It’s several years since I’ve been to a club and I’m surprised to find nothing seems to have changed, if this one is anything to go by. Almost as soon as I’m through the door I regret coming – it’s too hot, too loud and too dark, but with too many lights at the same time. I’m about to tell Dan, sorry, I made a mistake and I need to go home, but then I remember I don’t want to go home yet and that I’d really like another drink.
I get the first round in – that’s the other thing about these places, fuck me, how can they justify these prices? I hand the bottled beers round and we lurk by the bar. I suddenly feel depressed – it’s come to something when I’d rather be in a dive like this than at home with my wife and children.
A couple of the guys spot some people they know and drift off to join them. Another classic Eighties anthem comes on and Dan and the other two of us left go off to dance. I’d rather drink than dance, though. I finish my beer and order a double vodka. But this will be the last one, definitely.
I down it and weave over to the table where the rest of the group are now sitting with some women wearing lots of make-up and tiny tops. I am seriously drunk now.
I mean to tell them I’m going to leave but instead I take my phone out of my pocket and power it up. As soon as it comes to life I see there are five texts and two voicemails. All from Aura. I scroll through the texts, the first sent at 11:30 p.m. and the last about twenty minutes ago – all variations on ‘Where the hell are you, I can’t get Bay to go back to sleep.’ No doubt the voicemails are in the same vein – I delete them without listening and plonk myself down at the table. I just can’t deal with this right now. I’m twenty-seven years old. I should be out having fun with my mates, not being summoned home by my wife because she can’t get the baby to sleep.
There are several bottles of something fizzy and pink in the middle of the table. Someone pushes a glass my way and fills it up. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘You look like you need a drink.’
Do I? I take a sip of the drink – it’s too sweet but I can’t be bothered to go back to the bar to get something else. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Bad day.’
She smiles at me. She is wearing deep red lipstick and her eyelashes are very long and dark. Her hair is blond and poker-straight and she is very pretty. I try not to look at her boobs, but I can’t help noticing they are small and pert and she is definitely not wearing a bra. ‘Want to talk about it?’ she asks. She is slurring a little. I guess she’s pretty drunk too. You have to be to want to be in a place like this, I suppose.
I shake my head. ‘Not really. Don’t want to bore you.’ I take another sip of the vile drink and lean in closer to her. ‘Tell me about you instead. How was your day?’
She continues looking me in the eye as I feel her hand on the inside of my thigh. ‘It was OK,’ she says.
‘Yeah?’ I ask. I feel myself getting hard and am not sure whether or not to be embarrassed. Aura has barely touched me since Bay was born, so it doesn’t take much these days. She moves her hand up my thigh and I move a little to meet her hand.
She leans in closer to me so that I can feel her breath on my face. ‘But it’s getting better,’ she whispers, and then we are kissing.
24
January, London
Nick
‘Nick!’ Aura is yelling. ‘You need to come and help me get the boys ready!’
We have all been up since 5 a.m. Stupidly, when Sorrel was born I caved to Aura’s demands that we all co-sleep, which means that I typically spend half the night being kicked in the head by Bay and the nuts by Sorrel. The idea was that Aura would be able to breastfeed the boys easily but as the breastfeeding didn’t work out it usually means one or other of us getting up several times a night to sort out a bottle. I’ve taken to drinking more in the evening than I used to, partly because then Aura feels it’s unsafe for me to be in bed with the boys and I get to sleep in the spare room, like I did last night. Those nights are the nearest thing I get to a proper night’s rest, but Sol came in to see me at 5 a.m. this morning because he’d had a nightmare he wanted to tell me about, and that was that.
It’s Aura’s first day back at work today and, despite her saying that this was what she needed, that this would make her feel like herself again, that it would improve our relationship, the prospect seems to be totally stressing her out and she’s been in a foul mood for days.
