Chapter 12
I BLAME CARRIE brADSHAW
Becca
Daniel may well be an older dog, but he has the capacity to behave like a puppy when we go to visit places where he knows he will have a degree of freedom to roam, sniff and pee with abandon.
Therefore, right now, he is pacing back and forth across the back seat of my car as I gather my thoughts before getting out and going for a leisurely stroll with Conal.
I say ‘leisurely’, knowing all too well there is a possibility it could be anything but.
Conal might just have pulled the ultimate unaccountable-man-move and arranged to meet in a public place to protect himself from the chance of my causing a scene.
Little does he know that a forty-seven-year-old woman no longer gives a flying fuck about whether or not she is witnessed making a scene.
You better believe that any woman of this age is more than owed a few public crash-outs at this stage of life.
We will have played the well-behaved game for long enough.
I am just practising the deep cleansing breaths that Niamh has been drilling into me (part of her mission to convert me to the wonder of yoga), when Daniel launches into a volley of barks so loud that I swear my heart almost stops from the fright.
Or it could be that my heart almost stops because I know those barks mean only one thing. We are not alone. Conal is nearby, with Lazlo. Daniel reserves his very best, very loudest, shit-losing barks for when he sees his furry friend.
I don’t know whether I want to cry, scream or throw up, but none would be particularly dignified, so I settle for a couple more deep breaths before looking up and seeing Conal waving in the passenger window at me.
He has a strange, almost uncanny valley smile on his face.
This does not bode well. Please God, I think, just let me act normal.
I don’t want to look as terrified as I feel, so I’m pretty sure I echo his strange smile back at him before quickly turning away to get out of the car and releasing the hound from the back seat before he wears a hole in it.
The country park is empty except for our two cars, so having unclipped Daniel’s lead, he bounds out of my car, barrels at speed towards a now-also-free Lazlo and the pair of them bolt across the grass, yelping excitedly.
When I smile at their joy, it is deeply felt, not just because I am seeing Daniel run with the vigour he used to when he was a pup but also because there is such an innocence to it.
It must feel really amazing to get such an incredible buzz from running across a field with a friend.
Of course, there’s nothing stopping me running across a field, except my slightly banty knees and my aversion to running.
I’d love to be one of the lithe lovelies in a running club pounding the pavements every Saturday morning, but no – I was built for more sedate practices than that.
Like the gentle stroll I am doing towards Conal right now, wondering if he’s just going to get right down to it and rip the proverbial plaster off.
I hope that he will, but also there’s a big part of me that really hopes he will not. I’m not ready.
‘Hey,’ he says with a smile as he kisses me on the cheek.
The ‘hey’ sounded warm and affectionate, much like it always does. The kiss was soft, but quick. There was no passionate embrace. But then again, we don’t normally go in for passionate embraces while we are in the park with the dogs.
I look at him, trying to scan his expression for any clues whatsoever but I can’t see anything there that wasn’t there before.
When he opens his mouth to speak, I brace myself.
It will be fine. I have survived worse. I can survive this.
If Britney can get through 2007, then I, Rebecca Louise Burnside, can make it through 2024
‘Poo bag,’ he says, reaching into his pocket.
For a moment, I am frozen in a very surreal place.
I was expecting a big announcement. A dumping, perhaps.
A revelation for sure. I was not expecting ‘poo bag’ – which in hindsight was rather foolish of me because of course, when we are walking dogs, poo bags do tend to have their uses.
He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a roll of orange plastic bags before marching off in the direction of our dogs, who are, in an act of solidarity with each other, taking a big synchronised shite.
Not wanting to be the woman who leaves her man – if he is my man – to deal with the poo all the time, I follow, ready to scoop Daniel’s offering and dispose of it.
Once the necessities are done, Conal sets off walking in the same direction we normally do and starts rambling on about his day.
Work is busy. His son – the younger of his two children – seems to have morphed into the teenager from hell overnight.
Ryan is sixteen and has been the most placid teenager in the world until now.
I’ve met him, and can confirm that he is, or was, a delight.
