The Mum Who'd Had Enough Read online

  ‘I know you are,’ I say now, grateful to the waitress for bringing my second, gratifyingly large glass of wine.

  ‘Will you let me know when the next appointment is?’ Sinead asks as I take a big sip.

  ‘Of course, yes.’ Duly chastised, I eye my glass, deciding I mustn’t swig it as quickly as the first one.

  We lapse into an awkward silence. You leave too much to me, she wrote in her angry scrawl. I’d assumed she meant not only domestic tasks, but matters concerning Flynn’s school and medical stuff too. But have I got this wrong? Is Dr Kadow supposed to be her department, in the division of responsibilities?

  ‘In other news,’ I say, affecting a jovial tone, ‘Flynn seems to have sacked me as his guitar teacher.’

  She shuffles on her seat. ‘So he told you, then.’

  I blink at her. ‘Yes. So, did you know he was going to do that?’

  ‘Um, he just mentioned it in passing.’ She pulls a pained face. ‘He said he just wanted to do his own thing musically, that was all.’

  I allow this information to settle for a moment. So it had been discussed, and Sinead hadn’t thought to pick up the phone and let me know. ‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I say breezily, turning to thank the waitress as Sinead’s salmon, and my tuna-I-now-wish-was-lamb arrive.

  ‘He just said he prefers to pick up new stuff from tutorials on YouTube,’ Sinead explains.

  ‘So he’d rather learn from strangers than from me?’ I exclaim.

  ‘Nate, it’s not like that,’ she murmurs, glancing around distractedly.

  ‘… I mean,’ I go on, ‘is YouTube really awash with guitar tutors who are used to working with kids with CP?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s the point—’

  ‘And I do know him pretty well,’ I charge on, ‘and what he’s capable of, how to work with his limitations. We started when he was eight, d’you remember?’

  ‘Yes, of course I remember.’

  ‘And people said, don’t be disappointed if it’s too difficult for him …’

  ‘Nate,’ she cuts in, more firmly now. ‘Please – this wasn’t meant as a criticism of you. It’s nothing to do with you, actually – it’s to do with him being sixteen. He’ll come round eventually when he’s a bit older and past this phase …’

  ‘Yeah, when he’s fifty and I’m about to croak it,’ I mutter.

  ‘Nate!’ she exclaims.

  ‘I’m joking …’

  She looks at me and tips her head to one side, and for a moment I wonder if that’s a gesture she’s picked up from her therapist. ‘I can tell you’ve taken it to heart,’ she adds gently, ‘but look at everything he’s learned from you up to this point.’

  ‘Like what?’ I ask, genuinely unable to think of a single thing right now, and wondering if it was such a great idea to invite her here so soon, with everything still so raw and hurtful.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ she says, starting to tuck into her fish. ‘What about riding a bike, when so many people said he might never be able to do it?’

  ‘Well, yeah,’ I remark, prodding at my virtually raw tuna.

  ‘And all those other things we take for granted now, like him tying his shoelaces and learning to swim and managing cutlery properly—’

  ‘He learnt those things,’ I say blithely. ‘You know how determined he’s always been, how he’d never give up on anything, once he had an idea in his head. It didn’t come from me.’

  ‘Nate, that’s not true! You’ve always had more patience with that kind of thing than I have.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think—’

  ‘You do, honestly,’ she says, her voice rising. ‘Why can’t you just take a compliment?’ She stops and sips her water. ‘You’re so good at taking a seemingly straightforward task and breaking it down into simple, easily-understandable steps …’

  ‘Really?’ I ask, conscious of a tiny kernel of pride growing inside me.

  ‘Yes!’ she exclaims. ‘That’s probably why you’re such a good guitar teacher.’

  ‘Well, Flynn doesn’t seem to think so, does he?’ She chooses to ignore this remark.

  ‘… And you were a brilliant driving instructor,’ she goes on. ‘So patient and unflappable. Everyone said so. I was always being accosted by people coming up to me in town, saying, “Your Nate is so great!”’

  Your Nate. My insides seem to clench.

