We All Live Here

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-five

Francesca

Francesca McKenzie had spent her whole life trusting her body to make decisions for her. She felt things deep in her gut, she was fond of telling people. So many people were disconnected from the many wise ways in which a body could speak to the mind. From their earliest ages they were told to ignore it— No, you can’t be hungry. Give your uncle Don a hug. Go on, you’re not scared, just jump into the water . All those feelings of anxiety or resistance they were taught to override. She listened to her body as one would monitor a particularly finely calibrated compass, noting its tiny movements, trusting it to give an accurate picture of where she was. But as she awoke in the tiny hotel room in Dublin and gazed at the sleeping man beside her, Francesca McKenzie was forced to admit that on this occasion her body had been very wrong indeed.

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She had felt out of sorts for months, waking with a tight, nervous feeling in her chest, struggling to sleep, feeling a kind of existential bleakness settle over her, so at odds with her normal demeanor. I don’t feel like myself , she had told her doctor, and he had seemed almost impatient with her, told her she had no medical symptoms, that it was probably hormonal given her age, that she should make sure she had a good exercise routine and a healthy diet, maybe take up a new hobby. He even uttered the dread phrase “Just go for a long walk.” The implication ran under everything he said: You’re a middle-aged woman, probably still going through the change. Of course you don’t feel like you used to. Francesca had tried to count her blessings, had joined an outdoor swimming club (she found being cold utterly miserable), told herself she was just having an unsettled period, and tried to plow through it. She took long walks, supplements, hot baths, listened to her favorite music. She read books about psychology, replanted her garden, in the hope that watching things grow would bring her some ease with the notion of time passing. But the feelings of disconnection and vague unhappiness didn’t seem to go away.

Bill, bless him, wasn’t much help. He seemed so perfectly content with his life, and confused that what had satisfied her for so long now seemed not to be enough. “How about we take a holiday?” he had said, after she had yet again tried to articulate how she felt. “I hear Madeira is very nice at this time of year.” But Bill was part of the problem: she did not want to visit flower gardens or go hiking in the hills. Bill was many things, but he was not capable of those moments of surprise, of the spontaneous joy of her younger years, and she felt its absence like a missing limb. He seemed suddenly so much older than her. Is this it? she kept asking herself. And then: Why can’t I just be satisfied?

She didn’t want to bother Lila with it: she and Dan were clearly having problems, and Lila was permanently overworked and stressed by trying to juggle her work with the baby. Her friends were busy with their own lives, and Francesca had always been the one they turned to for help: it seemed alien to her to ask them what she should be doing. But the unhappiness grew, as did her efforts to hide it, until she felt as if she was struggling to get through each day, to raise the necessary smiles, to feel what she was clearly supposed to be feeling.

It was the Week of No Sleep that did for her. Francesca who, for her whole life, had drifted off with ease had found for months that as soon as she put her head on the pillow her brain was racing like an out-of-control motor, whirring and spinning, her thoughts jumbling and looping. She would lie there for hours, increasingly enraged by Bill’s peaceful slumbers beside her, despairing as she understood that tomorrow would be another day darkened by exhaustion and snappiness as she stumbled through it. It seemed to be a vicious circle: the less she slept, the more anxious she felt about going to bed. It culminated in a week where she barely slept at all.

That week she could hardly speak, felt hallucinatory and ill, could summon up none of the energy for the things that might make her feel better. She felt angry with Bill and angry with herself for feeling angry with Bill. He seemed helpless in the face of this new Francesca, tiptoeing around her and offering awkward platitudes that just made her crosser. She had nobody to turn to, no way of changing how she felt about it all. And then Gene had sent her a birthday greeting, Gene, who had barely remembered his daughter’s birthdays, had, unexpectedly, sent a text message. Hey, sweetheart! I just remembered it’s your special day! I’m filming in Dublin—God, these guys are crazy!—just a low-budget thing but it’s great craic as they say here. Sending love and hope you’re feeling great. You deserve it. Your old pal Gene x

“Your old pal.” From the man who had broken her heart and destroyed her little family. A man who, for the longest time, she had thought she would never get over. At first it almost made her laugh, his absolute lack of self-awareness and reflection. Plus it wasn’t her birthday: that had been the previous week. But the message had stuck in her head, its suggestions of fun and energy, a different place to be, perhaps even a different way to be. Francesca felt the pull to be somewhere else like a rope tied around her waist, urgent and inescapable, tugging at her through her days.

She told Bill she was going to see her old school friend Dorothy in Nottingham, and Bill had seemed almost relieved, as if this might change the dynamic and, more importantly, absolve him from the responsibility of having to work out how to do it. He had been so sweet about her “little break,” making her snacks for the train journey, insisting on driving her to the station. She had told him she might not call—the signal at Dorothy’s was terrible and, besides, she just wanted to forget everything for a few days—and he had accepted that with grace. “Just let me know when you want picking up,” he had said. “Send a text and I’ll be there.”

