by Sarah Long
Maybe she really should go to that school reunion next week. Last time she’d checked on Friends Reunited, she’d been cheered by the all-round lack of achievement. The cleverest girl in the class was now working part-time as a receptionist at the local opticians which fitted in nicely round school hours. Former prefect Janet Bowles volunteered the information (with three exclamation marks) that she could usually be found browsing the aisles of her second home, aka Waitrose. It must be lovely to feel so little pressure to succeed.
She switched off the computer and thought about lunch. She could make herself a macrobiotic salad using the salad leaves and seeds she so conscientiously hunted out at farmers’ markets. Will swore by them, hoping their virtuous influence would stamp out the after-effects of his decadent youth. He was always telling Jane what she should and shouldn’t be eating.
She decided that what she really needed was a Chicken McNugget Meal with large fries and large non-diet Coke. It offered the double satisfaction of being nutritionally void and creating an unseemly amount of non-recyclable waste. That polystyrene box alone, she thought, as she slipped her coat on and pulled the door behind her, could push Will over the edge.
Walking back home with her McDonald’s, Jane disposed of the evil packaging in an anonymous bin, and wondered what thoughtful present she should buy to take tonight. They were invited to supper with an art-dealer friend of Will’s. Jane knew better than to say they were going to a dinner party. Will had told her early on in their relationship that he didn’t do dinner parties. All that fuss about the seating plan, boy, girl, boy, girl, it was so damned couply. Instead, he did supper with friends, which was far more bohemian. Ossian was quite nice, but the wife was a worry, a glamorous actress who knew everybody. You couldn’t very well hand over a box of Celebrations. I know, Jane thought, I’ll go to that pretentious shop on Westbourne Grove and get them a glass boot of cassis balsamic vinegar. Wildly original.
Hunched over her computer with her Chocolate Chip Flurry, she pulled out her Christmas list to see what else she should look for while she was out. Not many shopping days left now, and she had Will’s family to think of as well as her own. His mother was the most difficult, since she only approved of useful gifts, and had a withering contempt for anything that suggested unnecessary expense. The problem being that by the time you got to eighty you didn’t need anything except for medical accoutrements, which hardly made for a festive feeling.
Three hours later she arrived at school, the car piled high with booty. Liberty was standing alone in the playground, her face thunderous. She made a throat-slitting gesture as Jane rushed up to collect her.
‘Sorry darling, terrible traffic, I was doing some Christmas shopping.’
She opened the car door and Liberty climbed in, turning round to peer into the boot. ‘Did you get me a pet?’ she asked, as though hoping to see a puppy or a kitten snuggled up among the carrier bags. It was all she wanted this year, an animal to call her own.
‘You know we’ve discussed that,’ said Jane, ‘and you agreed a goldfish would he very nice.’
‘Oh, aren’t I a lucky ducky?’ said Liberty sarcastically. She often came out of school with a new piece of posh slang. ‘Can’t I at least have something you can hold?’
Jane did sympathise. You might as well drop a slice of carrot in a howl of water for all the reward a fish could give you. ‘Maybe next year,’ she said.
Liberty slumped back in her seat. Next year didn’t count when you were seven. ‘Are we going anywhere for Christmas?’ she asked.
‘No, we’re staying here and everyone’s coming to us.’
‘Oh. Lutetia’s going skiing, Apple’s going to Thailand. And Panda’s going on a safari.’
‘Bully for Panda. Maybe she’ll be captured and forced to live in a tree.’
Back at the house, Jane ferried in the Christmas presents and hid them in the cellar, away from Liberty’s curious gaze. The boxes of shelves she had bought at Ikea were still sitting in the hall.
‘I’d better take those up,’ said Jane, ‘you know how Daddy can’t bear things cluttering up the house.’
‘I’ll help,’ Liberty offered. She had changed out of her school uniform and wanted to be useful.
Too heavy for you,’ Jane said, heaving the first pack onto her back, ‘but you can help me put them together.’
‘Why don’t you get Daddy to do it?’
‘He’s got a bad back, you know that.’
