‘But you were the one who wanted a baby.’ I was gasping for breath. ‘And who wanted to get married.’
We’d been together since our last year in school, and although I was sure we were for ever, I’d worried that it was too soon for a wedding, never mind a baby. Richie (probably under gentle persuasion from his club, I realized, years later) had convinced me otherwise.
He picked up the case and headed for the front door. I got there first and pressed my back against it, determined to keep him from leaving. But, in the end, he went.
I wanted to die but, because of Neeve, I had to endure the longest, coldest, loneliest winter ever. I knew nobody in Leeds – the only reason I was living there was because Richie had been signed by a local club.
Maura tried to get me to move back to Dublin and avail of a network of friends and family, but my friends, all the same age as me, were behaving like normal twenty-two-year-olds, living it up and being irresponsible.
As for my family – they were variously sick (Mum), working all the hours (Pop), living in Australia (Derry), too flaky (Joe), too young (Declyn), and Maura would help far too much.
And even though Richie refused to see Neeve or me, it was vital to be nearby in case he changed his mind.
We’d only been married for eight months and Richie disentangled himself super-speedily – the divorce happened in under five months. A terrifying letter arrived from some sharky lawyers employed by his club, saying that Neeve would get a tiny monthly maintenance payment. I couldn’t afford a sharky solicitor and had to make do with an unsharky one from Legal Aid, but I pushed back hard and didn’t give up until the original offer was tripled.
It was still derisory, though.
But Neeve and I survived that awful winter. I went back to the PR company I’d been an assistant in before I’d gone on maternity leave and worked full-time while being Neeve’s sole carer. Life was gruelling – five hours’ sleep counted as a good night – and yet in photos from that time, it’s astonishing how healthy and sane I look.
There I am in an Audrey Hepburn-esque swingy car-coat in black mohair and black leather gloves to my elbows. Another picture has my hair in a kiss-curl ponytail and – where on earth did I find the time? – some elaborate sort-of-quiffy fringe. Nowadays, the phrase would be ‘My inspo is retro,’ but back then the only words available were ‘Too skint to buy my clothes in real shops.’
Feck alone knows where I got the energy but my weekends were spent haunting the vintage markets of Leeds, Neeve on my hip, and I was always in high heels.
There were some great finds – a tulip-skirt in brushed sateen, a vampy, figure-hugging gown in lustrous black satin, several shortie cashmere sweaters and an actual original Givenchy suit: a sheath dress and cute boxy jacket in the pastel blue of a sugared almond.
Most of the clothes are long gone – lost on various house moves or they fell apart from overuse – but even though it’s too small for me now, I still have that suit. It’s like an emblem: it reminds me of how hard life once was. And, perhaps, how resilient I can be if the need arises.
8
Saturday, 10 September
‘A break?’ Neeve is incredulous. ‘Do you think you’re Taylor Swift?’
‘No.’ Hugh rises to the bait. ‘I don’t.’
‘Please,’ I murmur to Neeve. ‘Let’s keep things civil. Have a croissant.’
I’ve set out the kitchen table like a working breakfast – pastries, fruit salad and coffee – but no one has touched the food. It’s just like being at work: people regard hunger as a display of weakness. But at the same time they’d be mortally offended if you didn’t provide buns.
‘We know you haven’t been very happy,’ Kiara says. ‘We’ll miss you but we’ll try to understand.’
‘Thanks, hon.’
‘So how do we get in touch?’ Kiara asks. ‘Will you FaceTime us once a week? Like every Saturday morning?’
‘No!’ Hugh says, way too quickly. The fear on his face shows that the last thing he wants is a routine. ‘No, ah … no.’ He clears his throat. ‘But I’ll have my mobile, and if any of you girls need me, you can call me any time you like.’
‘What about Mum?’ Neeve asks snarkily. ‘Can she call you any time she likes?’
Hugh’s look is apologetic. ‘If it’s an emergency.’
Oh. I hadn’t known my contact would be limited to that. God, this hurts so much.
‘The important thing to remember,’ Hugh says, ‘is that I love you all very much. I love you and I’ll be back.’
Sofie bursts into noisy tears. ‘Everyone always leaves.’
Poor Sofie. She looks frayed and unkempt, her fine white-blonde hair tangled into knots. And she’s even thinner than she was a week ago, tiny enough to pass for a twelve-year-old boy. Living with her mother clearly isn’t good for her but that’s something she needs to work out for herself. I can only stand on the sidelines, with my heart in my mouth.
Before the thought has fully formed, I’m putting half a Danish on her plate and saying, ‘Eat something, lovely.’
We all pause, and Sofie is so shocked, her sobs cease. Then Kiara takes the bun off Sofie’s plate and disposes of it in two speedy mouthfuls.
Despite my faux-pas, pride warms me – I’ve high, high hopes for Kiara: some kind of ambassadorship at the very least. She’s so attuned to the needs of others. For a fierce, bitter moment I wish she was the daughter with the vlog – she’d share the make-up with me.
Kiara brushes pastry crumbs from her mouth and says to Hugh, ‘We can come visit you?’
‘No!’ Once again he’s appalled. ‘I mean, no, no, hon, it isn’t that sort of break. I’ll be moving around and you know …’
‘We know,’ Neeve says meaningfully.
Kiara stares at her. ‘Don’t. That’s not what this is about. He wants to self-actualize – right, Dad?’
‘Right!’
Self-actualize. That’s a good word. If I can say it without side-eyeing myself, it could be useful.
‘But you’ll be home for Christmas?’ Kiara asks.
‘No, hon,’ he says gently. ‘But I’ll call.’
‘If you’re on a break,’ Neeve says, ‘it means Mum is too. Right?’
Some unknown expression scuds across his face.
‘You hadn’t thought of that?’ Neeve sounds scornful.
Hugh stares, as if he’s assessing how I’d fare on the open market, then he goes blank. ‘Amy is on a break too.’
‘Boom,’ Neeve says to me. ‘You can get back with my dad. Everyone knows you never got over him, which must be the only reason you married Taylor Swift here.’
I don’t know what to say. Except that I wouldn’t touch Richie Aldin if he was the last man on earth – I’d rather have whooping, lasso-waving, reverse-cowgirl-sex with Alastair every day of my life than go down that road again. But I never diss Richie to Neeve – let her discover for herself what a Complete Bastard he is. Unfortunately, however, because he’s kept his distance, she’s idealized him somewhat.
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this to us.’ Sofie sounds like she’s going to cry again.
‘Honey, Sofie, I’m not leaving for ever.’
‘I’m going to Granny’s.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ Neeve says. ‘In Hugh’s car. He won’t be needing it for six months. So are we done here?’
‘Are we?’ Hugh is all big anxious eyes, as he consults the girls.
‘Yep,’ Neeve decrees.
‘But please understand,’ Hugh goes for one last burst of sincerity, ‘I love you with all my heart and I’ll only be gone for six months. I’m coming back.’
Sofie hisses, ‘You’re destroying everything.’ She whirls from the room, leaving Hugh white with distress.
‘Sorry to interrupt the disintegration of our family,’ Neeve says cheerily, ‘but DHL is bringing a delivery from Chanel.’
Instantly I’m wondering how best to steal it – it is agony to watch these prestigious cosmetics arrive – but she laughs. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘Can’t you give her some?’ Hugh asks.
‘To ease the pain of you leaving her?’
‘I’m not leaving –’
‘We’ll see.’ Neeve closes him down. ‘If there’s stuff that would suit you, Mum, you can have it.’