by Niamh Greene
‘Don’t worry, pet,’ I said, taking charge. ‘I’ll get you some eye cream when I’m in town.’
I am definitely much more in tune with Louise again now that she knows motherhood doesn’t consist of dressing a baby in cute designer outfits and pushing it about in a Bugaboo, with oversized shades on your head and a mocha latte on hand. Suspect she regrets packing her mother back to Canada so soon, even if she was no help whatsoever and spent her days filing her nails and applying neck cream. Am glad I can help – Louise will start to look her age soon, if she’s not careful. Her skin is already starting to look grey and less dewy.
1 December
Katie and Jack have launched their pre-Christmas frenzy. I was almost relieved to hear them arguing over who would get most toys, who was on Santa’s black list, who was Rudolph’s favourite, etc., etc. At least it meant they had retained some childlike innocence. They spent the afternoon writing their Christmas lists to Santa. Had good intentions of creating a perfect festive atmosphere by baking a complicated Christmas cake and letting the aroma of soaked fruits waft about the place while carols played in the background but I abandoned this idea when I discovered that the recipe was more than a page long. Instead, I lit the open fire in the living room to create a Christmassy feel and scattered some pine-scented pot-pourri about. Am sure the deli in the Centre needs all the custom it can get at this time of year so am really being very selfless in deciding to support their gourmet cakes again.
Jack spent ages sprawled on the floor drawing the Power Ranger ensemble he wants. Meanwhile, Katie sat in the corner, scribbling furtively on a scrap of paper.
‘What are you asking Santa for, darling?’ I asked fondly, as she frowned with concentration.
‘I can’t tell you, Mummy,’ she answered primly. ‘It’s a secret, remember?’
‘But you could whisper to me, pet,’ I said, feeling the first stirring of panic. If she didn’t tell me what she wanted I’d have to take a wild guess.
‘No, Mummy.’ She was adamant. ‘You can see it on Christmas morning.’
Then she marched straight to the fireplace and chucked in the list. I watched in horror as the flames licked it up.
‘Now,’ she announced, with glee, ‘no one will know what Santa’s going to bring me until Christmas morning. You are going to be very surprised, Mummy.’
She winked at me and turned on her heel and left the room as I tried not to hyperventilate. This was all Mrs H’s fault. If she hadn’t told the children that the traditional way to contact Father Christmas was to throw your list up the chimney, it would never have happened.
PS Have decided to revisit Santa at the Centre to ask what Katie wants – he’s bound to remember her.
2 December
Trudged to the Centre to talk to Santa. Luckily I didn’t have to queue for long.
‘I need to know what my little girl wants for Christmas,’ I said, eyeballing him so he’d know I was serious. ‘It’s vital.’
‘Listen, lady,’ he sighed, looking bored, ‘I see hundreds of squawking brats every week. There’s no way I can remember what yours wants.’
Patiently explained to him that Katie had been the bright child who had quizzed him at length on gender equality in the workplace.
‘Oh, her.’ He paled a bit under his beard. ‘Yeah, I remember her. She wants a flatscreen TV for her bedroom. And an iPod.’
‘What?’ I said, feeling faint.
‘Yeah, she’s quite a character,’ he sneered. ‘Good luck with that.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of Nicorette chewing-gum. ‘If I don’t have a smoke soon I’ll swing for one of them kids,’ he muttered.
Am at my wit’s end – how will we afford a flatscreen TV?
Maybe I could try eBay or a friendly local criminal.
3 December
Mum called to confirm that she and Dad will be spending Christmas in Portugal with their new friends on an oversized yacht. Was determined not to let her know I was furious so I did an Emmy-worthy impression of nonchalance. ‘That’s fine, Mum,’ I said bravely. ‘We’ll be quite busy ourselves this year, what with Katie’s dance show. And we have that charity auction tonight – there’ll be dozens of celebs…’ I trailed off deliberately, hoping she’d ask lots of questions.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful, darling.’ Mum sounded relieved. ‘Dad said you’d kick up a terrible fuss if we didn’t come back for the holidays, but I knew you’d be fine.’
