by Fiona Gibson
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I say, trying to radiate how comfortable I am, how effective my body is at regulating its own temperature.
‘And they’d talk to everyone individually about what they might need, such as, um, a fan on their desk, or to sit near an open window.’ She beams at me. ‘They might want to talk about issues like, erm, aches, pains and, uh, any intimate problems they’re facing. Problems at home.’ Problems in their pants, does she mean? Is that the kind of ‘home’ she’s referring to? ‘Talking always helps, doesn’t it?’ she adds. ‘Knowing you’re not alone?’
‘Oh, yes …’ But not at work. Not with an ‘ambassador’.
‘We could have lunchtime talks, question and answer sessions, experts brought in,’ she continues, really getting into her stride now.
Hmmm, like an endocrinologist-type expert? I could ask the ever-sympathetic Dr Andy Flint to pop in!
‘So,’ she adds, ‘that’s the kind of role I have in mind. What do you think?’
I pause and drain my water glass. So this is my future. At night I lie there, wet as a trout. And by day she wants me to be the Hot Flush Lady, so whenever any woman ‘at that life stage’ sees me approaching, they’ll think, Shit, here’s Viv. Quick, talk to me, make it look like I’m busy so she doesn’t ask me if I’m experiencing vaginal atrophy and finding intercourse difficult.
It might be well-meaning. Hell, maybe some women would relish that sort of role in the workplace. But I don’t want it to be me.
‘I’m really not sure,’ I murmur. ‘I need time to think—’
‘I should make it clear,’ Rose cuts in, ‘with this being a new idea, a pilot scheme if you like – I’m afraid there wouldn’t be a change of grade, or a salary increase.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes, because it’s not actually a new job. Everything else would stay the same.’
‘So … I’d still be your PA?’ I ask, trying not to sound appalled.
‘Oh, yes, absolutely. This would just add an extra layer of responsibility and an enhancement of status.’
I stare at her, not knowing how to respond. She smiles briefly and checks her tiny gold watch, then summons the waiter to bring our bill. ‘Think it over, will you?’ she says, whipping out her company credit card. ‘Because I’m very much hoping that person could be you.’
Chapter Nineteen
Later that evening
Well, bloody hell, that serves me right for getting ideas above my station. A mentor indeed! What the hell was I thinking? I’m a PA and that’s that. I might as well get used to the idea that no one’s going to offer me a fantastic job on a plate.
Anyway, there’s plenty going on in my life without a new, complicated position to get to grips with. I told Jules I was ‘stuck’ and ‘ready for change’. But my life has changed; it’s always changing, more than I want it to sometimes. For instance, in terms of the inhabitants of this house, first we had:
Me, Andy, Spencer.
Then: Me, Andy, Spencer, Izzy.
Then: Me, Andy, Izzy.
Then: Me, Izzy.
And now: Me, Izzy … and Ludo.
It’s just temporary, mercifully, but the minute Izzy and I arrived home this evening, Tim appeared at the door, gripping his surly son firmly by the hand and saying, ‘Viv, I’m so sorry but we think – I mean, we’re pretty sure Chrissie’s in labour …’
‘Is she okay?’ I asked, alarmed. ‘It’s early, isn’t it?’ We often chat in our back gardens and she’s been keeping me up to date. I’ve felt sorry for her, actually. From being voluntarily laissez faire regarding Ludo’s antics (read: rampant destruction), lately she’s just seemed steamrollered by it all.
‘She’s thirty-seven weeks,’ Tim said. ‘I’m going to take her to hospital now. The problem is, my parents had planned to come and take care of Ludo but they’re still on holiday, not due back till Wednesday night. There really is no one else I can ask.’
‘Of course he can stay with us,’ I said, reaching for his hand. ‘It’s no problem.’ Ludo looked decidedly unimpressed, and Izzy was studying him with interest as if he might suddenly launch into an exotic dance. ‘Come on in, Ludo. Have you had dinner yet?’ He shook his head.
‘Sorry,’ Tim muttered. ‘We haven’t managed to get anything together …’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll fix something. Just get off to hospital, okay?’
He smiled bravely and gave me a quick, awkward hug. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll call when we have news.’
‘Can’t I come, Dad?’ Ludo whined.
