by Jane Green
‘Naff?’ Amber raises an eyebrow.
‘Cheesy.’
There are bags of cat treats, ‘so you can make friends with Vicky’s cat because I know you’re not a cat person and cats can sense that, so this will hopefully get you off on the right foot’; DVDs of Little Britain and Coronation Street, ‘even though it’s Manchester, not London, it’s a British institution and you ought to watch some of it’; and a red and white football scarf saying Gunners. ‘First, soccer is called football in England, and everyone in England has a team, and your team must be Arsenal,’ Deborah says very seriously.
‘But shouldn’t my team be whatever Vicky’s team is?’ Amber asks. ‘And she doesn’t strike me as someone who would be interested in football.’
‘I don’t care. You must support Arsenal or you can’t be my friend, and when you’re talking about them you can refer to them as the Gunners, pronounced “Gooners”. Okay?’
Amber shrugs. ‘If you say so, although I can’t imagine myself having conversations about soccer. Sorry, football.’
‘And finally,’ Deborah pulls a small black notebook out of the bottom of the box and gives it to Amber, ‘these are my very own English notes to help you fit in.’
Amber flicks through the notes and starts laughing. ‘You’re not serious?’ she says.
‘Which bit?’ Deborah cranes to see which bit Amber is reading. ‘You mean, say “fuck” a lot in everyday sentences whenever you can, unless of course you’re talking to young children.’
‘Yes. That bit.’
‘No, I’m serious. I know it sounds weird but we swear a lot in England. Seriously. Nobody bats an eyelid over the word fuck. It’s a great word. It can be an adjective: you’re fucking bonkers. A noun: you old fucker. Or, obviously, a verb: I was fucking him – but hopefully you won’t be using it in that sense. Although you can also say, I was completely fucked last night, which might mean you had sex, or might also mean you were very drunk, or very tired.’
‘Please tell me you’re joking.’ Amber is no longer laughing, but looking very confused.
‘Wish I fucking was.’ Deborah grins. ‘Just wait and see. But you don’t have to read the whole thing now, just remember some of the key points. Don’t ever say to anyone, “Have a nice day,” ever, because everyone in England thinks Americans are all mad, and they all take the piss out of them for saying “have a nice day”. Also, do not tip, unless in a restaurant or a black cab, and ten to fifteen per cent is the norm, never twenty, and don’t talk to strangers.’
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Sure.’
‘If everyone in England says fucking, fucked or fucker all the time,’ Amber swallows, unused to using those words at all, let alone three times in one sentence, ‘how come I never hear you use those words ever?’
‘Because, my darling, when I first started living in America I was effing and blinding with the best of them, and then I quickly realized that it was not going at all well, so I had to consciously cut it out of my language. Now I consider it offensive if someone says oh my God, rather than oh my gosh.’
‘Well…’ Amber is dubious. ‘I’m not sure that I’m going to be able to curse like that, but thank you for the warning. At least I won’t be shocked if I hear it from other people.’
‘And the other thing is,’ Deborah walks over to the kettle and flicks it on, knowing that Amber won’t mind if she makes herself a cup of tea, ‘you, Mrs Winslow, are quite the talk of the town.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I ran into Erin Armitage at Stop and Shop and she was asking me all about Life Swap. Then I went to get some new underwear in town and Suzy Potts was there and she wanted to know all about it, and then I went to Hallmark to get you a going-away card, and the sales assistant in there asked if it was for the lady who was doing Life Swap.’
‘No!’ Amber is horrified.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Oh God,’ she groans. ‘Richard is going to hate being the talk of the town.’
‘Well you’d better tell him not to go out for the next four weeks, then,’ Deborah says. ‘But you really trust him with having another woman in your house? I mean, I know you trust him and I’m not saying I wouldn’t trust him or that I don’t think he’s trustworthy, but you’re really okay with this?’
‘Of course I’m okay,’ Amber snaps, a little too sharply. ‘The one thing about Richard and me is that we don’t have any secrets, and he would never do that to me.’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. And what about you?’ Deborah asks with a glint in her eye. ‘What if Vicky Townsley has some gorgeous man lined up who you could have a quick fling with and no one would ever know?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Amber says sternly. ‘I can’t believe you’re even asking me that.’