However, I remember my own boys going through a particularly tricky stage at around the same age – trying it on and acting like they knew everything, pushing their boundaries. I tell Conal it’s probably just that.
‘Or drugs,’ Conal says with a shrug.
‘Ryan wouldn’t. He’s too sensible.’
‘Or he was, but is now deciding to rebel because the world is a bin-fire and teenagers are disgusted with the damage us oldies have done to civilisation?’ He’s doing his best to retain a jokey tone, but I can tell he is worried.
‘I can get Adam to chat with him? Or Saul, next time he’s home? He might relate to them?’ I’m not sure what else to say.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ Conal says. ‘One thing for sure is that he does not want to talk to his old dad about it. We used to be so close…’
‘You will be again,’ I reply with a confidence I’m not sure I feel, but I’m keenly aware that what he needs now is reassurance that everything is going to be okay.
‘I hope so. I’m sure we will. But it’s tough because I’m not able to be there with him all the time to help him through this.
’ He stares at his feet. I know that Conal finds living apart from his children tough.
They still live close by, with their mum.
Conal’s divorce was reasonably amicable – or at least as much as divorces can be.
He keeps in regular contact with them but they’re older now and not so interested in sleepovers at his house or Saturday afternoon trips to McDonald’s.
They just want their own rooms, and to hang out with their friends.
He misses the physical contact desperately – the ability to just live his life alongside theirs and see them do all the little day-to-day things that a father should see his children do. My heart hurts for him.
‘You’re a good dad, Conal. You are there for him when he needs you and even when he doesn’t realise he needs you. No one could say any different.’
‘I’m not sure it’s enough.’
A familiar, unwelcome sensation starts seeping into my bones. I’ve seen this before. This scenario. I’ve watched it on TV – isn’t this exactly what happened with Aidan in that rather suspect Sex and the City offshoot? And didn’t Aidan end up sleeping with his ex-wife?
To my horror, an image of Conal and his ex-wife, Shannon, getting it on plays in my mind.
I can’t help but shudder. Is this what he wanted to talk to me about?
His need to be there for Ryan – and his desire to be there all the time so that he can do so?
Or is this where he tells me he has already slept with Shannon again and is in love with her and it’s all going to be over, but unlike Carrie Bradshaw, I will not be left with a huge house in Gramercy Park to nurse my broken heart in?
It will just be me and an equally heart-broken Daniel.
I vow I’m not going to fall to pieces. I am a strong, independent woman.
Sixteen-year-old me would be devastated – not that she had a boyfriend, but she imagined what it would be like to be in a long-term committed relationship with Fox Mulder and that’s almost the same thing.
I will just throw myself into my work, sing my broken heart out badly at choir practice, lavish love and affection on the very beautiful Miss Clara and perhaps become obsessive about yoga like Niamh. It doesn’t have to be a tragedy.
I’m not sure, therefore, why at this moment it feels like a tragedy.
‘Look, Conal, I totally understand your kids have to come first. God knows I have been there for mine over the last year and for Adam in particular. I can’t see me becoming any less involved in Clara’s life either and I don’t want to be less involved in her life.
So, I’m the very last person to kick off because you want to spend more time with Ryan, even if that means you moving back home… ’
‘Woah!’ Conal stops walking. ‘Where on earth did you get “moving back home” from?’
I turn to look at him, unable to tell if he is amused, confused or maybe a little bit annoyed.
While I’m trying to find the right words to say, this awkward silence just seems to stretch between us and I can see that I have clearly got this very wrong.
It’s not really going to sit well with him if I float the Sex and the City storyline as my inspiration.
Or my rampant paranoia. Or the fact that he has had me on my nerves since yesterday and of course I was waiting for things to go wrong, but things of a romantic nature have tended to go very much wrong for me.
‘You said we need to talk,’ I say to Conal in a small voice as we stand in the deserted country park in the fading light, with the sight of mist rolling in off the sea and onto the River Foyle. It would be quite cinematic if it wasn’t real life and he wasn’t holding my heart in his hands.