‘You can’t go to hospital,’ Izzy retorted, ‘when your mum’s having a baby. Come in with us.’
So here he is, still clutching his small tartan rucksack, peering around our kitchen in the manner of a health and safety officer who is finding the premises sorely lacking. Admittedly, standards are lower here than at his place. Potatoes are creating their own little sprouty jungle in the vegetable rack, a load of non-perishable groceries has been sitting on the worktop for two days, waiting to be put away, and a box heaped with bottles is parked by the back door, awaiting recycling. I pour the kids glasses of orange juice, prattling on about how school is, and what does he think of their new teacher (Izzy and Ludo are in the same class, although you’d never know it by all the interaction that’s going on). Really, I’m just jabbering away, filling space, leaving no gaps for him to start quizzing me about divorces again.
After my lunch with Rose, what I’d dearly love is to flop onto the sofa with a cool flannel placed on my forehead, before adjourning to bed. I want to lie there, alone – ideally for two weeks, with drinks and snacks brought to me by a dashing waiter, as if I’m on one of those all-inclusive holidays that Andy never let us go on (‘They’re for people with no imagination,’ he reckoned. Copious food and unlimited cocktails to tip down my neck? I’ve always thought they sound heavenly). However, the kids must be fed and, aware that Ludo is out of sorts – understandably, as his position of Lord of the Manor is about to be usurped by a hollering baby – I must rise to the challenge of bashing a meal together for them.
‘What d’you like to eat, Ludo?’ I ask as I start to put the groceries away.
It seems ridiculous that I know so little about this child who is the same age as my daughter and has lived next door for the past three years. However, despite Chrissie’s suggestions that they should play together (why? Because they are small humans of roughly the same size?), it has always been apparent that that would never be a happy situation for anyone.
‘Dunno,’ Ludo says.
I try again. ‘If there’s something you really like, we might have it in and I can make it for you.’
Silence descends. Izzy glances at me, a small smile playing on her lips.
‘What d’you like, Ludo?’ she prompts him.
‘Cola bottles and fried eggs,’ he replies.
‘Oh. You mean a drink of cola with your fried eggs?’ I ask. Brilliant. That’s easy. We always have eggs – my whole family has always been mad about them, in all forms – and although we don’t have cola, I’m sure I can palm him off with the rather flat lemonade in the fridge.
I open it and reach for the big plastic bottle. ‘I mean cola bottles and fried eggs,’ Ludo barks.
‘Yes, I’m just getting the eggs out too.’ I place them, along with the lemonade, on the worktop. Izzy is sitting on a wooden chair, swinging her bare legs, observing the proceedings with fascination.
‘Not those kinds of eggs,’ Ludo retorts.
I look at him, uncomprehending. ‘What d’you mean, love?’ Duck eggs? Quails’ eggs? A Fabergé egg?
‘D’you mean those fried egg sweets?’ Izzy asks levelly.
‘Yeah.’
‘And cola bottle sweets?’ He nods, and Izzy turns to me: ‘That’s what he means, Mum. The sweets.’
‘Ah, I’m sorry,’ I say, feigning regret, ‘but we don’t have those in, Ludo. And I was actually thinking more, um, dinner-type food …’
&nbs
p; ‘I could make something?’ Izzy suggests.
Somehow, I’m not sure that Turkish tomatoes or even her sourdough pizza would be greeted with enthusiasm by our young guest. ‘It’s okay, Iz. Thanks, but I think we’ll just have something simple—’
‘I like … pancakes,’ he announces.
‘Pancakes?’ I beam at him. ‘I can do that. D’you mean the small, thick kind, or big and thin?’
‘Big and thin.’
‘Right! Pancakes it is then,’ I announce, much to Izzy’s surprise and delight. Normally, we only have them on weekends. ‘Honey,’ I add, ‘could you go through and put on cartoons for you and Ludo while I make them?’ I am aware of the children eyeing each other, thrown together by circumstance. Neither of them seems to want to go anywhere.
‘I’ll help you,’ she says.
‘I will too,’ adds Ludo. I’m about to say no thank you but, hell, his mum has just been rushed off to hospital, and he’s probably staying with us overnight – I’m not sure if he ever goes on sleepovers, I suspect no one ever invites him – so, to that end, I make a firm decision to be as kind and amenable as is humanly possible.
