by Tess Stimson
For my father
Michael
I’m so proud to be your daughter.
You are the best and bravest man I know.
Contents
Kate
Ned
Kate
Ned
Agness
Kate
Eleanor
Kate
Guy
Kate
Guy
Ned
Kate
Ned
Kate
Ned
Kate
Ned
Kate
Agness
Eleanor
Kate
Ned
Kate
Ned
Kate
Ned
Kate
Ned
Kate
Ned
Guy
Kate
Ned
Kate
Ned
Kate
Guy
Kate
Ned
Kate
Kate
Whenever I read in the newspaper about a mother who’s abandoned her children and run off to Spain, or a wife who popped out to the shops and never came back, I never think, ‘God, that’s awful. How could she?’ I think, ‘I wish I had the guts to do that.’
I suppress the thought, of course, and quickly count my blessings: two healthy children (well, teenagers now); good husband (loyal, certainly, a wonderful father); great job . . .
But seriously: how do these women have the balls?
Think of the young mother-of-three, blindly folding laundry while her taxi idles in the driveway, pathetically determined that at least the children will have clean T-shirts when she’s gone. Or the devoted wife of twenty-seven years (with a suitcase that’s been packed for nineteen), waving her youngest off to college and then calmly putting the dishes in to soak before slipping out of the kitchen and closing the back door behind her for the very last time.
It’s awful for those left behind, of course; only one step down from suicide in terms of selfishness, I suppose. But not a decision taken lightly. Not, in fact, a decision at all, it seems to me suddenly, but an imperative: an impulse as violent and impossible to ignore as vomiting or giving birth.
I’d never actually do it, of course. Responsible, happily married women like me don’t just quit.
I put the emerald gloves down on the glass sales counter. The girl behind it – to call her an assistant would be to imply that she has, in some way, assisted me – stops texting and looks up. ‘You want to pay for those?’
No, I think drily, I’d rather shoplift them, if only to spare us both the effort. But no doubt my mother will change her mind about the colour, and exchanging them will be so much easier with a receipt.
I realize my jaundiced inner voice sounds increasingly like Eleanor herself. It’s not an uplifting thought.
The salesgirl pulls out her white earbuds and lets them dangle round her neck so the tinny back-beat of music scratches at my nerves. She prods the gloves as if I’ve presented her with a dead mouse. ‘There’s no price tag.’
As I approach my fortieth birthday, I’ve found a curious thing is happening: I finally seem to be growing a spine. I send back bottles of wine when they’re corked, where once I’d have grimaced and politely choked them down; I tell queue-jumpers to take their place behind me instead of grumbling sotto voce in that peculiarly British way and permitting them to shove ahead. I’m a perpetual source of embarrassment to my children – no surprise there: it is, after all, part of my job description as a parent – but, less palatably, also to my husband, whose mission, I have discovered over fifteen years of marriage, is to find the line of least resistance and then set up camp there. None of my new-found courage extends to my family, of course. When it comes to standing up to Ned, the children or my mother, I have all the backbone of a minced jellyfish.
Resolutely, I hold my nerve and stare the salesgirl down. With an audible sigh, she yields and disappears. My head throbs painfully. I just want to buy a pair of gloves.
Of course I knew, when my mother asked me at breakfast to ‘pop into Selfridges’, that it wouldn’t take the five minutes she blithely predicted. It took fifteen minutes, in fact, just to walk to the department store from my office in Curzon Street, another twenty to find the precise shade of emerald to match my mother’s scarf, and five – so far – trying to pay. Which has left me just enough time to get back for my crucial two o’clock meeting and none at all for lunch.
I should have said no. I should have told Eleanor that my job is on the line, has been on the line for months now, and that if she wants me to continue paying her mortgage, never mind mine, I don’t have time to go shopping for gloves.
Naturally, I didn’t. I can cope, you see. I can do it all.
