Page 2 of Such a Good Couple
‘Not realistic,’ Clara singsonged, trying not to let his words sink her mood. There was not a hope that they could afford a bigger place. ‘And not the time to talk about it. We still have a shit tonne to do. The taxi gets here in thirty minutes. I’ve only packed for the lunatics. And I imagine, even though we live our lives in servitude to them, we’ll still need a few things ourselves in case we’re allowed to have a bit of a holiday.’
‘Oh, babe! The only people in servitude on this holiday will be Fionn and Maggie’s staff.’ Ollie stood up, shedding children as he rose. ‘Did you check out the itinerary that that Brody guy sent?’ He held up his phone displaying thePDFFionn’s executive assistant had made. There was a loose timetable for the two weeks they would all be together in Cape Cod comprising sunrise yoga, boat trips, walking tours and barbecues on the beach; plus an exhaustive list of additional activities they could pick and choose from.
‘I know!’ Clara replied. ‘There’s cooks and nannies and the whole shebang. Did you see there’s literally kid-free time built into the schedule? The poor help will be taking them off for ice cream and magic memories so we can chill.’
Clara shook her head in amazement. She could not imagine her friends’ lives. In the WhatsApp group she, Maggie and Annie shared (called Slags For Life) there were four different phone numbers for Maggie. She changed numbers like other people changed handbags, switching from phone to phone throughout the year as the Strongs jetted from house to house in LA, London, Saint-Tropez and, of course, Dublin.
‘I’m definitely doing the jet-skiing again,’ Ollie declared. ‘That was amazing in Hawaii last year.’
‘We’re not doing anything on the timetable if we don’t get our shit together now.’ Clara shoved the dishwasher closed andstooped to listen to make sure it started. You couldn’t always assume that it would. Like everything else in their chaotic, full-to-bursting, terraced red-brick cottage, it was a vintage model. Ollie, still buried in his phone, skipped out the door into the hall while Clara did her best to tidy the kitchen, then pushed through the many-headed beast that was her children, still gleefully pounding the shite out of each other on the floor.
In the hallway was a large suitcase blocking the front door. Ollie was nowhere to be seen. He had an incredible knack for disappearing when annoying bullshit like packing had to be done.
‘Ollie?’ she scream-shouted up the stairs.
‘I’m up here getting some stuff together like you said!’ he shouted back.
‘Amazing,’ Clara roared.
So much of marriage with kids is just yelling to each other from different locations, she mused, crouching down by the big open suitcase to do one last check of the kids’ things before closing it up. Even when she and Ollie were in the same room they often had to shout at each other to be heard over the constant monologuing of their children.
Clara took stock of the boys’ things.
Clothes? Check.
Swim stuff? Check.
Random items they’ll need/freak out if they didn’t have? Check.
The sounds of grunting and furniture being disturbed in the dining room were hitting a fever pitch. ‘Boys! Stop fighting and get out here.’ She zipped the suitcase closed and pulled it out the front door.
Back inside, Ollie was dragging the other suitcase down the stairs.
‘All set?’ she shouted.
‘All set,’ he shouted back, muscling past her with the bag.
‘Really?’
Clara stared after him as he brought both bags down the garden path. She was slightly amazed at his efficiency, though it was hardly such a feat – she’d left all their clothes folded in neat piles on the bed so it’d been straightforward enough.The credit we give men for doing the most basic things, she thought. At dinnertime, Ollie often reported to her all the housework and life admin tasks he’d completed that day as if waiting for some kind of certificate of commendation. Women, meanwhile, just got on with doing this shit. She plucked her phone from her pocket to say as much to Annie and Maggie in Slags For Life but then caught sight of the time. The taxi’d be there any minute. She hurried back into the dining room.
‘Okay, boys, stopnow. The taxi’s coming.’ Clara used a level four shout – nothing crazy, the kind you’d use for a cat trying to get at the Christmas turkey.
Not one of them looked up. The younger two had pinned Josh, who was writhing and laughing hysterically.
‘Jesus. Christ. Get. Up. Now.’ She’d gone full level ten (the type of shout that actually caused you to hurt your own throat).
Josh who, at ten, had the most experience of Clara’s shouting, shot up at that moment. ‘Yeah! Jesus. Christ,’ he shouted down to his little brothers, before beaming up at her angelically.
‘Taxi’s here,’ came Ollie’s voice from behind her. He shunted her to the side – the hall could really not accommodate more than one person at a time – and strode in to where the younger boys were still giggling on the ground. He hiked them up and tucked one under each arm.
Clara backed out the front door, trying not to stumble over the potted plants on the step as Ollie strolled towards her with the squealing boys, Josh stomping along behind him. Clara grinned and experienced one of those glimmers of gratitude thatso often arose even amidst the complete chaos of parenthood. This trip was going to be good, even if it was a bit awkward – Maggie and Fionn were paying for everything, right down to the taxi being loaded up at that very moment.
Clara eased herself into the back seat, dodging the excited flailing limbs of her children.Someone needs to write some kind of handbook for what to do when your lifelong best friends become millionaires, Clara thought.
Fionn and Maggie’s millionaire status had come pretty much out of nowhere. By their mid-thirties, Clara and Ollie had managed to scrounge a mortgage from the bank, and Annie and Conor had settled into a long-term lease, but Maggie and Fionn were still living a nomadic existence, moving from one live-in dog-sitting gig to another, soon with Maggie’s pregnant bump in tow.
Back then Annie and Conor were the most had-their-shit-together on paper: she had landed her dream job in art restoration in the National Gallery and Conor was an accountant.
