Young Wives' Tales Read online

  That said, although it is only a short walk to the school (literally two minutes) and it’s a sunny afternoon, I don’t leave the house without finding a cardigan. The sight of my wobbly, flabby arms is not something I want to share. I’m a size sixteen, or eighteen in the less generous brands. I’ve been this size since I got pregnant and this doesn’t bother me at all. Or at least it doesn’t bother me enough to make me want to do anything about it. I hate diets, and the only exercise I enjoy is walking the dog, which I do regularly. I do this more for the good of my heart than my figure, though. I’ve never been skinny. My wedding dress was a size fourteen and had to be let out a little around the bust. I suppose the difference is in those days my bust made men trip over their tongues, while now my boobs hang so low the only person that’s likely to trip on them is me.

  It’s a very pleasant afternoon; rather more summer than autumn because the seasons no longer know when to change. When I was a girl you were guaranteed golden leaves underfoot almost the moment you pulled your school tie out of the wardrobe but it’s not the same now. Everything is topsy-turvy. I saw crocuses sprouting in Hyde Park this August. I sometimes think the whole world is going mad. I hurry along the path worrying whether the boys are likely to have lost their blazers if they’ve taken them off.

  As I approach the school gate I see two or three mums already clustering and my pulse quickens. I like this time of day. In the mornings, at drop-off, none of us have time to chat; we’re all a little too harassed. In the afternoons I get my dose of adult company. I notice that all the other mums have younger siblings with them. Some in arms and strollers, others pulling on skirt hems. My arms feel empty and for a moment I don’t know what to do with them.

  We swap pleasantries; catching up on news about where people have been on their hols, comparing which after-school clubs we’ve enrolled our children in this term and suggesting dates for tea visits.

  ‘Did you get away this summer, Rose?’asks Lauren Taylor. A mum of three, her eldest daughter is in the twins’year. Her middle one’s in reception and the youngest is in the stroller.

  ‘Yes. We hired a gîte in the South of France with my sister and her husband.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so pleased. I was thinking of you and wondering how you manage over the hols. Six weeks can be a long time on your own.’

  People often assume I am lonely. Even relative strangers feel compelled to say, ‘It must be very hard on your own,’cue sympathetic look. Pity is something I’ve become accustomed to. Accustomed to but not anaesthetized. It’s meant to make me feel better. It doesn’t. The exact words may vary marginally; there might be a seasonal twist – ‘It must be hard to be on your own during the holidays/Christmas/your birthday’– but the sense that they feel sorry for me is the same. I’m always stunned by comments such as these. How can I be considered to be on my own when I have twin seven-year-old boys, a dog, a rabbit, two goldfish, a full complement of parents, out-laws (the fond name I give my ex in-laws), friends, a younger sister, a brother-in-law, a large rambling garden and a small crumbling house? All of whom/which depend upon me for sustenance, maintenance, guidance, a ready supply of opinions (if only to reject them), walking, weeding, painting, cleaning, etc.

  Although it is worth noting that I haven’t had sex for over half a decade. This does niggle me from time to time. I comfort myself that there’s no point in lamenting the lack of sex. Even if opportunity knocked, I’m not sure I was ever any good at it and I’m pretty convinced that if I was, I wouldn’t be now. I’ve forgotten what goes where.

  Lauren continues. ‘I was tearing my hair out towards the end of the summer and counting the minutes Mark was at the office. The moment he walked through the door I’d yell at him, “Your turn, I’ve had them all day.”’Lauren says this without any intention to be rude or malicious. She’s simply stating what every happily married mother thinks. ‘I can’t wait until Chrissie starts nursery school next year. Last one off my hands. The new nirvana is an empty house.’

  ‘You shouldn’t wish it away,’I tell her, sourly.

  She looks mildly chastised and I’m pathetic enough to feel chuffed by this; it evens the score after her comment about the certainty of my being lonely. I know motherhood shouldn’t be a competition but it often feels as though it is. I do like Lauren a lot, however, so I resist adding that my best days are the ones when the boys are around me; days when they are drowning me in their noise and mess, because I know she’ll be floored with guilt.

