Sofie stumbles down the steps and, really, this situation, where she’s living between three different homes, can’t go on. Urzula and she do nothing but clash, and I’ve felt I’ve no choice but to let it play out. But maybe it’s finally time to have a conversation about it.
Automatically I open my mouth to ask Hugh’s opinion – and, oh, of course, he’s not here to ask, and the loss is still raw and shocking, and it’s going to take a long, long time to unlearn the impulse to run every thought by him.
But it is possible: people who lose a hand or a leg eventually manage to edit it from their list of available limbs.
‘Amy,’ Sofie says, ‘can I have money for charcoal? For art class. Mum’s away for a few days.’
‘Well, stay here. Unless you want to stay at Granny’s,’ I add hurriedly.
‘I’ll stay here.’
‘Grand. But come on, we’ve got to get your uniform.’
‘Mum, can you pick me up from swimming at seven p.m.?’ Kiara asks.
‘And I need a lift to my history tutor at seven,’ Sofie says.
They’re in opposite directions and I can’t do both. I tap on Neeve’s door.
‘WHAT?’
‘Can you take Sofie to her history tutor at seven?’
‘No! I’ve a work thing! Now could you all shut up?’
For the love of God! ‘Okay, Sofie, I’ll take you.’
‘What about me?’ Kiara demands.
‘Cycle home.’
‘With wet hair? Cycle home in the cold with wet hair? Well, if I get the flu and die, it’ll be on you.’
‘You don’t get the flu from wet hair,’ Neeve yells from her room. ‘More’s the fucking pity!’
After all this drama, I’m about twenty minutes late for work – Tim and Alastair are already there when I slink in. In theory, there are no bosses in our partnership, but it’s poor form to be late. None of us wants to look like we’re not pulling our weight. ‘Hello,’ I mumble. ‘Sorry.’
I’m brought up short by the sight of a black and white bag on my desk. It’s from Sephora. Stunned, I look hard at it, then whirl around on Tim. ‘You got me the primer!’
‘I did.’ He looks like he’s about to burst with pride and die of embarrassment.
‘Oh, God!’ I start ripping off the fancy black Sellotape and my hands are shaking. I open the bag and peer inside. There’s more than one thing nestling within! ‘Tim!’ I close the bag and stare at him. I’m laughing, amazed and delighted, my Monday misery forgotten. I peep in again – there are at least three things – then whip my head up to him. I can feel my eyes bulge. ‘Tim! What’s going on?’
‘They had a launch. For a new mascara. I know you like it when things are just out.’
‘ “New and exciting”.’ I’m shrill with glee. ‘I do.’ I’ve located the primer and the mascara and I’m turning them over in my hands.
‘Then I got you a –’
‘Lipstick!’ I’ve just found the box.
‘Because it meant I’d spent enough to qualify for a free eyeliner. So I got a black one. Is that okay?’
‘Course! Can’t go wrong with a black eyeliner.’
Then the lipstick, which I’m resigned to being awful, maybe a coral or an orangy red, which make my teeth look jaundiced. But, still, whatever the colour, it doesn’t matter because Tim is so grea– Oh! My! God! It’s beautiful. It’s a dark red, seasonally suitable, but in blue tones that are perfect for my pale skin. I breathe at him, ‘How did you know?’
‘I described you to la femme.’
‘What did you say?’ I’m speaking in a near whisper.
‘Ah, you know, said you’re typically Celtic.’
‘Oh, God.’ I’ve got my mirror out and I’m applying it – the texture! And the finish! ‘Jesus, I fucking love it!’
‘I did good?’ Tim asks shyly.
‘Oh, Tim, you did so good!’
He looks ridiculously pleased with himself, standing there in his little suit, pink patches of pride in his cheeks.
I launch myself at him and he steps back. ‘I’m sorry, Tim,’ I say. ‘But I have to hug you.’
‘No good deed goes unpunished,’ he murmurs, as I clasp him.
‘Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!’ I can’t stop laughing. I’m really giddy. ‘You’re too funny.’ I plant a big red smacker on his cheek. ‘Thanks, Tim. Seriously. Thanks, Tim, thanks a million, trillion times.’
