by Emlyn Rees
‘So would you rather he antagonises that wanker upstairs?’ I snap, staring in the mirror at Jack in the bath, as I scrub my hands and arms in the sink, like a harassed surgeon in ER.
But rather than being cowed, Jack glares right back at me.
It looks like we’ve got our argument dominoes set up. If one of us flips this particular one over, it’ll topple into the next and the next and the next. Through a variety of routes, we can make the argument as long as we want, but on the basic route we can get from domino number one (Ben Crying In The Night), through number two (We Need A Bigger Flat) right along to the double six (You Don’t Appreciate Me) in a matter of minutes.
We get so little time together these days that even our rows have to be accelerated and conducted in shorthand.
I step away from the temptation to kick it off by reminding myself that this is bath time – i.e official wind-down time for Ben. Taking a deep breath, I steer the subject back to my sister-in-law and her imminent arrival. I’m interested in the way in which Jack’s offer of free bed and board was made. Could the bottle of vodka Kate brought to the barbecue have had anything to do with it? But Jack’s all innocence and brotherly love.
‘It’s only for a few weeks,’ he says. ‘Until Kate gets herself sorted out. I thought you liked her anyway.’
‘Of course I like her. That’s not the point. You should have asked me first, that’s all.’
Jack snorts. ‘Oh, like you asking me whether it was OK to invite all of the Coven and your mother over on my weekend? I wasn’t aware that I needed to ask your permission for everything. You never ask mine.’
‘OK, OK,’ I say, annoyed that he’s won. I can feel those dominoes really wobbling. If I’m not careful, we’ll be back on to bad language and my mother and that argument we started, but never got around to finishing. We both know we can’t bring the ‘c’ word up again in front of Ben.
‘Come on,’ Jack says, trying to placate me. ‘I couldn’t say no, could I? Kate is family, and now that Mum’s moved to Spain and Dad’s in San Francisco, she’s the only one of mine we ever really see. Besides, she’s out at work all day and she says she’ll babysit in the evenings for us as much as we want. You never know, we might finally make it to the cinema.’
The cinema. It’s an olive branch, I know. It’s as good as being actually asked out on a date. But I can’t quite take it. Instead, I walk through to the bedroom, flop out on the blue duvet and lie there listlessly, like a lost ship becalmed on a wide, blue sea.
Just Another Body In My Cave
Men – straight men that is – don’t get the whole thing about visitors. I think that’s because the comfort of their surroundings never really registers on their radar. When it comes to it, they’d be happy to sleep on a beer-stained sofa in their beer-stained clothes for weeks on end, as long as they have a roof over their head. (And it is from this natural male habitat that most females, in my experience, rescue their eventual mates.)
The problem is, of course, even after you’ve spent years reprogramming them (to cut, not bite their nails, to actually put those nail clippings in the bin and not leave them on the side of the sink, to leave the toilet seat down, to eat real food from nice crockery, and not packet noodles straight from the pan, to then put that nice crockery in the dishwasher, to put detergent in the dishwasher and to actually turn it on . . .), they could still revert to their natural, slobbish, sloth-like state at the drop of a hat. And they think that this principle applies to everyone else.
Which is why Jack’s being so blasé about his sister coming to stay. What’s the big deal? It’s just a flat, right? Just a cave. So what, he thinks, is one more body into the mix?
To which my answer is: A huge fucking hassle, that’s what.
Jack has absolutely no idea what inviting his sister to stay actually entails. He thinks from my point of view it involves a quick vac and, at a push, a squirt of bleach down the loo. As I said, he has no idea.
It’s a pride thing, you see. This is my cave. My life. And I’m not prepared for anyone – especially a relative – to see that the reality of how we live is not quite the same as the paradigm of modern living we attempt to temporarily conjure up whenever people call round.
