Young Wives' Tales Read online

  I sigh heavily once again. Mentally listing my chores for today has not convinced me that I have a busy and full day ahead. The opposite. My day sounds dull and overly familiar. The chore list sounds desperate and contrived. All at once I am sure I cannot spend another moment in a supermarket. I know the layout of every shelf and could probably confidently list all the products that are on special offer. I cleaned the windows only last week and remarkably it hasn’t rained in between; they don’t need doing again. Christmas really is forever away.

  So what shall I do?

  I’m tired. I haven’t slept at all well since the fracas over Sunday lunch. How dare Daisy! How dare any of them! How rude! And interfering! I would never presume in a similar way. My heartbeat quickens once again. Last night it beat so rapidly I had to get out of bed and walk round the house and drink a glass of water to try to calm down. That would teach them, if I had a heart attack or some sort of seizure. Death by indignation. ‘Wasting my life.’Bloody cheek. What makes Daisy think her life is so worthwhile in comparison? From where I’m standing it’s pretty clear that her life’s been on hold for the last six years and she knows it. She might maintain that all the travelling she and Simon do, and the job satisfaction they get, means something, but I’d argue it pales into insignificance compared to bringing up a family. She’d have to agree with me or else why is she trying so hard to start a family of her own? As for Connie, well, she’s been insufferable since she started her own photography business. Just because she’s managed to combine a career and being a mother she thinks she’s the Queen of the have-it-all generation. She wasn’t always so bloody sorted and she’d do well to remember as much. Ghastly.

  My eyes sting and there is a throbbing ache in the back of my head.

  Not that I’ve ever been struck by how ghastly Connie’s manner is until Sunday. Normally, she’s rather sweet. She’s always singing my praises and insisting I put every other mother to shame. And up until Sunday I’ve felt extremely sorry for Daisy and Simon because yes, they would happily sacrifice their exotic travel for the opportunity to be knee high in nappies.

  But how could they be so cruel to me? Why were they so nasty?

  I realize that I have walked right past my house and am surprised to find myself outside the local Starbucks. Inside there are a number of busy office workers in smart suits, grabbing a quick double espresso before they tackle the tube. There are a couple of mums with toddlers. The toddlers are crawling around the café floor, which I would never have allowed however beaten I felt after a terrible night’s sleep – it’s unhygienic. There are two people reading a newspaper. I envy them. They look unruffled, as though time is something to be squandered, not something to be filled or something that flies by; which is my experience.

  Could I join them? I haven’t had breakfast. I made the boys pancakes but that didn’t really leave me much time to sort things out for myself. I am a bit hungry, and after a couple of sleepless nights a latte would probably perk me up. I feel momentarily guilty. After all, there’s the lovely Fair Trade Brazilian blend in my cupboard, I could just go home and make a cup. It seems extravagant to sit on my own in a coffee shop. As I’m trying to dismiss the idea I find myself ordering a latte and a cinnamon bun. Then I plonk myself in a window seat.

  It is a perfect day for drying clothes, warm and windy. The bright autumnal sunshine splatters across the pavement. I feel a moment of satisfaction as I think that I managed to get a load of washing hung on the line before we left for school this morning. Few mums are so organized. As I sink into the roomy armchair I concentrate on relaxing my shoulders. For nearly two days I’ve been wearing them around my ears.

  I try and think positively. The school term has got off to a successful start – relative tranquillity reigns. Apart from Sebastian’s grumbles that I oughtn’t still to be collecting him from the school gate (ridiculous in this age when you can’t sneeze without hitting a paedophile or a speeding driver). The boys come home from school muddy, smelly and tired. They slouch in front of the TV, eat several rounds of toast, drink large glasses of milk and then I coerce them into doing something productive before I cook a hot meal.

  Friday was a little disappointing. I spent several hours putting together our annual autumnal nature table. I collected conkers and drilled holes in them and threaded them on to strings so that we could have a conker tournament. I’d also collected a selection of leaves and nuts, searched out a book on hibernation and another on tractors, as I like the boys to have an understanding of things you don’t discover on the Loony Tunes channel. I went to the local art shop and bought paint in browns, orange, red and rust. The table was a shrine to the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. I managed to contain my excitement while the boys munched their way through their toast and then – with a flourish – I ushered them into the lean-to.

