by Carol Mason
‘Oh,’ I say, cringing a little. I would never, ever, have thought of that in a million years. ‘Sorry . . .’
Toby pouts but doesn’t burst into the fit of tears I’m anticipating.
‘How was your exam?’ Joe asks Grace, who does an exaggerated duck-walk towards him, then slumps her full weight on to him, hanging there like a rag doll.
‘That bad? Huh?’ He laughs, and gently pushes her away.
She starts to tell him how her friend Phoebe faked feeling ill – or Grace thought she was faking, until the girl actually puked on her exam paper. The story goes on at length. As I return to the meal prep, I listen to the theatrical delivery, the cultivated Queen’s English that comes with an expensive private education – though not a boarding school one; Joe refused to send her away from home, a battle he had to fight with Meredith. Then she moves on to another friend’s high jinks in France, and I can’t read whether Joe is genuinely interested in all this, or angling to get away.
Right then, Toby charges around the room fencing with an imaginary foe. Joe cuts Grace off. ‘Tobes! How many times have I told you . . . No running indoors!’ He catches my eye and shakes his head in good-natured despair.
‘I’m ravenous!’ Grace sashays over to the breakfast bar where I’ve set out onion, peppers and tomatoes, grated white and yellow cheese, seasoned fish with chilli and lime, cubed chicken breast and sautéed slices of steak.
I watch her peer down her nose at it – like a property owner inspecting a fresh deposit of shit on her lawn. Then she says, ‘Que desastre! Please tell me we can order a pizza!’
I glance at Joe, expecting him to give her some sort of ticking off, but all he says is, ‘Well, I, for one, think Lauren’s done a very good job here and I’m going to enjoy diving in.’
Then he dips a finger in the sour cream, pops it in his mouth, and smiles at me with his eyes.
FOUR
April 2018
I would love to continue our conversation soon.
His text came about ten minutes after he’d dropped me off at my door. Our very first date.
I’d only got as far as the bathroom with the intention of taking off my make-up, but had found myself gazing at my face in the mirror. Was this what ‘in love’ looked like? The sensible streak in me said, Come on! You can’t fall for someone this fast. It’s just a strong – very potent – like.
Could we possibly have more to say? I responded.
The date had lasted five hours. Until the staff began upturning stools on to tables, and Joe said, ‘Do you think they’re trying to tell us something?’
I’ve a feeling I could talk to you forever, Lauren, and it still wouldn’t feel like too much.
I smiled. Actually . . . ditto.
The dots came again.
To be honest . . . I haven’t enjoyed talking to someone this much in a very, very long time. Not for four months, to be precise!!!
It was true. We’d clicked as seamlessly as on the day we first met. As though then and now had known no interruption – almost like we had a history behind us, not just an hour in the sun. I had heard about this kind of connection; I’d certainly never even come close to experiencing it. I wasn’t looking for Joe, yet in a way it felt like I’d been on course to meet him my whole life.
Still, my instinct was to keep it light. Safe.
Clearly you don’t get out much!
The doctor in me had an almost existential fear of the unknown. I was so far out of my depth, yet I had a sense that my life and priorities were about to shift in some profound way, which was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.
Believe me, I do. This is rare. Rare and wonderful. The inappropriate truth . . . I was dying to kiss you in the car.
Hmm . . . What stopped you?
Fear of coming on too strong? Past mistakes? Mainly . . . I don’t want to rush this.
I wondered what he meant by past mistakes.
Two meetings in four months? Not exactly hasty by anyone’s standards!
Haha . . . I’m an old guy, remember? I move slowly. Bones are creaking just writing this.
I loved his humour. But I knew why he was moving slowly. Joe wasn’t even officially divorced. He hadn’t had time to process the end of a relationship, let alone contemplate a new one.
I felt the need to make something clear.
I’m not in a rush either.
I was still in medical school, still had so much to accomplish in my immediate future. A heavy romantic commitment wasn’t really on my agenda – not yet.
