by Adele Parks
‘I wasn’t with Gilbert. He went to bed just after you.’
‘So what were you up to?’ asks Libby, guffawing. If Libby knew Sam better she’d know for a fact that Sam won’t ever be ‘up to’ anything again. Sam is engaged now, which was her lifelong ambition and therefore that’s that.
‘I was up till late with James. We went for a walk, actually.’
What?
‘Just you and James?’ I want to be sure of my data.
‘Yes,’ Sam is talking to something at the bottom of her glass, and she suddenly seems to be extremely interested in the grain on the wooden bench.
‘Gilbert’s brother James?’ I ask.
‘There aren’t two Jameses staying at the cottage,’ she points out, mildly aggravated.
‘A walk? At night? Alone?’ I persist.
‘Yes. Yes. And yes.’ The irritation is mounting.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ she admits. Suddenly deflated, the irritation disappearing in a puff of smoke. She tries to replace it with mock bravado. ‘He’s a great guy. We get on well. He’s going to be my brother-in-law. I’m just trying to get to know him. We’ve spent the week together, he’s a great guy.’ She completes her ever-decreasing circle of reasoning.
And why shouldn’t she? What’s wrong with taking a walk with the guy who’s going to be your brother-in-law?
Nothing.
Something.
Yes, something is definitely wrong. A vision of Sam falling through the door of the cottage yesterday afternoon, laughing raucously, her entire demeanour radiant and luminous. I’d thought it was the fresh air. Another vision, this time Sam flinging her arms around James when they won the rounders match – why didn’t she give Gilbert the victory hug? And last night she hardly said two words to Gilbert, she spent her entire evening in deep and often exclusive conversation with James. I’d thought she was simply being welcoming and polite, but now I’m not so sure. My misgivings are further fuelled when Sam takes the unprecedented step of saying, ‘Look, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to talk about it. Best we forget all about it.’
‘Absolutely,’ says Libby.
I just nod. This is Sam! Sam who has been known to accost strangers in the street and force them to listen to the bloody details of her love life because she’s running out of willing listeners.
We fall into awkward silence again. I feel I owe Sam for helping me avoid Libby’s tricky questioning so I accept the conversational onus and try to provide some entertainment.
‘Hugh and I had a huge row on Friday night,’ I confess.
‘A row?’ Sam doesn’t try too hard to hide her surprise.
‘Yes,’ I sigh.
‘You and Hugh?’
‘Yes. I was furious with him.’
‘Furious?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ith Hugh?’’
‘Yes!’ I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t said anything.
Sam lets out a long, low whistle. She’s so taken aback that she doesn’t even ask what the row was about.
Luckily, Libby is on hand to fulfil this social nicety. ‘What about?’
‘He was late. Five hours. I was stuck at home with his kids.’
‘Look on it as practice,’ comments Libby, then she drains her drink.
Funnily enough I don’t see this as a comfort. ‘He’s started to call my tits boobies,’ I blurt. The girls stare at me noncomprehendingly. ‘I hate it. There are so many awful connotations. It makes me think of Carry On films and booby traps, booby prizes.’ The girls both stare at me, obviously still not grasping the problem. I try to be crystal: ‘tits are sexy, breasts are sensuous, boobies are indubitably ludicrous.’
Their faces are vacant.
I give up. ‘Fancy another lemonade?’
26
We arrive back at the cottage at about five minutes to two. Penny is just about to serve up an enormous roast lamb. A small twinge of guilt nips me. Unassisted, Penny has managed to entertain five kids and cook what promises to be a delicious roast for fourteen. I consider skulking off to the sitting room to kill the last five minutes before lunch as a way of avoiding her cold gaze, then I think better of it. I think of the countless brunches, lunches, dinners and suppers I’ve prepared in the past that have passed by uncommented on. Plates cleared, glasses drained, napkins discarded without so much as a ‘Well done, George, very nice’.
I lift the lid off a pot and peer in. ‘Looks very tasty,’ I comment, and then more warmly I mutter, ‘I’m sorry we left you on your own, Penny.’ Half of me hopes that she won’t hear me.
‘Oh, it’s OK, I’m used to it,’ she breezes. Instantly irritated, I fume that this woman is devoid of social graces.
