Wilting fast, I glanced at the clock, willing the hands to speed up. Thank God it was Friday, and six would mark the beginning of the weekend. I was planning to go out for a few drinks with Amy, making a conscious effort to be a better friend to her on this rare weekend when I wouldn’t be travelling to Rennes. I might even pop into a few clothes shops first, I thought to myself, while she was finishing up in the office. Mr Frog was on duty tonight, but I had no intention of staying late, no matter how much unfinished work I’d have to leave in my in-tray.
‘Have you printed out the attachment to the email I’ve just received?’ my boss called from his office, without looking up from his paperwork.
‘No, I was finishing your letters to catch the post,’ I shot back, my eyes still riveted to the screen, ‘but I’ll do it now.’ A cursory glance at Outlook revealed a message from Mr Frog, sent an hour ago. I opened it quickly while the printer spooled loudly into action by my side.
‘Are you around this weekend?’ his message read. I fired off a rapid response in the affirmative: ‘I’m here, yes. James is in Rennes.’ At a guess, Mr Frog was trying to establish whether he’d risk running into his nemesis over the weekend. When I’d finally come clean about our near miss in Franprix, months later, he had blanched noticeably. He still had no desire whatsoever to be introduced to James.
But the real reason for his enquiry became clear half an hour later, when a second email popped into my inbox: ‘I’m sorry to do this, Cath, but I have a meeting which has been rescheduled at the last minute, and I won’t be able to get to Tata’s for six thirty. Can you please go? I’ll try to come by before bedtime or, if it goes on really late, tomorrow morning.’
I groaned out loud, then glanced furtively around the office to see if anyone had heard me. I could kiss my relaxing, childless evening goodbye. Likewise tomorrow morning’s grasse matinée, as the French so distastefully call a lie-in. Instead I would have to race to Tata’s, and field Tadpole’s disappointed questions about why Daddy wouldn’t be coming to collect her, as planned. Let Amy down, on the one Friday I was actually in town and free for a girls’ night out, and spend the evening home alone instead, all the while cursing Mr Frog under my breath. We might not be together any more, but he still had the unique ability to back me into a corner and make me burn with an all too familiar mixture of anger and resentment. I was at the mercy of his job, even now; the precious little free time I had would never be sacrosanct.
‘This is not on!’ I retorted, my fingers stabbing the keyboard angrily. ‘Tonight is your responsibility! I have plans of my own.’ Two minutes later, impatient at having received no reply, I seized the telephone and called Mr Frog’s office. My blood was at boiling point; I was too furious to work.
Mr Frog barely had the chance to say ‘Allô?’ before I launched my offensive. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this!’ I raged in an angry whisper, mindful of my boss, who was working with the door to his office ajar. ‘What exactly would you have done if I had been away for the weekend? Left her with Tata overnight? Tonight is your responsibility! I’m not some sort of glorified babysitter who can pick up the slack at a moment’s notice…’
Mr Frog was unmoved by my arguments. He knew that all he needed to do was stand firm and there was nothing I could do but capitulate. Tata didn’t do overtime, and I wasn’t about to trample all over our good relationship with her, or turn my back on Tadpole, no matter what I might say to the contrary. I’d cave in, all the while raging at my own impotence. What else could I do?
‘The fact is that you are here and I can’t pick her up,’ he said flatly. ‘I need you to do this for me. Now, we’ll have to talk about it later, because I’m leaving for my meeting in a minute.’
‘Well,’ I said, forgetting to whisper as my hackles rose, ‘next time, the answer will be no. Whatever the question is.’ I slammed down the receiver, causing the junior nearest to me to jump half out of his skin.
It was then that I noticed, for the first time, the rain falling in determined sheets outside my window. I pictured my waterproof poncho, the only protective clothing worth its salt in a rainstorm when both hands are occupied pushing a buggy. This morning I had taken the poncho out of my bag, of course, thinking I wouldn’t need it. I may, or may not, have packed an umbrella in its place, for all the good it would do me. I groaned again. And this time, I didn’t care who heard me.
