by Sue Watson
After a few minutes, they all march out into the playground like little soldiers and my heart sinks – I wish they’d run and shout and hurl their bags down. But the school is very strict on discipline and they daren’t step out of line. Simon says it’s one of the things he likes about this school, and when I’d campaigned for a more artsy school for Alfie, who loves to draw, Simon argued that a school focusing on art allowed children to behave like savages. So here we are at Brownhills Prep, which is less art and more sports and military in its approach to discipline. Charlie’s taken to it like a duck to water, and I’m sure Alfie will come round eventually, and it is good for them both to have some discipline. Sophie’s in the sixth form – the same school but half a mile away – and she hates it, but she didn’t like her old school much either, and as her dad says, who ever liked school?
Jen and I greet the kids between snatches of seafood poisoning stories and her hilarious tales of sex avoidance with Peter, her older, wealthy husband. ‘Makes my skin crawl.’ She pulls her face and I giggle like a naughty schoolgirl, shocked and delighted at her irreverence.
We walk en masse with the kids to the car park, where Jen leans on her black Audi and talks non-stop for another fifteen minutes, covering pretty much her whole summer. During this time, the metaphorical straitjackets that have been imposed on the boys all day are gradually flung off until they default to their usual mode of wild animals. As Jen’s son Oliver bashes Charlie over the head with his (quite heavy) bag, I cringe and try to listen to Jen’s comprehensive account of her experience of French A & E and a particularly ‘dishy doctor’. Oliver then attempts to kill Alfie by pushing him in front of a moving car, just as Jen is describing a delicious meal of oysters she and Peter had enjoyed on a rare night alone.
‘How anyone can go on holiday without some kind of babysitting facility is beyond me – it’s positively medieval,’ she’s saying, defending the fact that Juanita, their nanny, goes everywhere with them.
I discreetly grab Alfie by the blazer lapel and hold him to me despite his flailing around. I know if Jen spots this she’ll call me a helicopter mother again, but I don’t think I’m being overly protective given the size of the parents’ four-wheel drives and the fact Oliver is a maniac. He is out of control and I’m feeling under a great deal of stress to keep an eye on the boys, but I don’t want to offend Jen by appearing not to listen. However, when Oliver takes Charlie in a headlock and yanks him around by the neck, I give a little yelp and say, ‘NO, Oliver,’ which finally brings Jen back from Brittany.
‘Get here NOW, Oliver, you little SHIT!’ she yells.
I cringe as a few looks pass between yummy mummies. I’m reminded of Simon’s comment about the school mums’ ‘sows ears’ status. Jen is no silk purse, he’s right – but perhaps that’s why I like her. Through Jen I can be more rebellious, if only in my head.
‘Oh, Marianne, it’s no use, we can’t talk with these little sods distracting us, can we?’ She’s clamping Oliver down with one hand while with her other she’s running her fingers through thick, blonde waves and pouting. ‘Why do fucking nannies have to have a day off?’ she hisses to me under her breath. ‘I mean, it’s not like Juanita has a life or anything – you’ve seen her, fat as a pig and twice as greedy.’
I laugh, even though I shouldn’t, she’s being so unkind, but I’m also laughing with relief because Oliver is finally being physically restrained and my kids will live to see another day.
Still manhandling her son, Jen starts on again about the French doctor and my relief suddenly spirals into agitation as I realise the time and glance at my watch. We’re going to be late for the boys’ music lessons. I virtually had to beg Mr Mendels to tutor Charlie in the violin. He’s the best violin tutor in the area. Francesca’s daughter Sadie has him, so he must be good, but when he told me he was fully booked, Simon suggested I go back and offer double what he was asking. ‘Never take “no” for an answer; remember everyone has their price,’ he’d said. As usual, Simon was right, and old Mendels agreed – he couldn’t wait to get his hands on the cash. But he insisted on one thing: ‘Promptness, Mrs Wilson – if the boy isn’t here on time, I will cancel and charge in full.’
