by Fiona Neill
‘Actually, since you ask, he doesn’t see much of either at the moment. I have withdrawn all services. Besides, my personal trainer says I should focus on my unique selling point,’ she says. ‘It’s an investment for the future, in case things don’t work out.’ Her voice is a little shaky and a small tear escapes from the bottom left-hand corner of the sunglasses.
She wipes it away, sniffing delicately.
I reach out to hold her arm. I wish that Emma could see this side of the story.
‘Don’t be kind to me, I can’t bear people feeling sorry for me,’ she says. ‘Say something nasty so that I don’t cry.’
‘Your dress is as blousy as a bed of chrysanthemums. Judges don’t look favourably on personal trainers in divorce settlements. Your next car will be a G-Wizz,’ I say. She smiles weakly.
Robert Bass comes over to join the group and I try to concentrate on my orange juice, sipping loudly through a straw, resisting the temptation to look up. I allow myself to examine his legs from the thigh down and note that he is wearing cut-off shorts that stop unevenly somewhere just above the knee. A hot summer is not the best time of year to banish lustful thoughts. I watch his legs walk towards a chair next to Alpha Mum. I try to find the comedy in his knees, to look for hairs on his toes, callouses on his heel, anything that might prick the bubble of desire.
To say that I haven’t thought about him at least once a day would be a lie, although every time he poaches headspace I make myself think of something different, a serious subject that will underline the frivolity of my obsession. For example, I make mental lists of countries that have borne the brunt of US foreign-policy blunders and then, if this isn’t sufficiently distracting, try and put them in some kind of order. Is Iraq a worse mess than Vietnam? Should one judge the situation by the number of civilian casualties or the decades that will be lost simply to get back to the point of no return? In which case was Nicaragua a bigger mess than Somalia? Sometimes my mind wanders. Would a brush with infidelity radically alter the landscape of marriage? How long would it take to return to the status quo? How many casualties would there be?
If my resolve needed bolstering, I would stop and stare at my children and feel sure that I had the willpower to resist any overtures from Robert Bass. But what I had failed to understand was that while I was trying to retreat, he was still in pursuit. My weakness for seeing situations from everyone’s point of view failed me at the precise moment when it would have been useful.
Yet despite all this I regard myself as lucky because, whenever the memory of the coat cupboard threatens to dominate my thoughts, I can simply switch attention to the other dilemmas thrown up by that portentous evening. Displacement anxiety, Mark would call these overlapping loops of worry, because he has to attach a label to everything.
Alpha Mum claps officiously to indicate that the meeting has begun and hands me a pen and paper to take notes. We all sit up in our seats and still I resist the urge to look at Robert Bass. Celebrity Dad slouches into the café. He is wearing flip-flops, tight-fitting Super Fine jeans that must belong to his wife and a hat pulled over his head so that only the bottom of his face is visible. He asks Isobel and me to move up so that he can sit next to me. I am now squashed between the two of them. He smells of sweat and alcohol. He sits down beside me and his arm sticks to my own. When he moves it to lift a cup of black coffee to his mouth, I surreptitiously lick my wrist and conclude it tastes of alcohol. He is sweating neat whisky.
‘What’s going on, Sweeney?’ he whispers throatily. I wish he would stop calling me by my surname.
‘She is proposing that the fete should have a Roman theme and that we should all come in costume and speak in Latin,’ I tell him.
‘Is this one of those weird English customs?’ he asks, taking off his sunglasses.
‘No, just one of those weird north London ones,’ I say. He looks awful, as though this is the end of a long night rather than the beginning of a new day. His eyes are so bloodshot that my own start to water. ‘I think you should keep the sunglasses on,’ I say, pointing at Isobel. ‘You’re in good company.’
‘I am imploding, Sweeney,’ he says. He makes a sound like a bomb exploding.
Alpha Mum looks over disapprovingly.
‘My wife has gone,’ he says. ‘She’s taken the children with her back to the States. My youngest one asked if I was in a stable.’
‘What did she mean?’ I ask.
‘Unstable,’ he says. ‘But I’m not. I go through periods of self-destruction, and then I come back out again. It’s my way of dealing with life.’
