by Adele Parks
I met Peter through work. My degree is in accountancy and I’d landed a great job working in the accounts department of a merchant bank. Peter, who is a year older than me, had a far more glamorous position; he was a trader. In fact, if the office gossip was to be believed, he was the trader. He’d already been identified as having something special, he was already making heads and money spin. I guess it was because he was so busy and in demand that he was often late with his expenses. But one day he was so late with the paperwork it looked like he’d have to forgo a reimbursement, so he came directly to the accounts department to sort it out. He was very smiley and chatty with me but I assumed that he was turning on the charm because he needed me to get him out of a hole. He’d be nearly a grand out of pocket otherwise.
After we’d managed to get his cash signed off and the expenses form back into the process, he asked me if I knew a good place to buy a sandwich for lunch. I hadn’t a clue why he was asking me – after all he’d been working there longer than I had – and I assumed it was because I looked like the kind of girl who enjoyed her food. I gave him directions to the nearest deli, which he carefully listened to, and then I thought he’d get on his way. I started to blush when he dawdled at my desk and I mumbled about there being a decent sushi bar near by if sandwiches weren’t his thing.
‘I’m really more interested in persuading you to join me than I am interested in the menu,’he said, smiling.
I stared at him. Gormless. Anxious not to misunderstand. My suit must have been flattering, there’s no other explanation. I still have that suit, although not the occasion to wear it. So we had a sandwich and then after work we had a drink, then supper. We didn’t stop eating and drinking for another eleven years. Eating, drinking and making love. Because yes, of course, back then in the early days, there was a lot of sex.
I could not believe my luck. I would pinch myself. Literally. I had tiny bruises on my arms. Peter, Greek god, handsome stud muffin and all-round good guy, had chosen me. Me! He could have dated anyone and he chose to date me. I considered every day a gift and made the most of having this fab boyfriend. I couldn’t wait to show him off. I dragged him home, filed him past all my pals, and I took him to meet Daisy who was still at university. Of course, that’s when he first met Lucy. Ironic to think that I introduced them. As expected, he was universally approved of. Mum, Dad, Daisy, my friends, Daisy’s friends all liked him and I liked him the most of all. So much so, that I refused to listen to Daisy’s gentle and not so gentle warnings that I was in danger of overestimating his worth and underestimating my own.
Sometimes, if I do have a wet Sunday on my own to fill, I torture myself. I’ve perfected it. After I’ve done all the housework and ironing and such like, I sit and wonder if he fell for her straight away, the moment he shook hands with her. He must at least have fancied her, he has a pulse. Lord, there are times when I’ve fancied her, she’s fabulous. To look at, that is. I think she’s faulty on a number of other accounts, of course. Was he too much of a gentleman to shake me off there and then? Or I wonder if he started to hanker after her when she arrived at our wedding, sans date but with the most enormous hat. She wore lilac and captured everyone’s imagination. There was no question, she undoubtedly outshone the bride. Or was it later, when I had the twins and we were too bleary-eyed with sleep deprivation to see one another properly? I’ve never asked. I don’t really think I want to hear the answers. As I said, I never expected to keep him. I like to believe he was mine for the six years we dated, and the five years we were married. I don’t want to hear that he wasn’t mine for very long at all.
Peter left me when the boys were fifteen months old. I guess my luck had run out. He was recalled. The natural order re-established. I’d had a longer innings than I’d expected. My mistake was getting complacent, allowing a time when I thought maybe it was for real, maybe he was for keeps. I should never have forgotten what I’d first believed, that he’d be with a Lucy in the end. Maybe not Lucy Hewitt-Jones, but someone like her. Someone unlike me.
Lunch is a triumph. The boys actually manage to tear themselves away from their Game Boys and come and make conversation (of sorts) with our guests. Connie’s children are too young and the wrong sex to be of much interest to Henry and Sebastian. Connie and I joke about how much that will change when they are teenagers. Fran is four and Flora is eighteen months. The way Luke keeps touching Connie, stroking her thigh, squeezing her hand, etc., I wouldn’t be at all surprised if number three wasn’t announced in the near future. Sometimes, they behave like newlyweds and when they do it catches me off balance. I have to swallow very hard and very quickly to stop myself…I don’t know what I’m stopping. Stop myself crying, laughing, calling out and congratulating them.
