by Gil McNeil
‘It’s possible, but I’m not promising anything.’
We arrive at the cottage after dark, again. I lost Kate’s instructions somewhere in a motorway service station, and had to rely on my map-reading skills. I’m getting the hang of Portsmouth now, and avoided getting stuck in the ferry queue this time. Charlie and James begin crashing about unpacking toys and Kate cooks supper while I unload the car. Then we sit and watch videos with the children, and drink too much gin. I’d never realised before just how witty Mary Poppins is. We finally give up trying to put the children to bed and all go upstairs together. Charlie and I are sharing the spare bed, an old-fashioned huge brass thing, which makes an incredible racket and sways slightly from side to side. Charlie adores it. The mattress has an enormous dip in the middle, which Charlie settles into and says it’s just like a nest. I cling on to the side and try not to rattle the bedstead for fear the sounds of clanking brass will disturb the entire neighbourhood. I wake up countless times during the night being smothered by Charlie as I drift into the dip. Try to climb back out but the bed makes so much noise I end up getting up and going downstairs for a little rest.
I find Kate sitting in the kitchen having a cup of tea. Apparently her bed also has a dip, and she’d ended up with both children draped across her and thought she’d suffocate if she didn’t get up. She makes more tea and we wander. The garden looks very beautiful, and we sit drinking tea outside in our dressing gowns.
‘So what do you fancy doing today then? Beach and then lunch back here, or shall we make a picnic?’
‘I’m already fed up to the back teeth with picnics, and it’s only the second week of the holidays.’
‘Me too. OK, what about beach and then a pub lunch?’
‘Now you’re talking.’
We spend hours on the beach, with the children running in and out of the sea and making sandcastles. We head off to a pub for lunch and eat crab sandwiches and the children drink lemonade.
‘Mummy.’
‘Yes, Charlie.’
‘Next time we should have ginger beer and then it’ll be like the Famous Five. Because there are five of us, you know.’
We are all enchanted by this, and plan Famous Five-type adventures for tomorrow. We’ll have a treasure hunt in the garden, and a mystery walk where we pretend we’re lost and the children have to find the way home. It starts to rain, so we go back to the cottage and begin an epic game of Monopoly which gets very fraught when we discover that both James and Charlie refuse to pay up when they land on somebody else’s hotel, and Phoebe has hidden half of James’s money under the board while he wasn’t looking.
The treasure hunt in the morning is a big success, which is mostly down to Kate’s clever idea of writing all the clues in code, which they have to translate with the help of a codebook James has brought with him. The boys put on treasure hunts all afternoon, hiding toys and then giving each other cryptic clues like ‘It’s under the sofa’. We decide to go crab fishing after tea, so we buy bacon for bait and three plastic reels from the village shop and then stand for hours balancing on a bridge over the small creek that runs into the sea. We catch five tiny little brown crabs, and one much larger black one, which sit in a bucket between James and Charlie and are much admired by passing children. We release the crabs and then go for a fish-and-chips supper at a brilliant place on the beach which Kate has known since her childhood.
It might not be the most glamorous holiday, but we’re all enjoying ourselves apart from the sheer hard slog of cooking and washing-up and planning food for three children who can eat their own bodyweight in food at every mealtime. The children play on the beach after supper, while Kate and I drink coffee. Kate confesses that she always hated holidays with Phil, which she says usually turned into a lethal mixture of blazing rows and late-night attempts by Phil to make everything all right by practically jumping on top of her when she had almost dropped off to sleep. It sounds absolutely charming.
‘So, how’s Mack?’
‘Great. But it does make life much more complicated.’
‘You know, I never thought I’d say this, but I actually really like being on my own with the kids. It’s so much more fun than living with Phil.’
‘I know what you mean. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to lose Mack. Actually, it seems like a miracle that I’ve found him in the first place. But I just don’t know if I can handle the full monty. Living together, the whole routine, I just can’t see it.’
‘Has he said anything then?’
‘No, thank God. And it’s still early days. But I can’t help thinking that if we ever get to that stage I really don’t know what I’ll do. Apart from anything else, I can’t see him living in the country with me, and I don’t want to live in London.’
