The Seven Year Itch

by Emlyn Rees

  So instead of mixing, we commiserate with each other in polarised camps, the Mums with the Mums, and the Dads with the Dads. Like we’re members of support groups. (‘Hi, my name’s Jack Rossiter and I’m a . . . parent . . .’)

  We pass round joints behind the kids’ backs, while we talk about lack of sleep and lie-ins, intrusive in-laws and school waiting lists, and about the good old days, always the good old days, about how we met our partners, and all the crazy stuff we used to do, about our exes and our bad old habits, just to remind each other – and ourselves – that we haven’t always been this dull.

  ‘Great steaks,’ drawls Rory (married to Sarah and father of Gooey Louis – pioneer of the portside nostril permabogey), who’s currently ruminatively chowing down on his sandwich, like a Disney talking cow.

  Metrosexual Ed (partner of Sophie, father of Ripley) nods in agreement. He’s dressed like he’s just got back from a stint of photojournalism in downtown Basra, and is wearing shades so big he looks like he’s auditioning for a remake of the remake of The Fly. He hasn’t said a single word since he arrived, making me think he’s either catatonically stoned, or simply trop chic pour moi.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, eyeing Rory warily. I’ve had the misfortune of conversing with Rory the Tory before. I use the term conversing in the loosest sense, of course, in that Rory tends to talk at people, rather than ever actually listen to a word they say.

  Even though it’s a Sunday and the year is 2006, not 1986, Rory is wearing a blue blazer with brass buttons. And jeans (ironed, creased, Armani natch), which are much too tight for him, and into which he’s secreted the lowermost part of his belly, so that he looks like he’s wearing a colostomy bag.

  If Rory’s making a fashion statement, I’m guessing that statement is: Look at me, I’m a tosser.

  ‘Organic or normal?’ he asks, wafting a dribbling sausage sarnie towards me in a way that makes me wish I was vegetarian.

  Klingon or human? I consider answering him back, but instead reply, ‘Organic.’

  This is, of course, a lie. The sausages are from the darkest recess of the corner shop’s freezer. They’re economy range, reduced to clear, and probably contain several pigs’ foreskins apiece – a fact that cheers me up no end, as I continue to watch Rory munch.

  ‘Butcher or market?’ demands Rory.

  ‘Market,’ I plump for.

  ‘Borough or Queen’s Park?’

  ‘Queen’s Park.’

  ‘Heard you’ve got a stall there,’ says Geoff (Camilla’s husband and father of Tyler – who can only, surely, have been named after the psycho in Fight Club).

  Got, as in a possession (rather than a place where I’m employed). I could correct him, but I don’t.

  Geoff is a pale-skinned, lanky guy, who does something with contracts at the BBC. (His responsibilities could well be limited to stapling these contracts together, I’m guessing, seeing as so far today he’s displayed all the dynamism and personality of a bivalve.)

  ‘That’s right,’ I answer.

  In fact, I think, I’d much rather be there now, working my guts out with my fellow Greensleeves wage slaves, Dom and Lee (or ‘Tweedle-Dom’ and ‘Tweedle-Lee’ as I’ve privately christened them).

  But instead I’m here.

  Having all this fun.

  ‘Never go myself,’ tall and stocky, City boy Danny (married to Abby, father of Emily) says dismissively. ‘Can’t be arsed.’

  No wonder, I think. His eyes are bloodshot from sleep deprivation and he looks like a zombie. Ever since he arrived, he’s been rocking back and forth on his heels in an unsteady fashion, making me suspect that he’s either in need of medication, or in possession of an orthopaedic shoe.

  ‘Me neither,’ says Willbillphil. ‘I prefer pizza.’

  I’ve never met Willbillphil before, but he seems a fairly mellow guy. I didn’t catch his name properly and his partner and offspring are also unidentified. For all I know he might not even have any, and simply be an interloper, a hungry, blagging neighbour who just smelt the barbecue and climbed over the fence for some free nosh.

  And I don’t suppose it really matters if this is true, since the only thing I actually seem to have in common with the other men present is healthy sperm. We’re all strangers here. Thank God.

  And none stranger than Rory.

