Larger Than Life

by Adele Parks

  It didn’t work. La, la, la, la didn’t work. The cruel home truths have stained my consciousness and, however hard I try, it’s impossible to ignore what Sam said. Punched, kicked and clawed my way to where I am now… suffered countless humiliations… he ignored me… this is what I reinvented myself for… Hugh is a prat, George… a selfish, childish, petulant, inconsiderate prat I am wasting my life.

  The funniest thing is she doesn’t even know about the suspected affair and she thinks this. Of course, I’m using funny in a post-modern, ironic sense. There’s nothing funny about this situation.

  It isn’t news.

  She thought she was telling me something I didn’t know, but she was wrong. I’ve known it for a while. I can’t exactly date it. I didn’t wake up one morning and think, ‘Fuck, what a waste of fourteen years’, it was a more insidious, cumulative process. It possibly started when he announced our pregnancy to our ‘six closest friends’, and I’d never met any of them before, or, for that matter, since. I was very tired and sick and I’m not sure they were worth the effort. His endless jokes about my expanding waistline have also worn me down. Hugh has never understood that putting on weight is a necessity when producing a baby. The endless long and lonely nights haven’t done much to persuade me that he’s a great guy. I’ve added them up. I’ve been pregnant for 224 days, we’ve known I’ve been pregnant for 161 days, Hugh and I have spent thirty-five evenings together in that time. I know I’m anal, I’m bored. I’m desperate; it makes you anal. The condoms and the receipt didn’t do much to improve my confidence in him, either. I can’t name the exact moment when I realized that my issues about being pregnant were not about the discomfort of haemorrhoids, the restricted social life, the swelling stomach. I didn’t fear losing my status as a goddess perse, I feared that losing that status meant I would lose Hugh. I’d like to think that he’s not the type of man to walk out just because I’m the size of a house. I’d like to think that. But Sam’s right, isn’t she? Don’t even answer that, I know the answer. I’ve known for quite some time that Hugh is a prat.

  But he’s my prat, and love is a really hard habit to kick. So, before you ask, I’m not going to leave him.

  I’m staying with him because of my baby, because it deserves a father. And because of Becca’s babies, because I stole their father. It’s the only way I can make amends. It’s possible that my actions haven’t been 100 per cent honourable to date. The fact that I’ve been blinkered by love explains it, but doesn’t excuse it. I want to do the right thing. If I were to leave Hugh now I’d have ripped their lives apart for nothing and that’s not fair. It doesn’t seem much, but at least if our relationship works and Kate and Tom grow up believing that their father left their mother for the love of his live – as I’d always believed – then maybe they’ll find it in their hearts to forgive us both. Maybe we’ll all muddle along as a fairly unconventional family. And if that’s too much to hope for, at the very least I can guarantee that they’ll get Christmas and birthday presents. It’s not much, but it’s all I can offer in the way of making it up.

  So I must not think about the possibility that Hugh is having an affair. It doesn’t have to mean anything significant. It doesn’t mean anything at all, unless I say it does. I have to get our relationship back on track because the stakes we are playing to are terrifyingly high. Two children and a foetus. Nor can I think about the fact that Sam might be marrying one man whilst loving another. I can’t even think about the pregnancy. The thing is, the chances are, if I managed to miss the fact that my best friend is ensconced in an affair just weeks before her wedding, then there’s a serious possibility that this isn’t the only sail that is blowing me up shit creek. I know that recently I’ve been far too installed in babyville. I know that I haven’t paid enough attention to Hugh or to my job. I can only fix one thing at a time, and I’ve decided it ought to be my job.

  Because it is my job and Hugh is just Hugh. He’s not my Hugh. Or at least not exclusively mine, which might as well mean not mine, mightn’t it? I’m staying with him, but I’ve woken up to the fact that he’s not my sun, my moon, my stars. I hope one day he will be again, when I stop being angry. In the short term it’s probably wisest to concentrate on something else.

