‘And what happened?’
He shrugs. ‘I wrote movie scripts, lots of them. I even got an agent. But nothing ever came of any of it.’
‘Nothing?’
He sighs. ‘Producers took meetings with me. They’d ask for changes to my script and I’d do them. Then they’d ask for more changes. Or something else would get made that was too similar to my stuff. Or they just lost interest.’
I tighten my hold on him.
‘The ten years between twenty-one and thirty-one were just one knockback after another. In the early days I was surprised that not everyone got my genius but I was young and thought I was God so I rolled with the punches. But it kind of all caught up with me eventually and collapsed the whole stupid dream, and I saw that I’d never be good enough.’
I don’t know what to say that doesn’t sound patronizing.
‘And now I’m middle-aged and it’s a hard thing, knowing that my glittering future is far behind me. That it never actually happened.’
‘You’re not middle-aged. That concept doesn’t really exist any longer, does it?’
He gives me a look. ‘Oh, believe me, it does.’
‘But …’ And there’s nothing I can actually say.
‘I had to make peace with none of my dreams coming true. That wasn’t easy.’
‘But you have good things in your life. Your –’ I’d been about to say ‘wife and kids’ but stop myself in time. ‘You’ve a great job at the Herald. Being features editor.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ he mutters.
‘Wha-at? You get pride, satisfaction from it? Don’t you?’
‘I hate it.’
Christ. Everyone complains about their job, me included, but I thought a fair bit of Josh’s sense of self was tied up in his.
‘I hate the internal politicking,’ Josh says. ‘I hate the shite we publish. I hate the damage we do with our post-truth facts.’
Oh, my God …
‘And the worst thing is that I can’t complain – I’m one of the lucky ones with a job that pays okay.’
‘So that’s good.’ My voice is small.
‘I’m trapped. I’ve two kids, a mortgage, the usual.’ He sighs heavily. ‘I’m a mediocre middle-aged man. Look, Sackcloth, I’m not complaining. I’m no different to anyone else. Everyone slams up against these truths sooner or later.’
I don’t know what to say. I’d known he wasn’t ecstatic about his life choices but that he carries so much disillusionment is a shock to me.
‘I look at the rest of my life,’ he says. ‘I’m forty-two, and there’s nothing good ahead. I’ll just keep trudging through, being mediocre, fighting with Marcia, wishing the kids would leave home and be financially independent, but they won’t be, not the way that twenty-first-century capitalism works. Everything will go on being exactly the same until I get Alzheimer’s, like my dad, then die.’
I swallow hard.
‘All we can do,’ he says, ‘is take our hope and happiness where we can.’
I’m guessing that’s what I am to him.
‘What about you, Sackcloth?’
‘I’m probably the same.’ Although nothing like as depressed as he so clearly is.
‘What was your big dream?’
It’s hard to rally but I make myself, because this has to be rescued before we both drown in the brutally cold waters of reality. ‘I wanted to do something arty. Like design clothes or work in interiors. But I never did anything about it and now it’s never going to happen.’
‘I’m not even going to bullshit you and say, “It’s never too late,” ’ he says. ‘Because nothing happens for people our age. It happens young or it doesn’t happen at all.’
But not everyone can be Angela Merkel or Malala or Beyoncé, most of us have to be ordinary. If there weren’t so many ordinary people, the extraordinary ones wouldn’t stand out. And that’s okay with me, it’s not painful, or nothing like as painful as it clearly is for him.
‘Valentine’s Day is coming up.’ Abruptly he changes the subject. ‘Let’s go away for a couple of days.’
I’d read some article in Grazia about a woman who lived in Manchester having an affair with a man from Düsseldorf. Every month they’d meet in some city – Amsterdam, Prague, Madrid – stay in a fancy hotel, shag each other’s brains out, eat strawberries, drink Champagne and do some light luxury shopping, before returning home, sated and happy, to their clueless spouses. For a moment I wonder if I could emulate her. Mind you, I’d need better luggage …
Then sanity prevails. ‘Josh, get a hold of yourself. There isn’t money.’ Then, more gently, ‘It’s your wife you should be taking away for Valentine’s Day.’
‘I want to go with you, Sackcloth.’ He’s narky.
‘You can’t.’
