by Adele Parks
‘Will there be enough room?’ she asks.
‘Yes. The cottage we’ve hired is more of a country house. It has four bedrooms and a caravan. That’s a bedroom for Henry and Penny, you and Gilbert, Hugh and me, and the kids can bunk in together. James can have the caravan. Do you think he’ll mind?’
‘Can’t say for certain, I’ve never met him, but I don’t expect so. He lives in Africa. He’s some sort of safari guide. He’s probably used to sleeping in odd places. He’s taking a season off and coming to England. G’s delighted. He obviously adores him.’
‘Older or younger?’
‘Younger, quite a bit. And, from what I can gather, very unstable.’
Oh, I hope so. I could do with the excitement. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Well, what sort of a job is a safari guide for a thirty-six-year-old? Why can’t he get a boring job like everyone else? I’m sure he’s only coming home to watch his old mother into the grave.’
‘Sam. How unlike you to be bitchy. Isn’t it great that you can get to know him before the wedding? You must be excited about meeting Gilbert’s nearest and dearest?’ The subtext is, of course, that in the normal course of events this nicety would have been observed before the engagement ring was slipped on to her finger.
Sam is silent for a minute. ‘Suppose. Sorry.’ She isn’t. ‘It’s just that G has been behaving so strangely since he heard that James is coming home.’
‘Really.’ I’m very interested. I wonder if it will turn out that Gilbert is more interesting than assumed thus far.
‘Like a cat on a hot tin roof. He is so keen to make a good impression on James, it’s ridiculous.’
‘I thought it was supposed to be the younger brother that hero-worshipped the older one.’
‘Exactly. Get this, last night G tried on three different outfits in order to choose which is the most suitable to wear to meet his brother at the airport.’
‘Odd, but not a hanging offence,’ I point out reasonably.
‘He wouldn’t agree to this weekend away unless his precious brother came along too. Apparently he “doesn’t see enough of James as it is”.’
So, nothing sinister in Gilbert’s past then. The mystery is solved. Sam is having a bout of the green-eyed monster. She’s used to having G’s attention, full and devoted. It seems her pique against James is nothing more than a reluctance to share the stage.
‘Be nice, Sam,’ I warn her.
‘OK. I suppose there’s “nowt as queer as folk”.’ She falls back on a cliché. ‘Er, by the way, should have asked, how are you feeling?’
Hugh and I have agreed to make a supreme effort to leave work at a relatively reasonable time this Friday. We plan to collect Kate and Tom and then head down the M4 (with about half of London’s population) for a ‘relaxing’ weekend in the country. The relaxing bit starts after the four-and-a-half-hour traffic jam.
However, I’m the only one who sticks to the bargain. I get home early, pack for both of us, make supper, eat my half, put his half in the fridge, shower and change clothes. It’s seven o’clock and he hasn’t called. I eat his supper and try to comfort myself with the thought that we will have missed the worst of the rush hour. I open the post and am irritated to see that Sam has sent me a package of magazines, a tactless mix of bridal and maternity. There’s a note attached: Wouldn’t a double wedding be a scream?! Hint, hint!!
As subtle as a brick through a glass window. Cow, she would never have suggested a double wedding if I’d still been a size 10; the dates she’s picked for her ceremony mean that I’d be waddling down the aisle in a mound of organza, praying that the contractions didn’t start.
It’s surprised me that so many people have assumed Hugh and I will now announce a wedding date. Unsolicited, friends, family and colleagues launch into the debate as to whether we should have a shotgun marriage immediately, or whether it would be better to wait until after the baby is born so that I’ll have my figure back. Last week my mother called to express an opinion, or more accurately, to give directions.
‘Darling, I’m assuming that you’ll want the family christening robe.’
‘Haven’t given it any thought.’
‘It’s in storage somewhere. I’ll locate it and forward it to you.’ Without pausing for breath she added, ‘It would be tidiest if you could marry before the baby is born. How much weight have you put on?’
‘Sixteen pounds,’ I muttered sulkily.
‘In as many weeks!’ she yelled. ‘Well, in that case, a wedding is out of the question until after the baby is born. You have to live with the photos for a long time.’
