by Sara Downing
She pulls herself together again. ‘Anyway apart from all that, we've had a lovely day, lots of giggles, and eaten a TON of cake!’ she says, her tone brightening. Somehow I can’t imagine Evie eating even an ounce of cake. She doesn’t maintain her tight size eight figure by snacking and eating ‘naughty’ treats. No wonder she worries about the girls discussing dieting, it must make her wonder what sort of role model she is creating for them.
‘So how are you? How was the big chat with Mark?’ Evie asks, turning the focus back to me. She pours me a cup of tea, beckons to the kitchen table and slides a plate of flapjacks towards me. I know I have come here to confide in her, but slipping into the warm and cosy feel in her home in a way makes me not want to have to regurgitate all the ups and downs of the past couple of days. But not telling is no good either. I need to talk it through with someone and I have to start somewhere. I try to explain how Mark feels; Evie listens patiently, and doesn’t interrupt or pass comment as I tell her.
‘Where have I gone wrong?’ I ask her afterwards. ‘Am I abnormal, I seem to be missing all these genes that make me want to be a mother. Does that make me a really bad person? I just don't seem to be able to stir up a single maternal bone in my body to feel anything positive about having a child. I can't hate kids, can I, look at what I do for a living?’
‘Maybe there is an underlying issue here,’ Evie ventures. ‘But you and Mark are happy, aren't you? Everything else is OK?’
I explain to her that I feel very strongly about getting us married first, but I can tell I don’t convince her that marriage will change my mind on whether we have babies, or not. I explain to her, not for the first time, how disappointed I am that Mark doesn’t see marriage as an important issue.
‘Yes we are OK, or were. No, that's wrong, we are. Nothing changes that, apart from this ongoing dispute about marriage, of course. But he’s really determined he wants to start a family. It's scary.’
‘He probably wasn't expecting such a negative reaction from you, either. This is the first big dilemma to hit you both, isn't it? Think about it, you've never had to go through any real crisis together, have you? You’re just bobbing along, enjoying your happy and comfortable lives, not a care in the world. Then one of you veers off at a tangent and ‘bang’, it stirs up a whole can of worms. You have to be able to take the rough with the smooth. I know I sound a bit like a walking cliché, but sometimes you just have to compromise to keep things on an even keel.’ How could she manage to make it all sound so logical and be so cool about it? My clever and sensible friend.
‘Yes, but compromise for me at the moment would mean giving in and saying yes to starting a family. There's no mid-way in all this, you can't be a little bit pregnant or give a baby back if it doesn't work out. It's all or nothing, which means one of us having to cave in,’ I reply.
There is a scrunch of gravel on the drive, and the sound of tyres skidding as James' Aston Martin pulls into view. He treated himself to it for his fortieth birthday nearly two years ago, and a gorgeous beast it is. Even I, from my position of not being a car person in the slightest, can see that. It’s almost exciting enough to convert me. But not quite – I won't be watching re-runs of Top Gear on Dave just yet.
Not only that, but Evie is pootling around in a sparkling, shiny new midnight blue Merc, a convertible, four-seater of course so that they can fit in en famille. Now that the kids are older, she has ditched her huge four-by-four in favour of a more sporty little number, and it suits her personality; compact and racy, with a fully automatic soft top and plush leather interior. There is never a speck of dirt on it either, not like some of the cars the mothers at my school deposit their offspring in. OK so a lot of them are farmers, and it’s real country dirt, and most people can’t afford the weekly valeting costs like James and Evie, but they look like they have taken the off-road route to school sometimes. I couldn't imagine all that mud going down well at Imogen and Anastasia's school; there a four-by-four is meant to gleam, and is simply an indication that you meet the minimum wealth requirement to send your daughters to that school.
‘Hiya Connery, are you up the duff yet?’ James explodes into the kitchen, planting kisses on each of our cheeks. Evie's face turns white.