  ‘So please,’ she continues, more calmly now, ‘allow yourself to take some credit for everything you’ve done to help Flynn over the years.’

  I consider this, wondering how to respond, so unaccustomed am I to such a compliment. However, there’s no need to say anything as Sinead has excused herself – ‘Just been feeling a bit queasy’ – and makes for the loo.

  Queasy? I hope her fish is okay. I peer at it, but it looks perfectly fine, and I’m not about to lean over and sniff it in a place like this. Instead, I take a moment to allow her words to sink in. Perhaps, due to focusing on her list so much, I’d forgotten I’m actually good at anything. After all, being left a document detailing your faults doesn’t exactly fire up your self-esteem.

  It sounded pretty heartfelt, though, what Sinead said just now. I mean, some compliments seem to just trip off the tongue: ‘You’re so funny/handsome/sexy’, etc, not that I’ve ever been bestowed with any of those. Being told you’re ‘good at breaking down tasks’ isn’t quite as thrilling as someone saying, ‘Your penis is incredible. I didn’t know they made them so big!’ But at least she seemed to really mean it.

  Yet, if I’m so great at all that, then why did she leave me? I guess my general usefulness wasn’t enough to make her stick around. As for my flaws, well, there were enough to fill a lined sheet of A4; perhaps, when she weighed it all up, they simply outnumbered my good points. She reappears, and I quickly push those dark thoughts away as she sits back down.

  ‘So, how are things at the shop?’ I ask. You belittle my job and show no interest in it.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, ‘although I’ve been thinking, maybe I’ve been there long enough.’

  ‘Are you going to look for something else?’

  She twiddles the strand of hair that’s hanging so prettily at the left side of her face. ‘Actually, I’m thinking I might get a small jewellery studio together again.’

  ‘Really? Is there room for that at Abby’s?’

  ‘Erm, I’m not planning to be there forever, you know.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I say quickly. ‘I, er … guess you’ll soon be looking around for your own place?’

  Our eyes meet again and I’m seized by an urge to hold her. ‘Let’s not talk about that tonight,’ she murmurs.

  I muster a faint smile and we eat in silence for a few moments. ‘We should have a list of all the stuff we’re not allowed to talk about,’ I add.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, smiling too. ‘That might help. So, tell me, what’ve you been doing?’

  I ponder this as we finish our main courses, deciding not to mention my rather bizarre new friend, who’s been counselling me on how to repair my marriage. ‘I’ve been thinking about that list you left me,’ I say carefully.

  ‘Please, Nate, can we leave that too? I was upset, it all just poured out …’

  I lean forward. ‘No, listen. It’s been quite helpful actually, and with some of the things – well, all of them probably – you were quite right.’

  ‘Like what?’ she asks with a frown as our plates are whisked away.

  ‘Like, “Your bloody record collection”.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ She looks down and shakes her head.

  ‘It was obviously bothering you,’ I venture, trying not to sound at all embittered, ‘so I’ve sold it.’

  She stares at me as if I have just torn off my clothes. ‘You’ve sold it? You mean, all your records?’

  ‘Yes!’ I say with a note of triumph.

  I look at my wife, who seems horrified. ‘No – please tell me you’re kidding. I didn’t mean that …’

  I sh
rug and go to sip more wine, and realise my second glass is empty. ‘Well, it’s done and dusted now, and it’s okay. The shelves they were on have gone too.’

  ‘What d’you mean, they’ve gone?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘You were probably right. I mean, some of the records I’d had since I was fifteen, and they were hardly ever played. So I just decided …’ I tail off, realising I’m winging it here, making up what she wants to hear. ‘I decided there was no point on clinging onto tired old stuff just for sentimental reasons.’ Hang on. Tired old stuff?

  ‘Well, I think that’s a terrible shame,’ Sinead murmurs. ‘I mean, music was always a huge part of your life. D’you think you’ll ever be in a band again?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t imagine it really,’ I mutter, baffled now. If she didn’t mind my record collection, then why did it appear on her list?

