Young Wives' Tales Part 30

40.

Monday 20 November

Lucy

The day of my epiphany in the National Portrait Gallery didn't pan out exactly as I'd imagined, which I'm already beginning to realize is a fundamental consequence of involving oneself with children. Things rarely pan out as one imagines. I ran out of the gallery, frantically trying to flag a cab. It was still raining and so they were scarce. Never in my life have I struggled to hail a taxi, they normally risk a pile-up to pick me up. But then, never in my life have I behaved frantically; I am sure the two facts correlate. Cabbies probably steer well away from anyone looking desperate. In the end I dashed towards the underground and endured that atrocity for the second time in one day. I ran from the tube station to home and flung open the front door only to be greeted by a fairly bemused Eva. Auriol was nowhere to be seen, she was still at school. It was only two-twenty. Which seemed peculiar to me: the day already felt as though it was a month long.

I smoked a cigarette, drank a black coffee and paced the kitchen until I alighted on the idea of popping to Connie's. We could walk to the school gate together. That way I'd kill some time and with her at my side I was less likely to break any invisible (but all important) school gate etiquette that I was unaware of.

Connie was delighted to see me and was thrilled with my decision to attempt to bond with Auriol.

'I need her. I need to know that there is a reason, and progress, and a point,'I rambled to Connie. I didn't say that I also needed Auriol to glue me to Peter and I didn't mention why my hangover was quite so vicious and shaming.

Connie is rather dreamy and impractical much of the time. She indulges in 'why are we here'thoughts far more than the average grown-up. Her insistence on remaining eternally studenty is largely annoying but that day I found it a comfort.

Connie was happy for me to accompany her to the school gates. Once there I became the object of more attention than I desired. Half the mums made a big thing about introducing themselves to me and saying how nice it was to meet me at last the other half pointedly ignored me. I'd failed in their eyes by not sacrificing myself at the altar of motherhood. I tried smiling at them and conveying that I pledged to do just that, from that day forward, but I was strung out and I'm pretty sure my weak grin looked more like a hostile grimace.

Auriol was thrilled to see me at the gate and after she'd established that no, Eva was not ill, she relaxed and took hold of my hand.

'Come and see my cla.s.sroom, Mummy,'she insisted.

'We could go to Connie's and play with Fran if you like,'I offered, keen to escape the confines of the school grounds as quickly as possible. It was hardly my scene.

'No. I want you to see my firework picture. It's on the wall. You said we could do anything I wanted.'

Had I? In those brief seconds when she flung herself into my arms and I said h.e.l.lo and garbled other bits, had I already relinquished all power? We said goodbye to Connie and her girls and then I allowed Auriol to tug at my coat sleeve and drag me into her cla.s.sroom.

Of course I'd visited the cla.s.sroom before Auriol was offered a place at the school. I knew what to expect. Tiny tables and chairs, disorder, odd scribbled pictures hung on the wall, illegible writing proudly displayed as if it were ancient calligraphy, Lego crunching underfoot and a scruffy mat in the corner where the children listen to stories. As I entered the room Miss Gibbon, Auriol's teacher, rushed towards me with an outstretched hand and a wide beam.

'Is it OK if we take a poke around?'I asked, suddenly self-conscious. A fish out of water, I didn't know what was allowed or expected.

'It's wonderful to see you, Mrs Phillips. Most of the mums have had an unofficial tour by now. The children love it if their parents are involved and know what they've achieved in their first couple of months.'

The young teacher blushed as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She hadn't meant to charge me with neglect but had done so anyway.

'This is mine,'said Auriol as she proudly pointed to a coat peg. There was a pa.s.sport-size photo of her, Blu-tacked above the peg. I hadn't seen the photo before. I peered at it. 'Eva took me to a box to get that photo,'Auriol explained. She looked anxious on the shot. Her smile was forced and lopsided.

'When?'I asked.

'Day before school started. I didn't know I'd like school then. But I know now,'said Auriol, explaining her strained smirk. Miss Gibbon, who was hovering in the background and doing a lousy impression of not eavesdropping, smiled with satisfaction. 'Come on.'

Auriol moved me around the cla.s.sroom. She proudly showed me her tray, her pictures that had been deemed good enough to be pinned on the wall, the reading books, the flash cards, the weighing scales, the measuring jugs and the games cupboard. Some of it was familiar because it was the same equipment they used in schools when I was an infant. The rest of it was new in a startling sense. I felt like Peter's mother had said she felt the first time she ventured into a shop selling mobile phones. Wasn't this equipment marvellous but what was it all for?