The fridge is packed with home-made organic hummus and carrots from the local farmers’ market, while the cupboards are full of weird ‘crisps’ made of things like lentil and broccoli. Aura has been baking all week, making horrendous-sounding ‘treats’ like courgette muffins and sugar-free flapjacks. The nursery offers lunch, but Aura wants to keep control of what the children are eating and send them in with food and bottles of organic formula she’s prepared herself. You don’t need to be a psychologist to know that she’s over-compensating for feeling guilty about sending them to nursery.
But obviously I don’t say that. Taking the children to nursery is to be my job rather than Aura’s, but that’s OK as the nursery is next to my school.
I go down to the kitchen where Aura is cutting grapes into quarters and putting them in a little stainless steel can for Sorrel’s lunch, with slices of banana in another can and some awful tofu wrap thing in a third. These are then deposited in one of the drawstring-muslin bags which Aura has made and embroidered with each of the boys’ names. To be fair to her, even if her forthcoming course and putting the boys in nursery has put her on edge, it’s also turned her into some kind of story-book mum – at least from an outsider’s perspective. But I’ve been at home for the last two weeks during the holidays, which obviously makes life easier for her. I may not embroider, but I’m pretty good at taking the boys to the park and soft play, reading stories, looking after bath time and things like that.
‘There you are!’ she cries. ‘Can you get their shoes on? I don’t want them to be late on their first day.’
I put my hands gently on her shoulders. ‘Aura, calm down. It’s nursery. It doesn’t matter what time they arrive.’
She tuts and shrugs me off. ‘Can you just get their shoes on, like I asked?’ she repeats, not looking up from the chopping board.
The drop-off at nursery isn’t easy. It’s the first time the boys have been without either me or Aura, pretty much ever. Even when Bay was born, because he was born at home in a rented birthing pool, Sorrel was upstairs, thankfully asleep. Bay cries as I hand him over to a smiley girl who doesn’t look old enough to be out of school – I can still hear him crying as she walks him round the corner out of sight.
Leaving Sorrel is even worse. He clings to my leg screaming: ‘No, Dada, me stay with you!’ over and over. The staff seem unconcerned and unsurprised – I guess they deal with this sort of thing all the time. No amount of head-patting or re-assurance from me seems to make any difference so eventually I simply prise Sol’s tiny fingers from my legs as gently as I can and thrust him at a rotund, kind-looking lady, then bolt. Outside I pause to take a deep breath, surreptitiously swiping at the tears in my eyes. I can still hear poor Sorrel screaming.
I walk briskly down the path, open the gate and carefully slide the lock back in to place as I leave. They’ll be fine, I tell myself. Perfectly safe. Thousands – millions? – of parents do this every single day. It’ll be good for the boys. Make them more sociable little people. The people who work at the nursery are professionals. My sons are probably safer here than with Aura half-heartedly looking after them at home.
25
January, London
Nick
‘OK, let’s settle down, please,’ I call as I walk into my Year 12 classroom. The shrieking and shouting stills to a gentle murmur overlaid by the scraping of desks and chairs as everyone settles down into their usual places.
I’ve no sooner begun taking the register than there is a knock at the door. I look up as the school secretary opens it – she’s with a girl I don’t recognise.
‘Mr Dori
an? This is Ella – she’s just moved to the area and will be in your class.’
I smile at her – she looks terrified, poor thing. It’s always difficult starting at a new school when everyone else already knows each other – especially part way through the year. And so late in her school career.
‘Ella – lovely to meet you. Ah yes, I can see you’ve been added to the register now. Why don’t you go and sit there by Molly?’ I indicate an empty desk towards the back, next to Molly, who is at least reasonably kind and might make an effort with the new girl.
Ella nods, slouches over to the desk and sits down.