  ‘Too many fucking whining kids at markets,’ he complains. ‘I leave all that to the wife. Especially at the weekend. Quite frankly, I’d much rather stay in bed and have a wank.’

  ‘A wank?’ I check, wondering why this man who I hardly know could possibly be telling me this.

  ‘Exactly. Either that or watch some footie on the old Sky Plus,’ he reflects. ‘Depending on how hungover I am.’

  Geoff and Danny nod sympathetically, as if to say, Yep, we’ve all been there . . .

  ‘I see,’ I say. And unfortunately I do see. In microscopic detail and vainglorious Technicolor. I have an horrendous image of purple-faced Rory the Tory furiously beating his callused meat over . . . over what? A website? Back issues of Playboy? Or Tatler? Or even his share portfolio, or a signed photo of Mrs Cameron?

  ‘Of course, sometimes,’ Rory continues to confide to the group, ‘I actually knock one out while I’m watching Sky Plus . . .’

  ‘Over the football?’ I ask, confused.

  Rory screws up his face like he’s just been stung on the nose by a wasp. ‘Don’t be disgusting. What do you take me for? A dirty gayer?’

  A dirty gayer? What century does this man think he’s in? I find myself too stupefied to reply.

  ‘No, you fucking idiot,’ he barks at me. ‘I mean I might squirt one out over a film I’ve recorded. You know, like Basic Instinct, where wotshername gets her vag out . . .’

  Hmm, I think. And I’m sure Sharon Stone’s sitting at home right this moment bringing herself to a slow and sensual orgasm thinking about . . . you, Rory . . .

  Faith’s husband, Craig, snickers like a hyena on laughing gas. He clearly doesn’t get out of the house much these days. Which is probably just as well for the rest of the population.

  Fortunately, the conversation is prevented from going any further by the arrival of Jan, who squeezes in between Craig and Rory, without so much as a hello, and takes a burger.

  She then forces her way back the way she came and stands with her back to us. As her eyes lock on Ben and she begins to hum ‘Hickory Dickory Dock’ to herself, I’m looking at her thinking, You’re the reason they invented punk . . .

  That said, compared to Rory and the rest, Jan is a saint, and right now – so long as her continued presence is putting a gag on their previous conversation – she’s welcome to stand here for as long as she wants.

  When she does make her move a few minutes later – with a rallying cry of, ‘Shall we play musical chairs’ – I make mine.

  I flip the iPod, so that it starts playing ‘The End’ by The Doors, hoping that a few of these people will get the message, and split.

  But then I spot Matt at the kitchen doorway. At last, I think, a human being to talk to . . .

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, handing the barbecue tongs over to Craig like a poisoned chalice, before extricating myself from the group.

  The Godfather

  Matt’s the godfather. Clearly, I don’t mean the Godfather, as in Corleone – although Matt is dark-haired and handsome in a vaguely Italian way, and he did once go to Sicily on a two-week management course, after he was bumped up to junior partner at the city law firm he works for.

  No, Matt’s Ben’s godfather. Not that we had a christening, and not that I’d ever want Matt to look after Ben if anything happened. On account of the fact that Matt’s not a father himself, or in a stable relationship, and his idea of sensible parenting is feeding Ben Skittles behind my back, and interfering with his Action Man toys. (The last time he crashed over, Amy found three stripped-down Marine figurines laid out on the kitchen table indulging in a hardcore gay porn scenario. Or ‘Shaving Ryan�
��s Privates’, as Matt was later heard to claim.)

  Not that Matt’s gay. Far from it, in fact. He’s just immature. Prone to one drink too many. And a little twisted.

  Which are just three of the reasons why he remains my oldest and best friend.

  ‘Who are all these people?’ he asks, looking round. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen any of them before in my life.’

  ‘Park people,’ I inform him.

  His brow crinkles in confusion. ‘You mean like tramps? You never told me this was a charity event.’

  ‘No, I mean people from the park.’

  ‘Oh, baby people.’ He notices the gaggle of mums and their children, who have flocked across the savannah of the lawn and are now grazing at the table Amy put the crisps and snacks on. ‘Good God,’ Matt says, ‘it’s like watching locusts strip a field of crops. Who’s GI Jane?’ he then asks.