‘So what are you doing here then, if you’re no longer a parent?’ I ask.
‘I start filming in Prague in four weeks’ time. I haven’t got anything better to do,’ he says. ‘It’s more entertaining than watching TV and I need to keep an eye on you.’
When I have counted to two hundred and fifty in my head, I allow myself to look up and steal my first glance at Robert Bass. I notice that the sleeves of his white T-shirt are carelessly rolled up to reveal his upper arm and the first hint of his shoulder bone. His skin is tanned. He sits back in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. He is using the index finger of his left hand, the finger that touched me, to draw tiny circles on the dusty table. He intermittently runs his other hand through his hair, until it starts to stand on end.
I recall the constellation of awkward situations that hung over the party that night, like a scientist putting together the empirical evidence to calculate the possibility of a natural disaster. I think of people in offices in Colorado, monitoring tiny movements in the earth’s tectonic plates each day, trying to predict the likelihood of an earthquake. If they applied the same science to my life, they would undoubtedly conclude that a serious incident was still inevitable. I decide I have turned into the San Andreas fault.
I shut my eyes and breathe in, trying to stop myself from sighing. I can recall the smell of Isobel’s sheepskin coat, the dripping of the tap, the way his hand felt so hot on my body, that afterwards I looked to see whether it had left an imprint. I consider how the material of my wrap-dress stretched with the force he used to pull it down from my shoulder. It will probably never regain shape. I start to wonder exactly what he would have done next, had Celebrity Dad not interrupted us. I imagine the hand that is tracing the circle on the table inside the shoulder of my dress, moving down my body. And then I sigh loudly. Celebrity Dad nudges me.
When I open my eyes, Robert Bass is looking at me. I wonder how long he has been staring. He takes his finger from the table and uses it to stroke his lower lip thoughtfully. Then he smiles at me, a sort of half-smile, hidden in part by the finger. I’m sure that he knows what I am thinking.
‘Get a grip, Sweeney,’ whispers Celebrity Dad in my ear. ‘Unless you want the whole class to intercept those hungry looks.’ I sit up straight in my seat, worrying that I am so transparent.
‘Think dormice and denarii. Think gods and gladiators,’ I hear Alpha Mum say excitedly.
‘Any minute now she will introduce a competitive element to the proceedings,’ I whisper to Celebrity Dad.
‘And a prize for the parent who comes in the best costume,’ says Alpha Mum triumphantly.
‘I love the way the English are always looking for excuses to dress up,’ says Celebrity Dad, ‘especially if there is potential for cross-dressing.’
‘I think it’s only fair if we take a vote on something like this,’ says Robert Bass moodily, leaning forward. The right sleeve of his T-shirt creeps down to cover the top of his arm.
‘In vita priore ego imperator romanus fui,’ says Alpha Mum. ‘Besides, there was no democracy in ancient Rome. We agreed last term that all school events should have an educational component.’
‘But we’re not in ancient Rome, we’re in north London,’ insists Robert Bass. ‘Not all of us are studying GCSE Latin to help with our children’s homework.’
He looks even more attractive when he is angry, I th
ink, gazing at him dreamily. It certainly beats his monologues on the importance of composting and directing children’s play.
‘Perhaps I can use the costume that I wore in Troy,’ suggests Celebrity Dad, trying to repair the frayed edges of the discussion. Robert Bass glares at him.
‘Wrong era, but what a marvellous idea,’ says Alpha Mum, clapping her hands excitedly and opening up her laptop.
‘I hope you’ve brought those ladies with you again,’ says Celebrity Dad, leaning forward towards her. Alpha Mum squirms in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs. Her smile is taut. But she is clearly enjoying the attention.
‘Your costume, does it involve lorica and greaves?’ she asks demurely.
‘The whole shebang, including an Aquincum helmet with a red crest,’ says Celebrity Dad.
‘Are you proposing that we all make our own costumes?’ I ask.
‘You can just run something up on your sewing machine, can’t you?’ says Alpha Mum impatiently.
‘I don’t have a sewing machine and it took me a week to make the Barney Bear costume for the school play,’ I plead.
