You, Me and Other People. Fionnuala Kearney
is. ‘Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?’
Meg seems to ignore the question.
‘Meg?’
She lifts her eyes to mine. ‘Would you?’ she says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s not the first time, is it, Dad?’
I flinch. My past is obviously now out there for debate by all and sundry, but I find myself unable to answer the question. I try to imagine how I’d feel if the roles had been reversed. Not nice, more stomach-churning, and I wonder why I do what I do. Why I can hurt the people I love, why I assume forgiveness should be their first port of call. My brain nudges images of my parents forward, and I’m reminded how their tutoring meant I was always expected to do the forgiving. I close my eyes …
‘I didn’t think so.’ Meg returns to Ted Bundy, preferring the antics of a serial killer to occupy the space in her head.
Just as I think I couldn’t possibly sink lower in my daughter’s eyes, the expression on her face when she opens the door to my brother Ben’s flat with her spare key tells me otherwise. Emma has got there before us.
‘Darling! I’ve been so worried.’ Emma leaps from the sofa, which is visible from the front door. She sees Meg immediately and I watch her face process the facts, putting two and two together. ‘Your keys …’ She points to my jacket and the rest of the clothes she’s returned, my CK jocks taking pride of place on top of the pile. ‘They were in your pocket. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Well, it seems you’ll be okay from here.’ Meg turns to leave.
‘Don’t go.’ I grab her jumper.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she hisses.
My fingers immediately release her.
‘It’s good to meet you, Meg.’ Emma tries. ‘I’m sorry it’s under such strange circumstances.’ She raises both her shoulders upwards.
Meg nods in her direction, then bolts.
‘Darling,’ Emma repeats as the door closes. She nuzzles into my neck. ‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry. I don’t know what came over Harold. I left him with Alan, told him to think about his behaviour, told him I expect him to apologize to you.’
I can see both our reflections in the tall windows of the living room. The sliding door to the tiny balcony is open and I can hear the sounds of the busy road below. In the glass, Emma’s tall body almost dwarfs mine as she holds me. I see myself, a forty-three-year-old idiot with a gash in his head.
‘I am just so angry all the time.’ I try to explain. ‘Angry and frightened and confused …’ I tell her that Karen came around with her builder brother, Brian, and they fitted a punchbag in the garage.
She grins. ‘Have you used it yet?’
‘Oh yes.’ I hold my hand out to show her the tiny bruise on the second knuckle of my right hand. ‘I convinced myself I was working out, but actually I have a picture of Adam on it.’
‘So, why exactly are you angry, Beth?’ She puts it so simply that I find myself getting annoyed at her too.
‘I’m angry because my dickwit of a husband cheated on me. I’m angry because I bet he’s stupid enough to think he’s in love. I’m angry because his fragile forty-three-year-old male ego needs to be massaged by another woman. I am angry because he’s greedy, immature and selfish. I’m angry at myself because I forgave him once before when he was greedy, immature and selfish, and I’m angry because he’s made us just another statistic.’ Tears pool in my eyes and I reach for the tissue she hands me.
‘Before, you know, it took ages … It was only a one-night stand, at least that’s what he swore to me, but it took a long time to rebuild that trust again.’
Caroline is still handing me tissues. ‘Research shows,’ she says, ‘that it takes between one and three years to recover from a breach of loyalty within a marriage, so why do you think he did it again?’
‘Because he could? Because he’s a bastard? I don’t know, are you trying to say that this could be my fault; something I didn’t see?’
‘No, no, of course not, but if you raise the point, is it valid?’
Now, I’m furious. I resist the urge to march out through the door and never come back. But something keeps me here, rooted to the chair, and she at least has the grace to avoid my eyes. Silence.
The fact is, she’s right. There were signs. We weren’t as physically close as usual and he seemed uncommunicative, emotionally detached for months before the night I found out. I ignored it. I can feel my neck colour, feel my part in this whole mess crawl up my face. My defences are now on red alert. Since when has it become my burden to stop my husband dropping his pants?
‘Apparently,’ I break the silence, ‘somewhere between fifty and seventy per cent of married men have an affair at some time, as opposed to between twenty and forty per cent for women? A lot of marriages survive and, of those that don’t, up to eighty per cent of those who divorce over an affair regret their decision.’ I am armed with my own research, compliments of a survey in a trashy magazine.
Caroline nods sagely.
‘So, without going all Mars and Venus on me, why is it, Dr Gothenburg, that men are bigger fuckers, literally?’
A hint of a smile. ‘Well, evolutionary psychology says that men are predisposed to spread their seed but, if we bring evolution into it, historically women would have feared sex more because of the possibility of pregnancy, so maybe they just didn’t indulge as willingly, who knows?’ she finishes, shaking her head.
‘Or maybe they’re just greedy, immature and selfish?’ I say, and we laugh together.
My agent Josh has an office just off Soho Square. He rents first-floor space in a dilapidated old building and insists the building’s more ‘shabby’ and less ‘chic’ appearance is a must for ‘creatives’. He’s asked me in for coffee, which will accompany a good portion of the ‘Now, this is what we’re going to do about your career’ chat. I’m sitting opposite him in his favourite old leather Conran chair. I only know Terence Conran designed it because Josh tells me he did. On the low-slung coffee table in between us is the predictable array of tiny pastries. In my hand is a hot mug of Arabica roast with lashings of frothy milk. In the thirteen years I have known Josh, we have never consumed anything together other than cake and coffee.
He starts the ‘chat’ by bringing me up to speed on the sales of ‘Missing’, which are better than I’d expected. He confirms that two Nashville publishers have options on three other songs. My eyebrows rise: this is all good news, really good news, so I reach for a Danish. Then he tells me about the fact that he’s been approached for me to write a song for a movie. I put the Danish down and listen.
‘It’s all hush-hush for now.’ He taps the end of his nose with his forefinger. ‘But they’re looking at three UK writers and you’re one of them.’
I nod, feeling excited, so I pick up the cake again, allowing myself a small swirly bit. It tastes like sugary paste. I’ve been here before, supposedly shortlisted, presented newly written material, only to be told: maybe next time; not quite what we were looking for.
‘Think “Twilight”,’ Josh adds. He wanders around the office, searching in various different piles of paper for something. Upstairs the sound of a lunchtime soap’s theme music vibrates through the floorboards. ‘Which movie was it? You know, the one with Bella’s wedding to the Dracula guy?’
I smile. ‘Not Dracula, Edward.’
‘Edward,