All We Have Lost (16 page)

If I hadn’t been born, this would never have happened.

‘So I do know what you’re feeling, Kimmy. Except you’re lucky: Ian wants to stay with you. Your father wanted to continue seeing this woman. He said that he loved her and wanted to be with her and if he couldn’t, he’d leave. I was hysterical. Didn’t know what to do. I told him to give me a week to think. I didn’t want to lose him. I loved him. And I wanted my family to stay together. So I came up with an idea. A deal. I told him he could go on seeing he
r
but with conditions.’

‘
What
conditions?’ I don’t believe this. This is not my mum.

‘Firstly, he’d continue to live at home. Secondly, he’d only see her at regular, allotted times; there would be no sneaking around, no surprise disappearances. He would be there for all important family occasions and always if you were sick.’

‘What regular allotted times? I don’t remember him being away at all.’

‘Every Friday night he’d stay with her and come back early Saturday morning. And every six weeks he’d stay for a weekend.’

‘Oh my God. So those trips to London weren’t to London?’ I feel so stupid.

‘No.’

‘He was doing this all my life?’

She nods.

‘I hate him.’

She smiles. ‘No. You don’t.’

‘He treated you like shit.’

‘Those were
my
terms. I got what I wanted. It wasn’t the traditional way to live but it was my way. Yes, in an ideal world, he’d have been just mine but that wasn’t an option and I had him most of the time.
We
had him most of the time.’

‘My childhood was a lie,’ I whisper.

‘Stop.’ She slaps her hand down on the table. ‘Stop seeing the world only from your point of view. Stop making rules for everyone else. Stop expecting too much from people. We’re all human. We’re all just doing our best.’

This person is not my mum.

‘You were a happy child who grew up in a loving environment with people who loved you and each other. It wasn’t orthodox. But it was real. Very real. Remember the good in your father. There was plenty.’

Yeah, like his ability to have his cake and eat it. ‘Who was she?’ I must know her, if she was their friend. I must know her.

‘I’d rather not say. I don’t see how it would help.’

‘Tell me. No more secrets. Just tell me.’

‘You have to promise not to do anything. Not to let on to her that you know. And not ever to tell another living soul. This woman is in the public eye.’

Who the hell is it? ‘I promise.’

She takes a deep breath. ‘It was Deirdre French.’

‘Deirdre French? The novelist?’

She nods.

‘But you’re still friends.’

‘Acquaintances who are, on the surface, friendly, yes.’

‘I asked her for help! You sent me to her! You think I’d have gone if I’d known? My God, Mum. I have my pride.’

‘That is
exactly
your problem.’

I stare at her. Who is this person?

‘She owed us,’ she says simply.

‘I’m sorry but this is so messed up. Seriously. The woman has everything – success, fame, fortune – and she had to have my father too?’

‘You’re wrong. She doesn’t have everything. Don’t you see? She loses. She has nothing. No family, no husband, no children. Another part of the deal – they agreed never to have children – your dad was only ever to be a father to you and James. Deirdre French has nothing. She’s a lonely woman. If you want to feel sorry for someone – feel sorry for her.’

‘Well, I don’t. Look what she took from you.’

‘Nothing, that’s the point. I didn’t throw away my husband, lose the father of my children, like you’re doing. I kept it all. I won.’

‘Why did he stay with us? Why didn’t he just go off with her if he loved her so bloody much?’

‘Because he loved us too. He loved you and James. And he loved me. We just learned to share. You don’t have to, Kim; you can have Ian to yourself. Don’t you see? You’re one of the lucky ones.’

‘This is like something out of a Deirdre French novel.’

She looks at me. ‘It
is
a Deirdre French novel.
The Deal
.’

‘You’re fucking kidding me?’

She shakes her head.

‘Oh my God. Living off us, rubbing our nose in it…’

‘Read it, Kim. It explains a lot. It’s her confession.’

‘Taking a psychological dump on us and making a profit as well. I have to hand it to her.’

‘When did you become so cynical?’

‘Not soon enough, Mum. Not soon enough.’

‘I shouldn’t have told you.’

‘You absolutely bloody should.’

‘So you’ll take him back?’

‘I don’t see how the two are connected. Apart from me being surrounded by cheating men.’

‘I only told you so you’d see how lucky you are.’

Lucky is not how I feel. I stand up before I fall down. ‘I’ve a lot to think about, OK?’

‘You won’t tell James, will you, love?’

‘No, Mum. I won’t tell James.’

She lets out a long breath. Then she stands too. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Not particularly, no.’

‘I’m sorry for snapping at you.’

‘OK. Listen, I gotta go.’

She reaches out and holds my hand. And it strikes me: I’ve known this woman thirty-four years without knowing her at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I set Sam and Chloe up on the couch with pillows and a quilt. I put on
The Little Mermaid
.

‘I’m just going upstairs for a minute,’ I say.

But they don’t hear me.