Bit my tongue to stop an acidic retort escaping. No point proving Dad right.
Told Joe I’d get my own back by accidentally-on-purpose posting Dad’s Christmas present late to teach him a lesson.
‘That’s not what Christmas is about, though, is it?’ he said, in a faraway voice, looking sad. ‘Where’s the joy?’
Was tempted to suggest that if he was still looking for joy he could whisk us away to Lapland for the three-night magical experience I’d seen advertised on the back of the Gazette. ‘Well, we have the auction tonight,’ I said. ‘That’ll be lots of fun.’
‘Oh, yeah, I forgot about that,’ he said, cheering up.
Didn’t feel the time was right to tell him he’d have to squeeze into his old tux – he’s definitely put on a few pounds recently and that might only depress him more.
4 December
Am in a state of shock. Last night, at the glamorous charity auction dinner, I managed to buy a bespoke Harley-Davidson motorbike. Joe is not speaking to me.
I tried to explain at breakfast that it was the excitement of being surrounded by the rich and beautiful that made me raise my hand at a critical moment in the proceedings, but he refused to believe me. ‘You were jumping up and down and shouting so the auctioneer could hear you, Susie,’ he pointed out. ‘Other people gave up.’
‘OK,’ I admitted, ‘but I never thought for a second that my bid would be accepted. I presumed one of the celebs would wade in and double the offer.’
‘They couldn’t get a word in edgeways,’ he said, his head in his hands, ‘and now we’re five thousand euro down and stuck with a Harley-Davidson we’ll never use.’
‘Yes,’ I conceded. ‘But at least the food was good.’
‘That’s true. It was to die for – those garlic prawns were divine.’ Then he looked off into the middle distance, a dreamy expression on his face. ‘I often thought I’d like to be a chef.’
I snorted with laughter. ‘What? Like Gordon Ramsay in The F Word?’
‘Gordon Ramsay is very highly respected.’ Joe sniffed. ‘I’d do anything to be able to cook like that.’
I shuffled off, still laughing. As if he could ever cook like a pro – he can barely boil an egg.
Meanwhile Angelica’s delighted with me.
‘Buying the Harley was sooo generous of you, Susie,’ she said, throwing her arms round me and hugging me warmly at the school gate. ‘Are you going to ride it?’
‘Um, I don’t think so,’ I mumbled, not wanting to admit that Joe wanted to get rid of it on eBay. I was relishing the hug and the way the other mothers were gawking in open jealousy.
‘You’re gonna keep it as a memento, huh?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s a greeeeat idea. Listen, I was wondering if you could do me another favour?’ She hooked her arm through mine and led me away from the other mums.
‘Um, OK, I suppose so,’ I said, as their eyes burnt into my back.
‘James and I really need to get away. Just to have a weekend to reconnect, you know how it is.’ She stared intensely at me, her perfectly plucked eyebrows framing her radiant complexion.
‘Sure,’ I said, transfixed by her curled eyelashes and wondering if she had them professionally dyed. ‘Alone-time is very important.’
‘That’s right!’ She grasped my hand. ‘I just knew you’d understand. The thing is, though, everywhere we go the goddamn press follow us. It’s impossible to get any privacy.’
‘That must be awful,’ I said, patting her hand. ‘Fame can’t be easy.’
‘Of course!’ I said, not having to think twice about it – her using the country house as a celeb retreat would be an honour. ‘I’ll get you the keys.’
‘You’re such a good friend, Susie,’ she murmured, hugging me again. ‘I knew I did the right thing getting those auction tickets for you. By the way, you can’t write a cheque for them, can you? My accountant’s screaming for it. He’s so controlling.’
