‘It’s okay.’ She collapses into giggles. ‘I’m not pregnant again. So listen, in the Easter holidays, there’s an intensive revision course at the Institute. Can I do the physics and chemistry modules?’
My hopes for Sofie have always been modest, I only ever wanted her to be happy. Suddenly, though, she actually has ambitions. She’s applied to do physical chemistry in university and she’s really going for it.
‘But it costs money.’ She winces. ‘Lots.’
‘Let me talk to Hugh,’ I say. ‘But don’t worry, we’ll find it.’
Anxiously I return to the action. Is Neeve really coming?
‘Yes,’ Kiara confirms.
And, sure enough, she materializes not half an hour later, looking shiny and expensive.
‘WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?’ Pop looks alarmed. ‘YOU’VE GONE ALL SPARKLY.’
I lunge at her and hug her so hard she says, ‘Ow! Mum, for the love of God.’
‘My little girl.’ I cover her face with kisses.
‘Would you get fecking off me!’ But she’s grinning.
‘I’ve missed you, honey.’
‘There’s no need to drench me.’
‘Can I have a quick word? In private?’
‘Oh, shite.’ She flicks a look at Sofie and Kiara.
‘Nothing bad. Just … come upstairs.’
In the bedroom that functions as the overflow room, I say, ‘Easter Saturday. Keep it free. We’re scattering Robert’s ashes.’
‘Robert?’
‘Hugh’s dad. Sweetie, you know who Robert is. Was.’
Her face hardens. ‘I’m not going.’
‘But –’
‘I’m not going. He wasn’t my real granddad. I don’t have to go.’
‘But –’ Robert was always so nice to Neeve.
‘Not. Going. Now I have to style Granny. Excuse me.’
Suddenly I’m furious. ‘Hey! Have some respect. Robert loved you. And you know what? You owe it to Hugh!’
‘Hugh?’ she splutters. ‘Joking, right? He’s not my dad –’
‘He took care of you for years, collected you from parties and –’
‘I’ve got a dad! And I don’t even know why you’re going. You and Hugh are over.’
‘I want you to come.’ I’m adamant.
‘Why?’
‘For Hugh.’ Our faces are very close and we’re almost hissing at each other. This is exactly how it was all through her teenage years.
‘Why do you care? He fucked off! He publicly humiliated you. He deserves nothing from you. He. Is. An. Asshole.’
He isn’t. He’s a man who made a mistake. A big, huge mistake, admittedly. But he wasn’t cruel to me, not deliberately. He was very good to us all for a very long time and he deserves our support as he says this last goodbye to his beloved dad.
‘I’m going.’ I grip her arm. ‘And so are you. And that is the end of the fucking matter.’
114
Monday, 20 March
Mum’s interview on The Late Late Show is a bit of a bust. All the adulation has gone to her head and she doesn’t remember that she’s only there to promote a product. She barely mentions EverDry, which means that Mrs Mullen has been sending me furious emails all weekend.
Also, Ed Sheeran was not bumped to make way for Mum. No one knows where she came up with that piece of nonsense.
On Monday morning, Tim, Alastair and I have to hold an emergency meeting about getting Mum back on track.
‘Someone needs to set her straight.’ Tim is grim.
‘I beg you, don’t let it be me,’ I say.
‘Grand.’ Even Alastair seems daunted. ‘I’ll do it.’
The relief!
My energy is always in such scant supply, these days, and Petra has offered an explanation that sits comfortably with me: ‘Those in constant physical pain are exhausted. Enduring the unendurable saps one’s strength. I conclude it must be the same for emotional pain.’
It’s having to see Hugh that is so bloody draining. Chronic dread is eroding the lining of my stomach, the burning sensation waking me up during the night.
But Sofie and Kiara are adamant about our happy-family TV-watching every Monday night.
Tonight, after the show has ended, and Sofie and Kiara have scampered away to leave me alone with Hugh, we discuss Sofie’s request for extra tuition. It’s a lot of money, a sum we don’t have lying around.
