –’
‘Maldive! Fancy!’ I actually mean, ‘Over the top.’
‘Fancy is right.’ His expression is wry. ‘Chizo’s gig.’
‘Ah, suddenly it all makes sense.’
‘She’s been tasting menus in Ireland’s finest for the past ages.’
‘And who’s coming?’
‘Everyone. John, Rolf and Krister from Uppsala, Brendan, Nita and their kids from Manchester, Carl, Chizo and Noah, the Boy Wonder, from Foxrock, and you, me, Neeve, Sofie and Kiara from Dundrum.’ He flushes. ‘I mean … what I meant … I know I don’t live in Dundrum.’
‘Stop.’
We exchange one of those looks, a stoic acceptance.
‘And Neeve?’ I ask. ‘You’re sure you want her there?’
‘Dad was fond of her.’
‘God alone knows why!’
‘Ah, she’s fine. So, yes, of course Neeve.’
Unexpectedly I think to ask, ‘How are you, Hugh? You know, with your dad? And Gavin?’ In all my resentment over him having left me, I had no interest in the – doubtless ongoing – grief of his double bereavement.
‘Ah, I’m okay.’
‘Hugh. Give me a real answer.’
He squirms. ‘I don’t know, Amy. I miss them both. I think about Dad a lot, about when we were all kids. He was such a good man.’
‘So you’re lonely?’
‘Yes, but –’ He cuts himself off. I’m sure he’d been about to say that he was lonely for me and the girls, as well as for his dad and Gavin, and he doesn’t want to sound like he’s blaming.
‘You’re sad?’ I ask.
Thoughtfully, he says, ‘It’s more accurate to say I feel scared.’ He sighs. ‘I dunno, Amy. I don’t know the names for most of my emotions. All I really know is I’m not insane, the way I was last year, when it seemed like I had to rush out and seize the day and live fully and all that.’
113
Friday, 17 March
On Friday evening, on the drive out to Mum and Pop’s, the sky is still light. It’s the first time in months that it hasn’t been dark at six thirty. I do a quick calculation – the clocks will be going forward in two weeks. Spring is definitely here.
I should be glad at this visible marker that time is passing: every second is taking me closer to that magical place when my pain will have healed. Today, though, it hurts me. Every new event, every turn of the seasons, every dawning of a fresh month, is another milestone, taking me further away from when Hugh and I were a family.
When I turn into Mum’s driveway, there are two kids playing in the front garden. Then I see it’s actually Sofie and Jackson, doing handstands. Their peals of laughter fill the evening air.
‘Hi, Aaa-mee!’ they call across to me, when I get out of the car.
I stand and watch them.
‘Spot me,’ Sofie orders Jackson.
‘What does that even mean?’ he asks.
‘I dunno, but spot me!’ She manages a passable handstand and he holds her legs. ‘Okay, let go now.’ But as soon as he steps away, she collapses on to the grass, where she lies on her back, laughing and laughing.
‘Now my go,’ he says. ‘Spot me!’
They’re so very sweet. Both of them are starting their Leaving Certs in less than three months. They’ve been diligent about studying and it’s heartening to see them having such innocent fun.
I’d wondered how they’d survive the trauma of Sofie’s pregnancy – my suspicion had been that they’d split up. But they seem as close as ever.
‘Amy!’
I look around. Derry has the front door open. ‘C’mere!’ she shouts.
‘What?’ I hurry towards her. ‘What is it?’
‘Mum.’
‘What?’
But I can hear her talking loudly, so she mustn’t be dead.
Instinctively I hasten towards the source of all the nervy energy in the house: the living room. Mum has the floor.
‘… me,’ she’s saying. ‘Yep, little old me! Less of the “old”, though, mind you.’
Joe is there with Siena, and Finn, Pip and Kit, as are Maura, The Poor Bastard, Declyn, Baby Maisey and Kiara. And poor Pop, of course, looking utterly bamboozled.
‘Amy!’ Mum notices me. ‘Wait till you hear. Tonight’s Late Late Show! They’ve bumped Ed Sheeran for ME!’
Christ. Well, this is news. Mum is due to start the media part of her ambassadorship on Monday, but The Late Late Show had resisted all my pleas for an interview.
‘I’m amazing?’ Mum asks. ‘I’m amazing, right?’
‘You’re, ah, wow …’ Joe’s voice trails off.
‘Unbearable,’ Derry butts in. ‘That’s the word you’re looking for. Or insufferable, if you’d prefer.’
‘Insufferable is good,’ Joe says.
‘WILL SOMEONE TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON?’ Pop beseeches.
‘Kiara,’ Mum commands. ‘Call Neevey. Tell her she needs to style me. Tell her it’s urgent.’
My heartrate speeds up. How will Neeve respond? Is she going to hare out here at a moment’s notice to help her granny, when she hasn’t made even ten minutes for me since the day she left?
‘AS THE HEAD OF THIS HOUSEHOLD I INSIST THAT I BE TOLD WHAT’S GOING ON.’
‘Shut up, Pop,’ Kit says.
‘I’LL SHUT YOU UP, YOU LITTLE SCUT.’
Sofie has appeared at my elbow, she plucks at my sleeve. ‘So, Amy? Can I talk to you?’
My stomach lurches.