I check my watch. I could leave Selfridges now and brave my mother’s stoic disappointment, or come back at nine, after work, and take the late train home, the slow train that stops at every single station between Waterloo and Salisbury. Or I can just wait.
I press the fingers of my right hand against the inside of my left wrist, fighting the sudden, unfamiliar flare of panic. Indecision is a new sensation for me. I’ve always known what to do. Instantly, no second-guessing. It’s why Forde Williams pays me the big bucks. But for the first time in my working life, I’m starting to question whether it’s worth it.
Work has been my sanctuary and salvation for as long as I can remember. For the past eighteen months, however, Trey Hamilton, Paul Forde’s new protégé, has worked tirelessly to manoeuvre me into the cold. Paul should have protected me, of course; quite apart from the fact that I’ve given his company fifteen years of loyal service, sixteen-hour days, truncated holidays and lost Bank Holiday weekends, I’m the best Client Service Director he’s ever had, and – on merit – the natural choice to take over the advertising company when he retires in five years’ time. But I’m a woman, and the new wunderkind is a man, and I’m thirty-nine, and Trey Hamilton has only just turned twenty-eight, and in the world of advertising, experience and loyalty are worth far less than a youthful penis.
It’s difficult enough, in this economy, to see off our commercial rivals without having to worry about friendly fire. I’m tired, so very tired, of fighting the very people who should be watching out for me.
And not just at the office. Ninety per cent of my rows with Ned are because he thinks I work too hard. He’s fed up with cooking his own dinner at night and waking to an empty bed in the morning. But what my happily-stay-at-home husband forgets is that it’s my salary paying two sets of school fees – three when my nephew starts prep school in September – and two mortgages. And if my husband is really that keen to see more of me, he could always agree to move closer to London as I’ve begged him to do for the past nine years.
A dragging pain gnaws at my abdomen. There are days when I wish I could unplug myself like a computer; simply cease, for a while, to be. Would anyone actually notice if I wasn’t here? I suppose they would when they were left standing in the rain, or if there was no food in the fridge, or warm, wet hole to thrust into in bed.
The salesgirl finally returns with a second pair of gloves complete with the elusive price tag. I hand over my credit card, praying it won’t be declined again, and once more check my watch. I can’t miss this meeting, much as I might want to; it’s simply too important.
My mobile rings as I step onto the escalator. ‘Eleanor,’ I sigh, ‘I can’t talk now.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, dear. I was just calling to tell you not to bother with the gloves. I don’t need them any more.’
It takes me a moment to find my voice. ‘Do you have any idea how
much trouble I’ve gone to?’ I manage. ‘Do you, Eleanor?’
‘Well, dear, that’s why I asked Agness to pick them up for me when she went into Salisbury at lunchtime. To save you the trouble.’
‘Agness? Agness is at school.’
‘Agness is here with me.’
For the second time in as many minutes, I’m lost for words.
‘They’re the perfect shade,’ Eleanor says contentedly, ‘Saint Patrick green. I don’t know where she found them, but—’
I reach the bottom of the escalator and step to the side, out of the way. ‘Let me talk to her, please.’
‘There’s no need to get upset, dear. She has a half-day—’
‘She does not have a half-day! Eleanor, please let me talk to her!’
‘Really, Katherine. I’m sure she knows if she has a half-day or not.’
Agness is truculent and unrepentant when she comes to the phone. ‘No need to have a cow, Mum. I told Dad I was going to Salisbury.’
‘Your father knew you were skipping school?’
‘Stu-dy day,’ Agness sing-songs.
There are moments when I could kill Ned. He knows perfectly well Agness doesn’t have study days. She’s only fourteen; her school, wise to the ways of teenage girls, only grants study days to A-level students in their final year. But it’s easier to pretend he believes her than to confront her and deal with the consequences. That particular pleasure is left to me.
My phone beeps with an urgent email from Paul Forde. If I don’t get to this wretched meeting now and save my career, Agness won’t be the only one with study days to spare.
