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‘Barbados: isn’t she lucky!’ I say to Charlotte as Lisa follows me into the kitchen.
‘You’re lucky not to have to work.’ Lisa never seems to take on board that I do work, even if part-time.
‘I do,’ I object.
‘Oh, I know, I know,’ Lisa holds up her hand to stem my protest. ‘There’s all that picking up after the munchkins and buying enough cotton buds and loo-paper rolls, and checking your husband’s got a clean shirt. I know that’s important, but I have to worry about how China’s exports are doing, and which country has the most solid manufacturing base.’
Yes, Lisa has the luxury of thinking about grown-up issues. But motherhood is like a washing machine that only has one setting – the hottest – and shrinks your interests from reading Italian art critics to getting the Stain Devil on your skirt before the jam from Maisie’s toast sets in; from analysing the pre-Raphaelites’ technique to checking that the stench emanating from Tom’s book-bag is not last week’s packed lunch rotting away. Motherhood means the almost total suspension of big thoughts and big books, exhibits, theatre outings, even reading the newspaper from start to finish. You promise yourself every day for fifteen years that, next year, it will be different; you’ll finally be free of bedtime schedules, school runs, homework, and Yoga for Twos. But every year you also acknowledge that Maisie wants more attention than you give her; that Tom is shy and needs you to bring him out; that Alex doesn’t take his work seriously enough and needs constant monitoring; and that your place is unquestionably with them.
‘It’s harder than it looks,’ Charlotte sulks as Lisa strikes a pose against our refrigerator.
She looks slim even in a baggy white tracksuit. Charlotte sets down the biscuit she was nibbling.
‘Such a blessing,’ I tell Lisa, ‘to be free of the school schedule.’
‘You’d better believe it.’ Lisa tosses her glossy highlights. ‘I wouldn’t be caught dead in a hotel with kids around. They make a racket and pee in the pool. Gross.’
‘Tea?’ I offer, but Lisa shakes her head. Of course: she only does H20 and Dom Pérignon. ‘Doesn’t your mother live there now?’
‘Barbados? No, Bahamas. Down, dog, down!’ Lisa pushes Rufus’s snout away from her all-white outfit. ‘Lives with her analyst. I hope he gives her a discount!’ Lisa laughs. ‘Anyway, it lets me off the hook!’
‘Oh, hullo!’ Guy’s radar for Lisa’s infrequent visits is foolproof; the hermit who can’t be prised from his refuge when Charlotte, Ilona’s boyfriends, the gas man or the postman are at the door, pops out the moment our leggy neighbour drops by.
‘Hi there!’ Lisa automatically shifts into testosterone response: her eyelids flutter, mouth puckers in a pout, and her breasts lift as if suddenly fitted into a balcony bra. No male is exempt from her full blast. I’ve even caught Lisa fluttering her lids at Alex and Tom.
Guy’s eyes are on Lisa. ‘Are you off then?’
‘Yup. Can’t wait. Need my sun.’
‘Some people have all the luck.’ Guy flicks the switch on the kettle. ‘If you’re ever in need of a chaperone, I’m willing. I mean, lying in the sun sipping daiquiris next to half-naked women will be burdensome and unpleasant, but someone’s got to do it.’
‘I thought you were a hard-working writer, tied to his desk?’ Lisa teases with a flick of her hair. So did I, I think sourly.
‘For that kind of assignment, I think I could put Rajput on hold.’
But Lisa is checking her BlackBerry. ‘Hey, it’s eleven o’clock! I’ve got to go to my threading. Listen, I really appreciate it. I’ll get the kids a T-shirt.’
I see her off, then slump in the kitchen chair.
‘Please don’t tell me what threading is.’ Guy shakes his head as he takes his mug and retreats to his study.
‘God, I would NOT like her next door. She’s a living reproach, isn’t she?’ Charlotte shoves the rest of the biscuit in her mouth.