That was the point at which she had almost changed her mind, but she was committed, as if a magnetic force was pulling her in this new direction. The change of momentum was almost inevitable: she couldn’t stay where she was, not for another moment.

The minute he had driven out of the station car park she had bought her ticket to Heathrow.

She had met Gene at the Temple Bar, a short distance from her hotel. He had been thrilled when she messaged him to say that—coincidentally—she was due to be in Dublin visiting a friend so why didn’t they meet up, and had suggested the bar, which had become a favorite in the three weeks the production had been there so far. They were all still with him when she arrived, and she had a sudden memory of how that had irritated her when they were together, his need always to be the center of any party. But the feeling disappeared almost as swiftly as it had come: she was relieved, confronted with the reality of him, of the actuality of her mad idea, that there were other people there to defuse the oddness of seeing him again.

He had spotted her almost immediately over the crowds of revelers in the pub, had thrown his arms wide, pushed forward, and swept her into a bear hug. He had always been the most tactile of men. Now he felt alien and utterly familiar at the same time. “Look at this!” he kept saying, so that she blushed. “This is my ex-wife! Francie! Look how gorgeous she is! How lucky was I, fellas, to be married to this girl?”

Francesca cannot remember the last time anyone called her a girl, but that is the beauty of seeing someone you knew in your youth. There will be a part of yourselves that only ever remembers each other in that way. “Lucky, but not smart enough to stay married to me,” she had responded smartly.

Gene had clapped his hands over his heart. “Ouch! She’s killing me already!” But it was said with warmth, and he had immediately turned to get her a drink. The more curious glances of his colleagues faded as they realized there was no drama, just two old friends enjoying a moment.

She had sat in the middle of the group for two hours. They were mostly crew: lighting technicians, sound men, gaffers, and runners. These were the people Gene had always felt most comfortable with, instead of the other actors (competition), directors, and producers (he had always had a problem with authority figures). She began to relax, nestled into the booth beside him, listening to the chatter around her as the drinks arrived again and again, the conversation flowed, funny stories were traded about other productions and badly behaved actors. Film gossip was always the best gossip, and Francesca was happy not to be the center of attention, just lodged neatly in another world, enjoying this holiday from her own, not having anybody’s expectations or judgment around her.

There was a live band at nine, and they had ended up dancing to the Irish fiddle music, Gene swinging her round and round until she was dizzy, laughing, his large hands so familiar on her waist, his smile incessant, his enthusiasm joyous. She felt young again, silly, exchanging jokes with him about their life together, turning what had once been painful into performance. These people liked her, she could tell, leaning over the crowded table with their drinks, laughing with her as she told stories about Gene, against his vanity, his unreliability, and his chaos. He laughed the loudest, and without bitterness, no matter what she said. One of the things she had always enjoyed about him was his inability to either hide what he felt or bear a grudge. The past was the past, and all that mattered was that they were here now, two people who were once dear to each other, enjoying the moment.

The crew began to thin out at eleven, at a point when she was not drunk, but definitely merry, and he walked her a little way around Dublin to show her the sights, stopping under the sodium lights to acknowledge the people who recognized him, to share a joke or pose for a picture. It was as if performance was in his blood. Gene had always drawn his energy from the people around him, and Dublin suited him, because people met him where he was, with equal life, equal jokes, equal ready affection. He had handed her an envelope of money—proceeds from the film work—that he said he owed her. She didn’t want to accept it but he insisted “I’m doing good just now. Put it in a savings account for her, if nothing else.” He wanted to talk to her about Lila, about her baby, but she hadn’t wanted to be reminded of that part of their lives together, so she had switched the conversation. Gratifyingly, it had been only a matter of minutes before another group of people leaving a pub had recognized him, and stopped to shoot the breeze and he had been distracted again. Perhaps that was the point at which she should have removed his arm from around her waist, but it was so pleasant just to lean into him, to remember the ghost of her youth. She felt giddy, adventurous. It was the shortest leap to suggest they go back to her hotel for a drink, the laughter of the evening still ringing in her ears. An even shorter leap for that to become two drinks. And then taking him into her bed hadn’t felt like a decision at all. It was, after all, what her body wanted.

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Francesca lies in the hotel bed in the gray morning light and gazes at Gene’s broad back, noting the slight sag in his skin, the gray coming through the dye in his hair, hearing his intermittent snores, and realizes, with the sickest of feelings, that she has made a colossal, colossal mistake. She could recall her reasoning: If I was to have an adventure, who would be the best possible person to do that with? Gene had been the obvious answer: who else did she know who was likely to offer her a night or two of fun and romance and walk away afterward without a backward glance? Gene had seemed like the safest possible option, the man-child of her twenties, the guy who was going to make her feel glorious and young again, then bounce happily onward from situation to situation for the rest of his life. And that was exactly how it had worked. The sex had been wonderful—he always was the most joyous and easiest of lovers—and she could remember the moment when she had felt she had occupied every inch of herself again, as if she had been restored to the person she once was. I’m here , she had wanted to shout, with surprise. I’m still in here.