  ‘I thought we could paint these leaves and make print pictures,’I said.

  Sebastian stared at me with ill-disguised disgust. ‘Babies do that in reception class, Mum.’

  ‘This book has some great pictures.’

  Both the boys resolutely stared at their feet. My pride in my purchase subsided. It was clear that the twins were not enthusiastic about the table.

  ‘No one really plays conkers ever, Mum, and they haven’t since like prehistoric times, when you were a girl,’commented Sebastian.

  My first reaction was to correct his understanding of prehistoric times but I realized that he had a point. I can’t remember playing conkers. Some of the boys in my playground might have, but it was never as widespread a form of entertainment as Top Trumps.

  ‘We always do a table and it’s boring,’added Henry.

  I was hurt. Offended by their manners and the sentiment. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that they are seven years old and not as tactful as I’d hope.

  It was a relief that my root vegetable stew and stuffed apples with custard were received with more enthusiasm than the season table. I didn’t mention to the boys that I’d themed the food. I had a feeling it would have been detrimental to their enjoyment.

  After they’d finished their homework, bathed and cleaned their teeth, I read stories and checked that there were clean football strips for the weekend. Then I called Connie for a cheer-up chat. We competitively compared our day’s irritations, which was a help and a giggle. That was Friday. On Sunday she smote me with her tongue. Who’d have thought it was possible?

  I begin to ponder. ‘Cruel’and ‘nasty’are not words I’ve ever had cause to associate with Daisy and Connie. At least, not since Daisy and I gave up fighting over Sindy dolls. What did they say exactly? Wasting my life. I remember that clearly even through the fuzz of two sleepless nights. I wish I could forget it but I can’t. The accusation has stung me like a mosquito bite and I can’t help but scratch it. In fairness to Connie, she did point out that I’ve done a great job with the twins. What did she ask me? What am I going to do next?

  The coffee, previously delicious, suddenly tastes bitter. I lunge for the bun and stuff an enormous amount into my mouth, desperate to take away the nasty taste. The bun doesn’t help. My throat is too dry to allow me to swallow. I chew and chew and chew. I must look like a huge cow masticating grass.

  They wanted to talk to me about my future. Their voices shove their way into my consciousness. Last night, when I was in the darkness of despair and self-pity, I was able to filter out the concern and pity in their words. I ignored the assurances that they were only thinking of me and wanted the best for me. Last night it was easy to be angry and indignant and, most importantly, to continue to avoid what they were shunting into view. But in the daylight, with sun streaming through the window, it’s not so easy to feign ignorance.

  I don’t have a future.

  Financially I have made myself reasonably secure, although not flush. Peter paid off the mortgage on our family home when he left. It was a huge pile of a place. I sold it and invested a lump sum in secure saving plans and bought
a more modest place for the boys and me. I don’t see myself ending up as a bag lady, holding out a cardboard cup and sleeping in the doorway of Argos. But how do I see myself?

  I hope the boys will go to university, stay clear of drugs and find careers that they enjoy. One day I’d like there to be grandchildren. Connie’s words beat their way through the flowery privet fence that I have carefully built in my mind. It’s a manicured fence, which I prune and nurture; a fence I’ve carefully constructed to keep me protected from harsh realities. But, like a nasty, invasive weed, the words of my friends hack through. ‘You have no friends or interests outside the school gates.’‘We just think it would be nice if you got out and met some new people.’‘Maybe even go on a couple of dates.’

  I am not an imbecile. I have, on occasion, thought some very similar things myself. Maybe I should make an effort to get out and meet people beyond the school gate. But how would I go about that? It’s not easy finding babysitters that the boys are comfortable with. I’ve never left them with strangers. I suppose I could ask Daisy and Simon to sit, occasionally. They do offer, regularly. But where would I go?

