Larger Than Life Read online

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  LARGER THAN LIFE

  ‘Compelling and full of that’s-so-true moments’ Company

  ‘Still Thinking of You is guaranteed to keep chick-lit and romance readers engrossed’ Big Issue

  ‘Dark, funny and upfront’ Cosmopolitan

  ‘Another gorgeously girly read from Parks’ Heat

  ‘This savvy romance crams in tears, laughter, break-ups and make-ups – the perfect confection’ Mail on Sunday

  ‘Set against an intoxicatingly romantic background, this is another beautifully-constructed multi-layered story with fine characterisation’ Daily Record

  ‘Excellent, well-honed and acutely observed’ Daily Mail

  ‘It’s witty, it’s warm, it’s fun. With a capital F’ Daily Record

  ‘Compelling and guaranteed to keep you turning the pages till the end’ Company

  ‘Parks depicts the nitty-gritty of relationships with authentic detail and there’s a hugely optimistic feel to the story that makes it a satisfying read’ Sunday Mirror

  ‘Compulsively addictive and involved with sexual passion and bad decisions’ Elle

  ‘A touching look at infidelity, love, and all the crap that goes with it’ New Woman

  ‘A modern fairy-tale in the classic sense of the word: a story of wanting what you can’t have, filled with perils and beasts, with a moralizing punch to the inevitably doe-eyed ending’ Daily Mail

  ‘Down-to-earth and very, very funny’ OK!

  ‘Perfectly encapsulating the Zeitgeist… a very entertaining read’ Heat

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Adele Parks was born in Teeside, north-east England. She read English Language and Literature at Leicester University. Since graduating she has lived in Italy and Africa but has spent most of her adult life in London. She lives in Chiswick, with her husband and son. Her earlier novels, Playing Away, Game Over, Larger than Life, The Other Woman’s Shoes and Still Thinking of You were all bestsellers and are published in over twenty different countries.

  www.adeleparks.com

  Larger Than Life

  ADELE PARKS

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland

  (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017 India

  Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published 2002

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  Copyright © Adele Parks-Smith, 2002

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-0-14-191070-3

  For my son, an indescribable, unrepeatable splash of colourful, wonderful joy. And for my nieces, Claudia and Felicity, and my nephew, William. With love.

  Are you good enough? Are you? Are you thin enough but not too thin? More Elle Macpherson than Kate Moss? Do you go to the gym? But do you starve yourself? I hope you don’t starve yourself because it’s so last century to starve yourself Think of the Africans. Don’t you? Don’t you have a social conscience? Of course you recycle your bottles and your newspapers, but do you recycle your tins too? I know it’s a nuisance and you often cut yourself washing them out and the recycling unit is miles away, but really you should make an effort. Where do you get your hair done? Really? Is it expensive? Because it should be expensive, you ought to take pride in yourself but it shouldn’t be too expensive, being flash isn’t attractive. Are they new boots? Oh, you chose tan. You do know that olive is the new tan, the new brown, the new black. Black is a classic, of course, no matter what the magazines say. You do read the magazines, don’t you? It is important to keep up. How’s work going? Been promoted recently? Have you asked for a pay rise? Well, don’t let them exploit you; it’s important to know your own worth. But it doesn’t do to be greedy. What time did you leave the office last night? Crazy, isn’t it. The Brits work longer hours than anyone else in Europe, only the Americans do more. No wonder they’re all in therapy. It’s important to get time to yourself. I could never leave before seven o’clock, though, they depend on me. Your hands are very chapped. I know a good manicurist. Yes, it’s the weather and the transport strikes, but what can you do about it? I know a fabulous girl who does a fabulous manicure and pedicure as well. It doesn’t do to let yourself go. No time. Make time. Do you get out much? Did you see the Tracey Emin? They said she’s become appallingly mainstream. Do you go to the theatre often? Did you catch that one, oh, what’s it called? I forget, the latest one with the ex-soap star, she takes her clothes off. Oh, it doesn’t matter what it’s called, you ought to go, everyone is. Have you visited Tate Modern? Who did you go with? Who did you see? Who were you seen by? Did you ever do that Dome thingy? No, me neither, I rather regret that now. Are you studying? Well, everyone is doing a night class nowadays, aren’t they? De rigueur. Modern Spanish history, IT, film appreciation, the semantics of women’s literature, it’s so useful to have something to talk about at dinner parties. Which book are you using at the moment? Are you still with Jamie Oliver, or have you tried anything from the latest Nigella Lawson yet? Melissa’s doing very well. Yes twins, yes one of each, so that’s the set. Clever girl She’s planning to be back in the gym a week on Monday. I don’t know what I’d do if I had a baby. Which hospital? Which nurseries? Which schools? And you would have to go back to work; it doesn’t do not to have anything to say to the hubby when he gets home from work, exhausted. The nurseries are all full, you know, from now until the year 2005, well at least the desirable ones are. There’s always childminders. Yes, a nanny is probably the answer in terms of stimulation for the child, but you hear such stories, don’t you? A really good girl is the very devil to find. It’s so important to give them the very best start. Baby Beethoven, Lamaze, Montessori, organic nappies. Part-time might be the answer, but then you’d hardly earn enough to cover the childcare costs and buy your sandwich. Well, I must be going. It doesn’t do to be late. By the way, you’ve spilt something down your shirt, is that silk? Is that olive oil? Oh dear, it won’t come out. I do hope that stain hasn’t been there since lunch time. That wouldn’t be good enough.