‘But what if no one would ever find out? Richard would never know, and it’s not something that would ever develop.’
‘But I’d know,’ Amber says primly. ‘And what kind of person do you think I am anyway? Would you have an affair with someone if Spencer would never find out?’
‘No!’ It’s now Deborah’s turn to look horrified. ‘Absolutely not. But you can’t blame me for asking the question.’
Later that evening Richard, Amber, Jared and Gracie go out for an early dinner, the last dinner they have as a family.
Amber has already explained to the kids that Mommy is going on a vacation for four weeks – or twenty-eight wake-ups which sounded, rather frighteningly, far longer – and that the nice lady called Vicky is going to come and stay to help look after them, and that Mommy loves them very much and that Mommy would write them letters every day and they could write letters to Mommy too.
Still, the atmosphere tonight is sombre and sad. Richard is serious yet loving, and everyone seems slightly subdued. They go to Becconi’s, the local pizza restaurant that has aspirations to something far grander with its wisteria-covered pergolas outside, and white paper tablecloths, and yet invariably the largest percentage of its customers are families with young children who spill their sippy cups on the tablecloths and draw all over the now soggy paper with the crayons Becconi’s so thoughtfully provides.
Halfway through her chef’s salad and pizza – Amber had wanted the pizza but was trying to be good, and now finds Gracie is insisting on eating most of her salad, so she is able to justify her additional slice of pizza – Amber’s eyes fill with tears.
‘Why are you sad, Mommy?’ Gracie asks, reaching out her little hand to stroke Amber’s back, in a precise imitation of the way Amber strokes Gracie’s back when Gracie is upset.
‘Oh darling,’ Amber says, smiling even as her eyes well up. ‘I’m just going to miss you so much,’ and she reaches down and gives Gracie a tight squeeze, then turns and attempts to hug Jared on her other side, who shrugs her off, not wanting to appear uncool given that two boys from basketball camp are sitting in full view and are now laughing and pointing at him. ‘Get off, Mom,’ he says, wriggling away.
‘I’m sorry,’ Amber says, first to Jared, and then again to Richard, who also looks as if he’s going to cry.
‘I didn’t know it would be like this,’ she says quietly, taking Richard’s hand across the table. ‘It seemed like a fun thing to do, and now I know that I shouldn’t be doing it, and if there was a way to get out of it I would.’
‘Would you really?’ Richard says.
‘I really would,’ Amber says. And she means it. ‘But it’s too late and you know that. But I’ll miss you so much, Richard. You’re my world, you know that. You and the kids.’
‘I know,’ Richard smiles sadly. ‘I just wish you weren’t going.’
‘I know.’ Amber squeezes his hand. ‘Me too.’
The children are in bed as Richard pours a glass of wine for Amber and they sit on the deck, watching the stars.
A patter of feet can be heard, and Gracie is in the doorway.
‘Gracie, honey, what’s
the matter?’ Amber says.
‘Um. Um. Um.’ Gracie thinks hard before hitting on the perfect problem to explain her presence. ‘I need books on my bed,’ she says seriously.
‘Okay. I’ll come up with you,’ Amber says, walking Gracie back to bed and putting books on the bed. ‘No more getting out of bed,’ Amber says, kissing her goodnight.
*
A minute later another patter of feet can be heard. This time it’s Jared. ‘Gracie’s in my bedroom,’ he whines. ‘She threw all my books on the floor.’
Amber gets up and goes upstairs to find Gracie grinning in the middle of Jared’s bedroom.
‘Gracie!’ Her voice is stern. ‘What did I tell you? Get back into bed. You’re both supposed to be in bed. No more getting out or there will be trouble.’
She tucks them both in, goes downstairs, snuggles up to Richard then hears screaming from both of them.
‘No, Jared!’ Gracie shouts. ‘Get out of my bedroom!’
‘No!’ Jared can be heard. ‘Make me.’
‘Right, that’s it.’ Richard stands up and goes upstairs, and two minutes later both children are wailing as Richard tries to sternly order them back into their rooms.