  I pause and reflect. I do have hobbies. I love pottering in my garden. My rose bushes were fabulous this year, quite the talk of the street. I’m a good seamstress, I make my own curtains. I’m a very good cook; I’ve made my own love handles.

  It’s other people’s stares, not the phone’s tring, that alert me to the fact that my mobile is ringing. I see that it’s Connie. I pick up immediately, despite my vows to ignore her.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. We’re really sorry. All of us. Very sorry. Are we forgiven?’she gabbles without pausing. I stay silent. I want more. ‘We were trying to do the right thing.’I’m mute. ‘No one knew how to discuss this with you, Rose.’Still silent. ‘If we didn’t care about you so much we wouldn’t have said anything. We could have just quietly eaten you out of house and home every Sunday, for the next couple of decades. I mean, to be honest, it’s not going to be that convenient for me if you do start dating. Next thing you know, you’ll fall in love and then you’ll neglect your friends. I’ll have to learn to cook and you know that I’ve spent my adulthood trying to avoid that. Rose, we didn’t mean to hurt you,’she adds, clearly sincere.

  What am I to do? Without Daisy, Simon, Connie and Luke my life is pretty dull. There’s no point in sulking. I break into a reluctant grin and I break the silence.

  ‘I know,’I mutter. ‘But I hate it that everyone thinks I’m some sort of victim because I’m on my own. The truth is I think it’s a blessed relief not to have a man hanging around losing his rag and the car keys on a more or less continuous basis. I love my life. I really do.’

  ‘Right,’says Connie, flatly.

  ‘I know no one believes me. Everyone from my mother to the old guy in the corner shop think all my problems would be solved if there was a man in my life. But men don’t smell very nice and more often than not they don’t act particularly nicely either,’I argue.

  ‘Right,’says Connie again. But she still doesn’t sound as though she’s wholeheartedly agreeing with me. I know she’s just too scared of ruining the freshly formed truce to risk openly disagreeing. I take a sip of my coffee but it’s turned cold. The frothy treat has been neglected and now is sour. If I was a more fanciful type, I’d see that as a pertinent metaphor for my life.

  ‘You agree with my mum, don’t you?’I ask with a sigh.

  ‘And the guy in the corner shop.’Connie risks giggling now, I can hear it in her voice. ‘No, Rose, not necessarily. I don’t think all your problems would be solved if you met a man, you’d just have a new batch to deal with. I think you should meet people. Not just men. Friends. You should develop a new interest –’

  ‘Take up a night class,’I finish the end of her sentence with her.

  ‘Well, yes, why not?’

  ‘I was being facetious. If I had a pound for every time someone’s suggested a night class to me I’d be a very rich woman.’

  ‘People suggest you going to a night class because it’s a good idea. It changed my life.’

  ‘You really think I just need a good seeing to, don’t you, Connie?’

  ‘One step at a time. Personally I’ve always had a penchant for professor types; you might kill two birds with one stone.’

  I sigh and hope my resentment is effectively communicated. I feel bullied.

  ‘How about a part-time job?’she suggests.

  ‘I’ve tried that. It’s impossible to find something that fits around the children.’

  ‘The last time you tried they were still in nappies, now they are in football boots and after-school clubs. Things might have changed.’

  ‘What would I do?’I wail.

  ‘You’re a fully trained accountant. A good one. There must be dozens of people that would benefit from you looking over their books. You could do that through the day, when the boys are at school.’

  She has this habit of making things sound easy, it’s quite annoying.

  ‘Who’d employ me?’

  ‘Me for one,’she says.

  ‘You can’t employ me. I couldn’t accept a wage from you.’

  ‘Well, maybe we could do a pro rata thing. I could babysit for you while you go to your night class.’

  It would be impossible not to see her good intentions. Eventually I summon the grace to mutter, ‘I suppose I should be grateful that you are just suggesting night classes and not speed-dating.’

  ‘We’re trying to ease you out of your comfort zone, Rose. We’re not asking you to make a Herculean leap.’

