Young Wives' Tales

by Adele Parks

  ‘You didn’t say that she looked “well”? Because women think you mean fat if you say that.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘No, I think I said she looked beautiful.’

  ‘Did you comment positively on any other woman in the room, including the bride?’

  ‘I said that Jen looked relaxed.’

  ‘That’s OK. Did you cut across her sentence?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you disagree with her? Suggest that women only vote for the vaguely sexy political candidates? Criticize her driving? Talk about Star Trek?’

  ‘No, no, no. John, I honestly don’t think I said anything to offend her.’

  ‘Well, someone must have, mate. You need to find out who and what.’

  ‘You think I should talk to her.’

  ‘It helps, in a relationship, and I should know.’

  ‘You don’t talk much then.’

  I grin at my clever friend, ‘No, mate, not if I can avoid it.’

  ‘Should I go round to see her and ask her why she ran away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Craig sits up and punches my arm. ‘It’s good to have you on side, mate. You’re a real buddy.’

  ‘Can we just watch the rest of Jackass now?’I ask and turn the volume back up.

  Craig stares at the screen for about four minutes and then he says, ‘Tom told me that Andrea got in touch to say that she’s expecting a baby with her new bloke.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Pleased for her.’I don’t take my eyes off the TV.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t you two ever fancy having kids?’

  I press the mute button again. The hilarious antics carry on silently. Without the cries of agony or the screams and crashes the programme loses something. It puts me in mind of an old Charlie Chaplin movie, which I never found that funny.

  ‘I think Andrea thought I was a kid.’

  ‘Bit unfair,’says Craig loyally. Then more honestly he adds, ‘But just a bit.’

  ‘We did try at one point but timing was all wrong.’

  ‘Girl stuff?’he asks, misunderstanding me.

  I can’t bring myself to explain that I don’t mean her lunar-driven cycle and all that, more our timing. We only tried for a baby to stick us together but we were already shattered. It was a good thing that the fertility gods weren’t paying us much attention.

  ‘Can I ask you something really personal?’Craig has no idea about what level of probing is acceptable conversation between blokes. I consider it a sweet eccentricity and privately, I don’t mind indulging him.

  ‘Fire.’

  ‘Was Andrea your One?’

  ‘No mate, Cameron Diaz is my One. She just doesn’t know it yet.’

  ‘Seriously.’

  He won’t be budged. He stares at me earnestly. His face is twitching with concern and a real desire to understand me. It suddenly dawns on me that I might have been duped. Of course Craig knows that he has to go round to see this Rose bird, if he wants to make a go of it. He’s not an idiot. He probably only asked for my opinion so that he could bring up the subject of women and lure me into exchanging confidences.

  I watch the silent screen and tell him, I don’t believe in The One. There are loads of people out there who could make me happy.

  ‘Why don’t they then?’

  ‘I’m happy.’

  ‘You didn’t seem it at Tom’s wedding.’It’s not a question, so I’m not obliged to comment. Craig works with little kids all the time, so he rephrases. ‘I hadn’t seen you that drunk for a long time, mate, and I wondered why you wanted to get wasted.’

  ‘Nervous about giving the speech.’

  ‘No. You were excited about giving the speech.’

  Craig is kind enough not to point out that while I stumbled through the speech it wasn’t as good as it perhaps could have been. I still got the laughs but the humour wasn’t as fast and sophisticated as I’d planned. I couldn’t read my prompt cards and had to ad-lib a fair amount. Still, not to worry, if Craig cracks it with this Rose bird I’ll dust off my speech and try again in a few years.

  I don’t take my eyes off the TV but I know that Craig is still staring at me with the full intensity of a concerned best mate. The heat is making me itch. I give in.

  ‘It does mean something to me that Andrea is up the duff. I’m not jealous,’I hasten to add this and turn to him so that he can read my face and know I’m being as honest as I know how to be. ‘She’s a good lass. I’m happy for her. She’s clearly moved on and that’s good. But it sort of brought home to me that I haven’t. I haven’t really moved since the divorce.’