‘I know. And all three males in this house hyperventilate in her presence.’
Rain spots the window pane, it’s chilly despite my cardy, and before me stretches a decade of noisy kids, peed-in pools, and humdrum holiday destinations. Even Charlotte and Jack, who can afford it, can’t go away during term time, and in the holidays they have to bear in mind Charlotte’s father, a widower in Staffordshire, who complains of dizzy spells.
‘Typical no-com,’ Charlotte mutters.
Charlotte’s theory is that the world is divided between the no-commitments like Lisa, and the over-committeds like us. No-coms can spend hours on threading, St Tropez tans and Brazilians, without worrying about robbing children or elderly parents of quality time. Over-coms can’t. No-coms can spend their holidays without the in-laws and Christmas without some batty aunt, and they can stay late at dinner parties without fearing the au pair’s sulk the next day. Overcoms can’t. No-coms can be spontaneous about cinema and sex. Over-coms can’t see the latest George Clooney or lock the bedroom door without first ensuring that the kids, Ilona and Rufus are safely occupied. In fact, over-coms cannot move for fear of failing someone in our lives.
I pour another cup of tea. Charlotte looks positively depressed.
‘Cheer up!’ I smile reassuringly. ‘Once Lily and Maisie are about … oh, sixteen, I reckon we can be more like no-coms. Only thirteen more years to go.’
‘There’s something I haven’t told you.’ Charlotte has turned puce. ‘I’m pregnant.’
‘But she’s the same age as you!’ When I ring my mum with Charlotte’s news, she sounds genuinely, and rather insultingly, shocked. ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’
‘Well, maybe … But that’s not the point!’ I cry. Though I am not sure what is the point. Is it that it’s proof that Jack and Charlotte really do have a very active sex life, as opposed to my dormant one? Or is it that I’m feeling broody but know that there is no way Guy and I could afford to add to our present financial woes? Or am I worried about growing older? My mother’s shock at the prospect of Charlotte being pregnant makes me think that I’ve reached an age already when people think I’d be better off taking up bridge rather than being with child. Charlotte’s pregnancy proclaims to the world that she is still fertile, fecund, womanly; while I am just beginning to feel … well, almost middle-aged.
‘What a thing to do!’ my mum continues. ‘Though I suppose Jack can afford to have a big family. Have they moved to the house in Chelsea yet?’
‘Oh, Mum, it’s not always about money,’ I remonstrate. But I know it is. When I discovered that I was pregnant with Maisie almost four years ago now, Guy’s reaction struck me like a slap:
‘My God, Harriet, we can’t afford another £120,000 in school fees! And that’s without counting the rest – food, clothes, bigger house, all those soft toys, train sets, let alone the computers they demand.’ While I sat mute on a kitchen stool, stroking my stomach and its gentle swelling, my husband pulled at his hair. ‘Where will we put him? There’s no room as it is. We’d have to give up on the au pair’s room, and then it’s just when you were thinking of going back to work and …’
I just listened, frozen with shock, and suddenly Guy must have seen my expression, because he rushed over to me guiltily, and pulled me into his arms.
‘Oh, Harry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, darling, of course we’ll find a way, of course we’ll make room. And you know how I adore the boys, another one will be fab!’
In the end, it was not a baby boy but a girl, and Guy truly was adoring, walking with Maisie stretched, tummy down, on his forearm, showing her off to anyone who dropped in. ‘My little girl, just look at her!’
But his reaction had been a warning: our finances cannot cover surprises. So that even last winter, when I was giving away all the baby paraphernalia we’ve had about the house since Alex’s birth – the high chair, the crib, the pastel Beatrix Potter mobile, the baby steamer and plasticated bibs – I felt
only a little twinge of regret. A fourth child is not an option.
‘Harriet? Harriet, are you still there?’