Almost as quickly I acknowledge that she’s within her rights not to let me off the hook that easily. ‘I’ll wash up afterwards,’ I offer, then I quickly leave the kitchen before I change my mind.
Lunch is fabulous and everyone enjoys it, except for poor Sam who isn’t eating; presumably she’s dieting for the wedding. Apparently a must, irrespective of your size or shape.
‘You’re not dieting for a wedding, are you?’ asks Gilbert as he spoons a generous portion of roast potatoes on to my plate.
‘No.’ Sadly not.
‘Nice to be pregnant and temporarily released from the tyranny of calorie-counting, isn’t it?’ smiles Penny, smoothing over any potential discomfort Gilbert’s comment could have caused. All at once I’m glad I offered to do the washing-up.
I suppose you’re right. I’ve never looked at it like that.’ I smile back and nod as she piles the works on to my plate. Lamb, mashed potatoes, three different vegetables, Yorkshire puddings, mint sauce and gravy. I even chew on the crackling, something I haven’t done in donkey’s years. Hugh stares at me with barely disguised disgust but doesn’t say anything openly, so I pretend not to notice his disapproval.
It’s not so hard.
Crackling tastes fantastic. Chewy and crunchy at once. The mash is made with real butter, not a low-fat spread. It melts in a creamy delicious mush on my tongue. How did I ever give it up? And because I can’t drink alcohol I have lime and lemonade with the children. The full-sugar version. It tastes syrupy and luscious, rather than acidic and caustic like diet lemonade.
‘This is really gorgeous, Penny. I can’t remember when I last had a full Sunday roast lunch.’
‘I don’t know why you starve yourself.’
‘To stay thin.’
‘Well, it’s not natural, we’re supposed to eat. Do you know that your baby is sucking and swallowing by fourteen weeks?’ says Penny.
‘Really?’ I probably have read that. But I hadn’t taken it in. When I read the pregnancy books I tend to concentrate on weight gain; mine and its. Or abnormal foetal development, infections, the many ways in which this pregnancy limits my lifestyle. The bad stuff. I pause for a moment and consider the miracles Penny is talking about.
‘And, incredibly, your baby’s permanent teeth are already forming as tiny buds behind the milk-teeth buds in its jaw by nineteen weeks.’
‘That’s fascinating. Imagine how minute they must be.’
‘They can already distinguish between sweet and savoury.’ Penny is on a roll; this is obviously her specialist topic.
‘Better not have any of the bread-and-butter pudding then,’ advises Hugh, intercepting the plate that Penny is handing me. I look at it with longing. ‘You don’t want to be teaching the baby bad habits this early on. A little restraint wouldn’t go amiss.’ He laughs to himself but no one joins in. Nor do they comment when I quietly take the plate from him and firmly start to fork the sticky pudding into my mouth.
After lunch everyone settles down in front of the TV except Hugh, who finds a quiet room to read his file. It strikes me that we could all have been thus engaged in London and it seems a waste of Wales. I mean, there are hills and things, aren’t there? We should be walking up them, or at least looking at them. Once again I’m sorel
y tempted to strike out on my own and go for a walk.
But I don’t.
Instead, I offer to give Hugh a hand with his work, but he points out that he’s pitching for an account that demands a certain level of confidentiality. He hints darkly that Q&A might also be pitching for this business and therefore we can’t discuss our strategies with one another. He must be on about the Sun ‘n’ Sauce Hols account; both Q&A and Rartle, Roguel and Spirity are on the pitch list. As are WCRS, Ogilvy and Mather, Y&R, Saatchi & Saatchi – in fact most of the advertising agencies in London. MKJL already run the account, and it’s my belief that they are doing a terrific job. Sun ‘n’ Sauce Hols have just hired a new Marketing Manager. He’s called a pitch simply to flex his muscles; I very much doubt he has any real intention of moving the business, he just wants a few free lunches. He must be a very hungry man if the number of agencies he’s invited to pitch is anything to go by. I think Hugh may be sulking because of the incident over the pudding – I can’t believe he is genuinely interested in winning this pitch; it’s not worth more than a few hundred thousand in a media spend. Perhaps he sees it as a potential creative-award winner. Arguably, any half-decent agency could create fun and attention-grabbing ads for such a cheeky brand. That said, our strap line at Q&A is a clumsy and unimaginative play on the words Get off on Sun and Fun. I think we’ve lost the pitch before it’s even begun and so I’m not biting my nails. Oh well, if Hugh doesn’t want my help it looks like I have no excuse for not keeping my promise to do the washing-up.
