by Daisy Waugh
So that’s them. I dunno. I’m annoyed, really, and embarrassed—because maybe they’re never going to be our friends. They’re obviously never going to be our friends, but they’re OK. In their own way. There was no need for Fin to offend them. Again. Especially after that conceited lecture about intolerance and Notting Hill Gate.
Fin and I had a humdinger of a row after they were gone.
Tuesday February 28th
Can’t concentrate on anything this morning. I can’t. I’m so behind with my work but I just can’t concentrate. Why did Hatty call Fin about the stupid Oscar before she called me? Why? Why would she do that? What’s going on between those two, and also, is it my imagination or are they being peculiarly unsubtle about it? Either they’re both very stupid, which they aren’t. Or they’re trying to fool me with a double bluff. Or I’m going insane.
Which I’m not. I don’t think.
Fin’s called three times so far today but I haven’t spoken to him yet. In fact I haven’t spoken to him since he flew to Barcelona on Sunday night. And Hatty’s left a message from Los Angeles. I’m usually so desperate for someone to talk to I call them both back straight away. But now all I can think about is him and Hatty, Hatty and him—and I’m in such a stew about it I don’t quite trust myself to speak to either of them.
Also, bloody Mabel, not content with peeing on Ripley’s bed while he was sleeping in it last night, this morning decided it would be fun to chew through my computer’s power cable. I sincerely hope it gave her an electric shock, because the battery’s now flat, and due to the computer’s enormous age (four years) there is no replacement cable for sale anywhere within a 200-mile radius of Paradise. I’m having to get one sent from London. They say it’s going to take at least a week.
Which means, unless I write longhand, as I am now—but it’s not the same—any real progress on the novel, today exactly a fortnight overdue, is going to be pretty much out of the question. The next column isn’t due in for nine days, thank God. And I suppose it’s lucky I haven’t got any other journalism on at the moment. Haven’t had any for ages, now I come to think of it. In fact the calls from all my usual commissioning editors seem to have completely dried up. Why?
Sod it. I think I’ll take Ripley and Dora to McDonalds for tea. I’ve been in such a foul mood since I fetched them from school earlier. Perhaps it’ll cheer us all up.
Tuesday night
Children got quite annoyed with me this evening, even in spite of the McDonald’s treat. Don’t blame them, either. I wasn’t listening to a word they were saying, poor things. I was responding to everything on 100 per cent automatic—and then Ripley was waving a free piece of plastic junk in front of my nose and shouting something at me, and at the same instant I had a picture of Hatty and Fin going at it hammer and tongs, and I snapped. Flicked the piece of plastic out of my face so it flew half way across the restaurant. ‘For God’s sake, SIT DOWN,’ I yelled—but he was sitting. Perfectly. His face crumpled and Dora put her arm around him.
‘He’s only showing you something,’ she said. ‘What’s so wrong with that? And all you’re doing is just existing to be sorry for yourself.’
Funny, when the things you say get mixed around and thrown back at you. She certainly had a point. So I apologised. Went to retrieve the bloody plastic from under some obese young mother’s foot, but it was already broken.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Ripley, very bravely. ‘I think it was already broken anyway.’
We ate mostly in silence for a while after that. I felt guilty. Made a few attempts to ignite a to-and-fro on matters traditionally suitable for children, as I always do when I realise I’ve been useless. I begin to patronise them.
Did Mrs Sprott, I asked Ripley, think the boys or the girls were better at keeping their tuck boxes tidy?
Ripley and Dora exchanged glances over their filthy hamburgers and started giggling. ‘Mum, just because you pinged that toy,’ Dora said, ‘doesn’t mean you have to be boring.’
Which took the pressure off. We cheered up quite a lot after that.
Text message.
