by Adele Parks
‘Oh, so suddenly you remember you have children?’ I yelled, managing to sound accusatory, bitter and self righteous in just one sentence – quite a feat. I didn’t allow him to answer but demanded, ‘And what about the broken tile in the bathroom?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Didn’t you notice the broken tile in the bathroom, near the sink?’ I marched off in the direction of the bathroom and pointed at the broken tile triumphantly. ‘It needs replacing,’ I insisted. All at once it seemed like an atrocity. ‘Didn’t you notice?’ I demanded again.
‘Well, no,’ he muttered, amazed at this sudden turn in the conversation.
‘No?’
‘Yes,’ he tried tentatively, but I could see from his face that he didn’t think that this answer was going to be any more palatable to me. He was right.
‘Well, if you noticed, then why didn’t you do something about it?’
‘I didn’t notice,’ he yelled, finally breaking in the face of my persistent hysteria.
Perversely, I found his loss of calm rather soothing. ‘Ah.’ I smiled with morbid satisfaction. ‘And do you know why you didn’t notice?’ He looked around the room, obviously hoping to find the correct answer scribbled on a wall or graffitied on the shower curtain. ‘I’ll tell you why not. Because it’s too domestic, that’s why not. It’s nothing to do with you. The domestic arrangements of this home are nothing to do with you. You aren’t interested.’
‘You’re not interested either, that’s why we have a cleaner,’ he pleaded.
Whilst this was a fair point I was determined not to fold that easily. ‘And you’re not interested in Kate or Tom or me either, because if you were you’d have come home at 6.30 p.m. as per our agreement.’ I hadn’t realized I thought this, at least not until I’d said it. All I could think was, Thank God I’m not married to this selfish, thoughtless git. I’d sooner swim with crocodiles than shackle myself to this wanker.
But I am shackled to him. The baby that’s growing inside me is more binding than a bloody wedding band, and although it only weighs 100 g it’s more constraining than a ball and chain.
And he’s not a wanker. He’s Hugh and I love him and I’ve always loved him and I will always love him. There isn’t any alternative. It was my own self-pity that finally broke me. The emotional hurricane that had whipped me into such frenzy passed, leaving me with the devastation wreaked by the words I’d used. I am not the sort of woman who behaves in an insane, illogical, preposterous way and then blames it pathetically (and disloyally) on her ‘time of month’. I’ve never ‘absent-mindedly’ shoplifted, I’ve never cut out the crotch of my ex-lover’s designer suits. I am in control of my body, my emotions, my future, and I’m responsible for my past. I would have told him all of this, but I was crying and couldn’t get the words out between the sobs. Lying prone on the settee, two things crossed my mind: one, Hugh is no more used to seeing me cry than seeing me rant. Normally I really am the very epitome of rational behaviour. I’ve often sobbed about him, but I usually employ a policy of stiff upper lip in front of him. Even when I watched him return to Becca, over and over again. Even when I watched him get married. Even when I drove Becca to the hospital to have Kate (there was no one else to do the honours). Yet, now, when I’m having his baby, I start to sob. Where’s the logic in that?
The second thing that crossed my mind was that I was wearing pop socks.
I’m the size of a whale and my trousers are riding up to expose pop socks. This bout of histrionics would almost certainly have been more effective if I still weighed eight stone four and was wearing stockings.
With relief Hugh realized that the storm was over and gathered me in his arms, whilst making soothing, cooing sounds. I instantly forgot that it was him I was angry with in the first place and clung tightly, wrapping myself around him like a limpet.
So, naturally, the atmosphere this morning requires a hacksaw to penetrate through the confusion, regrets and fear. We are both being overly polite. Trying just a bit too hard to show that last night, our first-ever row, is forgotten, and by doing so we betray the fact that neither of us is thinking of anything but.
First ever.
