by India Knight
‘Really.’
‘Really.’ Emma stifles a smirk as we both turn to some of Icky’s artwork, displayed on the wall behind us. His two paintings are a sort of homage to the dirty protest: even Honey, who is half his age, can draw a recognizable face.
‘She’s had him checked out by a doctor, then?’
‘Oh, goodness me, yes – she’s married to one.’
‘And there’s nothing wrong with him?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘So he’s just naturally horrible.’
‘Yes,’ says Emma, without thinking.
‘See?’ I say.
Emma smiles guiltily and looks over her shoulder. On cue, Marjorie galumphs towards us.
‘Stella,’ she says. ‘A word, please.’
‘Look,’ I say, as we go into the kitchenette. ‘I’m sorry about the other day. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, or challenged your credentials. I had no right.’
Marjorie, in a pale blue T-shirt, clearly doesn’t wear a bra, which I feel is a mistake when blessed with such an abundance of chest.
‘We all have baggage,’ she says, looking knowing.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Emotional baggage. We all carry it.’
‘Um, yes. I suppose we do.’
Marjorie nods, spooning filthy barley-and-chicory coffee substitute into four waiting mugs.
‘I threaten you in some way,’ she says. ‘You feel threatened by me.’
‘I wouldn’t quite say …’ I start, but then stop myself. What’s the point? I’d get more joy out of lying down in the mud of my garden and trying to have a conversation with an earthworm.
‘Yes,’ says Marjorie, in a forgiving, gracious ‘I am a wise elder’ tone. ‘And you clearly have issues with your own parenting skills, which is why you’re so disapproving of others.’
‘I don’t have any “parenting skills”,’ I point out. ‘I just sort of get on with it. I don’t understand why it is a parenting skill to make children play with black dough or read them books about death.’
‘Quite,’ says Marjorie, as though this proved her point, which perhaps it does. ‘Anyway, let’s hope we help you learn, shall we?’ She stirs sugar into a couple of the mugs with a filthy spoon and squeezes past me. Louisa and Alexander have finally arrived: this time they’re coming to mine for lunch. And I was right: Ichabod has torn Susannah’s skirt.
We wheel our respective buggies back to the house through the sheeting rain – I can feel my mascara trickling down my face. Louisa quizzes me about my night out with Frank, about Rupert and Dominic (I keep the snort saga to myself), about Cressida, about whether it felt nice going to a glamorous party, and about what Honey says about her dad (not much). Alexander, she says, says very little about his.
‘I don’t understand,’ she says, as we turn into my street. ‘Frank sounds so lovely. That sounds like such a nice night.’
‘I’ve explained it a million times, Lou. He is very lovely, in some ways.’
‘Well, then?’
‘I don’t fancy him.’
‘But why not?’
‘He’s a slapper.’
‘Probably just needs the love of a good woman,’ Lou says.
‘Plus, he’s really ginger.’
‘So what? It can be very attractive – look at Nicole Kidman.’
‘I don’t fancy Nicole Kidman. So a lot, to me.’
We bump our buggies backwards up the steps, which always hurts my back. Being thirty-eight, sadly, means you notice things like this. I’m nearly forty, I think to myself. I’m nearly forty. It’s a horrifying thought. Soon I will start smiling winsomely and telling people I feel twelve on the inside.
‘And anyway,’ I tell her, turning the key in the lock, ‘there are other things.’
‘Does he tear the wings off flies?’ Lou laughs.
‘No. But he’s not necessarily as nice as he seems.’
‘Who is?’ sighs Louisa, trotting out all the platitudes.
‘Never mind,’ I say. I don’t want to discuss it. ‘We have a very cosy and nice set-up,’ I add. ‘It’s like living with your really good friend, whom your daughter adores. It’s bliss, really. I wouldn’t want to go and fuck it up.’
‘Fuck what up?’ says Frank, who is standing in the hallway, flicking through the second post. ‘All right? You look like a panda.’
‘Nothing. Why are you here all the time these days? Aren’t you working any more?’ I rub under my eyes ineffectually, jabbing my eyeball by mistake.
‘I live here. I come home for lunch most days,’ says Frank. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Hmm,’ I harrumph. ‘You didn’t use to. Anyway, this is my friend Louisa. Louisa, Frank. Frank, Louisa.’