‘We’ll talk about this when I get home,’ I say tightly.
‘Brianna said I could spend the night with her . . .’
‘Well, I say you can’t.’
‘I don’t know why you’re picking on me!’ Agness cries. ‘Guy’s smoking pot! I suppose you’re going to let him get away with it just ’cause he’s a boy?’
Guy’s smoking pot? ‘We’re not talking about your brother—’
‘Half-brother,’ Agness snipes.
God give me strength.
‘Agness, tell your grandmother I want—’
I’m talking to myself. Agness has hung up on me.
I don’t have the energy to ring back and berate her. Pain drills behind my temples. Eleanor, work, the situation with Ned (yet to be resolved after this weekend’s rows), Agness, the parlous state of our finances, even the discovery that my stepson is smoking pot – any one of these scenarios I could deal with in isolation. Two or three of them even. But all of them combined is suddenly too much, even for me. I need a break, a gap in the clouds, just for five minutes. If I could just get a decent night’s sleep before the next crisis breaks, a chance to catch my breath . . .
But it doesn’t work that way. There are no days off from motherhood or marriage.
Outside the department store, I turn the collar of my coat up against the freezing April rain. I’ll have to flag down a cab: I’ll never make it back to the office in time if I don’t. Although in this weather, of course, I’ll be lucky to find one.
But for once, luck is on my side. A taxi pulls into the kerb beside me to let its passenger alight, and I have one hand on the door before the previous fare has even opened it.
Five minutes’ peace, that’s all I ask.
Three days before
Ned
I’m having a pint with the boys at the Lamb and Flag when I remember I’m supposed to be at home celebrating my wedding anniversary.
Actually, to be strictly accurate, it’s Joe who remembers.
‘Mate,’ he says, ‘shouldn’t you be getting back?’
‘What are you, my mother?’ I drain my glass. ‘Your round, mate.’
‘I’m not kidding, Ned. Chloe bumped into Kate at the farmers’ market earlier today buying fancy bloody artichokes for your anniversary dinner.’ He gives me a nudge. ‘Looks like you could be in luck tonight.’
Christ! I nearly choke on my beer. Kate’ll go fucking nuts if I miss our anniversary again.
Neil smirks into his pint. ‘Better get your arse in gear, mate. You won’t be getting any if you’re late.’
I force a relaxed grin and wave to the barmaid. ‘Over here, love. Just ’cause you’re pussy-whipped, boys, doesn’t mean we all are. It’s sorted. We’ve got time for one more.’
Two more, as it turns out. I’m for the high-jump already, so there’s no point going home to face the music sober. By the time I fall out of the pub and start back up the hill, it’s nearly nine. I haven’t got her a card or a present. Shit. I suppose I can’t turn up completely empty-handed or I’ll never hear the end of it.
I stop by the Shell garage and grab a bunch of yellow carnations from a bucket outside. They look pretty pathetic on their own, so I go back for the entire bucketful. Ripping off the cellophane, I cram them together and admire the result. Who needs bloody expensive florists? Might as well push the boat out and pick up a box of chocolates. The selection’s pretty shitty, but it’s the thought that counts, right? I’d buy her diamonds if I had the money, she knows that.
The house in is half-darkness when I get home. I let myself quietly in by the back door and get a whiff of something good on the stove. Roast lamb. My mouth waters. Kate’s a great chef, but she only cooks properly twice a year: Christmas and our anniversary. The rest of the time I have to fend for myself. Never mind It’s in the oven, you just have to warm it up. That’s not what I call putting a meal on the table. I don’t mind about me, of course: It’s the kids I’m thinking of. They should be able to come home to a proper dinner, not some bloody warmed-over lasagne or shepherd’s pie, even if it is home-made.
I lift the saucepan lid. Joe was right: artichokes. Though they look a bit over-cooked to me.
