More tropical loved-up stuff is appearing daily. You can nearly feel the sultry, humid heat of Koh Samui coming off the photo. Here it’s pissing down outside and already dark at four thirty.
A mad urge hits to send them a picture of me, sitting gloomily at my desk, titled, ‘Deserted office, cold, rainy Dublin’.
Hey, to counteract the steady stream of carefree tropical languor she’s posting, perhaps I should bombard the pair of them with pictures of my life!
How about ‘Having a cold shower because something’s up with the timer on the boiler and I haven’t a notion how to fix it because that was my husband’s job’. Then there’s always, ‘Watching Inside the Minds of the World’s Sickest Killers with my Alzheimer-y dad who insists that I look like a dark-haired Myra Hindley’.
But it’s imperative I don’t drive myself mad with this. I’ve a duty to the girls to stay sane.
‘What’s going on?’ Alastair walks into the office.
‘Where were you?’ I’ve been on my own in the office for over an hour and I don’t like it.
‘Getting man-scaped. Brighton tomorrow. Need to be ready for action.’
‘Did it not work out with Sharmaine King?’ Then, ‘That’s the single most naive question I’ve ever asked. When would that stop you?’
‘I’m a serial monogomist, if you don’t mind.’ He’s quite huffy. ‘I’m not a cheater. And Sharmaine broke my heart.’
‘Which is why you’re all set for action tomorrow night?’
‘Shur, lookit, life goes on. But, yeah, Sharmaine didn’t want me.’
‘Lifetime first?’
‘Course not. I’m always falling in love with women who don’t want me. Don’t even notice me!’ Suddenly he sees the picture on my screen. ‘Oh, shit. Amy, stop stalking them.’
I wish I could. ‘I’m thinking of sending them photos of my life. Like “Coming home after working an eleven-hour day to find there’s nothing to eat, not even cheese, because my husband, who used to collect my monthly delivery from the cheese club, is now in Thailand banging some babe”.’
‘Oh, Amy.’
‘Or “Me, my mind blown at the possibility that my mum is having an affair”.’
‘What? Lilian O’Connell, mother of five, having an affair?’
‘Stay away from her, you dirty article.’
‘Is there nothing left to believe in, in this empty, fucked-up world? She’s not really, is she?’
‘Probably just living life to the full, fair play to her. Is it five o’clock yet?’
‘Twenty to.’
‘Grand.’ I grab my bag. ‘I’ve had it for today. Getting my hair blow-dried, then meeting Derry for scoops.’
‘Give her my best.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘Stay away from my family.’
‘See you tomorrow at the airport.’
‘And I felt so guilty about Josh Rowan!’ I rage at Derry. ‘Now I’m fucking furious I didn’t sleep with him.’
‘So sleep with him now,’ Derry says.
‘How? I haven’t seen him in more than a year. And he’s married. But I’ll tell you one thing, I totally get why Steevie wished for Hugh’s dick to go green and fall off.’
My rage is epic. And underneath it is a loss so huge, so terrible, that I can’t even look at it.
‘Any word from her?’
‘She unfriended me on Facebook. On any other week I’d be devastated, but all my devastation is used up.’
‘You two will work it out.’
‘I don’t know, Derry. I don’t even know if I want to. And another thing – I’m certain about this – I’m done with Hugh. Maybe if I hadn’t seen those photos we could have got through this. But that hope was ridiculously naive.’
She shrugs. She’d always thought it was.
‘Even if Hugh comes home and still wants me, which I doubt, I’ll never get past it.’
‘You’re a survivor,’ Derry says. ‘And you’ll meet someone else.’
‘Absolutely not. I will never go through this again. Der, tell me how great it is to be single.’
‘It’s honestly the best. I get home and close the door on my little house and it’s just me.’
‘Don’t you get lonely?’
‘Never.’
There is more than one way to live. I tuck that thought away.
One of my many fears of being a single lady at my age and beyond is of becoming an unglamorous serene type. My hair would be shorn and free from colour so my head would look speckled with iron filings. I’d rise at six every morning and give thanks for blessings, and at Kiara’s wedding I’d show up looking attractive-in-an-aged way, like yoga people do, with pretty wrinkles but no jowls. Those women usually have astonishingly taut jawlines and their skin is clear and bright, like they’ve been lashing on gallons of ascorbic acid, even though you know they haven’t because they only use Dr Hauschka, which won’t even let you have a night cream.
I don’t want to be that woman. Far better to be a drunken Botoxed mutton. At least there’d be a bit of life in me.
And I see now I don’t have to go the way of the yoga ladies – Derry is still glamorous.
‘I don’t think I could live with someone else now,’ Derry says. ‘I’m too used to pleasing myself.’
Derry has had long-term relationships, the equivalent of marriages. She knows what she’s talking about.
‘And if I do get lonely,’ she says. ‘I can always meet a man.’
‘You’re talking about sex,’ I say. ‘How could I do that with someone new? Like, look at the ancient old state of me.’
‘If you fancy someone and they fancy you back, you get overtaken by passion and you don’t care what you look like. I’m telling you, Amy, us peri-menopausal women, we’re crackling with sexual energy.’
‘I’m not. I’m more interested in having someone to watch telly and eat crisps with. Honestly, Derry, some of the happiest times of my life were lying on the couch with Hugh watching a boxset. Like, I didn’t know at the time I was living the dream, but I was.’
‘You’re used to being married and you can get unused to it. One day you won’t care about Hugh.’
‘Despite all that he’s done, that’s a terrible thought.’
‘It’s a terrible thought now. But give it a chance. Don’t be so co-dependent.’
‘There’s a difference between co-dependence and healthy mutual interdependence.’
She looks at me speculatively. ‘Psychologies again? You know what? This has happened. He’s gone. And before that you were messing around. I know!’ She stems my protests with a raised palm. ‘You never slept with Josh Rowan. But, Amy, it was an emotional affair. Think about it – think about it very hard. You wanted something that you weren’t getting from Hugh and your “healthy mutual interdependence”.’
66
Friday, 11 November, day sixty
It’s Alastair on the hotel phone. ‘How’s your room?’ he asks.
I survey my mean-looking single bed and cramped shower-room. ‘A shithole. You?’
‘Same. Ideal if you were planning to blow your brains out. How’s your “view”?’
‘A dirty wall, about six inches away.’
‘Still! It’s good to be here.’
And, actually, it is. I’ve decided to work hard on being glass-half-full about my new normality, and being in Brighton for the Media Awards is good. I want to be around drunk people who are having fun. I want to dance and seize the day and stay up late and have a laugh. I want distraction, to connect with other humans, to know that I’m still alive.
‘Come down for a drink,’ Alastair says. ‘Let’s see who’s around.’
‘I’ve a quick meeting with Matthew Carlisle.’
‘Oh, the pep-talk. Yeah, listen, this hotel is crawling with paps. He really needs to be on his best behaviour.’
Too right. But Matthew is alarmingly naive and needs constant reminders of the importance of optics.
My cupboard-like room is in a basement annex and there are two flights of stairs to be climbed before I reach the lobby and take the lift to Matthew’s room on the top floor.
The hotel is teeming with people, several already swilling down the drink. After I’ve bumped into a few I haven’t clapped eyes on in forever, I wonder, not for the first time, if Josh is here. Seeing him would be awkward, even thinking about him is painful.