Good, he replied. And then, Wise. And then, You should know the much older man is very patient. A rare trait in a world of instant and sometimes false gratification. Throughout his extremely long life this has proven to be a rewarding and ultimately long-term winning strategy.
Patience is a fine quality . . . I replied.
He didn’t respond right away.
Where are you now? I wrote, eager to keep this going. You surely can’t be home already?
Pulled over at side of the road.
His unabashed confession made me laugh out loud. I thought it was lovely. I pictured him sitting there in his white Lexus – somewhere – a silhouette carved by the light of his phone. I’d just been reading F. Scott Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise, and the words ‘They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered’ buzzed in my head.
This was us, surely. Or so it felt.
Maybe you should get yourself home!
Having trouble. Clearly!! You’re hard to walk away from!
After a moment, I typed, Then don’t walk away.
That was it. No more dots. Damn it. I’d shown my hand. Made it known I was feeling the depth, length and significance of us – something that was way too premature, or presumptuous, to articulate.
This was what I hated about romantic involvements. The second-guessing. The worrying that, with one misstep or wrong word, you might undo another’s faith or feelings.
I was convinced I’d never hear from him again. I agonised about it all night.
At around 2 a.m., just as I was drifting into a shallow, unsettled sleep, my phone pinged.
No intention of walking, he wrote.
FIVE
Our turn to have the kids stay over on Saturday rolls around quickly. This particular Saturday, I have to work. It’s a gruelling day, emotionally. A six-year-old boy is admitted with cardiac arrest. Our tests show he suffers from long QT syndrome, a heart rhythm disorder that can cause fast and chaotic heart beats. It’s not uncommon for the condition to go unnoticed until it’s too late. He dies while I’m on a call with a consultant on a different matter. So, on my way home I wish it was just me and Joe tonight, so I can curl up on the sofa and just feel what I need to feel, and think what I need to think. To try to watch the telly while I relive every second of that kid’s face, and the faces of his parents. Right now, that’s what I need to do to process this. But when I get in Joe tells me Toby is waiting up for his story.
I find him sitting propped up in his bed by his Freddy the Frog pillow.
‘Hey, little fella!’ I say.
Staring at him, I have to make a massive effort to push thoughts of a dead little boy to the back of my mind, and to remember what the prof said about returning to your world.
‘Hiya, Lauren,’ he says.
It’s so cute how he can’t pronounce his r’s. Lauwen.
I always enjoy storytime. I read to him a combination of the tales I loved as a kid, and popular ones a website informs me are essential reading for children.
We’re just getting to the part where Jack hacks down the beanstalk and the giant tumbles to his death when Joe pops his head around the door. ‘Nightcap?’
To get myself out of the habit of reaching for a glass of wine at the end of the day, stressed and tired, I’ve instituted a policy of booze-free weekdays, wine only on weekends. But last Sunday, Grace gawked at me as I was walking from the fridge holding a wine glass and said
, ‘Were you – like – born with one of those in your hand?’ So I was going to give alcohol a miss tonight to show her that actually, no, I wasn’t. But suddenly, with the day it’s been, all my good intentions fly out of the window. ‘Please,’ I say. ‘I’d love one.’
‘Hey, bud,’ Joe says to Toby. ‘Why did Jack hack down the beanstalk?’
Toby just looks at him blankly.
‘Wasn’t the giant chasing Jack, or something, Toby?’ I gently prompt him, conscious of Grace appearing in the background. She’s dressed in an oversized T-shirt and is standing on one leg like a pelican, the sole of her left foot pressed against her right inner knee. ‘Remember the goose who laid the golden egg?’ I say.
Toby pushes away my hand with the book in it. ‘I don’t like this stupid story!’
‘We don’t have to read anymore,’ I tell him. He’s tired.
Grace briefly meets my eye, and I see a glint of mischief in her expression. ‘It really is a stupid story. And completely inappropriate for children, actually. You know . . . unless you want to teach them it’s okay to steal, murder, then live happily off the spoils of their crimes.’
