Coming Clean

by Sue Margolis

  “So there were no recriminations?”

  “None. He’s been a real grown-up. So I called the editor at Today to say I’d take the job. Then I started contacting domestic agencies. I’ve got three potential housekeepers coming for interviews.”

  “Annie, you’ve done brilliantly. I’m so proud of you. So how do you feel?”

  “Like this could be a new beginning for me, but at the same time I’m scared to death. I mean, work-wise, I’ve been out of action for so long. Plus I’m worried about how the boys are going to cope.”

  “Look, they might kick up at the beginning, but they’re going to be fine.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself.”

  • • •

  Monday was the start of the new school term. The day began with Amy and Ben whining about having to be left at Debbie-from-down-the-road’s.

  “But you both said how much you were looking forward to it. You get the chance to play with Ella and Jack.”

  “Yeah, but Ella was horrible to me the whole of last term,” Amy said. “She’s been playing with Megan.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll let you join in if you ask.”

  “No, they won’t, because I like Georgia and Isobel.”

  “And they don’t like Georgia and Isobel?”

  “No, they do, but Megan hates Isobel because Isobel kicked her brother, who’s in year four. And Lola hates Megan because she went off with Tanya.”

  “Hang on, where does Tanya fit in?”

  “God, you haven’t listened to a word, have you?”

  “No, I have. I have, honestly. It’s just a bit complicated, that’s all.”

  “Admit it. You don’t care about my life. All you’re concerned about is your bloody job.”

  “Oh, Amy, that’s not true and you know it.”

  “And we miss Klaudia,” Ben piped up. “She used to cook us pancakes for breakfast.”

  “Well, I’m sure Debbie’s got toast and cereal. And if you want pancakes I can make some tonight for a treat.”

  Apparently that wouldn’t be the same.

  By the time I waved them off on their twenty-second walk to Debbie-from-down-the-road’s, I was feeling so guilt-ridden and wrung out that all I wanted to do was climb back into bed. Instead I put on my coat, picked up my briefcase and headed to the station. There, I picked up a double-shot espresso and a copy of the Independent.

  I sat on the train sipping my coffee and pretending to read the newspaper. I couldn’t concentrate, though. All I could think about was the situation at work and the potential crisis that lay in store.

  When I switched on my computer, I found that STD had sent a companywide e-mail to say how “disappointed” she was by our response to her proposals. She made it clear that these were nonnegotiable and she wasn’t about to backtrack. The ball was in our court.

  Days went by and STD kept her office door open, as if to say, “If you want to come crawling, losers, I’m listening.”

  Nobody took her up on her offer. The consensus was that we should call her bluff. Meanwhile Des called a staff meeting and said that, assuming STD refused to budge, we needed to think carefully about what our next move should be. It was then that he raised the possibility of taking strike action. The idea didn’t go down well. Several people admitted that their overdrafts were so big that losing even a month’s pay could bankrupt them. Des kept begging everybody to stay calm. “I’ve been in touch with the union and there will be strike pay.” He claimed not to know how much, but the rest of us were in no doubt that it would be a pittance.

  • • •

  Late on Friday, just as I was getting ready to leave for the day, my phone rang. It was Huck.

  “I have news,” he said, sounding very excited indeed.

  “Go on.”

  “Your friend Judy has come through big-time. I tell you, she doesn’t hang about. She didn’t even wait for me to call her. The moment she got your e-mail, she was straight on the phone to say the project sounded right up her street and to ask if she could visit the youth club. She came the next day, met the staff and some of the kids, and the bottom line is, she’s going to start work on a PR campaign.”

  “Oh, Huck, that’s amazing. I’m so pleased.”

  “And it’s all down to you. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am. So how’s about I take you out to dinner to say thank you? What about tomorrow?”

  I said that would work. It was the weekend, so Greg was due to have the kids again.

  “Great. So where do you fancy going to eat?”

  “Indian would be good. I know this great place in Tooting.”

  He said he would pick me up at eight.

  No sooner had I put down the office phone than my cell started ringing.

