But looking at these unfinished pages covered with scribbled ideas and suggested twists, I’m beginning to realize something more and more. Not knowing how the story ends can be fucking exciting too.
I’m deep in concentration when my phone starts ringing. I’ve been switching it off during the day as I’ve been working, but turned it on earlier to call my bank. After my conversation with Edward a couple of days ago, I signed up with a few local estate agents to look for a flat, but instead of rentals, they put me through to Rupert in sales.
When I told him there’d been a mistake and I couldn’t afford to buy, he asked me if I’d looked at shared ownership, as it was a lot more affordable. All I needed was a five per cent deposit. My first reaction was to dismiss the idea as ludicrous. Me? Buy a flat in London? Ha, ha, very funny. But then Cricket’s rather substantial cheque arrived and it got me thinking: this could be my deposit.
And a tiny window of possibility opened, just wide enough for me to pick up the phone to my bank, even though I was certain they’d dismiss me too. But they didn’t. In fact, the idea didn’t seem ludicrous to them at all, and after taking down some personal details they said someone from the mortgage team would call me back.
It’s probably them now.
‘Hello, Penelope Stevens speaking.’ I try to sound like the kind of person you’d lend a large amount of other people’s money to.
‘Nell, is that you? It’s David, Fiona’s husband.’
‘Oh, David, hi.’ I feel mildly embarrassed by my telephone voice. I’ve known David for years, but I’ve always been slightly intimidated by him. He’s very smart and very serious, and deals with multi-million-pound mergers and acquisitions. Years ago, I remember Max asking how he kept his nerve when so much money was at stake, and he simply replied, ‘You’ve got to have balls of steel,’ and I watched Max flinch and cross his legs.
‘Listen, I can’t get hold of Fiona. Her phone’s turned off and Francisca – the nanny – has just called to tell me she’s chucking up—’
‘Ugh. I mean, oh dear—’
‘Izzy needs picking up from school, and even if I cancel this next meeting, I’m on the other side of town. I can’t get there in time.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll go,’ I say immediately.
‘Are you sure? I’d ask one of the other parents, but Fiona deals with that side of things, and she’s got all the numbers—’
‘It’s fine, I’ll leave right now.’
‘OK, thanks. I’ll call the school and let them know.’
To be honest, I love any excuse to see my goddaughter. Though it is a bit odd about Fiona. She often doesn’t pick up, but never when it’s about the children. As I jump on the bus I find myself wondering if everything’s OK. Maybe she’s got a doctor’s appointment or something. Though she never mentioned it . . . but then she doesn’t mention lots of stuff to me any more. We used to message each other several times a day, about all kinds of random things, but now often a week goes by and I don’t hear from her. Then again, I don’t get in touch either.
As usual the school gates are a cluster of cars, engines running and double yellow line parked. As I rush past them, I spot a white Range Rover and recognize it as Annabel’s. She’s sitting in the driver’s seat on her phone, her perfect manicure drumming the steering wheel.
I put my head down and hurry by. We haven’t seen each other since the sports day, the memory of which still stings, and I want to avoid any awkwardness.
Izzy is waiting in the playground and looks thrilled to see me. Giving her a hug, I take her backpack and head towards the gates. The playground is filled with parents and nannies and, as Izzy scooters alongside me, chattering about her day, I don’t see Annabel until it’s too late.
‘Nell?’
Engrossed in hearing a funny story about the class hamster, I look up to find Annabel frowning at me. If she could frown, of course. As usual she’s immaculately turned out, and as usual my outfit of the day is the same as yesterday’s, only with egg on it.
‘Oh, hi Annabel.’
‘Where’s Fiona?’
‘Busy.’ Well, I’m not admitting I don’t know. ‘David asked me if I’d pick up Izzy.’
‘Oh, he should have called me!’ She looks annoyed. ‘There’s no need for you to come all this way. Izzy can come home with Clementine and me, and I’ll drop her back later.’
