So he’d disappear over to Nugent’s for several hours, rolling in during the early hours of Friday morning smelling of sweat and weed.
Whatever happened in Nugent’s garage, involving amps and plectrums, remained a mystery to me. I’d less than zero interest – and I sort of despised myself for not being a cool muso-girl, with a Chrissie Hynde fringe and winkle-picker shoes, who nurtured ambitions herself to play lead guitar.
But I guess I had my own thing – ‘vintage’ clothing – and just because Hugh and I were close, we didn’t have to be identical twins, right?
Oddly – interestingly? – well, whatever it was, I didn’t like being around Hugh when he was hanging out with the other guys from the band. They were nice men, and they were just as ordinary and coupled-up as Hugh. But he was slightly different when he was with them – he’d drink more and his voice would get louder and he’d make in-jokes that I was excluded from. I was so attuned to my version of Hugh that any other versions, no matter how minute the difference, jarred. I often got narky and wanted to yell at him, ‘Why are you talking shite and shouting?’
About once a year he and the lads went to a foreign city – Copenhagen, Berlin, Manchester – to a gig, and there was an afternoon a couple of years ago when I ended a call from Maura and said to Hugh, ‘Big news. Joe’s putting a ring on Siena on September the twenty-ninth.’
‘September the twenty-ninth?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll be in Amsterdam at the Smashing Pumpkins.’
‘Nuh-uh.’ I shook my head. ‘No Amsterdam. Sorry, honey. It’s my brother’s wedding.’
‘I’ve my ticket to the gig. I’m going with the boys. It’s all booked.’
There were other issues tied up in this – mostly that Hugh thought Joe was a total arse – and it seemed clear that all that was needed was a little persuasion. ‘But –’
‘I’m going to the gig, Amy.’
‘Hugh …’ It was inconceivable that he wouldn’t do what I wanted.
‘I’m not going to Joe’s wedding. Not unless he moves the date. Then I’m happy to go.’
It was rare for him to front me out, but the moment I felt the rigour of his resolve, my capitulation was instant. I learnt something that day: you could push Hugh and push Hugh and push Hugh and he’d give in over and over and over, with gracious ease. And then one day you’d hit solid rock and nothing would budge him.
18
‘What’s for dinner?’ Kiara comes into the kitchen.
‘Takeaway.’
‘On a Monday?’ She’s delighted.
Monday is my night to cook. Hugh does it Tuesday to Thursday. But … ‘I’m not fucking cooking tonight.’
Kiara’s smile vanishes. ‘Yikers.’
Yikers is right. There’s no way I’m preparing food to launch Hugh’s Big Adventure.
‘What can we get?’ she asks.
‘Whatever you like.’
‘Even Eddie Rocket’s?’
‘Yep.’
Eddie Rocket’s is only for special occasions because we all eat far too much – we’re incapable of stopping even when we feel sick – but tonight I don’t care.
‘Oh-kaaay,’ Kiara says. ‘And maybe we’ll just get pizzas.’
‘Honey, I’m sorry.’ It’s all kinds of wrong to be taking this out on Kiara. ‘Get Eddie Rocket’s.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I mean, it’s not like it’s a celebration, is it? But pizzas are a good compromise. Oh, here’s Dad. Hey, where were you?’
‘The tropical-medicine place, getting my jabs!’ After all those months where he’d been practically mute, he’s chatty and exuberant. I hate him.
‘Then I went to Boots,’ he indicates his shopping bags, ‘and bought a full medicine kit.’
I feel like asking if he’d bought condoms on his chemist run, but manage not to. I mean, he’d better have. If he thinks he can have unprotected sex with countless girls and then come back to me – Oh, my God, Hugh having sex with other women …
‘We’re getting pizzas for dinner,’ Kiara says.
‘Oh? We are?’ He gives me an uncertain look and I busy myself making a cup of tea. ‘Okay, I’ll have my usual.’
‘Mum, what would you like?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Amy …’ Hugh says.
