As soon as he opened the fridge, there was a time-slip in my head and, for a split second, I forgot that this was now. I thought I was back then, when life was settled and comfortable and a little dull, when Hugh was my husband and we all lived together, mostly happily, even if that happiness was rarely noticed.
For a sliver of time, that safety-net feeling filled me and shifted my entire sense of myself on this earth: I was secure, I was safe, I belonged and I was carried. Then I remembered and all was confusion until I crash-landed into hard, cold reality. These time-slips and the consequent feelings of loss, like falling into an abyss, keep happening – they’re probably happening to all five of us.
Clean breaks suit me better. Constant contact with Hugh is keeping the ground beneath my feet perpetually shifting, and if it wasn’t for the girls, I’d make it my business never to see him.
But the girls are the most important people in this.
All I can do is ask myself to live through it, one day at a time, and at some stage it will become easier. The weirdest, most painful situations eventually become normal.
‘So,’ Josh asks, with a smirk, ‘how did you like our FaceTime sex?’
I swallow. ‘Oh, my God, the hottest …’
It was probably the most thrilling, exciting sex I’ve ever had in my entire life. We’d done it on New Year’s Eve – Josh was alone in his house, I was alone in mine, and I saw in the new year watching Josh do … that to himself. Even thinking about it starts my blood pounding in my veins, and sets off a throbbing in me that needs immediate attention.
‘We could do it again,’ he says. ‘You know, during the week …’
‘No. And you know why not. I won’t do it with Marcia in your house.’
‘I could ask her to leave.’
I roll over and face him. ‘Don’t ever do any such thing.’ I’m fierce. ‘I can just about cope with my guilt the way things are. Don’t push it.’
99
Wednesday, 11 January
I fly home from London. Thursday passes, as does Friday, then the weekend and next thing it’s Monday again. The time is passing. Yes, agonizingly slowly. But we’re more than halfway through January. It is happening.
In the office on Monday afternoon, Alastair keeps hitting Refresh, hoping for Neeve’s latest vlog because he has ‘a feeling’ that it features Mum.
And, sure enough, it does!
‘How did you know?’ I’m suspicious.
‘Intuition.’ He shrugs, then freezes in the act. ‘Jesus Christ, I think she’s getting inked!’
‘What?’
‘A tattoo!’
‘My mother?’ I hurry to Alastair’s screen, as do Tim and Thamy. It looks like Alastair is right.
Mum reclines in a chair and a woman – riddled with piercings and inkings – is poised over her, holding a needle.
‘So you’re ready for the pain, Lilian?’ the tattooist – her name is Micki – asks.
‘How sore can it be?’ Mum asks.
‘Yeeeesh,’ Neeve says, off camera.
‘Try childbirth if you want to talk to me about pain.’ Then Mum adds anxiously, ‘I don’t mean actually try it. Never have children, Neevey. They ruin your life.’ Mum looks directly at the camera. ‘No offence to my own five.’
Alastair, Tim and Thamy crease up laughing.
‘I’m not having kids.’ Neeve sounds scornful. ‘But seriously, Granny, being inked can really hurt.’
‘But you’re giving me the anaesthetic spray? And we can take breaks?’
‘Wow,’ Alastair says. ‘Locmof is my hero. Inkings are torture.’
‘What have you?’ Thamy asks.
‘Let me guess,’ I interrupt. ‘Some Sanskrit shite across your lower back that you think means, “The greatest generosity is non-attachment”, but actually says, “2 for 1 on the family bags of marshmallows”.’
‘Feck off,’ he says, while I howl laughing.
‘Shut it.’ Tim is serious. ‘We’re watching this!’
‘Sorry.’ I make my face solemn but quickly I mouth, ‘Marshmallows,’ at Alastair and he mouths back, ‘I hate you.’
On screen, Micki is asking, ‘Why do you want a Lapras?’
