Young Wives' Tales

by Adele Parks

  ‘No, mate, I shagged loads of birds between Greenie and taking the fall with Andrea.’

  ‘Yeah, you shagged them but Greenie was the last one that, you know –’

  I do know but I’m not expecting him to probe. I’m depending on his Northern-ness and his Y-chromosome to make him shut up.

  ‘Was she The One That Got Away?’asks Craig. He can’t hide his excitement. He’s a bit of an old romantic, is our Craig. He believes in all that ‘The One’stuff, which girls believe. He’s such an innocent.

  I laugh into my pint. ‘Mate, towards the end I was shoving her away.’

  ‘Why?’He looks disappointed.

  ‘It all got a bit intense.’It really is hot in here. I scratch my ear and take off my jacket. Tom, the bastard, doesn’t say a word but doesn’t take his eyes off me.

  ‘Did you love her?’asks Craig.

  I laugh again, which means I splutter beer on to the table. Which is a bit embarrassing and a bit of a waste. What a stupid bloody question to ask a mate.

  ‘Love? Love?’I ask with incredulity. ‘I never gave it a moment’s thought.’

  ‘I see,’he says. Although I have no idea what he thinks he sees. ‘And did she love you?’

  ‘It wasn’t that sort of gig,’I mutter. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, lads, as pleasant as this wander down Memory Lane is, I have a very current lead I need to follow at the bar.’

  I saunter over to the cutie who I bought a drink for earlier. She’s sitting with a group of giggling mates.

  ‘Ladies, I think you ought to know, presently, I’m officially single, but don’t tell the girlfriend.’I wink.

  Three of the girlies collapse into helpless giggles, one rolls her eyes and the fifth is too pissed to have heard me. I pull up a seat. I think the odds suggest it’s going to be my lucky night.

  17

  Tuesday 26 September

  Lucy

  I call Connie to more or less demand that she meets me for dinner. Before we had kids Connie and I used to meet for supper on a regular basis. We made it a matter of honour that we ate at restaurants reviewed in the Evening Standard, almost before the ink dried on the newspaper. We’d frequently treat ourselves to champagne, oysters, foie gras or truffles. In those days we were cash and time rich. Nowadays, more often than not, Connie comes up with an excuse as to why we can’t splurge. She doesn’t earn as much as she used to; besides, Luke often works until late and she seems to find it unusually difficult to secure a reliable babysitter. Privately, I’ve started to refer to Connie as ‘Little Miss Blow-Out’, and whenever I write her name in my diary I do so with pencil as there’s always about an eighty per cent chance we won’t meet up. This time she surprises me by immediately agreeing to dinner.

  Did she notice the urgency in my voice?

  We meet at a terribly trendy new-style Indian restaurant in Westbourne Grove. The food is sensational and the turquoise and silver décor works well with my colouring. I’m only half-kidding; even in times of crisis it doesn’t do to let standards drop.

  Connie hugs me and plants a huge kiss on my cheek. I’d normally disengage and only allow her to air-kiss me in the appropriate way but tonight I find her warmth is comforting.

  ‘So how was New York?’she asks with a huge grin.

  ‘Tiring,’I reply automatically. ‘I was rushed off my feet. The client turned out to be very demanding. He never let up.’I’ve claimed the same to Peter. I put a Small Brown Bag from Bloomingdales on to the table. ‘I bought you a gift.’

  Connie dives on to the package and is clearly delighted to find a selection of Mac make-up inside. She gushes her thanks for a few minutes and then asks, suspiciously, ‘So, if you were so busy, how come you had time to shop?’

  I signal to the waiter and choose a wine before I answer her question.

  ‘I lied. It was a total jolly. We barely did any work,’I confess in a rush. ‘We arrived there Thursday afternoon. We went to PM Lounge until late. It was the coolest bar I’ve been to in a long time. Do you know it?’

  Connie shakes her head. Of course not, we’re mothers now – neither of us knows what’s hot and what’s not. I’d have been lost in New York if I hadn’t been with Mick.