  “Sophie. You have to help me. I don’t know what to do.”

  It was my mother, sounding utterly terrified.

  “What’s happened? Is it Dad? Is he ill?”

  “No. Nothing like that. There’s a man.”

  “A man? What man? Where?”

  “Outside. He’s been peering in at the living room window. Sophie, I’m really, really scared.”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s gone for a walk. Phil and Betsy are at the supermarket and the boys are at soccer practice. I’m completely alone. Please help me.”

  “Mum, try to calm down. You have to call the police. Can you see his face? Can you describe him?”

  “No. I think he must be crouching down. All I can see is the top of his baseball cap. But I just get this sense that he’s evil.”

  “OK, dial nine-one-one. Now.”

  “Nine-one-one?”

  “Yes, it’s the American emergency services number.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize it was different from the one back home. I’ve been dialing nine-nine-nine. I couldn’t work out why the phone wasn’t ringing.”

  “Mum, the number to dial is nine-one-one. Hasn’t anybody told you that?”

  “No, and please don’t shout. I’m scared enough as it is.”

  “OK, I’m sorry. You have to dial nine-one-one. Have you got that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Right, I’m going to put the phone down now. You call the police and I’ll call Phil.”

  “I’ve already tried, but it keeps going to voice mail.”

  “He’s probably on another call. Leave it with me. Now just hang in there and try not to panic.”

  “OK. Bye.”

  I spooled through my contacts list and hit Phil’s number. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Hello?” Phil’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “Phil, it’s me. Why are you whispering?”

  “I’m on a mission.”

  “What? What sort of a mission? I thought you were at the supermarket. Listen, Mum’s been trying to get you.”

  “I had my phone on vibrate. What’s going on? Why did she call you?”

  “She’s in trouble. Drop whatever you’re doing. She’s seen a Peeping Tom hanging around outside the house.”

  “What? Oh God. She’s seen me.”

  “You? How can she possibly have seen you? You’re at the supermarket.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m outside her window.”

  “What? It’s you? You’re the Peeping Tom?”

  “No, of course I’m not the Peeping Tom. I thought I’d let myself into the house and take a look around, but I wanted to be certain nobody was home. That’s why I’ve been hovering.”

  “But why on earth didn’t you just knock on the door?”

  “I didn’t think of that. I got a bit carried away, I guess.”

  “And why do you want to search the house?”

  “I thought I might find some evidence that Dad’s got Alzheimer’s. You know, piles of unpaid bills, his keys in the fridge. It would be so much easier to confront him if I thought there was something wrong with him.”

  “I get that, but if he found out you’d been snooping, ha
ve you any idea the ruckus it would cause?”

  “I know. It was a stupid thing to even think of doing.”

  “You’re not wrong, ’cos now you’re in deep shit. Mum saw you and she’s called nine-one-one.”

  “Fuck. What do I do?”

  “OK, get in there and tell her you were checking the brickwork. Pretend the pointing needs redoing or something. But for Chrissake do it quick. The police are on their way.”

  A burst of static did little to block out the sound of approaching sirens.

  Chapter 10

  Dear Sophie, thank you for your thank-you. So glad you liked the hat. Yes, those earflaps can be really useful when the wind starts to bite.

  I’m e-mailing because a thought occurs. As you know Amy is about to enter puberty. This is not only a period of rapid growth and development, but it is often the time when young people start to reflect on their sexuality. I am sure you agree that it is important for Amy to know that, straight or gay, bisexual or pansexual, she will be loved, accepted and respected by all of us. It struck me that you might find it difficult to have such an intimate conversation with her—in which case I am more than prepared to step into the breach. Do let me know your thoughts.

  All best,

  Roz

  PS: Maybe we could get together for coffee sometime?

  I couldn’t believe it. The woman was incorrigible. Was there no way to get through to her? I was tempted to reply as follows: You arrogant, patronizing, condescending bitch. Butt the fuck out of my life or I will be forced to run you over.