'I have twenty words,'said Auriol. Her tone was triumphant but I had no idea what she was talking about. She pointed to a poster pinned on the wall. Upon which simple words were written: 'I', 'am', 'you', 'was', etc. She put her tiny finger under each word and started to read to me.

'If, in, what, and.'

I didn't interrupt her and when she finished I said, 'That was twenty-four words you have twenty-four words, more than you thought.'I smiled.

Proud, she grinned back at me. 'I can read whole books.'She rushed over to the library corner and picked up a book.

'This is Mum. This is Dad. This is a dog. This is a cat.'Placing her tiny finger under each word as she said it, she carefully completed the simple book. Of course I'd heard her attempts to read before, as she often read with Eva, but I hadn't realized she was so advanced. Mortification and pride fought for my attention. Since that afternoon I've realized that this conflict is one I might be living with for quite some time. Mortification at all I've missed, pride in what she's achieved even though she's been largely neglected by me.

I knew she was bright.

'Auriol is very good at reading,'said Miss Gibbon. 'One of the best in the cla.s.s.'

'I can see that,'I commented, and then I had to rush Auriol out of the cla.s.s before I was further exposed.

I took Auriol out for tea that night. We did not go home so that I could change clothes because she was starving and we agreed that reading was 'hungry-making work'.

The next day Peter, Auriol and I went to the movies and I let her sit on my knee throughout the allegedly scary bits, even though my s.h.i.+rt got creased and the movie was a Disney cartoon and we both knew that really she wasn't in the least bit scared.

On Sunday the twins came to visit as usual, and we all went rollerblading in Kensington Gardens, which was unusual. I can't say I enjoyed myself. Sebastian knocked me over four times and I'm pretty sure none of the collisions were accidents, but Peter and Auriol were glowing with happiness, despite the drizzle and the cold. As I lowered myself into a hot bath that night I examined my grazed knees and palms and fat tears slid down my face. I brushed them away impatiently. I told myself I was crying at my injuries, or even at the fact that, in my rush to leave the house today, I'd left my gloves behind so that my fingers had stung with cold all day and now looked about as attractive as defrosting fish fingers, economy brand. It would be dreadful to think the tears were tears of regret at my actions, or grief for the time I'd squandered, or terror at being discovered for what I really am. Although any of these things is enough to make me cry.

The idyllic little scenes I've just described turned out not to be wholly representative. Over the course of the week Auriol became less cooperative, not more. The novelty of my appearing at the school gate wore off with indecent haste and by day three she asked, 'Aren't you supposed to be making money? Where's Eva? Eva knows that I go to the library on Tuesdays.'

I had imagined that the moment I decided I was ready to embrace my daughter, family life and all the a.s.sociated that I would be welcomed with literal and metaphorical open arms. I was wrong. Auriol is finding my sudden interest in her whereabouts rather claustrophobic. She behaved like a stroppy teenager when I suggested we limit the number of play-dates she can accept in a week. But she is so tired after school, I do believe she needs down time. On Wednesday I asked her where she'd picked up the expression 'fart-head'. She informed me that it was none of my business and went on to a.s.sure me that I am the only, only, only Mummy that doesn't allow sleepovers, and for that she hates me.

We don't know one another. It is as I suspected, except worse. I was aware that I didn't have any real understanding of my daughter's nature but I hadn't imagined her to be particularly complex. She's four years old, for G.o.d's sake, I hadn't realized there had been enough time for her to develop mysterious and elusive intricacies. Over the last ten days I've struggled to find common ground but I'm exposed, as I don't know the names of her friends, or her favourite TV shows, or which books she's already had read to her as bedtime stories. I realize that playing with her would be a 'good thing'but I have no patience for threading beads, hosting imaginary tea parties for her soft toys or dressing and undressing Barbie dolls as though they were stuck in a Ground Hog Day nightmare. Instead, I try to encourage her to play Connect 4 and noughts and crosses. After initial objections, yesterday she agreed, and it turns out that she has a very logical mind. I shared with her my tip for both games, which is to insist on going first and always to take the centre position. It might not be the most philanthropic motherly advice but it's a start and she did enjoy winning.

It transpires that we are rather alike, which I'm pleased about, but our being similar does have its issues. We are both strong-willed, independent and self-sufficient. We have clear ideas (often conflicting) on how and when things should be done. We disagree about what Auriol should eat, when she should practise her flash cards and at what time she ought to go to bed. As I haven't ever given motherhood much thought, a number of bad habits have been allowed to develop. It used to be that Auriol would switch off her own bedside light at any time she liked at night. Providing she stayed in her room after Eva put her there, I didn't much care. Having given it some thought, I've decided that lights ought to be out by 7 p.m. on a week-night bedtime. My suggestion was greeted with contempt.

'I'm not a baby, Mummy,'she insisted.

