Goodness, Grace and Me

by Julie Houston

  Nick reached out for me, nuzzling his face into my neck and stroking my hair as he pulled me on to his lap.

  ‘No, I had to do this. I just hate the fact that so much of the running of the house and everything else is on your shoulders.’ He paused. ‘And I can’t understand this sodding Italian legal jargon.’

  Now here was the dilemma. Did I a) encourage Nick to get help from Amanda in the hope that her knowledge of both Italian and the law would help Nick to succeed with this new venture? And I’d still have my house. But maybe not my husband. Or did I b) shout, swear and dig my heels in assuring him that if I caught her dainty little backside anywhere near his, professionally or otherwise, they’d both have me to answer to?

  I took a deep breath. ‘Can’t Mandy help you?’

  ‘Yes, very likely.’

  ‘Well, give her a ring in the morning. Just forget about all this until then.’

  And with that compromise I was able to persuade him back to bed.

  We were woken, only a few hours later, by a thoroughly overexcited six-year-old, bouncing on our bed and demanding presents.

  ‘Happy birthday, darling. Goodness me, six years old. You are getting to be an old lady!’

  ‘You’re the old lady,’ she giggled, bouncing on the bed while simultaneously scanning the room for any signs of booty, a feat that was beginning to make me feel dizzy. This damned hangover seemed to be hanging on indefinitely.

  Putting her out of her misery, I reached down to where a cache of birthday presents was waiting and settled down to watch her divest them of their wrappings.

  Once she had satisfied her lust for material gain, India turned her attention to the coming afternoon’s birthday party.

  ‘What are we actually doing at my birthday party this afternoon?’ she asked, looking up momentarily from the task of undressing a rather randy-looking Bratz doll. It was no wonder those fourteen-year-old girls had dressed and behaved as they had on the rugby touchline last week if they’d been subjected to role models like these when they were six years old.

  ‘Doing?’ I asked, playing for time. I’d no idea what we were doing apart from, hopefully, tiring out twenty little girls with a lethal cocktail of marmite and jam sandwiches and ‘The Farmer Wants a Wife.’

  ‘Yes, what are we actually doing?’ echoed Nick as he dressed one of the dolls in killer high heels and a black tasselled bra. ‘Do you fancy a get up like this?’ he asked hopefully.

  Ignoring his last question and smiling sweetly, I said, ‘You’re games master, Buster. You decide.’

  ‘Me?’ Nick looked terrified. ‘I’ve got work to do. Didn’t we agree last night that I should speak to Mandy today and sort a few things out, maybe ask her if she wouldn’t mind popping over? Anyway, you’re the one that knows all about children and how to keep them under control.’

  Well, that was debateable for a start. And my suggestion that Amanda come over and help Nick out with his work was only made in the early hours of the morning in order to make Nick feel better and come back to bed. I’d been hoping he’d forgotten all about it. The last person I needed in my house when I was trying to be party planner of the year was Little Miss Goodness.

  ‘We’re going to have a good old-fashioned children’s party with games and proper party food,’ I said firmly. ‘There won’t be a children’s entertainer in sight – apart from you, Nick – nor a chicken nugget nor a burger. I’ll write you a list of all the games we’re going to play. Meanwhile, I shall be organising the marmite sandwiches and jelly.’

  Nick groaned. ‘I need to clear my head. I’m off for a run,’ he said, getting out of bed.

  ‘Excellent,’ I enthused, removing several bits of unidentifiable plastic from where they’d lodged beneath my bottom before handing them back to India. ‘Games masters need to set a good example. Off you go. Oh, and Nick, seeing you agreed to Kit having friends over as well today, maybe you can come up with some idea of how you’re going to entertain them as well?’

  ‘No problem. We’ll stick them all in the newly erected potting shed with a pile of ‘Loaded’ magazines and a crate of Red Bull and leave them to fend for themselves.’

  Pleased with himself for coming up with this solution, Nick was out of the door leaving me to clear up the post-present unwrapping debris, muttering to anyone who cared to listen that it wouldn’t be just the bloody potting shed that would be newly erected if we went along with his suggestion for Kit and his mates.

  By mid-afternoon the sitting room was awash with balloons of various size and hue. A number of vulgar Day-Glo jellies were in the fridge under strict orders to set – I’d totally forgotten to make them until an hour previously – and the dining-room table was piled high with sandwiches and crisps. The whole spread was a celebration of 1970s kitsch complete with sausages on sticks, named flags atop the sliced white bread sandwiches and even a cheese and pineapple hedgehog which, rather top heavy, had made several bids for freedom by lurching drunkenly off the table. The yummy-mummy food police would have a field day once they realised there wasn’t an organic or wholemeal bit of food to be seen anywhere.