I thought the first day back at school would be distracting enough not to think about the boys and how they are managing at nursery, but I find that every time I am not actually speaking, every time I give a class a few minutes to get on with a specific task and stroll between the desks or sit at the front pretending to be consulting some notes, my mind drifts to Bay and Sorrel. How long will it have taken them to stop crying? They will have stopped crying by now, won’t they? Will they have eaten their lunch? Did they like the food Aura packed for them? Should I have tried to talk her into letting them have the lunch the nursery provides – wouldn’t it be better for them to have a hot meal at lunchtime, in the winter at least? It’s freezing cold at the moment, even for January.
As soon as the final bell goes, I’m out of the door and straight over to the nursery. The boys are allowed to stay as late as six, which will no doubt prove to be necessary some days once after-school clubs, parents’ evenings and the like kick in, but as today is their first day and I’m worried they’re going to have found it hard, I want to pick them up as early as I can.
I’m expecting a wall of noise as I’m buzzed in, but actually it’s pretty calm. Most of the children are sitting at tiny tables eating pieces of fruit. I well up as I spot Sorrel, who appears to be trying to give a piece of his banana to the girl next to him. She takes the piece Aura carefully sliced, which is already starting to go brown, and crams it into her cute, chubby little face with an open palm. She then passes Sorrel a sticky-looking handful of raisins which he wolfs down with a grin. He loves raisins – Aura doesn’t usually let him have them as she thinks they’re too full of sugar.
Sorrel still hasn’t seen me. I feel a twinge of panic. ‘Where’s Bay?’ I ask the nursery worker who let me in and can’t be much older than the kids I’ve been teaching all day.
‘In the baby room. He’s doing great – come on – let’s go and get him.’ I glance at Sorrel, who by now is sticking his tongue out to show the girl next to him his half-chewed raisins while she squeals in delight.
Bay is in a colourful room full of toys, sitting in a bouncy chair and happily kicking his heels as the girl sitting on the ground in front of him plays peekaboo with him. He adores peekaboo.
‘Hey, Bay,’ I say, unclipping him from the chair and lifting him up. ‘Have you had a good day?’
‘He’s been grand,’ says the peekaboo girl. ‘We’ve had a great time, Bay, haven’t we?’
She shows me a page in a book where she’s noted nappy changes and how many bottles he had, and I nod and smile but I’m not listening – both the boys made it through the day happy and safe and that’s all I care about right now.
‘See you tomorrow, Bay!’ the girl cries, adding, ‘he’s a lovely little chap,’ as she squeezes his Babygro-clad foot.
I go back into the main room where Sorrel is now sitting on the floor with the same girl he was with before, building something from Duplo. He looks like he’s concentrating hard. I crouch down, somewhat awkwardly as I’m holding Bay. ‘Hi, Sol. What are you building?’
He looks up and brandishes a brick at me, narrowly avoiding hitting me in the face. ‘Bridge!’ he shouts, delighted. He pushes the brick onto the top of the structure, which I can now see does look a little like a rudimentary bridge. It collapses under the force of his chubby hand.
His face falls. ‘Oh dee. Bridge brukken,’ he says.
‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘Never mind, mate. You can build a new one tomorrow. It’s time to go home now.’
His face lights up. ‘See Mummy?’
‘Yeah. C’mon, let’s go and see Mummy.’ It galls that I am always a consolation prize to the kids, second-best to their mother, but I tell myself not to be so petty. Both Sorrel and I stand up and he hugs my legs, which is so sweet I feel like the worst person in the world for begrudging him asking after his mum a few seconds earlier.
I take his hand and we walk out to the car, with him chuntering continuously with his limited vocabulary about what he’s been up to today and his new friend. All my reservations about putting the boys in nursery melt away – I think it’s going to be amazing for them. Way better than being stuck at home all day with Aura ignoring them as much as she can and wishing she was somewhere else. And even though I wasn’t sure this was all going to work out, suddenly I can see that it might be for the best after all. Maybe it will actually improve things between Aura and me. Maybe we’ll start having sex again. Things are looking up.