I know why their open and easy affection affects me with such poignancy. The thing is, Connie and Luke had marital problems at around the same time as Peter and I did. Connie is the epitome of wifely devotion and the ideal mum now but she once had an affair. Just like Peter. The difference being, they got through it. I used to look at them and wonder what it was that allowed them to survive infidelity, when my world blew apart. I reasoned that Luke could not have loved Connie more than I loved Peter, it’s not possible. It didn’t take me long to deduce that the difference was Connie loved Luke more than Peter loved me, Connie didn’t want to leave. Quite simple really.
Daisy is looking tired and too thin. She’s not as happy as she deserves to be. Daisy and Simon have been married for six years and it’s an open secret between their nearest and dearest that they’ve been trying for a baby since their honeymoon. They were OK with their lack of result in the first year of marriage. In fact, back then, Simon used to laugh about how he was so keen on the trying that he thought he might be actively disappointed when they got a result. Simon doesn’t joke about fertility any more; neither of them jokes about anything much.
The way I understand it from Daisy, after eighteen months of more or less constant and wonderful sex they introduced thermometers and vitamins. The quality of their sex life, predictably, took a knock. She says that the moment is ruined if immediately after sex you have to lie on the floor with your legs in the air. Besides anything else, they have a tiled floor in their bedroom, it’s cold. I suggested that they buy a carpet and keep going for it. A further six months down the line Daisy visited her GP and, three months after that, Simon visited her GP too.
At this point they still had a sense of humour about their predicament because they still had hope. They used to entertain the rest of us with hilarious stories about Daisy calling Simon out of meetings, insisting that he got home within the hour because ‘the time was right’. Connie and I even had a go at practising injecting fruit because Simon is a little squeamish and couldn’t face sticking needles into Daisy’s bottom, which was a necessary part of one of her treatments. We laughed about that at the time, but a series of invasive tests, with inconclusive results, plus three more years of regularly menstruating, has snuffed out all humour. Last month their second attempt at IVF failed and I’ve run out of platitudes.
Daisy has always loved children. Perhaps even more than I do. I love my children and the children of my friends and even some of my children’s friends, but Daisy isn’t so particular. She loves all children. She’s a primary school teacher, an ambition she’s held since she met her first primary school teacher when she was aged five. She enjoys her work and from what I understand she’s respected and liked by the staff, parents and kids alike. The thing that breaks my heart is that whenever Daisy tells anyone she is a teacher one of the plus points she always mentions is that the holidays work well when you have children. And whoever she is talking to will always nod enthusiastically, sometimes unaware that she actually doesn’t have children.
It’s not Connie and Luke’s fault. It’s not as though they actively try to flaunt their happily ever after in front of everyone. It just sometimes feels that way. With each ripe, healthy pregnancy that Connie waddles through I can�
��t help but wonder whether I’ll ever have sex again, let alone another child, or even someone who is prepared to rub my stockinged feet when I’m exhausted or flat after a busy day. Lord alone knows what Daisy must be thinking.
We don’t talk about the failed IVF today and we try to avoid dwelling on the issues of the first week of school. A debate about whether sew-on or iron-on labels are best for naming uniforms is not one Daisy can comfortably fake an interest in. Still, the conversation never falters. Connie has brought along her holiday photos.
‘Three weeks in Devon. You are so lucky that you are both self-employed and these idyllic breaks are possible,’says Simon.
‘You didn’t do so bad for hols this year, Simes,’says Luke. ‘Thailand last Christmas, skiing in February. France this summer. Believe me, it’s my wife’s photography skill that makes our hol look idyllic. Think British summer time and sand in your picnic,’he laughs.
