by Sue Margolis
I carried on arranging knives and forks, but I felt unsettled. I was aware that my heart rate had picked up. Then the doorbell rang. The kids. I switched off the radio, switched on a smile and headed to the door.
“Mum, can your lips fall off?” Dan said by way of greeting. He came into the house and dropped his rucksack at my feet.
“And hello to you, too.” I picked up the rucksack, thereby reinforcing his belief that I was his personal maid, but I figured that since he was probably tired and wired, it made no sense to get into a fight about it.
“But can they?”
“What? No. Of course your lips can’t fall off.”
“That’s what Grandma said. So it really is true that they can’t. You promise?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good.” Clearly relieved, he ran off, making a beeline for the kitchen. I yelled at him not to fill up on junk, as dinner was almost ready.
“Why on earth would he think his lips could fall off?” I said to my mother, who was next in through the door. Dad was behind her, cradling a sleeping Ella.
“He’s been going on about it all weekend,” Mum said. “Apparently it’s a theory doing the rounds in his class. The things these kids get into their heads.”
Dad managed to lean over Ella and give me a quick peck hello. Then he followed us into the living room and laid her down on the sofa. “She dropped off about twenty minutes ago.”
“Our fault,” Mum said. “We let them stay up last night to watch E.T.”
“And Grandma and Granddad let us have gummy bears,” Ella mumbled, waking up now.
My mother looked down at her and smiled. “Traitor.”
Just then Dan reappeared, his hand deep inside a packet of potato chips.
“Dan, what did I tell you? You’ll spoil your appetite.”
“No, I won’t. I’m starving. Anyway, I’ve been thinking… . When I grow up, I want to be a chameleon … you know … who tells jokes.”
Of course we all burst out laughing. Even Ella joined in—clearly not wanting to be left out. Big mistake. Dan turned bright red and his eyes began to fill up. It was obvious that he felt he’d committed some unforgivable faux pas.
“Stop laughing,” he yelled, stamping his foot.
I put my arm around him. “I’m sorry, sweetie. It was wrong of us to laugh. It’s just that a chameleon is a lizard that changes color. You remember—we saw them at the zoo. People who tell jokes are called comedians.”
“I knew that.” He charged upstairs and slammed the bedroom door. I resolved to write out a hundred times “I must never ever humiliate my children.”
Mum called after him. “Please come down, darling. We’re all really sorry.”
I said it was probably best to give him some space and I’d go and talk to him when he’d calmed down.
We left Ella on the sofa watching Annie—which she still seemed to find comforting—and wandered into the kitchen. Mum and Dad took off their coats and draped them over kitchen chairs.
“Ooh, something smells good,” Dad said, sitting himself down.
“Meat loaf and roast potatoes.” I began pouring the wine.
“You look tired,” Mum said to me as I handed her a glass. “You feeling OK?”
My parents still didn’t know about Steve. Telling them that I was seeing somebody would have only made them worry: Was it serious? Was I ready? Were the children ready? Telling them that I was seeing somebody, that we’d just had a falling-out and that I’d been up half the night fretting about our future together would have caused them real anxiety.
“I’m fine. I’ve got a few things on my mind, that’s all.” One of them was the story I’d heard on the radio. It had definitely touched a nerve.
Mum looked at me. “You’re not still thinking about taking over the shop, are you? Sarah, this is becoming an obsession. You have to let it go.”
“I would, but the situation has changed.” I told them about the tax rebate and how Aunty Shirley appeared to have paid the rent on the shop until the end of the year.
“So what?” Dad said. “Ten grand is nothing. The shop is falling apart. You’d need twice … three times that amount.”
“But surely the landlord is responsible for structural repairs.”
“Shirley was always trying to get money out of him,” Mum said. “He didn’t give a crap. Sarah, for the last time, you have to let this thing go. It’s madness. I’m starting to worry about you.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”
I told them what I’d told Steve—how I’d lived to regret giving up the dressmaking business.
