The Motherhood Walk of Fame

by Shari Low

  Strangely, though, in LA it didn’t bother me in the least. It’s almost like it was part of the scenery, a national pastime as opposed to a hobby that was designed with the one and only intention of getting right on my hooters.

  I might even take it up, I pondered as I laid out our towels. Nah, that would just be really naff and shallow. Just because I was in LA didn’t mean I was going to start acting like a native, I decided, as I propped my mocha chocca skinny vanilla cappuccino with an espresso twist next to my cinnamon roll and my copy of Us magazine.

  I reached into my bag for my mobile phone, clicked it on to vibrate and put it in the pocket of my shorts–the call from Ike Tusker could be orgasmic in more ways than one–then joined the boys on the play structure. It took me a few moments to realise that the demographic of the people around the beach on a weekday was completely different to our previous weekend visit. Gone were the picture-perfect families, and instead the beach looked like a crowd scene in the L Word: a sea of women. And they seemed to be split into three distinct camps. One camp was the kids, dozens of under-fives swarming all over the place in packs. Then over on one set of benches were what looked like nannies: about fifteen young women engrossed in manic chatter in what sounded like Spanish or Portuguese. And I’d like to claim some expertise in that area, having once spent a fortnight in Benidorm.

  On the other benches were groups of what appeared to be mothers: some of them in sweat pants and yoga gear, with shiny faces and an aura of karmic serenity, others the frazzled-faced types who’d obviously reached boiling point before deciding that fresh air and the expulsion of small child’s energy in an ergonomically designed play area was preferable to an illicit glass of wine and twenty fags out the back door.

  The thought jolted my memory. I suddenly realised that only a week ago I’d been sitting on my back step having a cigarette, contemplating my general dissatisfaction with the lack of excitement in my life and struggling with a gnawing premonition that something out of the ordinary was about to happen. Well hello to the paranormal proclivities of Cosmic Cooper! In the space of a week I’d had the career break of a lifetime, taken one son out of preschool and the other out of nursery, said goodbye to my friends, travelled to LA, been reunited with an old flame, adopted a millionaire lifestyle, met a Hollywood high-flyer, had impure thoughts about said old flame, parted company with my husband on a yet-to-be-established basis and Liam Neeson had copped a feel (in my dreams).

  I hadn’t so much grabbed the bull by the horns as ridden him until he pegged out from exhaustion.

  And it was far from over. Any minute now that phone call could come, the one call that would lead to a whole new life. I reached into my shorts and checked that my phone was still there. I resisted the urge to pull it out, look at the screen and bang it against my hand a few times to check that it was definitely working. It was like being fifteen again and waiting for the boy you’d snogged in the bus shelter the night before to call. Even then it was a certain Mark Barwick who was tugging on my heart strings. Nothing new there, then.

  Watching Benny as he slid down the chute backwards on his belly, I could swear that there was a resemblance to his father that I’d never noticed before. Mark would love it here. The sun, the sea, his boys squealing with joy as they alternated between climbing over the play structure and trying to win the dollar I’d promised to whoever managed to dig up our lost camera.

  It was his loss. I just hoped that he realised it and made an effort to put things right, before he lost a whole lot more.

  ‘Mum, Mum, I found it, I found it!’ Mac shrieked. He charged up to me clutching a sand-covered camera. A camera. Not our camera. This one was a swanky Pentax whereas ours was a swanky one by a Taiwanese company with a non-recognisable title. It seemed that burying cameras was a popular pastime around here. I gave him a kiss, told him his dollar was safe and sent him back to dig up more. At this rate we could get a profitable business going–Dodgy Cameras R Us.

  A few hours, three cameras, two odd boots, four Tupperware dishes and a thong (swiftly returned to whence it was found) later, I took my phone out of my pocket, checked the screen, then banged it a few times on my palm. No calls. Not one. Where the hell was Ike Tusker? Probably off schmoozing Tom Cruise and telling Pamela bloody Anderson that she looked gorgeous.