But it's just occurring to both of us that actually, she is. She's my baby.

I've stretched bedtime to 8 p.m. at weekends, at great personal sacrifice. After a full day of entertaining her I quite often want to hurl her into bed at around five. I had no idea how hard it was to spend an entire day encouraging a child to eat fruit and vegetables, limit the hours on the computer or in front of the TV and disallow sweet snacks. I often ache with holding my body in a form of protest. I fall into my bed exhausted, but as I am erect with tension sleep often eludes me.

Connie has taken a great interest in my progress. I think she's enjoying being the one to offer advice and a.s.surance. Over the last week there have been times that I wanted to throttle her as her patronizing chorus of 'I told you so'and 'You'll get the hang of it'sallied forth. There are days when I want to yell at her that she was part of my downfall. If she had not embraced motherhood quite so fully then I would still have had someone to drink c.o.c.ktails with, and then I would have stayed in practice and not got plastered at Wasp bar, and then I would not have felt lonely and morbid, and then I would not have allowed Joe Whitehead to...At this point my argument disintegrates. I haven't got the stomach for blame. It's never been my style. I take responsibility for my own disasters. Besides, I realize that Connie has taken the natural path. Loving your kids and adapting your life to accommodate the life you've created is the proper way. It must be because it feels right to me now. Even when I'm getting it wrong, it feels right.

Yes. Because this week I'm already discovering that even when I do fall into bed exhausted but stiff with tension, I can identify a smidgen of pride hidden deep inside and I know that what I'm trying to achieve is a good thing. On Thursday I felt a glow when Auriol chose for me to bath her, rather than Eva, and that glow was fanned when I won a smile of pleasure from Auriol for remembering her favourite Girls Aloud song on Sat.u.r.day. Something very deep inside me has stirred, resentment has been dislodged and something more positive, that I can't quite identify yet, is growing in its place. It's worthwhile.

That said, I'm no saint, and after ten days of trying to qualify for a mother of the year award I ring Connie and demand she meets me for a c.o.c.ktail after our kids are in bed.

I arrive at the bar first and I order us both a Cosmopolitan. When Connie arrives soon after me, she pounces on it gleefully.

'I'm finding this mothering thing is often b.l.o.o.d.y, but why am I surprised? That's what I'd expected. Auriol told me she hated me again today.'

'Oh, that. They all say that from time to time.'She waves her hand dismissively and the sense of rejection I've been carrying around since teatime dissolves. 'The books say that you have to reply with some c.r.a.p like, "Well, I still love you."'

'Really?'I'm shocked.

'Yes, but I usually say, "That's a horrible word, Fran, and you should think very carefully before being so mean to your mum. I feed you."'We both laugh. 'There's no such thing as a perfect mum. Whatever I do she'll blame me when she grows up and she's in therapy. How's work?'

'It's fine. Actually, no, it isn't. I'll probably be sacked soon. The word on the street is that I've taken my eye off the ball and I'm yesterday's hero.'

'Rubbish. You'll be there when you're contemplating Saga holidays and need a hearing aid to listen to the gossip.'

'Connie, please don't be gross.'

But I find myself laughing and something in the pit of my stomach moves again. More resentment is dissolving, the contentment is growing. OK, maybe growing old isn't totally horrifying. It's not great, but there's always surgery and consider the alternative to growing old.

I'm not joking about the problems at work though. A week is a long time in the City. Last week I turned down all invitations to lunch, drinks or dinner. I used the excuse that I haven't time for a lunch-break because I want to leave the office in time to read to Auriol, which is half of the truth. The other half of the equation is that I have to ask, after the office party, how can I ever trust myself to socialize with a colleague again? My commitment to Auriol is seen as a betrayal at work. Today, a sizeable new client, who I was sure was winging his way towards me, was given to Joe Whitehead to care-take. The irony isn't lost on me. I feel pa.s.sed over but can't prove that the client was ever intended to come into my pasture. I did not take this news lying down and marched into Ralph's office and demanded that he offer an explanation. He said that Joe had more experience in that particular field. Maybe he has.

Maybe.

Or maybe word of my indiscretion at the party has leaked into the boardroom.

Or maybe my femininity, and therefore frailty, is exposed now that I've admitted, in my heart, that I am a mother. I don't know which is worse.

'Do you still see much of that Mick?'asks Connie.

'No,'I reply shortly.

