Larger Than Life

by Adele Parks

  ‘What did Hugh think of the colour that you painted the nursery?’

  ‘He said it was fine.’

  And I believe him, I do. Because it has to be, hasn’t it? It has to be fine. I know Hugh said I’m angry, tearful, neurotic, and before that he thought I was compliant, accommodating and comfortable, which are not the attributes I imagined our relationship would be based on. And, recently, I’ve begun to think that he isn’t quite as considerate as I imagined. He isn’t quite as interested or forgiving. But still, everything is fine. Because things really do have to be fine now. This child I’m carrying is half his. Half him. The soles of my baby’s feet have been genetically destined by this man. So he can’t be a disappointment. He simply can’t.

  32

  I buy Kate and Tom Easter eggs from Thorntons. Big ones. The biggest in the shop, and I have their names iced on them. They’d possibly prefer Barbie and Bob the Builder eggs respectively, and Becca very probably will be furious that I’ve bought them eggs at all. I think she has a no-chocolate, no-sweets, no-fun policy, which she intends to follow until the children are at least twenty-one. However, that is not my motivation for choosing these eggs. I chose them because, when I was a child, my uncle bought me a Thorntons egg, and he had my name iced on it and I still think it was the best Easter egg I ever received. The best in the world.

  On Easter Monday I am sat at home, flicking between channels. Rather disappointingly, Jesus Christ Superstar is not being repeated, I have to make do with Jesus of Nazareth with Robert Powell. And whilst his performance is excellent, only outdone by his amazing eyes, I’m not sure that I feel quite right about finding Jesus sexy. I switch over, but the alternatives don’t interest me either. There’s a western, a documentary on the Rolling Stones, or rugby.

  Hugh is playing golf, which is an Easter Monday tradition. I feel that my Easter has lacked the structure that marks the holiday, or indeed distinguishes it from any other bank holiday. Surely someone (other than myself) should have bought me an Easter egg (I bought six, actually, and have them stashed in secret Hidey-holes throughout the flat). And shouldn’t there have been fish on Friday and hot cross buns? Shouldn’t there have been a roast lamb on Sunday? Last year Becca took the kids to her parents’ and Hugh and I took advantage of her absence. We played house and entertained. We had a fish supper for six on the Friday (I wore a black boob tube and bootleg trousers – Joseph). We went out for lunch with four other couples on the Saturday (I wore a black Sportmax trouser suit) and we held a roast-dinner party, for ten, on the Sunday. I wore a Prada shift dress, in grey – well, it was Easter Sunday. We drank champagne, vodka shots and highballs, and whilst each meal was upward of three courses, followed by coffee and petit fours, I picked at salads throughout.

  Still, that was a tradition of sorts.

  This year, when we are a real couple, we’ve marked the resurrection of Christ by arguing about whether we should visit a gallery (my choice) or go for a walk in the country (Hugh’s preference). Hugh is astounded that I won’t fall in line with his plan. I am too. As all I’ve ever wanted was Hugh, I’ve only ever wanted the things he wanted. Everything I have ever thought of for the last thirteen years I have thought about through a Hugh filter. Would Hugh prefer pink or red nail varnish on my toes? Would Hugh like to see this film or that film? Has he ever eaten at such and such restaurant? His answers would shape mine, blur into mine, become mine. But I don’t want to go for a walk. I haven’t got maternity rambling gear; besides, I really want to see the new exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery.

  ‘No one is going to that exhibition,’ Hugh argued.

  ‘I know it hasn’t had much publicity, but I really want to see it.’

  ‘No one’s going, Babes.’

  Including us, apparently.

  In the end we do nothing.

  Next year things will be very different, because next year we will be a family and, at the very least, our baby will be dressed as an Easter bunny, with floppy ears and a pompon tail. I’ll wear various flirty, little dresses with tiny flowers, in turquoise, lilac and pink. I’ll accessorize them with colourful cardigans, hemmed with sequins and frills. Hugh will wash the car. The sun will shine. We’ll have a proper Easter.

  The phone rings, interrupting my daydream. I winch myself out of the settee and think, not for the first time, how much I’d like a domestic crane to help me get about the flat.

