Young Wives' Tales

by Adele Parks

  It appears that a holiday for five requires planning with military precision, and in fact I could do with an army to help me. Eva started her holiday on Thursday and it transpires that Friday is washing day so when I start to pack, on Saturday morning, I discover that very few of Auriol’s clothes are clean and none of them are ironed. I resort to pulling ill-fitting (or worse – ugly) clothes out from the depths of the closet and I retrieve items from the laundry basket, sniff them and spray on perfume in a desperate attempt to freshen them up. I cobble together enough outfits for the week; providing Auriol makes an effort to stay mud-and paint-free, we’ll manage. Despite my extensive wardrobe I discover that I own very little that one would describe as casual and therefore appropriate. Still, I can’t regret my lack of nylon. Eventually, I find a couple of pairs of Diesel jeans and dig out my Roxy hoodies that I wear when skiing. It hardly matters anyway; Peter rarely notices what I’m wearing these days and I’ll keep away from mirrors.

  While I whiz around the house frantically trying to find clean and suitable clothes for us all, Peter chooses to stroll to the newsagent and buy a paper. He then sits in the drawing room and reads it. Rose arrives at 10 a.m. on the dot with both the boys in tow. She hands over two carefully packed children’s suitcases.

  ‘I’ve included a change of clothes for each day. I’m probably being excessive but it’s bound to be very muddy at this time of year and the boys will get into a mess, no doubt Auriol’s the same.’Oh, bugger. ‘Besides, it’s better to have too many than too few. I’ve packed swimwear, goggles and towels. They probably provide towels but Henry is allergic to some washing powders so I’ve packed sheets for him too.’I take the two cases off her as the boys speed past me without so much as saying hi. ‘And here are their sleeping bags in case Peter wants to sleep under the stars. He used to enjoy camping. This bag is full of games, pens, paper, favourite toys, etc.’I take the sleeping bags and the huge rucksack off her and wonder how it will all fit into the car. Like Paul Daniels she produces another bag from nowhere. ‘This bag contains their spare pairs of trainers, Wellington boots, pool shoes and walking boots. I think that should cover it.’

  Rose calls to the boys and they reappear instantly. I know I have to call them five times, minimum, before they so much as grunt a response. They fling their arms around her and bestow dozens of kisses. She doles out instructions that they have to be good for their daddy (no mention of being good for me). They assure her they will be and then she turns to leave. ‘I didn’t pack any car snacks because I was sure you would have that under control,’she says.

  Damn. Car snacks. Friday must be grocery shopping day, as well as laundry day, because the cupboards and the fridge are empty. I send Peter back to the newsagents to buy some snacks; he grumbles and asks why I couldn’t have noticed that we were without resources earlier on when he went for the paper. I don’t say that food supplies had failed to cross my mind until Rose mentioned them. I don’t do food; that’s why capsule vitamins and restaurants were invented. I resist pointing out that as far as I am aware there is no law against him independently thinking of buying car snacks. He returns with pockets full of sweets, crisps and chocolate; the children will be bouncing off the roof by the time we arrive. Surely he could have bought the odd packet of raisins or an apple.

  I can’t fault the resort for being anything other than exactly what it claims it will be. Center Parcs is perfect for people with children and therefore attracts lots of people with children. It’s hellish. Auriol and the boys are in the upper quartile of good behaviour, which is a relief and a horror at once. Wherever I go I can smell nappy sacks, a hideous, synthetic flowery scent that fails to mask the odious stench of child waste, and I hear screaming and crying, as spiteful, unruly children abuse their parents or siblings. I bump into women who have nothing in their lives other than their abusive children and therefore enthuse about the availability of salsa lessons and nature walks. It is so depressing. There is a spa but I discover that all the therapists are fully booked for the entire week. Every single appointment has been snapped up by the mothers who don’t work and have no issues with making personal calls between 8 a.m. and 6.30 p.m. No amount of cash in a brown envelope can convince the receptionist to ‘find’me a space for a treatment. Without the spa I am devoid of escape routes.