When I rang Tata’s doorbell, an hour later, I was conscious of my coat dripping on to her doormat. On the short walk from métro Laumière I’d already received a thorough soaking. ‘Ah, c’est vous ce soir?’ she said as she opened the door and stepped aside to let me pass. Even Tata, I noted wryly, seemed disappointed to see me.
‘Yes, there’s been a change of plan,’ I replied, making no effort to conceal my irritation. ‘A meeting rescheduled. I didn’t really have much choice. Thank goodness I wasn’t away for the weekend.’
‘Ah, well, we would have worked something out, I’m sure,’ replied Tata, wisely refraining from getting drawn into the crossfire. She had a soft spot for Mr Frog, and had blinked back tears the day I broke the news to her that we were no longer living together.
Tadpole was sitting with her playmates at a small table, a paintbrush in her hand. Her eyebrows were matted with green poster paint, and there was a splodge of blue on the tip of her button nose. French nursery rhymes were playing on the stereo, and she hadn’t yet heard me come in. At the sight of her, the stress of the office and my anger with Mr Frog began to evaporate, and I smiled, waiting for her to notice my presence.
When she did, her face showed surprise and the briefest flicker of pleasure. But as soon as she remembered she’d been expecting Daddy, the corners of her mouth began to droop. Sometimes, watching her face, I felt as though I could read her every thought. She hadn’t learned how to conceal her emotions yet; every nuance was transparent to me.
‘Non! Je veux Papa!’ she cried, turning away, throwing down her paintbrush in a fit of pique. However determined I was not to take her reaction to heart, there was no denying that it smarted like an open-handed slap in the face.
We trudged home, Tadpole safe and dry under the protective sheath of her pushchair cover but still wailing for her daddy, while I bent my head low and skated forwards across the slippery leaves, blinded by the droplets on my glasses. My hair was plastered to my head and rivulets of chill water ran down the back of my neck, soaking the clothes under my wool coat, which had doubled in weight. I was beyond miserable. Was it possible for this cursed day to get any worse?
An hour later, wearing dry clothes, a towelling turban wound around my wet hair, I pottered in the kitchen, a cup of tea steaming by my side. I was grilling fish fingers for Tadpole’s dinner, and planned to console myself with a fish finger and ketchup sandwich.
Out of the corner of my eye I registered Tadpole’s approach. Her shoes were back on, albeit unbuckled and on the wrong feet, and she wore the Miffy bag – which we now referred to as her weekend bag – slung across one shoulder. It was open: inside I spied a book or two, her sippy cup, a car and a plastic harmonica.
‘Maman, I ready to go to Daddy’s house now,’ she announced. I stood, speechless, a wooden spatula dangling limply from my right hand. Turning as if to leave, Tadpole strode towards the front door. I followed, still clutching my spatula, wondering how best to deal with the situation.
‘Ouvre la porte, Mummy. I going now,’ she cried. I sighed, and shook my head, but this only made Tadpole more determined. She began to hammer with her fists against the front door.
‘Honey, Daddy’s coming later. And if he can’t come later, he’ll see you tomorrow. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to stay with me for a while.’ Is it so terrible to be sentenced to an evening with me, I wanted to add? What on earth does Daddy have that I don’t?
The corners of Tadpole’s mouth drooped once more, a sure sign that she was about to cry, and I crouched low and pulled her to me. She resisted, at first, but a few moments later
she hugged me back, allowing me to console her. I held the spatula carefully away from her clothes and savoured the feeling of her warm cheek against mine. ‘Mummy,’ she said suddenly, pulling back and wrinkling her nose. ‘What’s that stinky smell?’
‘Oh shit!’ I yelled, just as the smoke alarm began to peal. In the process of placating my daughter, I had managed to burn our dinner. There are some days, I said to myself as I reached into the freezer and grabbed the last of the fish fingers – enough for Tadpole, but not for me – when you are jinxed; when nothing will go right. A French saying has it that if you put your left foot down first when you get out of bed, the day gets off to a bad start. Perhaps it was best, I thought to myself superstitiously, to consider today a total write-off, and pay special attention to my footwork the following morning.