Clementine is playing with Mabel, their French bulldog, teasing it with a squeaky toy. I feel Izzy reach for my hand.
‘They can play together in the pool.’
‘Can Mabel play in the pool too, Mummy?’ giggles Clementine, as poor Mabel circles endlessly on her lead.
‘Not today, darling, I think it should be just you girls.’ Annabel beams down at Izzy, who’s gone quiet. ‘You can borrow one of Clementine’s bathing suits.’
I feel Izzy’s grasp on my hand tighten.
‘Thanks, but I think Izzy’s tired. I’m going to take her home.’
Annabel’s smile sets. ‘I’m not sure Fiona would appreciate you denying her daughter some fun. The girls love swimming.’
‘I think I’ll let Fiona be the judge of that,’ I reply cheerfully, and then before Mabel is strangled, I quickly say goodbye and we escape through the school gates.
It’s only when we’ve made it to the bus stop that I realize Izzy has remained very quiet. Sitting on the red plastic seat to wait for the bus, I pull out some tangerines from my bag and begin peeling one.
‘You didn’t want to go swimming with Clementine, did you?’ I ask, passing her half.
Studying each segment, she shakes her head but doesn’t look at me. I’m surprised, but don’t say anything. I watch as she carefully removes the tiny, pithy white strings, before, satisfied, she pops a segment in her mouth. She likes to suck them like boiled sweets.
‘Would you be mad if someone called you poopy-pants?’ she says finally, raising her eyes to mine.
‘People have called me a lot worse,’ I smile. ‘Why, did someone call you poopy-pants?’
Izzy looks away and slowly selects another segment.
‘It’s just silly name-calling. Ignore them.’
There’s a pause, and then:
‘Would you be mad if someone hit you?’
I feel myself stiffen. ‘Izzy, did someone hit you at school?’
She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t meet my eyes either. Sliding off the seat, I squat down next to her so I can see her face. She’s staring at the pieces of tangerine as if her life depends on it. ‘You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?’
Her expression is serious. ‘They said I mustn’t tell. If I tell I’m going to get into trouble.’ Her voice is almost a whisper against the rumbling of the traffic.
‘Of course you’re not – why would you get into trouble?’
‘Mummy will be angry with me.’
‘Mummy loves you, she would never be angry with you. Why do you think that?’
Another pause. It seems to stretch out forever.
‘Because we won’t be able to go swimming at her house any more.’
And suddenly I realize what she’s telling me.
‘Because her mummy is my mummy’s friend.’
‘I promise you won’t get into trouble.’ I reach out my little finger. ‘Pinky promise.’
Now her eyes meet mine and, linking her little finger with mine, she tells me who’s been bullying her. But of course I already know.
Clementine.
The Next Day
All hell breaks loose.
OCTOBER
#peoplearestrange
A Week Later
They say a week is a long time in politics, but when it comes to bullying it’s astonishing how quickly things can escalate, deteriorate, spiral and transform in the space of seven days. (Can you even call it bullying at five years old? When it’s done in a tutu and fairy wings?)
The moment Fiona arrived home and heard what had been going on, she promptly s
wung into action and called Annabel. I think her intention was to try and sort this out calmly and nip things in the bud, but bullying is a highly charged topic for everyone involved, and the result was similar to what happens in those awful videos you see of petrol being thrown on a barbecue to try and fix it, and instead the whole thing explodes in a fireball.
Annabel was understandably shocked and upset but, at the same time, furious. Refusing to believe that Clementine could do such a thing, she strenuously defended her daughter and accused Izzy of lying. Accusations and emotions flew back and forth. Resulting in Fiona, who I don’t think I’ve once heard raise her voice in all the years I’ve known her, doing a good impression of a mama bear defending her cub while threatening to call the headmistress, while Annabel did an equally good impression and threatened to call the police.