  It was Saturday morning and Greg had just picked up the kids. As usual, he was taking them back to FHF’s place. Then they were all going out to lunch. I thought about calling and asking him to turn back. He needed to see this e-mail. But I knew what he’d say—that I shouldn’t confront FHF because it was important to keep the peace for the sake of Amy and Ben. Then he would promise me, as he always did, that he would deal with her. Sod that. A lot of good “dealing” with her had done. I decided not to call him. Instead my fingers began flying over the keyboard.

  Roz,

  Once again you have crossed a boundary and interfered in matters that don’t concern you. As Amy’s parents, Greg and I will decide when and how to confront issues concerning our daughter’s personal development. If I find out that you have broached the subject of Amy’s sexuality—or indeed discussed any other private intimate matters with her—I will prevent you from having any further contact with her.

  Sophie

  “Stick that up your matriarchal society and smoke it,” I muttered. Then I pressed “send.”

  In the end I decided to forward FHF’s e-mail along with my reply to Greg. I realized he would accuse me of declaring war on her—and he’d be right. But I didn’t give a damn. If there was going to be a war, then bring it on.

  I was driving to Annie’s, ostensibly to have coffee, but really to meet her newly hired housekeeper, Kathleen, and give her “the once-over” (Annie’s phrase, not mine), when I got a text from Phil: Disaster averted. Managed to convince Mum and police there was no pervert and that it was just me checking brickwork.

  I pulled up outside Annie’s and texted back: Thank God. Now Betsy doesn’t have to visit you in Big House. Meanwhile stop being such an arse. Hugs and kisses, S XX.

  Annie’s front door was opened by a busty, bustling woman I took to be Kathleen.

  “You must be Sophie,” she said, all smiles and top o’ the mornin’ Irish accent. “Oime Kathleen. Come in. Come in. I’ve heard so much about you. Terrible thing with your husband. Terrible thing. But the good Lord never sends us more pain than we can cope with and that’s a fact.”

  “You think?”

  “I do. I do. Having said that, my knees are giving me terrible gip just now. I’m a martyr to the pain. To tell you the truth, I could really do with the Good Lord easing up a bit, but at my age I suppose you have to expect it.”

  Kathleen led me into the kitchen. Freddie and Tom were painting at the table. Annie was spooning coffee into the French press. I gave her a hello hug and said hi to the boys.

  “OK, you two,” Annie said. “What do you say to Sophie for the wonderful LEGO sets she sent you for Christmas?”

  “Fank you,” Tom mumbled, engrossed in his painting.

  His big brother was more forthcoming. “Yeah, it was great. Dad helped me build this massive monster. Then Mum trod on it.”

  “Oh, come on, Freddie,” his mother said, pushing the plunger down in the coffeemaker. “It was an accident. You left it in the hall for me to trip over.”

  “Yeah, but you still destroyed it.”

  “Now, now,” Kathleen broke in. “Your mammy’s already said it was an accident. Let that be an end to it.” She turned to me. “Don’t you think Annie has the most beautiful house? And she did it all herself.”

  “I know. She’s amazingly talented.”

  “You should see my room. It’s like something from one of those TV home makeover shows.”

  “Oh, stop it, you two,” Annie said, coloring up.

  Just then Freddie knocked his plastic beaker of paint water onto the floor.

  “Oops.”

  “Not to worry, darlin’,” Kathleen soothed. “These things happen.” She picked up a roll of paper towels off the table, tore off a wad and got down on her knees, cursing the Good Lord as she went. A few seconds later the puddle of gray water was gone. Kathleen struggled to her feet and let out a loud oomph. “There you go. All done. Now, then, Annie, what do you think these two would like for their lunch? How’s about I make you some of my special homemade burgers. Big-man food, that’s what growing lads like these need.”

  “With chips?” Freddie said.

  “Absolutely. And I make them from scratch, too. None of your frozen rubbish.”

  “Actually,” Annie said, “I’m out of spuds.”

  Kathleen said it was no problem and suggested she and the boys take a walk to the supermarket. “And maybe we’ll stop off at the park afterwards. They can sail Tom’s new boat on the pond.”

