by Adele Parks
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dark mahogany, which is cozy and comforting in the winter and, I imagine, cool and shady in the summer. The stone-flag floor is worn by the hundreds of years' worth of reluctant dragging of drunken feet. We are tempted to stay put and spend the afternoon there. But Sam insists that we take to the hills, well, to be pedantic, country lanes. It is a shockingly cold day and I can see my breath on the air. Sam assures us that it will be all right as soon as we start walking.
"You'll work up a sweat."
"What a horrible thought," comments Lucy.
We amble along, doing country things like identifying birds:
"It's a seagull."
"It is not a seagull, it's a goose."
"Rose, what type of bird is that?"
"A gray plover."
"See."
"See yourself."
Stepping in droppings:
"Watch that."
"Watch what?"
"Too late."
And getting spooked by harmless cows:
"It's a bull."
"It hasn't got horns."
"It's a young bull."
"It has udders."
Yup, we are definitely communing with nature. Six and a half miles of country lanes and coastal lines seem a lot longer than the six and a half miles from Harrods, through Knights-bridge, to Sloane Square, up King's Road and back again. That is the problem with the countryside, there are no designer boutiques. However, Rose offers alternative entertainment. She is quite instructive about birds that feed off eel grass, muddy
tides, and the history of smuggling. And she starts quite a lively debate on the wrongs and wrongs of fox hunting. The only right any of us can come up with is when Lucy says, "The chaps do look rather dashing in their liveries though, don't they?" Good point, hard to disagree. I find myself breaking away from Sam, Daisy and Lucy and walking with Rose. It is sort of pleasant to learn new things, even if they are absolutely useless things, like the mechanics of chemical crop-spraying or how Britain's farmers are to be compensated for the effects of mad cow disease. I make a note to remember some of it to drop into conversation next time I'm in the pub with John. Although it strikes me that it may not be his thing.
"What are they doing?" asks Rose. She points to the girls who are some way ahead of us; they haven't stopped to listen to Rose explain the science of oyster-catching. They are huddled together shouting to a mudflat of geese.
"Did you lock the door before you came out?" asks Daisy.
"Have you started a pension fund?" yells Lucy.
"Are you sure your insurance covers leaking radiators?" adds Sam.
"What are you doing?" I ask, once we catch up with them.
"We are deliberately flouting the Country Code," says Lucy, with some glee. "We are worrying geese." By way of an explanation she adds, "We couldn't find any sheep."
"Have you got a television license?" I add.
"Do you think he loves you as much as you love him?" cries Daisy.
"Have you thought that there is a possibility that you'll never meet Gander Right?" probes Sam.
"How do you know if you've married the right man?" I mumble.
"Is there a possibility that your husband's having an affair?" whispers Rose. I turn to her.
"So it isn't just the geese that are worried?" She doesn't
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answer me but walks on. Lucy throws a parting shot at the thoroughly overwrought geese.
"Don't you wish you'd joined an aerobic class?"
We move on. Salt wind in my hair and thousands of sea birds for company, I use the time to pursue my favorite hobby—thinking about John. I draw up a whole new list of outdoor fantasies. John chasing me along the beach, me stumbling, him falling on top of me. John chasing me along the cliff, me stumbling, him falling on top of me. All the scenarios are basically the same. I'm a slow runner and he's a fast worker. I'm interrupted when we come across the Saxon chapel of St. Peter's-On-The-Wall. Sam and Daisy dash inside to practice walking up the aisle, they are singing, "I'm Going to the Cha-a-a-pel and I'm going to get Ma-ha-ha-ried." Although it is likely to be marginally warmer inside the chapel, I linger outside with Lucy, choosing to smoke a cigarette instead.
"Aren't you coming in?" asks Rose. "It's very interesting." She reads from a plaque, "It's stood here facing the marshes for well over 1300 years. St. Cedd, a Celtic Bishop trained on Holy Island in ..." I tune out. I'm in danger of reverting to my original opinion of Rose. She's boring. Everyone is boring.