‘Very pleased to meet you,’ says Louisa, who actually licks her lips very quickly, which I thought only happened in movies.
‘Likewise,’ says Frank, fixing her with his flinty eyes. ‘Stella’s talked a lot about you.’
This isn’t even true. I notice his eyes flick imperceptibly to her left hand, and clock the fact that her ring finger is bare. I can’t believe Frank. It’s like an illness, with him. He’s probably gauging her ride-worthiness as we speak.
‘And you.’ Louisa giggles.
There’s a charged sort of silence for a few seconds, until I bend down to unhook Honey from her buggy straps.
‘Fwankie,’ says Honey, stretching her arms out to him. ‘Oi home.’
Frank scoops her up easily and perches her on his hip. ‘And who’s this?’ he asks Louisa, glancing tenderly, shamelessly, towards Alexander.
‘My son,’ says Lou. ‘Alex. He’s a year older than Honey. They’re great friends.’
‘Hello, Alexander. Nice-looking little chap,’ says Frank charmingly. ‘Like his mother.’
‘Eeurgh,’ I say. ‘Oh, vom, Frank. Polish up your technique a bit, would you?’
‘What?’ says Frank, laughing. ‘It’s true.’
‘Heehee,’ says Louisa, blushing now. Why do sassy, capable, adult women get reduced to quivering pools of jelly the second anyone says anything remotely nice to them? Louisa’s really good-looking: people must say nice things to her all the time. Surely she’s got used to it by now. Apparently not, though: quiver, quiver. God, it gets on my nerves.
I heave a great dramatic sigh and push past them to take off my coat, and then stride purposefully into the living room. Frank and Louisa fail to follow me: they’re standing in the hall as though they’ve taken root.
‘Hello!’ I call out. ‘Lunch, anyone? Louisa, I’m putting Angelina Ballerina on. Is that OK with Alex, or would he prefer Bob the Builder?’
‘Bob,’ yells Alexander in tones of crazed excitement, charging into the room. ‘Bob, please.’
‘Bob, please,’ echoes Louisa, coming into the room as I hear Frank going up the stairs. ‘It’s his favourite.’
‘Are you hot, Lou?’ Louisa’s cardigan, previously done up, is now held together by a mere two buttons, revealing a generous expanse of upper chest and, I notice with a twinge of annoyance, rather an impressive glimpse of flat-as-a-board stomach.
‘Yes, I am, a bit, as a matter of fact,’ Lou says defiantly. ‘Must have been the walk.’
‘Must have been,’ I shrug, reaching for my bobbly old pashmina shawl off the back of the armchair. The truth is, it’s freezing in here, as evidenced by Louisa’s nipples.
‘You,’ I whisper, ‘are a hussy.’
Louisa winks at me. ‘He has enormous eyelashes,’ she simpers wetly. ‘And that chin – so masculine.’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Stella, he’s gorgeous. Do you, would you …’
‘Mind? No. And you’ll succeed, by the way, if that’s your mission.’
‘Did you get anything for lunch?’ Frank asks from the doorway.
Bloody hell: how long’s he been standing there? I look at him, as casually as possible. He looks back at me: Mr Inscrutable.
&nb
sp; ‘I got some wine,’ I say, ‘and there’s tons of stuff in the fridge.’
Frank wanders off to have a look. He is a man of many appetites.
I lower my voice and address Louisa again. ‘But I wouldn’t expect a wedding ring if I were you. I have warned you, Lou: he’s a total one.’
‘Ooh,’ says Louisa, shuddering with pleasure (that’s another thing: why do sassy, capable, adult women so like being told that someone is a bad boy? Some creepy mothering instinct, probably. Yuck). ‘God, Stella, I can’t believe you undersold him like that. You know, physically.’
‘I could make pasta with goat’s cheese and peas,’ Frank shouts through.
‘My God!’ says Louisa. ‘He cooks!’
‘Whatever,’ I shout back churlishly.
‘That sounds delicious,’ shouts Louisa. ‘Thank you.’
‘Will the children eat it?’ asks Frank, coming back through.
‘I don’t see why not,’ I say. ‘Lou?’