I repeated the conversation to Hugh, hoping for a dose of sympathy about my weight gain. ‘I know that she thinks I’m a self-indulgent, gluttonous slut. I can’t expect her to understand – in her day they were allowed to smoke. Oh, the relief of putting something in your mouth that isn’t calorific’
‘How about my penis?’ asked Hugh, completely missing the point.
Both points, actually.
Because whilst everyone from my mother to the local greengrocer has expressed a view on when Hugh and I should get married, the one contribution which has been notably lacking is Hugh’s. It’s not that I want to get married. I think marriage is an outdated, restrictive, misogynistic, one-way deal.
But it would be nice to be asked.
Although fairly impractical since Hugh is, technically, still married.
But it would be nice to be asked.
I pick up Beautiful Brides. There’s a bewildering mass of photos of models with supercilious grins (which I find inexplicable – how can anyone feel supercilious dressed as an extra for a low-budget costume drama?). Those that don’t look like a smug Mr Whippy have obviously been instructed to appear beguiling or demure. Neither look appeals to me. There isn’t a man in sight. If these magazines are to be believed, grooms are incidental to the whole marriage process. It’s horrible, it’s terrifying. It’s the nastiest thing I’ve ever seen.
I pick up Mothering and instantly change my mind. This magazine redefines horrible and terrifying; in comparison Beautiful Brides is a walk in the park. There’s picture after picture of fat women, followed by picture after picture of bloody, bawling, tiny William Hague lookalikes. There are pictures of hospital wards, which are grim and drab, with the women in the hospital beds looking exhausted and defeated; they’re real, they aren’t models, and so there’s not a hint of serenity or superciliousness. I keep turning the pages, looking for cute gurgling bundles and blissed-out mums in white silk nightgowns – there are none. There are articles on pain relief (none of it appears to be foolproof), treating engorged nipples (ditto) and incontinence (ditto). There are a couple of articles on how to dress well during pregnancy, but the editor’s tone isn’t hopeful. The article admits disappointment even before it begins, because, frankly, how can anyone look good when she’s carrying an extra three stones? Once again, there isn’t a man in sight. The impression I’m left with is that it’s perfectly normal for the male partner to make an efficient appearance at the conception, but he doesn’t actively participate again until the child graduates or scores its first century playing for England. I shiver involuntarily.
The telephone rings and I dash to it. But it’s not Hugh, it’s some poor sod from BT trying to sell their latest marketing package – friends, family, vague acquaintances and dodgy chatlines, or something like that. I can’t be bothered to listen to him so I pretend to be my Polish cleaner instead. I catch sight of myself in the mirror that hangs above the phone. My cleaner is better presented.
The doorbell rings, I fly to the door – Hugh!
‘Becca.’
‘Hello, Georgina.’ Before she says anything else Kate and Tom charge past me into the flat. Becca starts to unload more baggage than Geri Halliwell travels with. ‘Hugh called me.’
He didn’t call me.
‘To explain that he’s stuck in a meeting. We agreed that it was best that I d
rop the kids off here. That way you can make an early start tomorrow.’ She doesn’t pause but tells me these facts in a clinical, straightforward way. Becca and I have an unwritten agreement to be calm and polite with one another on all occasions but especially in front of the children – that is Kate, Tom and Hugh. If I were generous I would assume that she behaves in this reasonable way because she is a proud woman who loves her kids. The less generous side of my nature is more inclined to believe that her reasonableness is to do with the fact that she’s financially dependent upon Hugh and me. I behave in this reasonable way because I won; winning creates capacity for refinement. We both recognize the need to be civil, but our motivations are so diverse that, naturally, the arrangement is an uneasy one.
‘Becca, you’ve lost weight.’ I silently congratulate myself on this choice of double-edged compliment.
‘No, I don’t think so. Perhaps you’ve gained,’ she smiles, but only with her mouth – her eyes remain flint.
I find the comment quite droll, not least because of its unlikely source, but then I consider that it’s true and don’t find it in the slightest bit amusing.
‘I understand that congratulations are in order,’ she adds.
