‘Is Jackson coming?’ Hugh asks, making a move to the front door.
‘We’ll meet him there.’
Neeve asks, ‘Should I change my jeans?’
‘NO!’ the rest of us yelp.
Squabbling, talking over each other and finalizing last-minute grooming, the five of us are all finally in the car and Hugh reverses out with a squeal of tyres.
At the theatre, the girls and I usually go into the foyer together while Hugh parks, but today I stick with him because I want us to arrive together and deliver a DOEU (Display of Extreme Unity).
He’s been instructed on the matter, so we step through the automatic doors with our arms around each other, then pause momentarily so that anyone who’s interested can take a good long look at us. Check this out. My husband may be leaving me for six months, perhaps even for ever, but we seem really together, right?
In the foyer the wine o’clock merchants are out in force – hollow-eyed women, who’re swilling glasses of Merlot like they’ve just received word that the grape harvest has failed, and suburban wannabe-hipster dads, downing craft beer and alarmingly expensive Basque ham. (‘Hand-reared, acorn-fed, cries easily and enjoys reruns of Columbo.’)
A couple of heads jerk in our direction but it’s not like that scene in Gone with the Wind where Scarlett O’Hara brings a ball to a complete standstill because she’s been caught up to no good with Ashley Wilkes. (The precise details escape me.)
Hugh starts to move forward but I tighten my hold on his waist. Not just yet. A few more seconds to fix the picture in everyone’s head. I feel fake and exposed, and I wonder if this is like being the spouse of a disgraced politician, doing a photoshoot as a display of All Grand Here, No Homosexuality or Embezzlement to Worry About.
Okay. That will do. I loosen my hold on Hugh, then someone bangs into us from behind, sending us tumbling apart. ‘Sorry!’ they cry.
‘No, no, we’re sorry!’
‘No, we’re sorry.’
We’re all sorry, but as they move off I hear one of them say to the other, ‘What the hell were they doing just standing there anyway?’
I spot Posh Petra.
‘Right,’ I say to Hugh. ‘There’s Petra. You can go to the bar.’
Petra is downing the Merlot good-oh, but when she sees me, she hurtles in my direction. ‘Sweetheart.’ She’s talking like she’s trying to not move her mouth. ‘I messaged you a billion times.’ She pulls me close. ‘What’s going on?’
Once again I’m paranoid. Is every single person here watching me with pity as they eat their costly anchovies? But a quick flick doesn’t reveal anything unusual.
‘Hugh’s going travelling for six months.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean he’s leaving Ireland and going to other countries. He’ll be gone six months.’
‘Without you? What the actual fuck?’
Usually I love to hear Posh Petra swear.
I shrug. ‘He wants to self-actualize.’
‘Self-actualize?’ Petra is so scornful that I think I’d better drop that line.
‘Maybe he deserves time off for good behaviour.’
Her face is a mixture of wonder and sympathy. ‘But … and sorry for probing, is it also time off for bad behaviour?’ Posh Petra is clearly appalled. ‘Amy, but that’s … It’s awful, isn’t it? Are you okay?’
‘I don’t know yet. I don’t think I’ll know until he’s gone. Which is Tuesday morning.’
‘So soon! You know I love you.’ Petra looks me in the eyes. ‘And it’s not just me, you have good friends. Together we’ll take care of you.’
Normally I hate being pitied but I’m tired and frightened and so very sad.
‘You’re welcome at mine any time of the day or night. You can even move in if you like.’
Baked beans, I think. Baked beans in my hair.
Petra catches my thought. ‘It’s those two little bitches, isn’t it?’ Her eyes are too bright. ‘They’ve ruined my life, Amy. They’re ruining my friendships. They’re ruining my career.’ Petra works in an art gallery. ‘Hey,’ she says, ‘will you come to the opening on Thursday night?’
I consider it. Then, ‘No.’
‘Oh, Amy, do. They’ll have wine.’
‘I’ve wine at home.’
‘It’ll be good for you. An education.’
This is an ongoing bone of contention between the two of us. I’ve a thing for simply painted village or rural scenes: they make me feel safe. Petra likes grim, gloomy ‘challenging’ art. Like, for why? Life is challenging enough, why add to our burdens?
‘If you come,’ she tries to sound tempting, ‘I’ll ask the dealer if he knows anything about your mystery artist.’
One of my many, many obsessions is with an artist from Serbia, a woman.
You know when you see something phenomenally beautiful – like a Tom Ford eye palette in silvers and greys? Or those embellished Miu Miu handbags? And it has such a powerful impact on you that it’s almost like being hit?
Well, this woman’s paintings do that to me.
The first time I saw them was on Pinterest and immediately I started googling but I’ve unearthed feck-all except that she’s Serbian. I don’t even know if she’s still alive. Most frustrating of all, I’ve found no opportunity to buy her work. God knows if I could afford even a square inch of her paintings, but I’d appreciate an opportunity to find out.
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Let’s see how the week pans out.’
Petra tries to drink from her empty glass. ‘I need more wine. That’s what it’ll say on my gravestone.’
‘I’ll walk with you to the bar.’ But I’m intercepted by Jana.
‘Amy, honey-bun, I’ve been calling –’
‘I know, sorry.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Hugh’s going travelling for six months. Time off for bad behaviour.’ I attempt a laugh. It’s a fail. ‘Then he’ll be back.’
She seems confused. ‘Are you upset?’
My heart sinks. Maybe Derry is right about Jana. ‘What do you think?’
‘Sorry. Sorry, Amy. Of course.’
‘I know you’ll tell Genevieve but could you pretend that I’m not devastated?’
‘I won’t tell Genevieve anything.’
‘Jana …’
‘Okay,’ she admits. ‘I’ll tell her the facts but I’ll say you’re cool with it. I promise.’ Her face is earnest with sincerity and who knows? Maybe she will.
‘But, Amy, do you get time off too? For bad behaviour, like? Because that’s something, right?’
God, no. This is almost worse than pity.
‘Yeah, you go, girl!’ She raises her wine glass and gives a small whoop that has heads turning. Loudly, Jana declares, ‘Look at us! Drinking wine before six o’clock, eating pintxos, about to see a Malaysian film, and now one of us has an open marriage – you’ve got to hand it to us, we’re a sophisticated bunch!’
16
Monday, 12 September
‘Morning,’ Tim mutters. He barely looks up from his screen.
‘Morning.’ I don’t know which is worse, people wanting to hear every ghoulish detail of Hugh’s plans or – as Tim is doing – behaving like nothing is up.
And here comes Alastair, dressed way too casually in faded jeans and a pale blue collarless shirt, which probably means he met some girl on his stupid weekend course and hasn’t been home yet. ‘Morning.’ His teeth glint around the room. ‘Good weekends?’
I stare fixedly at my blank screen. Obviously he’s been on one of his frequent, short-lived digital detoxes.
‘Timothy?’ You can always tell that Alastair is in the giddiest of good form, when he starts calling people by their full names. Thamy had probably been given her full name of Thamyres and doubtless I’ll be Amelia’d. ‘Nice couple of days, Timothy? Let me guess, you cut the grass? Fixed a leaky tap? No, it’s all coming back to me – a party, right? A sixth birthday?’
Tim has five children – five! The youngest is twenty months and the oldest is sixteen. His wife is a surgeon who, all credit to her, won’t even change a nappy; Tim is very hands-on.
‘You made Rice Krispie buns?’ Alastair asks.
‘I did,’ Tim says.
‘Any visits to A and E? A child fell out of the tree-house? Or swallowed a battery?’
‘The dog got sick and I had to go to the emergency vet with nine six-year-olds.’