The urge to laugh vanished and I felt acutely lonely. I’d never fit in. These women were on a different planet from me. Nobu? Fire-eaters? It was nonsense. I wished Lucy was there, so I could catch her eye and giggle. This was insane. The woman was talking about having a party for an eight-year-old that was going to cost thousands of pounds. Was I the only one who thought it was ridiculous? I glanced at Carol, who was listening intently, blank-faced. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking.
‘I wish I’d had girls.’ Poppy groaned. ‘Boys are so boisterous and energetic. I find them exhausting. All they want to do is fight and eat and talk about poo. I should have had two girls I could dress up and take shopping with me.’
‘There’s no guarantee that a girl will love shopping, though,’ I said, deciding to be honest and not try to fit in. It was pointless anyway: I never would. ‘My friend Jess’s daughter refuses to wear anything but the Manchester United football kit.’
The women looked shocked – or as shocked as their Botox would allow.
‘But that’s crazy! The mother needs to put her foot down,’ Holly exclaimed.
‘She’s tried, but every time she hides the jersey, Sally has a nervous breakdown and refuses to leave the house. Her life isn’t worth living when Sally doesn’t have the jersey on. She’s got two younger children, so she can’t spend all day fighting with her daughter.’
‘A bit more discipline is required,’ Holly said. ‘Your friend is the one in control.’
‘She tried that. She told Sally if she didn’t take the jersey off, she’d have to go and live somewhere else.’
‘And?’ Poppy asked.
‘Sally packed her bags and left. So Jess followed her. Sally went into the local police station and told them her mother was abusing her mentally and she wanted to be adopted by a new family, but they had to be Manchester United fans.’
While the other women stared at me in horror, Carol laughed.
‘What did your friend do?’ Poppy asked.
I grinned at the memory. ‘She had to explain to the police what had happened and drag Sally home. Since then, she lets her wear what she wants.’
‘That girl needs to go to boarding school,’ Jo said.
I gave in to my rumbling stomach and tucked into one of the cup cakes. ‘It’s not that serious. It’s just a phase.’
Sasha put her coffee cup on the table. ‘Diana is going through a ballet phase. She can’t stop dancing. Her teacher says she’s very talented. She’s started extra classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s a nightmare to juggle because she has music appreciation on Tuesdays and tennis on Thursdays as well.’
So now we all know your daughter is amazing at ballet! Didn’t Sasha know how transparent she was?
‘Tell me about it!’ Jo exclaimed. ‘Annabelle has Pony Club on Mondays, straight after her deportment class.’
I almost choked on my cup cake – deportment class? What could that possibly entail? Walking around with books on your head to improve your posture? Learning to drink from a teacup with your little finger sticking up in the air? Come on! Was this for real?
I had a feeling I’d regret it, but I had to ask: ‘What exactly happens during a deportment class?’
Jo put one perfectly manicured hand over the other. ‘They’re marvellous, Emma. They teach the girls how to walk and sit and behave in public. Miss Herrington-Brown is very strict on manners and etiquette. Annabelle’s come on so much since she started going – people always comment on how poised and graceful she is.’
Maybe I should send Yuri and Lara to deportment classes. Maybe Miss Herrington-Brown could get them to stop shouting, spitting out their vegetables and screaming like banshees when they heard the word ‘bath’.
I wondered if French children did deportment classes. When we went to France on holidays last year, Yuri and Lara had wriggled and writhed, roared and shrieked in every restaurant we entered. Yuri had a full-scale meltdown when the waiter served his pizza with a sprinkling of chives on it. He kept shouting, ‘Get the green things off.’ Meanwhile, the French children sat calmly and quietly, eating frogs’ legs and squid while their parents had interesting and stimulating conversations about Proust and existentialism.
James and I, on the other hand, had spent our mealtimes whisper-shouting at the children, scooping large amounts of food off the floor and shoving ice-cream down their throats to shut them up for five minutes. Our ‘adult’ conversations consisted of blaming each other for being too lenient with Yuri and Lara, swearing to be stricter in future and getting as much wine down our necks as we could before going home and facing bath- and bedtime.