  ‘It’s a cathedral-like temple, set under high vaulted ceilings with skylights. It’s worth seeing.’She doesn’t look interested. ‘The next day we had a breakfast meeting with the client and he signed off the contract before 10.30 a.m.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Mick Harrison, he was there too. Didn’t I mention that to you?’

  ‘No.’Connie takes a sip of water and studies the menu, then she asks, ‘So why did you stay all weekend?’

  ‘Well, we had expected to have to handhold the client for a little longer so we had tickets for the big soccer game on the Saturday afternoon. It seemed a shame to waste them.’

  ‘You don’t like soccer.’

  ‘No, but Mick does. And we’d managed to secure a reservation at Bungalow 8 for Sunday brunch. I couldn’t let that go to waste. I thought, why not?’Connie is silent. A low trick, as she knows I’ll fill in the conversational gap. ‘I just needed a bit of time to myself,’I shrug. ‘It’s not as though there was anything to rush home for.’

  ‘Your family.’

  I resist laughing outright. ‘Peter and Auriol are always fine without me. Besides, the twins were visiting. I always feel like a spare part when they are about.’

  We place our order and the wine arrives. I can almost hear the cogs in Connie’s mind whirling. Good. I’m glad. I want her to challenge me and cross-examine. I need the discipline. I’m not disappointed.

  Connie thoughtfully sips her wine and then asks, ‘Are you and Peter OK at the moment?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  Historically, I haven’t been the type to indulge in confidences. It’s not a luxury open to mistresses, especially as in my particular case I was sleeping with the husband of a friend of Connie’s. But I’m the wife now; I have every right to complain and grumble and exhaust my friend’s patience. Maybe I should be talking to Peter. I would, except I can’t. Or he won’t. Or he can’t. Whatever.

  I start vague. ‘It just isn’t quite what I thought it would be.’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘Being married.’

  Connie gasps. I shoot her a warning look. Good God, it’s not like I’m the first to discover this. She clamps her mouth closed and I continue.

  ‘Being married makes me feel so …’I want to say old but I can’t spit out the word. I try another angle. ‘Married life is so …’I don’t want to say boring. Pete isn’t boring, exactly. Normally I’m eloquent but I have to settle on an inaccurate explanation. ‘It’s just that I hadn’t anticipated how unsexy living with someone is?’I grin and try to joke. ‘The endless sock washing.’

  ‘You don’t do your own washing. Eva does your washing.’

  ‘I have to see the cycle through, don’t I? Cycle after cycle of cooking, cleaning and clearing.’

  I know Connie is not convinced. My house staff is proportional to the Queen’s. I have Eva, a cleaner, a gardener, not to mention the handyman who sees to the odd jobs whenever the need arises and the lady who specializes in polishing silver. I realize that I’m not being clear.

  ‘We had this…incident.’I avoid confessing to a row. It seems so vulgar, so emotional. ‘I’ve been married to Peter for five and a half years now. He was married to Rose for less, yet I’m still eternally second place.’

  ‘Well, they were a couple for six years before they married, Lucy.’

  I glare at Connie but don’t dignify her observation with direct comment.

  ‘I was thrilled to note that our marriage had already out-lasted hers. It was, as far as I was concerned, a day of national celebration – there ought to have been bunting in the street, a public holiday. But when I mentioned it to Pete he practically accused me of being immature and said that life and love weren’t a competition. Toss! Everything’s a competit
ion, especially life and most certainly love.’

  I realize that despite having verbal diarrhoea, I’m still being economical with the truth. I don’t tell Connie about my storming out of the restaurant. I’m beginning to see the episode as ill-considered. I pause and look at Connie. She’s full of concern and sympathy. Irrationally, I have an urge to gouge her sad little eyes out. I don’t want her sympathy. I don’t want anyone’s sympathy. So what do I want?

  ‘When I left for New York Peter and I were barely speaking, whereas –’

  ‘This Mick guy has the gift of the gob.’

  I flinch slightly at her crude choice of expression but have to acknowledge its accuracy. Mick is chatty, funny and full of discreet compliments.

  ‘Where’s the crime in having a little fun?’I demand. ‘I felt careless and carefree in New York. I didn’t see the rush to get back to a routine where every day is the same as the next.’