It’s Darrell…At ten o’clock. Says he’s just got back from work! Also that he’s passing near by the house this Friday lunchtime with a couple of hours to spare and he’s still hoping for ‘that’ game of tennis. Was there ever a ‘that’ game? I don’t remember—after the humiliation of the last one I can’t imagine daring to suggest ever playing him again. Or maybe I did. It doesn’t matter, anyway. God, what a—
Oh dear. Sounds like Ripley’s crying. And he’s yelling at Mabel. Again. He’s got to stop putting her in bed with him at night. Poor Ripley. Better go.
Wednesday
Just ordered some modern, exciting new kitchen chairs to match our modern, exciting, newly finished kitchen. Only seen a picture of them on the internet so far, and they’re suspiciously cheap, but never mind. They’re supposed to be delivered next week.
March 2nd
Hatty left a message on the mobile last night, sounding slightly offended, which I thought was a bit rich. She said she ‘presumed’ that I’d heard The News. Well of course I’ve heard The News. She very thoughtfully rang my husband in Barcelona to tell him about it. Anyway, I’ve decided not to return the call until I’m feeling a bit calmer. Or until I know what the hell is going on. Or until I stop feeling like a mad, jealous bitch. Or something.
I’ve not talked to Fin all week—at least not properly. We made a couple of attempts at conversation on Wednesday, but he always sounded distracted, and then, both times, he cut me off mid amazingly interesting anecdote, because something more important came up. So. He’s called back several times since then, but I’m not interested. I’ve been ignoring him. Trouble is I’m not sure he’s noticed yet.
Also, annoyingly, I’m dying to talk to him about the neighbours’ secret tree planting. I’ve only just noticed what’s been going on.
In all the time we’ve been here there’s been very little sign of life from the big house next door. It’s not next door, actually, it’s about 20 metres down the hill. Or 100 metres—I don’t know. Close enough to be able to see if they’ve left a window open, but nowhere near close enough (disappointingly) to be able to hear what’s being said inside. Our house is further up the hill than theirs, slightly smaller and a great deal scruffier; inferior, in fact, in every aspect but its proximity to the stars. It means, obviously, that we’re fitter, due to the extended scramble required to reach our front door; also that from numerous rooms in our scruffy house we enjoy an interrupted view, not only of Paradise, but of their big, fat, perfect but not especially interesting back garden.
I have never seen anyone playing in it. In fact, apart from the time I spotted a young man in overalls, regrouting a wall, I have never seen anyone in it at all. Which is quite odd, because it’s vast, and there’s not a weed in it anywhere. So somebody has to be spending a hell of a lot of time out there looking after it. But when? For some reason they must only be willing to come out at night.
In any case, country neighbours are supposed to be friendly, aren’t they? I thought they were supposed to welcome newcomers with baskets of vegetables and invitations to pop round for soup. Not these ones. I went over to introduce myself once, soon after it became obvious they were never going to do it themselves. The windows were open but they didn’t answer the doorbell, and something about the place—it’s immaculate lifelessness—gave me the jitters. I didn’t hang around. Since then, one way or another, there has always been a vaguely mysterious, vaguely hostile cloud wafting silently between our two houses. I have sensed it. I have been sure of it. But until now I never had any proof.
Somehow—under cover of night perhaps—they have secretly planted a line of young trees along the wall between our two gardens. Not only that: the postman says they’re a breed of tree which usually grows at least 10 foot every spring.
Friday 4th
Arrived back from the school run this morning to discover that t
he beautiful horsehair ceiling, with all its intricate, ancient, delicate, irreplaceable plaster moldings, has collapsed—directly onto our brand new, pale green kitchen.
And here I am, doing absolutely nothing about it. I’m lying on my bed, writing my diary.
When I came in just now and I first saw the absolute wreck which, however briefly, was possibly the smartest kitchen in the whole of the South West of England—and then I looked up and saw the socking great hole in what, for almost 200 years, was possibly the most elegant ceiling in Paradise—I laughed. I don’t know why. I just laughed until there were tears pouring down my cheeks. Freaked me out a bit.
