Then I wonder if I should worry about Neeve being slandered.
‘Look, Jana and me are going to a party tonight and we want you to come –’
‘No, Steevie. Please, no.’
‘But it’s so wrong, you hiding under a rock, while Hugh is riding girls left, right and centre.’
I wish she wouldn’t say stuff like that. He may be. I just don’t want to think about it and I don’t want it spoken about so casually. But if I say anything to her, it might make things weird again.
It’s a relief to go home to an empty house, climb into bed with my iPad and look at the new arrivals on net-a-porter. All the beautiful things … It’s uplifting to examine them. Statement coats, witty clutch bags – and then, making me actually gasp out loud, the most indescribable pair of shoes. Super-high, super-magical, with all kinds of sparkly embellishments on the heels; I know, without having to check, that they’re by Gucci. Not because I’m a regular purchaser of Gucci – I couldn’t afford even a keyring – but I have a gift for identifying spendy brands.
I see women on The Graham Norton Show and, right away, I can tell you who their dress and shoes are by. Or Claudia’s clothes on Strictly. Or whatever the female judges on X Factor are wearing. ‘Ask Amy,’ people say. ‘Amy will know.’
We all have our gifts and admittedly, yes, mine is fairly niche, but if there was a career in it, I’d be extremely highly regarded.
Kiara disapproves. She says that being au fait with so much designer stuff isn’t something to be proud of. But, feck it, what harm does it do?
Transfixed, I stare at the enchanting Gucci shoes. They’ve such a cute shape – they remind me of My Little Pony – that, even though I could never afford them, they make me happy.
Asos might have copies! Six points of difference: that’s all a knock-off needs to be allowed to exist. But Asos has nothing, so I move on to Kurt Geiger, then Zara, TopShop, Russell & Bromley …
I click on site after site and somehow get sidetracked by a pair of knee boots from Dune, lovely lace-up Edwardian-looking things, and even though I don’t need them, and don’t have the money, I click enough times that they become mine.
36
Monday, 26 September, day fourteen
Monday morning is being very Monday-y.
‘Kiara, get up!’
‘Oh, Mu-um! Bring me orange juice.’
‘Sofie,’ I yell up into the attic room. ‘Get up!’ She’d stayed here last night but her school uniform is at Urzula’s and I’ve to drive her there before going to work. ‘Kiara, it’s ten to eight, get up!’
‘Orange juice!’
‘Get the feck up!’ Neeve howls, from her bedroom. ‘I’m trying to sleep.’
I race down the stairs to get Kiara’s glass of juice. Sofie still hasn’t appeared and I let a roar up at her. ‘Sofie! I’ll be late for work if you don’t come right now!’
‘Shut the FUCK up!’ Neeve shrieks.
‘Mum, where’s my school shirts?’
‘In your wardrobe!’
‘I can’t see them.’
I thunder into Kiara’s room, go straight to her wardrobe and yank one out.
‘It wasn’t there two minutes ago,’ she says sulkily. Kiara, normally lovely, isn’t so good in the mornings.
Sofie stumbles down the steps and, really, this situation, where she’s living between three different homes, can’t go on. Urzula and she do nothing but clash, and I’ve felt I’ve no choice but to let it play out. But maybe it’s finally time to have a conversation about it.
Automatically I open my mouth to ask Hugh’s opinion – and, oh, of course, he’s not here to ask, and the loss is still raw and shocking, and it’s going to take a long, long time to unlearn the impulse to run every thought by him.
But it is possible: people who lose a hand or a leg eventually manage to edit it from their list of available limbs.
‘Amy,’ Sofie says, ‘can I have money for charcoal? For art class. Mum’s away for a few days.’
‘Well, stay here. Unless you want to stay at Granny’s,’ I add hurriedly.
‘I’ll stay here.’
‘Grand. But come on, we’ve got to get your uniform.’
‘Mum, can you pick me up from swimming at seven p.m.?’ Kiara asks.
‘And I need a lift to my history tutor at seven,’ Sofie says.
They’re in opposite directions and I can’t do both. I tap on Neeve’s door.
‘WHAT?’
‘Can you take Sofie to her history tutor at seven?’