‘I'm so sorry Grace,’ she says, looking mortified and fixing an evil-eyed stare on James. ‘Excuse my husband's lack of tact, won't you, he can be such a pig, sometimes.’ She spits out the last four words through gritted teeth, continuing to glare at her husband, eyes wide.
‘I sense you ladies are in the middle of something,’ he continues, totally unaware of the effect of his social gaffe. ‘I'll leave you to it. Mmmm these look nice, just pinch a couple and some tea from your pot and I'll be off to my study if you need me.’ He grabs a plateful of cakes and leaves the room under the same whirlwind that had carried him in.
Evie seems to visibly collapse. She sighs and apologises again. ‘I'm so sorry, Grace, I can't believe he can be so unsubtle. I did tell him that you and Mark were planning to have the baby chat the other night. I wish I hadn't now, I'm just mortified.’
‘Don't worry about it, Evie,’ I reassure her. ‘Of course you're going to tell him, it's not your fault he blurts things out. That's just James for you,’ I try to smile and shrug it off.
James is renowned for speaking his mind, to the point of rudeness sometimes. It seems to have done him good in his career though; his extremely high net worth clients might be well-blessed in the wallet department but aren’t always gifted with the brains or common sense to match, and need a hard-talking financial advisor to keep them on the path to continued richesse.
‘I think sometimes he forgets to switch off his work brain before he comes home, it seems to take him a while to mellow when he first gets back. He's never like that with the girls though, he's completely soft where they're concerned. It's only ever me that has to cope with the fall-out, which I'm glad of, I suppose. The worst is if he has a day working at home, then I try not to be here, as he's like it all day.’ Uh-oh, a flaw in the perfect Brookes marriage? Maybe I have been looking at the world through rose-coloured spectacles, only seeing all the good things in everyone's relationships, including my own.
Evie is right about Mark and me though. We’ve never had to go through any major ups and downs in all the years we have known one another. So you could say we are in trouble here. But I can’t see a way through it without major capitulation on one side – it’s impossible to meet half way on something like this, isn’t? What do I do, have one baby instead of Mark's desired two, jump straight back into my old life immediately post partum, leaving him to be a house husband? That wouldn't work either, there is no way we could survive on my salary alone; I would have to be the one to do the vast majority of the childcare, as I do the lion's share of other things around the home.
I know I am mad about my career, and wouldn't give it up for anything, but it imposes nowhere near the stresses and demands on my life as Mark's career does on him. I work five minutes away from home, I am home by five most evenings, six at the latest, and OK, yes, I do have to spend a fair bit of time marking and preparing, if I don’t stay on at school to do it. And yes, I do get stressed, I don't see how anyone who takes their job seriously can ever avoid stress. You'd have to be in a catatonic state not to get worked up about something – what proof is there otherwise that it matters and that you are making a difference?
But Mark's career is on a different plane altogether. He can be totally at the beck and call of his clients, with evenings and weekends no exception. Yet he loves it. He thrives on the pressure, even though it means he isn’t at home as much as either of us would like. And because of that, a lot of the roles that would have been traditionally male a generation ago fall to me; taking the bins out, dealing with the post and admin, paying bills, minor DIY jobs, organising anything that needs attention, all that sort of stuff is my domain too. I’m sure it must be the same in many households these days, as the working day gets longer and the dem
ands of a career take precedent more and more. At least Mark appreciates that I do more than my fair share at home. Sometimes I feel a bit like a housekeeper, especially after yet another evening spent alone, but Mark is generally quick to redress the balance and let me know he values what I do, just as I value him. And that he misses me and would still rather spend the evening with me, despite the satisfaction he takes from his career. It’s not always a case of buying me another gorgeous bunch of flowers (although it would be churlish to turn them down, wouldn’t it?) but just a few kind words here and there to make me feel loved and appreciated, and not taken for granted. Both of us know that Mark couldn't do that sort of job if he didn't have a supportive partner; not one who is necessarily home all the time, but who is at least around a lot more than he is to take the pressure off on the domestic front.