  ‘But why not?’ she asks. ‘You work hard. You deserve some fun—’

  I laugh involuntarily. This is somewhat hard to take seriously, considering she is the very reason that life has been distinctly un-fun lately. ‘Weirdly enough,’ I remark, ‘the guy who bought my records asked if I’d like to jam with him and his mates sometime.’

  ‘You should! It’d be good for you,’ Sinead asserts, as if I am a socially inept teenager, mooting the possibility of mingling with other human beings. ‘Don’t you miss playing?’ she goes on. ‘That whole side of your life used to be so vital to you. I loved that – that you were passionate about something. It was everything to you—’

  ‘I don’t really think about it anymore,’ I murmur.

  Our waitress glides over and we study the dessert menus, although I have no interest in anything on it. It was challenging enough for me to plough through that main course.

  ‘Just a chamomile tea for me,’ Sinead says. ‘Oh, and I’ll have a sorbet too, please.’

  ‘No coffee?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m a bit off it at the moment,’ she says. Now, this is odd. No booze, fine – clearly, she’d sensibly decided to keep a clear head tonight. But to forgo what I’d imagine would be an excellent coffee? She’s always downed tons of the stuff – something like a pint first thing in the morning, and always after dinner on the rare occasions we ate out.

  Her tea arrives in a glass with a silvery handle, her sorbet in a tiny porcelain cup. To keep her company, I chose a dark chocolate tart, which I am now chipping away at with a lack of enthusiasm. And now, as she sips her pale tea – I’d love to order more wine, but know I shouldn’t – I am aware of the unspoken issue that’s been smouldering away at the back of my brain all night.

  I place my fork on my plate. ‘D’you mind if I ask you a question?’

  She looks at me and flushes, and right then I know there’s something. Something else that wasn’t on the list, and perhaps wasn’t even about me, after all. She hasn’t even touched her sorbet yet. ‘Of course you can,’ she says. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I, er … just can’t help wondering if there’s something else, that’s all. Something you haven’t told me, I mean – about us, and our marriage. Can I just ask …’ I break off and look at her. Now her cheeks are even pinker and she’s fiddling with her tea glass, and prodding at her hair.

  I swallow hard. She’s already answered my question for me; she’s been seeing someone else. I’ve tried to dismiss the possibility, not because Sinead isn’t beautiful, clever and desirable – Christ, any sane man would want her – but due to the fact that I couldn’t bear the thought of her being with some other man.

  ‘Are you … in love with someone else?’ I ask, as levelly as I can manage.

  She meets my gaze, and all at once the flush drains from her cheeks until they are chalky-pale. ‘No, of course I’m not. It’s hardly been any time at all, Nate. It’s the last thing I’m looking for …’

  ‘Come on, I can tell there’s something going on,’ I say, more sharply than I intended. ‘Please tell me. I just need to know. Who is it?’

  She clears her throat and looks away, as if the view of the lantern-lit garden has caught her interest for the first time.

  I am aware of our waitress glancing over as she strides past, perhaps registering that we are a couple who are having a bit of a situation. But I don’t care. All the possibilities are whirring through my mind: the various dads Sinead’s known, through her social life as a mum, making friends with everyone – far more than I ever did. Should I have gone to more playgroups and parent meet-ups, more days out to the zoo, or the coast, with hordes of other mums and dads? What the hell was I doing when all that was going on?

  Could it be one of those bouncy, infinitely capable dads who seemed to be able to juggle numerous children whilst reading a picture book and flipping pancakes in the pan? I’m sure plenty of them must have fancied my wife. She always seemed so vivacious – never weighed down by the parenting thing at all, at least not until the last year or so, when she appeared a little less sparkly. Or maybe it really is some charmer who wandered into the gift shop, just as I imagined, asking for pomegranate candles …

  This is it, then, I decide, looking around the restaurant, where everyone else seems to be having a lovely time. Our break-up wasn’t about me failing to set mousetraps or leaving the odd dog turd lying in the grass. And now, I feel as if I am floating – a bit pissed, probably, after two huge glasses of wine – as she folds her fingers together and tells me what’s really been going on.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘Okay, look, I have been out with someone, but it was just for a drink,’ she says. ‘Well, drink and a quick dinner,’ she adds, ‘and then coffee one other time. But it really doesn’t mean anything at all.’