James’s tone was sympathetic, and he was saying all the right things, as usual. But for some reason hearing his voice that evening on the phone made everything worse, not better.
‘I hate feeling so powerless,’ I railed. Even as I spoke, I realized that Mr Frog must have felt this way when I told him I wanted us to live apart. Maybe this was his way of punishing me?
‘He was wrong to back you into a corner like that, of course,’ James said reasonably, ‘and I can see how frustrating it must have been for you not to be able to stand your ground. If I’ve learned anything from my divorce, it’s that you have to build up a lot of goodwill before you start asking for favours. And even then, you ask, you don’t impose…’ Tadpole was sleeping; my hair was almost dry. I had retreated under my duvet with the phone pressed to my ear to recount the events of my day of misery.
‘I just wish you were here,’ I said in a small, desolate voice. ‘It’s good to talk, but what I really need is a hug. If you’d been waiting here when I got home dripping wet, you’d have laughed, and I’d have seen the funny side… Being here alone, it’s just too hard.’
‘I’ll visit as soon as I can, babe,’ he said gently. ‘You know I’d be there if I could.’
The word ‘babe’ made me bristle. I’d told James it reminded me of the cartoon pig of the same name. But the real reason I hated it – the reason I hadn’t told James –was that a nickname like ‘babe’ was too impersonal, too transferable. Had he called his wife ‘babe’, or Eve?
‘I think I’m going to try and sleep now,’ I mumbled. ‘All I want is to put an end to this truly horrible day.’
Sleep proved elusive, however. I was still too furious with Mr Frog, too bitter about my cancelled plans. My brain was stuck in a loop, endlessly rehearsing the angry speech I would make when he showed his guilty face the next morning, and the venomous blog post I was sure I’d write afterwards. So when I did fall asleep, it was Mr Frog – not James – who inhabited my dreams.
23. Keys
‘Ooh, arrabiata sauce, my favourite,’ said Amy as I ladled a generous serving of steaming pasta on to her waiting plate. To make amends for our aborted evening out, I’d invited her over for dinner. A bottle of Chianti stood half-empty on the coffee table and we ate on the sofas, our dinner plates balanced on our knees. It had been a while since our last girls’ night in, but as the wine began working its magic, fuzzy warmth spreading through my body, I made a mental note to myself to invite people over more often.
Before long the conversation inevitably turned to the men in our lives, and the frustrations caused by our long-distance relationships. ‘I’m just getting fed up with spending all my evenings on the phone when he’s not here,’ I confided. ‘I mean, I want to talk to James – I’d be upset if he didn’t call – but by the time I’ve got mademoiselle into bed, and James and I have made small talk for an hour, the evening has disappeared.’
‘At least your situation is only temporary,’ said Amy ruefully. ‘I have no idea if Tom and I will ever end up living in the same city. I think he actually likes it this way. If I announced I was upping sticks and moving to London, I wouldn’t see him for dust.’
‘You don’t know that for certain,’ I said, making a sympathetic face as I refilled our glasses. ‘But as for my situation being temporary, I suppose it is, but moving in with James seems an awfully long way off right now. And, in the meantime, I feel as trapped as I did before, in some ways. I’ve traded one absent guy for another… I don’t know how I’m going to cope with eight more months of this waiting and wondering…’
‘Wondering?’ said Amy warily. ‘Don’t tell me you’re having doubts?’
‘Oh. I don’t know, maybe sometimes.’ It was the first time I’d actually given voice to such feelings, and it was as though they had crept up on me so stealthily that even I hadn’t noticed, at first. ‘I was looking at a few job ads today online, for example, and it got me worrying about what kind of job I’ll be able to find in Rennes, and whether we’ll be okay for money. I really love James – I’ve never felt so strongly about anyone before – but I have to be practical too. At the end of the day, it’s not just me moving, I’ll be uprooting my daughter’s life as well.’
‘And remind me again why he can’t move to Paris?’