“I get that,” Dad said. “And there’s no doubt that you’re ready for a new challenge. Just not this one, eh?”
“Your dad’s right. I mean let’s suppose you did get the place spruced up. That still leaves you with one major obstacle: Clementine Montecute. What are you going to do, tell her this town ain’t big enough for the two of you and gun her down?”
Mum patted my hand. “Come on, sweetheart, let it go.”
I said that I would try.
“Actually,” Dad piped up, “your mother and I have some news. We’re going away for a few weeks.”
“Wow. That’s a fantastic … just what you both need.”
Mum shot Dad a look. “You see. I said it would be a problem—us not being around to help out with the children. We can’t possibly go. Now let that be an end to it.”
“But Sarah just said it was a great idea.”
“Yes, but she didn’t mean it—did you, Sarah?” She looked back at Dad. “Look, Sarah and the kids still need us. We can’t leave them and go gallivanting off to Spain.”
“Yes, you can. Go. Gallivant. I insist.”
“Your uncle Lou has said we can have his flat in Marbella,” Dad said. “He hardly uses it since the divorce. It’s just sitting there, empty. Seems like too good an opportunity to turn down.”
“Of course it is.”
“So you don’t mind?” Mum said. “Lou said we could come as soon as we like, so we’d probably be leaving in a week or so.”
“No problem. Stop worrying. I’ll be fine.”
And I meant it. Of course I would miss Mum and Dad being around to help with the kids, but Mum in particular needed a rest and maybe I needed some time on my own to work out where my life went from here.
• • •
While Mum dished up, I went upstairs to make peace with Dan.
“Knock, knock. Can I come in?”
Grunt.
“I’m sorry, hon,” I said, perching on the edge of his bed. “We really didn’t mean to upset you. We shouldn’t have laughed at you. It was stupid and hurtful. Can you forgive us?”
He looked at me over his comic.
“What’s for dessert?”
“My homemade apple crumble.”
“Is there ice cream?”
I grinned. “Maybe.”
“Yess.”
All appeared to have been forgiven.
• • •
Mum and Dad left straight after dinner. Mum looked all in. I called to Dan and Ella to say they were leaving. They came thumping down the stairs, thanked their grandparents for having them.
“Our pleasure,” Mum said.
“So, let me know as soon as you’ve decided when you’re off to Spain.”
“Grandma and Granddad are going to Spain?” Ella said.
“Only for a holiday,” Mum said. “We’ll be back before you know it.”
Yays from both children.
“I’ll call you,” Mum said.
For once, when I announced that it was bedtime, the children didn’t put up a fight. They were both zonked—even Ella, who’d had a nap. Once they were in bed, I read them a few pages of Matilda, but they were both struggling to stay awake. As I tucked him in, Dan rallied by asking me what starfish ate. I said I hadn’t the foggiest. “Other fish, I guess.” I prayed that he wouldn’t demand to get up and Goo
gle the answer.
“Tell you what, I’ll look it up and let you know tomorrow.”
“’K.” There was no talk of Googling.
I kissed them good night, but all I got by way of reply were grunts.
As I picked up their dirty socks and underwear and dropped them into the laundry basket, it occurred to me that even though Ella still needed to watch Annie, the kids were talking less about death and dying. Judy had said it would happen eventually, but I’d never quite believed her.
I went into the kitchen, made another cup of tea and took it to the sofa. My laptop was lying open on the coffee table. First, I bashed out a letter to Aunty Shirley’s lawyer, enclosing the letter from HMRC and asking if he could arrange for the tax rebate to be sent to me. Then I went onto Google to look for Greg Myers’ London agent. It turned out to be a company called Marcus Winkworth Featherstone. It wasn’t possible to e-mail Marcus, Winkworth or Featherstone in person. Instead I had to e-mail the publicity department. Apparently my request would be passed to the relevant person. I didn’t hold out much hope, but I wrote the e-mail anyway. Style-wise, I opted for Imogen Stagge upper-class sychophancy and gush.