Lucy turns wise sage on me. Which is infuriating.
"Scared you'll be struck by lightning?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Lucy." I don't think I'll be struck by lightning, exactly. But I haven't been in a church since I married Luke. Not a fact in itself that I should be proud of. I check my mobile for messages. Lucy's watching me, closely.
"No signal," I explain with a sham, twisted grin.
"Use mine. It's working perfectly." She offers me her phone. I glare at her, turn away and start to stride along the path in the direction of the Green Man. I need a drink.
As godparents it is obligatory that Luke and I attend Henry and Sebastian's first birthday celebration. I am skeptical.
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"They'll never remember it. What's the point?" I moan, grumpily, as we climb into our car. I can't seem to shake my bad temper. If only John would ring. If only I could talk to him. We haven't spoken since I stayed over at his place. I know it is my own fault. I was too heavy. Asking about Andrea and the key. It is a cold Saturday afternoon, two weeks before Christmas, and I still have about a billion things to do, to prepare before that joyous day of family squabbling and the giving and receiving of unwanted gifts. I haven't sent any cards or bought any presents. This level of disorganization is unlike me and amounts, in my mind, to a state of emergency. Not the actual failure to do my bit for retail sales but the fact that I don't care. Of course this state of emergency passes Luke by, unnoticed. He is a boy and he's never, in his life, done any Christmas shopping before Christmas Eve. In fact, since he met me, he simply hasn't done any Christmas shopping. Whatever gene it is that allows men to abdicate responsibility for festive preparations is contagious. I no longer care if the turkey will be big enough to do sandwiches the next day. I have no interest in whether or not we bought Auntie May sherry or brandy last year. It's likely that I'll do all my Christmas shopping at Texaco, too. Air pumps and Castrol oil all round.
"You'll have a brilliant time once you're there," Luke says, giving my hand a little squeeze. I pull it away and put on my gloves. "You love kids and there'll be loads of them there. Guess what the best bit is?" he teases, merrily.
"What?" I ask, brusquely.
"We don't have to bring any of them home." He smiles at me and I force myself to smile back. It is hard not being nice to him, it's hard to be nice. Luke is exactly the same as he always has been, nice. The problem is that I'm not nice anymore. And as I haven't got the decency to feel guilty I concentrate on feeling disgruntled instead.
Why hasn't he called?
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Men never ask women what they are thinking, they don't have to. Unprompted, we share the very deepest parts of our minds and souls, or chatter about trivia. By contrast, women constantly ask men what's on their minds. This is because we genuinely want to know if they are thinking at all. If asked they offer the unfulfilling response, "nothing." The accuracy of this answer leaves us sulky and resentful. The nothing is earwax, navel fluff, or football fixtures. Therefore it is disappointing in the extreme that during the car journey to the party, Luke fulfills my lifelong fantasy by asking, "What's on your mind, Con?" And instead of being able to chatter animatedly about the inconsequential amusements that normally fill my head, I am forced into a sulky reply.
"Nothing."
We finish the journey in silence. I want him to push me. At the same time, it is my biggest fear. What would I do if he asked me straight
out, "Connie, are you screwing someone else?" I like to think that I couldn't lie to Luke, my best friend, my true love. I'd like to think that I'd come clean about my true lover. But it strikes me as inconsistent, to say the least, that I have scruples about lying directly when I am betraying him in absolutely every other way. But then I'm riddled with exhausting contradictions right now. I'm furious that Luke hasn't noticed that I am undergoing this unimaginable transformation. I want him to jealously demand where I'm going and who with? Why don't I want sex with him? Why am I constantly buying new clothes? (Although maybe that isn't exactly condemning evidence but certainly my visits to the gym are.) On the other hand I am crippled with an overwhelming sense of my unworthiness. Luke loves me and he trusts me; it would never cross his mind that I'd be doing anything remotely delinquent. His confidence in mankind and in me especially is at once the thing I most love and despise about him.
