Young Wives' Tales Part 5

'The guys were saying you'd have an excuse and that you never party any more. Oh well. No worries. We didn't really want you here anyway, Princess. Just didn't want you bringing one of those lawsuits against us, crying that all the business is done round the lap table rather than the board table and that you weren't given the chance to join in. See you tomorrow.'He hangs up.

His joke, like most jokes, finds its foundation in a basic gripe or grievance. It's accepted that many deals and contacts are made in the bars over a bottle of Bolly. Women are p.i.s.sed-off that after they have children the abundant after-hours networking opportunities are history (mostly they are p.i.s.sed-off because this says something quite definitive about the men they had children with, who, incidentally, are able to continue their late-night networking). I find it simple enough to pay a babysitter and get my a.s.s to the latest minimalist bar without delay or fuss. If that's what the job takes, you've got to do it. Therefore Mick's comment is unfair. I'm normally holding my own with the letchy guys. I was out with them just last...I pause.

I can't quite remember when I was last out with my colleagues on a purely social basis. Last week I had to fly to Berlin and was away two nights. I had a client function on the Thursday and I worked late on the Friday. I grab my diary and flick through it. The last time I agreed to a social was six weeks ago. A lifetime in the City.

I drag myself off the bed and into the bathroom. Splas.h.i.+ng water on my face, I consider the possibility of daubing on some fresh lipgloss and grabbing a glittery top. I could call Peter; tell him to get home immediately so that I can go to a strip bar with the other men.

I pause again. Look back into the mirror. When did I become the sort of woman who falls asleep too exhausted to take off her make-up? My face has weird indentations where I've slept heavily on the embroidered pattern on the Egyptian cotton bedlinen. My mascara has gone into the fine lines which run like ebullient tributaries from the corners of my eyes. I lean closer to the mirror. And I have lines around my mouth. My skin has started to age, there's a general sagging. Slight, probably undetectable to the average citizen, but if a woman in her twenties were to look at me she'd know I wasn't in her gang. I will soon be the type of woman people categorize as beautiful for her age.

I carefully remove my make-up, shower, gently pat myself dry and then apply about a dozen insurance policies (a.k.a. bust-firming gel, anti-cellulite cream, foot and hand moisturizer, neck moisturizer and something a bit special for around my eyes). I get back into bed, turn out the lights and wonder where Peter is. I can't claim that he is out more than he used to be; his job demands a lot of him, it always has. The difference is that when I was his mistress it was Rose waiting at home and I was out at work events right by Peter's side. I'm not suited to inactivity.

Just after we got together Peter was offered a great position in another merchant bank. We decided that it was a good idea for him to take it, not only for the extra money but because we both agreed that a bit of s.p.a.ce between us was healthy. It had been fine working together when we lived apart but n.o.body wants to be together 24/7, do they? I hadn't realized how much time we both spent in the office, way more than we spend at home. By not working together we've lost quite some intimacy and now Peter goes to different parties, client dinners and work conferences. Lots of them. And I stay at home and the most exciting thing that happens to me of an evening is a call from Mick.

I sit up and put on my bedside light once more. I suddenly feel too agitated to sleep. I love Peter so much, I do. More than myself. More than my child. This is more unusual than one would imagine. Most men a.s.sume that they are their partner's number one beloved but the majority of mothers secretly love their children far more than they love their men at least they do until their children become teenagers. Peter charms me. At his best he's clever, fun, interesting, dirty, and essential to me. At his worst he's still essential to me. I am essential to Auriol and I find that responsibility gut-wrenching. I'm sure I must fail in her eyes fifty times a day. I don't like failure, especially my own. Her love is such a responsibility.

I idly flick through my diary to ascertain when Peter and I last went out together and alone. Five weeks ago. We go out often but usually with other couples, colleagues or contacts. I'm not sure when that s.h.i.+ft in focus happened either. We used to pa.s.sionately pursue time to ourselves; now our entertaining friends fill in the conversational gaps over the bread basket. It's not that we are bored with one another, it's just that we've heard all one another's stories over the last seven years.

Wow. I hadn't realized that. I flick through the yearly calendar at the back of my diary another twice, just to be sure. I feel tremors of excitement in my stomach and within seconds the tremors flourish into full-blown triumph. A feeling I can now luxuriate in forever. It isn't a difficult sum. After all, I was at their wedding and the cause of their divorce. 'I do'to decree absolute was five years and two months. Four months less than my marriage to Peter, as stands. I have been Peter's wife longer than Rose was.

