You were in trainers for that first meeting,
an overcoat better donated to charity than worn.
‘My wife didn’t take my name and
I’m pretty sure she’s made meticulous plans for her own death.
My death too, probably.’
Your laughter filled up all the space,
right into the dusty nooks.
We went through it:
personal data,
property,
pension.
I knew your entire life fifty minutes after we’d met,
while you knew nothing of me
apart from where I’d been to university:
I spotted you studying my walls –
certificates of accomplishment,
praise for a girl I scarcely remembered.
She was ambitious,
liked Manic Street Preachers,
sucked off her jurisprudence professor for a first.
Silly girl.
At the end, you loitered,
traced circles
on the desk
with your thumb
and, grinning somewhat, said,
‘I guess I’ll be back for the divorce.’
I lidded my pen,
left a space for you to speak.
It was January after all,
a busy month for break-ups and
scrounging around for grounds
after the hellish togetherness of Christmas.
‘We’re here for anything you need,’ I said.
I wasn’t being suggestive.
I was a professional
with certificates on the wall to prove it.
A Bristol graduate.
‘My colleague Tanya Kushner
is an experienced family lawyer.
I can ask the receptionist to make an appointment.’
‘Oh, Rebecca would never let me go.
Who’d put petrol in her car?’
You rose.
‘Once the will is ready you can
pop back in and sign it,’ I said.
‘We’ll provide witnesses.’
‘How lavish! I look forward to it.’
You put on the tatty coat.
A bottle of Ribena poked out of a pocket.
‘Are you Irish? With the surname Kelly you must be.
Unless you married particularly well.’
‘I was going to ask you the same.’
‘Both parents from Meath. Yours?’
‘Mum is from Cork.
Dad is from Cavan.
No one can pinpoint which town.
We all agree he was running from something.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ You winked then shuffled,
ashamed to have done it,
reaching for the door handle.
‘Have a good afternoon.’
I ate lunch alone at the Subway a few doors down.
A slice of cucumber fell on to my lap and
I noticed a ladder in my tights,
was glad I’d been sitting for most of our meeting,
was worried you’d spot me in Subway.
So you see,
even that first day you were
slinking around
inside,
stirring things up.
But.
Actually.
I didn’t think much more about you until we met by chance
two weeks later.
You were with Rebecca.
And, oh,
she was everything.
How can we know which days
will be the turning points?
So long as we live,
we gamble.
Red.
Black.
Put it all on Number 11.
A man is by my side. ‘Ana?’
He is handsome. Bearded. ‘Mark?’
‘Jesus. Is it a good idea for you to be here?’
Mourners in cars search for spaces,
ways to reach the crematorium
without having to cross the road and
traipse the length of the cemetery.
A woman strides towards us and relinquishes a child
like it’s nothing more than a bag of groceries.
‘He needs changing.
I’m getting a lift with Sheena,’ she tells Mark.
I hold out my hand to her but she is gone already.
We watch her go.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It must be …
I don’t have a clue how it must be.
Shit, I suppose.
I’ve thought about you a lot.
How you’re doing.
But you shouldn’t have come.
Did Rebecca spot you?’
‘Does it matter?’ I ask.
He pats the child, who gurgles something
combining complaint with contentment.
‘I better deal with this one.’
Beneath my feet,
wet leaves cling to the tarmac.
The air smells of evaporating rain.
In the block of council flats
next to the presbytery,
a girl is waving from a top floor window
as though we have all come to see her.
In her arms, a naked baby.
‘Meet me,’ I say.
The church bell tolls twelve.
Cars edge away.
You will be smoked,
nothing but ash in an hour.
I will still be in this cashmere. In these tights.
Later I will load a washing machine,
measure detergent into a plastic lid.
‘I can’t,’ Mark says. ‘Meet you, I mean. I can’t.’
‘You’re the only person who knew about us.
I have no one else to talk to.’
He clicks his tongue,
looks suddenly young, accused and guilty.
‘I have to think about it.
Rebecca’s in bits,’ he says.
Before I can ask why that’s relevant
he scurries off,
velvety vomit
dribbling down the back of
his trench coat.
Rebecca
in
bits.
People in pieces all over the place.
I was ordering
another bottle of
Rioja from the bar,
Tanya shouting for peanuts,
and there you were,
fingertips on my wrist. ‘Hello.’
I didn’t recognise you in the suit,
shaven and smelling of influence,
and was bored of swatting men away.
I retrieved my hand from the bar,
wanted to get back to plotting with Tanya,
making plans to start up on our own:
Kelly and Kushner Solicitors.
‘I’m Connor. I was in your office a few weeks ago.’
I liked your eyebrows,
your teeth, the canines jutting forward just slightly.
‘A trust dispute!’ I announced.
‘Last will and testament,’ you corrected.
From the fug of noise
Rebecca emerged,
pale-lipped in a Patrick Swayze T-shirt.
She had the arms of a tennis player,
the mouth of a politician.
‘Rebecca, this is Ana Kelly. My solicitor.’
I was tipsy.
Yes.
I was tipsy and nothing was rooted to the spot.
I wanted you to hold me up,
help me back to the table,
sit with me
and divulge everything you had ever been.
I stopped myself leaning in
and resting my head against your chest.
I wanted Rebecca to be more obvious.
‘My boozy friend’s waiting for wine,’ I pointed.
‘We’ll get our drinks and join you,’ Rebecca said flatly.
‘No other bloody seats.’
Tanya rolled her eyes, opened the Uber app.
‘They look like the fucking Muswell Hill set.
I can’t sit and listen to the merits