‘Extend our overdraft?’ I suggest.
He grimaces. ‘Not sure the bank would go for that.’
‘A loan?’
‘Maybe. The most obvious thing is the deposit for my flat.’
As I’d suspected, Chizo hasn’t let Hugh move back into her fancy gaff. I’m not even sure I believe her story about family coming from Nigeria. So he’s still living in Nugent’s garage. But we’ve just about assembled enough to pay for a deposit and the first month’s rent for a small flat for him. ‘But, Hugh, you’re borderline homeless.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘I’ve a roof over my head, Wi-Fi, access to a bathroom. What more does anyone need?’
‘You’re living in a garage. Oh, Hugh, it’s too fucking sad!’
‘Stop, Amy, it’s cosier than it sounds. And we’re only deferring things for a few weeks. In a month’s time, I’ll be in my own place.’
If some other unexpected financial demand doesn’t land on top of us.
‘C’mon, Amy. Be brave. It’s fine. Sofie can go on the course and I’ll have a flat in a month.’
‘Okay.’ Almost in admiration, I say, ‘Look at us, Hugh. Talking about our kids. Being adult and civil. We’re getting there.’
‘Yep.’ He swallows hard. ‘We are.’
We look at each other a little desperately.
‘Hugh … I want to ask you something.’
‘Mmm?’ He looks wary.
‘When we were together, before your dad was diagnosed, were you happy? Before you automatically say yes, please think about it. What would you have changed about us? I’m not talking about more money or any external stuff. What would you have changed in our relationship? And don’t say, “Nothing”. Be honest.’
He goes quiet. He’s acting like he’s thinking, but I’m certain he knows his answer. He’s just too shy to say it.
‘Sex.’ I put it out there. ‘You’d have liked better sex. Different sex?’
‘I’d have liked more of it. With you,’ he adds. ‘Just with you.’
‘But you’d have liked me to send you saucy Snapchats, or sexts?’
‘I wouldn’t have said no to them. But mostly I would have liked it to happen more often. It’s not nice, feeling like some horny beast pawing you when you’d no interest.’
‘I was always tired,’ I say defensively.
‘I know.’ Now he’s defensive. ‘I know how hard you work. But you asked me to be honest. It was difficult fancying you, wanting you, and knowing there wasn’t a hope of getting near you. And before you dismiss me as just some horny man,’ he adds hotly, ‘it was the intimacy I missed as much as the physical stuff.’
I’m not liking what he’s saying. I feel stung by criticism. But I’d asked for this, it’s no more than I’d suspected, and I know he’s right.
‘Once we were actually doing it,’ I say, ‘I was glad. Getting me from vertical to horizontal was the part I found …’ Disruptive, irritating, a waste of my time when there was always a meal to be cooked, laundry to be sorted, online clothes to be looked at. ‘But once my body was switched on, it was …’ Actually, now that I remember, fabulous.
Hugh took charge in bed. He was big and confident and knew what he wanted – in sharp contrast to his easy-going, gentle, everyday demeanour. He didn’t have a sex-god body, he’d never had abs in all the years I’d known him, but he was self-assured and unapologetic.
‘I felt like I was last on your list,’ he says.
And he was right. Having sex with him was just another item on my to-do list, way down at the bottom.
‘It’s difficult,’ I say. ‘Making the sudden jump from being housemates and … colleagues, almost, to seeing each other as smouldering sex objects.’
‘Not for me.’
But it was for me. Nobody sets out to become a cliché but it’s what happens.
‘How do other people do their sex lives?’ I wonder out loud. Because sex is the one thing people don’t talk about. ‘I used to think everyone else was at it non-stop. Far more than you and me. Then I decided they were just saving face. It’s hard to know what normal is.’
‘So what would you have changed?’ he asks. ‘And don’t say, “Nothing”.’