Connie keeps her eyes on me she's waiting for me to elaborate. I want to, I'm just not sure where to start. Mick and I have been avoiding one another. I can't decide if it's because I propositioned him when I was drunk or because he turned me down. Either alternative would be better than the possibility that he has heard about Joe. I look at Connie and wonder if she could cope with me confessing to having s.e.x with a man other than Peter. Before I married Peter, Connie used to be thrilled with stories about my exploits, but I'm not sure she'd see tight, drunken, regretful adultery with a nasty loner as source for t.i.tillation. What possessed me? Even while I ask the question, I know the answer. I've never been into self-delusion. Alcohol and loneliness were the catalysts and culprits. A fatal c.o.c.ktail.

I decide I don't want to hang my filthy linen in Connie's backyard. I won't tell her about my horrid indiscretion. Joe is not important. No one need ever know. He was nothing more than a wake-up call. He meant nothing. Speaking of him would give him import that he doesn't deserve. I push him to the back of my mind, the way I have had to on countless occasions this week. If I think of the moment when he kissed me and I could smell stale, old food on his teeth, I might start to heave. Peter never smells of anything other than Listerine mouthwash and Colgate toothpaste. Joe Whitehead's mouth, full of metal and rotting meat, made me pull back. We had s.e.x without kissing. Prost.i.tutes do the same thing, I understand.

I've stayed silent long enough for Connie to realize I'm not in the mood to swap confidences about Mick or any other aspect of GWH. She moves on to a topic nearer to her heart.

'So will you be volunteering to help sew costumes for the nativity play?'I stare at her horrified. 'Or sell tickets?'I shake my head. 'Serve coffee at the interval?'

'Get real, Connie. No. I'm doing my best but I'm not PA material, we both know that.'

'You could be, if you wanted to be.'

'Now there's a truth. Don't expect to see me at those hideous children's group coffee mornings any time soon, either.'

'Why?'

'Everyone sits on their fat a.r.s.es and eats cake all morning in some depressing town hall. I cannot stand those ghastly places. They always smell of child c.r.a.p.'

Connie laughs and orders us each another c.o.c.ktail.

'I'll have a bottle of mineral water instead. I'm still hungover from the office party.'

My hangover is moral rather than physical but it's very real. Connie eyes me with curiosity but doesn't probe.

'How's Eva accepting your recent bonding with Auriol?'she asks.

'I thought that at least Eva would see my interest as a positive thing. I know I must be lessening her workload because mine seems to have increased tenfold. But instead of being pleased for my positive contribution she's chosen to interpret my actions as "unnecessary interference". She believes I'm rus.h.i.+ng home from work early to check up on her and she sees any suggestion I make regarding the structure of Auriol's day as a direct criticism.'

'Oh dear.'

'She's resigned twice in the last ten days. I don't know how to manage the situation. I am not willing to see less of Auriol just to placate the nanny.'

'So?'

'I've decided to do what I always do I've thrown cash at the problem. So far I have managed to persuade her to stay by offering to pay for her gym members.h.i.+p and driving lessons. I wonder what will happen first, our bankruptcy or her final resignation. It'll be a close call.'

Connie laughs. 'And how's Peter?'

'Really good,'I beam. 'We're good.'

There is an upside to my new approach to mothering. The overwhelming positive outcome, which far outweighs the slights at work and the battles with Auriol and Eva, is that Peter has noticed I'm trying. He sees me hold my temper when Auriol won't hold my hand and he sees me bite my lip when she bites my leg. I think I am slowly forging new connections between us and I hope to weave enough strands of common ground and understanding to patch up the holes in our relations.h.i.+p. I see now that Joe Whitehead was indeed a wake-up call. Not a threat. Not a problem. I like to think of him as a relations.h.i.+p aid.

If I have to think of him at all.

My mobile starts to ring.

'I bet that's him now,'I say, smiling at Connie. 'Do you mind if I take it?'

'Go ahead.'

'h.e.l.lo Lucy, it's Joe here.'f.u.c.k. My insides turn to liquid.

'Who?'I ask, to buy time.

I signal to Connie that it's too noisy to take the call in the bar and I walk outside and out of earshot. All the while I'm praying that the call is business related.

'I was wondering if you wanted to meet up some time soon. We could do Thursday night all over again,'says Joe. In my mind's eye I can see his grey skin and feel his damp palms. I shudder.

'I'm sorry, I have no idea what you are talking about.'I hope my voice sounds calm. I don't want to be drawn. There must be no discussion about that night. To admit that it happened would give it a dignity that it is miles below.

'Come on, Lucy. It's a bit late to play hard to get.'

'I'm not playing anything.'I s.h.i.+ver. I've left my coat inside the bar, although even if I was wearing a ski-suit I think I'd be chilled.

'I'm going on a date tomorrow. How do you feel about that?'

'I have no feelings on the matter.'

'Lucy, baby, I know you are jealous. Why don't you just say so? One word from you and I'd blow her out.'