Hello—a thousand apologies for contacting you out of the blue, but our school is holding its annual summer fair on Saturday July 16th and since we are all such ardent—dare I say fanatical—Greg Myers fans, we were wondering if he might do us the honor of opening it.
This is the most important fund-raising event of the year. The money goes only partly to the school. We also sponsor an orphanage in India, which is home to some of the most wretched and deprived children in the country.
I realize that Greg must be inundated with similar requests, but if he felt able to give us an hour or two of his time and work our fund-raiser into his hectic schedule, we would be forever in his debt.
After the opening, we would be delighted if he would join us for tea and scones in the main tent.
Yours,
Sarah Green
I read over the e-mail. Perfect. The Honourable Imogen might have written it herself. I hit “send.”
In my head I heard Steve reminding me that I was wasting my time and that I was bonkers if I thought I’d hear anything back.
I hadn’t realized until last night, as I’d lain awake smarting and furious with him for calling me irresponsible, just how often Steve tried to undermine. Whenever I took him to task about it, he always apologized. Then, just like the husband of the radio woman, he assured me that he only did it because he worried about me and he wanted to look after me. Her account of living with somebody who sold his controlling behavior as kindness was still troubling me. It echoed what I’d been thinking for a while, but hadn’t had the courage to articulate.
Now, as I stared at the screen saver blobs floating and morphing, I was starting to voice my fears—albeit in my head. Although part of me relished having a man around who wanted to take care of me—who wanted to be sure that my new house was fitted with window locks and a burglar alarm, who was prepared to give up his Saturday afternoon to look over Aunty Shirley’s accounts—maybe Steve’s behavior wasn’t as benign and benevolent as I thought. Perhaps he wasn’t as concerned for my welfare as he made out. Did he behave the way he did because it was a way of controlling me?
All the time I’d known him, he’d been cagey about his previous relationships with women, but he had admitted to being dumped several times. “I don’t know what it is. I just seem to attract these insane women.” Maybe he found himself drawn to strong women, but once he was in a relationship with them, he felt threatened and found himself needing to dominate them. They dumped him, not because they were insane, but because they refused to tolerate his behavior.
On the other hand, Steve (not to mention Mum and Dad) was right about the shop. The idea of me taking it over was bonkers. But last night when I tried to explain my reasons for wanting to take over the business and suggested that my life wouldn’t end if the venture failed, he’d got so angry. He was furious with me for attempting to defy him. It occurred to me that this was a man who would never stop chipping away at my spirit and determination. I was now prepared to admit that the reason I hadn’t had sex with Steve had little to do with my feelings for Mike. The reality was, I didn’t trust him.
I wanted to pick up the phone to Judy. “Hey, Judy,” I’d say. “Here’s the thing: I’ve been seeing this guy for a while and I thought I really liked him, but now I’m having second thoughts. You see, I heard this woman talking on the radio about her controlling husband and it got me thinking… .”
I wished the kids and I hadn’t stopped seeing Judy, but in the end it had been one expense too many. Right now, I was really missing having her as a sounding board. I was trying to figure out if my finances could stretch to a one-off session, when there was a tap at the door. It felt late, but a glance at my watch revealed that it was barely half past eight. I went to the door and looked through the spy hole. Rosie.
“Hey,” she said, standing in front of me now—her face on full beam. “Don’t suppose you feel like joining me in a celebration? Wonder of wonders, I just got a child support check from Simon. Only five hundred quid out of the ten grand he owes me, but it’s a start.” She was carrying a sleeping Will in his Moses basket. At his feet lay her cell phone and a bottle of prosecco.
“Love to,” I said, standing back to let her in. “I could really do with a drink.” I was forgetting that I’d knocked back a couple of glasses of wine over dinner. “Not to mention a bit of a natter.”
“Sounds ominous. You OK?”
“It’s this bloke I’ve been seeing… .”