Connie hits him, playfully. ‘It was idyllic. OK, camping was perhaps a little ambitious considering I haven’t done it since Girl Guides and you’ve never camped at all.’
‘Remind me, how long did you manage in the tent?’asks Daisy.
‘One night,’squeals Connie.
We all laugh, as we had spent some time trying to dissuade Connie from a camping holiday; it’s so clearly not her thing. We pointed out that there’s no hot and cold running water in tents, let alone a jacuzzi, but she’d been seduced by a Sunday supplement with a headline claiming camping was the new Barbados.
‘Do you remember her arguing it would be an economical holiday?’Luke asks the table. We all nod. ‘We spent £800 on camping equipment and that makes it the single most expensive night of accommodation I have ever enjoyed. Not that I did enjoy it, what with the rain and the hysterical shrieks that there were wild animals prowling around our tent.’
‘I saw their shadows,’insists Connie; she’s still laughing.
‘Then we couldn’t get a cottage and had to pay through the nose to stay at some flash country house hotel, which was wall-to-wall with stressed Londoners. We could have stayed at home for that.’
‘I loved it,’smiles Connie, unperturbed.
‘I know baby, I did too, really,’grins Luke affectionately. ‘Even if my bank manager is hyperventilating.’
‘Can I get anyone a coffee? I found a lovely Fair Trade store just around the corner. They have a fantastic strong Brazilian blend,’I offer.
‘No thanks, Rose,’says Simon, rubbing his small paunch. ‘I couldn’t swallow another thing. That was a glorious meal.’
‘Not for me, Rose,’says Luke, pushing back his chair.
‘I’m off coffee,’smiles Connie. She is bouncing Flora on her knee; Fran has trailed outside to try to muscle in on Henry and Sebastian’s football game.
‘Tea?’I offer.
‘No, just sit down, Rose,’says Daisy with a slight snap in her voice.
The slight snap catches my attention. Daisy is invariably very polite and patient. This IVF must be bothering her enormously. I look up from clearing the table of the final bits of debris and notice all eyes are on me.
‘Rose,’says Daisy, and then she stops. She glances towards Connie but Connie is suddenly rapt in tucking Flora’s curls behind her ears. Simon coughs. ‘Rose,’Daisy tries again. ‘I’m sure there’s a tactful way into this conversation but I can’t think of it right now so I’m just going to have to launch right in. As your sister it’s my prerogative, think of it as my using my joker card after thirty odd years of being reasonably supportive and sensitive.’
I have no idea what she’s going to say to me but as I examine the other three faces around the table, it’s clear they all know exactly what she is going to say and none of them is relishing the moment.
‘What is it, Daisy?’I ask with a cool smile, which is entirely fake and unlikely to convince anyone. I feel my face turning scarlet. ‘Oh God, you’re not ill, are you?’Panic seizes my throat and strangles the words, ‘the children’. I look to Connie in fear.
‘No, no, nothing like that,’assures Connie sympathetically. She leans towards me and squeezes my arm.
‘Don’t over-react, sis, you are making this job even harder,’says Daisy sharply. ‘The thing is, we’ve been talking about it, and we think you are wasting your life.’
Connie whips her head around to face Daisy and glares at her crossly; she then mimics the chaps, who are staring at the tablecloth. Daisy is the only one meeting my eye – she’s trying to brazen it out.
‘Wasting my life?’I mutter, confused.
‘Yes, that’s what we think,’says Daisy. I know she’s finding this difficult and that’s why she’s being so aggressive but, even so, I think what she just said is unforgivable.
‘Who is “we”?’
‘All of us. Your friends.’My ‘friends’still can’t bring themselves to look at me. My friends are cowards, it appears.
‘Not wasting it, exactly,’says Connie. ‘I wouldn’t say that. You’ve done such a fabulous job with the boys, you must be so proud, but we were just wondering what you are going to do next.’
‘Next?’I’m dumbfounded. ‘The boys are only seven, they’re not about to fly the nest.’
‘No, but they will, Rose, and they need you less and less,’said Luke. ‘Sebastian confided in me that he didn’t want you to pick him up from school any more.’
