Flynn is home, and greets me with a rather subdued, ‘Hey, Dad.’ We sit together and watch some trash on the TV, which he enjoys from time to time: young people on their first dates. It all seems terribly contrived and awkward, and I start to feel as if I’m there on the dates with them, at least double their age, a sort of chaperone, stiff and uncomfortable with my hands bunched into tight fists.
‘Sorry about all that,’ I murmur, during an ad break. ‘The guitar thing, I mean. I was upset, but that was no reason to act that way. I just meant—’
‘It’s okay,’ he says lightly.
I glance at my son as he pops strong-smelling cheesy Doritos from a family packet into his mouth. If Sinead were here, the Doritos would be in a bowl. As the dating programme resumes, I find myself spinning off, thinking now of the little things she hates, mostly food-related: people licking their fingers and running them around the inside of a Doritos packet in order to collect the orangey powder residue; witnessing anyone piercing a fried egg yolk with a fork.
The programme ends, and Flynn and I say a companionable goodnight. Leaving him strumming his acoustic guitar on the sofa, I manage not to comment or even compliment his technique. Instead, I escape to our bedroom (no, my bedroom now – Christ!) where I change into pyjamas and sit up in bed with Sinead’s list to my side and my laptop in front of me.
The list is becoming rather raggedy now from being carted around in various pockets and re-folded numerous times. So I open a new document and start to type it out, line by line, each and every one of my heinous shortcomings.
Only now, bolstered by Paolo, the sight of it no longer triggers a great wave of panic and dismay. I glance up for a moment, my gaze resting upon Sinead’s red and white spotty dressing gown hanging from the hook on our bedroom door. I look back down quickly and resume typing, taking care to copy the list exactly, even her flamboyant usage of exclamation marks. And when I’ve finished, and it’s all there in a Word document, I can see that Paolo was right.
It’s not really a list. At least, that’s not all it is. It’s a challenge to be a better person; my instruction manual on how to be the sort of husband Sinead needs me to be. I will be that person – for her, for my family – and I will win her back.
‘She’s left you? You mean, she’s just walked out on you – and Flynn?’
‘No, not on Flynn, it’s not like that …’
‘She’s gone and left her own son, with everything he has to deal with in life?’
I jab a finger at the kitchen ceiling. ‘Shhh! He’s upstairs in bed. He’ll hear you …’
My mother shakes her head and looks pointedly around the room, as if it has fallen into terrible disrepair since Sinead’s departure. In fact, it is gleaming. I was up two hours ago, at 7 a.m., scrubbing and shining, eager to get started on working my way through the list.
You leave too much to me, she’d written. Perhaps I did. But not anymore. The bathroom dazzles; the kitchen bin smells like a summer rose; even the fridge has been wiped out and reorganised, with Sinead’s wilting spinach disposed of and all the jar labels facing the right way. It’s just a pity my wife isn’t here to see it.
Mindful, too, of Sinead’s YOUR MOTHER!!! point, I also decided to tell Mum precisely what had happened as soon as she arrived, rather than staggering through some terrible, ‘Oh, Sinead’s just popped out’ kind of charade.
‘I have to say, you seem remarkably … calm,’ she acknowledges now.
‘Well, I can’t just fall to pieces,’ I say, as if I have been the epitome of composure since my wife left me.
‘This must be terribly tough for you, though. Humiliating, too …’ Mum perches on a kitchen chair, and I hand her a coffee. Sunshine streams in through the newly-cleaned kitchen window on this bright Sunday morning.
‘Hmmm,’ I reply non-committally.
She sips her coffee. ‘This is very milky, Nate.’
Yes, because I have sloshed in extra cold milk so it’s drinkable right away. ‘Is it? I’ll make you another …’
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ Her mouth curls into a frown, and I am aware of her gaze following me as I potter about the kitchen. ‘So, where is she then?’
‘Just staying at a friend’s for the moment.’
Mum sniffs. ‘So, she thinks that’s okay? To just leave Flynn, at this crucial stage—’
‘Please stop this,’ I cut in. ‘That’s not what this is about …’
‘Well, what am I supposed to say?’ she asks.
‘You’re not supposed to say anything, actually.’
‘But I think I’m entitled, when it affects my grandchild …’
‘Mum, Flynn’s fine,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t go into all the details about this now. I’m only just trying to figure out things for myself.’ I inhale deeply and lean against the fridge.
‘Is there someone else?’ she asks, arching a brow.
‘No, of course not.’ I stare at her, aghast.
A wash of sanctimoniousness settles over her face. ‘I don’t mean with you. God knows, Nate, with that job of yours and everything else you have on your plate, I can’t imagine you’d have the time …’
‘Mum, please—’
‘I’m only trying to help,’ she points out, as if she’s the one who’s been wronged. She pushes back her chair with a loud scrape, and makes a great show of searching around the kitchen for Bella’s feeding bowl, lead and plastic poo bag dispenser, sighing in irritation that I haven’t had everything packed and ready in her oilskin bag.
‘Okay, if you don’t want to talk about it,’ she remarks coolly. ‘So, any idea where Bella’s pigs’ ears might be?’
Ah, those gnarly treats – ‘They’re actual ears of pig!’ Flynn once announced with fascination – that Sinead always hides away at the bottom of our veg rack. I unearth the packet and hand them to Mum. ‘Here you go.’
‘Thank you.’ She packs them into the bag and makes a point of wiping out Bella’s bowl with a piece of kitchen roll. ‘So, where do you and Sinead go from here, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I really have no idea,’ I reply, even keener for her to leave, now that she’s raised the possibility of my wife seeing someone else. Could she have met someone? I’m wondering now. Have I been an idiot to not even consider that this is the real reason, as opposed to my apparent incompetence with a spirit level and drill?
Flynn appears in the doorway, rubbing at his face. ‘Hey, Grandma,’ he drawls with a bleary smile.
‘Oh, Flynn,’ she exclaims, instantly adopting a ‘darling baby, abandoned by his mother!’ voice. ‘How are you, love?’
‘I’m okay.’ He hugs her briefly before grabbing a loaf from the bread bin and shoving a slice into his mouth.
Mum peers at him and scowls in concern. ‘Couldn’t you toast that, darling?’ she suggests.
‘Nah, s’okay …’ He shrugs.
‘Or at least put butter or jam on it?’ I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
He