The Day I Lost You: A heartfelt, emotion-packed, twist-filled read. Fionnuala Kearney
a woman Anna couldn’t stand, taking over from Nanny Jess. Memories of long-gone rows I had with Anna about the father of her child surface. I am, I fear, about to be punished for never really liking him.
‘Over my dead body.’ I hiss the words and shut the door. With my back against the panels, I see Rose standing there, looking at me, her eyes wide and frozen in her tiny face. I hold out my arms and she runs into them. Silently, I promise her I will never let her go. Never.
Raw Honey Blogspot 13/06/2013
Earlier today I was stopped in the street and asked if I’d take part in a television interview where they were wondering what it’s like to live and date in London. I told them, sure, I’m happy to be asked what it’s like to live and date in London.
So, with no prep whatsoever, this gorgeous young interviewer called Faye waved a big mic at me and said, ‘So, here we have X, who we’ve just met. X, tell us, what’s it like living and dating in London?’
So I did. I told her. I told her and her viewing public that it’s shit. That it’s impossible to meet someone in London. I’m a young, healthy, heterosexual woman and any man I’m ever interested in is either gay, living with someone, deeply involved with someone or married. There are no single worthy men. I’ve tried dating the allegedly worthy younger men and, trust me, they’re only interested in a quick fuck or they’re dull. And older men are gay or married.
After she laughed nervously, she asked me if I’m interested in meeting a life-mate going forward and if I’d consider online dating?
So, with no prep whatsoever, I laughed in Faye’s face and told her that I’d already tried online dating, which just confirmed for me that any interesting men are gay or married. Take Marcus, for example, I told her. We dated a few times before I found out he was already hitched. To be fair he did tell me, but, as I said, only after we went out a few times, so I said ‘Goodbye Marcus’. Then Leo. Leo was definitely not sure which way he bent and I told him I’d rather not be an experiment, thanks very much. Or of course, I told the lovely Faye, there’s always Tinder. I asked her if she’s tried the swiping phenomenon. Tinder, I told her, has the most expressive text language. There’s no foreplay; someone might just say, ‘You know you want to – just tug on my bone’, or how about ‘Wanna sit on my face?’, my most recent offering. I deliberately look into camera, tell them that dating in today’s world, and let’s not blame London, is a hoot. Great fun.
Faye finished up gaping at me like a salmon struggling upstream. Her cameraman, thankfully, had stopped filming way before I stopped talking.
Then I told her that monogamy is an outdated idea anyway.
When I got to work I cried like a baby.
It’s been over for a very long time now and still, I miss Him. I try to avoid seeing Him at all costs because it’s HARD. It is really hard.
Here are the things I just miss:
His feather touch.
His voice. (He can’t sing but He has the loveliest speaking voice.)
The sex. (With Him, He only has to touch me and I almost come. He’s ruined me for any other man. No one comes close. Forgive the pun, dear readers … )
His jokes. (They’re awful; so old school, but they make me laugh.)
Those lazy bed days. (There were never enough, but when we managed to snatch one together, usually in a small hotel on the river near Marlow – well, neither of us ever wanted to leave.)
His calls. (He would call me most days; fill me in on his day, ask me about mine.)
His hugs.
His kiss.
And the things I don’t miss:
The fact that I could never just ‘be’ with Him in public.
The fact that He has a lovely wife.
The fact that I had to lie to people I love.
The fact that we could probably never be together. Not really. Not in a ‘Hey, babe, I’m home, I’ve had a tough day, let’s just cuddle up on our sofa?’ kind of way. We could never have that.
And, see, that’s really what I want.
Comment: Hieroglyphic 24
What a load of tosh! I’m single, living in London, heterosexual and interesting. Want my number?
Reply: Honey-girl
Hmm. No. You’re all right.
Comment: Anonymous
He’s married?
Reply: Honey-girl
Afraid so …
‘Charles Everard is insisting on seeing you. He’s refused to let the carers in and won’t accept anybody else. Will you have time to slip by and see him after morning surgery?’ Sarah, Theo’s PA, spoke through his open door and above the sounds of the busy waiting room opposite.
Theo looked at his watch, just as his mobile phone rang, his home number showing up on the display. He nodded agreement at Sarah, gestured to her to close the door behind her and answered his phone.
‘Bea, everything okay?’ It was, he realized, the first time she had ever called him, and coming so soon after his discussion with Finn, his heart was in his mouth.
‘Everything good, Theo. You wish I do shop for you?’ Bea’s English, though certainly better than his Spanish, sometimes left him feeling like he was playing charades.
‘Food,’ she continued. ‘You wish I get big food?’
She was offering to do the weekly food shop. He rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb and sighed. The cupboards were indeed bare. He just didn’t seem to have the time to do everything he always did and add in the things Harriet used to do too. Everything food-related had been her domain. Since she had left, quick meals had been the order of the day, except on those rare occasions when he’d had time to buy fresh food, in which case Bea would always cook.
Her doing the food shopping made perfect sense. She had use of the car, the one Harriet hadn’t taken to London with her. Why not? Promising that he would drop some money off to her at lunchtime, he hung up the phone, trying not to think about how even buying food looked different since Harriet left.
Thirty minutes later he was driving to seventy-year-old Charles Everard’s house. Once a well-known artist, the man had lost his wife to cancer nine months earlier. Since then, he had been depressed, telling Theo that the light had gone out in his life. A recurring, chronic leg ulcer meant he had also been housebound for weeks, which didn’t help.
After the third knock on the door, Mr Everard answered. ‘Thanks for coming, Doc,’ he said, allowing Theo to pass by him along a narrow hallway lined with stacks of old magazines.
‘Bad day, Charles?’ he asked.
‘All bad days,’ his patient muttered in between bouts of spluttering.
‘That sounds rough; we’d better have a look at that chest.’ Theo watched as Charles took a seat in the only free chair in his living room, the sofa obscured by books and canvases and scattered painting-related paraphernalia. The television was on; a documentary about monkeys had been muted and Theo was momentarily distracted by primates scurrying across the screen. When he turned