‘Yes, yes, I am.’ I’m staring at the ominous damp patch on our bedroom ceiling. Only a week ago, it looked like a cricket ball; after five days of wet weather it has swollen to the size of a pumpkin. Please, please don’t let this mean we need to have the roof seen to. The most recent estimate would have covered two terms’ tuition at the Griffin. Where would we get the money from?
‘How’s Guy? Has he finished the Indian book?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Now there’s a surprise,’ my mother says drily. ‘I love Guy dearly, but you both would be a lot happier if he’d settled down in a proper profession a long time ago.’ My mother pauses, then, at my silence, changes tack: ‘How’re the children?’
‘Brilliant. Alex got into the First XV, did I tell you?’
‘That boy would do well anywhere,’ my mother points out. ‘He doesn’t have to go to a prep school that costs fifteen grand a year.’
‘We can’t skimp on the children’s education. You and Dad were always saying how important good schooling was.’ I look at the photo of my dad: small and wiry, he grins at the camera with total confidence. Yet only a few weeks later he was dead of a sudden stroke – leaving Mum broken-hearted and me floundering, in my second year at Bristol. Brief, sleepless nights gave way to interminable days punctuated by weeping fits and long calls home to Mum and Mel. After all this time, my eyes still fill when I look at his photograph, though now my tears are accompanied by the warm realization that Tom resembles him like a son.
‘Those were different times. Sending a child to prep school did not mean you had to take out a second mortgage.’
‘They were different times,’ I say patiently, ‘because sending your children to state schools didn’t mean they’d end up in gangland, or dealing with teachers who won’t tell off a student because they might get beaten up by his parents after school. There are schools in London where half the kids can’t speak English. And the other half, you wish they couldn’t,’ I sigh. ‘And house prices near the decent schools are way beyond us.’
‘Then the obvious solution is for you to move. We have excellent schools here. And I’ll baby-sit every night for free if you move down here.’ My mum’s words rush out of her, and I feel a wrench. She lives alone, my sister is far away, and she dotes on my children. Would moving out of London be so bad? Guy was talking about it again last night. It’s not just the bill for the Griffin’s second term looming; we’re £1,200 over our overdraft limit.
‘It’s a lot greener and quieter than London,’ my mother continues.
‘I know, Mum. I am tempted. Even though I’d have to give up HAC.’
‘You wouldn’t need to give up working, though. We’d find something else for you here.’ My mum, who has never done a day’s work in her life, is proud of my job, even if it is only part-time. ‘Buys your independence,’ she always says, ‘builds your self-confidence, keeps your wits sharp. I only wish I’d had the courage to do something myself.’
‘But it would be hard on Guy. He has his heart set on the boys following in his footsteps, and about a hundred other Carews before him, and going to Wolsingham.’
‘Oh, those Carews! They have all the wrong priorities,’ my mother sniffs. ‘Army families always spend their lives looking backwards and then are surprised when they fall flat on their face.’
‘I think if we threatened not to send the boys to Wolsingham, Archie and Cecily would sell their house and the cottage in Lyme Regis to cover the fees.’
‘Then they’re truly mad. Penury for posh classmates – it’s nonsense.’ My mother sighs. ‘I know I’m wasting my breath. Mel rang …’ My older sister, who married an Australian architect, lives in Sydney. ‘Did I tell you Kim’s firm has been commissioned to do Sydney’s new library?’
‘Yes, I think you mentioned it last time you rang.’ You bet she did. I was the youngest, my father’s favourite, and the one who got the better marks. But Mel always had twice the self-confidence and ambition. She ended up moving to Australia and starting up a business in gourmet baby food, which she sold three years ago for a tidy profit. Her husband Kim is a highly sought-after architect, who according to my mum designs half of Sydney these days.
My mother may be saintly, but she cannot resist stirring up a bit of sibling rivalry.
‘Mel’s done very well for herself.’
‘Yes,’ I agree meekly. ‘Better go, Mum – the kids will be home from school soon.’
I get off the phone and vow that I will not lose sleep over my pregnant BF or my wealthier and more successful sister.