  I feel down as I suddenly realize that today has been the strain, not the holidays.

  ‘Maybe you could come over for Sunday lunch one weekend. It’s no fun having a Sunday alone,’offers Lauren. And maybe I would have accepted except that she adds, ‘Not this Sunday though, we have Phil and Gail Carpenter and their kids coming over. They have a girl in year one and the boy is in year four. Do you know them? Anyway it might be better if you come one weekend when it’s not all couples. I think you’ll be more comfortable. Maybe when my Mark is working away? What do you think?’

  I think I want to punch her but I smile and lie, ‘I’m sorry Lauren. I’m booked up every weekend from now till Christmas.’

  Luckily, at that moment I catch sight of the boys snaking their way out of the classroom and across the playground, so I make my excuses and move forward to collect them.

  The boys are mortified that I’ve picked them up and point out that they can walk home in minutes and I can practically see them from my bedroom window if I choose. I incense them further because I waste (their words) precious minutes that could have been spent watching TV (not if I get my way) by chatting to Mr Walker, the head. He’s always visible at dropping-off and picking-up times so that the parents can grab him for a moment’s gripe or grovelling. He also asks about our holiday but without the pity Lauren interjected into the conversation. The boys kick the pavement throughout the brief interlude and I whisper threats about confiscating favourite toys unless they are civil. When we do walk home they insist I trail behind them, keeping a distance of at least ten paces so their friends don’t think they are babies. But they are my babies.

  As I mosey behind them I consider my lie to Lauren. I know it was motivated by pique. My one bugbear about being single is that married couples never invite you anywhere. They don’t want to draw attention to the fact that you are a spare part, not because it embarrasses the single person but because it embarrasses the cosy couples, who on the whole don’t know what to do with unwanted wives. Where, oh where to put them?

  Still, I know Lauren well enough to trust that she wasn’t trying to be offensive in any way, she’s just tactless. I sometimes think I live with shackles of tactlessness. Great iron chains that I lug around with me. These chains grow more hefty, awkward and burdensome as friends, relatives and strangers make unintentionally offensive comments and then I have to live with the emotional weight of their remarks.

  But then again maybe I’m just touchy. Maybe I should ring Lauren and tell her that a date has freed up in November. It would be nice to go somewhere different for Sunday lunch. Daisy and Simon come to me about once a fortnight and Connie and Luke invite me to theirs reasonably frequently. Luckily, Luke is a far superior cook to Connie. But they have busy lives of their own and I can’t impose myself on them all the time. The boys are often with Peter on a Sunday and those Sundays are the worst. Relentless. Evil.

  Yes, I’ll call Lauren.

  2

  Monday 4 September

  Lucy

  I am at my desk by 7.45 a.m. I check the Dow, the FTSE and the Nikkei. I linger on the Bloomberg site to get a measure of what the markets have been doing overnight. The US Stock-Index Futures are little changed ahead of rumours that consumer confidence is down and there’ll be a slowing of personal spending. There’s always rumours, most of which are initiated by traders. The important thing is to be able to effectively, efficiently and faultlessly separate fact from fiction. I keep reading and soon find what I’m hoping to see. Eur
opean stocks advanced, led by semiconductor makers, including Infineon Technologies AG, and Micron Technology Inc. – in the US – unexpectedly posted a fiscal fourth-quarter profit after markets closed.

  Unexpectedly for some, maybe, but I’d seen it coming and had taken a punt. I can almost smell my bonus. I calculate that the pleasantly surprising earnings from Micron signal good news for tech stocks, there’s demand out there and the companies could perform better than the market had previously thought. I immediately check my clients’portfolios and decide what to sell and what to hold on to.

  I feel I’m on rock solid ground in the office. I adore my job, everything about it. I like numbers and I like money, which is a good start. But I also relish the fact that I’m a bloody excellent trader and I wield enormous respect among my colleagues; all the more glorious as it is grudgingly given.