I’m thinking of his wrinkled, gnarly old face now but can’t just run off because Jen’s in full flow. I can feel the heat rising in my chest and I just want to shout at her that I have to go, but I dig my fingernails into my palm, smile politely and thank the God of Mirtazapine that I’m under control. But after another six minutes and forty-five seconds of French doctor lust talk, I am forced to interrupt her. I feel bad but have no choice and placate her with vague plans for coffee later in the week.
‘You won’t let me down next time, will you?’ she asks, as I open the car door and herd the boys into the back. ‘Coffee and a catch-up – we’re way overdue.’
‘Definitely,’ I say, pushing the kids into the car as they protest loudly.
‘Don’t you be getting one of your headaches,’ she jokes, holding her head in both hands.
‘No way, it’s a date.’ I smile and start the car, winding down the window to wave as I pull away, hoping she hasn’t already translated this morning’s headache into something else.
When we lived in the last place, I used to sometimes sneak off for coffee with Jayne, a mum I met at that school. But then I became ill and I don’t think she ever really forgave me for what I said to her. Who can blame her? Anyway, that’s in the past now, and I need to look forward.
Desperate not to be late for the boys’ lessons, I drive too fast up the road from school, suddenly realising I’ve forgotten their damned after-school snacks of home-made hummus and carrot sticks. They’ll never last through their music lessons without sustenance, so I stop at the first petrol station and, in the absence of hummus, buy two bags of crisps and two Mars bars. As I’m leaving, my hands full of contraband, I spot fucking Mrs Mallory stopping for petrol and make a run for it. Mallory’s a neighbour and a member of Simon’s tennis club and a snotty cow to boot – if she’s seen me, she will no doubt report back with names, dates and serial numbers. So I open the car door, hurl the goods at the boys in the back seat and, like an action hero, throw myself into the car – much to the boys’ delight. I start the engine and drive off quickly, causing the wheels to screech and the boys to squeal with joy. I’m now laughing loudly along with them – a crazy lady in charge of children, driving a big car with E-number-laden snacks. What could possibly go wrong? The boys don’t know why I leapt back into the car doing a commando-style roll, but they do know never to tell Dad they’ve had crisps and Mars bars.
Once the laughter has died down and the boys have ripped open their crisps and are crunching happily, I chill a little. I must remember to vacuum the car and wind down the window to let the air in, so Simon won’t detect the whiff of prawn crisps or chocolate. As a doctor he’s very strict about their diets, and rightly so, but needs must and desperate times call for desperate measures.
With the boys’ mouths full, the journey is pleasantly quiet. Some parents hate all the collecting, dropping off and general taxi-ing of kids, but I love it. For me it’s a happy time. I’m on my own with my children, we are all safe and free and sometimes I wish I could just drive and drive and drive.
I head for Mrs Pickering’s cello class at a relatively low speed to give Alfie time to finish his snacks before we arrive. I snatch his packaging before opening the car door and ushering him up the path. Once he’s delivered, I take Charlie another 2.6 miles to his violin lesson, before picking Sophie up from dance class. I then enjoy another hour of splendid freedom in Sainsbury’s with Sophie before doubling back for the boys. After this morning it’s nice to have some one-to-one time with her, to give her the attention that I can’t afford her as often since the boys came along. We wander the clothes section, where she admires a pale-pink bra. I put it in the basket and we smile conspiratorially, then I suggest we have a coffee, which she’s keen to do. Sophie chooses a small cookie
to have with her drink and eats it hungrily, which amazes me. She’s unusually chatty too, and I wonder momentarily why she’s not this happy at home.
We won’t be back at the house before six, but that’s okay because Simon said he’d be late tonight and I have plenty of time to finish the special dinner I’m planning for him. As he pointed out, now the kids are back in school I have to be organised, on top of things – it’s good for me, for my mental health. Tonight I’m making my husband baked sea bass with a lemon and caper dressing, fondant potatoes and a green side salad. I’ll light candles and we’ll look into each other’s eyes like we used to. I hope.