Thankfully, neither were called. In the week that followed, both Fiona and Annabel calmed down enough to meet with their daughters’ teacher. The school has a zero-tolerance policy towards bullying and they took it all very seriously. They also knew how to deal with it correctly and calmly, resulting in the discovery that Izzy’s claims were indeed true, and Clementine admitting to calling her names and hitting her on several occasions.
Which explained why Izzy had gone so quiet at the birthday party; it wasn’t the clown she was scared of, it was Clementine. What it didn’t explain was why Clementine was doing it.
‘At which point Annabel broke down and confessed that she and Clive are getting divorced.’
Sitting in the cafe, I look across the table at Fiona. She messaged this morning, asking if I’d meet her for a coffee after she’d dropped the kids off at school.
‘Oh no, that’s awful. I had no idea.’
‘Me neither.’ Fiona shakes her head. ‘Nobody did.’
I think about all those photos and updates Annabel posts, showing off her perfect happy marriage. Maybe from now on, that should be a clue.
Fiona stirs her double-shot latte. She drove over to my neighbourhood, and when she arrived I went to order her a herbal tea as usual, but she said fuck that – she needed something stronger after the week she just had.
‘Poor Annabel.’
I’m surprised by how much sympathy I feel for her. She might not be my favourite person, but I know how painful a break-up can be and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I feel a sudden solidarity with her.
‘Apparently they’ve been arguing a lot. They tried to hide it from Clementine but . . .’ Fiona trails off.
‘Kids are smart,’ I note, and she nods.
‘Which probably explains Clementine lashing out,’ she continues. ‘The counsellor said that children often resort to bullying if there are problems at home; it’s their way of expressing their anger at the situation.’
‘You saw a counsellor?’
‘They have one at the school. They’ve been very good, very supportive.’
‘So how’s Izzy now?’
Fiona’s body seems to relax. ‘She seems to have come out of this remarkably unscathed. Reports from the teacher say she and Clementine appear to have put it all behind them and are the best of friends again.’
‘Wow, that’s good.’
‘I know,’ she smiles. ‘Ironically it’s the adults that are struggling with their friendship.’ She takes a sip of her coffee. ‘Annabel and I are still not speaking.’
It’s funny, there was a time when that sentence would have given me great satisfaction, but now it’s quite the opposite.
‘I guess all that matters is that Izzy is OK and Clementine is too – I hope,’ I add, feeling my heart go out to her. Despite what happened, she’s only a little girl, a little girl whose parents are splitting up and whose world, as she knows it, is about to change forever. The whole thing’s just bloody sad.
‘Yes, that’s all that matters,’ agrees Fiona. Cradling her cup, she stares out of the window, before abruptly heaving a great sigh and sending it crashing into its saucer. ‘I just feel awful that Izzy didn’t come to me first,’ she bursts out. ‘That she felt she couldn’t tell me.’ Her eyes brim with tears. ‘I blame myself.’
‘Hey, now you’re being crazy,’ I say firmly. ‘Of course it wasn’t your fault.’
‘But if she’d told me, I could have done something about it earlier. Just the thought that I was with Annabel, thinking the girls were playing, when all the time . . .’ She stops, sniffing hard.
‘And I’m sure they were, most of the time,’ I reason. ‘Who knows how recently it all started happening? What’s important is that she did tell someone, and it has been dealt with.’ Reaching over, I rub her shoulder supportively. ‘Stop beating yourself up.’
She smiles sadly. ‘Isn’t that part of the job description of being a mum?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ I say. ‘I think it’s just the job description of being a woman.’
She looks at me then and for a moment we just sit there together, two old friends. I feel closer to her than I have done for a long time.
‘I’m just glad she felt she could tell you,’ she says quietly.
‘So am I,’ I nod.
‘Look, about before – I’m sorry things got so weird between us.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘I don’t know what happened.’
‘Annabel?’ I quip, and she smiles wryly.
‘No, it’s not her fault.’ Fiona shakes her head. ‘It’s mine. I shouldn’t have let her take over Max’s birthday or the baby shower . . . I thought she was just being nice, but looking back now I think she wanted to take control of everyone else’s life because her own life was so out of control . . .’