And then Gene had ruined it.

She had climbed blearily out of bed and padded to the bathroom, brushing her teeth and already planning her escape. She would shower, hoping he would not be woken by the noise, leave him a note, and go out for breakfast, trusting he would be gone when she returned. And when she emerged, instead of being fast asleep as she had expected (he was always the type to drop off immediately after sex, and would stay soundly asleep until mid-morning), she had opened the bathroom door to find him sitting up and gazing directly at her. “I always wondered,” he said, “and now I know.”

He had this big, goofy grin on his face, and his expression was tender.

“Wondered what?” She had felt herself tense slightly. Some part of her already wanted to ask him to leave, but it seemed rude after what had happened.

“Whether we would find our way back to each other.” He pulled back the covers, waiting for her to get in beside him. “I never dared hope after what I did. But when you texted me, it was like this little light came on—like a lighthouse in an ocean—and I felt like Oh. Here it is. It’s all going to be okay .”

She climbed in, a little awkwardly. When she sat back against the headboard, she made sure her body was not touching his. “I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

“Us. The old team. Back together.” His eyes had grown soft, and he had taken her hand in his two enormous paws, and kissed it. “I was an idiot, Francie. I was young and impulsive and I think the reason I never managed to settle with anyone was because I was always still in love with you. I spent years thinking about it, how I had thrown away the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she had said, laughing, and pushing his hands away. “You’re a free spirit. You always told me that.”

“No. No. I know you think I’m an idiot who doesn’t take anything seriously, but I never stopped loving you. When you got together with—with that guy, it killed me. I actually went a little nuts for a while. I knew that you and I were meant to be together. I never called you because I was trying to respect your decision. I knew how much I had hurt you, and I knew I didn’t deserve another turn around the block. But when you said you were coming out here, it was like something in me that had died suddenly sprang to life again. I’m just…I’m just so happy you gave me—gave us—another chance.”

Francesca started to feel a rising panic. “Gene, it’s not like that.”

“What do you mean, kiddo?”

“I—I’m still with Bill.”

He paused to take this in. “You’re still with Bill?”

“I came out here because—I don’t know. I was stuck. I just—I wanted to feel something again. And it’s been lovely. But…this is it. This stops here.”

He had looked so shocked and hurt that something in her had keeled over.

“You—you…This didn’t mean anything?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t think for a minute you’d have real feelings for me.”

There had been a long silence, his eyes never leaving her face, as if he was searching for evidence that what she had just said was wrong, that she was still joking.

“But—but what just happened with us. We’re good together, Francie. It’s our time.”

“No, no, it’s not.”

She had looked at the slow dawning on his face and wanted to die. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I made—I made a thoughtless mistake.”

He had looked so uncomprehending. “I’m a… mistake ?”

He had left not long after that. The worst part of it had been how gentlemanly he had been. He hadn’t thrown a strop, or shouted at her, or accused her of misleading him. He had seemed so diminished, as if she had just sucked all the life out of him. She had watched him stumbling around the hotel bedroom picking up his things and climbing into them and half of her had wanted to hug him and tell him how sorry she was, but the other half just wanted him to go, as quickly as he could, so that she could begin the awful business of pretending this had never happened. She had thought he might try to hug her before he left, but instead he had just stood awkwardly at the door and reached out a hand, touching her lightly on the arm.

“It was lovely to see you, Francie,” he had said, trying to raise a smile. “Be happy.”

And then, as she watched him walk down the hotel corridor he had turned, and she thought she had never seen him look so raw, so vulnerable.

“You know,” he said, “if you ever change your mind…”

She could have given him that. She could have just said, “I know.” It would have meant nothing, after all. But she had moved her head slowly from left to right and said quietly and firmly, “I won’t.”

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She had never spoken to Gene again. She deleted his number from her phone, and spent the next day shopping almost manically, in an effort to persuade herself that she was the person she had been two days previously. She spent Gene’s money—two jumpers for Bill, cashmere round-necks she could barely afford, and a dress for Lila’s baby. She removed the bags and the price tags, so that nobody would guess they had come from Ireland, and the effort involved in this duplicity made her feel even worse. She ate alone downstairs in the hotel restaurant and watched television for the rest of the evening. By the time she flew home she had almost convinced herself she had been alone the whole time, that she had merely changed her planned location. And who could blame her for that?

But Francesca McKenzie was nothing if not a positive thinker. In those final hours in Dublin she told herself that sometimes it was necessary to make a mistake to persuade yourself of what was right and important. She told herself that the whole episode had only reinforced her love for Bill. She knew she would never make a mistake like that again. She would be the best wife to him. She would be with that sweet, kind, reliable man for the rest of her life.

And when she got home, she slept for eight hours straight.