‘It’d be hard to find a location grim enough to accommodate you and your guilt,’ he says. ‘Won’t stop me trying.’
‘I’m not going,’ I say. ‘And don’t ask me again.’
‘Why? Planning to go away with Hugh?’
‘Stop it.’ Now I’m genuinely upset. ‘Hugh and I are over.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Entirely. And please stop asking me about it, Josh. I don’t like it.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ Then, ‘I’ve been thinking. To save money, instead of coming here every Tuesday we could go to your friend’s house? Druzie?’
No. Absolutely not. It’s Druzie’s home he’s talking about. Okay, she’s not always there, but sometimes she is. Me and Josh going at it hammer and tongs in the spare room, while Druzie does her laundry and cooks dinner, a few feet away? No. Wrong, every bit of it. I’d feel ill-mannered, ashamed, and like all boundaries were shot to hell.
102
Tuesday, 24 January
A week passes – another seven grim, gruelling January days – during which a grit of worry snags its rough way into my heart: I’m fretting about Josh.
The last thing I want is another mention of us moving our Tuesday nights to Druzie’s flat. There’s a world of difference between a night in a hotel and a night in a friend’s spare bedroom. One feels acceptable, but the other feels … sordid. This week we’ve just rolled away from each other, panting and gasping, when he says, ‘How often is your mate Druzie in London?’
My heart plummets, like a stone off a cliff.
‘Did you hear me?’ he asks.
‘Josh. It can’t happen. It would be wrong.’ He doesn’t speak, so I add, ‘I can’t do it.’
After a lengthy spell of silence he says bullishly, ‘Will you come away with me for Valentine’s Day?’
‘Josh.’
‘What?’
‘No. The answer is no. Please don’t do this. Our time together is so short.’
He sighs, lifts his pillow from behind his head, punches it into shape, slings it back on the bed and flops down on to it. He sighs again, and I start wondering if I should leave. What’s to be gained by lying here with my stomach on fire with dread?
‘Hey,’ he says, and I jump. ‘Is that your mum who was in today’s Mail? The one who got inked? Is that your daughter’s site?’
‘Oh. Yes. Right. It is.’ God, Josh knows about it!
‘I recognized her name.’ He’s smiling now. ‘You must be really proud.’
‘Ah, yeah.’ In the eight days since the Guardian first picked up on the vlog, Neeve and Mum have got a lot of attention. ‘It’s been lovely. Neeve has worked so hard. And now she’s gone viral – well viral-ish. Zoella has no immediate cause for worry. It’s great.’
‘Maybe I should have a word with my team.’ He gives me a sly smile. ‘We could pull off a juicy exclusive, seeing as I have unparalleled access to a member of the family.’
‘You’d want to be quick about it.’ I’m glad his mood has improved. ‘They’re going on This Morning on Friday, and after that, maybe even I’ll have to make an appointment to speak to them.’
103
Friday, 27 January
br /> ‘So you spent a lot of your life in hospital?’ Holly Willoughby gently questions Mum.
It’s Friday morning and Alastair, Tim, Thamy and I have the telly on in the office to see Mum and Neeve being interviewed on This Morning.
‘Locmof looks fantastic,’ Alastair says.
Locmof does look fantastic – blonde and pretty in a shirt-and-skirt combo that is an outrageous Gucci copy.
‘All told,’ Mum says, ‘I probably wasn’t in hospital that long, but whenever I was discharged, I knew it was just a matter of time before I was readmitted.’
‘How did that affect you?’ Phillip Schofield chips in.
‘I suppose … it made me into a bit of a scaredy-cat,’ Mum says.
‘Scaredy-cat!’ Alastair yelps. ‘Love that word.’
‘What was life like as a scaredy-cat?’ Phillip asks.
‘I never took part in anything,’ Mum says. ‘There were things I wanted to do but I thought there was no point.’
‘Look at her,’ Alastair says, with huge admiration. ‘Sitting there, chatting away, not a bother on her.’
‘And what were some of those things you’d wanted to do?’ Phillip had clearly been primed for a researched ‘funny moment’.
‘I wanted to be a drummer in a band,’ Mum admitted, with a delightful little blush. ‘Girl drummers are cool.’