‘No! I’ve a work thing! Now could you all shut up?’
For the love of God! ‘Okay, Sofie, I’ll take you.’
‘What about me?’ Kiara demands.
‘Cycle home.’
‘With wet hair? Cycle home in the cold with wet hair? Well, if I get the flu and die, it’ll be on you.’
‘You don’t get the flu from wet hair,’ Neeve yells from her room. ‘More’s the fucking pity!’
After all this drama, I’m about twenty minutes late for work – Tim and Alastair are already there when I slink in. In theory, there are no bosses in our partnership, but it’s poor form to be late. None of us wants to look like we’re not pulling our weight. ‘Hello,’ I mumble. ‘Sorry.’
I’m brought up short by the sight of a black and white bag on my desk. It’s from Sephora. Stunned, I look hard at it, then whirl around on Tim. ‘You got me the primer!’
‘I did.’ He looks like he’s about to burst with pride and die of embarrassment.
‘Oh, God!’ I start ripping off the fancy black Sellotape and my hands are shaking. I open the bag and peer inside. There’s more than one thing nestling within! ‘Tim!’ I close the bag and stare at him. I’m laughing, amazed and delighted, my Monday misery forgotten. I peep in again – there are at least three things – then whip my head up to him. I can feel my eyes bulge. ‘Tim! What’s going on?’
‘They had a launch. For a new mascara. I know you like it when things are just out.’
‘ “New and exciting”.’ I’m shrill with glee. ‘I do.’ I’ve located the primer and the mascara and I’m turning them over in my hands.
‘Then I got you a –’
‘Lipstick!’ I’ve just found the box.
‘Because it meant I’d spent enough to qualify for a free eyeliner. So I got a black one. Is that okay?’
‘Course! Can’t go wrong with a black eyeliner.’
Then the lipstick, which I’m resigned to being awful, maybe a coral or an orangy red, which make my teeth look jaundiced. But, still, whatever the colour, it doesn’t matter because Tim is so grea– Oh! My! God! It’s beautiful. It’s a dark red, seasonally suitable, but in blue tones that are perfect for my pale skin. I breathe at him, ‘How did you know?’
‘I described you to la femme.’
‘What did you say?’ I’m speaking in a near whisper.
‘Ah, you know, said you’re typically Celtic.’
‘Oh, God.’ I’ve got my mirror out and I’m applying it – the texture! And the finish! ‘Jesus, I fucking love it!’
‘I did good?’ Tim asks shyly.
‘Oh, Tim, you did so good!’
He looks ridiculously pleased with himself, standing there in his little suit, pink patches of pride in his cheeks.
I launch myself at him and he steps back. ‘I’m sorry, Tim,’ I say. ‘But I have to hug you.’
‘No good deed goes unpunished,’ he murmurs, as I clasp him.
‘Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!’ I can’t stop laughing. I’m really giddy. ‘You’re too funny.’ I plant a big red smacker on his cheek. ‘Thanks, Tim. Seriously. Thanks, Tim, thanks a million, trillion times.’
‘Welcome. And we’ll say no more about it.’
‘Money! How much do I owe you?’
He shakes his head. ‘It’s a present. Now, calm down, it’s time for work. Boardroom, Alastair and Amy.’
Oh, noes! It’s the last Monday of the month, so it’s our financial review. Where’s
my Nexium? Oh, my poor anxious stomach. I hate these meetings. We look at work generated, and by whom, because our income is allocated in a complex manner: the highest percentage goes to whichever of us actually brought in the work, but another percentage goes to the other two partners, then more is sliced off the top to pay Thamy, rent, airfares and all our other expenses. But, however we break it down, it’s never really enough.
‘Well?’ Anxiously Alastair and I look at Tim. ‘How bad is it?’
‘The figures are all there on your laptops,’ Tim says.
‘Just tell us.’
Tim reads accountancy reports like I read Grazia.
‘We’re doing better. Turnover is up eight per cent on last month and twenty-two per cent on this time last year, while our expenses have remained steady.’
‘What does that mean?’ I ask. ‘In actual money in my bank?’
‘You’re confusing turnover with cash flow,’ Tim says. ‘Turnover means nothing until people pay.’