‘I think she was also being nice,’ I say generously, and Fiona nods.
‘Annabel didn’t do anything wrong; it was me. I got my priorities all wrong. I think when we met at the school and she wanted to be my friend, I was kind of honoured. I was so in awe of her; she seemed to have it all sorted out.’ Now she laughs at how ridiculous it sounds. ‘Like here was this beautiful, successful, sophisticated woman with this amazing life, and she wants to be my friend.’
‘Unlike me,’ I grin, but Fiona doesn’t laugh. Instead she just looks upset.
‘No, but you’re real, Nell. None of it was real, was it?’
‘Well, the amazing house was,’ I point out.
‘Yes, the house,’ she nods, and we both smile.
‘Though seriously, imagine plumping all those cushions.’
‘Maybe she employs a cushion plumper.’
‘Is there such a job?’
‘I dunno. Is there?’
And then we both start laughing, with our shared stupid sense of humour and a familiarity that’s born of several decades of friendship.
‘It’s nice here.’ Fiona looks around at the cafe, seeming to notice it for the first time. ‘Do you like living here? I’ve never asked you, have I?’
‘Yeah, I do,’ I realize. ‘It’s taken a bit of getting used to, but yeah, I like it.’
‘You don’t miss America?’
I have to think about it for a moment, and it strikes me that I haven’t considered it for a while. My answer was always yes, but now –
‘No, I don’t.’ I shake my head. ‘Though I missed the Californian sunshine in February,’ I smile.
‘And what about that guy you were seeing. Johnny? Gosh, I’m a terrible friend, I’ve never even asked you about him, how things are?’
‘It was just a few dates,’ I shrug. ‘Over before it started, really.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’m not.’
‘We’ve got so much to catch up on.’
‘I know,’ I nod, smiling. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Yeah, you too,’ she smiles.
‘By the way, I meant to ask, is everything else OK?’
With all this talk of Annabel’s divorce, I’d forgotten to ask about David’s phone call.
Fiona appears to stiffen. ‘Why do you ask?�
�
‘It’s just, when David said he couldn’t get hold of you last week and I went to get Izzy . . .’ I trail off, feeling a twist of anxiety.
‘I was in a job interview.’
It’s the last thing I was expecting and relief is followed quickly by surprise. ‘I didn’t know you wanted to go back to work.’
‘Neither did I,’ she admits, then smiles sheepishly, ‘until I realized I was remodelling the kitchen for the third time in five years, and it wasn’t because we needed new tiles – it was because I was so fucking bored and frustrated.’
She rests her elbows on the table and puts her head in her hands.
‘Nell, you have no idea how desperate I am to use my mind again,’ she sighs, looking up at me. ‘I spent three years studying archaeology. I’ve got a master’s in Byzantine studies and Greek palaeography. Before I had the children I was part of a team doing fieldwork on ancient sites in Europe; then I got my dream job as a museum curator and I was responsible for putting together exhibitions. And now—’
She breaks off, her frustration almost palpable.
‘Now I look at curtain fabric and watch Frozen for the millionth time, and the only mental stimulation I get is trying to book the right time slot for the Ocado delivery.’
She laughs and I do too, but her laughter is that kind that’s verging on hysterical.
‘I miss my career. I want a job. I need to use my brain. I put some feelers out and sent a few emails and my old boss got in touch . . . He said they had something at the museum – it wasn’t a senior position like I had before, but if I was interested . . . So I went in to see them—’
‘And?’
‘And I got it.’
‘That’s fantastic!’
‘Is it though?’ She looks worried. ‘I haven’t told David yet. When we had children we always agreed one of us would stay home and do the childcare, and of course it had to be me; David earned so much more. Then after I had Izzy I got awful post-natal depression, and we were lucky to find Francisca to help out part-time. I don’t know what I would have done without her, but I still couldn’t imagine leaving them—’
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 27