Hugh and I often take weekend breaks. Usually abroad – Barcelona, Prague, Paris or Rome – but sometimes in the UK too. Just before Christmas we spent a weekend at Babington House, enjoying the hotel spa, the countryside and the fact that we were miles away from Christmas shoppers. I can’t help but compare that car journey to this. Then, as now, we sat in a seemingly endless traffic jam, but then it was distinctly fun. Our CDs were playing on the Boxster stereo and we sang along at the tops of our voices. I kept popping squares of bitter, dark Lindt chocolate into his mouth (although not into mine) and each time he sucked on my fingers. The traffic was moving so slowly that it was possible for him to lean over and kiss me or grab my thigh every now and then. And we chattered, non-stop, about our week at work, treatments we’d indulge in at the spa, our plans for Christmas, anything really. That was three months ago. It might as well have been three years ago or three million years ago.
I wonder if Hugh is remembering that journey too. I can’t decide if I hope he is or I hope he isn’t.
Hugh is bewildered. He often has to stay at work for impromptu dinners with clients; normally I don’t mind and I do know that he is working on a big pitch for something or other. I can’t remember which brand; it’s definitely not Mothercare or Avent. I, more than anyone, should understand the pressure of big pitches; they demand copious amounts of time and energy. He is under a lot of pressure proving to Rartle, Roguel and Spirity that he’s worth the six-figure salary his new job commands. He needs a couple of big new business wins under his belt. OK, so he had time to make only one call, he knew that Becca would relay his position to me, and he expected me to understand because, as I say, it’s a regular occurrence. I’ve always understood in the past. Because that’s what mistresses do, don’t they? They understand. It’s the wife who traditionally has a comprehension problem. And mistresses don’t do shouting; again that’s the wife’s domain. Still, I suppose I should find some comfort in the fact that I slipped into the role with a certain confidence, despite the lack of a ring on my left hand.
I’m confused too. Why should a regular occurrence, which has never bothered me in the past, suddenly annoy me with such a ferocious intensity? On the other hand, why can’t he see how insensitive his behaviour was? I’m also annoyed at myself for having presented my grievances in such a hysterical manner; my genuine injuries were washed away with the murky gripes that came to mind when I was playing the wrought-up shrew. The broken tile, for example – definitely more minor battle than war. I sigh, exhausted with trying to decide who was in the right and who was in the wrong.
I force myself to concentrate on the weekend in front of us. After all, it’s supposed to be a holiday. I politely offer Hugh a boiled sweet and he politely accepts it. He comments on the weather, I mention that it’s cold inside the car, he tries to adjust the heating, fiddling with unfamiliar dials. We’ve hired a saloon to accommodate the children; I know Hugh would have preferred a four-by-four. I’m afraid I didn’t ring the car-hire place in time, this was all that was available. I ask him if he wants to listen to a CD or the radio, he insists it’s my choice. The kids somehow sense that this isn’t a good moment to misbehave and therefore do fairly good impressions of a couple of angels; there’s so much caution swilling around in the car I think I might drown.
About half an hour into the journey, Hugh yells, ‘Oh shit.’
‘Shit,’ shouts Tom.
‘“Sit, sit still,” Daddy said “sit still”,’ counter Hugh and I in unison. We take a second to grin at one another, relieved that the formality has been blown away with Tom’s expletive.
‘What’s up?’ I ask.
‘I’ve forgotten a file I need for work. I brought it home last night but I’ve left it on the breakfast bar. It’s really important that I read it this w
eekend. I have to take a conference call on Sunday night and need to be up to speed. We’ll have to go back for it. Sorry.’
I don’t mind in the least; in fact, I even remember (just) when I had the energy and inclination to work at the weekends. At the moment, it’s all I can do to drag myself into the office to work conventional hours. I know I’m coasting; my hope is that I’m the only one who knows.
When we arrive back in London I jump out of the car and run up to the flat to save the time of Hugh finding a parking space.
‘Got it.’ I smile, waving the file at Hugh. He takes it off me before I’ve even fastened my seat belt.
‘You were a long time,’ he comments.
Was I? It is so cute that Hugh guards my every moment so jealously.
‘Becca rang to see if we’d set off,’ I say as I roll my eyes. Hugh smiles and leans forward to kiss me. Everything is going to be OK. For the second time that morning we head off towards Wales.