Jane was stronger than she looked, which was just as well, since Will was reluctant to lift things. Not that he was lazy. When he had been married to Carol, he’d done all the decorating himself, with disastrous consequences for his back. Second time round he felt he deserved an architect. It was a measure of his success. My architect, my agent, my lawyer, my sleep therapist; it suggested that all these people belonged to you, that you sat on the apex of an important pyramid as chairman and managing director of the large business that was your life. The architect had been ruinously expensive. Personally, Jane would have preferred to spend the money on a cleaner, or holidays, or else put it away for school fees — his monstrous bill sat oddly alongside the careful economies she made to stretch the household budget.
‘That’s the last one.’ Liberty handed over the final screw to Jane as she finished constructing the shelves and they admired the results.
‘Excellent work,’ said Jane, ‘you’ll have somewhere to put your fish tank now. Why don’t you come and talk to me while I get ready for this boring dinner.’
Liberty followed her into the master bedroom and helped her lay out suitable outfits on the bed. She then produced her box of Barbies and lined them up on the floor, their dresses piled up in a chaotic heap.
Jane frowned at the thought of the evening ahead. Dressing for supper with Will’s friends was always tricky. To be avoided at all costs was looking as though you had tried too hard; on the other hand, she was no longer in quite good-enough shape to slouch up in an old pair of jeans. She pulled on a rather short skirt and a white shirt under the critical eye of her daughter.
‘Your arse looks good in that,’ said Liberty, nodding her approval.
‘Don’t say arse,’ said Jane absent-mindedly, turning in front of the mirror and wondering if Will would agree. She rifled through her jewellery box for what she hoped was a bohemian pair of hoop earrings while Liberty turned back to talk to her dolls. Jane wished she’d been able to give her a little brother or sister but Will had been adamant, his nerves couldn’t take it. The fact remained that he had three children and she had just the one. It seemed a bit unfair but she wouldn’t dream of springing another surprise baby on him. You didn’t do that sort of thing in a reasonable modern relationship.
‘Come on, darling,’ she said, ‘let’s get you to bed.’
Her mind roamed freely as she read chapter five of The Enchanted Wood at breakneck speed. Three hundred and sixty-five stories a year, no wonder it got a bit dull. I have measured out my life in bedtime stories, she thought. But that was child-rearing for you, an accumulation of mind-deadening routines. If you don’t like repetition, don’t have kids. It was a choice you made and you shouldn’t expect any sympathy. What else was life for anyway? The one thing she could never regret was her beautiful, demanding daughter.
She slapped on some lipstick and rushed downstairs to tidy up for the babysitter. Ianthe’s nanny from Estonia was arriving at eight. ‘I’m making the most of her while she’s fresh,’ Ianthe’s mother had said. ‘Once they’ve been over here for a couple of years, they quite lose that Eastern Bloc work ethic ‘ Hardly surprising living in that house, Ianthe’s mother wasn’t exactly a model of industry, swanning around having lunch and discussing her winnings in the Hearts pyramid scheme.
Listening to the wailing police sirens, Jane worried, as usual, if she was doing enough for Liberty. Ice-skating, French lessons, violin, tennis, pottery classes. It sounded a lot, but what about tai chi and chess and drama classes? And Japanese was
supposed to be very good for stimulating the left side of the brain. What if Liberty grew up stunted because an unexplored area of her consciousness had not been properly stimulated at a young age? She might be like a wilted plant potted in the wrong soil, her leaves yellow with neglect, and all because her mother had failed to identify an obvious childhood need.
Will told her she worried too much, but it was different for men. They didn’t feel viscerally responsible for the well-being of their children the way that mothers did. While she was putting Liberty to bed, he had been out for drinks with some writer friends, being big and clever and exchanging ideas that transcended the small domestic arena. She fought back her resentment. The last thing she wanted to become was a dreary nag. Naomi Wolf said men believed the sanctuary of the Edwardian home had become a domestic hell, filled with vituperative harridans. There was no way that Jane would become like Will’s ex, moaning and needy and unsympathetic to his creative requirements. Will Thacker, the acclaimed writer — she couldn’t say she hadn’t hit the jackpot.