  I’m not clear how it happens but somehow or other, by the time I leave the café, I find that I have agreed to Daisy and Connie drafting up a plan for me to meet new people and I’ve promised to consider enrolling in a night class.

  10

  Thursday 14 September

  Lucy

  I make an effort. A huge effort. I take the day off work to visit a stylist for a blow-dry, my beautician for various polishing, waxing, buffing and plucking, and I buy new underwear; although, strictly speaking, this is more for me than him. He’s unlikely to recoil in horror at the sight of last season’s frilly knicks. I’m not aware that they are attached to any traumatic incidences. I buy La Perla; tiny and shockingly expensive but sometimes less is more. I book us a table at Fifteen, arrange for Eva to babysit and then I book a car.

  My plan is to pick up Peter from work. If I wait until he gets home before setting off on our date, the likelihood is one or the other of us will lose the impetus and decide that we’d prefer to slump; him in front of the TV, me with a bunch of magazines. Besides, even if we both do feel lively enough to venture out, we run the risk of Auriol still being awake when we try to make our escape bid. She’ll moan and whine and insist she needs us to stay in, she’ll say that she hasn’t seen us ‘forever’and she misses us. Her tears will guarantee that the fun of the evening will evaporate. The girl would suck our blood if she could.

  I’ve already called Susie, Peter’s PA, and given her a heads up on my plan. She knows not to put any meetings in Peter’s diary after 5 p.m. and not to allow Peter to skip off to the bar before I arrive.

  ‘OK Lucy, don’t worry. I’ll make sure he’s waiting but suspects nothing.’Susie can manage this seemingly tricky task with ease because she’s an excellent PA. ‘Is it an anniversary?’She knows it’s not our real anniversary because she sent the lavish bouquet just six months ago.

  ‘Of sorts.’I don’t offer any more of an explanation.

  The cab company sends a shiny slate-grey Mercedes as I’m a good client. The driver is Bob. He’s driven me before. As I get into the car I notice him checking out my legs (shown to discreet advantage in a pencil skirt) and my cleavage (shown to unapologetic advantage as my Anna Sui shirt is almost transparent). He pulls his eyes away from the mirror and forces himself to look at the road. I’m not in the least offended. I don’t make this sort of effort to be ignored.

 
When the car pulls up outside Pete’s office, no one turns a hair. Mercs with tinted windows are a common sight in the City. Everybody is a somebody or at least a convincing wannabe. Peter is clearly delighted when he spots me in reception. Susie has made up some story about a client wanting a quick word with him and waiting impatiently in the glass foyer.

  ‘My God, Lucy, I was expecting a bollocking from some grey client and instead it’s you! Not a bollocking at all, just the dog’s bollocks!’Peter kisses me on the lips. I don’t pull away or tell him he’ll smudge my make-up or crumple my clothes. Instead I push my body into his, reminding him how I feel.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’he asks as he gives me an appreciative once-over.

  ‘I’ll tell you at dinner. Come on, we’re going right now.’

  ‘I can’t just leave, Lucy. I have to check my diary, let Susie know I’m off, shut down my laptop.’Suddenly, he looks agitated, irritated even.

  I bite my tongue and resist making any comment about spontaneity or rather the lack of it. Funny, when we were having an affair there was never an occasion that Peter fretted about his diary or shutting down his laptop. He was always available to devote himself to me and to allow me to devote myself to him. Now I am his wife and I should be more important to him, but there seems less room for me in his busy schedule. I take a deep breath.

  ‘Your diary is empty. Susie is in on this. She’ll pack away your laptop and keep it under lock and key until tomorrow.’

  Peter looks at me and I watch the irritation melt away. Admiration and pleasure are allowed to seep back. He’s staring at me as though he’s just met me on the street and is sure he recognizes me from somewhere; he just can’t place where.

  ‘You really have thought of everything, haven’t you?’

  ‘I think so.’

  I watch him and will us to reconnect and stay connected. How come we sometimes seem so far away from one another when all I want is to be his second skin? I want tonight to be perfect. I want tonight to be a turning point; I want to turn back. Because I fear we’ve travelled too far in the wrong direction.