— in a couple of days.
Walking down the street, towards the bus stop, I acknowledge one misgiving. I wish he wasn’t a writer. There’s also the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in the living area, evidence that he not only writes but reads extensively, too.
Writing, books, words. Everywhere.
It’s the only fault I can find. In every other way, Joe and his apartment are ideal.
Four days later I’m standing outside Joe’s door with all my worldly belongings: a suitcase, resting by my legs, and a sports bag, still weighing heavily on my shoulder.
‘Is that all you have?’ he asks, looking surprised.
I’m sweating and red in the face from exertion. ‘Compact but deceivingly heavy.’
‘Here.’ He lifts the bag away from my aching shoulder. ‘You should have buzzed me to come down and help.’
The thought had occurred to me, particularly after struggling up the first flight of stairs, but it felt presumptuous, so I’d persevered. Now, with my head lolling to one side from the strain of the bag, I wonder at my own stupidity.
Joe has also taken charge of the suitcase, choosing to lift and carry it rather than use the wheels. Being small and slight, I don’t have much natural strength, and it’s one thing about men that fascinates me, the inherent and seemingly effortless power to lift and lug and, on occasion, strike out. I follow him, closely watching as he exerts his strength.
‘Thanks.’
‘Next time, please ask,’ he says, depositing my bags on the bed and casting me a look that suggests he has already worked out that asking for help is difficult for me.
‘Okay,’ I reply in a voice that sounds oddly meek and not like me at all.
He hesitates by the door, and I notice then what he’s wearing: a grey T-shirt that looks as though it’s been washed many times, teamed with well-worn jeans. Are these his writing clothes? When does he write? Monday to Friday? Nine to five? Maybe he’s one of those writers who stay up all night and go about like the walking dead during the daylight hours. I guess I’ll soon find out.
‘Can I make you a tea or coffee?’
‘No, thanks,’ I smile.
He closes the door behind him, and I’m left alone in my new room. I sit on the bed, and try to restore my equilibrium. As my face cools down and my heart stops racing, I breathe in the room around me, its serenity and cleanness and space. The cream walls, the soft wool carpet, the daylight streaming through the window, all bring a deal of gratefulness, because another kind of room is never very far from the fore of my mind: a fifth-floor room with dull walls, stained old-fashioned carpet, and a small window that always — for safety’s sake — remained locked. A room, already too small for one, which had to mould and stretch itself to accommodate two. I was about six or seven when my mother left Simon’s bed and moved into mine. There wasn’t enough space — or money, for that matter — for two beds, so I slept on a thin mattress on the floor. Every room since has been luxurious by comparison. The various places in Dublin after Simon died. The bedsit in London. The loft-style apartment in New York, paid for by the gallery. This place, with its double bed and clean, pure light.
Slowly, I begin to unpack, placing underwear and socks neatly into drawers, hanging jackets and skirts and trousers for work. T-shirts, shorts and jeans, my hanging-around clothes, folded on shelves. A few textbooks, a crystal paperweight (a graduation gift from Emma), and some stationery for the desk. There’s too much storage space: hangers, shelves and drawers that I cannot fill. Obviously this room is used to being inhabited by someone with more possessions — more substance — than me.
I leave my most treasured items until last. The picture frame: her beguiling smile, the tilt of her head, the sun glinting on her copper-brown hair. Though the photograph is slightly out of focus, I like it more than any of the others because it catches her in a moment when she seems genuinely happy. I place the frame on the bedside dresser, the same place it has been in London, New York and everywhere else.
Then there’s the box, which contains more photographs, a few personal letters dated before I was born, a notebook with shopping and other lists in her sloping handwriting. Though it goes everywhere with me, I don’t open the box very often. Even when I was young and knew nothing at all about conservation, I somehow understood that the more frequently I opened it and fingered through its contents, the more fragile and insubstantial those contents would become. This is all I have of her, and I have used all my skills, my knowledge, my expertise, to keep everything in pristine condition.
Of course the photograph in the picture frame is the exception. Constantly displaying that moment of happiness and exposing it to UV light has faded and yellowed the colours. I know I should store it away, or at least rotate it with the other photographs, but I can’t. Something about it gives me hope. It was just a random moment in a hard, disappointing life. An illusion, if anything. Nevertheless, it suggests that a happy ending was within her grasp.
Chapter 4
Emma
Eddie does most of the cooking, and I can smell the sausages as soon as I open the front door. Slamming the door shut on the damp cold evening outside, I unfurl my scarf. Isla barges out from the kitchen and launches herself at my legs before I can get my coat off.
‘Mammyyyyy …’ she squeals.
Every evening I come home to this movie-star reception, and it never fails to lift my heart. No matter how bad my day has been, how innately bored or disheartened or unappreciated I feel, hearing the excitement in her voice, seeing the sheer delight on her face, is like a magic tonic.
I drink her in: pigtails crooked after a day at school, tracksuit pants that are a little too small on her, a smear of food — jam? — on her milky-white face. She’s bloody beautiful, my daughter, and it never ceases to amaze me that she came from me, that I’m capable of making something, someone, so exquisite.
Bending down to kiss her, I ask, ‘What didya learn at school today?’
‘Red Robot. He used to be Robber Red, but he got sent to jail …’
‘Interesting … And what sound does he make again?’
‘Rrrrr …’ Isla snarls.
‘Good girl.’
Hand in hand, we proceed to the kitchen. Eddie is in his work gear: navy blue overalls, steel-capped boots and a fluoro yellow vest. Dinner is sausages, mashed potato and beans, and he’s in the process of serving it up. Time is of the essence. We have half an hour before he leaves for his shift, so not a minute can be wasted.
I sit down, a steaming plate of food in front of me. The food warms me, as does the heat from the stove and the closeness between the three of us. This is what matters, I tell myself. At the end of the day, if you can’t come home to this, you have nothing. Even though it’s only for thirty minutes, it sustains me for much, much longer than that.
‘How was work?’ Eddie enquires between mouthfuls.
He generally waits a while before asking this question, allowing me the opportunity to talk about it first. It’s important, he maintains. It’s what I do all day long, and if he doesn’t know about it, then he doesn’t know me. So if I don’t start talking of my own accord, he asks.
‘The same,’ I reply, my tone noncommittal though I know Eddie will coax until I’ve told him everything.
‘The graduate, she’s settling in alright?’
‘Katie? Yeah, suppose so, even though she’s so fu—’ I swallow the swearword from the tip of my tongue. ‘So … indecisive … I have this crazy urge to shake her.’
‘What is inde … inde …’ Isla struggles to repeat the word.
‘Indecisive is someone who can’t make decisions, who can’t seem to make up their mind and get on with the job.’ I direct