But it is neither Charlotte or Mel who keep me awake that night. Footsteps resound on our stairs, then someone stumbles and cries out ‘Kurva!’ I look at the clock on my bedside table: three a.m. What on earth!? I get up, still half-asleep, and tiptoe, so as not to wake Guy, to open the door. It isn’t one of the boys, as I had feared, but Ilona who is weaving up the stairs, certainly not stone-cold sober, followed by a thick-set man with a ponytail. I withdraw into our bedroom, shut the door and slip back into bed beside Guy. That’s it. This is worse than her ruining Guy’s best shirt, worse than her handing out Rufus’s dog biscuits with cheese to the children, worse than her looking me up and down when I wear one of my charity-shop finds, worse even than the day she clogged up the sink with red hair dye.
But how on earth can I get rid of Ilona and still go out to work? It’s Ilona who takes Maisie to nursery, then fetches her again at one. On the days when I’m at HAC, it’s Ilona who gives Maisie, and sometimes Guy, lunch; she who plays with my three-year-old or takes her to her playgroup. And it’s Ilona who picks up Tom from St Christopher’s when Guy or I can’t, and Ilona who watches over the boys when they have their tea, and stops them from downing entire jars of Nutella, reading at the table and leaving their chocolatey prints on every surface.
I feel depressed at the thought of what the ponytailed visitor dooms me to. Hours on Mumsnet and Gumtree.com, placing ads and answering them; endless chats with the lonely Pakistani newsagent who posts Polish and Latvian girls’ ads in his windows; and possibly a long, horrific drive in yet another hired car to Stansted, Heathrow, Gatwick or Luton, hoping against hope that this one, finally, is a good one.
Next morning, I have resolved nothing except that I must have a good night’s sleep soon or lose my mind completely. At breakfast Ilona surfaces in one of her more clingy tops, and I snap at her to put something warmer on. Is Ponytail upstairs, under the duvet, waiting for last night’s date to sneak him toast and tea? Or did he manage to tiptoe down the stairs and out the front door at the crack of dawn?
Maisie spills cereal on the table and I scold her, setting off a tantrum. Tom has lost his maths notebook, Alex is running late, and Guy can’t find some crucial book on some sixteenth-century maharajah of Jodphur. I feel as if I want to crawl back to bed. Ilona gives me a long, cold look which manages to tell me simultaneously that she thinks I’m pre-menopausal, jealous of her pert figure, wearing the wrong clothes, and a nag.
For once, HAC seems a refuge. Mary Jane is locked in Fortress Thompson all morning, and Anjie is surreptitiously reading Heat from cover to cover. ‘Poor Ulrika, she just can’t get it right, can she?’ And ‘Robbie needs a nice girl to just come and save him, doesn’t he?’
By lunch time, when Mary Jane surfaces, I’m up to speed with the love-lives of half of Hollywood and most of the EastEnders’ cast.
‘I’ve been trying to get a few dates out of you …’ My boss stands in front of my desk. ‘Can you check your diary now, please?’ She is wearing a pretty cherry-red, light wool suit that I’ve never seen before and her trademark red-rimmed spectacles are nowhere to be seen. Mary Jane’s in a good mood, and tapping her fingers on my desk to hurry me through my diary. ‘That property developer – he could be very important. What can you do? Eleventh, twelfth, say? Morning?’
‘Yes, whatever suits.’ I can tell the donor has impressed my boss.
Mary Jane takes out a small powder compact and dabs at her nose. ‘I’m going to soften him up for you: we’re having lunch. Well, speak of the devil!’ She emits a weird, girly giggle. Anjie and I stare at each other: Mary Jane Thompson is trying to flirt!
I swivel in my chair to see the object of her attentions – and find myself face to face with James Weston.
I can’t believe it: James, my first ever boyfriend. James, the man I once thought I would marry.
