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‘Okay, I suppose,’ she replies flatly.
Well, I’m not okay, I want to shout. I’m not fucking okay at all. I rake back my hair from my clammy forehead.
‘Where’s Flynn?’ she asks.
‘Upstairs. I thought maybe we could have a chat first, just so we can work out what we’re going to say—’
‘Nate, I told you already, I really want him to be here too. I think that’s fairer. Don’t you?’
‘Yes, all right.’ Just agree to everything she says and maybe this’ll blow over.
She turns towards the living room door. ‘Flynn?’ she calls out pleasantly. ‘Could you come downstairs please, love?’
‘Darling, I just want to say, we don’t have to do this,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry for, well, whatever it is, but—’ I break off. Flynn’s footsteps are audible on the stairs, and he appears, hair rumpled, eyes rather sore-looking and pink. Oh, God, he’s been crying. No one likes seeing a small child upset – but it’s worse when they’re older, as it’s generally rarer and suggests something more serious.
Flynn and his mum fling their arms around each other and hold each other tightly. ‘Oh, darling,’ she murmurs.
‘Mum,’ he croaks. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, sweetheart, as long as you are …’ There’s no awkward ironing-board hug this time.
After what feels like a week they peel apart, and both settle on the sofa, jammed together, while I perch on the far end and stare at my shoes. And out it all comes:
‘The thing is, Flynn, love, I’ve decided me and Dad aren’t right together anymore. I know this is so hard for you to hear, but I want you to understand that it’s nothing to do with you. It’s about me and Dad …’
Flynn nods mutely. He is actually letting her hold his hand. I haven’t been allowed to do that since he was about eight years old.
‘We’ve, I don’t know – grown apart over the years, I suppose,’ she continues, with only the slightest tremor in her voice, ‘and I haven’t been happy for quite a long time. I’ve thought about it long and hard, and I could stay, pretending everything’s fine, until you leave home and have your own independent adult life.’ She stops, blinking rapidly, and clears her throat. ‘But that would be dishonest, wouldn’t it? To you, me and Dad?’
She addresses Flynn throughout all of this. I might as well not be here. I am just a passive observer.
‘Yeah,’ Flynn murmurs, ‘I s’pose it would.’
‘So I need to be true to myself,’ she goes on, ‘which means I’ll be staying at Abby’s for a while, then I’ll probably look around for a flat of my own …’
Oh, Jesus God. My heart is banging so hard it feels as if it could burst out of my chest.
‘… which of course you’ll be welcome to stay at any time. You’ll have your own room there, it’ll be your home too …’
Our son nods, lips pressed together, as Sinead continues: ‘I hope you understand why I’m doing this, honey. I’m sorry I won’t be here with you all the time, but this is your home, it’s where you belong – with Dad and Scout.’
‘Yeah,’ Flynn says in a gravelly voice. He’s being brave, so bloody brave it rips at my insides. Even braver than when he went for surgery when he was nine, to improve his gait, and lay there with one hand tightly clutching mine (maybe that’s the last time we held hands?), the other stuffed into his beloved Mr Fox glove puppet, just before he was given the general anaesthetic. Although he’d long since given up on taking Mr Fox everywhere, on this occasion I’d suggested the puppet might like to come along too. Flynn had agreed that that was an excellent idea. I knew he was scared about ‘going to sleep’, although he was determined not to show it. His jaw was set firm, the small hand gripping mine slick with sweat. Sinead had waited outside the operating theatre as she couldn’t face seeing him go under.
‘Nothing’s going to change, Flynn,’ she explains now. ‘You can still phone or text me any time, and come over every day if you like – after school, maybe? Or pop into the shop and we’ll get a milkshake from that cafe across the road?’
‘That’d be nice,’ he mumbles.
A milkshake! If I’d suggested that, he’d have laughed in my face. I try to rub at my eyes surreptitiously. Actually, the two of them are so locked in their exchange, his tousled head resting on her shoulder now, I could probably have a cardiac arrest without worrying either of them unduly.
Then before I know it she is gathering herself up to leave, and Flynn has given her one last hug and shot off back to his room. I have said virtually nothing to her, and, quite rightly, she addressed her entire spiel to our son.
‘What about your stuff?’ I ask as I see her out.
‘Erm, I took some clothes and a few other bits and pieces when I came over at lunchtime,’ she replies, ‘and I’ll deal with the rest some other time, probably when you’re both out.’ I catch her swallowing hard. ‘It might be easier that way.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ I reply dully.