Gratifyingly, Izzy is happy for Ludo to do the mixing, and I turn a blind eye to the fact that batter is splashing everywhere. I do draw the line at letting him fry the pancakes, even though his mother regularly allows him to play with hot oil, by all accounts (‘We don’t say no!’) – but that’s not happening on my watch. However, I do let him choose his pancake toppings, catching Izzy’s look of amazement as he rejects my suggestions of grated cheese and ham, opting instead to smear on Nutella and jam, plus a liberal sprinkling of granulated sugar.
On and on I fry, sweating like a short order cook, totalling what feels like about 200 pancakes (because he keeps asking for more) until the kitchen – and I – reek of burnt butter.
Ludo doesn’t want a bath, and I’m not about to push him on the matter. Nor does he want a story or to clean his teeth, although I do insist on the latter. When his mother comes home, he might complain that our house is scruffy and we don’t have his favourite gummy sweets. But by God, he will still be in possession of his teeth.
Tuesday, August 20
Chrissie has had an emergency caesarean, which was pretty shocking for both of them as apparently Ludo was born at home, with scented oils burning and Tim reading the poems she had selected beforehand. There was no poetry this time. However, mother and baby daughter (name yet to be announced) are doing fine, and I’ve communicated that Ludo is fine too, a delight to have around.
Chrissie wants me to stay here, Tim has texted, prob overnight. She’s just a bit shellshocked. So sorry. Is that okay with you?
Of course it is, I assure him.
I drop off the children at school, both of whom barely spoke on the way, and hoping that Ludo is so far untraumatised by his stay with us. He shouldn’t be. For breakfast he requested toast and Nutella, giving me a challenging stare when I caught him dipping a knife into the jar and licking it. Still, he didn’t sever his tongue, so no harm done. And now, my spirits lift further as I drive to work, remembering that Rose flies to Beijing this morning for the start of an extensive tour of our Chinese customers, which will keep her out of my hair for two weeks. So, any further ambassadorial conversations will have to wait.
Later, as I collect Izzy and Ludo from after-school club, Tim texts again to say that Chrissie still doesn’t feel ready to be left at the hospital without him. So he’ll be staying with her for a second night, parked in a chair at her bedside, and Ludo will remain with us.
Absolutely no problem at all, I assure him when he pops home, briefly, to see his son, and tries to show him photos of the baby (I try to compensate for Ludo’s lack of interest by gushing madly over the blurry shots). And it really isn’t a bother. After all, Ludo’s grandparents are back from holiday tomorrow night, and surely Tim will be released by then anyway.
We have spaghetti for dinner, one of the few savoury meals that Ludo appears to regard as acceptable. While I’m knocking it together, he hoists himself up onto the kitchen table and is now sitting there, cross-legged, scratching at his white-blond hair and surveying Izzy and me like a little emperor.
‘Would you mind taking your shoes off, please?’ I ask.
‘Why?’ Ludo frowns.
Because this is my house and my rules. ‘Well, your shoes have been on the ground, and we eat off this table.’ I smile pleasantly. Surely that’s a reasonable request?
He stares at me, radiating defiance. Maybe he’s allowed to sit on the table with his shoes on at home. If he wanted to do a crap on it, would that be allowed too?
‘Please take your shoes off,’ Izzy says, like a prim teacher. I’m trying to act casual, stirring the tomato sauce as he slooooowly peels off one shoe, during which several new stress lines have etched into my forehead. He tosses it onto the floor with a thwack, and I scald myself as I’m draining their pasta.
‘Ow!’
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ Izzy asks, alarmed.
‘Yes, I’m fine love,’ I say, teeth gritted as I hold my wrist under the cold tap and Ludo’s second shoe slams to the floor.
Only twenty-four hours till Tim’s parents get back, I remind myself later as I turn out their bedroom lights.
Wednesday, August 21
Day three of Ludo. I have taken to closing my eyes at certain points at work, willing Chrissie to feel amazingly well today, so she and the baby can come home, or at the very least, Tim can be released and scoop up their firstborn and return him to the homestead. Several colleagues have asked if I’m okay, as I look a little stressed. Belinda even appears with a present for me: a tiny portable fan for my desk.