  ‘Sophie,’ I say, gazing admiringly with him at Womb Raider’s pert buttocks straining against her combat shorts, as she bends over to pick up her son’s Huff Puff Bee.

  ‘So it is possible then,’ Matt says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘To still be drop dead gorgeous, even after you’ve dropped a sprog.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I answer, ‘of course.’

  I say this more defensively than I mean to, momentarily thinking that he’s deliberately implying that the rest of the mothers here – including Amy – aren’t gorgeous any more.

  But when I look at Matt’s face, there’s no sign of malice, so either this was a Freudian slip on his behalf, or it’s just me inferring a slight where none was intended.

  Which means that somewhere in my subconscious I must be thinking it too.

  I feel guilty about this right away, but not so guilty that I don’t find myself now surreptitiously looking from Amy to Womb Raider and back again.

  It’s impossible, of course, to be objective about the appearance of anyone you love. But still I try.

  And, yeah, I can see it, I suppose. Amy has put on a bit of padding. But then again, so have I. And OK, when she smiles, I can see more wrinkles on her face than she once had – but again, the same applies to me. Besides, wrinkles are evidence of a life spent laughing, and there’s nothing wrong with that, right?

  But do I still think she’s gorgeous? As in drop dead gorgeous? If I’d never met Amy and Sophie before . . . if I was seeing them both for the first time right now . . . if I was only interested (like Matt) in sex . . . which one would my inner ape select to further the species with? Would it still be Amy? Would it still be her?

  Before an answer springs to mind, my train of thought is derailed by a flurry of motion at the end of the table. Matt and I both watch as Faith’s kid barfs up all over her sleeve and down her forearm.

  Faith palms the screaming chunder child off on the nearest Coven member, before making a beeline for us.

  ‘Be a love, Jack, and get me some kitchen roll,’ she says, sick rolling slowly down her shirtsleeve. ‘Hi,’ she says, turning to Matt, and reaching out to shake his hand. ‘I’m Faith.’

  Matt stares in revulsion at the porridgy trail trickling down towards her hand.

  ‘And I’m Chastity,’ he says, taking a quick step back.

  I duck inside and rush back with a kitchen roll, which Faith snatches from me wordlessly, before hurrying back over to the Coven.

  ‘Since when did that become socially acceptable?’ Matt asks me.

  ‘What, not saying thank you?’

  ‘No, acting like being covered with spew is no big deal . . .’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, about the same time it became socially acceptable for people to discuss their kids’ shitting habits at the dinner table, I suppose.’

  ‘That happens, too?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Anekin Skywalker,’ I smile. ‘That and worse. Youngling, a lot to learn, still you have . . .’

  Matt takes my hands in his and looks down at them.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘Just checking you haven’t slit your wrists.’

  We watch as the Coven rearrange themselves and the children into a circle (or possibly even a pentagram), and ‘Ring-a-Ring o’ Roses’, that old Black Death standard, starts blasting out of the iPod’s speakers.

  I catch my reflection in the French windows. I look shapeless in faded baggy blue shorts and a white T-shirt with the letters CTU stamped on the front in yellow. I’ve become nothing but a ghost, it occurs to me, of my former sharp-dressed self.

  ‘Nice shirt,’ I tell Matt. He’s dressed to impress, as ever, in a new shop-fresh Paul Smith number, and Japanese jeans, which have been razored and prewashed, to save him the trouble of having to wear them in himself.

  ‘I still need to make an effort,’ he replies.

  I let this dig pass. Matt’s always saying how there’s an inverse correlation between the length of the relationship you’re in and the effort you make with your appearance. (‘It’s easy for you married men,’ he once told me. ‘You can walk round like binmen and still get laid.’)

  ‘Talking of effort,’ I say. ‘Where is she? I thought you were bringing her with you.’

  Her. His new girlfriend. It’s only casual, he assured me on the phone, but clearly, she’s a cracker, or he wouldn’t have volunteered to show her off.

  ‘You mean Honey?’

  The look of warning he shoots me puts me off asking the obvious, So is she the sweet and sticky kind? Or just the kind that spreads easily? It’s obviously a joke he’s heard before.