‘I expect so. Do you know, Rainbow came round for tea the other day and it turns out she only eats oven chips. That’s literally all she eats. And chocolate.’
‘I can’t stand that. It’s so English.’
‘Well, it can’t really be helped,’ Lou says. ‘Picky eaters.’
‘Yes, it can. I mean, obviously children like some things more than others, but the idea that they only eat bland, plastic food is just a crock. If they’re hungry, they eat what they’re given. And if you only give them crap, they turn into the kind of adults who haven’t met an aubergine until they’re twenty-five and don’t like going abroad because the food’s funny.’
‘You’re in a good mood today,’ says Frank. ‘That legendary charm pouring out of you.’
‘I’m going to open some wine,’ I say, ignoring him and making my way majestically to the kitchen.
He’s right, though: I was in a perfectly good mood until we got into the house and Frank started his I’m-on-heat routine and Louisa fell for it. I pull the cork out of a bottle of white Burgundy and pour myself a glass. With what I thought was admirable prescience, I’ve asked Mary to come on Thursday afternoons from today, since we’re at playgroup all morning. She’s coming at two, which means I can have a drunken lunch and mooch about all afternoon without having to worry about poor Honey (quite an appealing thought, as poor Honey slept in my bed last night – well, I say ‘slept’, but ‘chatted and giggled and wiggled her way through the night’ would be more apt. I love those nights, and I love kissing her little damp head when she finally falls asleep, but I do really feel the lack of a good rest in the morning).
I take a cooling sip of wine and click the button on the answerphone. There’s a message from Yungsta asking me to have dinner with him tomorrow; perhaps I’d also like to come and watch him in action afterwards somewhere in the East End. This cheers me, so that I feel much more kindly disposed when Frank returns to the kitchen, Louisa in tow.
‘They’re watching the video,’ she says. ‘Then lunch, then naps, I think. Frank says he might show me his pictures.’
‘It’s not far,’ says Frank, reaching for a pan. ‘I thought maybe you could keep an eye on Alexander for a little while, Stella.’
‘Come up and see my etchings,’ I say, which comes out quite tersely, by mistake. ‘Of course,’ I say, more pleasantly. ‘No problem. And anyway, Mary’s coming in an hour or so.’
Frank puts the water on to boil, and then pours Louisa and himself a drink.
‘Cheers,’ he says.
‘Cheers,’ says Louisa. Flutter flutter.
‘Your neighbour just left a message,’ I tell her, ‘asking me out.’
‘Are you going to go?’
‘God, yes,’ I say, with a degree of enthusiasm that, pleased as I am, I don’t actually quite feel. ‘You bet. Tomorrow.’
‘Where’s he taking you?’ Frank asks. ‘Penne or spaghetti? Penne’s probably easier for the kids.’
‘Some restaurant in Shoreditch. You’ll know it, probably, seeing it’s your stamping ground. Called Melon.’
‘That’s a bar,’ says Frank. ‘Very busy. Not quite your cup of tea, princess.’
‘Well, the message said dinner, so maybe he’ll take me on somewhere,’ I say, with my nose in the air. ‘Somewhere fabulous, I expect.’
‘Do you feel shy about it?’ asks Louisa.
My nose comes down again. ‘Actually, a tiny bit. I haven’t had a date-date for years.’
‘Would you like some company?’ Louisa offers generously. ‘I mean, it’s not so bad if there are other people around.’
‘Like who?’
‘Like me,’ she beams. ‘I know Adrian pretty well. And maybe Frank would care to join us,’ she adds flirtatiously, sliding him a look.
‘Why not?’ says Frank. ‘Might be a laugh.’
‘No! I’m not having the pair of you sitting there like, like an audience, watching my date.’
‘I was thinking,’ says Louisa, ‘more of a double date kind of a thing.’
‘Blimey,’ says Frank. ‘You don’t waste much time.’
‘I just meant …’ says Lou, taking another glug of wine for courage. Her eyes are shining. She looks very pretty. ‘Well, I just meant that it would be nice, I suppose. Fun. But if you don’t fancy it …’ She suddenly looks crestfallen. ‘I mean, nothing serious. But you don’t have to … Obviously. Er …’
‘Nah,’ says Frank casually, rustling around inside the freezer for peas. ‘I’m game.’
‘Quelle surprise,’ I mutter, despite myself.