  I have to win the Project Zoom pitch. I have to be entirely and unreservedly focused. I have to be pithy, witty, droll, keen, jocular and waggish. My knowledge base as far as cars are concerned is traditionally female: the colour (interior and exterior), the presence of power-assisted steering and a CD player are important. As is not breaking down. If a car conversation gets deeper than that I find it very difficult to avoid my eyes glazing over. So my first stop is the newsagent’s, where I buy ten car magazines and set about learning everything there is to know about luxury-car brands. At least that way I’d be able to appear credible at a factory visit or when I meet the dealers.

  I utilize my sleepless nights studying engine sizes, understanding suspension – front, rear and standard issue – I now know what a chassis is. I can hold a plausible conversation about the wheel base and engine transmission of most luxury cars. I know about tyre tread, width and grip. I know that a car with rear-wheel drive and a low centre of gravity holds the road like a sports car. I am able to say things like, ‘Well, the straight-line speed and performance are beyond dispute on the Jaguar V6, but it sounds trouncey at high revs compared with a BMW’s honeyed straight six’, and I know what I mean. I know that an aluminium- rather than steel-built car is better for the environment, although ‘real drivers’ bemoan the bastardization of the driving experience. They like to feel the car grip the road under them.

  And whilst this might not be everyone’s solution to a lack of best friend and to a philandering lover, it’s the best I can come up with at short notice.

  July

  40

  I call Libby to show off my new knowledge. She’s not exactly impressed, even when I tell her that a Volkswagen Golf 2.0 GTI is 3 mm shorter than a Ford Focus 2.0 Zetec, and these cars aren’t even Project Zoom competitors. Her lack of enthusiasm could be something to do with the fact that it is after midnight.

  ‘Did I disturb you?’ I ask guiltily.

  ‘Not really. I was ironing Millie’s school uniform. Then I’m going to go to bed.’

  ‘It would be easier to park,’ I insist.

  ‘What would?’

  ‘The Volkswagen.’

  ‘Three millimetres, no one would notice the difference,’ she scoffs, betraying that whilst she might not be that interested in what I have to say she was at least listening to me, which is good of her. ‘Especially me as I’m not very good at judging lengths.’

  ‘That’s because every man you’ve ever slept with has told you he has an eight-inch penis.’

  We both laugh.

  ‘Anyway,’ I persist, ‘the Volkswagen Golf 2.0 GTI is 36 mm wider than a Ford Focus 2.0 Zetec, so it’s back to the eternal short-and-fat versus long-and-thin debate.’

  ‘Well, my vote is with short and fat every time.’

  We giggle again and then I comment, ‘God, cars are sexy. Really sexy. Suddenly I get it. I understand the penis-substitute thing.’

  ‘Oh-oh, your hormones are raging again,’ Libby comments.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Every one of your conversations reverts back to sex, whatever you’re talking about.’

  ‘But haven’t you noticed that the vocabulary used when talking about cars is desperately provocative? All the car mags go on about is size, performance, grip, how the cars “respond” when “handled”.’

  Libby is laughing again. ‘I think it’s going to be Hugh’s lucky night.’

  Not Hugh’s.

  ‘Sex is definitely the right territory for Project Zoom. Or at least passion is. It’s an Italian brand. I think I’m on to something.’

  Libby laughs and points out that even if I was trying to sell thermal bedsocks to the old and infirm, I’d probably give it a sexy spin right
now. We laugh and then hang up. She goes back to ironing Millie’s uniform. I go back to lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

  Libby is right – I do feel more randy than a fifteen-year-old schoolboy at the Playboy mansion, but my 3 3-week bulging stomach definitely doesn’t do it for Hugh; he doesn’t think my popped tummy button is in the slightest bit dinky. I think it looks great. Nor does he think the dark stretch marks that have oozed across my belly are exotic. The other day he came into the bedroom, and maybe he would have made overtures; after all I was lying naked and spreadeagled on the bed. However, he sensed that I was thus reclining due to the overwhelming, somewhat startling and sudden appearance of summer, not because I was feeling unbearably randy. Cooking a baby is hot work. Besides, he caught me scratching my boobs and I thought he was going to hoy.