  I checked my watch. Four o’clock. If he was going to call he’d have done it before now. Damn! Yes, I did realise that it was only Monday and he’d said he wouldn’t have any news until the middle of the week, but I have the same relationship with patience that I do with, say, Nepalese panpipes.

  I called Kate and she answered on the third ring.

  ‘Kate, it’s me–can you call me back on my mobile straight away please?’ I said, dispensing with little frivolities like ‘Hello’ and ‘How are you?’

  Two seconds later it rang. I pressed receive.

  ‘Oh, fuck, it’s working,’ I swore into the phone.

  ‘Am I even supposed to pretend that I know what you’re on about?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry, honey, I was hoping my phone wasn’t working,’ I replied.

  There was a long pause, then, ‘Er, right. Makes perfect sense. I’m always hoping my laptop will crash and the pressure cooker will explode.’ Her tone was somewhere between incredulous and calling Care in the Community for advice. ‘Carly, I’m going to go now, because it’s midnight and I’ve got this weird little habit called sleep. But, er, you might want to think about consulting an expert. I think you’ve been under a little too much strain lately.’

  She hung up. Fab. Now my best pal thinks I’m certifiable–add her to the list. I rounded up the kids and took them home, not a little apprehensive about seeing Sam.

  I needn’t have worried. I pressed the bleeper to open the electronic gates (and incidentally, I think it would be highly immature to press the bleeper, drive in a few yards, reverse back out, let the gates close, press the bleeper, drive in a few yards, reverse back out, let the gates close, press the beeper…for at least half an hour just because it’s you and your kids’ idea of a jolly jape. I’d never do anything like that. Never. Honest officer–and if any lurking paps had photographic evidence of this I was prepared to buy the negatives), before noticing a couple of unfamiliar cars and one very swish sporty thingy Jojo. The house was empty, so we went out to the swimming pool and eugh, I wished I hadn’t bothered. There was Jojo, Patron Saint of Physical Bloody Perfection, and four of her pals who all had identically perfect bodies. If this lot were at the Last Supper it would consist of green salads all round, skip the wine, make the water Perrier and hold the bread because they’re all on the South Beach Diet. Personally I prefer the Blackpool Beach diet: fish and chips with a buttered roll and don’t spare the Vimto.

  Sam introduced me to Deedee, CeeCee, Mimi and Bibi…or whatever they were called–I lost interest and the will to live after the first one said, ‘Wow, flares–they are, like, soooo retro’, when I was under the impression that they were distinctly trendy. In motherland, where I normally reside, anything less than two years old is distinctly trendy. She then proceeded to regale me with the story of how she found her ‘best skinny jeans ever’ in a chichi boutique in Westwood, and they only cost three hundred dollars, before giving me a twirl to model said skinny jeans. I responded in the manner that such blatant superficiality, materialism and downright pain-in-the-arseness demanded–feigned interest and told her she simply must give me the name of the shop so that I could charge right down the next morning to snap up a pair for myself. I believe several residents of the Pacific Palisades suburb of Los Angeles reported random bolts of lightning around that very instant.

  While I’d been gabbing to the entire cast of America’s Next Top Model, the boys had jumped into the pool with Sam and Jojo. Traitors. They shouted at me to join them but there was about as much chance of me revealing my pallid, post-pregnancy body as there was of Deedee and CeeCee nipping out for a Big Mac and fries.

  Instead, I hauled the boy
s inside, dried them off, and then sat them at the table in the kitchen while I made dinner. Sam popped in to refill his beer.

  ‘Any word from Ike?’ he asked. I shook my head, trying not to look like I was in mourning.

  ‘Hey, don’t worry, it’s early days yet.’