‘And what are the men meant to wear?’ asks Robert Bass. ‘Not all of us have costumes from Hollywood films.’
‘Something short, pleated, with strappy sandals,’ fires back Alpha Mum, knowing that she is in the driving seat. ‘I’m sure Lucy will help you. I am proposing that you run the Roman cake stall together.’
‘I’m not sure that is such a good idea,’ I say. Everyone stares at me. ‘Can’t I do Pin the Tail on the Trojan Horse instead?’
‘Wrong era,’ says Alpha Mum dismissively. ‘Why don’t you want to do the cake stall with Robert?’ She looks at me and then at Robert Bass, who shrugs his shoulders dismissively.
‘Are you worried about his levels of enthusiasm?’ she asks. I splutter on my orange juice.
‘I’ll help you as well, Lucy,’ says Celebrity Dad. ‘I am Spartacus.’ He is doing his best Kirk Douglas impression.
‘No, I am Spartacus,’ replies Robert Bass. Then Isobel joins in.
‘No, I am Spartacus,’ she says. We all start laughing.
Then suddenly Isobel stands up beside me, her arm outstretched, and her hand pointing in the air. We all look at her in awed silence.
‘I’ve got it,’ she says. ‘Think Pleats Please, think gorgeous Miu Miu gladiator sandals with turquoise stones, think Vestal Virgin.’
‘We’re meant to raise money, not spend it,’ says Robert Bass sternly.
‘I’m glad that some of you can muster a little enthusiasm,’ says Alpha Mum. ‘We’ll meet in the playground early Saturday morning with our contributions, all themed of course, and in full costume.’ We all nod meekly.
‘Why have you made so many cakes?’ asks Tom late Friday night. ‘Is it one for every glass of wine you have drunk this evening?’
‘I just need one to be perfect,’ I say, slumping in the chair and wrapping Tom’s dressing gown around me. ‘My entire status as a mother depends on producing a perfect cake.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lucy,’ says Tom. ‘How can baking have any bearing on your parenting skills? It’s completely illogical. You’re behaving like your mother at Christmas.’
‘It’s a genetic condition, the inability to bake a cake,’ I say.
‘Couldn’t you have got Deep Shallows to do them instead?’ he asks. ‘You are sharing the cake stall, after all.’
‘You must stop calling him that,’ I say.
‘Well, I can hardly call him Sexy Domesticated Dad, can I,’ he says teasingly. ‘Isobel told me that is how the mums refer to him. I thought baking was his speciality?’
‘It is, that is the point,’ I say getting flustered.
‘Why are they so flat?’ he says, pressing one, which immediately deflates further.
‘They look like Frisbees.’ Then he pauses. ‘Why don’t you pretend they are Roman discuses?’
I look at him in awe. ‘What a brilliant idea,’ I say, almost weeping with relief. I go over to hug him.
‘That dressing gown is revolting,’ he says, putting his arms around me. We lean against each other in silence.
‘Are you all right?’ asks Tom. ‘You seem very distracted of late, even by your standards. Are you worrying about Emma? Or Cathy? Or Isobel?’
‘I’m fine. I’m looking forward to the summer and going to Italy,’ I say.
‘The library will be well under way by then, and I’ll take a proper break,’ he says. ‘We can find each other again, we just need to get through the next month. I’m going to bed. Did I tell you I have to spend next week in Milan again?’
He hadn’t, but to be honest, I was getting used to Tom being away. The problem is not being apart but learning to be together again. The drift set in months ago and now it is actually easier to be on my own. I just need to get to the end of the school year. The summer holidays loom on the horizon like dry land after a rocky spell at sea. If I can get through the school fete then I am safe. The holidays will put a proper distance between Robert Bass and myself and, besides, after that he will be away promoting his book.
At five o’clock in the morning, I stumble down into the kitchen ready to renew hostilities. Even before I reach the basement, the acrid smell of burnt cake fills my nose. By the end of the previous evening, a combination of sleep deprivation and too much wine meant I had fallen asleep on the job, condemning my last experiment, a Victoria sponge, to an uncertain future that didn’t involve the Roman Empire.