How exciting. How important. I feel something like relief wash over me. Peter has been my husband for five and a half years now, which should be enough, but I've always had a nagging anxiety that he belongs elsewhere. He belongs to Rose. I don't believe they are one another's destiny or intrinsically, indefinitely linked. But I do believe that being with him is akin to wearing someone else's jumper, not that I've ever bought a second-hand garment in my life not even at university when it was trendy. I don't buy into that vintage angle; besides the hygiene issue I've always believed some day someone would tap me on the shoulder and say, 'Excuse me, I think you are wearing my jumper. I'd like it back.'They might strip me in the street as they rightfully reclaimed what was theirs. Sometimes, that's how I feel about Peter. He was second-hand to me and some day, without warning, someone (Rose) could demand him back. Of course my unease is nonsense. Not logical in the slightest. That's the thing with irrational fears they are unreasonable.

But Peter has been married to me for longer than he was married to her. He's mine now. He's mine.

My G.o.d, we have to celebrate. This is fantastic. I flick out the light and antic.i.p.ate a decent night's sleep.

9.

Tuesday 12 September.

Rose.

I drop the boys off at the school gate and swap a couple of sentences with some other mums. I sign up for library duty on Wednesday afternoon and I catch up with Mr Shaw, the PE teacher, so I can quickly ask about the size of the towel the boys are expected to bring to their swimming lessons on Thursdays.

'Any size you consider reasonable, Mrs Phillips,'says Mr Shaw.

Mr Shaw is South African and in his late twenties. He's tall, tanned and blond and all the children adore him. Many of the mothers do too. I look at him and see the kind of man I'd like my boys to turn into: strong, polite, happy and with a reasonable understanding of the rules of cricket. I fear that I've lost the ability to fancy anyone and even if a dozen naked Greek G.o.ds were to fight for my favour, I'd be unmoved.

'I'm very impressed with the quality of the tracksuits this year,'I comment.

'I'm glad you approve,'he says with a wide smile. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Phillips, but cla.s.s is about to start and I really mustn't be late.'

'No, of course not.'I'm suddenly embarra.s.sed. What must this man think of me? 'I've got a lot to get on with too. I shouldn't be standing around chatting,'I a.s.sure him. 'I'm very busy.'

'No doubt. If you'll excuse me.'He breaks free and starts to dash towards the sports hall, leaving me standing, awkward and alone, on the pathway outside the school.

Suddenly, the street is empty. Car doors slam closed as mothers dash off to work or home and the children's chatter is distant. The school bell rings out and I can just make out Mrs Foster yelling instructions that the children must get into neat lines. I stand still until the footfall ceases altogether.

I start to think about my day and what I should do next. I wasn't fibbing to Mr Shaw, I am very busy. I'm planning to clean the windows. I need to pop to Tesco and I need to call the gym and renew the boys'swimming lessons. Sebastian wants to do tennis lessons this year and Henry has shown some interest in karate, so I'll have to make some inquiries there. I also want to spend some time browsing on the internet. Although it's only September, I want to start scouring for Christmas presents. The boys'birthday is in December, so it's always a hectic time. It doesn't do to leave the planning and purchasing until the last minute.

I sigh.

Unexpectedly, I feel down. Very down. I might even use the word depressed and that's not a word I use lightly. Yesterday, I managed to keep busy and avoided thinking about my treacherous so-called friends. I spent the entire day gardening energetically raking leaves and weeding preparing the garden to close down for winter. No one called. I knew they wouldn't. Daisy will keep a low profile for a week and then call me as though nothing has been said, that's her way. It's possible that the men have forgotten anything was said, that's their way. It will be left to Connie to mend bridges and make friends, but she had a photography job yesterday in Northampton so she wouldn't have had the opportunity to talk. She'll call today. I won't speak to her. Oh no. Certainly not. Not after their impertinence. Never again.

I sigh heavily once again. Mentally listing my ch.o.r.es 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 ch.o.r.e 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 gla.s.s 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.'b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 espres...o...b..fore they tackle the tube. There are a couple of mums with toddlers. The toddlers are crawling around the cafe 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 suns.h.i.+ne splatters across the pavement. I feel a moment of satisfaction as I think that I managed to get a load of was.h.i.+ng 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 gla.s.ses 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 cla.s.s, 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 compet.i.tively 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 a.s.sociate 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 gra.s.s.

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 a.s.surances 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 cla.s.s,'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 cla.s.s to me I'd be a very rich woman.'

'People suggest you going to a night cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s.'

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 cla.s.ses 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 cafe, 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 cla.s.s.

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 polis.h.i.+ng, 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.