  I’d read, but this would mean I’d have to spend time in the chalet. I think I may have a diagnosable allergy towards Aztec designs, certainly when there are several different ones (sofa, cushions and walls) in a small confined area; I can feel a migraine coming on. I am suspicious of every eatery in the resort, as the marketing literature describes them as ‘elegant’and ‘sophisticated’; yet the guest is assured that high chairs and handbag clips are available. I know there will be an eat-as-much-as-you-like salad bar.

  I sign up the children for as many activities as possible. Kid camps are an absolute brainwave. By enrolling Auriol for horse-riding, swimming and tennis lessons and arranging for the boys to ride quad bikes, scale walls and learn to walk on stilts, I am able to secure child-free time and consider myself a good mother. I will be able to return to London and crow about how the children enjoyed themselves learning new skills and Rose will have nothing to grumble about. Although it is only day three, the kids are averaging three activities a day (guarantees exhaustion at bedtime – sod the expense) so I will be out of fresh options by 10 a.m. tomorrow.

  Peter suggests we could have a family round of golf.

  ‘The children will hack up the greens. They need lessons first,’I argue.

  ‘Private lessons for the three of them will cost an arm and a leg. We could teach them,’he suggests rather unrealistically. I shake my head.

  ‘We could hire a boat and row on the lake.’

  ‘In October? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, we could hike. If we keep moving we’ll stay warm.’I don’t take his suggestion seriously enough to answer. I don’t ‘do’hiking boots and I’m not going to ‘do’hiking boots until Jimmy Choo does hiking boots.

  At least Peter and I are alone, even if we are alone in the Center Parcs chalet, which is sadly lacking in style and space. I look around the tiny kitchenette, which has pine cupboards and a minuscule fridge, two sins in my book. The couch transforms into a sofa bed and, predictably, is grossly uncomfortable as a place of rest in either capacity. I can’t sit at the dining table, the laminate is coming unstuck at the edges and I can’t fight the urge to pick at it. I prowl around the room watching the rain race down the windows. I sigh. Peter ignores me. I sigh again; this time I ensure it’s such a meaningful and voluble sigh that his newspaper shivers.

  ‘Anything wrong?’The question is asked in a way which convinces me that Peter couldn’t care less if anything is wrong. Still, I choose to interpret his enquiry as genuine.

  ‘This holiday does not express my personality,’I state.

  ‘You’ll have to elaborate, I’m a mere male.’

  ‘Look, pine doors.’I point at the offending items and think that the issue is self-explanatory. How can I be happy amid such ugliness?

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’asks Peter. It is times like this when I understand how he came to be married to Rose.

  ‘Nothing, if we were on holiday in a log cabin in Canada, but we’re not. Besides, they are not even real wood, they are some sort of plastic or painted MDF. These doors don’t say “me”.’

  ‘What sort of doors would say spoilt witch?’asks Peter.

  I could kill him. I consider battering Peter to death with my vanity case. Instead I opt to torture him slowly. The weapon of choice is my tongue.

  ‘I long for the life where I holidayed in the Sanderson in LA or Chiva-Som in Thailand. The places I went when I was single. I miss that life. I hate it that I’m now supposed to be grateful for Center Parcs with its poxy Mediterranean café with lakeside views – it’s hardly the same as a rooftop terrace overlooking LA, is it?’

  We both know that I am saying I miss mor
e than the holidays. I miss my apartment in Soho and I don’t really like the stultifying, grown-up home in Holland Park. It may be stylish, but whose style? Not mine. I don’t like our people-carrier, even if it is a BMW X5. I liked my Merc SLK. Sometimes I wish I’d stayed in my single life. I wish I hadn’t married Peter. I wish I’d stayed his mistress. What good does it do marrying a man you are having an affair with? It simply means you stop receiving flowers. What was it my mother always used to say about a man marrying his mistress? I know, she said it created a vacancy. Is that something else I should be worrying about? Will there be another mistress along in time? Is there one already? Hell, I’m reminding myself of Rose. Oh, horror of horrors. Do I remind Peter of her?