I climb into bed feeling like I’ve been stepped on.
I go over events from my past and see them as they really were. Birthday parties, holy communions, confirmations…. He was there because he had to be. I get up and root out old family albums. I check the background of every shot for any trace of Deirdre French. What would she have looked like, then? Glamorous, no doubt. Thinner maybe. Elegant. But I don’t find her ghost. That was probably part of The Deal too. Not to come near us. I wonder what
he
thought when
The Deal
was published? Did they argue about it? Or did he forgive her everything? I gaze at a photo of him, standing behind James and me, a hand on each of our shoulders, as if to say, ‘These are my children of whom I am proud.’ I have always loved this picture. Was it taken on a Friday – before he left us for her?

He died on a Friday. Did she get to say goodbye? Did she creep into the hospital under cover of darkness? Did she feel the pain I did? Hope so. Hope she still feels it. Hope it keeps her awake at night. When I spoke to her that time, she asked how my mum was. Wow. The nerve of that.

My phone vibrates, reminding me that I put it on silent before going in to see the psychologist. There are six messages. The first three are from Ian and all say the same thing: he’s sorry; it’s over; and we have to talk. The next message is from Connor; he’s coming to Dublin. A text from Mum is irrelevant because we’ve seen each other since. The last message is from Ian asking me to call him.

Easier to make dinner. Keep busy.

The fridge contains an empty milk carton, blue cheese (that’s meant to be orange), expired yoghurts, a sad lettuce and a bottle of wine. With a sigh, I go to get my bag. Then I stop. What if he’s cancelled the credit card? He wouldn’t. He wants to talk. Still, I can’t risk loading up a supermarket trolley, children in tow, only to be turned away at the checkout.

I could call him. But that is the last thing I want to do.

Finally, I hit on a solution. Takeaway! I order over the phone, remain invisible and discover that, hallelujah, the credit card still works.

My relief doesn’t last long. He could cancel it at any time.

For now, the pizzas arrive.

Afterwards, the children make history by asking to go to bed. They’re asleep almost immediately.

I’m sampling one of the contents of the fridge (not the lettuce) when the doorbell goes. I put down my glass, thinking: Ian.

It rings again.

Shit. He’ll wake the children.

At the door, I inhale deeply. Then I open it.

The relief.

‘Connor!’

Suspended in the warm evening air are all things yet to be said. So much has changed, our positions reversed, overnight, almost. He lowers his bags and hugs me. I try – so hard – not to cry. At last, I pull back.

‘Where’s Sarah?’

He smiles. ‘Her publishers went ballistic when they discovered she’d taken off in the middle of her publicity tour. They said she was in breach of contract and better get back to London ASAP. So that’s where she’s headed. She’s so sorry she can’t be here but she’ll ring in the morning.’

‘You needn’t have come.’

‘I wanted to. We have a pact, remember?’

I think of the other pact, The Deal. Then try to forget about it again.

We negotiate scattered toys, children’s clothes, shoes and unfinished Liga to reach the kitchen.

‘Sorry. The place is a mess.’

‘I think you’re entitled to a mess.’

‘You look so happy.’

‘You know me, always happy.’

He’s joking but it’s actually true. Probably the most positive person I know.

I see him glance at the wine on the table.

‘Damn. I’ve nothing to offer you, no Coke, no juice. I need to go shopping.’ 

‘Do you’ve tea?’

‘Of course.’

‘You have
no idea
how much a man can miss a proper cup of tea.’

I go to make it but he raises a hand. ‘Sit. I’ve been on planes for sixteen hours. I can’t feel my limbs.’

I sit at the table and top up my glass.

‘So did you speak to Peter?’ he asks of the ‘psychologist’.

‘Yeah. He wanted me to get back with Ian. I mean, for Christ’s sake.’

He looks surprised. ‘What did he say about telling Sam and Chloe? Did he have any advice on that?’

I sigh. ‘He said to give them security by telling them when they’ll see their father.’

‘Sounds reasonable.’

‘Only I haven’t spoken to Ian since the punch-up at his office on Tuesday.’

‘Punch-up?’

I close my eyes. ‘OK don’t judge me.’ I fill him in.

He listens incredulously, then laughs. ‘Go you.’

‘No. I should have held onto my dignity. It’s all I’ve bloody left.’

‘You have Sam and Chloe.’

‘Who need their father. What if I’ve ruined it for them?’ I think of Mum and how big she was, really. How powerful. In her own quiet way.

‘You’re not the one at fault, here. Did you get on to the lawyer?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Want me to call him?’

‘No. I’ll do it,’ I say, instead of, ‘please go.’ It’s too much. It’s all too much.

‘Let’s go inside,’ he suggests.

I don’t forget the wine.

In the sitting room, I turn around. But he’s not there.

He appears then with duty-free bags.
‘Thought you might need some cheering up.’

He sits on the couch and starts to
produce a range of pampering products from Molton Brown, which, one by one, he places on the table. The last one out is a massive candle. ‘Got a lighter?’

Doesn’t he see that he’s moving deckchairs on a sinking ship?

‘I don’t know. Try the third drawer in the kitchen. If we, I, have one, it’ll be there.’

He comes back holding one to the sky.

I smile but I’m just so tired.

‘So. What are we celebrating?’ he asks.