PS Called Joe to tell him we’d be spending this weekend in the country. He didn’t seem very enthusiastic about the idea. But what’s the point in having a country retreat if you never spend any time there? Also, it’s vital to clean the entire place from top to bottom before Angelica and James use it. Wonder if I could rope in Mrs H to lend a hand. She loves a good cleaning challenge.
5 December
Next time I decide to visit our country retreat, I will remember the following.
Attempts to fill the car with all the necessary equipment for a flying visit (smoky bacon crisps, wine, packets of instant mash, etc.) will mean at least a two-hour delay before set-off.
Attempts to create old-fashioned fun in the car on the way by playing I Spy or singing nursery rhymes will be met with strong opposition and loud clamouring for the Pussycat Dolls CD from both children.
Attempts to indulge in cosy chat with husband will be met with frosty silence and grunts about ‘bloody traffic’ and/or comments about the rat race.
Attempts to rustle up a nutritious dinner upon arrival will fail abysmally when it is discovered that all provisions have freezer burn.
Attempts to placate children and spouse will not work until they have visited the local chip shop for batter burgers.
Attempts to stick to dietary principles by refusing to eat said batter burgers will result in fierce hunger pangs and eventual devouring of entire six-pack of smoky bacon crisps in one sitting.
‘Maybe we should get someone to look in on the house every now and again, Joe,’ I said, wondering how I was going to get the place looking shabby chic/rock starry before Angelica and James used it.
‘Give someone a key you mean?’ He looked thoughtful. ‘That’s probably not a bad idea, let them air the place – that sort of thing.’
‘Um, I was thinking of something more permanent, actually,’ I suggested. ‘You know, like a live-in butler.’ I was busy imagining a friendly old caretaker who would get the house ready at a moment’s notice if we decided to visit on a whim. Someone who dressed in an old-fashioned uniform and served Pimm’s on the lawn would be perfect.
Joe roared with laughter, which I thought was a bit rude. Bet Becks never laughs at Posh when she tells him she needs a bit more domestic help.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Susie,’ he snorted, ‘we can barely afford the repayments on the house, let alone get a live-in butler to take care of it.’
‘Well, what about a Range Rover, then?’ I wheedled. ‘Everyone who has a house in the country has a Range Rover. It’s practically required.’
‘Well, we won’t be getting one,’ he said, ‘so you can forget about it. We already have a Harley we can’t get rid of. Anyway, those four-by-fours are an assault on the environment.’
Was very annoyed. All this talk of environmental protection was pure bluff – Joe was never concerned about the environment before. In fact, if I recall, he always said that global warming was quite handy as it meant he could play more golf.
PS Have come up with the perfect solution: a Range Rover Sport. They are cheaper and Angelica drives one.
6 December
Katie and Jack spent the afternoon moving a bucket of mud from one far corner of the garden to another. I’m so glad they’re getting to experience true country living and will grow up knowing where milk comes from, etc. Am seriously considering getting a small cow.
Meanwhile, I spent the afternoon scrubbing the toilet and trying to brighten the place up for Angelica and James without Joe cottoning on that soon they would be frolicking in our chipped bath and having a 9½ Weeks moment with the mayonnaise in our fridge.
PS Am trying not to panic about the overgrown garden. Luckily the wild-country-cottage look is all the rage – it was in the Gazette gardening supplement last week. People spend years trying to achieve what I seem to have managed in just a few weeks. Maybe I should be a gardening columnist – there’s nothing to it, really, just let things run amok a bit and voilà – I could be charging people entry at the gate!
PPS Dog is behaving like a frisky puppy. I do feel he’s truly happy in the country – he spent ages out and about roaming wild and free, as Nature intended.
7 December
Travelled back to the city in silence. The children were furious that they had been forced to clear the country house of all sorts of rubbish. Joe was furious that he had been made to repaint the kitchen at very short notice. I was furious that Joe had stupidly purchased lime green paint instead of reliable golden cream in the hardware shop because it was on special offer, and the dog was furious that he was headed back to a tiny city garden and no longer had free run of the countryside. It was all very bleak. The only bonus was that at least there was relative silence for the entire journey – except for Katie and Jack exchanging an occasional insult in the back seat.