She heard a key in the lock.
‘Hallo, sexy,’ Will said, slurring slightly as he looked her up and down, ‘you look hot, in a waitressy sort of way. Shall we go?’
Ossian and Bella lived in Notting Hill and had an outside shower on one of their roof terraces. It was Bella who opened the door, wearing plastic flowers in her hair and what looked like a floor-length nylon housecoat with a brown and orange floral theme. Jane would have looked like an escapee from a mental hospital in such an outfit.
They followed her into a kitchen/dining room of gargantuan proportions. The doorways had been widened to bring them into proportion with the high ceilings, and extra-deep work surfaces had been installed to give an Olympian feel to the room. It was not a house for little people.
Although a bit on the small side, Will fitted in perfectly with his Jasper Conran jacket that had been deliberately frayed at the edges to look as though it was twenty years old. By comparison, Jane felt like the suburban school girl she was, dressed up in her trendy weekend wear for a day up in town. In her short black skirt, she felt she should be passing round the canapes.
‘Hey, you look gorgeous,’ said Bella’s husband Ossian, sidling up for a better look. He’d always had a soft spot for Jane, and there had once been an embarrassing incident when he had pressed himself up against her at a gallery opening. She hadn’t told Will about it: he might have thought her a prude, or else that she had been flirting. In any case, it was all water under the bridge, and she was grateful for his attention tonight.
‘Let me introduce you.’ He put a hand in the small of her back and propelled her over to where a gouty-looking man and his effete companion were sitting on a Moroccan couch.
‘May I present the estimable linguist Jane Locksmith? This is Roland Edgeworth and Jeremy Markham.’
It was the kind of party where everyone was introduced by their full names, so it was clear they were people of substance. There was none of that ‘James and Amanda, this is Phil and Jenny’ stuff that you got at the sort of dinner parties Will hated.
Jane had heard of Roland Edgeworth, he was rich and wrote erudite books on London’s history. Jeremy sat beside him, his thin legs in tight silver trousers crossed, lady-style, to one side. He started to talk to Jane about champagne, while Roland puffed away at a cigarette, ill at ease so early in the evening and only three glasses to the wind.
Jeremy leaned towards Jane, a confidential hand on her thigh. ‘I know everyone goes on about the Louis Roederer vintage being the bee’s knees,’ he said, ‘but do you know, I actually prefer his wow-vintage.’
‘Interesting,’ said Jane. She smiled politely and tried to think of something clever to say, but her mind had gone blank.
‘Cheap to run,’ guffawed Roland, breaking his silence and topping up his glass.
That’s me,’ said Jeremy. ‘Low-maintenance Larry. Actually, the only champagne I can’t stand is Moët.’ He pronounced it correctly, sounding the hard T at the end. ‘I find there is something about it that just hits the back of the throat. Quite undrinkable.’ He shook his head at the impossibility of it all.
‘You’re a linguist, Jane, you’ll be able to help me,’ he went on. ‘What does blanc de hlanc actually mean? Blankety blank, blankety blank, what’s all that about?’
There was a silence as they waited for her answer. White of white, of course, but what did it mean? She dithered around until Roland took pity on her.
‘White wine from white grapes,’ he pronounced, coughing then extinguishing his cigarette, ‘whereas the best champagne is made from a mixture of red and white grapes. Pinot Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, to be precise.’
‘Champagne made from red grapes,’ said Jeremy, ‘who’d have thought it? Shall we go through?’
They moved across to join the others at the table. Will was well into his stride now, talking to a fat man with a twirly moustache and pointy beard, and a freakishly tall model like a child distorted by the Hall of Mirrors. Jane tried to think of interesting topics. Would they be curious to hear about her recent trip to Ikea? She could talk about her work, if pushed, but it was unlikely that the translation of a guide to French bridges would hold them for long.
‘You have to be Catholic if you’ve got children,’ Bella was saying, ‘only fools and Protestants pay school fees. I know that church is the ugliest building on Kensington High Street, but come on, one hour on a Sunday morning to save twenty grand a year, you’d be stupid not to. Schmoozing the priest has been my most lucrative role ever!’