  A ‘Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey’, drawn hurriedly and not very artistically by a bored Liberty who had been press ganged into the task, hung jauntily on the wall, uncannily resembling a rather lecherous, cross-eyed Prince Charles. Just as I was putting six candles onto the home-made - ok Sainsbury’s - birthday cake, Grace arrived laden with gifts and champagne.

  “I thought you might need this,” she said, handing me the bottle.

  “Do I ever,” I sighed gratefully. “Shall we have a glass now?”

  “Absolutely,” she replied, taking two white plastic cups from the pile.

  “Make that another. Diana’s just arrived,” I said, catching sight of her car as it came down the lane.

  “Are you taking in asylum-seekers?” Diana asked, as she ushered Mum and Dad into the sitting room where India was already holding court with two friends who’d arrived early.

  “Asylum-Seekers?”

  ‘You seem to have acquired a stonking great edifice in your garden.’

  ‘My new potting shed,’ I said proudly. ‘I’m going to make a den down there just for me. When the trials of family life get too much, I shall bugger off down the garden with my pipe.’

  ‘Pipe?’

  ‘Well, the equivalent, whatever it is. A glass of wine and Okay magazine probably.’

  ‘So,’ I asked, turning to Grace. ‘How was the lift home?’

  ‘Lift home?’ If I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn she flushed.

  ‘Yes, the lift? On Friday night?’

  ‘It got me home, as one would expect from a lift.’

  ‘And what did you think of the lovely Enrique?’

  ‘Enrique?’

  ‘You didn’t think he was the image of Enrique Iglesias?’

  ‘Was he? I didn’t notice.’ Grace’s eyes didn’t quite meet my own.

  ‘Who are we talking about?’ asked Diana, helping herself to a second cup of fizz. ‘Hey, don’t tell anyone else we’ve got this. We don’t want to share it. Pretend it’s fizzy water.’

  ‘We’re talking about Amanda Goodners’ son, Sebastian. He turned up on Friday night and gave Grace a lift home.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Grace, keep well clear of him if he’s anything like his mother,’ Diana said.

  ‘And?’ I prompted, ignoring Diana. While I totally agreed with her sentiment, I wanted to know what Grace had thought of him.

  ‘And nothing,’ Grace protested. ‘He happened to give me a lift home – along with his mother and her prefect cronies – because it was on their way home. Now, I think you’ll find you’ve got a queue of little girls in the garden wondering if there’s a party on offer.’

  She was right. Diana and I had been so interested in the story of the return of the prodigal son we hadn’t acknowledged the insistent ringing of the front door bell. Sylvia, however, had, and was now ushering in a gaggle of shy little
girls, while yet more could be heard through the open door, crunching their way up the gravel drive, carrying presents and expectations of a good time ahead.

  ‘Oh shit, here we go,’ I groaned and, plastering a smile on my face, went to take over from Sylvia as chief host.

  The majority of mothers were dressed as if for a party of their own, or at least as though they were doing lunch with friends. Fully made-up, hair streaked and straightened, there wasn’t one in a baggy tracksuit or leggings and T-shirt. All of them dedicated gym bunnies, they were toned and slim and obviously fit enough to carry the huge regulation Mulberry or Chloe handbags that went everywhere with them.

  ‘What sort of party is this?’ came the petulant voice of Adriana Saxton who, depending on how she got out of bed on a particular morning, was either India’s declared best friend or, more usually, her worst enemy. I couldn’t bear the child – or her manipulative mother – and tried as much as I could to wean India away from her influence.

  ‘What sort of party would you like it to be, Adriana?’ I asked sweetly. Maybe she could give me some sort of clue as to which particular party genre direction we were heading in because, for the life of me, I still didn’t have a damned clue.

  ‘Well, I’m bored with clown parties, swimming, and cinema parties. I’ve been to two parties at ‘Wacky Warehouse’ already this month, so I’m very pleased India decided against that. Sophie’s was ‘Laser Quest’ and Matilda’s was Pot-Decorating. I’m having ‘Little Miss Cute’ when it’s my party next month and we’re getting there by limo – it will be the best party ever – so it will be interesting to see what India’s having.’ Adriana drew breath for all of two seconds before launching, once more, into the breach. ‘I thought she was really mean at school on Friday when she wouldn’t tell us the theme of her party. She said it was going to be a surprise.’

  Well it was certainly going to be that. The theme, as this precocious little brat had so succinctly put it, was still one hell of a surprise to me too.

