All We Have Lost

ALL WE HAVE LOST

First Kindle Edition

Aimee Alexander © May 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The right of Aimee Alexander to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to another person. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you'd like to share it with. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Aimee Alexander is the pen name of bestselling author Denise Deegan.

This book was first published by Gill and Macmillan as Turning Turtle.

Also by Aimee Alexander from the Kindle store:

Pause to Rewind
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The Accidental Life of Greg Millar:
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Checkout Girl
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In memory of my dear friend, Nicola Russell, who inspired this adventure.

CHAPTER ONE

4pm. I’m at my desk, a desk so cluttered it’s invisible. With my shoulder, I hold the phone to my ear while I slide a press release into a brightly coloured press pack already filled with ‘relevant background information’. Only forty more to go.

Technically, I shouldn’t be doing this. Technically, this is the job of a freelancer named Dick. I could have let his typo go – had I wanted to risk a lifetime of ridicule. Kim Waters, Pubic Relations Director. How many journalists would have spotted it? All it would have taken was one. My new title would have travelled fast. For evermore, I’d have been open to comments like, ‘How’s the old pubic relations going?’ or ‘I’m a bit itchy down there, Kim; I wonder could you have a look.’

I’m talking to a journalist now, trying to interest her in tomorrow’s press conference. Line Two starts to flash.

‘Sorry, Hazel, can I put you on hold for a second?’

Reaching to pick up the other call, my hand knocks against my giant Wonder Mum mug. Cold, untouched coffee splashes out onto a silver-framed photo of my family and begins to ooze towards the press packs. I snatch them up just in time and land them onto an overflowing in-tray. I hold my beloved photo over the wastepaper basket as coffee streaks down my children’s cheesy grins. Continuing to hold the phone to my ear I reach into my bag to retrieve a pack of hankies. Somehow I also pick up Line Two.

‘I’ve got it!’ announces my husband. What he’s got, I assume, is the new job he’s been after; what I haven’t got is time.

‘That’s great, Ian! I
knew
you’d do it. Can I put you on hold for a sec? Sorry, hon.’

I reach for Line One but the light goes out before I can get to it.

‘Actually, it’s OK,’ I say to Ian. ‘She hung up.’

‘A journalist?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Will I call back later?’

‘It’s grand. I’ll get back to her in a minute and grovel.’

‘Don’t know how you do i
t.
’

‘You’re not the only one.’

‘So, how does it feel to be married to a banker?’

‘You said the job was in corporate finance.’

‘Which is a type of banking.’

‘Let’s just call it corporate finance. Live in denial.’

‘I was thinking we could celebrate in Guilbaud’s or are you up to your tonsils?’

It’s our favourite restaurant but I find myself grimacing. ‘I don’t think I’ll be out of here ’til at least nine. And I’m kind of knackered, to be honest.’

‘We’ll do it Friday?’

‘Perfeck.’ As we say in our house.

‘Right, better let you get back to it.’

‘Ian?’

‘Yeah?’

‘It was the lucky boxer shorts.’ That I bought him.

‘It
was
the lucky boxer shorts.’

‘Seriously, though. Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.’ He deserves this. It’s seven years since he took up his current well-paid, low-challenge job wanting to walk up the aisle a provider. When I later learned how frustrated he was, I encouraged him to move. When that didn’t work, I nagged. Neither of us enjoyed that. So I let him be.

It’s after nine when I pull up outside our home, a 1950s’ redbrick in Dublin’s coastal village of Dalkey. The outside light is on and coloured beams filter through the stained glass windows framing the door, making the porch warm and inviting. Water runs from the tub plants on either side of the door; the brass knocker shines. But upstairs the
Thomas the Tank Engine
and
Barbie
curtains are closed. Ian’s car is parked where Sally, our child minder, usually leaves hers. Another bedtime missed.

I push the door in. All is quiet. I kick off my shoes and sink my feet into the rug. Its red, yellow and blue abstract shapes add colour to a hallway of white walls, wooden floors and modern art. The only sign of children are Chloe’s bicycle helmet in the umbrella stand and two tiny pairs of boots by the door – bumble bees and frogs.

Ian appears at the top of the stairs, smiles and does a silent victory dance heavy on hip movement and air punching. In shirt, chinos, bare feet and gleaming wet hair, he’s looking good. He dances his way down, then pulls me into a hug. I drop my bag and melt into him, inhaling his soapy scent.

At last, I pull back and smile. ‘So, where’s the bubbly?’

‘I thought with the press conference…’ He grimaces. ‘Didn’t get any.’

‘Just as well I did, then. Damn, I left it in the car.’

‘I’ll get it.’

‘I’ll go up to the kids.’

‘They’re asleep. Sorry, I did try to keep them awake with
Rapunzel
. But it was just so late in the end.’

I nod. ‘Were they asking for me?’

‘Of course.’ He kisses me. ‘I told them you had a press conference.’

But all they’ll understand is that I wasn’t here. Again. ‘I’ll go up for a sec.’

Won’t be long now before the pension, my legs complain as I mount the stairs. I remind them that they’re only thirty-three. Then run the rest of the way up.

My smile, on seeing Chloe, is automatic. She’s sprawled like a starfish, legs thrown out over the quilt, ladybird pyjamas riding up. Her foot twitches. The gentle light from her bedside lamp catches her hair, spread out over the pillow like honey. Sleep has relaxed her features, making her look younger than her four years. She turns over. Her thumb slips into her mouth and a finger curls over her nose. Sparkly pink nail varnish has begun to chip. I lean forward, brush a strand of hair from her face, kiss her soft, warm cheek and cover her up, knowing that her legs will be back out before I leave the room.