  ‘You bought your new house in Marlow.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I can’t believe that the one time I want Craig to understand that I’m not talking literally, I’m talking figuratively, he’s turned all man on me. I mean I haven’t moved on emotionally but I’d wax my ass and chest before I say so straight out.

  ‘In some ways I feel that I’m right back where I was ten years ago, except in those days I listened to Oasis and Blur when I was fucking and now it’s the Arctic Monkeys and Kaiser Chiefs. I keep running over old scenarios and wondering what I could have done differently to change the outcome.’

  ‘With Andrea?’

  ‘Among others. I’m sort of conducting an experiment at the moment.’

  ‘An experiment?’

  ‘Yes. Do you remember I once talked to you about that woman whose kid goes to your school?’

  ‘Mrs Baker?’

  ‘Yes, Connie. She meant a lot to me at one point.’

  ‘And then nothing at all. You said so.’

  ‘I just wonder if I’ve got that last bit wrong.’

  ‘What?’Craig leaps off the sofa and starts to pace the room. He’s melodramatically running his hands through his hair. ‘Are you having an affair with her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you planning on doing so? Are you trying to seduce her?’

  I don’t answer directly. ‘She’s aged well. She’s looking great and she’s got this new indefinable aura, a sort of confidence that she didn’t have when we were together.’

  ‘It’s called happiness. She’s a happily married woman. She’s a mother.’

  Craig is furious. When he gets really angry a small muscle in his cheek flickers and he looks like a psycho. When we were kids I used to encourage him to use this party trick to freak out the bullies, but he can’t do it on demand. I’ve only seen it appear about a dozen times.

  ‘I really want her.’

  ‘No, you don’t, John. You don’t know what you want and you are going to mess with her head. It’s not on.’

  ‘She’s a big girl, she’ll be able to decide for herself if I’m going to mess with her head or not,’I point out.

  Craig flops back into his chair and looks defeated. I know he wants to grapple together a compelling argument for me to leave Connie alone.

  ‘Why are you suddenly interested in her after all these years?’he asks. His voice is always soft but today I can barely hear him.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Do you think it might be rebound from the divorce? Or an ego boost? If she used to be mad about you, do you see her as an easy target?’

  ‘Not at all,’I say with a wry grin.

  ‘A challenge, then? You like a challenge.’

  ‘I don’t know.’I wish he’d shut up. Why isn’t he suggesting she’s my One? He’s normally so keen on the sentiment. Why is he insistent that any feelings I have for Connie have to be shallow and have a deviant motive?

  ‘Is she interested in you?’

  ‘Of course –’I falter. Craig hears the catch in my voice.

  ‘What if she isn’t interested in you?’asks Craig, in his quiet, steady voice.

/>   I’m a bit irritated with him for even suggesting this. Normally, he has one hundred per cent certainty in my pulling power.

  ‘She is or, at least, she will be,’I assure him.

  ‘She’s married,’he repeats.

  ‘I’m aware of that,’I say dryly. I don’t want to have to tell Craig that Connie was married the first time we met and that proved to be nothing more than an initial stumbling-block. I think the revelation would damage his view of the world.

  ‘And they seem a really happy couple. Quite especially so,’he adds. ‘Has she given you any encouragement?’

  ‘Sort of,’I say carefully. In fact our conversations have been littered with polite but consistent rebuffs but still, I’m confident. I’m sure she’s just playing with me. ‘She will see things from my point of view, sooner or later,’I assert.

  ‘I just mention it because you’re my pal and if she doesn’t want you and you’re knocked back – well, I just don’t want to see you hurt.’

  I’m shocked. I don’t like Craig’s insight, or sympathy or warnings. When I think I’ve heard as much as I can bear from Craig, he adds something yet more traumatizing than his compassion or counsel. ‘I don’t want to see you hurt, again.’

  43

  Sunday 3 December

  Lucy

  ‘Put your finger right there, Auriol.’Obediently Auriol pushes her tiny forefinger on to the ribbon and I’m able to tighten the bow around the parcel. I step back and view my work with triumph. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘They look excellent!’says Auriol brightly as she surveys the two huge boxes wrapped in blue metallic paper, presents for Sebastian and Henry.