  ‘What are your days like exactly, Lucy?’

  ‘Endless effort in the office and then home to plastic toys and long silences.’

  ‘Are you having an affair with this Mick?’she asks.

  She stares straight at me, a brave move. Most would lack the nerve to launch such a direct missile. We’ve been friends forever. There’s nothing either one of us could say to the other that would shock. Still, there’s plenty that would sadden.

  ‘No.’I hear her breathe a sigh of relief.

  New York had been enormous fun. Fifth Avenue alone is guaranteed to put a smile on my face. And, as expected, Mick was good company – great company, there’s no denying it. He was amusing and charming and I flirted with him but only in the most careful way – almost indiscernible – and he flattered me back. I did not allow anything serious to develop. I let him go. That’s what one has to do once one is married. Let other opportunities slide.

  I’ve always been extremely clinical about sex and relationships. With the exception of Peter I’ve viewed every man who has drifted or plunged into my life as a commodity. Something I could buy or sell and use at my convenience. Life is simple once you accept that looks, money, intelligence and sex are only bartering tools, to be used to attain mutually satisfying relationships. Peter changed my view. He found a way to make me believe in love, commitment, regard, passion and loyalty. The magic stuff. Despite myself I was delighted. At least for a time. But there hasn’t been much magic for a while now, has there? Perhaps all Peter did was introduce a more complex set of commodities.

  As I flew over the Atlantic towards the glittering skyscrapers, I had considered the possibility that Mick would be able to shove me back along my old path and my old way of thinking. In the past if I was not getting enough sex and attention, either quality or quantity, at home, I would have felt completely justified in looking for it elsewhere. Yet this was not the case in New York. I did not want things to develop between Mick and me. Mick turned out to be nothing more than a great travelling buddy. Big sigh of relief.

  Followed by big sigh of frustration.

  Because if Peter can’t make me feel fabulous any more and I don’t want anyone else to, does that mean my days of feeling fabulous are over? Is that it? Was that it?

  Our starters arrive. Fried red pumpkin, it looks delightful. I fear neither of us will pay the chef the compliments he deserves. I push my plate away. Connie doesn’t pick up her knife and fork. We fall silent and wait while the waiter fusses. I can barely remember what I ordered for my main course. It hardly matters.

  ‘Mick makes me feel girlish, triumphant and wanted, for the first time in what seems like years.’Even as I hear myself utter these words I know I’m the worst of all things, I’m a cliché. ‘But the feeling was only fleeting. I know enough not to regard the relationship as anything more serious than an ego booster. Spending time with him equates with going to the spa for a pick-me-up facial. Don’t worry, Con, I am not going to have an affair with Mick. The flirting, flattering and flippancy over an extremely dry Martini were intoxicating in their own way but I’m not genuinely interested. He was a distraction. A plaything.’

  ‘You’re too old for playthings,’she says, grumpily.

  ‘Thank you very much,’I mutter. ‘It is precisely because this truth hurts so much that I felt I needed to flirt with Mick. Can’t you see that?’

  Apparently not. Connie stares at me with undisguised astonishment. ‘You’re worried about getting old?’

  ‘No.’Yes.

  ‘But Lucy, you’re so beautiful, especially for –’

  ‘My age.’I glare at her but don’t stab her with my fork, which proves I can be mature.

  ‘Ageing is a privilege,’she says primly.

  ‘Really. It seems more like a punishment to me. Why is it that everyone puts so much emphasis on maturity nowadays? I don’t get it. I enjoyed the hedonistic culture when youth was the “must have” quality.’

  ‘Everybody has to grow up eventually, Lucy. Even you. You married Peter Phillips, not Peter Pan. You are thirty-seven.’

  I cannot understand her need to say the number out loud. I steal a furtive glance around the restaurant and pray she hasn’t been overheard.

  ‘You both have to accept your responsibilities now,’says Connie with unbearable smugness.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about responsibilities. I work with hundreds of thousands of pounds on a daily basis. I have responsibilities towards mega conglomerates and international governments,’I point out tartly.

  ‘But it’s an entirely selfish responsibility. Your career is like cooking or bathing yourself. It’s about your need.’