  ‘Hello.’ For a moment I can’t place the voice. ‘Hello, it’s Becca.’

  ‘Hugh’s not here,’ I answer automatically. ‘I’ll tell him you called.’

  I’m about to hang up when I catch Becca’s garbled, ‘Actually, I rang for you.’ She coughs, clearly as surprised to find herself ringing me as I am.

  I force myself to remember the conversational social niceties that get one by in awkward situations such as these. ‘Hello Becca. Are you having a nice Easter?’ Like I care.

  ‘Fine, fine. Very nice. And you?’

  ‘Fine.0146

  ‘Really?’ The question surprises me. It’s genuine.

  ‘I’ve stopped being sick,’ I report. Becca had been right; the books were wrong, I stopped being sick nearer the six-month mark than the third. I can’t bring myself to admit as much.

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘I’m a bit spaced, not very good at remembering things for more than two minutes in a row, but I’m fine.’

  ‘This is a nice stage of pregnancy before you get too –’

  ‘Fat.’

  ‘I was going to say, uncomfortable.’

  We both laugh, it amounts to the same. What am I doing having this conversation with Becca? I pause, waiting for her to enlighten me as to why she called. I wonder if the kids want new bikes.

  ‘I rang to thank you for the Easter eggs.’

  ‘Oh. Err, that’s OK. Hugh chose them,’ I lie. My motivation for lying is complex. I want Becca to think Hugh is more thoughtful with regard to Kate and Tom than he is, and I also want her to think I am less so. I’m not sure why I want her to believe it’s this way round; perhaps because it should be.

  ‘Oh, I don’t believe that for a second,’ she dismisses, and I haven’t the energy to lie again. There’s no point – she was married to him. ‘I also rang to see if you’ve signed up for NOV

  ‘Err, not yet,’ I confess.

  ‘Well, you must. They fill up extremely quickly and it’s invaluable.’

  I haven’t a clue what she’s talking about. NCT? Is it a union? However, I can’t bring myself to confess this to Becca because a sixth sense tells me that if I do I’ll show how inadequately prepared I am to be a mother because NCT is certainly something to do with being a mother.

  ‘Give them a call tomorrow, I’d say it’s imperative.’ I sigh, relieved at the re-emergence of the bossy Becca, it’s the one I feel much more at home with. Then she adds, ‘I always wanted a Thorntons egg when I was a child.’

  And the human Becca is one that terrifies me.

  May

  33

  Why, oh why, can’t we have meetings in offices, like everyone else? Offices with tables and chairs, instead of in trendy boardrooms that are disguised as private bars (lots of thick cigarette smoke and big squashy leather settees). I’m sat on one of said settees; in fact, I’m drowning in it. How will I heave myself out? Why did I wear a skirt today? What are they saying?

  ‘And that’s a task for you Georgina, OK?’ asks Dean. ‘It’s a real responsibility.’

  I nod. I’m not sure what I’ve just agreed to, I hope Julia is taking notes. Whatever it is, since it’s been described as ‘a real responsibility’, I know it’s something no one else can be bothered to tackle.

  ‘So let’s meet again, say next Tuesday? We could have a working session to bang the final proposition into shape. What time’s a good time?’ asks Karl.

  Everyone instantly reaches for their palm pilots; I struggle to my feet and then just about manage to bend to pick up my handbag, when I hear them agre
e to Tuesday at 4 p.m. I drop back on to the settee and sigh. No doubt the plan is for the meeting to run into the evening. This achieves two objectives. One, by working late the team can convince themselves and everyone else that they are very busy and, two, by working late they can avoid confronting the fact that they have no life outside the office.

  ‘Err, actually, I have a problem with Tuesday,’ I say.

  ‘Turn a problem into an opportunity, Georgina. I’m interested in solutions. Am I crystal?’ Dean flashes a smile; it’s designed to terrify.

  ‘It’s just that Tuesday isn’t very good for me,’ I persist. The room stops, and everyone stares at me with a level of horror which really ought to be preserved until I announce my waters have broken. The usual form is to cancel any previous commitments. ‘I’m going to my parental water-conditioning class at 8 p.m. Can you guarantee that I’ll be out of here by seven-thirty?’