‘You’re okay with me hanging onto a key for now?’
‘Of course, yes.’
She looks around for Scout, who trots towards her. ‘I’ll need one anyway, while I’m still walking Scout …’
‘Yeah, I guess so …’
‘Okay, then …’ A sense of awkwardness hangs between us.
‘Um, I could get a dog walker,’ I suggest, ‘if it’s easier for you?’
She touches my arm in a way that is utterly devoid of affection. ‘Let’s say I’ll just do it for now, okay? Bye, Nate.’
‘Bye, love,’ I croak.
She opens the door and steps outside. I have to say, I’m almost impressed by the speed and efficiency of tonight’s proceedings, but then, that’s Sinead all over: a powerhouse. She neatly summed up my flaws on a sheet of A4 and is ready now to get on with the rest of her life, without me in it.
Incredibly, it seems that nineteen years of being together can all be undone in a little under twenty-five minutes. I stand at our front door, watching Sinead as she marches along our street, willing her to look back or, better still, to turn and run to me and throw herself into my arms, like she would if this were a film with any kind of decent end.
Instead, she climbs into her silver car, with a casualness that suggests she’s just nipping out to the supermarket, and drives away.
Chapter Six (#ulink_481ab494-8308-52f0-9de7-c0e1b724288f)
Sinead (#ulink_481ab494-8308-52f0-9de7-c0e1b724288f)
‘So, how did it go?’ Abby has arrived home from her shift as manager of the Lamb and Flag, one of Hesslevale’s most popular pubs.
‘Bloody awful.’ I pour a glass of wine from the bottle I picked up on my way home, and hand it to her. We settle on the sofa in her immaculate newly built home.
‘Oh, love,’ she murmurs. ‘It was never going to be easy, explaining it all face-to-face. But at least you’ve done it now, and he knows exactly how you feel. So maybe the worst part’s over.’
I grimace. Was that the worst part? I have no idea. All I know is that, two nights ago, it felt as if I had no choice but to leave him. With my heart rattling furiously, I’d glared at the packet of three wooden mousetraps I’d bought a week previously, knowing it would happen soon.
Flynn’s music had stopped upstairs, and all was quiet at 83 Allison Street. I poured myself a huge glass of wine and sat sipping it at the kitchen table, then refilled it. Drinking alone, on a Wednesday night – but no wonder. I sipped, and I waited, on high alert now – just like Nate must be every time he conducts a driving test. Then out one popped from under the microwave – a grey blur. I leapt up and screamed, knocking over my glass as the mouse darted across the worktop, skirting the packet of traps and disappearing behind the toaster.
Shaking, I snatched a ring-bound notebook from the cookbook shelf and hurried through to the living room. I’d bought the notebook for collecting recipes that both Nate and Flynn would appreciate because, God knows, it’s hard to please both of them. It even had divided sections for soups, mains, desserts. However, food was the last thing on my mind right then.
You might find it helpful to write down all the aspects you’re unhappy with …
I grabbed a pen, and opened the notebook which I’d bought with the intention of being a good wife and mother; a provider of wholesome fare.
Well, fuck that.
I started to write, and out it all poured, fuelled by L’Ondice lady petrol: all the minor faults, the major faults and everything in between. Of course, this wasn’t really about mousetraps, the occasional dog poo left on the lawn or any of that. It was years’ worth of stuff, tumbling out – about how Nate, who was supposed to love me, viewed me now. I used to be a person, supposedly with talent and an identity of my own, way back in some previous life. Jewellery was my passion; I was a silversmith. Things had taken off quickly after I’d graduated from art college; I’d been featured in glossy magazines and my pieces were being stocked by several major stores. I was, as one journalist put it, ‘a shining star of the jewellery world’. But not anymore. I was just there, keeping things going, invisible to the man I’d once loved.
‘How was Flynn, when you explained everything?’ Abby asks now.
‘On the surface, he took it pretty well,’ I reply. ‘I just sort of rattled it all out and he sat there in silence, taking it in. You know how he is, Abs. He puts a brave face on everything. And as for Nate …’
‘He’ll be okay eventually,’ she says gently, squeezing my hand. ‘But it’s going to take time. It’ll be tough on all of you, but you did what felt right.’
I nod. ‘Yes, but I’m a bloody idiot …’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘The way I tried to make things seem better for Flynn, you know? With promises of a room in the home I have yet to find—’
‘He’s always welcome here, you know that …’
‘Thank you. I do know, and I appreciate it so much.’ I pause and sip my wine. ‘I suggested we could get together over a milkshake. A milkshake!’ I repeat, sensing my cheeks burning. ‘What was I thinking? He’s sixteen years old!’