  Inside one is an Xbox 360 and inside the second there are six games for them to play. I had considered buying them a console each but Peter said that would be too much and that it would be good for the boys to practise sharing. I doubted their ability to do this but understood the principle. In addition I’ve bought them each a new bike. They have bikes at their mother’s but I thought the ones I’d purchased for their birthday (with fifteen gears) could stay at our home for them to use when they are here. Despite mildly chastising me that I was spoiling the boys, I knew Peter was thrilled with my efforts. I hadn’t realized that gift-buying for kids is an aphrodisiac. But, at the moment, pretty much everything I do seems to have Peter simmering. I hadn’t realized that he thought the Mary Poppins type was so hot. I notice that I am singing under my breath. I stop, stare at Auriol and throw her a return wide smile.

  Without any warning the smile Auriol was wearing collapses, her brightness and breeziness vanishes and suddenly she is sobbing.

  ‘I want an Xbox.’

  I take a deep breath and summon my now oft-drawn-upon supplies of patience. No one ever said this was going to be easy. But no one ever said it would be this hard either. I reach for a tissue and wipe her eyes and nose (it always seems to be in need of a tissue even when she doesn’t have a cold – is that something I just have to get used to?).

  ‘But it’s not your birthday, sweetie,’I say reasonably.

  ‘I want, want, want one,’she says as she slams her foot on the kitchen tiles. The vulnerable sobbing has disappeared as quickly as it arrived and in its place a tempest is stirring.

  Sometimes, I still find it very hard to like her; loving her is a given but liking is occasionally still a test. Until very recently, whenever Auriol threw a tantrum I employed the policy of giving in to her immediately. Whatever it was she demanded I’d find a way to provide it. It was not because I was besotted and wanted to fulfil her every whim – the truth is, I don’t like scenes. If I said yes she could have another ice cream/Barbie doll/TV in her room/friend to play then I avoided a scene. As I averaged seven hours a week contact with her, it didn’t really matter to me if she was spoilt to the point of being delinquent. Now, however, I try to get home most nights for bathtime or at least in time to read her a story. I don’t go to the gym on Saturdays and I now have my manicure on Sunday morning, when she’s at horse riding. Previously I had always timed my beautician appointments to coincide with Auriol being at home. With the increase in contact I realize that I cannot allow her tantrums to continue because I have to live with the consequences. Occasionally, of late, I’ve discovered that I have to bite the bullet and say no.

  ‘When it’s your birthday Mummy and Daddy will buy you whatever you want and wrap it in a big box just like this one,’I tell her.

  ‘No!’

  For a moment I’m puzzled.’Except with pink paper,’I assure her.

  ‘And?’

  I try to think. ‘A purple ribbon?’

  ‘No. No. I want a bigger box.’Auriol flounces out of the room and I follow her progress through the house, tracking her by which doors she’s banging closed. As she exits dramatically, Peter comes into the kitchen. He is much more serene.

  ‘Hello, darling, what are you up to?’

  I stand away from the beautifully wrapped gifts so that Peter can get the full benefit of my efforts with the bows.

  ‘Just finishing wrapping up the boys’gifts,’I say with a beam. ‘Are you going to take them round now?’

  ‘Yes, I thought so. Would you like to come?’

  A month ago I could have answered that question in a heartbeat. No, I would not like to visit Rose’s home and I do not want to have to endure watching her brats greedily open their gifts. I would have told him that I had no interest in whether they delighted in the presents or hated them, the result was normally the same – the twins would dismiss the gifts in moments and move on to the next parcel. It always sickened me. Besides, not a birthday had gone by without Rose alluding to the fact that she gave birth with nothing more than gas and air and that both the twins weighed over 8lb. I hate the way she tries to collude with Peter and constantly prompts him with ‘do you remember’stories. However, now, I take a deep breath and I wonder what to say for the best. The best for everyone.