The pans are so numerous and so large that I estimate that the task may take me a week. I’m just musing on the fact that every idyllic little cottage with window boxes should come with an efficient little electric dishwasher when Libby follows me into the kitchen. She picks up a tea towel and quietly starts to dry the plates I’ve washed.
‘So, are you attending all your prenatal check-ups?’ Libby is drying the dinner plates with slug-like speed. She stares at the little red rosebuds that adorn the crockery with such interest that you’d be forgiven for believing that they held the answer to the eternal questions, such as ‘Why are we here?’, ‘Which is the one true religion?’ and ‘Who will win the Derby?’
‘Yes. I go to my check-ups,’ I confirm.
‘That’s a good sign, well done,’ beams Libby. I look round for the child with learning difficulties to whom she is so obviously addressing her praise. ‘Some women in your position go into total denial. They don’t attend their check-ups, they continue to smoke and drink. They exercise fanatically and generally try to live their lives exactly as they did prepregnancy.’
‘My position?’
‘Our position. Unplanned. Unmarried.’
I’m not in Libby’s position – she was also unsupported – but it doesn’t seem polite to say so.
‘Going to the doctor’s is a nightmare, though,’ I confess, plunging my hands into the suds again.
‘Why so?’
I look at Libby. There’s something about her slightly harassed, shiny face that makes me realize that I’d actually relish a girly chat. Which is odd, because the only thing in anyone’s face in the past that has inspired such a sentiment was something on the face, i.e., ‘Is that the new Chanel lipstick you are wearing? Does it last?’ Libby’s smile gives me permission to be a bit more frank with her than I am with, say, Julia or even Sam. Maybe it’s because her face is unadorned (other than with a faint alcohol-induced flush), and her hair is carelessly tied back in a stubby ponytail. Last time I looked, Julia’s hair was ebony with red streaks (signature Toni&Guy) and she was wearing a Stella McCartney T-shirt and Joseph jeans. Sam’s look is quite different but, if anything, even more expensive. It’s all Hermès, Escada and Chanel. I’m not sure why both looks prohibit a swapping of confidences about the safety or otherwise of douching, itchy flesh and bladder infections, but they do. I wonder when Libby last blew more than £25 on anything for herself (Dyson vacuum cleaners don’t count). Knowing that it’s much more likely that she has to spend her Saturday mornings in the Early Learning Centre and then McDonald’s, rather than in Jigsaw and a neat little French bistro, is somehow comforting.
‘It’s odd. I’ve never worried about demanding answers from doctors, nurses or other medical bods in the past. They’re just people.’
‘Absolutely,’ agrees Libby. ‘I’ve slept with an anaesthetist.’ The ultimate leveller. ‘It was a complete disaster, his technique was appalling, although as an anaesthetist he was probably very skilled,’ she muses.
I giggle, allowing trust to flow into our relationship. I offer a confession to meet her own. ‘And at university I drank a number of medics under the table. I do know them for what they are. I’ve always considered it my God-given right – no, duty – to cross-examine them on exactly what they are prodding and why,’ I pronounce.
‘Absolutely,’ agrees Libby again. And then she prompts, ‘But…’
The bubbles dance prettily around the greasy plates, oblivious to my difficulty. ‘But suddenly doctors and midwives have become deus-like. I’m convinced that no one other than the Virgin Mary could have ever looked her midwife in the eye. When talking to a midwife, my line of inquiry is something like this, “Excuse me. I wonder if you can help. I don’t mean to be too much trouble. I am very sorry for asking, but could you possibly explain why you are treating my private parts with a battering ram… Oh, it’s procedure. Fabulous. Thank you. So sorry to be a bother. Thank you.”’
Libby is laughing.
I’m not.
I seem to have lost all my assurance, all my confidence, and it took me so long to collect it. For years I have tried to be better informed, wittier, sharper, more intelligent, more sagacious, more lucid and perceptive. None of the above adjectives have ever applied to the pregnant women or new mums I’ve come across. Nearly fourteen years of effort. It’s demoralizing to think that fifteen minutes of duvet action have reversed all that.
