Read Online Gone by Martin Roper - Free Book Online Page B

thunderstorms, the ricochet of strange languages on street corners. In New York my eyes opened and I realised how insane our life had become. I felt safe there and hated the house in Dublin and hated what had happened to our life. I hated it ending, the years of compromising to make it work coming to nothing.
    My first job is painting a gallery in Commerce Street in the Village. I work long hours, not just to make a good impression but to avoid going out. New York intimidates me. There are too many choices. In a foreign city everyone seems to have a purpose. And of course I work to avoid calling her. I dwell on things that I had pushed aside in more generous moments: her visible envy when I was promoted to line leader and then manager. She is incapable of enjoying success, either mine or her own. The Ambitious enjoy nothing, always one step behind the next goal. She is a somewhat successful writer now and her competitiveness baffles and disgusts me. Time magnifies faults.
    *   *   *
    I worry about the cats even though I know she would have been over to them in a shot. I telephone her. She thanks me for looking after the cats and for phoning Medbh. She’s glad I’m doing something to change and I bite my tongue, wanting to tell her what to do with her patronising insights. A frightening distance between us, lengthened by civility. There would be more passion if we were enemies. She tells me to hang in there and enjoy New York. Everything is fine in Soapy Avenue. Wimbledon is on and the children are playing tennis rather than football. She isn’t in the house often, she is too busy with work. She tells me a letter is in the post—one to forget. Here beats the harsh heart of truth. It is possible to lie to Ursula, and later to lie to Holfy, even possible to lie to myself that the relationship is over, but untruthful words on the page mock everything that goes before and everything that follows. The lie destroys a story as surely as it destroys trust between people. It demotes everything to fiction.
    The letter to forget:
    Happy Birthday. I loved the doll, loved it. You don’t miss me. You’re not with me. Not because you are there but because you are not with me in your head. It’s not my imagination. I’m losing you. Shit. I never thought I’d be coming out with this kind of nonsense. You are not thanking about us. I can feel you not thinking about us. What’s happening? Tell me. Just tell me.
    My mother is still with Mulvany. I’ll have to stop calling him that or I’ll actually refer to him that way in his presence. I was dropping some cakes in the other day and I let myself into the house. Nine o’clock in the morning and the television was blaring. He was lying on the floor with the dog, licking his balls. He was licking the dog’s balls. Can you imagine what goes on in a mind that would do such a thing? What can I say to her? I love her. She’ll only—I know what you’ll say and you’re right, but it’s so complicated. She sucks solace from him. He makes her feel young and pretty. You bastard. I couldn’t say it to your face—I knew you were so thrilled to get out of here. But to go now? You know I didn’t want you to go. And you know I would never tell you not to go. Can’t you make a visit back before Christmas? Is this really going to make such a difference in money? Not really. Certainly not for us .
    I’m inundated with work. Fiona wants me to do something about babies. A sweet milkybreathed piece. Maybe even a series of three. You know what’d be good, Urs, she says to me. I always know she’s taking advantage of me when she calls me that. Can you believe the woman? After four years freelancing for her she’s going to give me my first series on nappy changing. Feminism, roll over and die. I shouldn’t complain. She does seem genuinely interested in me, at least as long as I’m standing