Rose and Peter live in a large four-story Victorian terrace in
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Holland Park. Paid for with the fruits of Peter's stunning and sustained success in the city. It's the type of house that is featured on Christmas cards. Huge, white, impressive, impenetrable. The type of house that makes most of us feel horrendously inadequate. Daisy flings the door open.
"Oh, it's just you two."
Luke and I exchange grimaces. "Thanks, Daisy, what a welcome."
"Sorry." She looks momentarily guilty. "I was hoping you were Simon."
"Is he late?"
"Fifteen minutes."
I want to tell her that that's not late. That's positively prompt. She looks at her watch anxiously and then wanders away from the door, back into the sitting room.
"Come on in, can I take your coat?" Luke sarcastically imitates the perfect hostess. Rose bustles out of the sitting room, nearly knocking over the monstrously large Christmas tree that dominates the hallway. She looks like the Pied Piper, as about a hundred kids are pulling at her skirt, demanding the loo, sweets, drinks, toys. I feel claustrophobic. I can't imagine what it is that makes Luke think I ever liked kids. She welcomes us with a harassed, happy smile. Luke swoops down and picks up some fat kid who is crying. As he hoists the weight-challenged monster onto his shoulders I ask, "Where did all the spare children come from?"
"It is a children's party," says Rose, apologetically.
The house is awash with garlands and greenery. I can smell mince pies and mulled wine. There is an obscene amount of glitter, baubles, holly and goodwill. It looks a lot like a Next catalog shoot. Or maybe Next meets Early Learning. I am surprised that none of the men are wearing kilts and I genuinely expect someone to suggest that we all gather around the piano for a sing-along. We trudge through to the sitting room. There
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are children everywhere: under tables, on tables, on chairs, under chairs, behind curtains, on settees, in cupboards, hanging from lampshades, climbing up the Christmas tree. Very few of them are happy, none of them are quiet. The majority are screaming or crying, or punching, or teasing, or nipping.
"Everyone's having a brilliant time," shouts Sam, without a hint of irony. But then she has a very pink face and her champagne glass is empty. Luke and I exchange a glance and we silently agree that Sam's survival tactic is sensible. He goes off to find some alcohol and I call after him not to forget that he is driving home.
"Where's Lucy, we don't see much of her nowadays?" asks Sam.
"She's working her arse off," I reply.
"I miss her," says Sam, who is always sentimental after a couple of glasses of champagne.
"You're in the minority," adds Rose, in a rare moment of cattiness.
"Ouch," chorus Sam and I. Rose immediately turns scarlet, instantly regretting her foray into the Alexis Carrington school of manners. She tries to defend herself by adding, "It's just that she can be so negative, so cutting."
"She's not cutting, she's clever," says Peter kissing his harassed wife on the forehead. He is trying to smooth over her social gaffe, of slagging off one of our friends so early in the afternoon before we have a drink in our hands.
"I miss her too," says Luke, terminally pleasant. I take the gin and tonic gratefully that Luke proffers then move on. Luke wisely disappears into Peter's den. I understand the fathers are congregating (read hiding) in the den, smoking cigars and congratulating themselves on their sons and heirs.
I manfully separate Becky-from-ballet and Tom-from-Tumble-Tots, who are viciously thumping each other to within an inch of their lives. No one seems bothered that there could
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be a bloody and foul murder on Rose's shag-pile carpet. Children are ferociously beating each other, tying each other up, biting each other and generally training to be enthusiasts of spectator sports. I squeeze my way onto the settee, pushing in between Arabella's mother and Ben's mother. They are sitting discussing the color of poo and the texture of Heinz baby food. I think I've got that the right way round. There is an undeniable specialness about motherhood but why is it that everyone assumes because we can do it, we all want to? Women who have had babies spend hours telling those who haven't about the discomfort of the pregnancy: varicose veins, hideous bloating, backache, chucking your guts up every morning, no alcohol but lots of coal with gherkins. And the actual birth?! Shitting a football cannot be made to sound pleasant.
