‘And me.’ Actually, I haven’t been drinking myself into a stupor. I mean, I’ve been drinking a bit, just not too much because it makes me feel even lower the day after. But I was demonstrating Emotional Contagion, something that’s been observed in the animal world – they do it to strengthen bonds. (Yes, Psychologies again.)
We went to some forest or other where Petra stared into the fast-running river, like she was considering throwing herself in, then said bleakly, ‘I wish I’d had an abortion.’
‘No, Petra, please don’t!’
‘I do, Amy. I wish I’d had it. I nearly did.’
I knew. We’d back-and-forthed on it for a couple of weeks, before she’d decided her unexpected late-in-life pregnancy and children might be a blessing.
‘Women are allowed to regret abortions,’ she said. ‘What about those of us who regret not having an abortion?’
‘Petra, maybe you should go to the doctor. Maybe get some tablets.’
‘Cyanide? For me or for them?’ She’d produced a mini-bottle of red wine from her bag. ‘Want some? Please say no.’
‘You okay, Amy?’ Sofie asks.
I’ve frozen, like a mannequin. ‘Oh … ah, yes, grand.’ My hair is damp with sweat from scrubbing the hob.
‘Where’s the rubber gloves?’ Jackson asks. ‘I’ll do the downstairs loo now.’
The rest of us shudder and he laughs at us.
‘Tie up your hair, boo,’ Sofie says. She produces a hair-bobble and tenderly twists Jackson’s super-lustrous locks into a top-knot. They rub their noses together and giggle.
‘Oi!’ Neeve says. ‘No PDAs.’
‘There they are.’ Kiara finds the Marigolds for him, flings them into the basin of cleaning stuff, then pauses in the act of handing it over. Suddenly wistful, she says, ‘I wonder if Dad’s thinking about us. I wonder if he’s missing us.’
My heart contracts.
‘Yeah, right,’ Neeve says. ‘Missing this.’ She indicates the five of us, attired in sweatpants and T-shirts, sporting red faces and limp hair. ‘Who’d want a tropical paradise when you could be cleaning a fridge?’
They all laugh, even Kiara.
The doorbell rings and we pause in our tasks to look at each other with mild alarm. Who the hell calls around to people’s homes on a Sunday morning?
‘Probably Maura,’ I say.
‘Why?’
‘Just … because …’
‘Yeah, Maura be like,’ Neeve says, and the three of them squeal with laughter.
I try hard to keep up with their speak, but the precise meaning of that sentence eludes me. And I’m not asking, not so soon after they’d mocked me for the drink question.
Walking down the hall, I’m praying that if it isn’t Maura, it won’t be some ‘concerned’ neighbour.
To my great surprise, standing in the chilly mid-October morning is Sofie’s skeletal mother. ‘Urzula, hi,’ I say. ‘Er … come in!’
She passes me a bin-liner. ‘Is Sofie’s stuff. And the stuff of that Jackson boy.’
‘Oh? Ah …’ What the hell? Is she kicking Sofie out?
‘Urzula, come in, do!’ We’d better talk about this.
‘She is difficult girl.’
I don’t want Sofie hearing any of this so I pull the door closed behind me, and step outside. ‘No, she’s not.’
‘She is very difficult girl.’
‘No, Urzula, she’s a sweetheart.’
Urzula switches focus by giving me a once-over, her expression a mixture of scorn and distress. ‘Amy. I am dietician. Believe me when I say mini-Magnums are as satisfying as big Magnums.’
I don’t know how to respond. Insults aside, this is patently untrue.
And I realize something: I used to think that the line dividing sane people from insane people was entirely black or white – sane or not-sane – with no grey area. But suddenly I see now that the grey area is enormous. It spreads far and wide and into every part of life. Mad people aren’t just those poor souls confined to locked wards. Mad people are everywhere, living among us, masquerading as non-mads. Mad people are in positions of power and influence and sometimes get their own TV show on UK Living, shaming fat people into being less fat. (At least temporarily: one article I read said as soon as those people escaped from Urzula, most of them ate more than ever.)