‘What?’ At first I think she must be joking.
Joe looks at me, shrugs. ‘Hey,’ he says light-heartedly, ‘for what it’s worth, I think it’s a great story!’
‘My favourite is The Wonky Donkey!’ Toby chimes in, seeming happy again.
‘The Wonky Donkey is funny, isn’t he?’ I’m disproportionately thrilled he loves a story I introduced him to, and feel an impish sense of satisfaction because Joe once let it drop that whenever Meredith bothered reading to the kids she’d fall asleep before they did.
‘Maybe it’s funny if you’re fine poking fun at people with disabilities,’ Grace says, tartly.
‘But the donkey isn’t a person. He’s a farm animal,’ I tell her.
‘So we don’t need to respect animals?’
‘Of course we do. But it’s a children’s story. It’s designed to be amusing. To instil in kids the concept of rhyme.’
‘Perfect. Let’s ridicule him and but still respect him.’
It’s very odd behaviour, so keen-edged and antagonistic. Anyone would think she was thirty-four, not fourteen.
I look to Joe for help, but he seems oblivious. ‘Why is he wonky anyway?’ he asks.
‘Because he’s got a gammy leg,’ she answers for me. ‘And he’s missing an eye. So they call him a winky wonky donkey. Oh . . . and he’s got a cleft palate!’
‘No, he doesn’t!’ I exclaim.
‘But – really – he might as well have. And on top of everything, he’s anorexic. So they call him a lanky winky wonky donkey! All he needs now is to stink, then he’d be a lame, half-starved, one-eyed homeless person.’
I’m about to say this is ridiculous, but she flits out of the room.
Joe and I look at each other. ‘That nightcap? Can you make it a big one?’ I ask.
‘I thought you might say that.’
In bed, while Joe lies beside me answering emails, I surf my phone, still feeling more than a little puzzled about what just happened. I wonder if I should say something to him. But given he didn’t exactly bat an eyelid, I suppose it’s possible I just took it the wrong way. Perhaps because of the day I’ve had my sense of humour has taken a leave of absence. I decide it’s best to let it go.
For no reason in particular, other than raw curiosity, I find myself punching into Google the words: Step-parenting. Challenges. Stepmothers.
The feeling of being an outsider and wondering if it will ever go away is almost universal for every childless stepmother.
How to protect your marriage – and save your sanity – in a step family.
I love him but not his kids.
—Life and Style. The Guardian.
Joe is immersed in typing, his long, slim fingers dancing over the keyboard. He must sense me watching because he suddenly turns his head, meets my eyes, gives an inquiring little smile.
I send one back, then we return to our respective devices.
There’s a lot to read, and I won’t be able to get my head around it. Nor do I really want to. I’m just about to click off when a link to a blog catches my eye:
S’MOTHERHOOD: Coping with an instant family.
I click on it.
Have you suddenly acquired another person’s kids? Does your husband have an intimidating ex? Resentful offspring who seem to hate you? Have you had moments of feeling like an outsider? Frustrated? Worried this will never change? Welcome to the wonderful world of stepmotherhood! Guess what? Nothing can prepare you for what you thought you signed up for. But we can help you navigate the future. Join us and you’ll have like-minded friends to offer you the benefit of their experience – or, if nothing else, a safe place to have a good rant.
There’s a link to the forum but I have to register to gain access. Part of me thinks, This is for other people, not me, and I’m about to exit. But my finger hovers over the back button, and I find myself saving it to favourites.
Joe slaps his laptop shut, reaches across and places it on the night table. I watch the long flex of muscle down his bare back, then the way his hand settles, suggestively, in a space an inch from my leg. Our eyes meet; a frisson of anticipation. ‘What are you reading?’ he asks.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Nothing very important.’
He smiles. ‘That’s the right answer.’
SIX
On Sundays I usually try to make myself scarce for a few hours to give the kids – Grace in particular – a bit of quality time alone with their dad. Sometimes, I meet my friends Sophie and Charlie for lunch, but today they’re out of town so I decide to go on a shopping expedition.