‘Hey,’ Abby says gently. ‘I bet he won’t mind what you do as long as you spend time together.’
‘That is, if he doesn’t hate me …’
‘Of course he won’t hate you,’ she exclaims. ‘Flynn adores you. Come on, this isn’t making you feel any better …’
‘I’m sorry, I just seem to offload to you all the time …’
‘Offload away,’ Abby says, smiling now. ‘You’ve done the same for me, plenty of times.’
I muster a smile too. ‘Well, I’m so grateful, Abs. You are brilliant, you know that?’
She shrugs off the compliment and pushes back her long blonde hair. Dressed in a simple black shift, with minimal make-up, her brand of pub manager is sleekly groomed rather than OTT glamour. Although she is very much my friend – the one she confided in during those failed rounds of IVF, and then her divorce – I first got to know her through Nate, when he and a big bunch of mates shared a house.
We channel-hop now, finally settling on a soothing nature documentary about seals. We share the rest of the bottle of wine and, by the time we say goodnight at around 1 a.m., I am slightly light-headed – yet again.
What kind of mother am I? I reflect as I climb into bed in Abby’s spare room. I drink too much. Worse still, I have abandoned my lovely boy who needs me. And I can’t even bring myself to set a mousetrap, for goodness’ sake! How can that be, when I’ve dealt with the numerous challenges of raising Flynn? But that’s just me. Recently, I seem to have become fearful of quite a few silly things. I don’t know whether it’s age, or hormones, or what. Maybe Rachel might have some ideas?
At our last session, I’d told her how I’d tried to keep my business going as a new mum. However, Flynn was a terrible sleeper and my determination to graft away into the night soon proved impossible. Even when he finally learnt to distinguish night from day, his early years were filled with medical and therapeutic appointments. Although Nate and I never discussed it, the person to take charge of such matters – and accompany him on virtually all of these – was me.
And so orders fell away, and Sinead Hogan, so-called shining star, was replaced by Sinead Turner in ratty old jeans and a faded sweatshirt, fringe home-cut, face devoid of make-up and frankly knackered. I once went to apply some mascara for a party and discovered that it had entirely solidified. My jewellery equipment and materials were either sold or packed away in boxes and stashed in the attic. My old filing cabinet, in which I’d stored years’ worth of magazine clippings, scribbled notes and designs, was shunted into what we have always referred to, optimistically, as our ‘guest room’, and which is now entirely filled with junk.
It wasn’t as if Nate pushed me into any of that. It was my choice to put my business on hold; I wanted to be a full-time mum, and no other job was as thrilling and rewarding – or downright terrifying when it was suggested that Flynn’s development wasn’t following the expected curves. Weren’t all babies different? I insisted, belligerently. What did health visitors and GPs know? What could paediatric neurologists and behavioural development specialists actually tell us, with their decades of study and experience in impaired muscle coordination and control?
‘They just want to label him,’ I protested to Nate – as if there was a ‘them’ and ‘us’. Like these kindly professionals were trying to put our baby into some kind of box, just to be difficult. There were numerous scans, examinations and tests. We joked, rather bleakly, that we should be issued with hospital loyalty cards.
Eventually, a grey-bearded consultant explained that Flynn – who was by then nine months old – had cerebral palsy. No, we didn’t ‘cause’ it, he insisted. It had nothing to do with the wine I’d drunk at our friends’ wedding, plus tequila shots, ill-advised gin jellies and God knows what else I’d tipped down my throat before we’d realised I was pregnant.
Eventually, Nate insisted that I had to stop beating myself up or I’d go mad. It took a long time for me to trust these unfailingly kind professionals and not assume everyone was lying to us. If someone had said, ‘Your son has this condition because you’ve worn thongs/took ecstasy – once, in 1992, and nothing actually happened’ – then they’re the ones I’d have believed. Our consultant suggested that I wanted someone, or something, to blame. As our baby’s carrier for forty weeks, it seemed that had to be me.
I tried to explain this to Nate, but he brushed me off, implying that I was being silly and even hysterical. Eventually I stopped talking about it as it just seemed to cause rows. Meanwhile, we threw everything into being Flynn’s parents. He was our little hero, and our entire life, and when one aspect of life is all-consuming, other things tend to be forgotten. Like paying parking fines on time and sending Nate’s mother a birthday present (somehow, since I’d let my business slide, attending to such matters had become my job). We forgot about wedding anniversaries, and rarely had nights out, despite numerous offers of babysitting. For the most part, we even forgot about having sex. Let’s just say our cars had oil changes more regularly than Nate and I were getting it together. And somewhere along the way, we lost ourselves.
