by Sarah Long
Lorinda tried to restrain her.
‘OK, Laura, cool it, she’s got the message. She’ll get someone else to do the reading.’
But Laura was well into her stride.
‘I mean, look at you, Paula. You used to be a driving force at Goldman Sachs and now you spend your days bullying people into making Roman chariots or contributing to bake sales. How can you live with yourself?’
Paula’s face turned red behind her spectacles.
‘I made a lifestyle choice, Laura. And at least I make a contribution. I play an active role in bringing up my children, and I’m a key player in the parent-teacher liaison that plays a vital role in their education. Unlike you. As far as I can work out, you do nothing at all, except pour scorn on those of us who do pull our weight.’
‘You are absolutely right,’ replied Laura, ‘but I have seen the error of my ways, and I’m glad to say I’m on course to join the real world.’
‘She means she’s hoping to get a job,’ explained Lorinda. ‘I’m afraid it’s a case of poacher turned gamekeeper, or something.’
‘Well I just hope the “real” world doesn’t appear too disappointing,’ said Paula with heavily ironic emphasis. ‘I know that for me, a “real” world where you get in after the kids are asleep and leave before breakfast does not equate with my idea of family life.’
‘I think it sounds fantastic,’ said Laura. She had some reservations, of course, about returning to work, but it didn’t prevent her from playing the devil’s advocate to rile Paula. ‘Imagine coming home and finding them all tucked up, fed and cleansed. Just pouring yourself a glass of wine before going in to kiss their sleeping heads. And ask yourself one thing, Paula. Is all this really for the kids, or is it for you? I’ll tell you what I think. You do it because you’ve got nothing better to do and you’re terrified of admitting it. You might as well just stick a big label on your forehead saying “put out to grass”.’
‘Oh look, the children are out,’ said Lorinda, desperate to put an end to a most unpleasant conversation.
But Paula was already recovering for the counter-attack.
‘You know, Laura, you really are quite poisonous. I can see now why that nice husband of yours had to find someone a little more amenable. And thinner, too, I hear.’
Lorinda raised her hands in self-defence.
‘It wasn’t me, Laura, honestly. I swear I never said a word!’
Laura waved dismissively.
‘It’s all right, Lorinda, I know that idle gossip is the other time-filler for sad housewives. God knows we have precious little else to talk about over coffee. For your information, Paula, that’s all over now. And it wasn’t just him. I too was brave enough to inject some spice into the marriage. You should have a bash at adultery yourself – far more entertaining than organising PTA rotas.’
And with that she swept off to collect her children. I hope to God I get this job, she thought, because I think I might have just burnt my bridges with the non-working mothers’ network.
Jean-Laurent was sitting on the sofa when Laura and the boys got home. Without taking off their coats, Charles-Edouard and Pierre-Louis threw themselves upon him in an animal display of affection.
‘I wish I got that kind of welcome,’ said Laura, picking up their satchels. ‘I suppose it’s just a case of familiarity breeding contempt. I need to make myself scarcer – that’s becoming very clear to me now. You know, I think I might have some very exciting news— Jean-Laurent? What’s wrong.’
He was staring ahead completely motionless. He turned to face her.
‘I’m sorry, Laura. It seems I had the wrong idea . . .’
‘What is it? Are you all right?’
‘I’m . . . apparently . . . not as indispensable as I liked to think . . .’
Laura felt her stomach lurch.
‘Boys, go and take your coats off.’
They obediently disengaged themselves from their father, sensing that this was serious adult business.
Laura waited until they were out of the room.
‘It’s Flavia, isn’t it? You’re leaving me.’
Her temples were throbbing and she pressed her fingers against the pressure. But Jean-Laurent was looking at her in confusion.
‘No, no, that’s all over, you know that . . .’
‘Oh, thank God. Oh, Jean-Laurent, you can’t imagine how relieved I am. I’m dizzy with relief.’
She looked at him again.
‘You’re not ill, are you?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve felt better.’
‘But you haven’t just found out you’ve got six weeks to live?’
‘No. Laura. That meeting this afternoon wasn’t what I imagined . . .’
‘Oh, it’s just work, is it. Well who cares about that.’
‘I’ve been fired. Made redundant.’
He watched her face, looking for her reaction. She was surprised, certainly, but not devastated. Not humiliated, the way he had felt.
‘Those bastards!’ she said. ‘How dare they! Poor you.’
She took him in her arms and rocked him like a baby.
‘Honestly, Jean-Laurent, it couldn’t matter less. It really couldn’t matter less.’
EPILOGUE
Laura picked up her gym mat and replaced it on the pile in the corner. She smiled at the good-looking young man who had been crunching next to her for the six-thirty abdofessiers class. One of the many benefits of her new lifestyle was the chance to attend an early evening gym class every Thursday where there was a refreshing absence of full-time mothers. They would be doing the tea and homework routine while she was unwinding after a day’s work alongside other young and not-so-young professionals.
After her shower she would go home to a dîner a deux at an impeccably laid table. Since he had stopped working, Jean-Laurent had been able to indulge his passion for table decoration and took great pride in varying the theme. Tonight he had promised postmodern rococo with the gilt plates he had picked up at the salon des arts de la table. She was cooking tonight, and had emailed him with the shopping list earlier in the day.
The boys were thrilled at the new childcare arrangements. The only other fathers who collected their children were actors or restaurateurs with a seedy glamour that was easily eclipsed in their eyes by Jean-Laurent’s casual sporty look. The Porsche had gone, of course, but the Renault Espace was far better for taking the three of them to the golf course on Wednesday afternoons. Jean-Laurent played eighteen holes on Fridays, too, and on Mondays and Thursdays he had his oenology classes to up the ante and so be sure of maintaining his position as chief nose of the wine-tasting evenings.
He would probably go back to work one day, but not yet. First he had to complete his book on growing through rejection. His premise was that only the best get fired, and it was the snivelling losers who remained in employment. His publisher was already talking about supplying corporations who would throw in a copy of Mounting the Scrapheap (working title) as part of the redundancy package offered to those being terminated.
Laura showered and decided to spend ten minutes in the steam room before going home. She was usually back for homework duty, but on Thursdays she left it to Jean-Laurent and preferred to return just in time for the children’s goodnight kiss. She sometimes felt guilty for not telling Jean-Laurent about Antoine, but it would be such a shame to fall off the pedestal that he had created for her. Everyone needed a secret, after all.
And there was also the small matter that the affair with Antoine had not quite been kicked into touch. She had forgiven him for his remarks about her Protestant love-making, and at her suggestion they had agreed to meet just once a month for lunch in the Ritz, followed by a poetry reading in a suite upstairs. It was, he said, the mature apotheosis of a love affair, the nec plus ultra of sophistication. Hot young lovers threw themselves at each other as if there were no tomorrow; but their affair was a fine wine, to be tasted with restraint and proper appreciation. There was one particu
lar verse that he liked to quote at her. It was from Toi et Moi by Paul Geraldy, a 1930s playwright close to his heart, a kind of Noel Coward with a twirly French moustache:
‘we must be happy to be what we are;
intermittent lovers who are crazy about one another . . .
from time to time.’
What with a part-time lover, a full-time job and a happy home life, she had it all.