‘You could do a bit of both.’
‘I suppose so. I could handle that, I think. Anyway, I don’t want to lose him, that’s for sure.’
‘You really like him, don’t you?’
‘Yes, he’s wonderful.’
Kate makes pretend being-sick noises.
‘Anyway, we’ve got to get through our family holiday together first. Mack’s booked a hotel in Cornwall. We’ve got a suite with three bedrooms, videos, satellite, the full works. It’s got two pools, an adventure playground, and hordes of children’s entertainers. But I can’t help thinking it might turn out to be rather more like hard work than Mack seems to think. Bedtimes are going to be a nightmare. I reckon Alfie and Charlie will be OK, but I’m not too sure about Daisy.’
‘Do you want some girl-handling tips?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Bribe her. It’s just like boys, really, only with nail varnish and make-up. She may despise you for it, but she’ll behave at mealtimes, believe me.’
Oh God, I feel even more nervous now. I try to explain this to Mack when I talk to him the next day, but he says, ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, it’ll be fine. The kids all like each other – the only person you need to worry about is me; I tend to get a bit restless on holiday. I’m not very good at lounging about doing nothing. Still, I’m sure you’ve got lots of novel ideas on how to keep me entertained, haven’t you, Moneypenny?’
‘No I have not, not unless you like treasure hunts.’
‘I love treasure hunts.’
But he says this in entirely the wrong tone of voice, which suggests he’s thinking about some erotic game where one of you wears a white silk blindfold, instead of grubbing about in the hotel shrubbery looking for a packet of Smarties and a small box of crayons.
‘Mack, I’m serious. We should make sure we bring some games and stuff to keep the kids entertained.’
‘Darling, this hotel costs a bloody fortune precisely because they guarantee to take the kids off your hands for the entire duration. My PA has set them up with an itinerary that would make even the most hyperactive kid knackered by teatime.’
‘Look, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for some child-free time; in fact I can’t think of anything nicer. But don’t you think it’s a bit much to take them on holiday and then park them with strangers for the entire week?’
‘No, I do not. Not at the prices they charge. Peter and Georgia went there last year and he said they never saw the kids for the entire week.’
Peter is one of the big noises at Mack’s agency, and his wife Georgia is a loathsome Sloane, according to Mack, who whines and moans constantly and is always undermining Peter in public and then getting embarrassingly drunk.
‘You said Peter was a prat and Georgia was the kind of woman who should have been sterilised at birth.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose I did. God, you are annoying sometimes. Anyway, you can meet them next weekend and ask them all about it. It’s all booked, by the way, and I think we should go down on Friday night if that’s OK with you. There’s some session in the evening where I’m supposed to say a few words.’
‘That should be fine. Mum and Dad are coming down on Friday anyway, so I can meet you in to
wn if you like.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘What clothes do I need for this weekend? I’ve never been to a corporate-strategy do before. Barney doesn’t really go in for that kind of thing.’
‘Well, bring your velvet dress for a start. In fact, bring all your posh frocks.’
‘Mack, I’ve only got two. And one of them is so tight I can’t sit down in it. Will there be lots of buffets?’
He laughs. ‘Bring them both, and that new shirt. I love that shirt.’
The shirt is a sheer black chiffon number, a present from Leila. I showed it to Mack last time he came down for the weekend and asked him if it was too rude to wear outside the house. Leila swears you wear them with just a black bra underneath, and no one thinks you’re auditioning for a role in a porn film, but I wasn’t convinced and wanted a second opinion. Mack’s reaction guaranteed I will not be wearing it to any PTA functions without a vest, and probably a cardigan on top just in case.
I return home from Dorset to face a huge pile of washing, and Charlie getting very bored because he doesn’t have James on hand to play with for every waking moment. I’m trying to pack for my weekend away, and Charlie is longing for Nana and Grandad to arrive. I end up having to play Pirates instead of packing, and get smacked in the eye with a plastic cutlass. Charlie is distraught at the unintentional injury, so I end up comforting him clutching a cold flannel to my eye. I hope I don’t end up at the posh strategy weekend with a black eye. Mack thinks it’s very funny and suggests I wear an eye patch, which will look very mysterious and sexy. Sometimes I think he’s totally mad.