  I started as a graduate trainee with Gordon Webster Handle, one of the City’s most respected and established institutions. I soon discovered that respected and established are euphemisms for ball-breakingly tough and sexist, but oddly that environment didn’t intimidate me, I found it challenging. Eight graduates started together. All, except me, were Oxbridge graduates. All, except me and one other, were men. The other woman trader no longer works. She married one of the few dotcom multi-millionaires who managed to turn his idea into hard cash just before the dotcom dream turned into a nightmare. One of the other guys has had a breakdown and I understand that he spends his time on a Buddhist retreat in India. The other five are all still trading, although I’m the only one still at Gordon Webster Handle. A couple of them live in NY now, which by all accounts is amazing – pure adrenalin the entire time. Sadly, not a rush I’m ever likely to experience. A move abroad isn’t an option for me now, as Peter needs to live near his sons. Still, I like it here. They appreciate me.

  When we used to keep track of such things I regularly earned the highest bonus among my original gang of trainees. A fact none of us has ever got over.

  As Jeremy (the self-appointed cocky bastard in the group) pointed out the first time it happened, ‘Thing is, Lucy, it’s unexpected. You might be the best trader among us but you still have a vag. I thought that alone would cost you twenty or thirty grand.’

  ‘It is rare to see a case of best man wins,’I laughed, ‘especially when the best man is a woman.’

  Although admittedly things have changed. Since I had my daughter, Auriol, my bonuses have regularly been ten to fifteen per cent lower than my lowest bonus pre-Auriol. It appears I was able to hide my gender until I actually gave birth, then it became impossible, which is not surprising. However, I clearly remember the days when our bonuses were announced and I was the acknowledged hot-shot. Best days of my life. Up there with meeting Peter, graduating with a first, getting married and rather more special than the day I gave birth.

  Sorry, but I simply don’t buy into all that crap about the day you drop the sprog being the best in your life. It’s a messy, bloody, terrifying and painful day. Even though I had an elective Caesarean with a mobile epidural it was still an uncomfortable and undignified affair. People feed themselves such bullshit. I accept that the day your kid walks or smiles for the first time is pretty special, but the day you give birth? Pleeease.

  I’m not a mother-earth type. I did not enjoy my enormous belly, giving up alcohol or the wardrobe restrictions of pregnancy. Of course, I did the whole gestating thing beautifully. I ate very little so as to keep my weight down, which infuriated my obstetrician, but I was paying him terrifically so I bought the privilege of ignoring his advice. Besides, Auriol was a healthy 7lb at birth so what harm? Getting my figure back was very easy. I have no patience with these women who grumble that they have no time to drag their lardy asses down to the gym – I have two words to say to them: ‘Maternity Nurse’. OK, so they cost, but what better excuse for returning to work than pleading that all your money is spent on your child? Am I ranting? How unbecoming. I sheepishly look around the office and am relieved to see that my rant has been internal.

  I take a few calls, respond to the most urgent e-mails, those from senior bods and those who are in different time zones, and then I turn back to the markets. Shares of chemical makers BASF AG and Bayer AG rose yesterday, as crude oil fell for the first day in three. Good, as I’d hoped. The Dow Jones Stoxx 600 Index added 0.4 per cent to 297.44, with all the benchmark’s eighteen industry groups gaining, except the Oil & Gas Index. Just as predicted. I pat myself on the back. I’m so good at what I do it’s almost possible to forget how phenomenally risky my work is. Still, if the City is full of gamblers, I’m the addict who can count cards and has a photographic memory. I always leave the casino with pockets full of chips.

  At 9.15 a.m. a reminder pops on to my screen drawing me away from my figures. I send Peter an e-mail.

  Auriol will be walking through the school gates right now. I wish I was there with her. Love you.

  In fact I’m not absolutely certain if she started at quarter to or quarter past nine but Pete will be none the wiser either. It’s not that I actually needed to be reminded that my daughter is starting school today; I just didn’t want to get caught up in something else and not pause in order to send Pete the e-mail. This show of thoughtfulness is a good move. I sometimes get the impression that he thinks I’m not quite up to scratch with the whole mothering thing. Which is dreadful. I hate not being up to scratch.