I’d go to the same trouble for anyone staying in my home, but Kate being female and a relative ups the ante. Along with a general clean, before she arrives, at the bare minimum, I now have to:
Purchase, wash and iron a new duvet cover and pillow cases and towels, and perform a complete overhaul of the bathroom, including mould removal on the grouting and general chucking out of empty product bottles from the cabinet – she’ll look, all girls do; at that point hide away bumper-sized sanitary towels, electric breast pump, nipple shields and other items that may terrify an innocent twenty-something; wash, dry and iron sofa covers and rugs (encrusted dried rusk and ancient baby puke not attractive); make space in Ben’s wardrobe – this involves finding new homes for the vast array of birthday presents he received, including a mini car from Jack’s father sent in a giant air freight box (thanks, we’ve really got room for that!); and attack the kitchen, clean out fridge, and do a giant shop – I must have a few spare pizzas etc. for emergencies, as I really don’t want Kate to find out how many takeaways we consume per week.
‘Why don’t you relax?’ Jack calls from the bathroom, as I get off the bed and noisily root through Ben’s drawers for clean pyjamas.
I can tell Jack’s trying to make up with me, by reminding me that he’s offered to do bath and bedtime tonight.
Ha!
Yes, Jack, why don’t I relax?
Because you’re a man, and therefore your magnanimous offer to bath our son and put him to bed does not include anything except the actual bathing and cuddling bits. As an offer, it’s crap. It’s riddled with small print.
Because it’s completely futile for me even to attempt to lie down on the bed and read Heat, as you would have me do. Because just as I’ve got comfortable, you’ll start shouting questions at me: ‘Amy? Can you lift him out of the bath? Amy? Where’s his pyjamas? Amy? Where’s the nappies? Amy? Where’s his bottle?’
Why are men so useless at multitasking? It’s like asking them to wank and smile at the same time.
I’m muttering all this to myself as I go back to the bathroom. Jack is teaching Ben the ingredients of the Head and Shoulders shampoo bottle.
‘Polynaphthalenesulfonate. Methylchloroisothiazolinone. Glycol Distearate,’ he says.
‘Don’t you think it would be better to teach him something simpler?’ I ask. ‘Animals or something.’
‘Jawohl, mein Führer!’ Jack picks up the plastic bath book and flips through the dripping pages. Then he points to me. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Mummy,’ Ben says.
He shows Ben a picture in the bath book. ‘And what’s that?’
‘Moo Cow.’
‘That’s right,’ Jack says. ‘Mummy Moo Cow.’
Ben squeals with laughter. ‘Mummy Moo Cow. Mummy Moo Cow.’
‘Thanks. Very funny, Jack,’ I say, but my husband and son are too busy laughing hysterically to reply.
Airing One’s Dirty Laundry
For the first time in my married life, I have a secret. OK, it’s only a small one, but the fact is, I haven’t told Jack about my appearances on Radio CapitalChat. And now, the longer I don’t tell him, the more pleased I am that I haven’t.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve shared every single minute detail of my daily life with Jack, but now that I haven’t told him about my regular radio appearances, I’m suddenly aware of how much I don’t know about what Jack does when he’s out of the flat and what he neglects to tell me.
I’ve tried to probe, believe me, but Jack says that by the time he comes home, the last thing he wants to talk about is work. He says it’s boring.
But Jack’s career is my career by proxy, since it pays my way, so I think it’s only fair that I get to hear all the gossipy interesting stuff a
bout the guys he works with. And anyway, what’s wrong with being interested? Isn’t it my wifely duty to be interested in all things Jack? I thought sharing our intimate moments was all part and parcel of being married.
But not according to my husband. I suppose I have to respect his point of view and not take it as a rejection, but it hurts that he doesn’t want to share everything with me like I do with him.
Well now I’ve got my own back – but it still feels odd that I’m sharing my thoughts with thousands of strangers and not with my husband.
The next morning, I’m on again.
Radio CapitalChat
Jessie’s Daily Discussion: Is it true that women have a higher pain threshold than men?
Caller: Amy from West London.
Well, Jessie, I think us girls feel pain just the same as men. The difference is that we’re just more grown-up and mature at handling it. I mean, you only have to look at footballers to see what terrible wimps men are.
Men are so dramatic when it comes to pain. When my husband has a headache, it’s not a headache, but a migraine. When he stubs his toe, he’s fractured a bone. If he gets a cold, it’s flu, if he gets a fly in his eye, he’s definitely going blind . . .