So he’s told her. Or maybe not; I’m kidding myself if I think this is the type of pregnancy you can hide. I summon up the sort of smile that my mother used to wear on her official duties, wide, exaggerated, all teeth, and I beam back. ‘They certainly are.’
‘Well, congratulations, then.’ Becca moves her head too quickly and I can’t be quite sure how to interpret the look in her eyes. She seems genuinely pleased. But she can’t be. Which woman would be pleased that her husband and the mistress he absconded with are having a child? Except perhaps if Becca knows something I don’t. Like how unsuited I am to the task. Or Hugh is. Or we both are. Just at that moment Kate tips out the contents of my handbag on to the floor. Perhaps Becca simply knows how hard the task is.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without make-up,’ Becca comments. I don’t tell her that I’m wearing the full quota but my face must betray me because, slightly more sympathetically, she adds, ‘Have you been very sick?’
‘As a dog.’ I don’t even consider lying to save face. It’s that bad. ‘I was seventeen weeks yesterday. I’d placed a lot of faith in the idea that the sickness fades in the second trimester. But it doesn’t seem to be easing. I’d heard that this is when I’ll feel glorious and blooming and –’ I’m about to add that, most importantly, my sex drive will come back, but I remember who I’m talking to so I simply say, ‘But…’ and leave it hanging there.
‘Don’t hold your breath. I was sick for nearly six months.’
Bitch.
‘Seventeen weeks, so the baby must be about 100 g by now, that’s 3.5 oz.’ Becca drops her eyes to my bulging stomach. She’s obviously trying to account for the other 15 lb 13 oz weight gain.
It’s typical that Becca would know stuff like this even though she’s not pregnant right now. I try and demonstrate that I’m not altogether ignorant by parroting a fact I read just thirty minutes ago. ‘The crown –rump length of the baby is 11 –12 cm.’
‘Really, it’s ama2ing, isn’t it.’ Becca holds her hands up in the air and estimates 11 cm.
I hope she’s no good at measuring because 11 cm look big to me. Very big. Eleven centimetres is about the length of a banana, but how wide? That’s the pertinent question. How the hell does this thing get out?
I take the final bag from Becca and put it in the pile with the other 430. Why does she always pack as though the children were going on a year-long explorative trip to all six continents? We are only going to Wales for a couple of days. It’s a hallmark of Becca’s to make child-rearing appear as complex as possible; I’m sure she does it to intimidate me. She then begins to recite the list of instructions for the weekend. Yes, I’ll remember to give Kate her penicillin. Yes, I do know that Tom is allergic to nuts and yes, I know he has an inhaler to treat his asthma. Wimps. I hope all these defects are on her side of the family.
‘One more thing – Hugh asked if you’ve remembered to pack his walking boots?’
If I knife Becca, would a woman judge be more or less sympathetic than a male one? I wonder.
‘Yes, I have.’ I glower.
‘Goodo.’ Suddenly Becca checks her watch and then hastily kisses the children goodbye, explaining she has to dash or else she’ll be late for her date.
Date?
I know I shouldn’t be surprised – Becca used to be a beauty and recently she’s lost a bit of weight and started to smile again in a way that does bring to mind her past loveliness. But I am surprised. I’ve never considered the possibility of life after Hugh. There certainly wasn’t life before him. Not for me, at least.
Date.
So this explains why Becca is so unexpectedly (and treacherously) compliant with regard to access. Historically, Hugh has always had to visit the children at her home (their old home, stuffed with poignant memories – a transparent tactic) or somewhere neutral, but rarely here in my apartment. Obviously, Becca tries to exclude me as much as possible. Now it appears she’s happy to offload the kids on to me, the Wicked Witch of the West, at the drop of a hat. Although I doubt it’s that she’s planning on dropping tonight.
I close the door behind her and turn back to the children. Kate is crayoning on the dining-room table. Literally. There is no paper involved in this creative endeavour. And Tom is kicking repeatedly the leg of a barstool, for no apparent reason other than that he can.
Enjoy your date, Becca.
21
It’s not accurate to say that you can cut the atmosphere with a knife – you’d need a hacksaw.