‘Well, how do we make them pay?’
‘That’s why we have Thamy.’
Okay. I relax a little. Thamy takes shite from no one.
I return to my desk, just in time for Mum to ring. ‘I need you to mind that gomaloon tonight.’
‘Mum, I can’t. I’ve got to drop Sofie to her history tutor and collect her an hour later.’
‘So what am I meant to do?’
‘You’ve four other children. Ask Maura.’
‘Pop can’t stick Maura.’
‘Derry?’
‘She’s met a fella.’
‘Has she?’
‘Don’t get too excited. The poor schmuck will probably mispronounce “scone” and that’ll be the end of him.’
When did Mum start using words like ‘schmuck’?
‘How about Joe?’
Mum starts singing, ‘Oh, the fairy-tales of Ireland …’ This is to imply that Joe invents elaborate, transparent excuses whenever he’s asked to do something he doesn’t want to do, which is always.
‘Declyn?’ My voice is tentative.
‘But we couldn’t ask Declyn. He’s only young.’
‘He’s thirty-nine.’
‘That’s no age. Amy, it has to be you.’
Despair swamps me.
‘Amy, I’ll kill him if I don’t get out.’
I understand, I do. But I might kill him too. ‘Mum, seriously, I can’t, not tonight. If you gave me more notice … Look, try Declyn. Bye!’
37
Sixteen months ago
Josh Rowan dropped my arm like it was radioactive. ‘Join you? In your hotel room?’
‘Um, yes.’
‘For what?’
Christ, kill me now. Please. Just drop one of those giant chandeliers on my head. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Sorry, no, nothing, just …’ What the hell was I at? I was drunk, but drunk enough to proposition someone? ‘Forget I said anything.’ Jesus, let me die.
Too much time had been spent in my head, fantasizing and being mental. But fantasy had just crashed into reality, with mortifying results. I turned to move away and Josh grabbed my wrist, pulling me back to face him. ‘Amy, if you say something like that, you’ve got to mean it.’
Mutely I looked up at him.
‘So do you?’ he asked softly. ‘Mean it?’
I thought of Hugh and how lovely he was to me, of Marcia and her wood-burning stove, of going up in the lift with Josh Rowan, of the awkwardness of us arriving into the hotel room, of writhing around on the bed that so many others had writhed around on before us, of revealing my forty-three-year-old body to him … The entire montage was appalling.
‘No.’ I bowed my head.
Still holding my wrist he led me out of the ballroom and into the blazing light of the giant lobby. I went along obediently because I felt as contrite as a child.
Shame was my strongest emotion, deep shame. The fantasy man I’d been playing games with hadn’t been real, but this man was. It wasn’t right to throw out sexy invitations if I’d had no intention of going through with them.
‘What’s this all about?’ Josh asked.
What should I say? Should I tell him about the mild obsessing I’d been doing?
‘Let’s sit down a minute.’ We crossed the vast marble floor to a couch. I parked myself in a corner and Josh also sat, keeping a big distance between us.
When a waiter showed up with a tray, Josh said, ‘No thanks, mate.’ And only when the man had entirely gone did he focus on me and say, ‘So? What’s going on?’
‘I … ah … look.’ The only decent thing was to tell him the truth. ‘I got a … crush on you. That day, the day of Premilla’s interview.’
He looked at me for a long time. ‘You’re married.’
I covered my face with my hands. ‘I know. Please. I know. I love Hugh. I don’t know what I’m at.’
‘What would you have done if I’d said yes just now?’
I groaned again. ‘Probably bottled it before we’d even got as far as the lift.’ Fresh shame washed over me. ‘Maybe I just wanted some attention – I wanted to know what you’d say. Could we pretend this never happened?’ Because now my worry was about how this would impact on me professionally as well as personally. What if Josh Rowan told every journalist in London about it? It would destroy a lot of the respect that I – and Tim and Alastair – had worked so hard to build up. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘It’s way out of character for me. Probably some sort of mid-life thing. Peri-menopause, maybe – apparently it sends people a bit insane.’
‘It’s okay, Amy, pet,’ he said. ‘We’re all only human.’ Oh, that accent.