When we’d got back from the holiday, I’d asked my mother how Babs, Sean and I had behaved when we were taken out to restaurants as children. Mum had looked at me as if I had three heads. ‘Restaurants? Are you mad? Do you honestly think your father and I would have paid good money to listen to you lot moaning, watch you run wild and waste food?’
I was brought back to the present when I heard Sasha ask Jo, ‘What gift should I buy for Annabelle? I was thinking an iPod touch?’
‘She has one,’ Jo said.
Of course she does. She probably had it before any normal grown-up. She probably has a pony, an LCD TV and a Kindle Fire too, I thought.
‘How about a little outfit from Chloé, or would you prefer Prada?’ Sasha persisted.
Jo thought for a moment. ‘I think I’d rather Prada. They have some really nice colours this season. Burgundy is particularly stunning on Annabelle.’
You’d need a bank loan to go to this kid’s party. I sincerely hoped none of the children in Yuri and Lara’s classes had parents with as much cash to burn. Clearly the global recession hadn’t affected these women. Whatever happened to colouring books and jigsaws as good birthday presents? I sighed. In Dublin I could spot one of these ladies-who-lunch a mile away and avoid them, but in London I was so grateful to be invited anywhere, I had to put up with it.
I placed my cup on the coffee-table and picked up another cake. I knew they were staring at me as if I was some kind of savage. Apparently eating was not the done thing in London either, but I needed the sugar to cheer me up and get me through this conversation. As I took a large bite, I caught Carol’s eye. She discreetly rolled her eyes. Thank God! I was so relieved that someone else in the room thought Prada outfits and dinner at Nobu for eight-year-olds was nuts. I wasn’t alone. Hurrah!
‘I can’t help wondering where you got your shirt, Carol? Is it new season Tibi or Peter Pilotto?’ Jo enquired.
I disguised my laughter with a coughing fit.
Carol gave Jo a dazzling smile. ‘It’s neither actually. It’s an original Carol Richards.’
Jo’s brow tried to frown, but it was frozen in place. ‘I haven’t heard of her. Has she just left design college? It does look a bit … well … uhm … raw.’
Poppy clicked her tongue. ‘Carol makes her own clothes. And grows all her own vegetables and cycles everywhere. She thinks I’m a disgrace to the human race for driving an SUV.’
Emboldened by the sugar rush from the second cup cake, I announced, ‘My outfit is last season’s spring/summer collection from Primark.’
Sasha squealed. I thought I’d pushed her over the edge with my Primark comment. ‘OMG, it’s eleven thirty! I have to go! I’ve got an appointment with my stylist at twelve.’ She stood up and was followed by Jo, who had a hair appointment even though her hair was absolutely perfect, and Holly had to run to get her immaculate nails redone.
We all said polite goodbyes. I picked up my bag to go, but Poppy told me to put it down. Kicking off her sky-high shoes, she linked her arm through mine and Carol’s. ‘You’re going nowhere. I need a drink after that. Is it too early for gin?’
Carol grinned. ‘Probably.’
‘You could have a brandy coffee, though,’ I suggested.
‘Emma, you’re a genius.’ Poppy led us into her kitchen and we sat down at the table while she made us cof
fee. Mine was laced with brandy but she left Carol’s plain. Her own was really just brandy with a dash of coffee. Clearly she was feeling stressed.
‘How do you know those women?’ I wondered.
Poppy took a glug of her coffee. ‘We grew up together. We were good pals for years but when I ended up divorced and living in Putney, we drifted. They’re nice girls, they still invite me to lunches and things, but we have less in common. I’m on a budget now and they have husbands with very, very deep pockets. God, I miss the good old days.’ Poppy sighed and drank deeply from her brandy coffee.
‘Is Nigel keeping up his payments?’ Carol asked.
Poppy nodded. ‘He missed last month, but I sent him a solicitor’s letter so he’s paid up now. Hopefully that’s the end of him shirking his responsibility. Bastard keeps telling me things are not going well at work and then I find out he’s going to St Lucia for Christmas with that bitch Georgina.’