  January

  1

  I don’t go back to the office but instead drive to Hyde Park. I park and then walk. And walk. And walk. Stopping only to barf and retch unproductively en route. It’s an icy cold January afternoon. There’s hardly a soul around, unlike the summer when the park is heaving with revellers. The occasional tramp shuffles by, and I see the odd figure dashing home throug
h the twilight, probably clerks who religiously leave their office at five. Not paid enough, or motivated at all, to stay a minute after clocking-out time. Oblivious to their surroundings, they don’t glance left or right – the park is simply something that must be passed through on the way to centrally heated rooms and hot cups of tea. The odd mother rushes by with her toddler in a pushchair. The kids are invariably ugly, tired and dirty. The mothers are all that, and also harassed. I suppose that pushchairs, previously beneath my notice, will soon become significant to me.

  Pushchairs and high chairs and baby baths and cots and nappies and it’s impossible. It’s alien. It’s wrong.

  Where is the unquashable exhilaration that, surely, should be the order of the day?

  I’d settle for a faint flush of enthusiasm.

  I walk on. I walk past the Serpentine, the desolate, deserted bandstand and around the Round Pond. I walk up and down. I circle. I walk so much that I’m actually warm even though it’s freezing and late. My feet and legs ache. I’m starving. And I feel sick. How’s that possible? On balance the hunger is more compelling than the nausea. I’m so desperate that, for the first time since I gave up watching Black Beauty, I buy a hot dog from a suspiciously filthy man pushing an off-white cart. The cart, man and hot dog would fail all health and hygiene regulations with spectacular success. I try not to think about it. He piles greasy onions into the bread bun and then smothers the hot dog with mustard and ketchup which squelch on to his fingers and down his arm. He wipes his dirty hands on his dusty trousers, runs his hand through his hair and, the final flourish, wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. I don’t care. The hot dog looks delicious. I’m that hungry I would eat the man, dusty trousers and all, if necessary. Without even stopping to check if anyone can see me I gobble down the hot dog in approximately three bites. For about seven seconds I feel almost normal. My hunger is satiated and I don’t feel sick, an exceptional state of affairs for the last month or so. On the eighth second my stomach lurches uncontrollably and I am hoying for Europe. The undigested hot dog, with onions, mustard, ketchup and trouser dust lies forlornly on the pavement. It’s accompanied by two digestive biscuits, and I think that other thing is rye bread from my sandwiches at lunchtime.

  ‘Ya fackin stupid bitch,’ says the hot dog seller. ‘What the fack did ya do that for? That ain’t good for business, is it?’

  I scrabble in my handbag and locate some tissues with which I wipe my mouth, sick-splattered trousers and boots, and then I walk away, too weary to fling back a clever retort, never mind reapply lipstick. I walk around the park again until I’m convinced that my boots are worn through. Finally, I throw myself on to the nearest park bench, not bothering about the bird excrement or chewing gum.

  The park seems joyless. Littered with filthy vendors, rushing faceless people, dog muck and broken glass bottles.

  I am growing a baby.

  There is a baby inside my stomach. Or womb, or uterus. Or somewhere.

  I try to think about that for a moment. And can’t.

  It’s so big. The thing, it… he or she is probably about the size of a single grain of couscous, but the fact that I’m pregnant is big. Too big.

  Do I want to be pregnant? Do I want a baby (the natural conclusion)? I have no idea. My mind is completely blank. I rummage around a bit but there is only space, a yawning gap, a brilliant, dazzling, gleaming, glossy whiteness where a reaction or a response should be.

  What will Hugh think? What will Hugh say?

  Oh God.

  I pull out my mobile and flick through the menu. Who to call? Hugh? God no. No. Not until I’m calmer, more certain. Of what? Certain of what to say, of how I feel. The idea of calling Drew, Karl, Brett or Julia, the people I work with, the people I’ve spent upwards of ten hours a day with, five days a week, for several years, makes me laugh, or at least it would if I didn’t feel so much like crying. Whilst each of them is certainly sexually active, alert, even aggressive, I don’t think any of them have ever connected the thing they do every Friday and Saturday night with making babies. In fact the primary concern has always been making sure sex didn’t have anything to do with making babies. Sam? No point. Not unless I can somehow spin my pregnancy story so as to relate to finding her an eligible bachelor; she talks of nothing else. I dismiss a dozen or so other names, acquaintances that will trill that this is marvellous news. The thought terrifies me because I’m not certain that I’m ready to hear that.