I meet him at the office as arranged, thankfully minus an eye patch, after a long lunch with Leila. She’s insisted on inspecting the contents of my bags and promptly rushed me round the shops for some emergency purchasing. I now own a beaded cardigan and a lace vest. We spent most of lunch talking about the state of play with James, who seems to be making noises about them living together. Leila can’t decide what she thinks about this, as she half wants to hold out for the ring-on-my-finger moment, and half wants a practice run to see if he drives her crazy when they’re actually sharing the same house. They’re off for a fortnight in the South of France and she says she’ll try to make her mind up then, so I should stand by for emergency telephone calls and must carry my mobile with me at all times.
Mack drives very fast down to the posh hotel, which turns out to be very posh indeed. It’s a beautiful old manor house surrounded by acres of parkland, and is very designerly with lots of old oak floors and modern furniture. There’s a fabulous mixture of chintz and leather, and the bedrooms are fantastic, with miles of white linen and enormous baths. We dump our bags and go for a walk. The outdoor swimming pool is beautiful, edged with grey slate and surrounded by pale wood with the water heated to the perfect temperature so a faint haze of steam rises above the surface. An anorexic-looking woman is just climbing out as we walk by; she looks like a famous model whose name I can’t remember. She also looks like she could do with steak and chips, but doubt this is on her agenda. The car park is full of Porsches and Mercs, with an entire fleet of BMWs just like Mack’s. Other company personnel have obviously arrived.
We wander back and find ourselves in the middle of the company drinks party. Suddenly the sound of a helicopter overhead draws everyone to the windows, and the helicopter lands in a nearby paddock. Three men emerge and walk up the drive, very, very pleased with themselves for arriving in such a glamorous manner. Inevitably they’re from the agency, and saunter over and start chatting to Mack about how handy Battersea heliport is. ‘Jump in the old chopper and Bob’s your uncle.’ Bob’s your sickbag, more like, if my brief exposure to helicopters is anything to go by. Barney made me spend two days stuck in one a few years ago, filming a horrendous job for wallpaper paste in Miami.
Mack introduces me, and then one of the Helicopter Boys says, ‘So, Annie, had much experience with choppers, have you?’ and the other two guffaw.
‘Only a little; I did a job using helicopters a few years ago. But they were much bigger, and the pilots were Vietnam vets, mad as snakes. It was a bit like being stuck in a tumble drier for two days. I’ll never forget it.’
Mack is delighted with this, and so are half the people standing nearby, who all snigger and look away. The Helicopter Boys are not pleased.
We rush back up to our room so that Mack can collect some folders and papers and we can get changed for dinner. There’s a knock on the door and a bossy woman from the agency bustles in with an itinerary. It turns out that Mack’s idea of a relaxed weekend is not exactly what the agency has in mind. He has ten minutes before the first meeting starts.
‘Fuck. I said I wasn’t going to do any of this and the bastards have put me down to lead the meeting. Look, I’d better go down and sort this out. Will you be all right?’
‘As long as I can have room service and a bath, I’ll be in bliss.’
‘OK. See you downstairs for dinner at half past nine.’
The bath turns out to be so huge I nearly go under twice. Then I hit the Jacuzzi button with my elbow, and a mountain of bubbles is produced. The bubbles rise over my head. It’s like something from an early episode of Dr Who. I fight my way out, and then spend ages mopping up with towels, and have to get dressed in a frantic hurry. Decide to give my new beaded cardigan a try, and the black lace vest, with my smartest black trousers. The cardigan has lots of tiny black jet buttons which take ages to do up. I get downstairs ten minutes late, to find a huge throng of people in the bar. All the women are wearing serious frocks. Just as I spot Mack hidden in the farthest corner of the room, everyone starts moving off into dinner. There’s a seating plan, and Mack has been put miles away with the top brass.