I sip from a glass of wine left over from the night before to soothe my nerves, hoping that I won’t get breathalysed on my way to school. An overwhelming sight awaits me, more battleground than domestic idyll. Every bowl commandeered into action during this late-night exercise is filled with cake mix now set unforgivingly hard. On the sideboard there is a no-man’s-land of unidentifiable gunk and a couple of empty wine bottles. Dirty saucepans are stranded in pools of icing. The Magimix is partially encased in chocolate. I assess the situation with admirable sangfroid and decide dispassionately that the carefully sculpted chocolate dormice complete with string tails can be salvaged, along with one slightly overcooked chocolate sponge and three discuses.
Then I put on the radio and listen to a programme aimed at people who get up early to milk cows and those caught in cake peonage. More swallows are returning to Britain after years in decline; there is a shortage of shepherds and rural vicars. This pastoral image has soothing qualities and I start another cake with renewed vigour. As I crack eggs into a bowl I look out of the window into the garden and see a sheet flapping gently on the washing line. Then I realise that, in my compulsion to bake cakes, I have forgotten the most crucial ingredient of the day, the hand-made Roman costume. I stride decisively into the garden, buoyed by the early-morning glass of wine, and snatch the sheet from the washing line. A wood pigeon eyes the Victoria sponge that I leave on the lawn and warbles appreciatively from the end of the garden.
Nil desperandum, to every problem there is a solution, and mine is staring me in the face. A beautifully clean, if unironed, fitted single sheet waiting for its moment of glory. Using the kitchen scissors I cut a rough circle where the head should be. Beside the shorts that Joe manufactured, it looks like the work of an amateur, but with a rope round my middle I will pass for a slave girl or some other ancient minion. Our neighbours’ curtains are firmly shut. I take off the dressing gown and shake the sheet.
I hear a noise at the window and look up to see Tom peering out of our bedroom, looking confused. He opens the window and sleepily leans out.
‘Why are you standing naked in the garden at five o’clock in the morning?’ he asks wearily, as though fearing the answer. He spots the cake in the middle of the lawn. ‘Don’t tell me, you’re practising the chocolate discus competition. I’m beginning to wonder about the sanity of parents at this school, particularly your own.’
‘Sshh, you’ll wake everyone up,’ I say, cutting a slightly larger hole around the ne
ck.
‘Why have you ruined that sheet?’ he asks.
‘There, isn’t it obvious now?’ I ask.
‘Not to the idle bystander,’ he says.
‘It’s my Roman costume,’ I tell him.
‘Funny that, because it looks as though you are wearing a sheet with a hole cut in the middle,’ he says, slamming the window shut and muttering under his breath.
A few minutes later he rumbles into the kitchen. Glancing up at the spots of chocolate on the ceiling he says, with a hint of desperation, ‘God, Lucy, just tell me again how you make so much mess? Why don’t you tidy up as you go along? It’s a system tried and tested over the centuries. Even during Roman times. Look at the picture of my mother, it looks as though she has a dermatological condition.’ He uses his finger to wipe the spots from Petra’s portrait and carefully licks them clean.
I explain that at a key moment in the cake-making process I was unable to find the lid of the blender and so, with Heath Robinson-like ingenuity, I improvised by using a piece of cardboard with a hole cut in the middle for the handheld electric whisk.
‘Is that something you saw on Blue Peter?’ he asks. ‘You realise that you could have just put it all in a smaller bowl.’
I remove my final effort from the oven and tip it from the cake tin. It has conspired to be at once overcooked on the outside and undercooked in the middle.
‘How can that be?’ I ask him despairingly. ‘It’s like being fat and thin at the same time.’ He goes to the tool box and brings out a hacksaw.
‘That worked for Joe’s birthday cake last year,’ he says reassuringly. ‘Then you can cut a hole in the middle and fill it with chocolate eggs.’
‘But chocolate eggs aren’t authentically Roman,’ I tell him.
‘Nor is a cake stall. I don’t understand why you volunteer to do something that will inevitably end in disaster. It’s so masochistic.’ Then he stops. ‘It’s difficult to have a serious conversation with an adult dressed in a sheet.’
He goes upstairs and brings down his old tweed coat.