‘You’ll be all right, Poppy. You’re made of stern stuff,’ Carol said.
‘I’m tired, Carol. I’m sick of being on my own. I hate having to pay bills and put the bloody bins out and deal with the boys on my own. I wasn’t made for singledom. I’ve always had a man in my life. I know we’re all supposed to be modern women who can do everything for themselves, but I hate it. I need to meet a millionaire who’ll look after me.’
‘Well, you look amazing, so I’m sure you will,’ I said, trying to make her feel better.
Poppy patted my arm. ‘Thank you, darling, but London is cut-throat. There are a million stunning young women out there looking for men with money. I’m positively ancient compared to them and I have the baggage of two young boys. If only Daddy hadn’t gambled all the money away, at least I’d be rich and lonely.’
‘Money isn’t everything,’ Carol pointed out. ‘Happiness comes from inside, not out.’
‘Christ, Carol, spare me your hippie-dippy crap today. I can’t take it.’
‘You know I’m right,’ Carol said good-humouredly.
‘Happiness is a black American Express card and a bottomless bank account.’
‘Rubbish,’ Carol said. ‘Happiness is being content with what you have. Living in the present, not the past.’
‘Well, I’m not content.’ Poppy rubbed her eyes, and mascara smudged onto her cheeks. ‘I’m bloody miserable. I want to be looked after. I want to be secure.’
‘Do you think marriage brings security?’ I asked, emboldened by the brandy coffee.
Poppy snorted. ‘It didn’t bring me much security. Nigel was unfaithful after only a few years. And I was a good wife to him. I really tried because I wanted it to work. But it wasn’t enough for him.’
‘So what is the secret to a happy marriage, then?’ I asked.
‘Communication and respect,’ Carol answered, without hesitating.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, I know from experience. Keith isn’t my first husband. I had a disastrous first marriage that ended after three years.’
‘I had no idea. I’m sorry.’ Everyone on this road had a story to tell. I felt positively boring.
‘I’m glad it happened. I learnt a lot from that relationship. I think I’m a better wife this time around.’
‘You’re a bloody saint, Carol,’ Poppy said. ‘Keith’s a lucky man.’
‘In what way are you a better wife?’
‘I listen, I talk honestly and I don’t take Keith for granted.’
‘But don’t you occasionally want to punch his nose? Like when he does something really irritating?’ I asked, thinking about how annoyed I was with James for standing me up again last night.
Carol laughed. ‘When I feel like that, I go out and start digging. Physical exertion takes the edge off.’
‘I need to buy a spade.’ I grinned.
‘I have a shed full of them.’ Poppy giggled.
‘It takes work, though, doesn’t it?’ I mused. ‘When kids come along and other stresses, you really have to work at your relationship.’
‘Of course you do,’ Carol said. ‘Marriage is a job, like any other. You need to work hard to keep it alive.’
‘And keep the sex going,’ Poppy added. ‘I made that mistake. I thought Nigel was just too old and tired to have sex with me, so I let it go. I should have guessed something was up. It was only when I found the texts that I finally realized what was going on. I should have seen it a mile away. A man not wanting sex is a cheater.’
‘James has been getting saucy texts.’
‘What?’ Both women were shocked.
‘No! It’s OK – they’re from the players on his rugby team. They’re just trying to wind him up.’ James had had another late last night, saying, I no u fancy me, I can c it in ur eyes. Im here waiting 4 u.
Poppy took my hand. ‘Darling, are you sure that’s who they’re from?’
I smiled. ‘Positive. I think they’re kind of funny, but James is getting very het up about it. He thinks it shows a lack of respect for him as a manager.’
‘I can see his point. I doubt the Manchester United players ever sent sexy texts to Alex Ferguson,’ Carol put in.
‘That’s exactly what James said. He tried to trace the number last night, to find out which player it is, but you can’t reverse-search a mobile phone in the UK. He’s gone to work today to sort it out. He was pretty angry. I’d say the players ever are going to get a roasting.’
Poppy looked at me. ‘I’m sure it is the boys being silly, but I’d keep a close eye on it. Check his phone regularly.’