‘And all around the British Isles,’ Alastair says, ‘millions of people have just fallen in love.’
For some reason I’m finding him wildly annoying.
‘And you, Neeve?’ Holly says. ‘Your dad is none other than Richie Aldin.’ Quickly she adds for those who wouldn’t know, and that would be just about everyone, ‘He played for Rotherham United in the nineties. So you’re no stranger to fame?’
‘Weeell …’ poor Neevey has to dissemble madly ‘… Dad always stayed beneath the radar.’
‘He certainly stayed beneath our radar, Neevey,’ I yell at the telly. ‘The giant colossal arse.’
‘So!’ Phillip takes over, when they realize there’s no point mining the ‘famous connection’ seam. ‘Your YouTube channel, I can’t say the name, because it contains a naughty word!’ A little light-hearted finger-wagging. ‘Let’s just say it rhymes with “itch”. We’ve a couple of clips here.’
‘This is great for Neeve,’ Tim says, and suddenly I’m furious with him too. I know it’s great for Neeve, I understand how publicity works.
The segment finishes with Mum rolling up the sleeve of her Gucci-knock-off shirt and displaying her inking.
‘No regrets?’ Holly asks her.
‘None!’ Mum is passionate. ‘Life is for living. Never let anyone tell you you’re too old. If you want to do something, do it now because you might not get your chance again.’
‘Wise words indeed.’ Phillip is pulling the piece to a close. ‘And now over to our kitchen where …’
‘She’s an effing star,’ is Alastair’s conclusion. ‘An inspiration and a star.’
‘Who represents her?’ Mrs EverDry demands. At our blank faces she increases the volume. ‘Who? Is? Her? Agent?’
When Alastair, Tim and I remain flummoxed, Mrs EverDry narrows her eyes. ‘You mean she isn’t with a talent agency?’
‘She’s just my mum,’ I say, with a little too much attitude.
Slowly, and with contempt, Mrs EverDry spells it out. ‘Lilian O’Connell is a. Phen. Om. En. On.’
Mum? She’s a five-minute wonder that could only have happened in January.
‘Call yourselves a PR agency? Jesus Christ, as soon as I’ve the money I’m going elsewhere. You three gligeens couldn’t organize a piss-up in a drinks cabinet.’
‘Mrs Mullen –’ Alastair makes an ameliorative move towards her.
‘How continent is she?’ Mrs EverDry barks at me.
‘You mean is she incontinent? How the hell would I know?’
‘She could pretend,’ Tim says.
‘Is she short of money?’ Mrs EverDry demands. ‘Everyone could do with a few bob, right?’
I don’t reply and Alastair throws me a confused look. ‘I think,’ he says cautiously, ‘Lilian just wants to have fun.’
‘And we have our strap-line right there. “Girls just wanna have fun.” Swear to God!’ Mrs EverDry is in a fury, perhaps even worse than mine, but at least hers is justified. ‘Why the hell am I paying ye when I’m pulling this entire campaign together all by myself?’
‘What about men?’ Tim asks. ‘The incontinent men? Men won’t buy things marketed at women.’
‘Most men don’t buy anything. It’s their misfortunate wives who have to go to the shops. Anyway, I’m thinking of doing specific male-friendly packaging, a nice dark grey shade to soak up all those manly wees. Then there’s always Pierce Brosnan.’
‘P-Pierce Brosnan?’
‘I’m still holding out hope that he’ll fall on hard times and finally answer my emails.’
‘Alastair,’ I say, through gritted teeth. ‘We’re not a talent agency.’
‘We could be, though,’ he says. ‘I don’t mean full-time, but we can manage Locmof while she’s the face of EverDry. Should I say face or bladder?’
‘For the love of Christ! Are these lights ever going to change?’ We’re in my car, en route to Mum and Pop’s house. Mrs EverDry’s visit put a rocket under us and Alastair begged for the chance to work with Mum so he’s gatecrashing the O’Connell Friday dinner.
‘Amy, are you okay?’
‘Grand,’ I snap.
‘You know anger is one of the phases of grief?’
‘Oh, shut up, would you? I’m just tired!’
‘Okay. Tired. Fine. So who’s going to be there this evening?’
‘Derry’s night, so everyone.’
