I eyed our messy rag-tag bunch and muttered, a little ruefully, to Hugh, ‘When I was a kid, all I wanted when I grew up was to live in a family of two-point-four dullness.’
‘But, babe, look at us, we’re great!’
He was right. In our offbeat way we were great and Hugh was the glue that held us together.
I – whisper it – had a happy marriage. This was a truth I had to tiptoe into gradually, so great was my fear of tempting Fate. Not that it was actually a marriage for some years.
Hugh didn’t mind whether or not we made it legal. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I will love you for ever. But we can do it if you want.’
I shivered. I didn’t want. Mad as it sounded, it actually felt safer not to be married – if a ring was put on my finger, it might, one day, have to be taken off again.
But the schools thing eventually forced our hand. The state schools in Ireland were controlled by the Catholics so people ‘living in sin’ had no chance of their kids being admitted. There were some lovely non-denominational schools but they cost money and that was something we remained woefully short of.
So, when Kiara was four, we had a low-key registry-office wedding. Neeve was the ring-bearer, Sofie and Kiara were our flower girls, Derry and Carl the witnesses. I wore a blue satin dress, and afterwards we went to Eddie Rocket’s, where every time my wedding ring flashed past me, I felt as if icy water had been flung over my soul.
‘It’s okay,’ Hugh kept whispering. ‘It’s only a bit of paper. It’s not going to alert the Fates. This changes nothing. Remember I love you and I’ll always love you.’
19
‘I don’t want a big tearful scene when I leave in the morning,’ I tell Hugh.
‘Okay.’ He looks relieved.
‘I’m just going to get up and go.’ My flight to London was leaving Dublin at six forty-five, so I’d be getting up at five as usual.
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll miss you.’
‘I’ll miss you.’
‘Then why are you going?’
He twists away from me.
‘If you’d properly left me at least I’d know where I stood.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘This is so weird. I don’t know how I should feel.’
What is astonishing is how much I’ve changed – when I’d first met Hugh, self-reliance ran through my core. Somewhere along the line, I’d been reconfigured into someone who was just one half of a marriage, but that fearless woman might still be inside me – there had been a thing in Psychologies saying we carry all our earlier selves inside our current self, like those sets of Russian dolls. If I could just reconnect with that version of me, everything would be grand.
‘What if I do start to enjoy myself while you’re gone?’ I ask Hugh. ‘What if you come home, all set to slot back into our old life and I don’t want to?’
‘If that happens, we’ll deal with it.’
‘If that was meant to make me feel better, it didn’t work.’
He laughs, and all of a sudden he’s Hugh again, my best friend, my most favourite person in the whole world – and I laugh too.
We both go to bed early, but I’m too sad and angry for sex.
In the darkness I lie on my side and he snuggles up behind me, fitting his body to mine. He puts his arm around my waist, pulls me tight against him and our breathing patterns fall into sync.
This is the last time we’ll ever be together like this, I think.
But maybe not. Maybe we’ll be together exactly like this at some unspecified time in the future. But there’s so much horrible stuff to be endured to get to that point.
My alarm goes off at five a.m., but I’m already awake, curled in silent misery, wishing time would stop. I pull myself out of bed and under the shower, hoping the fall of water might loosen the terrible tightness clamping my chest.
Back in the bedroom, Hugh is also awake.
‘Be asleep,’ I say. He doesn’t reply, just lies, motionless, looking as forlorn as I feel. It’s hard to accept that when I get back from London tomorrow night, he’ll be gone.
Silently he watches as I do my make-up, then hoick open my underwear drawer and pull out my favourite bra, a bright fuchsia one.
I hesitate. For the first time ever, it feels shaming to be naked in front of him. I don’t want him heading off with a memory of my less-than-perky bosoms, which would fare badly in a comparison with any younger ones he might meet on his travels. I pick up all my clothes and finish dressing behind the bathroom door. Then I step into my ankle boots, take the handle of my wheely case and – unexpectedly – in a swift, efficient gesture, snatch up my hairbrush and fire it across the room. It hits him on the temple.
‘Amy! Go easy!’
‘Did that hurt? Good.’ I move towards the door. ‘Bye.’
He moves aside the duvet and the sweet male smell of him, warm from the bed, billows out. ‘Get in for a second.’
‘No.’
‘Please.’
So I climb into bed, fully clothed and let him take me in his arms. We hug fiercely, his arms pressing so tightly against my back that it hurts. I bury my face in his neck, trying to capture the smell of his hair, his skin, his breath, knowing that it’ll have to last for the next 181 days. And maybe for ever.
His face is wet with tears and my urge is to comfort him. But the only way to help him is to let him leave.
My throat aches and I wrench myself free and hurry down the stairs. I shut my front door behind me, sick at the notion that the next time I open it Hugh will have been swallowed up by some unknowable life on the other side of the world. The early-morning air is cool and smells autumnal, adding to the sense that everything is darkening and dying.
DURING
* * *
It’s too dark to see the sea now but I can still hear it, sucking and splashing on Brighton’s stony beach.
‘We could have our own disco here, stick on some songs. Really! It’ll be great!’
He starts fiddling with the hotel sound system and some dancy thing comes on that I half-recognize. Then I hear ‘Groove Is In The Heart’ and my heart soars. ‘Oh, I LOVE this song!’ I jump to my feet and kick off my shoes. ‘Turn it up!’ I’m drunk, maybe a bit drunker than I’d realized, but I love this song and I want to dance. ‘Turn it up.’
Instantly the music is ten times louder and pulsing off the walls. The bassline is inside me and the melody is all around me and I feel alive. I twirl myself around the room and briefly all my worries lift away. There’s just me and the music, and I feel happy and free.
Then I notice him watching me dance, his face tense and still. He’s relaxed his body against the sofa, his arms spread along the top. His black tie has disappeared, his shirt collar is open three buttons – I don’t remember that happening – and out of nowhere I’m super-aware of undercurrents. It’s like I’m giving him a lap-dance. The thought makes me excited, uncomfortable, then a queasy mix of the two.
‘Louder!’ I say.
Moving only his arm, still watching me avidly, he reaches his hand behind him and, without looking, twists the volume knob.
His silent gaze is too much. ‘Come on, get up and dance.’ I take his hands and pull him out of the seat.
He’s on his feet now but he’s still not dancing, just watching me. ‘Dance with me,’ he says.
‘I am.’
‘No, you’re dancing at me. I want you to dance with me.’ He pulls me against him.
‘No!’ I don’t want to slow down, I don’t want to stop. But in a fluid motion, he sweeps my hair to one side, buries his face in my neck and gives it a small sharp bite. Suddenly he’s got my attention.
I’m not dancing any more.
I whisper, ‘What was that?’
I want to get away but his arms are hard against my back and, caught in his force-field, all I can do is look at him.
His face is coming closer to mine. He’s moved one hand to the back of my head and he’s pulling me towards him. Then his mouth is on me, he means business, things aren’t going to end at this –
I wrench myself free. ‘We can’t, I can’t!’
I’m panting, he’s panting. His shirt is crumpled and his eyes are wild.
He groans and I repeat, ‘We can’t.’ I push myself away, creating distance.
‘I’m not sorry.’ He steps towards me again. ‘I’ve wanted to do that since for ever.’