I finished my coffee. ‘Honestly, Poppy, I’m not being stupid or naïve. I know from James’s reaction that this is just one of the guys messing about. He’s really annoyed about it.’
‘Hopefully he’ll sort it out with the players today and it’ll stop,’ Carol said.
‘Good old Carol, always looking on the bright side.’ Poppy put an arm around her. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing, darling, but I’d keep an eye on his phone anyway, just as an extra precaution.’
‘Don’t listen to Poppy,’ Carol said. ‘She doesn’t trust anyone.’
‘In my sad and sorry experience, men are pigs,’ Poppy slurred. The brandy was taking effect.
I glanced at my watch. ‘Oh, God, I’m late to pick up the kids. Sorry, guys, I have to dash.’ I kissed Poppy and Carol, ran out of the door and all the way to the school gates, where a very grumpy Yuri and Lara were waiting for me with their teachers. They were the last children to be collected. I felt terrible, but at least none of the other mothers had been there to smell my brandy breath.
16
James tossed and turned all that night, then got up at six and began pacing up and down like a caged tiger. At half past I told him to go to the club. There was no point in him being at home: he needed to be at work, near the pitch, near his players and staff. Today was the first Heineken Cup match of the season, the first opportunity for James to prove himself as the new coach. I’d never seen him so nervous. I couldn’t wait for the damn match to be over.
Minutes after he’d left, I fell asleep again, but was woken at nine when Yuri climbed into bed beside me and tugged at me. ‘Mummy, I’m starving. I need Cheerios or I’ll die.’
I hugged him tightly.
‘Ouch, you’re hurting me.’ He wriggled away.
‘I need a hug. Please, Yuri, just give Mummy a big one.’
‘Will you give me a treat if I do?’ he bargained.
I nodded.
Yuri grudgingly obliged and let me hug him, while his hands hung limply by his sides. I inhaled the scent of his hair. How I loved this child.
‘Get off me now,’ he said. ‘Where’s my treat?’
‘I want a treat, I want a treat!’ Lara padded into the room in her Minnie Mouse pyjamas, looking adorable. I picked her up and squeezed her.
‘Mummy! Squashy,’ she squealed.
‘She squashed me too,’ Yuri complained.
I kissed them both. ‘Sometimes mummies need hugs.’
‘Treat!’ Yuri demanded.
We went down to the kitchen where I handed them both, as a special treat, a chocolate chip cookie. While they were happily dropping crumbs all over the place, the doorbell rang. I peeped out of the window. It was Mum and Dad!
Christ, they were due at eleven! They’d come over for James’s first match, but I’d thought I had a couple of hours to set things straight. The house was a mess and so was I. With James’s constant tossing and turning, I’d had a terrible night. I had huge black shadows under my eyes and my hair was sticking up.
‘Mummy, there’s someone at the door!’ Yuri shouted.
‘Yes, I know. Guess what? It’s Granny and Granddad.’
‘Hurrah!’ Yuri and Lara jumped down from their chairs and ran to the door.
‘About bloody time! We’ve been standing out here for ten minutes.’ Dad swept past me. ‘We’ve been up since four this morning. Your mother insisted on getting an early flight.’
Dad patted the children on the head, marched into the kitchen, sat down, opened his newspaper and began to read it.
‘Don’t mind him. He’s very grumpy.’ Mum kissed the children, then took in the mess in the kitchen. ‘I would have thought you’d put on a bit of breakfast for us. I texted you to say we’d be here at about nine thirty.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s been a bit crazy and my phone is on silent.’
Mum took her coat off. ‘Well, I’ll put the kettle on and you can tidy up a bit.’ She looked around. ‘It’s not bad, Emma. It’s a nice family house. It needs cleaning and tidying, but it’s got a nice feel to it. We passed some lovely shops in the taxi. It seems to be a very pleasant area. You did well, pet.’
Lara waved her cookie in her granny’s face. ‘Look what we got for breakfast.’
Mum glared at me. ‘What on earth are you filling them with rubbish for at this hour? Porridge is what you should be feeding them, especially Yuri. All that sugar will stunt his growth.’
Mad About You Page 16