Next-door, Sam is lying on his back, arms tucked in by his sides, like a toy soldier that needs winding. His little cupid lips are open, white innocent milk teeth partially visible. He giggles suddenly but doesn’t wake. I long to know what he’s dreaming about. I make a mental note to ask in the morning. But can two-year-olds remember dreams? Sally will know. I kiss his forehead and gaze at him a little longer. Then I hear the front door close.

On my way back down to Ian, I catch my reflection in the gilt-edged mirror that hangs at the top of the stairs. It might be antique but it still works. Unfortunately. ‘Efficient but exhausted,’ is the look.

I find Ian in the sitting room, struggling with the champagne.

‘Does someone need a hug?’ I ask, actually needing one myself.

He puts the bottle down.

I propel myself into him.

‘What kind of hug is that?’ he asks, laughing.

‘A body hug. You just force your body into the other person’s body.’

‘When you say force you mean attack with your stomach, you mean practically knock them over?’

‘Well, yeah.’ I step back. ‘You try. It’s fun.’

He starts off well but then, instead of forcing his tummy forward, he pushes out his upper legs and I lose balance, falling onto him. We collapse onto the couch, laughing. Then I stop because this is one incredibly cute hombre. Edible, really. I kiss him. He reaches for the buttons on my shirt. In the interests of balance, I reach for his. So,
this
is what I needed to unwind.

There is a good turnout at the press conference. The speakers are holding the media’s attention. A group of photographers has gathered outside for the photo shoot and the bikini-clad models are turning blue while they wait. Any minute now the questions will be over and the shoot can begin. That’s it. Last one.

I go outside as the photographer I’ve hired briefs the models. The press photographers take their places. Out of nowhere comes the theme song from
Mission Impossible.
A photographer reaches for his phone. Then another rings. And another. After a few uttered monosyllables, the photographers start to leave.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask in panic.

‘The body of a woman has been found in Blackrock.’

‘Oh,’ I say. What I really mean is, ‘Oh crap.’ We’ll do our best, make sure each news outlet gets its own unique shot, creatively captioned and as soon as possible. But. T
he media like to use shots by their staff photographers.
Our chance of coverage has just nose-dived.

I’ve all but finished clearing up when Ian calls.

‘How did it go?’ He always checks.

‘Disaster.’ I explain about the body.

‘Hey, it’s one press conference. They can’t all be a roaring success.’

‘True.’ But try telling that to my client.

Two things combine to make me head home early. One: my job isn’t exactly changing the world and may even be silly and pointless (I’m thinking bikinis). Two: Sam and Chloe were still asleep when I left this morning.

I make it home as they’re finishing dinner at five.

‘
Mum!
’

They spring from the table.

‘Hey, guys.’ I bend down, arms out and they propel towards me.

‘But it’s only dinner time,’ says Chloe.

‘I decided to come home early today.’

‘Yay,’ Sam shouts and body slams me. He inherited my hugging gene.

‘Mind your suit,’ Sally warns, as a lump of mashed potato from Sam’s face is smeared onto my skirt.

‘It’s grand. I have to get it cleaned anyway.’

Sally dampens the corner of a towel and hands it to me. ‘Right, back to the table and finish up, you two.’

They toddle back obediently.

I join them.

‘Do you want yours now, Kim?’ asks the child minder from heaven.

‘No thanks, Sally. I’ll wait for Ian. Listen, you go. Please. Grab the chance while you can.’

‘They haven’t had their baths yet.’

‘Oh, well,
then
. You’d better stay. Go, go, go. Quick before I change my mind.’

She practically runs.

‘So, guys.’ I clap my hands. ‘What’ll we do now?’

They look at each other then back at me.

‘Movie!’ they shout together.

‘What about your baths?’

‘No one needs a bath
every
day,’ Chloe says.

A convincing argument.

With Sam on my lap and Chloe curled into me on the couch, we experience seventy-seven minutes of what turns out to be great entertainment. I love these animated toddlers, even naughty Angelica –
especially
Angelica, who is a sass-fest. But no one beats Rex Pester, a tabloid hack who asks the mother of missing children, ‘So tell me… how does it
feel
to know that you may never, see, your, children, again?’

‘Where did you get this?’ I ask.

‘Sally. She said we can keep it.’

‘Cool.’ I reach for the remote. ‘OK guys, bed.’ 

‘Awwww.’

‘Come on. It’s late. You have to be up in the morning.’

‘Can we just see da end of da moosic?’ Sam asks.

‘OK. But then straight up.’

I’m tucking them in when Chloe has something to share.

‘You’re like Angelica’s mum.’

‘Why’s that?’ I ask, thinking that she’s definitely the most glamorous parent.

‘Cos she’s never there. The kids never see her.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah,’ says Sam. ‘She’s always at wok.’

‘Or on her phone,’ adds Chloe helpfully.

Ouch. ‘Well, I’m here now.’

‘How about a story?’ asks Chloe.

I smile. ‘Didn’t you just have a movie?’

‘A quick one,’ tries the uber-negotiator.

‘Pleeeease,’ Sam adds.

‘OK, a quick one.’

I know I should be more like Sally – firm but fair – but it’s just so good to see them. They do eventually sleep, which when it happens, surprises me – I’d begun to think they never would.

When Ian gets home, we ring the babysitter and head out for a walk and a chat.