* * *
Pulling up outside the house with two tired boys and a now-back-to-stroppy teenager, I see Simon’s car in the drive and my heart drops. He’s home and I wasn’t here waiting, dinner ready, kids bathed – it isn’t my fault he’s early, but still I feel guilty. The lovely dinner I have planned will take time, and that’s after I’ve bathed the boys and put them to bed. The mental image I had of me standing in my beautiful kitchen by candlelight, the night ahead of us, is quickly melting. Panic flutters in my chest, and I grip the steering wheel with both hands to steady myself, but the boys are being particularly argumentative and within seconds a fight has broken out. I pull on the handbrake as they shout and wrestle with baby growls, the beginnings of testosterone urging them to destroy each other. The panic is now rising into my throat, I know it’s irrational, but I want to scream. I’m on the verge of tears, and I know I’ve lost it.
I’m screeching loudly for them to STOP, STOP… forgetting the window is down and the nosy old sod Michael from next door is taking out his bin. He’s looking at me like I’m mad, but I’m not. I’m not. The kids haven’t even heard me. No one seems to hear me these days, except Michael, who’s still staring, I want to roar at him like a wild animal, but my voice is screeching, ‘STOP.’ Charlie’s now using his violin as a weapon and Alfie’s using his fists (fortunately, his huge cello is in the boot and unable to be accessed as weaponry). Sophie’s shouting at them both and trying to grab the violin as the front door opens. My mouth goes dry.
‘What’s all the racket?’ Simon’s voice cuts through the noise. It’s calm, neutral – is he genuinely calm or just aware of the neighbours? What on earth will he think being greeted with no dinner and all this chaos? If he’s had a stressful day, a difficult operation, God forbid a death, he won’t be in the mood for this circus on the doorstep.
I take a breath, slowly look up and, to my great relief, he’s smiling. I want to hug him.
I quickly gather myself together and climb from the car, attempting to look like I haven’t just screeched at the top of my voice for several seconds and everything is under control.
‘Come on boys,’ I say, walking towards him, clicking the remote lock. ‘I’m sorry, darling, it’s all been a little bit mad this evening. I haven’t even started dinner…’ The words come tumbling out.
‘Why not?’ His face is suddenly unreadable.
I swallow. ‘Because, because… I’ve only just got back, darling… and this morning I think you said that Theatre… 33 was booked for eight hours…’
‘Did I?’ He’s now looking at me with a doubting smile on his face. I’m not sure what this means and am unsure how to respond.
‘Sorry… I must have misunderstood,’ I offer, knowing I didn’t.
‘Theatre 33? Well, you seem to know more about it than me,’ he answers brightly, and I see his jaw flinch ever so slightly.
The kids are now running past us up the drive and we follow them. Simon steps back for me to enter the house. I thank him, taking the opportunity to glance at his face. I still can’t gauge him. But as we walk together in the aftermath of children, he stops in the hallway and turns to me. He suddenly reaches out his hand and I stand waiting for whatever is going to happen next.
‘Whoa, you’re a little jumpy this evening, Marianne,’ he says gently.
I don’t say anything, don’t give anything away. I don’t even feel. I just do what I always do, and stand and wait. He slowly brings his hand to my face and I stop breathing, aware the children are suddenly quiet in the kitchen.
‘Dad,’ Sophie says, walking into the hallway. ‘I did a French test today. Ninety-eight per cent.’ I know what she’s doing. She didn’t have a French test today. I love her for this, but I don’t want her involved. I just wish all the children would disappear. I don’t want them to see anything.
Simon smiles at Sophie. ‘Well done, darling.’ And as he turns back to me, his hand makes contact with my face. He strokes my cheek with the back of his hand, as light as a cobweb – and for a moment I don’t know which way this will go. I don’t think he knows either.
Sophie’s standing completely still just watching.
‘So, you haven’t even started dinner yet?’ he says slowly, almost whispering.
‘No… I’m sorry… I…’
Searching his face for a clue, I’m at a loss and, aware of this, he holds the unreadable expression for several agonising seconds. I slowly meet his eyes and see a flicker of uncertainty, until his lips finally break into an indulgent smile. I turn quickly to Sophie, who’s still stopped dead in her tracks. It’s like she’s not even breathing.
