‘You’ll never recover,’ she adds. ‘You’ll never go back to the person you were. But in time you’ll come to terms with it.’
Trying to keep the wobble from my voice, I say, ‘Knowing me, I’ll probably come to terms with it just around the time he arrives home.’
It was supposed to be funny, but Steevie looks appalled. ‘Amy, that’s just when it’ll be kicking off. Once they’ve, you know …’ she winces ‘… excuse my language, fucked another woman, they can never settle again.’
This is pretty much what Derry said to me, and it’s what I’d implied to Neeve only a few hours ago: that when – if – Hugh comes back, life won’t slot neatly back into place, as if nothing had ever happened.
But the way Steevie is saying it is scaring me sideways.
‘That’s assuming he doesn’t come back with STDs and herpes and genital warts and …’
Oh, God, I’m looking at the blobs and smears again and remembering that Lee gave her genital herpes, so she knows what she’s talking about, and my stomach bucks and I hear myself say, ‘You know, Steevie, I don’t feel well. I’m so sorry, but I’m just going to …’ I swipe my bag from the floor and I’m tearing through my wallet, looking for cash, because I need to leave right now – there’s no time to do the card thing.
A fiver appears. That won’t be enough. Panic tightens my chest. I need to leave! There’s a twenty, thank God. And maybe some coins. Yes, coins, couple of two-euros in there. I dump a load of change on top of the notes and say, my voice breathless, ‘If I owe more, I’ll pay you back. So sorry.’
‘Amy.’ She’s standing up, making an attempt to grab my arm. ‘I was just trying to –’
‘All fine, sweetie.’ I twist my body free. ‘Just my stomach giving me gyp. Gotta go.’
30
Sunday, 18 September, day six
My mouth goes dry. Jesus Christ! I mean Jesus, like, Christ. I’m looking at an exact copy of a navy velvet Dolce & Gabbana dress, like exact, right down to the sequin embellishments. Except instead of it costing eight trillion euro, it’s sixty-five dollars!
I click to enlarge it as much as possible and maybe the velvet looks just slightly flammable but, you know, sixty-five dollars! It would be criminal to pass this up. It’s hard to say exactly when I’d wear it, but who cares? A dress like that, you could wear it anywhere, right? Well, maybe not to work. Or to the supermarket. But everywhere else.
This site is amazing. I should buy dresses for all the girls, really, seeing as everything’s so beautiful and cheap. I could even throw one in for Thamy to thank her for telling me about it.
So what size am I, in this strange Chinese knock-off universe? What does 42 mean? Is it Italian 42? French 42? Chinese 42?
I click for details. There’s a picture of a woman with a tape measure, and the sizes are demonstrated in centimetres. There’s probably a tape measure in the house somewhere but it would mean getting out of bed and I’m happy here, clicking on clothes in faraway lands.
Why must it be centimetres? I know my measurements – which I’m guessing at – in inches. Feck it, I’ll go for a size 40, and if it’s too big, I can return it. Can’t I? Maybe a dodgy site like this wouldn’t make returns easy. Or maybe they would. Don’t they say the Chinese are great business people? Ah, what the hell, it’s only sixty-five dollars, which isn’t much. I’m not sure of the exchange rate but dollars are worth less than euros.
I’m doing it! I input my details, relieved they’ll deliver to Ireland, pay with PayPal, which isn’t declined, thank Christ – and then up flashes, ‘Delivered within sixty working days’. Sixty? That’s two months!
My bubble bursts. I can’t wait two months for this dress. I want it tomorrow. Today, even. I need the happiness now!
I’m cancelling the order, I am, but I click and click and can’t find that option. I’d better contact PayPal. Well, I won’t but I’ll ask Hugh to – Oh! He’s not here.
My disappointment is multi-layered – not only is he perhaps having sex with other women, but he’s not here to help me reverse a rash online purchase. For a moment I’m not sure which I resent more.