  Because I’m not certain it is.

  There’s Jessica, of course. She is my mother. Albeit the type of mother who insists I call her by her Christian name, as she hates to admit that she has a thirty-two-year-old daughter and she hyperventilates if I reveal our relationship in public. She is so much the epitome of a ‘lady who lunches’ that my father ought to have placed a copyright upon her when they married. She’s all suntan and surgery, diets and drama. Her life’s work is turning back the hands of time. To give credit where it’s due, she’s very successful in realizing this ambition. She looks about forty-five whereas she’s nearly twenty years older than that. My parents live in Cannes in the summer and Cape Town in the winter. My father is a very silent man, more notable for the things he doesn’t say than for the things he does. He is a retired diplomat, a career that suited him; he finds that the skills he developed in his professional life are still extremely useful as he negotiates his way towards his fortieth year of marriage. And Jessica, for her part, is the perfect wife for a diplomat. She knows things like how to address a bishop or a lord, which flowers last the longest in hot weather, and how to write an utterly charming thank-you note. She is at all times extremely practical and clear-sighted. To date, her maternal advice has ranged from which sunblocks are indispensable to the recommendation of personal trainers; I figure it’s time to use my joker card.

  ‘Darling, how lovely to hear from you. Oh God, it’s not your birthday, is it? Have I forgotten your birthday?’

  ‘No, Jessica.’

  ‘No. Of course not. You were a summer baby. It’s not mine, is it?’

  Jessica hasn’t celebrated a birthday since I was eight. Instead, she goes into a darkened room on the actual day and wears black for a week.

  ‘No,’ I assure.

  ‘So why the call?’ A sad but fair testament of our mother –daughter relationship.

  I consider talking about the weather but realize it’s pointless. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  There’s a wail of horror. ‘Oh darling. How could you do this to me? That will make me a – oh God, I’m going to have to sit down – a grandmother. She hiss-whispers the last word, as though articulating a curse.

  ‘I didn’t do this to you,’ I splutter, resisting the urge to scream, ‘Bugger you, what about me? What about me!’

  ‘I’ve been dreading this call since you were fourteen. Oh darling. You didn’t plan this, did you?’ She’s incredulous. We are, in many ways, very similar.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is it Hugh’s?’

  ‘Of course.’ I try not to sound offended.

  ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose,’ she mutters. ‘It will, at least, be good-looking.’ This is typical of my mother. Untouched by the traditional concerns, such as the facts that the child is unplanned, illegitimate and fathered by a married man, she focuses her attention on the aesthetics. I don’t know why I was expecting her to be supportive or cheering. Since absolutely everyone’s first question on seeing a baby is, ‘How old is he/she?’, my mother views children as little more than giant, depressing egg-timers. She’s always made it clear that she finds it hard enough to understand how planned pregnancies are met with delight, so she thinks falling pregnant accidentally is one of the worst things that can happen to you. Obviously not as bad as finding out you are seriously ill or someone you love is dying. But certainly up there with losing your job or your lover, worse than being gazumped on a house sale or pranging the car.

  ‘Do you want it?’ she demands, unabashed. I don’t hav
e the chance to reply before she adds, ‘Unlikely. I mean, who in their right mind actually wants a baby?’ I try to forget the fact that this woman is my mother. ‘They are highly inconvenient and not in the slightest bit rewarding until they are old enough to make one feel ancient.’ She stretches the word ancient for an unfeasibly long time. ‘And, goodness, the damage they do to your figure.’ I have by now completely lost sight of the reason I chose to call my mother. ‘It’s irreparable. Darling, have you considered the stretch marks, the weight gain, the varicose veins?’

  ‘It’s good of you to remind me,’ I snipe dryly.

  ‘So, you don’t want it?’ Finally, I detect something like sympathy, or at least concern, in my mother’s voice.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I wail.

  ‘Shush, darling. You mustn’t cry. You’ll get awful wrinkles, crying dries out the skin terribly.’ She coos this instruction and it’s soothing. It’s vain and faintly ridiculous but soothing.

  ‘I don’t actively not want the baby. Or at least, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Goodness, so many negatives, does that make a positive?’ Forever the grammarian.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I mutter weakly. I deal with facts, data, information, and certainties. Agonizing over and trying to understand everything from my psyche to my G-spot has always seemed positively farcical, but now I’m considering, debating, procrastinating, feeling left, right and centre. All this not knowing is exhausting. I have always known things. I know the importance of identifying a single-minded, strategic focus. I know that standing orders are an efficient way to pay bills. I know the importance of owning at least one piece of jewellery from Tiffany. I know that the Burberry bandana has been done to death, I’m over it. I knew I wanted Hugh.