  ‘Which responsibilities are you referring to then?’

  ‘Auriol.’

  I stare at her blankly. Auriol? What does she have to do with Mick?

  ‘If you have an affair you are putting her at great risk. You must see that.’

  ‘Yes, I do see that.’Auriol is a spoilsport. I chew my food rapidly and angrily. ‘It’s so maddening that it’s Auriol and all the associated that I needed to have a break from but it was Auriol’s face that forced its way into my consciousness in the PM Lounge and at Bungalow 8 too. Hers or Peter’s. They are the reasons I would not dream of having a fling. But they are also the reasons I need some space.’

  ‘What do you mean, “all the associated”?’asks Connie with perception.

  ‘You said it, the responsibilities. The endless car runs to the appropriate extracurricular activities. The constant consideration that must be given to feeding a child. I mean, when are they going to invent something to eat that is free of artificial colours and flavours, gluten free, low in sugar and sodium but tasty too? Answering non-sequential questions is a bore. So is reading books with pictures and dull, overly moral story lines. In short, I’m exhausted by the constant thinking that necessarily goes with being a parent.’

  ‘But Eva does a large percentage of that, doesn’t she?’points out Connie.

  ‘Which only makes me a failure.’

  ‘By whose standards?’

  ‘Rose’s,’I sigh.

  This is the crux. At last, I’ve said it. This is what I want to talk about. Will Connie enter into the discussion with me? When I gained Peter I lost the former intimacy that Connie and I had enjoyed. Naturally he came with a price, doesn’t everything? But right now, I need Con to throw in her chips with me, just for the evening. I might not be worthy but I’m in need.

  ‘Is there any other standard of parenting? Rose, the gold-medallist, the matriarch supreme. She sets the bar, doesn’t she?’I demand.

  ‘Oh,’says Connie.

  ‘Oh indeed.’

  Connie pauses and then finally admits, ‘I do know what you mean.’Music to my ears. ‘But you two are very different. Since when did you worry about what Rose is up to?’For longer than Connie could imagine, but I don’t admit as much, I stay silent. ‘OK, so the truth is you work so hard that you outsource all the arrangements of your daughter’s birthday party. That’s not so terrible. Mind you, I think you’d have o
utsourced giving birth too, if you could have.’

  ‘And that is terrible, right?’I query tetchily.

  ‘Rose, on the other hand, does not have a single interest other than the boys. That’s not healthy either. Wow, who would have thought I’d turn out the balanced one?’Connie grins broadly. I can’t share her joy. Her observation is fair.

  ‘Connie, do you think I’m a terrible mother?’

  ‘No. You just have your inimitable own style.’

  We grin at each other. Friends again. We can’t resolve my dilemma. We both know that, and indeed I knew that before we even began the conversation and nibbled on the wholemeal rolls. I just needed to air a couple of things.

  ‘Have you tried talking to Peter?’Connie asks.

  ‘Not since we got married,’I quip back, and then I flash a look that communicates I deem the conversation closed.

  We try to chat about other things. I ask Connie if she has any interesting commissions lined up but her answers are brief and perfunctory. I’m not desperately interested in Fran’s first few weeks at school or Flora’s expanding vocabulary. Connie doesn’t even ask me where I bought my new handbag; normally she shows a proper interest. Conversation all but dries up by the time we order pudding and I begin to wonder whether I have over-shared with Connie. Then I discover the reason for her distracted air. It appears she has to do some sharing of her own. She waits until pudding arrives. She’s having poached pears swimming in alcohol and cream and a cappuccino on the side. I’m having a double espresso and a cigarette.

  ‘Guess who I met at the school gates?’she asks.

  ‘Obviously, I have no idea who hangs out at the school gates, Connie. Nor do I ever want to.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. It’s really quite good fun. The mums are all lovely. Anyway, you’ll never guess.’

  ‘No, I said as much.’

  ‘John Harding.’

  ‘What?’

  I’ve heard Connie bounce this particular name across various restaurant tables in the past. I’ve heard her sing out his name with joy and scream out his name with agony that truly seemed unbearable. The last time I heard his name was six years ago and I never expected to hear it again. I never wanted to.