And they’re such hypochondriacs. Jack’s got a whole list of ongoing ailments that could afflict him at any time: the Dodgy Knee (an old injury that can kick in with devastating consequences and which is responsible on an annual basis for him not being able to enter the London Marathon). Oh, and let’s not forget his Weak Achilles Tendon, Clicky Shoulder, Hamster Bladder, Geographic Tongue or, worst of all, The Undiagnosed-but-almost-certainly-malaria Fever Thing, which curiously always seems to hit the morning after a bender.
But you see, Jessie, I think men have a psychological painometer, that they can turn up and down by will, whereby a bout of knee trouble that renders Jack laid up on the sofa wrapped in wine coolers and unable to so much as lift the TV remote control, could suddenly become slightly less painful were he to be asked down the pub, by his best friend – but on the other hand, it could just as suddenly become rapidly worse and involve indefinite bed rest, should, say, my mother ask us over for lunch.
And as women, we have to be sympathetic. Any wavering from our complete devotion, or the merest hint that we might not be taking them seriously, or suspect them of faking, is met with uncomprehending outrage.
All I can say is that it’s just as well men don’t give birth. The human race would fizzle out in one generation.
I like being on the radio. In fact, the more I do it, the more I really like it. And it wouldn’t be a problem, except that I’ve developed an unhealthy crush on Alex Murray, the producer, even though I’ve only ever spoken to him on the phone.
It’s very unusual for me to fantasise about someone real. Especially someone I’ve never met.
There are my usual guys, of course who populate my occasional fantasies. There’s George, Brad, Damien and oddly, that guy from the ITV news who is weirdly sexy, but they’re all safely locked away in my fantasy theme park, where they hang out with their massage oil, and moonlit hot tubs and private planes, waiting for me to visit (which, to be honest, isn’t as often these days as I’d like).
But Alex is different. Alex is from the real world. The world of ‘before’. He makes me feel like I could still belong – and, unlike my theme-park blokes, he’s stimulating a part of me that nobody has got to for a while: my brain.
Maybe it’s to do with the fact that, apart from Jack, my day-to-day life is filled almost exclusively with the banal concerns of other women and small children, but talking to Alex gives me a real buzz. I know I shouldn’t read too much into it, but Alex makes me laugh and I’m on the ball and witty when I talk to him. I feel stupidly flattered that in the whole of London, I’m the listener he calls.
‘It’s all very well launching a phone-in station,’ Alex explained the last time we chatted, ‘but you won’t believe the amount of weirdos out there. Producing Jessie’s show is a nightmare, but you’re a godsend, Amy. It’s so great to have found someone I can rely on to give an intelligent, funny response.’
That’s me. Intelligent and funny.
And reliable.
His words gave me the confidence I needed.
‘Well I’m happy to be on,’ I told him. ‘In fact, I was thinking, if there’s ever an opportunity that comes up for a job at CapitalChat . . . I’m thinking of a career change. I’d love to get into radio.’
Surprisingly, Alex didn’t laugh at me. Instead, he told me that he’d bear it in mind, and ever since, I’ve been secretly excited at the thought of an unexpected job opportunity down the line. I’m determined to keep in Alex’s good books.
After the phone-in, I stay on the line to chat to him.
‘I know it’s a funny question, but do you think I could have Jack’s number? Only I know Jessie is looking for a gardener,’ he says. ‘She’s just moved to a big house in Notting Hill and you’re in West London, aren’t you?’
‘Er . . . yeah,’ I say.
We are in West London, broadly speaking, just not the bit of West London anyone imagines when they think of West London.
‘I could fix it up for you. If your fella wants the business . . .’
Wants it? He’d love it. And I’m always on at Jack to start working for himself.
‘That would be great, Alex,’ I gush.
And it would be. Except that how do I tell Jack that I’ve got him a job with Jessie Kay without telling him everything I’ve been saying on the radio? About him. About us. About our dirty laundry? Because there’s no chance that Jack would find it funny in the same way that Alex does.
