16
It’s 4 a.m. I’ve been awake for hours, listening to the rhythmic whirring of the electric fan in the corner of my room. Ari is fast asleep beside me in starfish position, his tiny snores synchronising with the sound. For weeks, he’s been crawling into my bed at the same time every night. Ever since we got here, come to think of it. He’s still not used to this place being home. Neither of us are.
Once, I tried to work out what proportion of my time on Earth I’d spent studying shadows on ceilings. I’ve given all the usual remedies and advice a shot – lavender spray, no caffeine after midday, the yearning call of the male humpback whale. Eventually, I realised the only way to beat these periods of wakefulness is to surrender to them, distracting myself until they pass.
I used to distract myself by making lists. After Mum left, I’d spend weeks lying awake, my mind consumed, not by thoughts of my mother and why she felt the need to walk out on us, but by lists – attending to them, adding to them, curating them. Like sub-editing, lists became my way of making sense of the world, getting my house in order. There were grocery lists, revision checklists, Top 10s: famous redheads, corrupt governments, live TV deaths … Sometimes, I’d drift off to sleep playing the A to Z game. The A to Z of capital cities, for example. Or Meryl Streep films. (You want to go with an actor with a comprehensive body of work here.) I tried the A to Z of infectious diseases, but my anxiety kicked in at bacterial vaginosis and after that, there was zero chance of a melatonin release.
Ari turns over in his sleep and whacks me in the face with his arm. I peel him off me and get up, reaching for my phone to guide me out of the darkness. Creeping out of the room, I head downstairs, avoiding the creaking floorboards, and into the kitchen. I fumble for the light switch above the cooker and fill the kettle with water. Outside, I see a light on in Jack’s room and wonder what’s keeping him awake. His book? The state of his marriage? Something else?
I place the kettle on the hob and perch against the battered oak table in the centre of the room. I watch, hypnotised, as the flames flicker. A noise behind me snaps me out of my trance. I turn round. Jack is standing by the French doors. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and pale grey pyjama bottoms.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, his mouth dropping open slightly. ‘I didn’t think anyone would be up.’
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ I say.
‘Me neither.’ He looks down at the flagstone floor awkwardly, tracing the cracks with his toe.
‘I’m just making a cup of tea,’ I say. ‘Thought it might get me over. Do you want one?’
‘I don’t want to interrupt …’
‘The only thing you’re interrupting is me communing with a kettle. Take a seat.’
He pulls a chair out from under the table and watches as I lift two mugs off the shelf above the worktop.
‘Is that …?’ He leans forward and squints at my t-shirt. ‘Is that Blue ?’
Crap. I’d forgotten about the t-shirt. I’m wearing a pair of red checked pyjama shorts and an old top belonging to Cillian. It’s emblazoned with a photograph of the former British boyband Blue, its lead singer Duncan in the foreground, shirtless and staring seductively into the camera. Cillian had bought it for a workshop he was trialling – Come Dressed As An Emotion You’ve Been Feeling Lately. He’d been bummed out about the disappointing sales of his first book and thought the t-shirt would be a playful way to encourage an exchange of painful experiences.
‘It is,’ I say.
‘Interesting.’
‘Really? How so?’ I hand Jack a cup of camomile tea and sit down across from him.
‘Isn’t he – what is it your lot are fond of saying these days? – “problematic”?’
‘That’s Lee. To my knowledge, Duncan has never said anything controversial.’
‘Yes, right, Lee. What was it he said again? Something about tigers and 9/11?’
‘Elephants. He said who gives a fuck about New York when elephants are being killed.’
‘That was it. Interesting take.’
‘Look, it’s my ex’s t-shirt, alright? I’m not into Blue.’
‘Hey, no judgement here,’ he says, holding up his palms in a gesture of mock surrender. ‘They’re very talented musicians.’
I raise my eyebrows at him and he lifts his mug to conceal a smile.
‘There was another incident,’ he says, taking a sip of tea.
‘Oh, come on. Enough already.’
‘No, I’m serious. Didn’t he say that the government was controlled by the devil and we’ll all be microchipped soon?’
‘Something like that.’ I take my teabag out of the cup and set it on the table. ‘Everyone knows he’s a mad conspiracy theorist.’
Jack lifts my teabag and his, cupping them in his palm as he walks over to the sink and deposits them in the compost bin.
‘Yes, but Duncan makes a valid point all the same,’ he says, returning to his seat. ‘Surveillance is an important issue.’