‘I was playing Pokémon Go with my grandsons over Christmas –’
‘Was she?’ Tim asks.
Actually, I haven’t a clue. I was so deep in Hugh’s shock return, then off on my jaunt to Serbia, that Mum playing Pokémon Go with my nephews entirely passed me by.
‘I got a bit addicted,’ Mum says.
‘Wow. Like, wow.’ Micki is having her ageist assumptions challenged. ‘So Lapras is your favourite?’
‘No, Lapras is super-rare –’
‘Super-rare!’ Alastair yelps. ‘She’s too cute!’
‘Would you shush!’ Tim says.
‘We never managed to catch one.’
‘And you want a tattoo so your grandsons can “catch” it?’
‘I do not! I want it to annoy them! To rub their noses in their failure.’
At this, everyone – Micki, Neeve, me, Alastair, Tim and Thamy – erupts into mirth.
‘They treated me like some – some moron but I caught more than them. Wait, can I say that bit again, Neeve? Edit out the first line. I totally caught more than them.’
More convulsions from me and my colleagues.
‘She didn’t edit it out,’ Thamy says.
That’s because Neeve is no fool and knows what appeals to people.
‘Oh-kaaay,’ Micki says. ‘And you’re totally sure you want it just above your wrist? Because if you, like, change your mind, it’s gonna be hard to cover.’
‘I’m certain,’ Mum says. ‘The blue part of the Lapras is the same colour as my favourite cardigan and it’ll save me wearing a bracelet.’
The rest of the video doesn’t dwell on the nitty-gritty. Now and again, a sweaty-with-pain Mum takes a break and speaks to the camera. ‘It hurts but it’s not as bad as labour, and at least at the end I’ll have something I actually want and not a baby.’
She winks and Alastair murmurs, ‘I’m in love.’
They fast-forward to the finish and a big plaster covers the inked area, then jump ten days to the big reveal, when the plaster is removed. And there’s my mum, with a tattoo of a Pokémon Go character on her arm.
‘No matter what anyone says,’ she says, with a wicked smile, ‘if you want to do something, it’s never too late.’
And there it ends.
‘Don’t be over,’ Alastair says sadly.
‘That’s her best vlog yet,’ Tim says, as we all drift reluctantly back to our desks.
‘Did you know about this?’ Thamy asks.
‘There’s a lot going on for me right now.’ I feel defensive.
Last Friday, at the weekly dinner, Mum probably had the plaster covered with her sleeve. But even if she hadn’t, like I say, I probably wouldn’t have noticed.
I try to resume work, but my concentration is patchy. It has been since the start of the year. I really want to get a handle on it – everything in my life is so uncertain that I must retain control over my income. But it’s hard, the connections in my head just won’t happen, the ideas won’t come …
‘Amy!’ Alastair yelps, startling me from my introspection. ‘Come and look!’
‘What the hell? You scared me!’
‘You’ll like this.’
It’s guardian.com, the caption is ‘InstaGranny’ and there’s a fuzzy shot of Mum from the video.
An Irish grandmother, who’s been making guest appearances on her granddaughter’s YouTube channel Bitch, Please, has become the latest unlikely YouTube star. Lilian O’Connell’s most recent post, where she gets inked with a Pokémon Go figure, has been viewed forty thousand times since it went live earlier today.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I say and look at Alastair. ‘This is … It’s mental!’
‘I told you she was special,’ he says.
‘I feel bad for Neeve. She’s been slogging away at Bitch, Please for more than a year, then her granny pops in a couple of times and the whole thing takes off.’
‘But it was Neeve’s idea to include Locmof. Props for that. And traffic is traffic. Either way, Neeve will benefit from this. More ad revenue, more product placement …’
‘Alastair!’ I clutch his arm. ‘Imagine if she could afford a place of her own to live!’
‘Wouldn’t you miss her?’
‘Yes … yes. But she can’t keep living with me for ever.’
100