22
We arrive at the cottage at about midday. It’s not the Maldives, nor the Bahamas. There are no white beaches, no designer boutiques and no five-star restaurants. However, since I look more like a beached whale than a beach babe, since I can’t fit into any designer labels, and since most restaurants have menus littered with dishes solely composed of soft cheese, raw meat, and soft-boiled eggs – all of which are off-limits – Wales is perhaps a more reasonable holiday destination.
Except, of course, we have brought the children with us. Becca’s children. And there’s Penny. Becca’s friend.
I wonder if the facts that the cottage is thatched and has a working chimney, and that there are window boxes at every window, dribbling snowdrops and daffodils, will be enough to make the weekend a success. Pull yourself together, girl. I’m surprised at myself. Normally I’m so good at looking on the bright side. I’m here with Hugh, aren’t I? And that’s always been enough for me in the past; just being with Hugh guarantees I have a good time, no matter where we are.
Although it’s mid-March, it is Wales, so spring has not yet sprung. Snow is still lying in thick rolls on the hills and there is a light dusting of frost in the cottage garden. The sky is electric blue and a frail but brave sun is seeping through the clouds that slice up the view. It is very different from the soggy and grey sight of Clapham High Street. I have to admit it’s spectacular. I breathe in, deeply. Trying to budge the nausea.
I can see Henry around the side of the cottage – he is chopping wood, which I think rather quaint and endearing. Hugh and Henry look alike, or, rather, Henry looks exactly as Hugh would have looked if I hadn’t rescued him. Henry is four years older and looks about ten years older. They have the same square jaws and strong Roman noses and they have the same laughing green eyes and sandy blond hair, but Henry is carrying an extra stone and a half and his laughing green eyes are invariably clouded with worries about promotions, parking tickets and pets with lice, issues that I shield Hugh from. In my opinion, Henry’s overwhelming domestic concerns would be somewhat alleviated if only Penny would allow him to shag her senseless now and again; she’d look better for it, too. Her complexion would benefit.
Henry’s eyes do light up when he sees us arrive. He is one of the few people who manages not to betray any signs of whether he approves or disapproves of Hugh and me. He simply chugs along with it, endeavouring to be civil and courteous to me and, no doubt, to Becca too when he sees her. Everyone else we know feels duty-bound to pass an opinion. Most mount a moral high horse (standards notably lacking in their own lives); this is extremely annoying. One or two try to be open-minded and encouraging, which is more annoying still. Henry’s diplomatic silence makes him very relaxing company.
It turns out that there’s another surprise guest, a friend of Penny’s, Libby. I don’t hold out much hope for her entertainment value, not if she’s a friend of Penny’s.
‘She’s really, really nice,’ assures Henry.
This doesn’t recommend her. It turns me off. ‘Nice’ means she’ll be boring. ‘Nice’ means I’ll feel inadequate. Still, Sam will be delighted she can pair Libby off with James; since Sam got engaged her number-one pastime is matchmaking.
Henry is thinking the exact opposite. ‘We’ll have to do something about the sleeping arrangements,’ he points out. ‘Penny suggested that Libby could take the caravan, and the single chap – what’s the name of Gilbert’s brother?’
‘James.’
‘Yes, James, he’ll have to make do with the futon.’
‘Very sensible,’ I say, nodding. I know Penny will have given the sleeping arrangements a lot of thought. I wonder if she’ll insist that James wears a dressing gown at all times. Risqué, as far as Penny is concerned, is hanging underwear on the washing line.
I politely inquire as to where Penny is, although in truth I’m not interested, and as to whether the others have arrived. I’m told that Sam, Gilbert and James all arrived last night and they are currently out walking. Libby is due any minute.
‘Penny’s in the kitchen,’ says Henry. ‘Let’s go and say hello.’
Because it’s impossible to refuse, I agree.