‘Lots of reasons. His girls are in Brittany. He could never afford to live here. Most of what he earns goes into various taxes, and he has child support to pay to his ex-wife too. And, anyway, he hates Paris – he only puts up with staying here so often because he wants to see me. And the fact is, I do want to leave. I’ve been hankering after a house and a garden ever since I got pregnant.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Amy, picking up the bottle, realizing it was empty, and putting it down again. ‘But have you told James about any of your doubts? You’ve certainly kept quiet about them on the blog…’ Amy had a point. Sometimes it felt like the blog had morphed into one of those mirrors you get in fairgrounds, a looking glass which distorted my reflection. The girl in the mirror – petite anglaise– frequently smiled when I did not.
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ I said slowly. ‘I don’t think he ever has doubts, and that makes me feel guilty for having negative thoughts myself… And of course there are some subjects which are tricky, like money. Guaranteed to get him on the defensive. Too dangerous to broach on the blog.’
‘Ah yes, that old chestnut,’ said Amy. ‘Modern men: they say they don’t mind when the woman is the main breadwinner, but when it comes down to it, they usually hate it.’
‘You’re right though,’ I added. ‘I have kept very quiet about it all on the blog. And because of that, I’m short of things to say. I can’t have written more than ten posts in October. That’s about half as many as I was writing in the same month a year ago…’
I collected our empty plates and took them into the kitchen, returning with a second bottle of wine and a corkscrew. Amy was standing by the window, her arms folded, looking out across the city.
‘Won’t you miss all this?’ she said, gesturing at the skyline. Despite the late hour, a random pattern of yellow-orange squares across the face of the Tour Montparnasse betrayed the presence of office workers clocking up overtime. I could no longer look at it these days without thinking of the station it towered over: my gateway to Brittany.
‘I’ll miss this view,’ I said, fiddling with the cork, which seemed intent on splintering into tiny shards. ‘But I’m so used to it that I mostly take it for granted anyway. I probably stare at it on my blog more often than through this window…’
It was well past midnight when Amy left. As I rinsed the wine glasses under the kitchen tap, humming to myself, it occurred to me that I hadn’t felt the need to speak to James all evening.
‘Bla bla black sheep, have you any wool?’
Tadpole sang at full volume, prompting passers-by to stare at her with undisguised interest. A child who loves to sing in public is one thing; a child who sings in English, switches seamlessly into French to ask for a biscuit, then resumes her English song, draws looks of awe and admiration. I envied Tadpole sometimes: to her, speaking two languages was as natural as drawing breath.
I wal
ked home in a daze that evening, my eyes barely registering the pavement ahead, let alone the stares my daughter was drawing. The previous night’s wine with Amy had taken its toll. I’d woken feeling sluggish and heavy-limbed and, although the fog in my brain had finally begun to recede, I felt sure I’d be in bed not long after Tadpole.
The trees were now stripped bare of leaves, and the winter sun had dipped blindingly low, making my eyes water behind my glasses. For the time of year, the weather was mild and, although I was wearing only a long-sleeved top under my unbuttoned coat, I was clammy from the exertion of pushing Tadpole uphill. Suddenly I brought the pushchair to an abrupt halt, cutting Tadpole off at the third bag of wool. My red jacket! I’d been wearing it under my coat when I set out that morning, but in my haste to leave the office on time I’d left it dangling over the back of my chair. I knew without even putting my hands to my coat pocket that it was empty. I’d left my keys behind.
‘Merde!’ I muttered under my breath, glancing at my watch and considering my options. Either I could return to the office with Tadpole by métro, keeping my fingers crossed that someone was working late, as I had no office key. Or I could call a taxi, although the round trip would take just as long in the gnarly rush-hour traffic, and would cost me a fortune. There was one other option: call Mr Frog, who had a spare set of keys, and see whether he could be prevailed upon to leave work early and ride valiantly to our rescue on his gleaming white Vespa.
‘J’ai fait une énorme connerie!’ I wailed when Mr Frog answered. ‘I’ve gone and left my keys at the office! We’re halfway home from Tata’s and it will be an absolute nightmare going back for them. Is there any way at all you could come and let us in?’
Petite Anglaise Page 22