26
January, London
Nick
The boys are fed, bathed and in their pyjamas by the time Aura gets home and we are watching CBeebies bedtime hour. It is my favourite time of day with the boys; they are clean, quiet and cuddly. It’s very calming. In my imaginary, better life, after this I would take them upstairs to a small bedroom which would perhaps have some kind of Winnie the Pooh frieze and glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. I would tuck them up into their little cots and read them a simple story. Their eyes would droop and before I’d finished they would have dropped off, Sol cuddling his squirrel and Bay making little sucky movements as his bottle drops from his lips.
In my real life, though, that isn’t what happens at all. We put the boys to bed in our bed and one of us (usually me) sits with them, stroking and patting them until they fall asleep. I then tiptoe out very quietly, praying that they will stay asleep long enough for us to at least have dinner in peace. But often as not Sorrel is up and down the stairs, wanting water, complaining about a nightmare or wanting a cuddle, or Bay will wake with a yelp, start crying and the whole process has to start again. It is exhausting.
But before all that, I can enjoy some calm time on the sofa with my boys while we all watch CBeebies and I’ll sometimes have a sneaky beer or even a gin and tonic if I’m feeling particularly decadent.
So that is exactly what I’m doing when Aura comes in. She kisses each boy on the head (doesn’t kiss me but I’ve stopped expecting that by now) and flops down in the armchair. Neither boy takes their eyes off the TV.
‘How was your first day back?’ I ask.
She stretches her arms backwards and turns her face up towards the ceiling.
‘It was fine, I guess. I forgot how long the day is when you’re in front of a computer all day though.’
Really? Before she said a day was never longer than when looking after a baby all day. Anyway. Whatever.
She rocks herself up out of the chair. ‘And I missed these guys, of course,’ she says, taking each boy’s face in her hands in turn and kissing them on the lips this time, which always grosses me out a bit. ‘I think I deserve a drink. Want anything?’
I raise my glass towards her. ‘No – I’m sorted, thanks.’
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I take it out to read the text, shifting Bay as I do. He is already falling asleep. Perhaps we can have a nice quiet dinner after all. Maybe we could get a takeaway – we’ve both had a long day and it might be a nice thing to do. Celebrate Aura’s first day back at work, in a low-key way.
The text is from someone called Ed. I don’t think I know anyone called Ed.
Did you really not recognize me in class or were you just pretending? Not sure how offended to be …
I start tapping in Who is this?? when a memory of my recent night out clicks into place and suddenly I realize.
Oh God.
27
Ella
OMFG.
I recognized him as soon as I walked into the classroom. The teacher. It was the guy from the club. I’d barely given him a second thought until he walked in. God, I was so drunk that night. So excited to have my friends down from Manchester for the night. It’s shit enough having to start a new school in the middle of the year but being away from my friends is even worse.
But Mum doesn’t care about that – all she’s bothered about is her precious career. She’s been angling to move to London for years – basically since Dad left her. You’d have thought she could have waited another year or two until I’d finished school at least, but no, apparently not. She’s been offered head of features at a newspaper everyone loves to hate and according to her, she has to take it – now or never.
‘I thought you’d be delighted about moving to London!’ she gushed. ‘Imagine all the great places you can go. The shops. And the people! Honestly, once we’re there you won’t look back.’
Mum is such a snob. She moved to Manchester with my half brother and sister not long before I was born to be with my dad, but she never liked it there. She was always banging on about how much better London was, even though Manchester is the only home I’ve ever known. But Dad’s in Dubai now with his new wife who’s not that much older than me and their baby, my brother’s in Manchester but Mum wouldn’t let me stay there with him (plus he lives in a crap house share anyway) and my sister’s off travelling, so it’s just me and Mum.
I don’t know anyone at all here in London but Mum let me have Tash and Lily down to stay for a few nights and we had a great time shopping and going out. Manchester is really cool and I miss it and I wouldn’t ever admit this to Mum but there are some pretty great places in London too. But that doesn’t count for anything if you don’t have anyone to go to them with, does it?
The Chateau Page 10
