He’d spoken about Rachael, but never in depth. I wasn’t sure what was the protocol for speaking about your dead wife with your current lover, and I wasn’t sure who to ask, so I’d been winging it.
“She didn’t like jewellery?”
“She didn’t like much.” There was so much behind those words, so much pain and guilt. I wanted to erase it all away for him, but even I knew that it was those experiences that got us where we were today.
“Your marriage wasn’t happy?” I sat down opposite him, my gin and tonic already poured.
He looked at me with eyes that reminded me of home, of the cliffs and wild grasses. I couldn’t explain why, but they did. He’d never been to the west coast. I’d like to see him there, barefooted on the sands with the wind whipping through his hair and his feral children being exactly that in a place where they could be wild.
“It was at first. She was my first girlfriend. I suppose our parents kind of introduced us but it wasn’t arranged or anything like that. She seemed perfect for the kind of life I thought we’d have. I’d work, she could work if she chose or not – she wasn’t career minded. Rachael was amazing at music; she could play the piano and cello and she probably would’ve wanted to be a professional musician, but her parents wouldn’t fund her to go to a college of music somewhere.” He shrugged and took a swig of his beer. “She got pregnant before I’d graduated, which wasn’t in my plan. I wanted us to be somewhere settled, I wanted to be established in my career so I could spend some time with my kid. I was a bit like you – I needed to prove I was there on merit, not just because of my last name.”
I nodded, completely understanding that. “Totally. It’s a ball ache when people judge you’re only there because of who your parents are. They don’t always realise that while a door might be opened for you, you’ve got to work to stop it hitting you on the arse on the way out.”
It managed to make him laugh. “Yeah, that was it. So Max was born and all was good, then she got pregnant with Jackson. You know, I had two sons and I was as proud as anything. Claire came after that and I asked her about being on contraception and she told me she had and it hadn’t worked.” He paused, looking out at the view. “We stopped getting along. I spent more time at work and she spent more time in bed when I was at home, saying it was my turn to look after the kids, although they had nannies there too. We had help. Callum was conceived on a night when we’d both had too much to drink. Her pregnancy was difficult and she was told she shouldn’t have any more babies, which was fine because four is plenty. Afterwards, she was depressed. I was home more because I was worried. I tried to get her help – doctors, counsellors, friends to talk to her – but it didn’t work.
“I was away with work when I found out she’d died overnight. The nanny hadn’t turned up that morning so Max had gotten up when Callum was crying. He’d fed him, changed him, looked after him and then went to check where his mum was. He phoned the office and told me Mummy was asleep and wouldn’t wake up. I knew then.” He shook his head but his expression wasn’t as pained as it had been.
“That’s hard for anyone. How’s he doing?”
“He’s angry. He’s been left as head of the household so he wants to fight for his family because I’m rarely there to do it, so when I go back I’ll share that spot with him.”
My heart softened. He was right, he couldn’t take Max’s place from him, and it took a certain kind of man to know that.
“Do you want more kids?” This was a dealbreaker for me. I did want children of my own, if I could have them. I wanted to know what it was like to grow a baby inside me, to feel them move around inside me.
“I’d need another wife or a partner for that.” His grin was almost sad. “And I’m a lot to take on. Plus, you said you wouldn’t move to London.”
“I don’t think that was what I said.” I slid off the stool and walked round to where he was, offering him my hand. “But I think we should go to bed.”
We didn’t have sex that night. What we did was different, it felt different, like something unspoken was hanging between us and we weren’t sure for how long it would last. The dirty talk was minimal, the kisses were sweeter and our lovemaking – because that was how it felt – was slower, deeper, softer.
I didn’t hate it.
I fell asleep like I had been doing every night since the second night I’d known Grant, curled up in his arms, my head on hischest, savouring his scent, because in another couple of nights, this would be all over.
I met my father for breakfast the following morning, with the surprise guest of my mother. My mam rarely stayed in New York, unless there was a sale on she wanted to get first dabs at, or my dad wanted her to attend a function with him. He usually stayed for three nights in the city and then headed back to upstate New York where they had a recently built a house, designed to resemble the farmhouse in Ireland that my mother missed pretty much every day.
The plan was for my dad to retire soon or relocate back to Ireland and spend every other week at the London office. How soon that was depended on me and my brother in part, although we wouldn’t be taking over as the practice manager anytime soon.
I didn’t want that to be me and that thought was making me sad.
I didn’t like letting anyone down and I’d worked so hard to get to where I was already, but my heart was singing a song so loudly I couldn’t ignore it.
“Marie, you’re looking as pretty as ever.” He stood to kiss me as I approached the table. I gave him a smile but I knew it didn’t reach my eyes.
“Mam, I didn’t know you were here.” This was a hug, a really big full on Irish hug that was full of warmth and probably at least three criticisms and two pieces of gossip that would inevitably make me feel better.
“You’re too skinny, Marie. You’re working her too hard, Joe. Have you had anything to eat yet, Marie?”
“I’m meeting you for breakfast so no, first meal of the day.” I was eventually set free.
She eyed me up and down, just like I’d seen her mother do to her and then complain about it. “You should always eat something before you leave the house. Maybe you need a holiday back home. Your cousin, Aíne’s, at the beach house. She says the weather’s been lovely.”
“So it’s only rained for part of everyday then?” I saw my father smirk. He preferred his summers at Cape Cod where rain was a promise once a week and rarely kept.
My mother discarded the menu she’d briefly looked at. “She had a day last week when it was clear. Anyway, what’s this I hear about you having a young man?”
I was going to fucking kill Bernadette.