The kitchen is a hive of activity. The smallest child is squashed into a sticky high chair. I think it’s a girl, but it’s difficult to tell because it has so much organic and freshly pulped baby food on its face that it’s rather hard to distinguish its features. I notice the racks of organic vegetables in the corner of the kitchen. Oh, another formidable criterion against which I will soon be measuring myself. I know I won’t have the courage to use baby food in jars. The child smells. Not of nappies (thank God), but of regurgitated food, child sweat and tears. Henry ruffles its hair. I notice Hugh smile warily from a distance – I think he’s waiting for Henry to rinse his hands.
We let Kate and Tom loose on the other two children (definitely boys, I can tell by their clothes) who are sitting on the floor, playing with large Lego pieces and small cars. I nearly tread on them as I cross the kitchen to air-kiss Penny. Penny endures my physical proximity because she’s too polite not to, but I can tell she wishes that I’d disappear. She hugs Hugh because no one can help but like him. And whilst I love him, I am his greatest fan, it does cross my mind how unfair it is that I am seen as scarlet, positively radioactive, whilst he, the one who took the wedding vows, is seen as a victim. I never asked Hugh to leave Becca for me. Which I think is to my credit, since it was the thing I wanted most in the world. I never once suggested that we needed a resolution to our affair. I simply accepted whatever I was offered. I made sure that we had good times when we were together and I left Becca to destroy her own marriage. Which she did, very successfully.
Penny isn’t wearing any make-up but she is sporting a healthy ruddy glow, and only the faintest film of sweat from the heat of the kitchen. She’s been baking bread and fairy cakes. Hugh steals a cake and Penny playfully slaps his wrist. I ask if anyone wants a Bloody Mary, and even though I plan to have a Virgin Mary, Penny throws me a look that is intended to turn me to stone. I deflect it with a huge smile, which wins over Hugh and Henry, at least. I also steal a fairy cake. Penny shoots me another withering look and moves the baking tray out of reach. I hope I’ve sabotaged the catering plan.
‘Have we missed breakfast?’ I smile my inquiry. It’s obvious that we’ve missed breakfast. For a start, it’s after midday and whilst I don’t know much about children I do know they demand their sugar-coated E additives at about seven in the morning. Besides which, the great pile of gleaming, newly washed pans shows that a large cooked breakfast has just been cleared away.
‘Penny could knock you up some scrambled eggs. I think we have some salmon,’ offers Henry helpfully. He moves towards the fridge.
‘The salmon is for a quiche for Sunday tea,’ protests Penny. Henry tuts as though she’s being a killjoy. I know that it’s more likely that she’s simply concerned that if we eat out of turn there won’t be enough food for the rest of the weekend. Which is sensible of her and therefore the t
one is killjoy.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll nibble on an apple until lunch is ready,’ I smile, nicely making myself out as compliant and her as difficult.
I’m immediately ashamed of myself. Penny brings out the worst in me. I sigh, suddenly exhausted. Since Hugh and I got together I seem to have entered into hundreds of these small battles with first wives. All at once they tire me. I wish that Penny liked me more or at least loathed me less. I wonder if that will ever happen and what I can do to make it happen. I wish that the resentment and mistrust could be wafted away by the yummy, sweet smells of her baking. I look up hopefully at Penny. Of course she can’t read my mind and doesn’t see the olive branch. She sees a big sign that reads THREAT hanging over my head.
‘Let me show you around, George,’ offers Henry. ‘Hugh, you two are in the front bedroom, kids next door, if you want to settle in.’ Hugh takes the bags up to our bedroom and lights a fire in there, whilst Henry shows me around the beautiful cottage.
It is textbook. There’s plenty of room to house the tasteful rustic furniture and big Persian rugs. Every window boasts a stunning vista of rolling hills and possibilities. There are two big, noisy black Labradors playing in the garden, a fat, squelchy cat in front of the fire, piles of dusty old books and even a piano. Twee and clichéd, exactly what I want for a weekend break in the country. Hugh catches us up in the sitting room.
‘The kids will love this big garden.’ I beam at Hugh to see if he’s caught my enthusiasm, but he’s not concentrating on what I’m saying; he’s looking for somewhere to plug in his ISDN line.