He rests both hands on his mug and catches my eye, the ghost of a grin on his lips. I try not to smile back, directing my focus on his tea, like it’s the most interesting thing I’ve seen in a long time. I notice he’s still wearing his wedding band, and that the skin around the thumb of his left hand is red and broken, as though it’s been picked at repeatedly. My gaze moves up along his bare arms. They’re lightly tanned and muscular in a way that suggests a natural leanness as opposed to a diligent adherence to any kind of sleeve-filling workout. I realise I’m staring a little too intently and force myself out of my trance.
‘Again, it was Lee who said the thing about the microchipping. Duncan – I point at the semi-naked man on my chest – is the nice one who went out with Tara Palmer-Tomkinson before coming out.’
‘It’s a tricky one, though, isn’t it?’ Jack continues. ‘I mean, can you ever really separate the art from the artist? Is it possible to appreciate ‘One Love’ in the same light knowing the troubling worldviews of the band? A moral dilemma for sure.’
I groan. ‘Okay, you’ve made your point. Can we talk about something else?’
‘Sure. How are things with you and Ari?’
‘Fine. Why wouldn’t they be?’ I bristle.
‘Hey, I’m only asking. You said to change the subject. He seemed upset the other day is all. Which is understandable. Wouldn’t you be crushed to find out your grandfather isn’t Woody the cowboy?’
I puff out my cheeks, exhaling slowly. ‘I really fucked that one up, didn’t I?’
‘Ah, go easy on yourself. Parenting is one fuck-up after another. You’ll get used to it.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. It feels like these days, I make double the number of fuck-ups everyone else does. I like to compensate for Ari being down a parent.’
Jack smiles, his mouth closed.
‘What about Ari’s dad?’ he asks. ‘I know he’s not around on a day-to-day basis, but surely he helps – beyond the financial stuff, I mean. You can chat to him about things?’
I laugh at the absurdity of Cillian being any kind of emotional crutch. Jack gives me a rueful smile, like he feels sorry for me. I hate that. I hate being pitied. Because we’re fine, Ari and me. Always have been, always will be.
‘How old is your son?’ I say, moving the conversation on from what Jack no doubt considers my tragic existence. ‘It’s Max, right?’
Jack’s smile widens at the mention of Max’s name and I realise it’s the first time I’ve seen his teeth. They look like the teeth of a man who takes care of himself. Stain-free, white, but not that creepy, glow-in-the-dark white famous people are into these days. They simply look like nice, normal teeth that are regularly brushed and flossed.
‘Yeah, Max. He’s eight. He’s badgering us for a laptop, which isn’t going to happen if I have anything to do with it. I want him to have the kind of childhood I did – messing around outside with his friends, building forts, digging for worms. His mum doesn’t agree. She likes him close by where she can keep an eye on him. I don’t know why I expected us to be on the same page. She bought the kid kneepads when he was learning how to crawl, for Christ’s sake.’
‘You must miss him,’ I say.
His face crumples. ‘Very much. He’s in Connecticut for the summer with Helen. I try to speak to him as often as I can, but it’s difficult with the time difference.’
‘Tell me about it. I’ve plastered Ari’s room with photos of Cillian so he won’t forget what his dad looks like.’
‘Helen’s threatening to move to the States. She says she wants Max to get to know her family better. I get that, but I can’t just up sticks and leave. My job is here. The job that pays for the ridiculously expensive private school she insists on sending him to. Anyway, who wants to live in America these days? I told her if Max makes it through high school without being shot, he’ll only end up with an opioid addiction his health insurance is unlikely to cover. That didn’t go down too well.’
I laugh, in spite of myself. Jack laughs too. I’ve heard him snigger the odd time I’ve watched him on TV. The polished ha-ha of a politician or cheesy gameshow host. This laugh seems less self-conscious, more honest.
Outside, the dawn chorus is striking up.
‘That’s a house sparrow,’ Jack says.
‘How do you know that?’ I ask.
‘My old man was a twitcher. He’d spend hours in the garden watching birds. I’d join him sometimes. We could sit there for up to an hour without saying anything. Just drinking from a flask of tea and eating Jammie Dodgers.’
It’s an unremarkable statement, yet somehow it feels like Jack has confided in me, shared some crucial piece of information about his essential self. Another minute or two passes and I’m surprised at how comfortable it feels to be here in the early-morning stillness with him. The realisation of which is anything but comfortable. I need to get Jack out of this kitchen. I stand up abruptly, march over to the sink, empty the remainder of my tea down the drain and start unloading the dishwasher. Jack takes the hint.
‘Right, I may as well take advantage of being up at this ungodly hour and get some writing done. Thank you for the tea.’
He hands me his cup, our fingers making contact for a fraction of a second. My breath catches in my throat. I turn my back to him and start washing his cup. As he makes his way outside back to his room, I can hear him singing, softly and not entirely out of tune.
Three for the calls you’ve been making
It’s four all the times you’ve been faking
All rise …