Everybody laughed except Ossian, who had heard it all before.
At the table, Will was enthralling the model with his tales of life among the Amerindians. It was fascinating to watch him — he still had an irresistible effect on women, a magnetism that Jane remembered all too well from their own early days. ‘It’s a need with me, Ali,’ he was saying, his eyes on a level with her flat chest, ‘to get beyond the pedestrian, to test myself to the limits.’
The model nodded down at him. ‘I know what you mean. I always say to myself, come on Ali, you really could look even better, just give it all you’ve got.’
Will looked insulted by the comparison. Scowling into a camera was hardly on a par with his own spiritual journey to the heart of another culture, He carried on regardless. ‘As I was saying only the other evening to David Hare, most people in our society can’t see beyond their couple. They get locked into their little lives, can’t see that there’s a fascinating world out there . . .’
‘I’m single at the moment actually,’ she interrupted him. ‘I’ve got a few issues to deal with before I enter another relationship.’
Would the bloody woman not shut up and let him finish? ‘Whereas I strive constantly to explore, to under stand, to recognise that I am just a tiny cog in the greater scheme of things,’ he continued. ‘In essence I suppose you could say my work is an exercise in humility . . .’
Jeremy cut across him. ‘What exactly arc your issues, Ali?’ he asked, unable to resist the scent of psychobabble.
Ali jumped at the chance to talk about herself and her problems. ‘Oh, eating issues for one,’ she said. ‘You’ve always got them if you’re a model; and then I’ve got confidence issues, of course, but I do feel I’m becoming stronger . . .’
Jane caught Will’s eye and smiled sympathetically. She knew he couldn’t stand the language of personal growth. But Will frowned and turned instead to talk across to Roland, by now dangerously red in the face.
Jane was rescued by the man with the twirly moustache. ‘I understand you’re in the translation game?’
This was her chance to talk herself up a bit, make herself sound fascinating. Instead she took the easy option of turning things back to him.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘And I would guess you’re an artist of some kind, judging from your appearance.’
Twirly gave a dismissive gesture to his velvet jacket and floppy bow tie. ‘Might as well look
the part. I’m a novelist, actually. Do you translate fiction?’
‘No, I don’t do literary. I’m more on the practical reference side. Less scope for misinterpretation.’
Dull, dull, dull, she thought. He gave her a pitying nod.
‘I know it’s a bit of a poor relation,’ she apologised. ‘Will can be rather cruel about it actually. You know, if you can’t do, teach. If you can’t write, translate.’
‘Oh rubbish,’ said Twirly, unconvincingly, ‘we must each do what we can.’
‘Well, yes. I used to have an office job, but I wanted to change to something I could do from home so I could be there for my daughter.’
She saw his interest waning and was annoyed with herself. Everyone knew it was social suicide to start on about your kids as if you had nothing else to talk about.
The model broke away from Jeremy to join their conversation. She clearly had the concentration span of a flea. ‘Don’t you find it boring working at home?’ she said. ‘It’s a bit nerdy, isn’t it, all by yourself. I’d be watching Kilroy all the time. Or Trisha. Mind you, I could never be a translator, I’m useless at languages.’
‘I work at home too,’ said Jeremy, ‘keeping myself gorgeous for Roland, and let me tell you, that is a full-time job.’
‘With splendid results,’ said Twirly, his eyes feasting on Jeremy’s biceps bulging out of his tight little tee shirt. ‘Give us your secrets, Jeremy, I might make you a character in my next novel.’
Jeremy settled back in delight at this invitation to hold forth on his favourite subject. ‘Jojoba oil,’ he said, ‘with a few drops of rosemary to help build brain cells. I rub it all over my body and scalp before I exercise. And the moment I wake, I programme myself to admire everything so that every new day provides something beautiful.’
With Roland’s funds at his disposal, it would be easy to find beauty, thought Jane. The only ugly thing Jeremy had to encounter each morning was Roland’s bloated body lying in bed beside him.