‘Since when have you known what is best for my sons? What right do you have to involve yourself to that extent?’
‘Well, I am their godfather,’says Luke.
‘I simply wanted you to buy them decent Christmas presents,’I snap.
Simon chips in. ‘We just wanted to talk to you about your future, Rose. Because we’re your friends and we care for you. We can’t sit back and watch you devote yourself to the boys and completely neglect yourself. You don’t do anything other than play taxi driver to them.’
‘You have no friends or interests outside the school gates,’says Connie.
‘You never buy yourself a treat but plough endless time and money into finessing their already near-perfect life,’adds Daisy.
‘We just think it would be nice if you got out and met some new people,’Luke chips in.
‘Maybe even go on a couple of dates,’adds Simon.
I feel horror and shame as I realize that this conversation is the tip of the iceberg. Clearly, these four have sat around another dinner table and discussed me and pitied me, then decided that as my ‘friends’they have a right to confront me with their impertinent views. Could they have discussed this with Peter and Lucy too? Canvassed their opinion on my sad little life? Oh God, the humiliation.
‘You are forty next birthday,’points out Daisy. ‘What do you think about that?’
‘The alternative to ageing is considerably more horrific,’I point out.
‘It’s not right that you think the release of the next Disney DVD is something to look forward to,’continues Daisy. ‘You don’t even visit the library unless one of the boys wants a book. Rose, you’ve all but disappeared,’she says, finally.
‘That’s what being a mother involves, Daisy. But you don’t understand that,’I reply angrily. I don’t even temper my sentence by adding ‘yet,’or ‘sadly’. I want to hurt her as she’s hurt me. I watch Daisy recoil. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I think it’s time you all left. Sebastian and Henry have homework and they’ll need my help.’
I stand up from the table and fold my arms across my chest.
‘Don’t take it like that,’says Connie. ‘We’re worried about you.’
Daisy says nothing; she’s as white as Bold-washed linen. Simon has a protective arm around her; he’s leading her towards the door. Luke is keeping his head down but he has started to gather up the children’s toys, cups and books.
‘Thank you for your concern, Connie. When I need someone to tell me my life is trivial and pointless I’ll know who to call.’
‘We’re not saying that,’Connie stands her ground. M
ore sensitive women would have caved in by now and begged forgiveness. ‘You said that,’she clarifies and then heads for the door.
6
Sunday 10 September
Lucy
Oh hell, we have to have sex soon. When did it happen that I started to note the frequency, or rather the lack of frequency, that we have sex? We congratulate ourselves now if we manage once a week. Saturday night usually, but even that’s not guaranteed. Nothing happening last night, for example, because there was a decent movie on TV. What’s gone wrong? I remember when we used to frantically fuck one another in the boardroom at work and then still find a way to slip in a more luxurious session in a hotel before he had to get home. I can’t believe all the excitement was provided by the fact that he was married to someone else. No, that can’t possibly be right. We had sex often enough when we first got married. Bugger, does this date back to Auriol’s birth? Everything uncomfortable or inconvenient in my life tends to.
For the record, I do not have a floppy vagina. I’ve kept mine taut. And I’m sure Pete has no reason to complain about my physical appearance; I know he must still want me in that way. So many women let themselves go but I still manage to visit the hairdresser once a week, the gym three times a week, and I’m still a regular at the spa. Of course, we both have hectic schedules and we seem to be so much wearier nowadays, but it’s horrifying to admit that Peter might value his sleep more than a good session with me. I’ve tried taking advantage of his morning glory, but there’s rarely so much as a morning glimmer, let alone glory. I’ve tried meeting him for lunch, in the hope of squeezing in a quickie, but we just grab a sandwich and a coffee, not one another’s bodies. I’ve tried the late-night massage and moody music – that was a disaster. He was asleep within minutes and had the cheek to thank me the next morning, assuring me it was the best night’s sleep he’d had in months. Do I care about his sleep patterns? No, I don’t. I care about my neglected sexuality and his waning libido.