‘Harriet Tenant!’ He smiles down at me. ‘You – here!’
I sit as if turned to stone – or back to the shy eighteen-year-old who all those years ago felt herself being watched by a handsome student across the crowded cafeteria.
‘You know her?’ Mary Jane sounds amazed.
‘We haven’t seen each other in fifteen years.’
I feel myself blush under his gaze: ‘Ye-yes, something like that.’
His eyes move up to the wall behind me and I am painfully aware of the Worker Bee poster. Then, seeking my gaze: ‘You look exactly the same.’
I smile, unconvinced. ‘You too.’
‘Do you live around here?’
‘Yes. I, we, live on Elton Road. It’s Clapham North. The less expensive bit.’ I feel I’m babbling, betraying my penury and my husband’s failure to keep me in style.
‘We should catch up – what about a coffee next week?’
I nod and try to smile.
‘James –’ Mary Jane is impatient ‘– we’d better go, they don’t hold reservations long.’
‘I’ll ring you.’ James waves me and Anjie goodbye as he follows Mary Jane. At the door he turns back to me: ‘I suppose we’ll be seeing a lot of each other now.’
Only when the door has shut behind him do I remember that, the last time we met, James told me I had betrayed him and he never wanted to set eyes on me again.
6
‘You’re better off without these people.’ Igor, Ilona’s new boyfriend, looms menacingly over our threshold. ‘You can stay at my place until we get you sorted.’ With his long black hair loose on his shoulders, his bomber jacket and big knuckle-duster hands, he looks scary and the boys are wide-eyed with nervous excitement.
Ilona stomps up and down the stairs. ‘She is angry because she have no sex life,’ she sobs, looking daggers at me. ‘She jealous of me.’
I say nothing and try to quash a sneaking suspicion that there may be an element of truth in my over-sexed, man-eating au pair’s accusation. Her stream of admirers has certainly brought home to me my flagging sex life.
Guy remains oblivious to these attacks on our conjugal life. He is eating his porridge while reading to Maisie. Mercifully, our toddler seems to be listening to The Little Red Engine rather than her au pair’s sobs. I stand, helpless, humiliated and slightly guilty, by the door, trying not to study the tattoo that snakes its way up Igor’s neck. Ilona gives me one last look of contempt, and then they’re gone.
Within twenty-four hours I’m a wreck. I’ve met Ludmila, who speaks two words of English: ‘No understand’; Andrea, who is allergic to Rufus; Anya, who won’t look me in the eye; and Sacha, who wears a stud in her nose and some strange metal staple in her cheek.
I’m almost tempted to call the whole thing off and promise Ilona and Igor a white wedding if she’ll come back.
What’s worse, the roof has started leaking in earnest, and the man from the roofing company came down the ladder shaking his head, and asking what ‘cowboys’ were responsible for ‘that lot up there’. We’re still waiting for his estimate.
And it’s half-term. The boys start off cheerful and buzzing with energy and plans. They spend most of breakfast reading the job ads at the back of the papers.
‘Mum, look! You could be Head of Human Resources at the Schools Trust – seventy thousand pounds starting salary.’ ‘Dad, there’s an ad for Development Director of the White Hart Theatre Company – thirty thousand pounds. It says writing skills required. You’d be brilliant!’
I watch my sons vie with one another to come up with the most appealing post and feel guilty that their parents’ financial difficulties should be so obvious to them. When I was growing up, I don’t remember ever hearing my parents discuss money, and I didn’t realize it could be a subject of tension and conflict until my father’s death and the question marks over his will. But here are my boys, trying to find something remunerative for their parents to work in. I feel I have failed to protect their childhood from the harsh realities of our financial straits.
Guy, however, seems to think it normal that our children should take an interest in our income stream. ‘It would be brilliant, boys,’ he says, looking over their shoulder at the papers. ‘But, frankly, I don’t think drama is my strong suit. Let’s wait and see if that nice television lady rings.’