“Giving you trouble, is he? Fear not, your aunty Rosie’s here.”
While Rosie sat herself down and checked on Will, I went to fetch some glasses. “I thought you were on the wagon while you were breast-feeding,” I said, setting a couple of champagne flutes down on the coffee table.
“I am, but I’ve decided that one night off can’t hurt.”
Rosie popped the cork and poured us each a glass. I’d barely taken a sip when the thumping started upstairs.
“Oh, crap,” Rosie said. “Your kids must have heard me come in. I’m so sorry.”
The children appeared in the living room, bleary-eyed, but curious.
“Who’s this?” Ella said.
I did the introductions. Ella was fascinated by Will. “He’s so tiny. Does he suck your boobies? Phoebe in my class, her baby sister sucks her mummy’s boobies. It’s weird. And then she gets sick on the sofa and it’s really stinky.”
“Yeah, babies can be a bit stinky,” Rosie said, grinning.
“Does it hurt when he sucks your boobies?”
“Not really.”
“If he sucked really hard,” Dan broke in, “could they fall off?”
“Fall off?” Rosie was clearly baffled by the question. “Not really. Boobies tend to be fixed pretty firmly.”
“But wouldn’t you have preferred a hamster?” he went on. “Or a puppy? You can take them for walks and train them to do tricks.”
“I have to admit that Will is a bit lacking in the tricks department. Tell you what, when he’s older, I might get him a puppy and then maybe you and Ella could take him for walks.”
“Cool.” Dan turned to me. “Mum, did you check on the computer to see what starfish eat?”
“Not yet. I’ll do it before I go to bed and let you know in the morning.”
But he was already sitting at my laptop, tapping the keys. “Wow. Did you know they eat other starfish? That means they’re cannonballs. Alfie at school, his brother’s got the DVD of this film about people who start eating each other. They’re in a plane crash, but only some of them get killed and because they’re in the mountains and there’s no food, they have to eat the dead bodies.”
“Stoppit,” Ella cried. “People don’t eat other people.”
“Yes they do. It’s called cannonball-ism.”
“Mummy—tell Dan to stop teasing.
”
“I’m not teasing. It’s true. Mum, tell her.”
Rosie was looking at me, grinning all over her face as if to say, “So how are you going to handle this one?”
“OK,” I said. “Under very, very extreme circumstances, which almost never happen, people have been known to eat bits of other people.”
“Which bits?” Ella demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“Bums,” Dan said. “Bound to be. That’s where there’s most meat.”
“I wouldn’t let you eat my bum.”
“Why would anybody want to eat your stinky bum?”
I glanced at Rosie, who by now was struggling to keep a straight face.
“Kids, if I gave you each a packet of Monster Munch, would you forget about cannonballs and go back to bed so that I can chat to Rosie?”
Instead of nodding, they made a joint dash to the cupboard and had a fight about who should have the last packet of salt and vinegar flavor. I told them that if they didn’t settle their differences immediately, nobody would get anything. Dan backed down and agreed to have cheese and onion.
“Night, kids,” Rosie said.
“Night,” Ella said. “Nice to have met you.”
“You, too, Ella … and you, Dan.”
“I have no idea who taught my daughter such good manners,” I said after the kids had disappeared upstairs. “My mother, probably. As you can see, I spend most of my time bribing my children with junk food instead of teaching them social etiquette.”
Rosie laughed. “That’ll be me in a few years.” She took a sip of prosecco. “So, come on, dish. What’s going on with this bloke of yours?”
“How long have you got?”
“Oh, God … as bad as that. Tell you what, if this is going to be a long session, I think I should avail myself of the facilities.”
Rosie disappeared to the loo, tiptoeing on the stairs. I peeked into the Moses basket. Will was blowing milky bubbles in his sleep.
The Sunday Times was lying on the coffee table. I hadn’t so much as glanced at it all day. As I sifted through the various bits, a headline in the business diary section caught my eye.