  ‘No, Georgina, I can’t guarantee that. You’ll have to reschedule. We’re working to a deadline here.’

  We are, but it’s not imminent. It’s May now; by the end of June we have to have a clear strategic positioning. In July we have the actual pitch, where we’ll present our proposed brand strategy and an idea for an advert (the creative concept, daaaarling). At the rate we are currently working we’re in danger of hitting burn-out before the end of this month.

  Dean stands up, indicating that as far as he’s concerned the issue is not up for debate. He’s obviously very irritated with me, but I can’t bring myself to care.

  ‘Thing is, Dean, the baby is working to a deadline too. I’m six months pregnant. I’ve religiously worked ten-hour days ever since you employed me in 1990, and I’ve regularly supplemented those hours with weekend work too. All overtime unpaid. I need some time to prepare for the baby. I only get one shot at this and I’m not going to jeopardize its health. Let’s agree to meet at 2 p.m. and then we can finish by seven. OK.’

  ‘I’ve a lunch on Tuesday, I won’t be through by 2 p.m.,’ comments Karl. I stare at him. I’m pretty sure I’ve done Medusa proud when he mumbles, ‘Well, I’ll see if I can rearrange.’

  ‘Yes, do that.’ I relaunch myself from the settee, relinquishing only a small amount of dignity. We’ve just spent five hours debating how we would staff the account if we win it. This information will be boiled down to only one page of an inch-thick presentation document. We’ll be lucky if the client is still awake at the point when this chart is presented. If only there was an award for time-wasting meetings we’d win the golden pencil. We’ve spent this long on this issue because it’s Karl’s issue to resolve, and he wants to make it appear trickier than it is.

  In an effort to finally wrap up the meeting and summarize the discussions I comment, ‘the way I see it, Project Zoom requires a pretty straightforward management proposition. A two-pronged attack. A very simple division between the detail of retail and-’

  ‘I love the way you loyally stay with the small stuff,’ interrupts Karl, with a barely disguised snigger. ‘Such attention to detail is always commendable.’

  Arse.

  In advertising, attention to detail is essential but often dismissed as myopic. I wish I had money on the fact that his next comment will be, ‘But where’s the bigger picture? Where’s the vision?’

  ‘Have you given any thought to the bigger picture, George?’ He smiles around the room but doesn’t look at me.

  ‘It’s a two-pronged attack,’ I continue, not allowing him to push me off track. ‘A very simple division between the detail of retail and the larger brand-equity proposition. I’ll jot something down and deliver it to you by this Thursday, Dean. That will give you a chance to consider it before our Tuesday meeting. This should save us some time on the day.’

  Whilst my job consists of galvanizing the troops and ensuring that the strands of the pitch – the creative proposition, the finance, the staffing, the breakfast on the day – all come together in an impressive and coherent way, I often help write the deck, too. Karl’s torn between being offended that I’m stepping into his territory and being relieved that he’ll have less to do. For all his chat throughout the meeting, I know he hasn’t given Project Zoom much thought; earlier on today I caught him drawing tits on a whiteboard – he said it was a diffusion curve.

  ‘What do you say, Karl?’ asks Dean.

  ‘Yeah, it could work.’ All capital ideas are received with a degree of cynicism, as are crap ideas. No one knows the difference.

  ‘Obviously, Karl and I have worked on this at length and very closely,’ I lie. It’s true that in the past I would have worked alongside Karl, keeping all the guys to the strict timetable agreed months previously, liaising with the media agency, talking to the international clients to find out as much as I can about cultural differences, and generally making sure that we do our utmost to win the business. Or, at the very least, not get caught with our pants down. But nowadays Karl and I rarely discuss anything much; that’s not what Dean wants to hear, he wants a cooperative team, and if I pretend we are such Karl will feel grateful. His gratitude is useful. I’d rather keep him sweet; I’ve seen how he deals with people who cross him.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ says Dean. ‘there’s no “I” in team.’

  ‘But there is “M.E.”,’ laughs Karl.

  ‘Good one, Karl,’ chuckles Dean.

  I wonder if he really is stupid enough to think Karl is joking.