  ‘Would you like me to come?’I ask.

  ‘Yes,’says Peter firmly.

  My heart sinks. ‘I think Rose prefers it if I don’t,’I comment. I’m pretty sure that if I attend the twins’party she’ll surmise I’m there just to spite her. She’ll end up annoyed, I’ll end up frustrated. A lose/lose situation. All my good work of the last few weeks could be blasted apart in one hasty sentence.

  ‘Auriol would love it if we went as a family,’says Peter.

  It’s a low trick. In the past I’ve followed a strict policy of limiting the time Auriol spends with Rose and the boys. I maintained that the only things Auriol could learn from Rose were pastry-making and cross-stitch, not skills I felt Auriol necessarily needed. Once, when Peter was in an especially grumpy mood, he’d pointed out that maybe she’d learn respect and the ability to be pleasant from Rose. The insult was implicit but marked and I was furious. Now, I concede it might not be a bad thing for Rose to have some influence on Auriol. I’d never admit it aloud, but Sebastian and Henry aren’t absolute little snots the entire time. They can be quite decent company when she’s not inciting them to rebel against me.

  ‘OK, I’ll come.’

  Peter looks thrilled. He cups my face in his hands and kisses me. ‘You really are wonderful.’

  ‘I know.’

  For reasons which are beyond me, it takes us about another forty minutes to get ready to leave the house. I have noticed that it’s impossible to go anywhere on the spur of the moment with a child or even to leave one destination smartly in order to arrive at another promptly. I’m slowly accepting this to be a life truism, but I am still uncomfortable with it. Lateness is laziness. While Peter and Auriol run around the house collecting car keys and essential favourite dolls, I utilize the few spare moments by attending to some of the e-mail which is backing up in my inbox. Shortening the hours in my day has led to a backlog of e-mails so I systematically work through them at home, adding another three or four hours on to my day after Auriol is asleep. On Thursday the unthinkable happened, I coul
dn’t be bothered. I spent the evening shopping online for toys for Auriol instead and then on Friday Peter and I went to Nobu. It was an overdue trip. I am aware that I probably have over two hundred e-mails waiting for my attention and I can’t put off attending to them beyond this weekend.

  I see his notes immediately. His name jumps out like a vivid scab. Joe Whitehead. I’m tempted to press delete without even reading them, but there is always the slim chance that he’s contacting me about a work issue. I’m being disparaged and overlooked at work enough at the moment as it is, so it would be professional suicide to ignore e-mails.

  The first one is a round robin to the entire floor. It’s a grumble that people congregating at the water-cooler chat too loudly and apparently he finds this distracting. Moron. I never go near the water-cooler as it is right next to his desk. I press delete, with a sense of relief.

  The second note is one of those ridiculous chain letters. This one is about confidence and individuality. The instruction at the end of the note is to pass it on to ten people you admire for having those two qualities. I see from the address list that Joe has only sent the note to six people, two of whom must be relatives as they share his surname. He doesn’t have ten friends, let alone ten confident and individual friends. I’m so not surprised. Maybe a nicer person would pity him. I’m just ashamed that my name has found its way into his e-mail address book. I press delete.

  The third note is more worrying. I’m the only addressee.

  Beautiful Lucy, you look hot in your blue suit. Is it new? Are you trying to impress me?

  Yours, duly impressed, Joe

  xxx

  I press delete.

  The fourth note is similar.

  Hey Stunner, have you been working out? Your legs are looking fab. I’d like to get hot and sweaty with you again some time soon.

  Yours, panting, Joe

  xxx

  I press delete. Notes five and six are on a similar line. The subject matter being my hair and my mouth. We have firewalls at GWH, so Joe cannot use any expletives, but the notes feel dangerous and threatening. The volume screams desperation. The fact that he has sent me so many e-mails without receiving any encouragement through a reply makes me as fearful as if the man had laid a shotgun on my desk. I delete six more notes without reading them. I doubt they are work related. As I press refresh, two more notes come into my inbox and then messenger pings on to my screen.