‘Jesus … Locmof, your hot sister, the saucy sister-in-law, Siena – is that her name?’
‘You behave yourself out there.’
‘Course I will.’ He flips down the sun visor, opens the mirror and tweaks his hair. I itch to slap him.
Neeve has the front door open before we’ve even got out of the car. ‘Whooah!’ she exclaims, at the sight of Alastair. ‘Silver fox!’
‘Hey there, Neevey.’ He struts – yes, actually struts – into the hall and treats her to The Smile. ‘You were awesome on the tellybox this morning.’
‘I’m made of awesome.’
She colours and I think, Oh, get a grip, he’s just a preening man-boy.
Now he’s moved on to Mum. ‘Lilian O’Connell, mother of five,’ he murmurs. ‘It’s an honour.’ He kisses her hand.
‘Wh-who are you?’ Mum seems overwhelmed. ‘Amy’s new boyfriend?’
‘Hardly!’ I bark.
‘No need to take my head off!’ Mum says. ‘You could do worse.’
‘I’m Alastair Donovan. I work with Amy.’
‘Your suit is nice.’
‘Alastair!’ Maura’s got wind of his presence and rounds on me, Mum and Neeve. ‘Don’t keep him standing in the hall! Come in, Alastair, come in!’
Alastair is dragged into the jam-packed sitting room, where his glamorous presence electrifies all present. Pip and Finn are frozen with awe, Dominik assumes a suspicious crouching aspect, as though he might have to tackle someone, and Pop yells, ‘WHO THE HELL IS THE FILLUM STAR?’
‘This is Alastair,’ Maura introduces him to the room. ‘He’s Amy’s boss.’
‘He’s not my boss!’
Then something unimaginable happens – The Poor Bastard speaks. ‘Hello.’ His voice is scratchy, as though it hasn’t been used in some time, but he’s definitely made a noise.
Only Derry hangs back, wearing a cool, not-exactly-pleasant smile. Well, well, well. She’s going to cop off with Alastair …
If Neeve doesn’t get there first.
They’re welcome to each other. All of them. Whatever I mean.
Without pleasantries, I hoosh Neeve, Mum and Alastair up to the bedroom and the Floods’ Wi-Fi, then listen with a sour expression as A
lastair lovebombs Mum, telling her how great she is at everything and how much money she’d make. But Mum isn’t keen on being the EverDry ambassador. ‘I like doing the vlogs with Neevey. We have fun.’
‘You can still do Neeve’s vlogs, Lilian. The EverDry campaign wouldn’t be a full-time job.’
‘But incontinence … It’s embarrassing. And wouldn’t I be a bit young?’
‘I take your point, Lilian,’ Alastair says. ‘Absolutely, of course, but all ads use younger models to sell to their older target market.’
‘I can’t imagine that people often say no to you,’ Mum says. ‘But I think I have to.’
Once again, for the billionth time in my life, she breaks my heart. ‘Okay, Alastair.’ I stand up. ‘We’re done here.’
‘Are you leaving?’ Mum asks. ‘But it’s Derry’s night.’
‘Yep. Leaving.’
‘But your special bread?’
‘Fuck the bread. Come on, Alastair.’
‘He can stay and have your dinner,’ Neeve says.
‘Yeah,’ I say unpleasantly. ‘Fill your boots, Alastair. But I’m off.’
‘Amy?’ Mum sounds anxious. ‘Would it help you, professionally, like, if I did the incontinent thing?’
‘Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head about that.’
‘Ehhhhh, on second thoughts,’ she stumbles over the words, ‘I’ve decided to do it. You got a raw deal from me when you were growing up, you all did.’ She watches me intently, hoping I’ll play nice. ‘And maybe with the extra money coming in, we could ask Dominik if he’d be exclusive with us.’
‘Exclusive.’ Neeve nudges Mum and they topple around the place, laughing at the thought of being exclusive with Dominik.
Christ, they’re pathetic.
104
Saturday, 28 January
I’m way down in the bliss of sleep when the doorbell rings. I’ll ignore it. Even though it’s Saturday, I’d spent the morning working on the paperwork to fast-track Mum’s ambassadorship and then I hit a wall, suddenly so knackered that I got into bed and fell asleep.