Amber sighs as she walks up the stairs to make the peace. Maybe this break isn’t such a bad thing after all.
Chapter Twenty
Vicky is extremely grateful that Richard has not picked her up at Kennedy Airport. If she were Amber, the probability is that he would, but as he dropped Amber off earlier today for her own flight to London, and Vicky wasn’t due to arrive for another three hours, Richard apologized but said he had work commitments.
Still, this is far better, Vicky thinks, leaning back in the luxurious town car that she booked to drive her up to Highfield, Connecticut, to step into Amber’s life. She starts reading through the notes that Amber has emailed her, wishing they were slightly more comprehensive, more like hers, but perhaps as a mother Amber simply didn’t have time, and it isn’t as if there aren’t enough people around to help – there is Richard, evidently, Lavinia, the kids, the best friend Deborah.
If Vicky had left notes this sparse Amber would have been in big trouble, but the only source of help would have been Eartha, and a big furry cat jumping on a duvet in the middle of the night and demanding to have her throat rubbed isn’t really all that much of a help.
Vicky discovers that they never use the front door in the house, always the side door that takes you into the mud room, and that it’s pretty much always unlocked, crime being virtually non-existent in Highfield. Shoes come off as soon as you come in the house (children’s shoes, that is), and the children must hang up their coats themselves.
In fact the vast majority of Amber’s notes focus on the children. Vicky has been looking forward to taking the children to the playground in the afternoons after camp has finished, and going to various farms she’s looked up online. She’s even discovered that a nearby town is running a children’s theatre programme every Thursday afternoon, and has lined up tickets for various puppet shows and productions.
Vicky is determined to be a wonderful mother, not that Amber isn’t a wonderful mother, but even in the short time she’d spent with her when she came over to do the recce, Vicky could see that Amber was a busy woman, and that although loving and attentive with the children when she was with them, she didn’t seem to be with them nearly as much as, say, Kate was with Luke, Polly and Sophie. Vicky is hoping that during her four weeks she’ll spend every afternoon with the children, cook them the things that she ate as a child – fish fingers, cottage pie, meatloaf, jelly and ice cream – but looking through the schedules that Amber has emailed over, Vicky doesn’t have a clue when she’s supposed to spend this time with them.
Both children are in camp in the morning, and it would appear that with the exception of a scheduled playdate every Friday afternoon, both children have some kind of class every afternoon.
Jared’s schedule is as follows:
Monday 3 p.m.: Basketball Camp
Tuesday 4 p.m.: Little League Practice
Wednesday 3.30 p.m.: Swimming
Thursday 4 p.m.: Karate
Friday 3 p.m.: Playdate
Saturday 4 p.m.: Little League game
Vicky takes a deep breath before looking at Gracie’s schedule.
Monday 2 p.m.: Ballet at Miss Cynthia’s
Tuesday 3 p.m.: Art class
Wednesday 3 p.m.: Music class
Thursday 4 p.m.: Swimming
Friday 3 p.m.: Playdate
Saturday: Free time
Well thank God for free time, thinks Vicky, and poor, poor Jared. All he gets is Sundays, and she thinks of Kate, and how Kate never does anything with the children. How Luke, Polly and Sophie roam around the house and garden all day, occasionally torturing frogs they capture in the pond, but mostly building forts in the woods inside which Luke is forced to sit as Polly and Sophie serve him tea in acorn tea cups and ‘delicious suppers’ of pine cones and mud.
When it’s raining the three of them race around the house, or lock themselves away suspiciously in closets planning duplicitous spy activities involving walkie-talkies and binoculars, while Kate, calmly oblivious to all of it, sits at the kitchen table with a friend, or potters round the garden collecting vegetables for supper.
Perhaps Vicky can bring a bit less structure to their lives, she thinks. After all, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if Jared were to miss karate one week, or Gracie to miss swimming. Think how lovely it would be to take them to the theatre. Or failing that, perhaps they could just stay at home one day and cook something, or go on a nature trail at the nature centre Vicky has found. It’s all very well stepping into Amber’s life, but already Vicky can see there are things that she would do differently, and perhaps she could make a change for the better, perhaps she could introduce a new way of thinking that might make everyone happier.