  Of course, I love my daughter as much as the next woman. I worship her. She’s bright, pretty, and largely well-behaved, except when she is being unimaginably horrid. I just don’t go in for overly sentimental displays of affection. Because really that’s all they are, displays. And I’m not big on self-sacrifice either. Or crusty noses. Or endlessly retelling the same story. Or answering non-sequential ‘why’questions. Or sitting in a circle with other mums singing songs and clapping. Or a number of things that society seems to insist come with motherhood.

  Not that Pete’s ever actually said that he thinks I’m lacking maternal instinct. He wouldn’t dare. He knows he wouldn’t live to regret such a comment. Even if it’s true, I don’t take criticism well. He did get a little tetchy last night when he was filling out various administrative forms for Auriol’s new school – forms about allergies and permission to take the children on trips, that sort of thing. I didn’t know the name of her doctor and so he threw a mini hissy fit. He flung the pen down on to the table and said impatiently, ‘For God’s sake, Lucy.’

  I responded by slowly looking up from Newsweek and turning to him, pointing out, ‘You don’t know the name of her doctor either.’

  ‘But you’re her mother.’

  ‘And you’re her father. I work the same hours you do, often longer. It’s Eva’s job to know these things, not mine.’

  Wisely, Pete recognized that the conversation was closed. I’m not a bad mother, I simply have a unique style.

  I look up from my desk and say loudly, ‘I have to go to Starbucks. Can I get anyone a coffee? I can’t settle, my little girl starts school today.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t know you had any kids,’says my boss, Ralph.

  He just happened to be passing when I made the offer of coffee. He’s quite new, sent here from the NY office six weeks ago. I’m still trying to get the measure of him. Normally it would be utterly crazy to make a big issue of being a mum in this office (asking for time off because of kids’ill-health, or similar, is suicidal), but Ralph has been a little bit too friendly on the last couple of occasions that the team has gone for a social and I think it’s time to remind him that I’m married and have a family. This is one of the few times when being a mummy comes in useful. Marriage or even motherhood isn’t usually much of an obstacle to an affair for most City types, but as my new boss is American he’s a little more traditional and hopefully will stop touching my arm and waist when he talks to me now. Of course, there is the risk he’ll stop talking to me altogether. Most men think women have lobotomies at the Portland Hospital, not Cae
sareans.

  ‘Education is the most important heritage we can offer. Which school is she going to?’asks Mick, another trader on my floor. He’s childless, so I can’t imagine he’s really interested, just programmed to have the last word.

  ‘Holland House in Holland Park.’

  ‘I don’t know that one.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. It’s state.’

  I must be the only trader in history who has opted to send my kid to a state school. Publicly, I pass this off as a socially responsible decision. I argue, where would the state system be if all the middle-class parents, who care about education, pulled their kids out of the state schools? Of course those schools would sink down the league tables. There’s plenty of evidence to back up this viewpoint, and it has a certain ‘lefty’cachet that’s very of the moment and that I rather enjoy. As it happens, I was educated at one of the best independent schools for girls in the country and I had hoped Auriol would be following in my footsteps. The boaters were adorable and Latin comes in useful when you want to slap down jumped-up ‘lads’. But Rose put paid to any designs I had.

  Besides paying for Auriol’s schooling, Pete and I would happily have funded the twins through independent schools but would Rose have it? No, she would not. It’s my belief that she rather likes to play the single mum card. She goes out of her way to make it look as though Pete’s not quite doing his duty, not quite coughing up enough cash, or time, or thought. That’s why she sold up their family home, even though he’d paid off the mortgage for her. She searched high and low to find the smallest residence in Holland Park (although notably, she didn’t give up Holland Park altogether, did she?). All that nonsense she spouts about her planning for a time when she’ll have no income at all, once the boys are grown, and needing the capital from the house as a nest-egg, blah blah. My question is why can’t she just get a job, like everyone else? I’m a mother and I work. I don’t wait for someone else to dole it out to me. Oh blast, just thinking about the woman is enough to bring on a headache.