Back home, Tim pops in again briefly, and it’s all I can do not to throw myself at him and gather up Ludo’s things, stuff them into his rucksack and shimmy them out of the door. But alas, Tim’s presence is still required at the hospital and, in a flurry of sincere apologies, he zooms off again.
Still, his parents are back tonight, right? So they can take over the care of their grandson tomorrow.
Meanwhile, Izzy has become obsessed with Ludo’s toothpaste. Apparently, Tim and Chrissie ‘don’t believe in’ fluoride, as if it’s God, or Father Christmas, and not merely a tooth-strengthening substance highly recommended by the NHS. So sugar-guzzling Ludo never has tap water (in case ‘they’, whoever ‘they’ may be, have put fluoride in it) and his toothpaste is some vile-looking gunk made from sage.
No wonder the kid is reluctant to clean his teeth. What’s wrong with mouth-freshening mint, for God’s sake? The sage toothpaste’s rich, herbal stench has permeated our entire upper floor.
Thursday, August 22
Our fourth Ludo day. As Tim’s parents came back from holiday last night, the plan was for me to pick up Izzy and Ludo from after-school club and bring them home, as normal, and then the grandparents would appear as my saviours and whisk him away. However, Tim’s father is apparently unwell with food poisoning, or possibly dysentery, so they are ‘not up to’ looking after Ludo right now.
Neither am I, actually. As we walk back from school, with him demanding to stop off for sweets, and complaining loudly that our favoured shop – rather than the one they usually go to – doesn’t stock his required cola bottles/fried eggs, I pause to post a letter and inadvertently post my house keys as well.
‘Call the postman,’ Ludo commands, ‘and get him to open it up.’
‘He won’t do that, Ludo. That’s not how it works, I’m afraid.’
His dark eyes beam annoyance. ‘Why not?’
‘Because he only comes at certain times,’ I mutter, panic juddering up my chest. Ludo squints at the notice on the postbox that reads: ‘Next collection 10 a.m.’
‘We could sit here and wait?’ he suggests.
‘No, we can’t do that.’
He frowns. ‘It’s not that long. Look – it says he comes at ten o’clock.’
‘Yes, but it means ten o’clock
in the morning,’ I explain, trying to sound in control of the situation and not at all frazzled.
‘We can’t wait here all night!’ Izzy exclaims, looking up at me in alarm.
‘Why not?’ Ludo wants to know.
Oh, sure, we could nip home and fetch three sleeping bags and come back and lie here on the pavement all night, lined up, the way people used to sleep in tube stations when there was an air raid on, only without a tube station, or a war.
‘Because we can’t,’ I say firmly, grabbing both of them by the hands and marching onwards, ignoring his witterings and stopping only to google and then call a local locksmith along the way. Back home, the three of us sit, mournfully, waiting for him to appear and let us in. If it were just Izzy and me, I’d call Penny or Jules and see if we could go round to either of their places, and wait there – but I’m not prepared to inflict our houseguest on either of them.
Ninety minutes later, when we all stomp into the house, Ludo marches across the kitchen to the glass recycling box and announces, ‘You drink an awful lot of wine.’
Friday, August 23
Day ninety-seven of Ludo. At least, it feels like it. I’m starting to wonder if Chrissie, Tim and the baby are really still at the hospital, or have snuck off for a little holiday – a ‘babymoon’ – without Ludo wrecking their fun. Who could blame them, really? Maybe they’re planning to never come back? I’d probably do that, if I were them. I can’t imagine Ludo taking well to Chrissie trying to establish breastfeeding (although apparently he himself was a keen boob-guzzler until the age of four, and would only be persuaded to stop when Chrissie fibbed that there was ‘no milk left’, that it was ‘all gone’. Although she never says no, she’s clearly not above lying through her teeth when desperation strikes).
I’m also a little suspicious of Tim’s father’s illness. Do people really contract dysentery on the Costa del Sol? My energies are flagging, and Ludo has already mooted the possibility of pancakes again. To ward him off, I decide to throw together whatever I can find in the fridge and present it to the kids as a picnic. As the days have gone on, they have at least tolerated each other, playing the odd muted game, watching cartoons together, inhabiting the same room without incident. On the rare occasions that Izzy has grumbled about him being here, I’ve explained that it’s hard for Ludo, his parents disappearing like that, and this monumental change about to happen in his life.