  ‘I know, I know, I’m fine about it. Really. I’m not anxious at all,’ I said anxiously. God, now I knew why Julia Roberts got £20 million just for stepping outside her trailer–this acting lark wasn’t as easy as it looked. And was it my imagination or did Sam seem to be acting a bit weird too? No wonder. Here was Mr Big Shot superstar, his house full of hot babes, and he was in the kitchen having to be polite to houseguests that were now approaching squatter status. He wandered back out to the pool and I plonked down a cordon bleu feast of cucumber, corn, tomatoes and potato waffles in front of the boys. After dinner they wanted to go back out to the pool, but I vetoed it. Schoolday warnings that if you went swimming within an hour of eating you would sink, drown or–worse–vomit in the pool in front of the fourth-year boys, had given me a phobia about after-dinner dips.

  Instead we got out craft paper, crayons and tracing paper and proceeded to make a stunning collage of summer scenes. Oh, okay, I lie. We slumped down in front of back-to-back Scooby-Doo episodes, Mac on one side of me, Benny on the other. We remained in that prone position for at least an hour, before Jojo appeared.

  ‘Hi guys,’ she said with a sparkly, singy, Claudia Schiffery grin.

  ‘Hi Jojo,’ the boys responded in unison, both giving her big cheesy smiles. Ten minutes of water polo and they’re anyone’s.

  ‘Sorry, we’re not coming out to the pool, Jojo. I hope you don’t think we’re being rude, but it’s just that the boys have a routine. Dinner, potentially terrifying cartoons featuring talking dogs who eat junk food, then bed.’

  She laughed. ‘Not at all. Scooby-Doo’s my favourite.’ And with that, she settled down on the other side of Benny and watched the next two episodes.

  Urgh, it was SO irritating. My former love for Jojo had been dispelled the minute I’d walked in and seen her in a bikini, and now this. There was nothing worse than blatant bloody niceness to put a damper on rampant jealousy.

  Sam found us all there a couple of hours later, both boys now sleeping, and Jojo and I engrossed in an old episode of Miami Vice. I asked him to give me a hand to lift the boys into bed. In the darkness of the bedroom, in a whisper, he said, ‘Sorry about last night–too much beer, too much sun and a bit of homesickness and nostalgia thrown in. Hope I didn’t embarrass you as much as I embarrassed myself.’

  I snorted quietly–which, incidentally, isn’t an easy thing to do. ‘Don’t be crazy,’ I said with a flippant giggle. ‘I didn’t pay any attention anyway. You always did talk crap.’

  So there it was. He was mortified. He’d suffered from an attack of Budweiser Gob and that’s why he’d been dying to escape that morning.

  ‘Thanks, Carly.’

  ‘No problem. Listen, I’m just going to crash out with the boys just now–all that lying on my arse doing nothing at the beach has totally knackered me. Say goodnight to Jojo for me. And I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Er, actually you won’t. I’m sorry, hon, but I’ve got more meetings tomorrow. I’ll be out all day.’

  Okay, two options here once again. My sensible, pragmatic head, usually only relied upon in times of school parent nights and court appearances, was saying that these meetings had been planned for a long time, he’d genuinely forgotten to mention them before, they had no connection whatsoever to our arrival here and, more specifically, him feeling that he’d made a tit of himself with the whole arm-rubbing/Budweiser Gob incident. One that he really regretted. However, my paranoid, neurotic head, usually only relied upon on a daily basis during all waking hours, was screaming that he was still avoiding me, we were totally getting under his feet, on his nerves and generally just interfering with his life on all levels. And, let’s face it, he’d been generous enough already.

  As I snuggled down in between two small boys who were doing impressions of hyperactive squids and squashing me into a six-inch space in the middle, I decided that I’d sort it out the next day. There was no getting away from it–something had to change before our friendship was seriously dented. And hadn’t I already filled my quota of ‘pissing off members of the male species’ this month? A stray foot whacked me on the face. The Gods of All with Dangly Bits were obviously getting their little people to do their dirty work for them.

  Yep, something had to change.