‘I’m not hungry.’ I haven’t eaten all day.
‘Get her some garlic bread,’ Hugh tells Kiara.
‘Don’t get me some garlic bread,’ I say.
He’s scared I’m going to cry – he can never cope with seeing me in tears. But he needn’t worry: I’m tense and dry. Every part of me has seized up.
‘Sweetie, I’m sorry,’ I say to Kiara.
‘No need to apologize.’ She scoots from the room and calls up to Neeve. ‘We’re getting pizzas. What do you want?’
Hugh tries to hold me and I wriggle away from him, go into the sitting room and bury my face in my iPad. He follows me in. ‘Amy,’ he starts. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah.’ If I had any sense, I’d make sure his last memory is of me being lovely but I’m sick of ‘being understanding’. What he’s foisted on me is a big, big ask. Another woman would be shouting the odds or mainlining hefty sedation under these circumstances. Probably just point-blank refusing to let him go. I’ve been extremely well behaved, all things considered. Mind you, it’s a pity I couldn’t have managed it for a few more hours …
‘Would you like some wine?’
‘Nope.’ I’m afraid to start drinking because there’s a real chance I’ll get scuttered and lose the head.
‘Can I get you anything at all?’
‘Nope.’
‘How about a lie-down?’
‘Yepppp.’ I was doing very brief answers, finishing each word with an excellent smacking noise. It was immensely satisfying. Maybe if I did a Tinder profile I could include it as a hobby.
‘Come on, I’ll walk you upstairs –’
‘Noppppppe. Because you’ll be in and out of the bedroom all evening, finishing your fucking packing. Anyway!’ I say fake-cheerily. ‘Soon you’ll be gone and I’ll have the room all to myself.’
He hangs his head. ‘I’ll come back.’
I do an elaborate shrug. ‘We’ll see.’
I lie on the couch and absent myself from all the to-ing and fro-ing and think back to the early days. Yes, we were always tired, yes, we were always short of money, but we were so together.
There was one day, one random day, nothing unusual about it, maybe twelve years ago, when I came home and heard shrieks and screams of delight. I followed the sounds of laughter up the stairs and found Hugh lying on our bedroom floor while Neeve, Kiara and Sofie scribbled on his face with my make-up. This happened a lot and Hugh often went to work wearing glittery nail varnish.
‘My spendy lipstick!’ I yelped.
‘Look at the lady!’ Kiara presented Hugh’s decorated face – she’d been about four at the time. ‘He’s a beautiful lady.’ And all of them had collapsed into helpless laughter.
‘Take it off,’ I said. ‘We’re going out! Taney summer fête!’
‘Cleanse, tone, moisturize!’ Sofie ordered Hugh, scurrying off to get cotton-wool pads.
‘Everyone get ready,’ I said. ‘Quick! All the good stuff will be gone!’
‘What good stuff?’
‘Cakes!’
Fifteen minutes later we assembled at the door, Hugh, his face now free of make-up, apart from the occasional hint of glitter in his shaggy hair, wore a Psychedelic Furs T-shirt and black jeans. Neeve was in her footballing kit, while Kiara was dark, sturdy and grave, favouring a 1940s-style look – an embroidered dress, a formal navy coat, ribbed tights, mary-jane shoes and neatly brushed hair secured with a sober black slide. She even carried one of my mum’s old handbags, a prim leather affair, in the crook of her elbow.
Sofie, by contrast, looked like she’d been doused in glitter: yellow and black striped bumblebee wellington boots, matching tights, a sparkly pink tutu, a green cardigan covered with shiny embellishments, a pair of twinkly wings attached to her back, fluffy deely-boppers, a plethora of crystalline bracelets on each little arm and a wheely ladybird case. As Pop so often said about her, ‘That one’s so girly she probably cries glitter.’
‘I can carry the cakes in my ladybird,’ Sofie confided, in her husky, lispy voice.
‘Good thinking, Batgirl.’