Hugh finally rolled in last night at 11.15 p.m. I, in the meantime, had just got Kate and Tom to bed, after playing a seemingly endless game of jungles. The game was free play, there were no rules, boundaries or limits, but after playing for about twenty minutes I began to realize that there was an aim. It was for them to keep me tied up and on all fours for as long as humanly possible. Apparently I was a captured hippopotamus (a distressingly accurate analogy). I’d been ensnared by traffickers for an illegal zoo. I had to endure two and a half hours cramped under the dining-room table, which I would have objected to but it seemed the safest place in the flat; they used the rest of the rooms to terrorize each other. They ran, jumped, wailed, fought, bit, kicked, screamed, nipped, cried and crashed their way towards oblivion, and eventually wore themselves into that state Jessica used to refer to as ‘past tired’. I then gave them a glass of milk each, a reasonably successful operation as only Tom broke his glass, and finally ushered them into bed. Then there was the lights-on-or-off fiasco – which involved my trying out more illumination combinations than there are on Blackpool front: main light off, hall light on door open, or main light on but dimmed, or main light off bedside lamp and hall light on, or all lights on, or all lights off but the radio on. We settled for bedside lamp on but with a cloth over it so it wasn’t too bright. Then at last they fell asleep.
Silence.
I’ve never appreciated stillness quite so much in my entire life. By this time it was 10.45 p.m. The effects of spilt milk, chocolate handprints and crawling on all fours for hours had obliterated any efforts I had made with my hair and clothes. I considered that at least the constant activity required to amuse and occupy Kate and Tom had stopped me thinking about my nausea. It must be this that cajoles a woman into having a big family; it appears that this particular strain of exhaustion is the only effective antidote to sickness.
Suddenly it struck me that at least the children were company of sorts; now they were in bed the silence taunted me. This was possibly the most depressing thought I’d had in the last couple of months and, believe me, my thoughts have been fairly bleak.
Truth is, I’m lonely. Recently I’ve spent so many evenings at home alone that I’m beginning to think that I have something special going with the talking clock. In the eigh
t months before the two blue lines, Hugh and I had probably less than a dozen nights in (if you include going to the gym as a night out). We were to be found at parties and receptions, in bars, restaurants, cinemas and pubs. In the last two months I’ve been out twice. Where the hell’s Hugh? Whatever he’s working on can’t be this important, can it? I resent the bloating pregnancy. In the circles I mix in the only parts of the body that are meant to bulge are botoxed lips or silicon boobs. No wonder Hugh doesn’t want to spend any time with me. That said, it was his bulging trousers that put me here.
When Hugh finally got home he tried to tell me he’d been working late, whilst the distinct smell of a good time – booze and fags and fun bars – wafted over from his suit and smile, betraying him.
‘You bastard,’ I yelled, not waiting to hear his full explanation. And that was about the nicest thing I said to him for the following hour and a half. The energy, which had been eluding me recently, came flooding back with venomous, Incredible Hulk-like proportions. I screamed, ranted, hollered and raved, not allowing his entreaties – that yes, he had been to a restaurant but it really was work – to interrupt me.
‘So why didn’t you call me?’
‘We were short on time.’
‘You had time to call Becca.’
‘Well, I knew she had to make arrangements for the kids. I knew she was going out.’
‘Oh, so you considered Becca’s plans but not mine? You kept your promises to her but not to me.’
Hugh’s face was flooded with confusion, as well it might be; no one had ever accused him of that before. Hugh rarely makes me mad and on the odd occasion he does I never show it. Being angry is hardly attractive, is it? Screeching and crying achieve nothing but premature ageing. If we do argue, the subject matter is never more serious than what we should watch on TV. We’d never had an actual fight. I shout infrequently, and I’m never jealous. Or, at least, if I am, I take care not to display it. This, our first proper row, was spectacular. Without allowing reason or rationale to direct my soliloquy I yelled about random things that had been niggling me. And, when I’d run out of those, I alighted on new things that don’t really irritate me at all, but at least fuelled the row, giving me the opportunity to vent further my ill-defined fury. Throughout my roaring Hugh remained irritatingly calm and tried to persuade me to lower my voice so I didn’t wake the children.