‘The newly-weds.’ I raise my glass. ‘To Connor and Sarah. A long and happy life together.’

He smiles. ‘To Connor and Sarah. What
were
they thinking?’

And suddenly I feel so much love and hope for them. I take a sip of wine, then circle my shoulders. Everything’s so stiff.

‘You know what you need? A Connor special.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A head massage.’

I laugh.

‘I’m serious. Bet you’ve a headache.’

My head has been pounding since Discovery Number One. I’m amazed I still have a head since Number Two. ‘A bit.’

‘Right, sit back and I’ll come at you from behind.’

I laugh. ‘Sorry.’

‘Such a child.’

We take up our positions.

‘Now, just let your mind go blank. Empty it completely. Actually, hang on. Where did I leave my phone?’

Soon, lovely soothing pan-pipey music floats on the air. And I know I’m in good hands.

He applies gentle but firm pressure to my scalp with his fingertips. He works in circular movements until he has covered my whole head. I feel the tension ease. He stops.

I open my eyes. ‘Is that
it
?’

‘No. That’s not
it
. I need to get at you from the front.’

I laugh. ‘Connor. Seriously. Change your vocab.’

‘Can’t help your filthy mind.’ He takes the body oil from the table, tips it into his hands and rubs them together. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I feel like I am in a spa. This
is
good.

I feel the cushion lower as he kneels beside me. He starts to work on my forehead. Oh my God. It’s so good. His thumbs circle my temples, easing the tension there. I could fall asleep. He moves to my cheeks and finally the area around my mouth, which he circles with a finger. It feels sensual. I find myself blushing. I force my eyes to stay closed. Connor is my friend, my very platonic friend, my very married platonic friend.

I open my eyes and utter an embarrassed, ‘That’s great, Connor,’ to wrap it up.

But I catch him looking down at me with such tenderness that even I, in my numbed state, see it. He shuts it off immediately. But knows he’s been caught. Neither of us speaks. Seconds feel like days.

Then he stuns me with, ‘I love you, Kim. Always have. Since the moment we met.’

I stare at him, trying to take it in.

‘But you were always with someone else and so was I. One of us was always with someone. And still, somehow, I believed we’d end up together. Then you met Ian and I knew, everyone knew, that was it. I told myself it wouldn’t last but didn’t really believe it. I came to your wedding, hugged you, congratulated you and smiled a lot. I got on with my life, met other women, lots of other women, even got married.’ He smiles sadly. ‘It was all working out. Until you opened your eyes.’

I don’t know what to say.

‘If I’d thought for one second that you’d ever be free again, I’d never have married. That’s the truth.’

‘But you are married, Connor. And so am I.’ Officially.

He sighs so deeply. ‘I know.’

Silence.

‘Can I kiss you, Kim? Just once.’

‘No,’ I say but it’s a yes and we both know it. One kiss won’t change anything.

But it does. It leads to another. And another. And another. Until they melt into one, long passionate embrace. I let go, don’t care any more, don’t care about anything. This man loves me. That’s all that matters.

His hand supports the back of my neck, his fingers stretching out into my hair as he plants kiss after kiss on my face then throat until he reaches that spot where a vampire sinks its teeth in. Do it, I think. Bite me dead. His excitement arouses me. He wants me. And I want him. I want it. Or maybe I just want someone to want me. Oh, I don’t care.

I lie back.

His hands are everywhere. His mouth. And the pressure of his body on mine. Our legs entangle. Our hips press together. I whisper, ‘please.’ One by one, and slowly, he undoes the buttons on my shirt, planting a kiss on my skin where each one used to be, like an explorer leaving a flag on each spot he’s conquered. I wriggle out of my shirt and tear at his. How have I never noticed his body? He is Michelangelo’s David. Perfection. There is something powerful about the way he unbuckles his belt. Then pop, pop, pop go the buttons on his jeans and there he is in all his glory.

I’ve never had sex sitting up. There’s a lot to be said for it. Like ‘Oh my God,’ and ‘Oh Jesus,’ and ‘Oh Connor,’ and a groaned, ‘Kiiiim’, as he comes. He turns me over and starts to drive me wild. What is he
doing
? Jesus, it’s bottom bites, thousands of tiny bottom bites. And there I was sorry I had an ass at all. This changes everything. High Ho Silver! What is happening to me? What kind of weirdo am I becoming? But I get what Sarah sees in him after so many men – he is instinctive, knowing what I like even though I don’t. Sarah. Don’t think of Sarah. Oh God, Sarah. What are we doing?

The next, ‘What are we doing?’ is said aloud and it breaks the spell. There is a fumbling with clothes and more with words.

‘I’m sorry,’ he utters. ‘I didn’t mean….’

‘Sarah!’ I say. ‘God. What have we done?’ I’m surrounded by cheats.
I’m a cheat; Connor’s a cheat; Ian’s a certified cheat. My father cheated for twenty-nine years. But I’m the worst because I cheated
knowing
what it does to the people you love. I’ve deceived Sarah, my family, myself. Not Ian. I haven’t cheated on Ian because how can you cheat on a cheat?

Just one week. That’s all it took for my life to unravel.