  ‘Have sex with me, Lucy.’

  Hmmm. Seems unlikely if he’s still making that sort of request in the middle of the afternoon. But I don’t want to get messy. I’ve just spent over an hour applying my make-up and doing my hair.

  ‘I hate it when you call it sex,’I reply glumly. I’m buying time.

  ‘Make love to me.’

  I glare at him. The last time we had sex I ended up agreeing to come on this holiday. Can I risk doing it ever again? I might find myself agreeing to buy a caravan and spending a week in the Lakes next. Besides, I loathe it when he requests sex. If he wants me why can’t he just take me and be a man about the business?

  ‘I love you, Lucy.’He moves his paper to one side as he says this. It’s the first time he’s shown me his face throughout this entire exchange. His is a disarmingly handsome face but I refuse to be moved.

  ‘Hey, isn’t that the name of an old TV show?’

  ‘No, that’s I Love Lucy. I added the “you” myself. A personal touch, which distinguishes my emotion from that of millions of viewers of 1950s sitcoms.’

  I love him too but I cannot say so. I won’t say so. Nor will I make love to him.

  ‘I need to make a telephone call to the office.’I grab my phone, handbag and cigarettes and leave the chalet.

  Talking to Mick cheers me up. He doesn’t ask about the holiday, which is tactful of him; he knows how much I was dreading it and we don’t like to talk about upsetting issues. Mostly we avoid talking about families (we agree that they are exhausting) or his girlfriends (he tells me they are tiresome) and we limit ourselves to talking about work, travel, restaurants or bars. Delightful adult subjects. I’d begged Ralph to put me on a pitch or send me on a business trip, rather than sign my holiday form, but Ralph insisted it would be a great idea for me to spend time with my family. Easy for him to say. He’s probably never had to be up close and personal with people who think the funniest things on earth are whoopee cushions.

  I ask Mick for news from the office. I miss it. Center Parcs is claustrophobic and isolated at the same time. I long to be jostling with other commuters on crowded tubes (it’s that desperate) and competing with other traders in the markets. Mick tells me we’ve had confirmation that he and I did secure the New York business. He says he wishes we could celebrate together. At that moment I want to be celebrating with Mick so much that it hurts. I realize that the best I can hope for is a warm glass of Asti Spumante in the noisy family bar.

  ‘Cheer up, Princess; we’ll have a night on the tiles when you get back to civilization,’says Mick.

  ‘That thought might be the single thing that gets me through this week,’I tell him.

  ‘Ralph’s talking about splashing out and throwing a company-wide party to celebrate.’

  ‘Must be a tax thing. I bet he needs to spend a chunk of cash on staff training or motivation.’

  ‘He might just want to reward the teams for our excellent performances of late. You are so sceptical.’

  ‘Who the hell cares why he’s throwing it, the important thing is I get to dust off my party frock.’Or have the excuse to buy something new.

  ‘You’re coming?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I bet you pull out at the last minute.’

  ‘Do you want me to party with you?’I can’t help but lift the tone of my voice in a flirtatious way at the end of the sentence.

  ‘Forever, Princess.’And then he has to ring off quite suddenly as something of note is happening in the US markets. I long to know what.

  When I get back to the chalet the children have returned from their day of activities. It appears that the chalet has shrunk and the smidgen of available space is now jammed with steaming coats and muddy boots. The boys are having a duel. Henry’s using a mop and Sebastian the broom. They thwack one another’s weapons and narrowly miss decapitating one another or, at least, bringing down the ugly net curtains. Even though neither situation would be a genuine catastrophe in my book, I feel duty bound to yell at them and tell them to settle down. They ignore me. Auriol is crying. Actually, crying suggests a level of mediocrity which she is incapable of. Auriol is in fact, weeping and wailing with all the anguish of an Italian mamma who has just been told her firstborn son has married the town whore. I ask her why and it transpires that she feels left out. It is notable that Peter is still reading his newspaper.