‘I love Sofie,’ I say. ‘I’m delighted she’ll be living with me again.’
‘And your Hugh?’ The sly eyes on her! ‘He is not here to be delighted, is he?’
‘Hugh will be back.’
‘Hugh will leave again when he sees you and your Magnum-fat.’
If I am fat, and I’m not sure that I am – in fact, I don’t know what I am because I’ve entirely lost contact with my body – it’s mostly down to cheese and crisps, not ice cream.
‘Why don’t you come in and talk things out with Sofie?’ I say. ‘I’m not trying to persuade you into anything but you should at least talk face to face.’
‘No.’
‘Can I give her a message from you?’
‘You can tell her she is difficult girl.’ She turns to leave.
‘Urzula, please, wait, hang on …’ But she’s gone.
48
Monday, 17 October, day thirty-five
Monday morning, and it’s actually a relief that the weekend is over.
After Urzula’s dramatic visit, I diplomatically broke the news to Sofie and, although Jackson seemed quietly furious, she was sanguine. ‘I tried my best with her,’ she said.
‘More than your best.’ Jackson, for all that he looks slight and fey, is strong and supportive of Sofie.
‘Nothing more you can do than your best,’ I told her. ‘Not everyone’s cut out to be a mother.’ I wasn’t sure if this was overstepping boundaries but, feck it, Sofie is a sweetie and I didn’t want her feeling this was on her.
The whole thing was so emotionally exhausting that I went to bed and priced a seventeen-day holiday to Argentina and Chile, for all of us including Jackson, sometime next July. I’d picked July because it seemed like a reasonable amount of time for us all to have recovered from Hugh’s return home.
Of course, I know in my heart that we may never recover, but all that’s keeping me going is hope. I guess I was doing the life equivalent of a wish board, and I did it in minute detail – looking up everything: the flights, the hotels, the transfers, everything.
I flew us business class (not first: even in my fantasy, I had some grasp of reality). Instead of selecting the poshest hotel in each city (Buenos Aires, Córdoba, Santiago) I chose the third fanciest. The girls would stay in regular rooms – and, yes, Jackson could bunk in with Sofie. Hugh and myself would be put up in suites, in the ‘old’ part of the hotels.
All totalled up, it was shockingly expensive. Even when I amended some details – Jackson’s parents paying for his flight, Neeve and Kiara sharing a room, no hotel cars from the airport – it was still extortionate. Nevertheless, it kept me occupied.
In the office my coat is barely off when Tim says, ‘Sharmaine King. I’ve talked with her management. They’ve invited us to pitch.’
I love Tim’s ambition. Usually.
‘Which of us should go after it?’ he asks Alastair. ‘You or me? She’s South African but UK-based, so it’ll be UK-centric.’
Alastair glances my way. ‘Well, Amy’s in London as much as I … Ah, right! Yeah, I’ll take it. Ping me over whatever you’ve got.’
I’m grateful for Tim’s protection but ashamed to be considered a sad sack so I disappear into my work.
Just before lunch, my phone rings. It’s a London number, unknown. I clear my throat, sit up straighter. ‘Amy O’Connell speaking.’
‘Dan Gordon. Representing a party interested in working with you.’
‘O-kaaaay.’ New business is always good. Well, nearly always. ‘May I ask who it is?’
‘Not at liberty. Client wants to meet today. Central London.’
‘I’m afraid I’m in Dublin.’
‘Catch a plane?’
I consider it for a moment. But, no, by the time I got there and had the meeting it would be too late to fly back this evening. Kiara and Sofie need me – it’s bad enough that I’m gone every Tuesday night.
‘How about one of my colleagues?’ I offer. ‘They’re both exceptional publicists.’
‘You handled Bryan Sawyer? Client insists on you.’
Well, it’s nice to be wanted. Unless the mysterious client is Robert Mugabe.
‘I’ll be in London tomorrow,’ I say.
‘Must be today.’