I suppose I was struck, suddenly, by the utter silliness of everything: the whole bloody Project: of Fin and me ever imagining we could create this perfect house, this perfect life. How greedy and naïve we have been. How arrogant and vain and altogether fatuous. It seemed funny. I think. For a moment. Because now the bathroom’s collapsed onto the kitchen, the countryside’s covered in slugs, the children think fields are boring, Daddy never bothers to come home any more and Mummy’s on the point of copping off with the builder…
No. She’s not.
Either way, we’re going to have to find a new builder from somewhere, I suppose, and not because of the frisson, either. I happen to know that Darrell’s got too much work on as it is. There’s not a chance he’d have time to do it. And, for the moment at least, I don’t care. As far as this house is concerned, I’ve run out of puff. There’s a sink in the laundry room, and a table in the playroom, and after I’ve picked up the children maybe we can go to Argos and buy a little microwave oven. I’m going to close the doors on kitchen and bathroom—or what’s left of them both—and ignore that whole section of house until Fin gets back. He can deal with it. And in the meantime, with or without the bloody computer cable, I have got to get on with some work.
Unless Darrell drops by. Obviously. Which I suppose he might, it being Friday and all. Incidentally I’ve formed quite a good strategy re Darrell. One which puts me morally in the clear, which is important, but on the other hand doesn’t rule anything out, which would be needlessly depressing, especially under the circumstances. I have decided not to reply to his texts—not to the two he’s already sent, nor even if he texts me again…Which means I could hardly accuse myself of encouraging him. On the other hand if he does happen to turn up, with a racquet in his hand and so on, then…well…What will be, will be. Tennis it is. Or whatever. Tennis it isn’t. What will be, will be.
March 7th
Fin caught the early train to London this morning, armed with a lot of telephone numbers for local builders. He said he would dedicate the entire journey to finding somebody to fix the kitchen ceiling. He said that, and neither of us could be bothered to point out what we both knew—that he could dedicate as much journey time as he liked: the mobile signal is so bad on that route it’s virtually impossible to make a single call without getting cut off. I spent two hours once, trying to remind the painter not to let the dog out. By the time I reached Paddington I must have dialled him fifteen times without getting the message across. And Mabel, of course, was long gone. She didn’t turn up again until the following morning. So. Anyway. In the meantime efforts—such as they are—to rebuild the new kitchen proceed at a dead snail’s pace, i.e. not at all, and I don’t mind in the least. It’s a good excuse not to do any cooking.
No more texts from Darrell. Which is probably a very good thing. Actually the doorbell rang last Friday, when I was still lying there writing the diary, and I was a bit worried by my reaction to it. I sprang off the bloody bed as if I’d just been electrocuted. And the very first thought that crossed my mind, even before I landed, wasn’t, for example: ‘Perhaps that’s the new computer cable come to save my bacon,’ or: ‘Perhaps that’s the furniture shop, come to drop off my suspiciously cheap new chairs.’ It was:
HE’S HERE! What pants have I got on?
In any case, he wasn’t HERE at all. It was Clare Gower, arrived for lunch. But what with the kitchen ceiling falling in I had completely forgotten she was coming.
She couldn’t have been more sympathetic, more tactful, more understanding or more forgiving. When she saw the state of the new kitchen she almost burst into tears. She said she couldn’t even bear to look at it and we had to retreat to the sitting room for her to recover.
As soon as she’d done that, she put in a call to her own builders.
‘They should jump at it,’ she muttered, tappety-tapping onto the mobile with her lovely, tidy, shiny nails. ‘The amount we spend with them, they should offer to do it for free! They’re ever so nice, though. They always leave the place super-tidy afterwards. So don’t worry.’ She glanced at me. ‘Soon as I’ve done this,’ she said, ‘I’m taking you out to lunch. No arguing. So off you pop upstairs and change.’
So—Well. I dunno. Didn’t have anything else to do. And there wasn’t any food in the house. Off I popped.
When I came downstairs, this time in a cleaner pair of jeans and wearing mascara, Clare looked me up and down and managed not to frown, just about. ‘Much better!’ she said unconvincingly. ‘Right then! Off we go! And before you say anything, this one’s on me. And I’m driving!’