‘No dinner, Marianne?’ he murmurs.
Fight or flight.
He’s turning his head slowly from me to Sophie and back again. ‘In that case…’ He is looking straight at me and at times like this I believe he sees into my head. ‘Shall we all go to that new pizza restaurant in town?’
Breathe again.
I want to cry with joy. My heart spills over with relief, gratitude and love.
I nod energetically, like a child, throwing my arms around his waist and hugging him. He laughs, like a tolerant father. Tonight will be a good night after all.
Chapter Three
I know I’m not completely well yet, but I’m taking the medication. I’m supposed to take it at night before I go to sleep, but I have to confess I do experiment with timings. Consequently, I’m sometimes unfocused. I can misinterpret things and so I may be imagining this, but whenever Simon and I are together, there’s an atmosphere.
Am I imagining this? Am I creating it?
Yesterday I stood in the kitchen watching Simon and the twins play football in the garden. He was in goal and every time one of the boys kicked the ball he’d hurl himself across the lawn, pulling silly faces and pretending to land in a heap. They roared with laughter and just watching them from the window I felt love blossoming in my chest. I never had a father, but my children do, and he’s wonderful with them, and Sophie too – even though she’s a teenager and a little bit trickier. Simon and Sophie had such a lovely relationship when she was younger – he was besotted by her, still is – and that’s bound to stand them in good stead as we steer the rocky teenage waters. He’s a good father, and he and the kids seem to have such happy times, like I do when alone with the kids, but when we’re all together, I’ve recently felt like the odd one out. I feel like I don’t belong, and I wonder if that’s down to me, my illness, the medication or something else… Is it Caroline?
I feel like a detective trying to work out the crime from a million hidden clues. So, here’s the evidence: Simon’s been working late a lot recently. He’s also been to two weekend conferences, with apparently more on the cards. He says as he’s going for Senior Consultant he’s expected to work longer hours, and attend more events, but is he also expected to speak to me like he’s angry all the time?
It seems there’s always edginess in his voice when he speaks to me. I see resentment in his eyes. Is it because I’m me and not her? I’m not, nor will I ever be, Caroline Harker, Junior Surgeon and enfant terrible of the operating theatre. Yesterday I bit the bullet and did something I shouldn’t do: I opened up a vent of hell and looked her up on social media. She is stunning. Where I’m dark and short with a tendency to weight, she’s tall and slender with blonde hair and icy blue
eyes. She looks like a woman from a L’Oreal ad… ‘because she’s worth it’. Since then I have been spending far too much time googling her name too, which revealed a world of pain. She was one of the youngest surgeons to qualify in her field, comes from a family of brilliant doctors and her favourite drink is – champagne. Oh, the fun she has, this Caroline, with all her smiley, privileged young friends. Endless sunsets soaked in alcohol, shiny golden smooth faces crammed against the camera; a gondola in Venice, Caroline in St Mark’s square, her arms outstretched embracing her wonderful life; a long weekend in Paris, Caroline standing alone under the Eiffel Tower looking like a young Uma Thurman. I have to tear myself away from her looking over her sunglasses in Rome, half-naked on a Greek island, driven insane by selfies of her grinning face, close-ups of long brown legs on fucking beaches everywhere. She’s all over social media.
And I’m all over her.
Sophie tells me the phrase ‘supermodel’ is outdated now, but it’s the only way to describe Caroline, with her long, coltish limbs and perfect bone structure. Our Caroline plays fresh-faced ingénue and vampish thirty-something with equal sex appeal, and the more of her I see, the more consumed I am.
I can almost hear her panting as she leers at me from her Instagram page – tiny bikinis on faraway beaches, filtered selfies in low-cut tops. The Facebook page is less soft porn and more PG, family-oriented, as she downs fun cocktails with friends, attends family weddings and holds friends’ babies like Mother bloody Teresa. I don’t know her status regarding my husband, but according to Facebook she’s still single… but is she?