  “Yay.”

  Tom went to find his boat.

  “Can I bring my ladybug?” Freddie asked.

  “Yes, but only if you promise to let it out of that matchbox when we get to the park. Surely the poor thing will die of suffocation, and you don’t want to be killing ladybugs.”

  “I wouldn’t kill it. Plus you don’t usually see ladybugs in winter, so it’s really special. I’ve put airholes in the box and it’s got leaves to eat.”

  “That’s good, because killing them is a sin. Ladybugs are the spirit of the Virgin Mary.”

  “So ladybugs have the ghost of Jesus’s mother inside them?” Freddie was looking none too happy.

  “Something like that,” Kathleen said.

  I was waiting for Annie to say something to her about not frightening the boys with talk of ghosts, but she didn’t.

  After they’d gone, Annie and I sat drinking coffee at the kitchen table.

  “So what do you think of Kathleen?” Annie said. “Freddie and Tom adore her. She’s so maternal.”

  “She’s definitely that.”

  “I just know that when I start work, the boys are going to be fine with her. I’ve already let her do the school run a couple of times. And Rob loves her because she irons his pants and socks and feeds him second and third helpings of Irish stew. He says it reminds him of visits to his gran in Dublin when he was a kid. I have to admit the stew she cooked the other night was magnificent. You should taste her dumplings.”

  “She seems perfect,” I said. “Exactly what you’re looking for. But I have to say that remark she made about ladybugs being the spirit of the Virgin Mary bothered me slightly.”

  “You’re kidding. And I thought I was the worrier. All Rob’s Irish family go on like that—particularly the old ones. Kids learn to take it with a pinch of salt.”

  “Really? OK, if you say so.”

  Annie told me to stop fre
tting and topped up my coffee mug.

  “I’ve got something to show you,” I said, unfastening my bag and handing her a printout of my latest e-mail from FHF.

  Annie took a sip of coffee and started reading. “I don’t believe this. Right. That’s it. There’s nothing else for it. The woman has to die.”

  “Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to me.”

  “I mean, where does she get off on being such a bitch? Have you spoken to Greg?”

  I said that I’d forwarded the e-mail to him and was waiting for him to get back to me.

  “Well, if you ask me, it’s about bloody time he put her in her place.”

  “I know, but he clearly has a problem confronting her.”

  “You need to have another talk with him. He has no right to let her treat you like this.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t stand up to her, I will. If it comes to it, I’ll talk to my lawyer. It might be possible to keep her away from the kids.”

  “Good for you.”

  I swallowed some coffee. “Oh, FYI, I’m meeting Huck again tonight.” I explained about Greg wanting him to write a piece for the Vanguard and Judy agreeing to work on a PR campaign.

  “Oh-kay … and this isn’t a date, just like last time wasn’t a date?”

  “Correct. He just wants to thank me for helping him.”

  Annie raised an eyebrow and said that, on second thought, she would wait a few days before letting me have the fiver she owed me.

  • • •

  As usual, the Taste of the Raj—Formica-topped tables, bring your own booze—was packed with young medics from the local hospital down the road. While we queued for a table, Huck said—what must have been for the third or fourth time since he’d picked me up—how grateful he was for everything I’d done.

  “Huck, you have to stop thanking me,” I said, laughing. “All I did was e-mail a few people.”

  It turned out that Judy wasn’t the only one who had come through. The night before Greg had called him and suggested he write a first-person opinion piece about the Princess Margaret houses and how successive governments had failed the families living there.

  It went without saying that I was delighted for Huck that Greg had called, but at the same time I felt oddly sad. Years before, when Huck sent me postcards from India, Greg used to get jealous. My husband’s behavior irritated me, but at the same time I knew it was a sign of how much he loved me. Back then it would have taken one hell of a lot of persuasion on my part to get Greg to lift a finger to help Huck. Now that had all changed. Greg had moved on. He had no feelings left for me and didn’t give a damn that Huck and I were back in touch.