  34

  It turns out that NCT is not a union (oh, how Libby laughed when I asked her that one), but a sort of national educational club/charity for parents-to-be, new parents and children. They run prenatal classes, which is what Becca was referring to. It’s a good way to make friends with other mums-to-be. And, whilst only a matter of weeks ago I’d have argued that I didn’t want to be friends with other hormonally unbalanced beached whales, now I can think of nothing I’d like more. I have a need and desire to learn as much as I possibly can about labour and the aftermath.

  Hugh is not coming to the prenatal classes or the confidence-in-water course that I’ve signed up to (I’m contemplating a water birth – just because it worked for Freya, doesn’t mean I have to rule it out). Libby has just called to offer to come with me to the classes, but I don’t want to look like a lesbian.

  ‘You won’t,’ she argues.

  ‘I will.’ I’m almost crying; I’m certainly whining.

  ‘You won’t,’ she asserts. Once again demonstrating her expertise at handling petulant children. ‘I bet when you get there that there’ll be loads of women with their friends or their mums accompanying them.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who did you go with to your prenatal classes?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It felt very lonely,’ she adds quietly. ‘Personally, I’d have been happier to have been mistaken as a turkey-baster type.’

  Suddenly terrified, I’m not even embarrassed by my 180-degree U-turn. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven-forty.’

  ‘Us. Millie will have to come too. I can’t get a babysitter this late in the day.’

  Ah, Millie. Well, every silver lining has a cloud. Of course, Millie and Libby. Libby and Millie. Libby can’t do anything without considering Millie. Anything at all She can’t have a night out or visit Tesco’s. ‘Yes, see you both at seven-forty.’

  I put the phone down and it immediately rings again. This doesn’t surprise me; my social life is now more or less restricted to telephone conversations. In my hall it doesn’t matter if I sit naked except for a pair of socks. It doesn’t matter if I have to hang up several times to dash the short distance to the loo, and at least I know the loo will be clean. No one can see how much ice cream I’m spooning into my mouth, or the fact that I’m combining it with Weetabix.

  It’s Jessica.

  ‘How are you?’

  Her imperious tones almost shock the truth out of me (fat and beginning to like it), but, just in time, I rea
lize that my mother would regard this as a sure sign of deep depression, so instead I lie. ‘Fine, weight gain has stabilized.’ (Lie.) ‘skin clear.’ (Lie.) ‘And I’m just on my way out to the gym.’ (Not a lie, but perhaps a misrepresentation.) Jessica seems suitably appeased; she’s imagining a neater, more groomed me and I’m probably wearing low-slung white linen trousers and revealing a tanned, shapely bump. In fact, I’m in an outsize T-shirt from M&S, and I’m wearing XXL joggers that I once bought in the States for a fancy-dress party. Hugh and I went as a pair of Charlies (as in Chaplin) – we wore a leg each and we were (literally) inseparable. I’m now happily filling them on my own. I count it as a blessing that video telephones are still a figment of the imagination of the guys on Tomorrow’s World and haven’t yet gone into general circulation. I dread the day when technology will reveal the less picturesque truth. I know I should be snacking on dried fruit or whole meal bread and I would, if only it tasted more like chocolate.

  ‘How’s the heartburn?’ she asks.

  The maternity book warned that ‘overeating and eating before going to bed at night are two major causes of heartburn. Eating five or six small, nutritious meals a day instead of three large ones may make you feel better.’ took that as licence to eat five or six large meals a day and really I feel much better.

  ‘Fine. I start the third trimester in two days; I’ll be twenty-seven weeks.’ The countdown is obsessive.

  ‘Ah, the home stretch,’ laughs Jessica, excitedly. ‘Oh, read it to me,’ she urges.

  Although I’m in a hurry and it’s breaking the rules (we don’t normally allow ourselves to look ahead in the book, I suppose it’s superstition), I decide to read it to her anyway. ‘“In early development the eyes are on the side of the head. They move towards the middle of the face between weeks 7 and 10 of pregnancy. Eyelids cover the eyes until about week 27, when they open.”’ We both gasp in amazement. ‘I wonder what it can see?’