"Planning any children?" Arabella's mother looks at me hopefully.
"No," I reply, guiltily, thinking I have somehow failed her expectations.
"Are you trying?" she whispers conspiratorially. Ben's mother leans closer, interested.
"No," I reply, guiltily, knowing that I have failed her expectations. They stare at me horrified, as though I am some kind of a monster. What am I supposed to say? "Bit tricky at the moment, my husband would think it was immaculate conception and my lover would ..." What would John do? Run a mile I suspect. Not that he's exactly up close and personal as it is! I swallow back my gin and gratefully accept the glass of wine that Daisy hands me. I search around for some other conversational piece to try on these mothers. I consider explaining my theory on Mother Nature being a bloke. Transvestite Nature for certain. I refrain.
"So, no children," Ben's mum continues. "Are you one of these career women?" She tries to sound supportive but sounds pitying.
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"Not really. I hate my job." I know I sound as though I have more in common with Ben (aged three and a half) than his mother but I cannot force myself to be pleasant. I am bored. I am scared. I don't want this. I don't want to be in a job I hate, waiting to have children, who will undoubtedly hate me, just so I can live out my failed ambitions through them. I gulp down a second glass of wine and watch Eloise's mother scoop up puke and Robert's mother use her beautifully manicured nails to remove a boogie from her son's nose. This is boring. I am not ready for this. There must be more. I'm rescued from the embarrassment of not being a mother or a career woman by Sam pulling me off the settee and into the dining room.
"Santa's here," she grins.
"Err, Sam, I don't know how much you've had to drink and I don't like to be the one who breaks it to you, but Santa doesn't exist."
Sam rolls her stunning eyes, exasperated. "I know that. I found out when I was twelve."
"Twelve?"
"Simon is dressed up as Santa. It's a surprise for the kids."
I'm grateful for the diversion. I have to admit, it's brilliant. I hardly recognize him.
"Are you hot?" I ask. He is acting quite strangely, fidgeting and moving from foot to foot. I wonder if he's been drinking or if he has stage fright.
"I'm fine," he assures me and then he screams, "Where's my sack, where's my sack!" in a more than mildly hysterical way.
Sam and I round the kids up and get them into a reasonable semblance of order. Introducing discipline is relatively easy, bribery springs eternal. Even these cynical cyber children are artless enough to be interested in Father Christmas. Only one of them complains that
he's already seen the real Santa at John
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Lewis. When we line up all the kids, there are only about ten of them plus half-a-dozen babies. How can they make so much noise? I thought that we had the combined casts of Annie, Oliver Twist and Babes in the Wood.
Daisy isn't in on the Santa gig and she is thrilled when she recognizes Simon ho ho hoing. She goes all misty eyed and I just know that she is imagining trips to Baby Gap and scenes from Calvin Klein adverts. I know because I used to do it all the time when I first met Luke. I don't now. Adultery doesn't make an appearance in Calvin's advert. It's not very '90s. Simon asks each child if they've been good that year (and they all happily lie through their teeth). He then delves into his huge sack and produces a present—Teletubby water-pistols and Barbie ankle bracelets—rather than the Clementines and chocolate coins that Rose wanted. Their happy excited faces could have melted the heart of even the most cynical person in the room. Which, as Lucy hasn't turned up, is me.
When all the kids have gifts and they are beginning to fight about who has received the best of the identical plastic novelties, Simon Santa shouts, "There's one girl who hasn't told Santa what she wants for Christmas yet." He takes Daisy's hand and makes her sit down in Santa's chair. She is the color of a bottle of burgundy.
"Now, Daisy, have you been good this year?" he asks.
Sam whispers to me, "Besides the incident in the park," and we both giggle. Rose gives us a stern preacher's look and, duly chastised, we shut up.
"Quite good," giggles Daisy.
Simon Santa says, "Well, as much as I hate to disagree with you, I think you've been more than quite good. You're wonderful and so I have a special present for you. If you'll accept it."
"I wonder what it will be?" whispers Sam excitedly.