For a while, I assumed the real problem was money, and it was certainly tight. I knew this was partially my fault. All through Flynn’s primary school years I was a non-working person, which sometimes seemed to tip into being a non-person. But I accepted that, because Flynn was surpassing all expectations and growing up into the sunniest, most determined and delightful boy. CP was just a part of him, like his love of dogs and fascination with his dad’s vast record collection.
By the time Flynn was twelve I had an overwhelming urge to return to work. Jewellery was far too precarious an option, and by then I was lamentably out of touch with trends and potential retail outlets. Plus, as Nate often pointed out – quite rightly – our debts were mounting and we needed another regular income. Pre-parenthood he’d scraped a living through teaching guitar, playing in bands and driving musicians, plus their gear, the length and breadth of Britain. He’d enjoyed the driving part so much, he’d eventually trained as a driving instructor, and then the examiner he is now.
Reliable, hard-grafting Nate: willing to swap his life in music for one of tests and minutiae, because he loves us and wanted to take care of us. Meanwhile, I took on some part-time admin work, until last year, when a card in a local shop window caught my eye: Full-time sales assistant required. Please enquire within.
‘Would it seem ridiculous,’ I asked Nate, ‘for me to apply for a shop job?’
‘What kind of shop?’ He started to rearrange the contents of our dishwasher, as he always reckons I stack it incorrectly.
‘A new gift shop called Little Owl. It’s by that bistro in Stoker Road. You probably haven’t noticed it …’
There was a clink of crockery as he repositioned the top shelf’s contents to ensure effective cleansing. As my friend Michelle once put it, ‘A man who criticises your dishwasher-loading technique risks being shoved into it with the intensive setting whacked on.’
‘So, what d’you think?’ I prompted him.
He removed the forks from the appliance’s holder and put them back properly, with prongs facing upwards.
I jammed my back teeth together. People have committed murder over less. ‘Nate? Did you actually hear what I said?’
‘Yeah, sorry, darling.’ He turned and smiled. ‘Yeah. I think a little shop job would be really good for you.’
Little shop job!
I was replaying all of this as I scribbled that list two nights ago. I hardly knew what I was doing as I placed it by the kettle, then called Abby in a state. Of course I could stay with her, she assured me. She would come and get me, and would I please stop apologising? She met me in her car at 1.40 a.m. at the end of our road.
So here I am now – trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep in her spare room. The plump pillow is wet with my tears, and although somehow it’s better than being with Nate, I can’t help thinking: What the hell have I done?
Chapter Seven (#ulink_d3328ce8-e96d-5fbf-b8e3-03df1f62d5fc)
Nate (#ulink_d3328ce8-e96d-5fbf-b8e3-03df1f62d5fc)
Weekends are usually an opportunity to kick back, read the papers, walk Scout, maybe meet up with Eric and Sarah. Or Sinead and I would just go out for a drink ourselves: all the ordinary (but now, I realise, intensely pleasurable) stuff I’ve taken for granted all these years. Without Sinead here on Saturday morning – and with no work to go to – I simply don’t know what to do with myself.
Still, I can’t fall apart. I’m still Flynn’s dad and, if nothing else, I’m going to prove that I can run this home, this family, by myself.
Things start off pretty well, considering. Flynn emerges from his room a little before 10 a.m. There are no visible signs of tears or anger; on the contrary, he utters a gruff, ‘Morning’ as we pass on the stairs. I even dish up a proper breakfast – not that I’m expecting some kind of World’s Best Dad accolade for scrambling some eggs. However, we are coping, in that we are dressed, and nourished, and I have only checked my phone a handful of times to see if Sinead has been trying to contact me.
Of course she hasn’t. Idiot, I chastise myself.
Aware of behaving a little manically – in order to prove just how fucking fine I am – I suggest to Flynn that he fetches his guitar and we have a go at some new techniques. ‘Okay,’ he says warily. Minutes later, we’re sitting together in the living room while I show him a new take on the traditional twelve-bar blues he knows already.
He’s strumming away, albeit rather mechanically, as if he’s keen to get on with something else.
‘Hang on,’ I say, motioning him to stop. ‘It’d be good to change your emphasis, give it some whack on the second and fourth beat …’
‘What?’ he asks crossly, brow furrowing.
