‘That’s just a recipe for abuse!’
‘Nothing is ever black and white!’ Mum is suddenly animated. ‘Life is all about the grey. If Hugh was the type who made a habit of dirty dealings, I wouldn’t advise you to give him another go. But Hugh is lovely.’
‘It’s like you all want me to get back with him!’
‘We do!’
123
Saturday, 1 July
I wake with a thought: This is my life. I’ve only got one. I should live it the way I want to.
Just as I’m trying to establish exactly how that would be, my phone rings: Alastair. I shouldn’t answer but I do. ‘What?’
‘And hello to you too, Amy.’
‘You know I’m doing my silent retreat.’
‘I know, but listen!’ His voice is fizzing with excitement. ‘I’m on a course right now and I’ve just heard something that will definitely help you. You need to hear this! Ask yourself one question. What would I do if I wasn’t afraid?’
‘Afraid of what?’
‘I don’t know. Afraid of being hurt again? Afraid of the judgement of others? Afraid of being alone?’
‘I’m not afraid of being alone.’
‘So what are you afraid of?’
‘I need to talk to someone about this.’
‘You are.’
‘I mean a friend.’
‘I am your friend.’
‘Yes, but …’ What had I meant?
I’d meant that there’s only one person who really understands me. And my greatest fear right now is of being seventy and it being twenty-five years since I broke up with Hugh.
‘Ring him, Amy, for pity’s sake.’ Alastair hangs up.
We take a beer into the garden and we sit cross-legged, facing each other.
‘I need to talk to you,’ I say. ‘I’m tying myself into knots about what the right thing to do is.’
‘About what?’
‘I need some wise person – someone like Oprah – to tell me, “This is your life, Amy. You’re the only one living it. Do what makes you happiest.” I need someone to give me permission.’
‘You can give yourself permission.’
‘Should I get back with you? Without breaking all your records?’
‘Please break them,’ he says. ‘You can destroy everything I own if you’ll just take me back.’
‘Then it defeats the purpose. I need to hurt you.’
‘You are hurting me. Every second without you is agony.’ Tears come to his eyes.
‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ I say. ‘Except sometimes I do. I get these bursts of rage, and I want to be mean to you.’
‘So be mean. I’m willing to take it.’
‘But what if you decide you don’t want to. And you leave again?’
‘I won’t.’
‘In the six months you’ve been back, have you … you know … slept with anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘You could be lying.’
He rummages in his jeans pocket. ‘Here’s my phone. You know the code. Check texts, calls, anything you like. Go on.’ He presses it on me.
‘You could have deleted stuff.’
‘So check in “trash”.’
‘You could have a second phone.’
‘I haven’t. But feel free to search me.’
‘You’re not going to wait for ever,’ I say. ‘Life doesn’t work like that.’
‘It did in Love in the Time of Cholera.’
‘That’s South Americans for you. You’re Irish.’
‘I will wait for ever,’ he says. ‘You’re the best. The sweetest, the sexiest, the prettiest, the most interesting. I promise I’ll never hurt you again.’
‘You can’t promise that. No one can.’
‘Babe, I’m not one of those guys. Some people are natural cheaters. They can do it, no bother. I’m not like that. When I was away, you were the one I wanted. Even when I was with those other girls, I was lonely for you.’
‘See? Now I want to thump you for reminding me of them.’
‘So thump me.’
No. I wait it out and eventually the rage passes.
‘What do I mean to you?’ he asks. ‘Forget for a moment about how “good” I am for “taking in” Neeve and Sofie. What do I mean to you?’
‘You’re the person I most want to watch telly with. You’re my best friend and I love you. And,’ I add, ‘you’re a man. A really sexy one.’ I pause. Because he is really sexy. ‘I thought my love for you ended when I saw that photograph. But it’s come back.’
‘Oh, wow.’ His voice is hushed and his face is aglow.
‘But, Hugh, I haven’t learnt from my mistakes. I still don’t know why I started … messing, you know, flirting … with Josh.’
‘Course you’ve learnt. You say that if you could go back in time you wouldn’t have started seeing him.’
‘But what if I get a crush on someone else? Like, I don’t want to. But what if I do?’
He shrugs. ‘Don’t.’
‘As simple as that?’
‘Life is unpredictable. Everything carries risks. But you can intend not to act on it if it happens.’
‘That’s very wise. What if you decide you want to run away again?’
‘I won’t.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I can.’
‘Okay.’ Cautiously, I say, ‘So I won’t get a crush on anyone else and you won’t run away. Have I got things correct?’
‘You have.’
‘Okay. Okay?’
He looks amused. ‘Okay.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Is what what?’
‘Just, I thought if we got back together it would be more dramatic than this.’
He doesn’t move but his eyes darken. ‘If you want drama, I can give you drama.’
Epilogue
Neeve fiddled with the white rose in Hugh’s button-hole. ‘Stand fecking still, would you?’
‘I am.’
But he wasn’t. Hugh was way out of his comfort zone dressed in a morning suit – any sort of suit, really – even though he looked handsome and impressive.
‘Check you out,’ I said. ‘The paterfamilias.’
‘Check you out,’ he said. ‘Hot wife.’
‘Vom.’ Neeve rolled her eyes.
‘She’s coming down now,’ Kiara called from upstairs.
Mum, Derry and Maura were among the people who dashed to the foot of the stairs to see Sofie start her careful descent. Her dress was a simple satin column and she had nothing in her long, tangled, white-blonde hair but fresh flowers. She looked like a creature from a fairy tale.
I clutched Hugh’s hand and squeezed it hard.
‘Not too late to change your mind,’ Neeve called up to her.
‘Shush.’
‘Seriously,’ Derry said. ‘Twenty-six is far too young to get married.’
‘Quiet, you.’ Maura was aghast. Sofie was the first of the new generation to get married. She’d have liked every single one of them boxed away safely – nothing could be permitted to jeopardize this.
‘Just because Alastair won’t put a ring on it,’ Mum retorted.
‘Hah.’ Derry was blithely unaffected. ‘He’d marry me in a heartbeat.’
‘I don’t believe a word of it.’
‘Just because you wish he was your boyfriend.’
Mum put her hand to her chest and gasped. ‘Poor Pop barely dead three years, how very dare you?’
‘I wish he was here today,’ Sofie said.
Cantankerous as he’d been, we all missed Pop dreadfully.
‘But he wouldn’t have known where he was,’ Mum said. ‘He’s better off where he is.’
By the time Pop had passed peacefully in his sleep, he’d been entirely gone in the head. He’d no longer recognized any of us, and that had been hard. But it meant that a lot of our grieving had been done while he was still alive.
The photographer, who’d been fussing around, getting in everyone’s way, called, ‘If we could have the bride and her bridesmaids.’ He gathered them on the front step, where they made a comically mismatched trio: Sofie, a luminous wisp, Kiara, grave and unadorned, and Neeve unnaturally glossy – almost laminated-looking, the way media stars tend to be.
‘State of you.’ Neeve flicked a finger at Kiara’s bare face.
‘State of you.’ Kiara shoved Neeve’s hand away and they both laughed.
Kiara had spurned the hair and make-up services that Neeve had procured for free. The only thing about her appearance that Neeve approved of was her tan. Despite my suspicions that she’d outgrow her do-goodery tendencies, as soon as Kiara had left school, an NGO had given her a job. She had moved speedily up the ranks and about eighteen months ago had been seconded to their Ugandan office.
A phone on the hall table beeped.