  CARLY CALLING…

  Carly to Kate and Carol:

  No word yet frm Hlwd big shot–u r there4 stil my VBFs. Miss u. Cxxx

  Kate:

  Just as well–Nws Of Wrld says ur not famous enuf 4 kiss & tell–but say they’ll giv me £20K for scud photos with Kate Moss.

  Carol:

  Sorry, who r u? Ur name is not in my contact list.

  Step Seven

  Nope, not one thing changed. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. I felt like I was stuck in Groundhog Day as the Tuesday, the Wednesday and the Thursday followed exactly the same pattern as the Monday. I’d get up, Sam would leave straight after breakfast (which usually involved my boys spilling at least one item of food/drink and a full discussion about their early-morning bowel movements), we’d head for the beach, hang out there all day, Ike Tusker wouldn’t call, we’d get back to a house full of people then I’d take the kids to bed. On the Tuesday night there was a brief blip of abnormality as I wrote my weekly column for Family Values magazine and emailed it in using Sam’s laptop–an act that did require a modicum of basic communication with my host. That aside, Sam and I had all the conversational interaction as those couples who have been married for twenty years and go to Harvester restaurants where they eat sausage and mash in total silence.

  Things were no better on the husband front. I retained a dignified (petty), noble (immature) silence where my next of kin was concerned. Let him stew. Not once had he asked the boys to pass the phone to me, so I’d have to have electric probes on my nipples before I’d capitulate to him.

  By Friday I was really beginning to panic. By lunchtime there had still been no phone call from Ike and only passing small talk with the other women at the beach was keeping me from going off my head with the stress of it. I even had a twenty-minute chat to a lovely, rotund, 50-something nanny called Consuela who spoke no English whatsoever. As far as I was concerned we were discussing the merits of baseball caps versus sunhats for the under fives, but as far as she was concerned we were probably discussing the aesthetic appeal of Elton John’s hair transplant.

  The other consolation was that the boys were having a great time. They’d made loads of pals and were, apparently, now official members of the management committee of the Marina del Rey Superhero Worship Society.

  Two o’clock. By now, as far as I’d been led to believe, the whole of LA had bunked off early and headed for the golf course or the beach, so I figured that, for this week at least, my American dream was stuck in limbo.

  And who knew if it would ever resurface?

  I had to face facts: there was a distinct possibility that this whole debacle had been for nothing. Oh, I couldn’t even contemplate the indignity of it. Imagine going home with my tail between my legs and admitting I’d been a fool. I’d have to change my name by deed poll to Mrs H. E. Optimist.

  Hopeless Effing to my friends.

  Mark would have a smug look on his face for at least the next ten years. That’s if he was still around. Chances are he’d get so sick of all my new debt that he’d bugger off into the unknown. Or back into the loins of the chick from the typing pool.

  Why hadn’t he called? Why? Bollocks, bollocks, bollo—What the hell was that trembling in my nethers? Whey-hey!

  My heart soared as I snatched the phone out of my shorts, flipped it open and…

  ‘Good afternoon, is that Carly Cooper?’ an American voice drawled.

  Squeak.
In my head I said yes, but only a high-pitched exclamation made it as far as my vocal cords.

  ‘This is Stefan from Ike Tusker’s office.’

  Squeak. Here it was. The big one. Mark Barwick, I bloody told you so! It was coming, any minute, the next few seconds were going to change my—

  ‘I’d like to make an appointment for Mr Tusker to call you.’

  What?

  ‘An appointment? To call me? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  I detected a very slight tremble of irritation on the other end of the line.

  ‘Mr Tusker would like to speak with you and he’d like to set up a time that’s mutually convenient.’

  Er, right. So this was a phone call to plan a phone call. Not getting it, not liking it, but like those people who refused to convert to metric, I suspected that resistance was futile.

  ‘Erm, any time. Now. Half an hour. Whenever. I’m free all day today, tomorrow, and the next few days. I have a lunch with Arnold Schwarzenegger a week next Tuesday, but apart from that I’m pretty flexible.’