Douglas Kennedy: A Special Relationship

After a moment she said, 'There is no such thing as normal life'.

That was several weeks ago. And though I do agree with Sandy that normal life doesn't exist, since then I have certainly been trying to lead something approaching a quiet, ordinary existence. I get up when Jack wakes me. I tend to his needs. We hang out. He sits in his carry-chair or his playpen while I work. We go to the supermarket, the High Street. Twice since he's come home, I've entrusted him to a baby sitter for the evening, allowing me to sneak off to a movie with Julia. Other than that, we've been in each other's company nonstop. And I like it that way - not just because it's making up for a lot of lost time over the past few months, but also because it locks us into a routine together. No doubt, there will come a point when such a routine needs to be altered. But that's the future. For the moment, however, the everydayness of our life strikes me as no bad thing.

Especially since the sun has come out.

'Five pounds says it won't rain tomorrow', I told Julia as she poured herself another glass of wine.

'You're on', she said. 'But you will lose'.

'You mean, you've heard the weather forecast for tomorrow?'

'No, I haven't'.

'Then how can you be so sure it will rain?'

'Innate pessimism... as opposed to your all-American positive attitude'.

'I'm just a moderately hopeful type, that's all'.

'In England, that makes you an incurable optimist'.

'Guilty as charged', I said. 'You never really lose what you are'.

And, of course, late that night, it did start to rain. I was up at the time with my sleep terrorist son, feeding him a bottle in the kitchen. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a large heaving clap of summer thunder announced that the heavens were about to open. Then, around five minutes later, they did just that. A real tropical downpour, which hammered at the windows with such percussive force that Jack pushed away the bottle and looked wide-eyed at the wet, black panes of glass.

'It's all right, it's all right', I said, pulling him close to me. 'It's just the rain. And we better get used to it'.

Acknowledgements

I OWE AN enormous debt of thanks to Frances Hughes of Hughes Fowler Carruthers, Chancery Lane, London WC2A. Not only did Frances give me a crash course in the complexities of the English legal system, but she also vetted two early versions of the manuscript. I hope I never need her professional services.

Dr Alan Campion made certain that all the medical terminology and procedure in the novel was appropriate. And a remarkable woman I will simply refer to as 'Kate' was invaluable to me when it came to detailing - with arresting honesty - her own nightmarish descent into the dark room that is postnatal depression.

Any errors of legal or medical fact are my own.

Two friends on opposite sides of the Atlantic - Christy Macintosh in Banff and Noeleen Dowling in Dublin - read different drafts of the book. They are my 'constant readers' - and never pull punches when it comes to telling me whether the narrative is on-or-off track.

This novel was started in one of the Leighton Studios of the Banff Centre for the Arts, amidst the epic grandeur that is the Canadian Rockies. It is the best writing hideout imaginable.

My editor, Sue Freestone, is one tough operator - and I am very grateful to have her in my corner. Just as my agent, Antony Harwood, is about the best friend this novelist could have.

Finally, twenty years after we first met, I would like to thank Grace Carley for still being Grace Carley.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2003 by Douglas Kennedy

Originally published in Great Britain in 2003 by Hutchinson

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