Last weekend Toby forgot to bring Godfrey the Giraffe when he came to stay. When we tried to put him to bed, he threw the tantrum from hell. ‘I want Godfrey! I want Godfrey!’
He thrashed and screamed and cried, until Joe said, ‘If I don’t go and get goddamn Godfrey I’m going to slit my throat with a carving knife.’
It’s a beautiful day, so first I take the Tube to Marble Arch then have a wander through Hyde Park towards the Serpentine cafe where I nurse a coffee and a piece of walnut cake and watch kids feeding the ducks, families picnicking on the grass, a dad taking his son out on a pedal boat. Afterwards, I head back the way I came and take my time walking the length of Oxford Street, popping into a few shops and a clutch of cute boutiques in one of my favourite little hidden backwaters, St Christopher’s Place. As I have to make my way down Regent Street to Hamleys, I decide to pop into Topshop at Oxford Circus first, because I can hardly go home with a gift for Toby and nothing for Grace.
Just the very idea of choosing something for her reminds me of the first time I bought the kids gifts.
Joe decided on afternoon tea at a posh hotel for me to meet his children. I’d heard how advanced Toby was for his age, had pictured a nerdy boy wonder, a member of the London Mensa chapter with an IQ of 250. A child who, when most of us are just discovering our toes and learning that food is supposed to go in the mouth, had already become fluent in eight languages and could find the cubed root of 456,667,235 in less than six seconds. I knew Grace was a YouTube ‘influencer’ as Joe said she described herself, and he surprisingly said it with a straight face. So I decided to buy them books. Ripley’s Believe It or Not for Toby, and, for Grace, How to Be a Hepburn in a Kardashian World.
When I arrived at the Dorchester’s Palm Court, I spotted them at a table near a grand piano. It was odd seeing Joe in the context of father – with two lives he had created with another woman, both of whom looked every bit like him and nothing like him at the same time. But they did look very much a unit, and at ease in their privileged surroundings. Even though I knew he earned well, drove a beautiful car and stayed in nice hotels, I had still thought of him as a down-to-earth bloke from Chicago who was as comfortable talking to a politician as to a parking attendant.
It was almost like I was see
ing someone else.
Joe made stiff introductions, and before I handed Grace her book I bigged it up a little too much. There was suddenly something withering in her expression that made me want to actually eat the book rather than give it to her, to just push it sideways into my mouth and chew until there was no evidence of it. But instead I handed it over. She went on staring at me like I had two heads and one was growing a beard. Then she placed it on the floor, like a wet umbrella, and said, ‘Kim Kardashian is just one of those tacky yesterday people.’
Toby’s book was a big, glossy hardcover. His dad had taken his glasses from him and was cleaning them with a napkin, and when I handed it to him somehow the sharp edge went right into his eye. He erupted with gurgling cries.
I was mortified, and made a great big dog’s dinner of apologising. No one was really listening. Grace began tinkering on her phone like nothing was going on. The more Joe tried to pacify Toby, the more he howled. I could have offered my help. I was a doctor to be, after all. But I just sat there, useless and squirming.
The manager came over. The place was full of wealthy Arabs and elderly English upper class types – we were spoiling their pleasure. The pianist was playing ‘The Shadow of Your Smile’ – one of my favourites – and he sent me a look of sympathy.
‘I think I’m going to take him outside,’ Joe said, and he thrust two twenty-pound notes at the waiter – grossly overpaying for their tea and orange juice. As we were leaving I watched a couple of Arabs almost tip from their chairs to stare at Grace’s legs in her white pleated mini-skirt.
‘They were very thoughtful gifts,’ Joe said in that magnanimous way of his, as he tried to juggle an ill-tempered Toby and the stupid books in his arms.
Outside, he hailed a taxi, then took a while getting Toby settled into the back seat. Grace slid in after without so much as a glance or goodbye. Then there was an awkward moment where Joe was waiting for me to climb in.
He indicated the empty space with a hand.