Vicky’s already planning on giving the nanny some free time. Lavinia wasn’t too friendly when Vicky met her before, but this time Vicky is armed with a giant box of Quality Street that Amber has told her are Lavinia’s favourite, and Vicky is hopeful it will be enough ammunition to garner her support.
And whilst she’d like Lavinia to be around, and certainly to carry on helping with the laundry and cleaning up, Vicky is certain that she doesn’t want to send the children off with Lavinia all the time. After all, what’s a mother for?
The house is oddly quiet as Vicky pushes open the door to the mud room and walks into the kitchen, placing her very light suitcase on the floor. She can’t take it upstairs to Amber’s room, because the one thing they were both very clear on was that there would be no sleeping with the husband. Not that Vicky would want to sleep with the husband, even though he was attractive, but it’s best to clarify right from the beginning that they will have separate bedrooms.
There’s a note on the kitchen counter, and Amber wanders over and sees it’s for her.
Dear Vicky,
Welcome! I just wanted to write you a note and wish you a wonderful visit to my life! I’m very nervous but very excited and am sure you feel the same way! Richard is going to give you the master bedroom and he’ll sleep in the guest room downstairs, so go ahead and put your stuff away (although what stuff? Given that you’re going to be wearing my clothes, you probably, like me, have packed almost nothing. Isn’t this the most bizarre way of travelling???). So, good luck, and Deborah said she’s around today if there’s anything at all that you need. And don’t forget that Jared and Gracie have playdates this afternoon, although Lavinia can fill you in.
Fondly,
Amber
Fondly? thinks Vicky. Whoops. For of course she has left a very similar note, and has, perhaps inappropriately she now realizes, signed off with lots of love, and several kisses. Yet another sign of how they do things differently in America.
A whining outside the door alerts her to Ginger’s face, peering in at the window, and as she opens the kitchen
door Ginger bounds in and proceeds to jump excitedly all over Vicky, covering her outfit with huge muddy paw prints.
‘Oh God.’ Vicky tries to push him away, but 114 pounds of golden retriever is not that easy to push away. ‘Ginger, get down!’ she commands, at which point Ginger pants eagerly and jumps up again. ‘Ginger, sit!’ she tries, in her best Joan Crawford voice. ‘Sit!’ but Ginger then runs circles around the island in the kitchen, jumping up on Vicky again.
‘Oh well,’ Vicky sighs, calming Ginger down by stroking him gently and crooning to him. ‘I’ll just have to change clothes. What a shame, I’ll have to put on some of your mummy’s gorgeous designer wardrobe. Oh dear.’ And leaving Ginger in the mud room – thanks to Ginger she now realizes why it’s called a mud room – she takes her suitcase upstairs to Amber’s bedroom.
Now this, she thinks, is what it’s all about. Amber is not one of the top customers at Rakers for nothing. Her wardrobe is packed with all the clothes that Vicky dreams about but generally, apart from a very occasional blow-out, can’t afford. There are Michael Kors jackets, TSE sweaters, Oscar de la Renta dresses, and of course the obligatory Manolo Blahnik shoes. But not just the couple of pairs that are in Vicky’s wardrobe, lines and lines and lines of them: enough to open a Manolo Blahnik store. And on the other side of the closet is the casual stuff. Lines of Pumas and Nikes in every conceivable colour and style, shelves of workout gear, fleeces in lime green, orange and hot-pink.
I don’t wear all the good designer clothes every day. Generally the good stuff is for when we go out for dinner, for charity events, when I go to the city, and of course for the committee meetings of the League. Mostly during the day I run around in the workout gear, but obviously you do whatever makes you feel comfortable. And I know you’re swooning over the Birkins, so treat them well, and make sure you never leave them unattended! Enjoy…
Oh God, groans Vicky, eyeing up the Birkins, and a Chloe dress that she’d lusted after in Vogue a couple of months ago. I’ll just see what they look like. No one’s home, no one will know. And in less time than it takes to say ‘Jimmy Choo’, Vicky is standing in her underwear, pulling on the Chloe dress.