‘Welcome. And we’ll say no more about it.’
‘Money! How much do I owe you?’
He shakes his head. ‘It’s a present. Now, calm down, it’s time for work. Boardroom, Alastair and Amy.’
Oh, noes! It’s the last Monday of the month, so it’s our financial review. Where’s my Nexium? Oh, my poor anxious stomach. I hate these meetings. We look at work generated, and by whom, because our income is allocated in a complex manner: the highest percentage goes to whichever of us actually brought in the work, but another percentage goes to the other two partners, then more is sliced off the top to pay Thamy, rent, airfares and all our other expenses. But, however we break it down, it’s never really enough.
‘Well?’ Anxiously Alastair and I look at Tim. ‘How bad is it?’
‘The figures are all there on your laptops,’ Tim says.
‘Just tell us.’
Tim reads accountancy reports like I read Grazia.
‘We’re doing better. Turnover is up eight per cent on last month and twenty-two per cent on this time last year, while our expenses have remained steady.’
‘What does that mean?’ I ask. ‘In actual money in my bank?’
‘You’re confusing turnover with cash flow,’ Tim says. ‘Turnover means nothing until people pay.’
‘Well, how do we make them pay?’
‘That’s why we have Thamy.’
Okay. I relax a little. Thamy takes shite from no one.
I return to my desk, just in time for Mum to ring. ‘I need you to mind that gomaloon tonight.’
‘Mum, I can’t. I’ve got to drop Sofie to her history tutor and collect her an hour later.’
‘So what am I meant to do?’
‘You’ve four other children. Ask Maura.’
‘Pop can’t stick Maura.’
‘Derry?’
‘She’s met a fella.’
‘Has she?’
‘Don’t get too excited. The poor schmuck will probably mispronounce “scone” and that’ll be the end of him.’
When did Mum start using words like ‘schmuck’?
‘How about Joe?’
Mum starts singing, ‘Oh, the fairy-tales of Ireland …’ This is to imply that Joe invents elaborate, transparent excuses whenever he’s asked to do something he doesn’t want to do, which is always.
‘Declyn?’ My voice is tentative.
‘But we couldn’t ask Declyn. He’s only young.’
‘He’s thirty-nine.’
‘That’s no age. Amy, it has to be you.’
Despair swamps me.
‘Amy, I’ll kill him if I don’t get out.’
I understand, I do. But I might kill him too. ‘Mum, seriously, I can’t, not tonight. If you gave me more notice … Look, try Declyn. Bye!’
37
Sixteen months ago
Josh Rowan dropped my arm like it was radioactive. ‘Join you? In your hotel room?’
‘Um, yes.’
‘For what?’
Christ, kill me now. Please. Just drop one of those giant chandeliers on my head. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Sorry, no, nothing, just …’ What the hell was I at? I was drunk, but drunk enough to proposition someone? ‘Forget I said anything.’ Jesus, let me die.
Too much time had been spent in my head, fantasizing and being mental. But fantasy had just crashed into reality, with mortifying results. I turned to move away and Josh grabbed my wrist, pulling me back to face him. ‘Amy, if you say something like that, you’ve got to mean it.’
Mutely I looked up at him.
‘So do you?’ he asked softly. ‘Mean it?’
I thought of Hugh and how lovely he was to me, of Marcia and her wood-burning stove, of going up in the lift with Josh Rowan, of the awkwardness of us arriving into the hotel room, of writhing around on the bed that so many others had writhed around on before us, of revealing my forty-three-year-old body to him … The entire montage was appalling.
‘No.’ I bowed my head.
Still holding my wrist he led me out of the ballroom and into the blazing light of the giant lobby. I went along obediently because I felt as contrite as a child.
Shame was my strongest emotion, deep shame. The fantasy man I’d been playing games with hadn’t been real, but this man was. It wasn’t right to throw out sexy invitations if I’d had no intention of going through with them.
‘What’s this all about?’ Josh asked.