She’s gone to town in the dining room, I notice warily as I go into the hall. Candles, napkins, posh wine glasses, the works. Lucky I stopped off for the flowers and chocolates. It’s not a big one like our fucking twentieth or something, is it? I do the maths as quickly as four pints and a whisky chaser allow. Aggie’s just turned fourteen, so that’s what? Fifteen years. Relief floods through me. Yeah, it’s just our fifteenth. I was still working at the Reading Evening News; I missed the Jerusalem bombing because we were on our honeymoon. There was a local connection with one of the victims, and some little arse-wipe on the sports desk got it while I was still stuck in sodding Barbados. Beginning of the bloody end of my career.
‘Kate?’ I call. I cough and try again. ‘Darling?’
I track her to the sitting room, where she’s curled neatly on the sofa. There’s a book on her lap and a glass in her hand, but I’m not fooled. She’s about as relaxed as a choirboy in a room full of nonces.
I proffer my bountiful armful of flowers. They look a bit sad now. ‘For you.’
‘Thank you,’ Kate says, ignoring them.
I lay them awkwardly on the top of the piano and hand over the chocolates. Kate tosses them on the sofa beside her. ‘Lovely.’
‘What time did you get back?’ I try brightly.
‘Four. I told you I was taking the afternoon off.’
‘Did you?’
Kate swings her feet off the sofa. ‘Are you hungry?’
Tension eases out of me. She can’t be that pissed off, then, or dinner would be in the bin. I’ll get a couple of glasses of wine into her, let her witter on for a bit about work, then take her upstairs and really make it up to her. Foreplay and everything. We’ll be fine after that.
She bends to pull the lamb out of the oven, and I eye her arse appreciatively. ‘Smells wonderful,’ I enthuse.
‘It’s burnt.’
I reach over and tear a sliver of meat off the bone. ‘Tastes great to me.’
Kate carves while I open the wine, then silently dishes up the artichokes and garlic roast potatoes. She doesn’t bang or clatter round the kitchen, but I can tell I’m not quite off the hook yet. She hands me my plat
e and I meekly follow her back to the dining room and take my place opposite her.
‘You look different,’ I say brightly as she sits down. ‘New dress?’
‘You gave it to me last Christmas. Well. You gave me one like it. In a size sixteen.’
‘Sweet sixteen . . .’
‘I’ve been a size twelve for as long as you’ve known me.’
‘Whatever. I like that dress. It makes your tits look huge.’
Kate bridles. ‘When did you turn into such a boor?’
‘When did you turn into such a prig?’ I snap back before I can help myself.
She shoves her plate away. Blast. I’m the arsehole who’s in the wrong here, not her.
‘Sorry, sorry.’ I hold up my hands. ‘Forget I said that. It’s just the beer talking.’
‘How many have you had?’
‘Just a couple.’
‘You’ve had more than a couple. I’m surprised you managed to walk home.’
‘Look,’ I sigh, ‘are you going to be like this all night? Because I could live without it, to be honest.’
‘You could live without it? I spend all afternoon cooking your favourite meal and you can’t even be bothered to—’
‘Look, Kate. Darling. I’m sorry. I forgot our wedding anniversary. So does ninety per cent of the male population at one time or another. You know I didn’t mean to. It’s not the end of the world. We don’t have to let it spoil our—’
‘It has nothing to do with forgetting. You remember the name of every bloody horse in the National going back twenty years without any difficulty.’
‘For God’s sake!’ I exclaim, flinging down my napkin. ‘It’s just one day! I’m still married to you the other three hundred and sixty-four, aren’t I? I’m still here, day in, day out. Why does one damn day out of the whole year have to matter so bloody much?’
‘Because it shows I matter!’
Christ. What is it with women?
‘Look. Is it your hormones?’ I ask, striving for patience. ‘Because ever since—’
‘It’s not my fucking hormones!’
Suddenly she looks like she’s going to cry. Kate never cries. Or says fuck, for that matter. She’s made of Teflon; no matter what gets thrown at her, it just slides right off.