I spend what seems like hours making small talk with a very irritating woman called Sophie. She seems remarkably well informed and gives me the job title and short career résumé of everyone seated at the table. She then moves on to talking about private schools. I drink too much and find sitting and nodding becomes much easier as the evening progresses. Finally the dinner finishes and Mack comes over looking very pleased with himself.
‘Just had a fascinating chat with old Bates.’
‘Oh, and that’s a good thing, I take it.’
‘Yes. He’s the chairman. I must say that cardigan is very fetching.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I especially like that lace thing. One small point, though: promise you won’t sit next to the old man. You’ll give him another heart attack.’
I glance down and see that my cardigan has unbuttoned itself and my lace vest is now barely concealing my chest.
‘Oh fuck.’
I frantically start doing up buttons, and Mack laughs and whispers, ‘Let’s go for a swim. That is unless you want to stay and flash your bits about for a while.’
‘No, thank you very much.’
We sneak off, grab our swimsuits and find the pool is floodlit and billowing wafts of steam into the darkness. I’m not sure swimming whilst drunk is entirely a good idea, but it turns out to be great. We end up kissing in the deep end, and look up during one particularly passionate moment to see that we are being watched by about twenty people from dinner who’ve wandered out on to the terrace overlooking the pool. They pretend they haven’t noticed us, so Mack shouts hello and invites them in for a swim. One or two of the men seem keen, but the women are having none of it. Mack thinks this is very funny, but I can’t help feeling I have somehow been judged and found wanting by the proper wives and partners.
This impression turns out to be correct when I’m given lots of cold stares at coffee the next morning. There’s another round of meetings scheduled, and all sorts of hideous beauty therapies have been booked for ‘partners’. Most of the women are in very smart Lycra leisure gear, and look like they are planning serious sessions in the gym. I am in a white shirt and baggy linen trousers, with sunglasses for my hangover, and look like I’m planning a nice little lie-down. It
seems we missed breakfast, which was another corporate meal affair, and Mack has already missed two meetings. He doesn’t seem to care in the slightest, and tells a very keen young man who offers to give him the notes from the early-morning sessions to fuck off and get a life. I’m not sure those Panadol have really kicked in yet.
I stagger back upstairs to sleep and then crawl back downstairs at lunchtime in search of tea and newspapers. I discover a small group of women sitting in the library smoking and laughing. My kind of girls. It turns out that they’re also on the wives and partners list, but have been to this kind of thing before and tend to keep a low profile, preferably by the nearest bar. I have a lovely afternoon sitting in the bar chatting. Drink far too much, and then Mack wanders in with a couple of men, just as we are all screaming with laughter at one woman’s description of her mother-in-law. They all look faintly startled to find us there, and announce that the meetings have now finished and we’re free until dinner. We carry on talking for a bit, but the conversation is much less amusing now the men have turned up.
‘I hope you weren’t telling that lot dirty jokes.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, one of them was the chairman’s wife, for a start. Trust you to get in with the renegade bunch.’
Dinner is far more relaxed as the seating plan has mysteriously disappeared, and Mack and I sit with my newly discovered friends and their partners. I meet Peter and Georgia during the pre-dinner drinks and discover that Georgia really is as bad as I’ve been led to believe. She tells me all about the hotel we’re going to, and says, ‘Rarely, we hardly saw the children for the entire week. Of course we took Nanny, but we hardly needed her which was super.’ Quite. Mack drags me off before she can launch into a monologue about Tuscany, where they’re going this year, thank God. I almost feel like ringing the Italian Tourist Board to warn them.
We end up in the bar until the small hours, playing a game invented by the chairman’s wife Helen, a sort of rude version of I Spy. Most diverting. Mack turns out to be very good at charades, and Helen and I win a bottle of brandy in a weird version of Twenty Questions about recent ad campaigns. Mack lodges an appeal because two of the ads in question are ones I actually shot with Barney, but he’s overruled and has to pay a forfeit for being a bad loser. We adjourn to the swimming pool, and Mack swims an entire length fully dressed, quite cheerfully as it happens. I can only hope he will still be so cheerful in the morning.