Suddenly I feel very low. I’ve just wasted nearly an hour looking at dresses I don’t need, can’t afford, and won’t get for two months. Or is it time wasted? Like, what else would I have done with that hour? At least while I was looking at knock-off dresses I was enjoying myself.
It’s wrong, though, to be lying in bed alone on a Sunday afternoon: I should be engaging with other humans. But I just want to be online, looking at things to buy.
Neeve and Kiara are at home – well, they had been when we’d cleaned the house earlier, so I get up and go down to them.
In the living room, something very loud and crashy is on the TV and sitting on the couch is Baby Maisey. Declyn must have dropped her over. She’s squashed between Sofie – who I’m delighted to see – and Kiara, who are both buried in their phones and totally ignoring her. But Maisey, who adores her girl cousins, is wearing a ‘BEST! DAY! EVER!’ gleam on her pudgy little face.
Kiara spots me. ‘Hi, Mum, y’okay?’
‘What’s that racket?’ I can’t believe I’ve just said that.
Kiara squints at the TV. ‘Planet of the Apes?’
‘Is that the right thing for a toddler?’ I try squeezing Maisey but she shoves me off.
‘Declyn isn’t paying us.’ Neeve appears from behind me. ‘So we can mind her whatever way we like.’
‘Right. Why don’t we all do something?’
‘More cleaning?’ Neeve asks suspiciously.
‘Something nice. Is Maisey’s buggy here? It is? Why don’t we go shopping?’
After a startled silence, Kiara asks, ‘For what?’
‘Clothes! Shoes! Nice things! Come on, we’re in walking distance of the biggest shopping centre in Ireland.’
‘Ah, Mum.’ Neeve slings her arm around my shoulders. ‘Get a grip.’
‘It wouldn’t be a happy thing,’ Sofie says.
‘You’d be doing it out of sadness,’ Kiara says. ‘Overcompensating, trying to be two parents instead of one.’
It’s too weird when your sixteen-year-old daughter seems wiser than yourself. But if the girls don’t want to go out, that frees up a couple of guilt-free hours to go back online. This time I’ll look at household stuff, rugs, embroidered cushion covers and affordable paintings.
‘Dude!’ Sofie leaps off the couch. ‘You’ve done a smelly thing!’
Maisey is wearing a dangerous smile.
‘A fart?’ Kiara asks. ‘Or an actual poo?’
‘I don’t know!’ Sofie is at the door. ‘And I can’t look.’
Kiara tentatively sniffs Maisey’s bum. ‘Oh, man! You need a new nappy!’
‘I can’t change her,’ Sofie calls from the kitchen.
‘Neither can I,’ Neeve says.
‘I could do it …’ Kiara looks at me with big, sad eyes.
Oh, for the love of God. ‘Gimme the nappy-bag.’
‘If we don’t go, everyone will notice,’ Sofie says.
‘Are we that important?’ Kiara asks.
‘Bitch doing a drive-by with her casserole threw serious shade.’ Neeve is insistent. ‘Mum’s gone viral – so what do we do?’
Obediently Sofie and Kiara intone, ‘We twirl on them haters.’
‘Mum?’ Neeve frowns at me.
‘Um, yes, sorry, Neevey, we twirl on them haters.’
‘We will draaaag that bitch’s ass,’ Neeve promises.
We’re locked in a four-way discussion about going to the cinema club. My responsibility is to keep life as normal as possible but have I the bandwidth to seem happyhappyhappy? Yep, my husband is on a six-month sex holiday but I’m cool about it.
Also, none of my true friends are going tonight. Steevie is still pissed off because of me running out on yesterday’s lunch. Even after I sent an apology, she replied with a pass-agg Grand. Then I texted, to see if she was coming to the cinema and she replied, Busy. I feel a mixture of aggrieved and guilty, but the energy just isn’t there to fully exploit.
Jana isn’t going either, a family thing, and nor is Posh Petra, some disaster caused by the twins.
‘None of us wants to go,’ Kiara says. ‘Which is more important? Taking care of ourselves? Or the opinion of others?’
Such wisdom!