So there is no way that fabulous career is being sacrificed in the name of parenthood, is there? No, once again, it would all largely fall to me. Which makes my decision that much harder. Mark would get to keep his career and independence, and cluck over his new baby when he wanted to, congratulating himself on his prowess in fathering a child, but the moment the going got tough he would have the luxury of retreating to the spare room, or work, or late meetings, and would be able to cherry pick the finer points of fatherhood as they fitted in with his working life.
‘So what am I going to do?’ I ask Evie.
‘It's a tough one, darling. I wish I could just wave a magic wand and sort everything out for you. Do you really think it would be that bad? I mean, wouldn't you at least like to see if you can get pregnant? For all you know, it might never happen. Maybe you could agree to give it a try, just for a little while and see what happens. You never know, you might just get into the whole thing and think it's not so bad after all?’
Somehow I had guessed Evie would come down on the same side as Mark, pro-baby. Even though she herself had gone down the conventional route of marriage first, babies later – if only just. Had I come round here, subconsciously wanting to be talked into it? I can’t imagine for one minute Evie wanting to talk me out of it. Maybe I need someone like her to help me see both sides? I’m in turmoil. Arghhh, help!
‘But what if it doesn't happen and Mark can't cope with it and it puts a huge wedge between us and all sorts of other awful things like that?’ I ask her. ‘Or what if we start trying, then I want to stop – can you just stop a roller coaster ride like that and it not have a catastrophic effect on your relationship?’
‘Well, it's going to put a wedge between you if you don't want to try, ever, isn't it?’ She really is the voice of reason, spelling out in simple English all the things I know in my head I need to address.
‘I'm so scared,’ I wail. Evie comes around to my side of the table and gives me a huge hug.
‘You love Mark, he loves you. One of you has to agree to change your mind, and can you see a way forward if that person isn't you? Or if you don’t manage to persuade him to get married first?’
‘Why did I know you would say that?’ I ask. ‘You're my sensible friend, you're so sorted. I don't want to drive him away, Evie. But it scares me that if I don't give him what he wants he might look elsewhere. At the same time I can't lose sight of the ‘me’ in all this. Why should I be the only one who is prepared to compromise to save our relationship?’
‘I can't see Mark being the sort of person to do that, but I know what you mean. It would leave you feeling a bit exposed. And you're not at the point of ‘saving your relationship’ yet, are you? It's not that bad, is it? I can't tell you what to do, but I think you really do need to talk to Mark about this a lot more. It's obviously very important to him; you need to work through this as a couple, not see each other as opponents with a battle to win.’
‘I know, you're right, as always.’ This time, I give her a hug, glancing at my watch. ‘I really should get back, dinner to cook and fiancé to talk to, and all that. Thank you honey, as always you’re my very brilliant friend, and I love you to bits,’ I say, giving her a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek.
‘Awww, that's OK sweetheart, let me know how you get on, won't you?’
‘I'll call you soon as,’ I reply. I yell a ‘Goodbye’ to James and the girls and head for my car. Usually when I leave Evie's house I feel cosseted, looked after in a way a similar to when I visit my parents, all cosy comfort and warm and fuzzy. This time I leave with a churning stomach; I’m dreading getting into discussion with Mark again, but I know it has to be done. One way or another it’s crunch time.
Four
The phone is ringing as I open the front door.
‘Hi honey, it's me,’ Mark's voice trills. No sign of any lingering bad feeling. ‘How was your day?’
‘Oh, you know, the usual. Good actually. Made some real progress with that boy I was telling you about at the weekend. His mother’s coming in for a chat later in the week, I’m sure we’ll be able to sort him out.’
‘Good, good, good, tell me all about it later, won't you?’ As brusque as usual when calling from work; he doesn’t have time to chat. Not meaning to sound dismissive, he’s just phoning up to impart a message.