  I suffer in silence throughout two games of Tumblin’Monkeys, several hands of cards (complicated by the fact that Auriol has difficulty in picking up the rules) and a game of snakes and ladders, which we are unable to complete because Sebastian turns the board upside down when he has to slide down the longest snake. I tell the children that they all need baths and we ought to be getting ready for supper. Suddenly, the ghastly restaurant which serves Vienetta as a dessert appears inviting. I turn to Peter to tell him it’s his turn to oversee bathtime but realize he’s vanished. The children tell me that he left for the bar an hour ago, I simply hadn’t noticed.

  Auriol is the first in and out of the bath, as it is agreed that she takes the longest to select her outfit for the evening. Astounding when one considers I only brought a limited choice with us and the boys have an entire wardrobe pressed and packed.

  Auriol emerges from her bedroom in a pink cord skirt and an orange jumper; she’s wearing multicoloured stripy tights. The jumper has dozens of yellow daisies embroidered on to it and despite the clash of colours she looks divine. Auriol can carry off pretty much any ensemble; she gets that from my side of the family.

  ‘I haven’t seen that jumper before,’I say.

  ‘Sebastian and Henry gave it to me.’

  Rose does this from time to time; she buys an unexpected gift for Auriol. Of course everyone sees this as another demonstration of Rose’s generosity of spirit – I see it as a criticism. Did she know that I wouldn’t have enough clean clothes for the week? I flash a smile that fails to make it to my eyes and say, ‘How thoughtful of Rose. We must write a thank-you note.’

  ‘Lucy.’

  ‘Call me Mummy, Auriol.’

  ‘The boys don’t.’

  ‘Well, I’m not their mummy. Rose is. You know that.’I try not to sound impatient with her but really! We have gone through this about a hundred times. I hold my breath and wait for her to say that she wishes Rose was her mummy, the next logical step in the conversation, but instead she says, ‘Mummy, will you make my hair into a French plait?’

  I put down the newspaper and consider it. I am reading an interesting article. But, that said, she does look adorable with her hair in a French plait and besides, she didn’t express a preference for Rose to be her mother, as I’d expected.

  She never has.

  She seems reasonably content with me most of the time, despite my obvious inadequacies. I suddenly find that very compelling. Her acceptance of me is in harsh contrast to my own views. I pick up the brush and start to brush her silky blonde hair. Its glossiness feels soothing under my hand.

  ‘Are you having a lovely holiday, Mummy?’

  ‘I’d prefer it if we were somewhere sunny,’I reply. I won’t lie to her but I don’t want to break the moment by telling her my true thoughts on this living nightmare.

  ‘Do you think that’s what’s bothering Daddy?’
>
  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure he’s having a very good time, even though there is a swimming-pool and three restaurants.’She shakes her head with bewilderment.

  Auriol clearly doesn’t understand why her parents insist on complicating things. Nor do I. It bothers me that a four-year-old can identify my husband’s discontent, despite spending a matter of a few short hours per day in her parents’company. I recap. So far, we have bickered about the accommodation: I am resolute that it is too cramped for what it costs – Peter described it as spacious. I think he must have had a blow to the head; it will be the only blow he’s getting if I have to exist in these hideous conditions. We’ve argued about the food: I think it is bland and full of additives, Peter thinks it’s ideal for the kids. We’ve rowed about the weather: we agree that it’s miserable but Peter’s point is that I’m unreasonable to have expected anything other. We’ve exchanged cross words about the hygiene levels of the changing-rooms: in my view totally frightful and I intend to write to the management; Peter is of the belief that what doesn’t kill one makes one stronger. I stop the mental tally, as these disagreements all took place before supper on Saturday. The atmosphere is considerably less jovial than that of a number of wakes I have attended.

  I consider calling Julia, my PA. I could get her to ring me with a fake emergency that demands my immediate return to London. Surely it would be better if I took myself away from here, from Peter. There’s no point in staying and allowing our mutual disgruntlement to fester. I sigh and accept a situation which seems remarkably like defeat.