It turned out her builders were booked up until well beyond the next ice age. So that was that. We forgot the kitchen, as soon as she allowed us to, and headed out to lunch. She drove us to a pretty pub about twenty minutes away, which had a lot of Range Rovers parked outside, and a menu as good or better than most places in London and—honestly—it was a treat. Don’t think I’d realised how gloomy I was feeling until Clare cheered me up again. We talked about beauty secrets, of course. I confided to her the truth of Dora’s and my Style Rut, and she suggested I drop in at Chanel next time I was in London. She said her husband, Roger, bought her something from Chanel every Christmas and every birthday, and that it was definitely her favourite shop. She especially loved the packaging. We discussed the health and beauty benefits associated with drinking plenty of water, and I learned that fizzy water has been known to increase cellulite. We talked about Farrow and Ball paints now being available in Homebase. And we politely took it in turns to relate adorable anecdotes about our children.
We both grew steadily tipsier. I mentioned the neighbours and their evil wall of trees. She said she knew them vaguely; and though Clare doesn’t say negative things about anyone I got the distinct impression she didn’t like them. She certainly didn’t want to talk about them anyway.
After the third glass of wine she asked me how I was settling in Paradise, and I confided in her that with Fin away and no friends around I was finding it ‘difficult’. Wish I hadn’t said it now. Too bad.
In any case, she leant forward and there was, I think, between the carefully blackened eyelashes, a flicker of something less perky than usual: of fear, perhaps—or perhaps that was always there—perhaps of understanding. She said very quickly, very quietly…that after five years a commuter widow in Paradise there were still times when she got a bit fed up, too.
And that was it. Then she changed the conversation.
She knows a woman who comes to the house with her own St Tropez tanning machine, she says, and she’s thinking of organising a ladies’ St Tropez night at her house, for all the mums. I said I thought that it sounded like great fun.
COUNTRY MOLE
Sunday Times
It’s possible that my eternally absent husband, who works in the film industry, has always led a fractionally more glamorous existence than I have. But since we moved to Paradise the difference between our two lifestyles has become embarrassing. Take today, for example. He is in Barcelona, or so he tells me, having lunch with Antonio Banderas. He’s just texted me that the sun is shining and that ‘Antonio’ is being delightful. Which is good.
Down here in Paradise, meanwhile, I have taken the dog for a bracing walk and torn the pocket of my anorak, trying to squeeze through a barbed-wire fence. So. When the husband calls t
onight, that’ll be the hot news. The anorak. Followed seamlessly by whatever the hell I might have cooked the children for din-dins.
Actually if things don’t liven up a bit I may have to duck the call altogether. I have some pride left, and there was a time when I definitely used to be interesting. So, yes, I’ll screen the call. Keep him guessing what those children had for din-dins, dammit! And in the meantime I can only hope that while I’m busying myself with bracing walks and broken anoraks, some delicious Barcelona starlet isn’t busying herself with—never mind.
Forget it.
I’ve been thinking a lot about trees lately, the way we country folk do.
Now that spring is supposed to be coming I find myself especially concerned with a row of young saplings recently planted in my unknown neighbour’s immaculately tended garden. The trees are still small. I’m fairly certain they weren’t even planted until after we bought the house. Or if they were, we didn’t notice them, and nor, by the way, did the postman. We (the husband, the postman and I) were all too bowled over by the spectacular view; which view, and this is my point, those innocent-looking saplings are soon going to completely obliterate.
And there in a nutshell is the trouble with rural living. Yes, you can leave your flak jacket on its peg in the hall, and no, there are no pools of drunken vomit between your car and the front door. But which inner-city dweller has ever had to lie awake at night worrying about the growth rate of poplar saplings? Because if those little poplars are left to flourish unhindered they could knock tens of thousands off the value of our property. They could send us spiralling into negative equity, trapping us in this godforsaken Paradise for ever…