As soon as we got back Mrs H came bursting through the door.
‘David’s bringing Max home for Christmas!’ she bellowed. ‘What am I going to do?’
Joe and I looked at each other. Was it possible she’d finally put two and two together and realized they were more than just good friends?
‘His family are all dead, God rest them, so David said he has nowhere to go,’ she wheezed. ‘But Max is used to very glamorous events – I’ll have to lay on something really special… and as for the food! Do you think we could get caterers in? I’m in a tizzy – David really is very naughty not to have given me more notice.’
Then she collapsed in the Queen Anne chair and Joe had to make a gin and tonic to revive her.
‘A mother’s lot is not an easy one, Susie,’ she said, once she’d come round a bit. ‘You’ll have to help me.’
‘What about Westlife?’ I heard myself say. ‘They’re doing a special Christmas concert – I heard there were tickets left.’
‘Westlife? Oh, I do love a bit of Westlife. Are they glamorous enough, though, do you think?’ She looked doubtful.
‘Absolutely!’ I reassured her. ‘Those boys are glamour on legs.’
‘Yes, they do look good in those white suits.’ Mrs H was getting a funny look in her eye. ‘Almost as good as Barry Manilow, in fact.’ She took another slug of her gin and tonic.
‘You should book the tickets,’ I said. ‘Max won’t know what hit him.’
I could feel she was starting to cave in and I felt a smidgen of shame for encouraging her but I was desperate – the chance to see a delicious boy band up close and personal didn’t present itself every day and there was no way I could afford tickets, not now I had the charity dinner and a Harley to pay for.
‘Maybe you’re right, Susie,’ Mrs H said, whipping a lined jotter out of her bag and beginning to write. ‘Let’s make a list.’
I knew instantly that she meant business – she was using her permanent marker, the one she saves for very special occasions.
‘She’d better still be having us for Christmas dinner,’ Joe muttered darkly later. ‘I want proper roast potatoes this year.’
Think this was a veiled reference to the pre-prepared potatoes I served last year but decided not to say anything. Am also hoping to get a proper roast dinner this year – one I don’t have to make myself.
8 December
Got an irate call from a farmer, who informed me that the dog had been cau
ght frolicking with his pedigree sheepdog bitch at the weekend. He has threatened to shoot on sight if he ever catches him having his wicked way with her again. The dog is hiding under the stairs, looking very guilty.
Also got an email from David.
I think Max is going to propose! He dragged me down to Hatton Garden yesterday to look at diamond-stud earrings, just like the ones David Beckham wears (OK, maybe not as big). Do you think that’s a good sign?
David xoxo
9 December
As if I don’t have enough on my plate! Louise has asked me to complete her Christmas shopping. Apparently, she’s too exhausted to get out of her pyjamas and go into town to do it herself. Sadly, my heavy hints that she could mind Katie and Jack for the afternoon while I sorted it out fell on deaf ears so I was forced to battle my way through the city-centre crowds with them complaining loudly all the way. I tried to interest them in the magical Christmas display in the Brown Thomas window, but instead of putting dancing polar bears and laughing Santas out, the store had gone for half-dressed mannequins, dripping with diamonds and lying suggestively on what looked like a mound of fox furs.
‘Where’s Santa?’ Jack roared. ‘I want Santa!’
Tried to explain to him that in Celtic Tiger Ireland Santa is not as important as selling luxury goods for lots of money to harassed customers.
He was not impressed. Happily, Katie was overawed by the Mac makeup counter and seduced the assistant into giving her a full makeover, including shaded brows and lip liner, leaving me to complete Louise’s list in record time. Unfortunately, I was then forced to purchase two hundred euro worth of Mac products out of guilt.
PS I noticed that there was no expensive gift for me on Louise’s list – maybe she’s ordered something exclusive from overseas. Like a top-of-the-range Marc Jacobs handbag from New York.