  Anyway, even if he were willing, I’m not sure I am. I’m staying, I’m just not playing – as yet. Not when there are so many unresolved issues swirling around. The receipt, the condoms, the late nights ‘working’ are all still burnished on my mind. I do try to submerge the issues with thoughts of Project Zoom and, largely, I’m successful. It’s only late at night when I lie awake staring at the ceiling, like this, and I find myself counting cobwebs rather than reading about throttles and clutch control, that uninvited thoughts and images charge into my mind. Like gatecrashers at a party, they are difficult to evict without a row.

  As a mistress I’ve long since been accustomed to the thought of Hugh kissing someone else’s body. Laughing at someone else’s jokes, making breakfast, even making babies with someone else. I’d quickly become accustomed to the fact that anything I did with Hugh – picnics in National Trust gardens, watching fireworks in the park, making fireworks in the bedroom, selecting prams from the Mamas & Papas catalogue – the chances were Becca had already done that, been there, written the book, starred in the movie. I’d got used to being the understudy, waiting to step into the limelight. There had always been someone before me. I’d just never imagined that there would be anyone after me.

  This woman. The other ‘other woman’, what is she like? Is she brilliant and ballsy, or ephemeral and feminine? Is she blonde or dark or a redhead? Is she skinny? What size are her feet? What perfume does she wear? What are her favourite flowers? Does she like it when he kisses that tiny groove where her back stops and her bottom starts, the place where sweat sits after energetic lovemaking? Does he suck her toes? And if he does, does it make her come? Has he ever put his tongue up her nostril just for a laugh? Do her wardrobes smell of his clothes? Of wool and sweat and stale aftershave mingling, fusing to create a bomb that is guaranteed to blow me away.

  Most nights I deal with the heebie-jeebies.

  Tonight I want my mum. I grab the phone and press memory three. Hugh’s mobile is memory one; I rarely use that nowadays. Sam is memory two; I never use that. A change in my telephone patterns shouldn’t amount to much, but it does; I feel my life is unravelling like an old jumper.

  ‘Out of all of Henry VIII’s wives which one would you have least wanted to be?’

  ‘Darling, what a philosophical question for you to put to me at –’ I sense her scrabbling around for her alarm clock, even though we are miles away from one another. ‘Two in the morning.’ (That’s taking the time difference into consideration.)’I’m so pleased your very expensive education was entirely wasted.’

  I cut through her ill-humoured sarcasm.’Which one?’

  ‘The last one,’ she says finally.

  ‘But she outlived him,’ I protest.

  ‘Maybe so, but she had to treat his gouty feet for years, which is definitely my idea of hell on earth.’

  ‘Well, I think Anne Boleyn was the most put upon,’ I pronounce. And before my mother even has the chance to ask why, I tell her. ‘she didn’t even have the dignity of being the first and she was followed by the one he loved the most.’

  ‘Oh, and here’s me thinking you were going to say something conventional, like she was executed.’

  I stay silent for a moment, considering that I have possibly just shown my hand.

  In a tone that my mother often uses, the one that suggests she knows more than I give her credit for, she adds,’still, the Princess Elizabeth must have been great revenge.’

  ‘she was frigid and red-haired,’ I whine petulantly.

  ‘The red hair was her father’s and saved her from losing the head it sat on. And her decision to remain celibate was incredibly wise. I wonder if she inherited her intelligence from her mother? Is everything all right, George?’ asks Jessica. She almost tricks me into being truthful; she sounds so entirely out of character, so very mum-like.

  ‘Fine,’ I assert resolutely.

  ‘It’s just that it is the middle of the night.’

  ‘No, really, I’m fine.’ It is going to be OK. This dalliance of Hugh’s will burn out. I’ll win Project Zoom. The baby will be born fit and well and we’ll be OK. Kate and Tom will continue to get their Christmas and birthday pressies on time.

  ‘Well, since you’ve woken me in the middle of the night you might as well read out the book.’

  ‘Good idea.’ I scrabble about on the floor next to my bed, the book is never far away. “Week 33”. It’s official, it’s a watermelon. How’s it ever going to come out?’

  ‘What else does it say?’