Suddenly, I feel myself flushing with a deep-down guilty feeling.
Blimey. I’d forgotten how complicated having secrets could be.
Easy Like Sunday Morning
It’s Sunday morning and I’m in the café in the park with Ed, Sophie’s husband. This is a purely accidental meeting, due to the fact that Ripley and Ben spotted each other, and are playing on the wall outside and Ed and I met just now in the queue for coffee. I don’t think he can remember my name.
I know for a fact that Sophie would have a fit if she could see Ripley balancing precariously above a very muddy flowerbed, but Ed hasn’t even clocked that his daughter might be in danger of getting dirty, let alone in danger of getting hurt. I notice that she’s shrieking and jumping around like a chimpanzee. The telltale smudge of chocolate around her mouth and the wrapper in her hand makes me suspect she’s high on the most hardcore form of kiddy-crack, aka Milky Way.
‘So where’s Sophie?’ I ask, as I sip my latte and sit down at one of the tables outside.
‘Soph? I doubt she’ll be up for hours,’ Ed says. ‘We had a late one last night.’
‘Oh?’
‘People over. Wrap party,’ Ed explains. ‘You know, one of those nights that gets a bit out of hand?’
No, I don’t, but Ed’s obviously very familiar with them.
‘I think everyone left at about four or five,’ he continues, taking off his sunglasses and rubbing his face. His eyeballs look like eight balls. I think I know what type of ‘wrap’ party he means now.
Even so, I can’t help feeling left out. Jack and I haven’t been invited to, or hosted a party – except for Ben – for ages.
Ed yawns flamboyantly, stretching out his arms. His T-shirt rides up and I can see a ruffle of hair coming up from out of his jeans towards his belly button. I quickly look away.
‘What did you cook?’ I ask, feeling like I should make conversation. I feel so uncool. I sound like my mother, even to myself.
‘Nothing. I got caterers in.’ He yawns and looks away.
I suddenly see myself from Ed’s point of view. To him, I’m clearly one of Sophie’s mummy mates in dirty jeans and a shapeless T-shirt, with no make-up on. I doubt it would ever occur to him to think of me in a sexual context, or to secretly fancy me, like I suspect Jack secretly fancies Sophie. The t
hought of this – that I’ve warped into someone completely asexual – swamps me with depression.
Ed’s clearly not interested in making small talk. He leans back in his seat and, pointing his face towards the sun, shuts his eyes.
This is typical Sunday dad behaviour. I look around the café.
It’s anarchy.
There’s a couple of four-year-olds upending the sugar tubes into their mouths; a parentless kid is tearing around on a stolen scooter, intent on terrorising the pigeons. A baby howls in the corner, whilst two toddlers smack each other. Their father, oblivious to the scene behind him, is busy checking his pockets for change in order to pay for the mountain of sticky buns he’s bought as bribery currency.
Over in the playground, you can see men reading newspapers unaware that their toddlers are hanging upside-down from the death slide like bats.
But the most odious of all the dads now comes braying around the corner. This is Sergeant Major Dad. He’s in Sunday civvies: the obligatory chinos, leather boat shoes and pink polo shirt with the collar turned up. He marches towards the café, smoothing his fringe and barking orders at his kids.
‘Toby, park the scooter. There, boy, there! Jonquin get the door. And hurry up! Football in fifteen remember. You’ll need time to digest, if you’re going to have bacon sarnies.’
As Sergeant Major Dad holds the café door open, Running Commentary Woman comes out holding her baby. She is an absolute type. It’s like she has an odd form of Tourette’s syndrome in which the sufferer feels compelled to run a real-time commentary on everything going on.
‘. . . and look we’re walking out of the café and we’re walking past the tables and look, there’s the sun up in the sky. Shall we put your hat on? Yes, let’s put your hat on for Mr Sunshine . . .’
She’s clearly insane. Somebody put her out of her misery.
I get up quietly. I’m not going to stay next to Ed and babysit Ripley whilst he has a nap in the sunshine. I go over near the wall to keep an eye on Ben. I tell him that he’s got two minutes and then we’re leaving.