‘I remember the prenatal examinations being intimidating,’ Libby admits. ‘It’s natural that you feel a bit apprehensive, you are sailing uncharted waters.’
‘There is so much to learn, and, however many books I read, or however many strangers stop me in the street to offer unsolicited advice, I don’t seem to be any the wiser.’ I raise my eyebrows and Libby laughs again.
‘But everything’s OK, isn’t it?’ she asks, suddenly serious. She asks the question without lifting her eyes, allowing me some privacy as I procrastinate about how honest I want to be. Whilst I’ve never actually been in a confessional box I think this is what it must be like. Frightening, difficult and yet enticing. It would be a huge relief to be honest. To admit that I’m nervous, that I feel overwhelmed and under-qualified. It might help to explain that I find it disconcerting that my body, which has always been just that, my body, for the exclusive use of G&Ts and Helmut Lang dresses, is now public property. It is peculiar that my vagina has had more tourists than the Dome.
It’s not just my body; my life is not my own.
It would be a huge relief not to have to use ‘the voice’ to tell her ‘everything is fine’ and that ‘I’m doing beautifully’. I’d like to say fuck ‘the voice’.
‘Absolutely fine,’ I smile. ‘I’m doing beautifully. Well, you know how marvellous it is to be expecting.’
Libby stares at me for the longest time but says nothing.
The moment passes, and I’m left with the distinct feeling that the only person I’ve let down is myself.
Libby hangs her tea towel to dry out on the back of a chair. ‘Millie and I are heading back to London soon. We want to miss the worst of the Sunday afternoon traffic. Here’s my number – I thought we might get together for a coffee or something.’
‘I’d like that,’ I beam. And whilst it’s true that I haven’t exactly been inundated with invites recently I realize that her offer for coffee is the only social engagement I’ve actually wanted to accept in two months.
‘Well, give me a call,’
she smiles. ‘Soon.’
27
Hugh, Kate, Tom and I leave the cottage at about 5 p.m. after Hugh’s important conference call and about two hours after the optimum time for departure; we catch the traffic and the children’s Sunday evening blues. Still, on a more positive note, the long journey home does give me plenty of time to talk with Hugh. Until this weekend I hadn’t realized how much we haven’t talked about. I’d never thought of ours as a house of taboos.
I start with the question of childcare. ‘Do you think we should have a nanny or send the baby to a nursery when I go back to work?’ I ask. I’ve considered this question for twenty minutes before I put it to him. I’ve decided it’s best to rule out any ambiguity as to whether or not I will be going back to work.
‘Oh, you are going back to work, are you?’ His question isn’t challenging the assumption; he merely sounds mildly surprised.
‘Yes. Had you expected me to stay at home?’ Of course I know he had, but I can hardly admit as much without revealing that I listened in on his conversation with Henry.
‘Hadn’t given it much thought.’ He smiles. ‘I suppose that because Becca didn’t go back, nor Penny, come to think of it, I’d assumed you wouldn’t want to, either. But, by all means, if you want to work, do so.’ He grins at his own benevolence.
‘So nanny or nursery then?’
‘Your call.’
‘Do you think the baby should be christened?’
‘Up to you.’
‘If we do have it baptized we should go to church too, on a regular basis; there doesn’t seem much point otherwise.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure about that, George. Sundays are very busy as it is. There’s golf, rugby and the papers.’
‘Right.’ I pause and look out the window. Everyone is in such a hurry to get home. All three lanes of the motorway are cluttered. I peer into each car that passes and watch the occupants. There are lots of couples. Some happy and relaxed; some obviously rowing; some weary, hardly talking to one another at all but already thinking about the towering in-trays and endless e-mails that will greet them in the morning. I pay particular attention to the cars full of families. It surprises me that there is no noticeable disparity between the cars full of families and those with couples only. The families are also a mix of happy and relaxed, or weary and rowing. The only discernible difference is that the family cars tend to have boxes of tissues on the back shelf and hand prints on the windows, not such a monumental distinction. The light fades and it becomes more difficult to people-watch, as the car headlights are dazzling. I turn back to Hugh.
