‘Can I ask a question? Theoretical at this stage? Would you mind missing work on Friday morning?’ Quickly, I added, ‘Helen says you can have the time off. But not if you need the money.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘You know Luke? My ex-husband? His mum died, funeral’s on Friday –’
‘– Quin’s away and you need a wingman? On it.’
‘You sure? You don’t mind missing work? Maybe Helen will pay you anyway.’
That was our cue for hollow laughter, which turned into the real thing.
‘When did you last see him?’ Kate asked.
‘Twenty twelve,’ I said. ‘Six years ago. The day he left.’ Even remembering it – me crying and begging him to stay – made me feel nauseous.
‘Wow! That’s …’ Twenty-somethings usually think people like me, a woman in my forties, have evolved past all painful feelings, but Kate was better than most. ‘So how was the legal stuff done? Your divorce?’
‘Lawyers, mostly. Sometimes his mate Joey was the go-between. But Luke and I haven’t exchanged a single word.’
Thousands of times I’d ached to talk to him but he had blocked my number, email, everything.
‘And you never bumped into him?’
‘He sold his business and moved to Denver, Colorado. Got a new job, had friends living there. That’s all I know.’
‘… Social media, though?’
‘No.’ I had to laugh at her shock. ‘He was on Facebook for a while, back in the day, but barely, you know?’
He’d even blocked me on that. But, according to Anna, he hadn’t posted anything in literal years. And I’d never found him on anything else. For two or three years after he’d left, I’d done regular, obsessive checks on Instagram and Twitter but always came back empty-handed.
‘This could be hard for you.’ Kate considered. ‘After breaking up with Isaac, I was good until Chloe’s kid’s naming ceremony. Soon as I knew I’d see him there, I was in bits.’
‘Yeah. I’m still not sure I’ll go.’ For a long time I’d felt I’d never forgive Luke. The whole business had been horrendous and I was very grateful it was in the past. Maybe the past was where it should stay.
I wondered about calling Quin. Dublin to Taos, New Mexico, would have involved at least three flights if he’d been going under his own steam. But as the client had flown both him and the architect on a private jet, he might have arrived already.
‘Rach?’
‘Quin.’ I felt a rush of warmth at the sound of his voice. ‘How are you? You got there okay?’
‘God, yeah.’ He groaned. ‘Private jets are just so great. But also so terrible. Whenever I travel on one, it takes me months to readjust to normal class.’
Quin designed bespoke audio-visual systems for the homes of very rich people. He was regarded as having a magic touch, which periodically bumped him up against great wealth.
‘It’s amazing here,’ he said. ‘We’re outside of town, in the desert. I’ve put some shots on Insta, if you want to take a look.’
I clicked on his grid and found images of a high desert plain. In the distance, a sudden eruption of jagged granite exploded from the flat nothingness, looking like a cathedral made of raw stone.
‘Oh, Quin, it’s beautiful. So, listen, can you talk for a minute?’
‘Sure.’ His voice was instantly alert. ‘Let me just go into another …’ There came the rustles of movement and the sound of a door closing. Then, ‘Okay, I’m here. What’s up?’
‘I got a call today. From a friend of my ex-husband’s.’
Quin’s sharp inhale was audible.
‘His … Luke, I mean, his mother has died. The funeral’s on Friday morning. I don’t know whether to go or not.’
‘Right.’ A pause. ‘Rach …’ Another pause.
Quin knew everything about me and Luke.
Well, nearly everything.
One of the great things about having met on a weekend where our very presence was an admission that we were struggling with life, was that, right from the start, Quin and I were admirably straight with each other. In our early days I’d felt okay to say to him, ‘I could never love another man the way I loved Luke.’
‘Ow!’ Quin had been visibly pained. ‘Radical honesty can go and fuck itself.’
But we’d been able to laugh about it.
For a moment the connection to New Mexico went loud and crackly. When I could hear Quin again, he was asking, ‘What’s your “inner voice” telling you?’