‘Have you started cooking yet? Only I thought we might go out tonight?’
‘Nope, just back from Evie's so haven't even starting thinking about dinner. That would be great, I'm not in a cooking mood tonight. Where do you fancy?’
‘How about that new Chinese in Purbrook, I know they're open Mondays, give them a call, see if you can get us a table. I should be home by seven thirty, so eight would be good.’
‘Will do, see you later, don't work too hard.’
Great, I really don’t fancy cooking. Only trouble with going out is the lack of distractions; no fiddling around with food or clearing the table to divert us from the subject which will inevitably be on the agenda for discussion yet again this evening. Just full-on eye contact for the whole time and lots of talking. We did say we needed to, after all. We’d managed to avoid the subject for the remainder of the weekend, both seeming to quietly agree that we needed time out from it to think, and we had a fairly normal weekend, in spite of everything. But being in a restaurant does mean that we will both have to stay calm. Not that we ever do the whole shouting and slanging match thing, but there will be no scope for storming off, or taking five minutes away from it. Not without making a spectacle of ourselves in one of the smartest eating places Purbrook has to offer, and neither of us are the sort of person to do that. We want to go back again if the food is any good, after all.
I remember when Mark and I ate out in White's Restaurant in Worcester one night, some special occasion or other, a birthday or anniversary probably. Definitely not Valentines, I know that, as both of us hate the rows of tables for two all lined up and squashed in, the set menus with lots off aphrodisiac foods for ‘lurve’, and the cheesy background music, it’s all so naff and commercialised. Anyway, whenever it was, the couple nearest to us had been having a simmering row all evening, and finally by the time the cheeses arrived, it exploded like an over-ripe camembert. I remember at the time thinking that if it had been me, I would have just left; what could be more awful than trying to have a row, quietly and discreetly, whilst the rest of the restaurant knew exactly what was happening, and ears were flapping all over, trying to pick up juicy titbits of conversation. It had looked fairly terminal for them by the end of the evening, poor things, but they had provided all the other diners with some free live entertainment in the process. No, Mark and I will definitely not be giving such a performance tonight.
Better find something to wear then. The upside of a night out is an opportunity for spending some deeply satisfying moments browsing in my wardrobe and choosing something to wear. Fantastic, and on a Monday night, too. Get to it, girl, there's a date with your fiancé to prepare for, outfit and accessories to choose. Important stuff to attend to.
I stare in the bathroom mirror as I dab at my eyes, gently taking off the evening's make-up. Reflected
back at me is a woman of more than average looks, nice hair, shoulder length light brown and layered, with some reassuringly expensive-looking highlights. Good skin, but..... hang on a minute, are those the beginning of some crows' feet I can see, etching themselves in around my eyes? Didn't notice those last week. Does my skin know I've just had a birthday, and so it feels it has to suddenly adjust itself overnight to look like it belongs to a thirty-three year old woman?
I remember my mum saying about old age suddenly creeping up on you, but it's easy to be dismissive of that when you still have youth on your side. And when you are young, you can't imagine ageing, or the horror of being an old person; you think youth will last for ever. Sometimes I struggle to imagine old people ever having been young, firm and sprightly, thinking about and doing all the things my generation is doing now. My grandmother, for one; I had seen the photos of her as a young woman, and she had been truly beautiful – tall, slim and blond with a cracking pair of legs and a glowing complexion. I struggle to reconcile that with the woman I know and love now, shrunken, gnarled and weathered by life, almost as though she had been born old, and the woman in the photo was someone else entirely. I suppose it's all part of that inability we have to imagine life before we entered the world; her generation were happily getting on with things having survived a war and all its heartache, falling in love, having babies, for several decades before I even entered the world. It's the whole mortality dilemma isn't it – how can the world have been turning before we were born and continue to do so after we die?