‘What?’ says Frank, turning around and giving me the benefit of an especially flinty stare, accompanied by an amused raised eyebrow.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘You have needs, that’s all.’
‘Stella!’ says Lou, like a hypocrite: for all her subtlety, she might as well be advertising her own needs on a giant billboard strapped to her chest.
Frank shakes his head, smiles, and starts doing things to the goat’s cheese. I can’t believe it: people actually beg him for dates. What’s the matter with Louisa?
‘What’s the matter with you?’ I ask her, steering her back through into the living room under the pretext of checking on the children, who have fallen into one of those toddlers’ video-comas. ‘Have you gone mad? I mean, asking people out like that! It’s so pushy.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Louisa replies. ‘It’s what modern women do. And I am quoting Vogue, I’ll have you know.’
‘There’s asking people out and there’s throwing – hurling – yourself at them in a desperate kind of way,’ I explain. ‘Still, if that’s what you want …’
‘It is, actually,’ she says, looking pleased now that she’s finished looking shocked at herself. ‘I reckon it’ll be a laugh. And you said you didn’t mind.’
‘I don’t. How long since you’ve had sex?’
‘Oh, God,’ she groans. ‘About two years.’ Her eyes are shining again.
‘That makes you a born-again virgin, and as such susceptible to feelings of abandonment and disappointment if he doesn’t follow through with a second date,’ I tell her. And I’m quoting myself. Honestly, it’s true – I’ve noticed it happening. So brace yourself.’
‘Oh, I’m braced,’ says Louisa with a grin. ‘I am so braced.’
14
Try as I might, I can’t seem to get excited enough about this double date. Frank and Louisa disappeared for an hour and a half yesterday, when he took her to look at his paintings. I sat and watched a sleeping Honey and Alexander, which was initially sweet but subsequently so dull that I joined them and had a quick nap myself. By the time my only two friends in the whole of London – the two people I am closest to – came back, I’d been awake for twenty minutes and was suffering agonies of annoyance. Bloody Frank, ruining my girly afternoon. I scanned their faces for signs of guilt (pointlessly, since, as I know, Frank doesn’t do guilt), as well as for signs of snogging, but I didn’t get much chance for scrutiny because Louisa o
nly stayed another ten minutes and Frank went straight back to the studio. Mary was in the living room – I’d asked her to come because I thought – hoped – that Lou and I might get drunk again, and have another funny, silly afternoon – so I couldn’t even ask the questions I wanted to ask, assuming that I would have done so. Which isn’t a given. Ignorance is bliss, and, failing ignorance, doubt: there’s always the possibility that you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick.
Louisa scooped Alexander up and wheeled him home, and I was left feeling lonelier and crosser than I’ve felt in quite some time. I sat and drank tea with Mary for a while, and then paid her off, thanked her for her wasted journey, told her I’d see her the next night – Double Date Night – and went to bed at the same time as Honey. I didn’t hear Frank come home. I’m not sure he did.
So here I am twenty-four hours later, trying – again – to get ready; feeling – again – that my heart isn’t quite in it. Why does one have to go on dates, anyway? What’s so wrong with being single, and content, and just sort of pottery? Nothing, I sigh, pencilling in my left eyebrow, nothing at all if you are content. But I’m not. I don’t want to live the rest of my life on my own, without sex, lonely again. And so needs must, as Tim the neighbour might say. (His wife came back from Majorca today, and I felt an odd sort of pang as I watched them all pile into their absurd people carrier, no doubt going out for a celebratory meal. Silly, weird Tim, his over-made-up wife, their two slouchy, trainered sons … so neat and dull and naffly 2.4-ish: for one fleeting moment, I’d have swapped places with any of them.)
My eyeshadow’s gone wrong and I look like Joan Collins. I rub the worst of the excess away, and take a good look at myself in the bathroom mirror. Me, or a twenty-three-year-old with no conversation and fabulous tits? No contest. No, really. If I were a man, I’d go for the pert-breasted retard every time. No wonder women like me all end up either having affairs with married men or becoming lesbians. Frankly, there isn’t a wild amount of choice. Speaking of lesbians, I should ring that nice old Barbara. Perhaps I could become that nice old Barbara’s faithful companion.