‘Thanks.’ I breathed out, a long, shuddery exhalation. Then: ‘Would you have said yes?’
His eyes met mine. ‘Yes.’
It was like receiving a jolt of electricity. I swallowed. ‘Right.’
‘It wasn’t an accident that I bumped into you.’ He nodded in the direction of the ballroom. ‘I’ve been counting the days.’
Fuck! It was the sort of thing he said in my fantasies. But now that it was being said in real life, it was scaring me witless.
‘I’ve been stalking you all evening.’
After some mute moments, I managed to say, ‘I’ve literally never played away.’
He smiled. A proper smile, not his usual lopsided, withholding one. ‘It’s sort of obvious.’
‘How about you? Have you …?’
Without speaking, he nodded.
‘A lot?’
‘No … But sometimes.’
I felt sick – offended, jealous, ashamed. I wanted him to be faithful to Marcia. And I wanted him to want me. But he couldn’t do both. ‘Josh. I’m going outside now for a cigarette. Alone.’
‘I could have lied,’ he said.
‘It’s not that.’ Well, it wasn’t just that. It was me as much as him. I couldn’t handle this version of myself. ‘But, really, I need a cigarette.’
‘Okay. But when you get home to your husband,’ he said, ‘make sure he knows what a hot wife he has. Right, I’d better get back inside. I might have won something.’
‘Oh, Christ, sorry!’
‘That was a joke. Unless there’s a prize for most undermined editor in Britain.’
My smile wobbled off my face and he was gone.
Right, where were my smokes? My sparkly clutch bag was ridiculously tinchy, but my little nicotine sticks were proving elusive … As I rummaged, something made me look up. It was Tim, he’d emerged from the ballroom and was standing with his back to the door, watching me.
My heart banged. How long had he been there? Long enough, if the hard stare he gave Josh as he scooted by was any indication.
All thoughts of cigarettes vanished, and my heels clattered on the marble as I hurried across to Tim.
‘What was that about?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’
He looked sceptical.
‘Really, honestly, nothing.’ I was choosing to trust that Josh would
keep a lid on this.
‘That was Josh Rowan from the Herald, right?’
‘Right. But there’s nothing going on.’
He still looked suspicious but there was no way I was telling Tim: we didn’t have that sort of relationship. Also he might be furious with me for potentially damaging Hatch’s reputation. What an omnishambles …
38
Friday, 30 September, day eighteen
Once again it’s Friday. Hugh has been gone over two weeks now and this last week has felt like an assault course: laundry, cooking, supervising homework, airport, London, meetings, airport, staggering in exhausted on Wednesday night to find Neeve and Kiara almost incoherent with horror because the Wi-Fi wasn’t working and they thought I – me! – would know how to fix it. That was the point where I thought the week couldn’t get any worse, but then Mum nabbed me for unexpected Pop-sitting on Thursday night.
Professionally, the week hasn’t been a total bust: finally, after sending her on a series of soup runs designed to humble her, Room has decided to take on Tabitha Wilson as their new ambassador and tasked me with grooming her for a big, glitzy press launch in six weeks’ time.
But infusing every single event and encounter with a type of sepia dread is Hugh’s absence. And now Alastair wants to know what delights the weekend holds for me.
‘Oh, you know, going to Tesco’s, doing the finances, cleaning the house, being the prize attraction at the cinema club on Sunday – fun times all the way.’
‘Anything nice at all? What about Derry?’
‘Busy. Riding. She’s got a new man.’
‘Has she? It won’t last, though, it never does. She and I are very similar …’
‘No, you totally aren’t. You’re never without a girl.’
‘I’ve none at the moment, if you don’t mind. I’m holding out for someone special. My therapist says –’
I snigger. Then, ‘Sorry, Alastair.’
‘What’s wrong with having a therapist? I’m committed to changing for the better!’
‘I am sorry. I don’t know why it made me laugh. It’s not as funny as the time you had your colours done. I’m not myself, Al. Please forgive me.’
‘Okay.’ Never holds a grudge, Alastair, you can say that about him. ‘So how about Posh Petra? Or Steevie? Could you do something nice with them?’