  ‘Oh,’ is all I can say. I glance down at my tart, sitting there on its small white plate. It now looks too perfect, like it was moulded out of brown plastic. So, while I’ve been selling my records and dragging our shelves into the garden, she’s been sleeping with someone else.

  ‘Nate, honestly,’ she insists. ‘He’s just a friend—’

  ‘Who is it?’ I blurt out, my eyes fixed on hers.

  Sinead clamps her lips together and pauses, as if weighing up the likelihood of whether I’ll make a scene. ‘D’you remember me talking about Brett O’Hara from college?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ I say huffily, although yes, I do – in shimmering detail, now she’s mentioned him. The one everyone fancied, she said: the ‘college hottie’. The one she’d kissed once, and it had been mortifying, because they were mates. The one who’s clearly intimately acquainted with her sensational body right now. Just a friend? It’s clear from her face that there’s no ‘just’ about it at all.

  ‘I wasn’t even sure about telling you,’ she adds with a dismissive shrug.

  ‘I’m sure you weren’t,’ I mutter.

  ‘Not because I was being secretive. I just didn’t want to upset you, okay? And I’m only mentioning it now in case you’ve heard some gossip. I didn’t want you jumping to conclusions …’

  ‘Of course I’m jumping to conclusions!’

  ‘Could you please try and hear what I’m saying?’ she snaps.

  You don’t listen to me …

  She frowns and drains the last of her pee-coloured tea. Her sorbet still remains untouched. ‘I’ll tell you exactly what happened, all right?’ she says firmly. ‘Michelle came back from New York. I met up with her and some others – George, Aisha … remember them?’

  I nod curtly. I don’t give a shit about George or Aisha.

  ‘… And Brett happened to come along too’ – just happened to, because he was passing? – ‘and it was lovely to see him,’ she goes on. ‘After all the upset and stress, and how I’ve been feeling lately, it was so good to relax and have fun and remember the old times …’

  Before I came along, she means. Before I wrecked all her fun.

  ‘… And then, um, I met Brett again another night,’ she continues.

  ‘Just the two of you that time, for dinner?’

  Sin
ead nods. ‘He was in Hesslevale for a meeting.’

  ‘Right. That was handy …’

  ‘We’re just friends, Nate,’ she stresses again. ‘We were talking about my jewellery business and how I could get started again. I was really fired up—’

  Bet she was. I, however, am not quite so on fire now. ‘And then you had coffee another time?’

  ‘Nate, could you please stop grilling me?’ she hisses, which seems a little unfair. ‘Yes,’ she adds. ‘He had another meeting …’

  ‘So many meetings!’ I remark bitterly, at which the red dress lady throws me a startled look.

  ‘Please don’t be like this,’ Sinead mutters.

  I look down at my empty glass, wishing it would miraculously fill itself with alcohol. ‘I just need to know if you were seeing him when you were still with me.’

  ‘Of course I wasn’t! Christ, Nate, if you carry on like this, I’m leaving—’

  ‘No, don’t do that,’ I say quickly. ‘So, are you seeing him again?’

  ‘Erm … probably. Okay – yes, I will. Honestly, it’s nothing.’ She looks at me across the table and reaches for my hand, her eyes glinting with tears now. ‘I’m so sorry, Nate. I’ve been so awful to you, but you do realise … I didn’t leave you because of someone else, don’t you? You have to believe that.’

  I nod mutely, realising my own eyes are misting now.

  ‘It wasn’t about all those things on the list either.’

  I stare at her, baffled now. ‘What was it then?’

  Sinead sighs and rubs at her eyes. As if only just remembering it’s sitting there, she has a spoonful of lemon sorbet.

  ‘D’you remember when we used to take Flynn to the beach,’ she starts, ‘and he was mad about making elaborate sandcastles just so he could watch the waves come in and wash them away?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I mutter, wondering what this has to do with anything.