  ‘She’s still coming, right?’ I check.

  Matt frowns awkwardly. ‘She was. She’s just worried about her dress. You know, with all these kids about. It’s vintage and she doesn’t want it getting trashed. We’ve got a party to go to later, you see.’

  ‘You mean a real party? A grown-up party. With grown-up food and grown-up music and grown-up talk.’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ Matt says, looking around. ‘I mean this is fun too.’

  I glance across at Jan, who’s involved in some quality traipsing, even as we speak . . .

  ‘Amy,’ she’s saying, ‘be careful . . . he might . . .’

  And I look at Amy, and at Ben who’s rolling on the grass, having the time of his life, wearing the Spiderman outfit Jan gave him (a pretty cool present, even I have to admit, especially when you consider the fact that Jan probably doesn’t actually know who Spiderman is).

  And I look at the clear sky and I consider my good health . . .

  But in spite of everything I have, I can’t help feeling jealous, when I think of Matt being still out there on the Wild Frontiers of the Urban Single.

  I suppose it’s because it used to be the two of us, with him playing Frank to my Jesse James, and Sundance to my Butch. Whereas my Colt’s holstered now, and instead of riding horses, I’m selling their shit, while Matt’s still out there robbing banks . . .

  ‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘It’s just . . .’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just that life’s pretty fun for you right now, isn’t it? Having somewhere else to go to . . . somewhere better . . .’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘You never had to.’

  ‘Amy,’ Jan shouts. She’s got her mitts back on Ben and is holding him up, turd sniffing his rear.

  Matt digs his wallet out and peels off some notes. ‘Here,’ he says, pushing them towards me.

  I don’t accept them. I say, ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Ben’s birthday present.’

  ‘What? You want to give him cash?’

  ‘No, dickhead, I want to give him a toy, but I didn’t know what to buy him. I don’t know what’s cool.’

  ‘So you want me to choose something for him?’

  ‘Exactly. You know, and tell him it’s from me.’

  I still haven’t taken the money.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he says, slipping the cash into my pocket. ‘It’s not like I didn’t both
er, it’s just that . . .’ He gazes up at the blue sky, searching for the appropriate words. ‘It’s just that I don’t really know anything about kids. It’s a different world. Yours, you know? Not mine.’

  5

  Amy

  Dominoes

  ‘No, it’s not bloody fine with me!’

  Jack’s sister Kate turned up late to Ben’s barbecue and broke the news that she’d just broken up with Tone, her boyfriend of two years. And Jack has only gone and invited his flipping sister to LIVE with us. For free.

  ‘Come on Amy, she’s my kid sister,’ he says. ‘It wouldn’t be right to charge her rent.’

  Yeah, well, let’s see how right it feels when she’s eating and drinking us out of house and home. I mean, how could he?

  But Jack doesn’t seem to think it’s a problem. He’s in the bath with a big blob of bubbles on his head, waiting for me to lift Ben in to him. I’m kneeling on the bathroom mat, removing a disgusting nappy from our son, who’s intent on practising beginners’ break-dancing, body-popping backwards away from me leaving a brown smear on the rug.

  ‘What’s the big deal, anyway?’ Jack asks, as I finish wiping Ben and lift him up. I’ve got shit up my arms. ‘Come to Daddy,’ Jack says in a funny voice, taking Ben from me.

  ‘The big deal, Jack, is that we live in a flat the size of a fucking postage stamp, if you hadn’t noticed. Where exactly do you think your sister is going to stay?’

  ‘She can sleep in Ben’s room.’

  ‘And have him back in with us?’

  ‘What do you mean, back? He’s in with us every night as it is,’ Jack says, sitting forward and piling bubbles on to Ben’s head. They look scarily alike. ‘You’ve got that mummy of yours right around your little finger, haven’t you, Buster?’

  I let out a frustrated breath, picking up the stinking nappy and leaning out into the hallway to deposit it in the nappy bin, which emits a throat-grabbingly vile guff.

  I’m stung by Jack’s insinuation that I’m a pushover mother. How dare he? It’s not like he’s the one who gets up in the middle of the night to calm Ben down. He’s always conveniently fast asleep. With earplugs in.