  ‘“Wearing rings and watches can cause circulation problems. Sometimes a ring becomes so tight on a pregnant woman’s finger that it has to be cut off by a jeweller.” Well, that’s one indignity Hugh has saved me,’ I joke. ‘“You might not want to wear your rings if swelling occurs. Some pregnant women purchase inexpensive rings in larger sizes to wear during pregnancy.”’ I trail off as I think of Sam with her fake engagement ring, looking through bridal magazines. It shouldn’t matter to me but it does. I hear a cab pull up outside. I don’t want to risk another row with Hugh. ‘It really is very late. I’ll let you get back to your beauty sleep. I’ll call you in the morning,’ I say.

  ‘You are OK, aren’t you?’

  ‘Never better. Got to go, Mum.’

  I pull the covers around my ears. I close my eyes and pretend that I’ve been asleep for hours. I hope Jessica doesn’t jump to the wrong conclusion because I called her Mum. Or worse, the right one.

  41

  I look out of my office window on to Golden Square; it is littered with groups of picnickers and pigeons. Every inch of grass and cement is taken up. The sun has decided to put in a rare appearance and, in response, Londoners have flooded out of their offices in their droves. There’s an abundance of trendy, Soho types who work for one of the many nearby advertising agencies or media houses or, more enigmatically, are ‘in film’. They lie in silent, smoking huddles; their only concern is achieving an even tan as quickly as possible. There’s every shop assistant, waiter and hairdresser in the West End who has been able to swing a lunch hour. There are a number of beautiful girls, long-limbed and languid, reading magazines about how to be yet more beautiful. There are tourists, relieved to be discarding their waterproofs at last. There are couriers pausing to smoke a fag, their bikes propped against them, enjoying the fleeting sensation of freedom that pretending to be Mediterranean creates. There are some oldies with grey hair and walking sticks, and they are thinking that whilst many things were different in their day perhaps some things were just the same. The oldies, like me, find their gazes repeatedly drawn to the lazy couples, lying on the grass, benches and each other –kissing, caressing – not caring who sees their explicit intimacy because, after all, it’s London, it’s summertime and they love each other.

  There are no pregnant women.

  So I’m glad to be tucked up in my cool air-conditioned office; it’s a relief and we are making some headway on the pitch. I’m channelling my Herculean energy injection into becoming the George of old. I have called Frank Robson, the Zoom Marketing Director, and by befriending him I have become Q&A’s Trojan horse.

  ‘Frank… it’s G
eorgina Richardson here… Yes, delighted… Thrilled… It’s an honour… Our approach is different, Frank, we’re not here to tell you about your advertising, we’re going to set up an integrated partnership… Absolutely… Look, ideas aren’t the problem; every agency could come to you with a good idea, we’re looking at the competitive advantage… We’re looking at your bottom line… We want to talk to you about every aspect of your communication strategy, dealership, staff, trade marketing, event marketing, direct marketing, product placement, sponsorship, PR… No, BMW already own that territory… You don’t want to touch it. No, that’s Aud I’s positioning, wouldn’t go near it with a barge pole. The last thing you want, Frank, is another “me too” branding. Or, worse yet, a “me too late”… I’m looking forward to seeing you as well, Frank.’

  He bought it.

  He respects me, he trusts me, he likes me and, because he hasn’t seen me for several months, there’s a fairly good chance that he fancies me. I think I’ll limit our relationship to the telephone until the actual pitch date and then, and only then, he can discover the truth. The fact that he’s been flirting with the Michelin man. By then it won’t matter because we’ll blow him away with the high standard of our work.

  In all the years of trying to impress Hugh, Dean, Karl et al, I have never worked so hard on a pitch. This is the big one. Besides the massive amount of revenue that winning Project Zoom would create for the agency, there is another much more personal issue at stake. In advertising you’re only as good as your last ad or, in my department, you are only as good as your last pitch win. Since my last pitch win was for odour eaters, with a net income of a few hundred thousand pounds – hardly enough to cover the cost of the team’s salary and the market research – things could be better. I want to prove to Dean that I haven’t ‘lost my edge’ but, more than that, I want to prove it to myself.