  It very quickly dawned on me that two hours of party games was not going to go down too well with these sophisticated little madams. As uber-socialite Ms Saxton prepared to launch once more into party themes she’d experienced, and who knows, maybe even enjoyed, I silenced her with my best teacher glare and prepared for action.

  Ushering the whole gaggle of them into the sitting room was easy. Getting rid of the mothers was not. But eventually I was able to turn to Diana and Grace who, having downed the remains of the champagne, appeared to have forgotten their responsibilities as aunt and godmother.

  ‘Right, I have a cunning plan. It’ll either go down a storm or India will end up a social outcast at the age of six. Can you two keep this lot occupied for fifteen minutes with Pin the Tail on the Donkey? Mum and Sylvia are in there in case you need back-up.’

  Grabbing Dad and shouting for Libby and her two mates who were firmly ensconced in the kitchen with the omnibus edition of EastEnders, I dashed to the garage where I hoped the contents of the ancient, worm-ridden cupboard would lend substance to my plan. If this didn’t work India would never speak to me again. She’d be relegated from the premier division of alpha females in her class and be forced to go around with Elizabeth and Aditi, both new girls who hadn’t quite yet made the grade.

  Twenty minutes later we were sorted.

  ‘Ok, girls,’ I said grandly, ‘we are having a gardening party!’

  Total silence. I didn’t dare meet India’s eyes in case they were full of unshed tears.

  Little Ms Saxton, who apparently had the same aspirations to royalty as my sister-in-law, was the first to speak.

  ‘A garden party? Like the Queen has at Buckingham Palace?’ Adriana turned to peer down the garden as if expecting to see the Duke of Edinburgh lurking amongst the Leylandii.

  ‘Yes, absolutely, Adriana.’ I needed to get this little witch on my side or it would be curtains for India. ‘Now, this is what we’re going to do …’

  Mindful of the designer gear that most of them were dressed in, I’d issued each one with a black bin liner cut with holes for head and arms and found enough old pairs of wellies and trainers in the garage cupboard – abandoned by my three over the years – to set up a shop. With the twenty little girls split up into groups of four, they moved between four activities, each one led by an adult. Dad, assigned head gardener to my new plot, showed his little group how to dig and plant out the masses of spring bulbs he’d bought for me as a present for my new garden. My four, paintbrush in hand and with tongue hanging out in studied concentration, had the job of painting the new potting-shed doors, while Grace and Diana, with two groups at any one time between them, were refereeing a sort of mini-rounders’ tournament. Liberty and her two school friends, sitting in the conservatory, were more than happy to paint the nails and braid the hair of each girl once it was their turn to move inside.

  After twenty minutes with each group, I would shout, ‘all change’ and the party guests would move on to the next activity. I started to relax once I heard shouts of excitement and laughter coming from the girls and saw that India was smiling. Little Ms Saxton threw herself into each pursuit with abandon and, at one juncture, could be heard saying to India, ‘No wonder you kept your party theme a secret. This is so original!’ If India had had any idea whatsoever about the meaning of ‘original’ she might have been tempted to agree with her; but as her vocabulary was that of an average six-year-old, it was enough that her friends seemed to be more than enjoying themselves.

  At the end of almost two hours, with the shadows lengthening over the garden, we all trooped back into the house. Admittedly, those girls who had had their beauty treatments before digging and painting needed a bit of a retouch once they’d washed their hands, but Liberty, taking on the role of adored big sister, was more than happy to go round with the nail varnish.

  Sylvia, getting into the party spirit, had unearthed her precious lead-crystal wine goblets and brought them over from her flat, filling each one with fizzy lemonade and a cocktail cherry on a stick. With a snow white, starched napkin over her arm, she handed a drink to each girl while thanking her most graciously for coming to the garden party.

  ‘Is that the Queen?’ asked one little tot of Adriana, obviously under the assumption that if anyone knew her identity it would be Ms Saxton.

  ‘Don’t be silly, of course it isn’t,’ Adriana answered, before grudgingly adding, ‘but I think she must be a very close relative.’

  So where had ‘Le games master extraordinaire’ been hiding all this time? Once I’d rounded up the last party guest and handed it thankfully to its parent with many an apology for the state of its dress (the bin liners hadn’t totally afforded the protection I’d hoped) I went in search of my errant husband. The obvious success of the afternoon – I overheard at least two little girls saying they wanted ‘garden parties’ for their birthday celebrations – had put me on a magnanimous high and I was ready to forgive his defection.

  I slipped upstairs, following the sound of voices. Nick and Amanda were seated at the new laptop he’d set up in front of our ancient computer, on the table in the upstairs recess that now acted as our study. I paused, my chest tightening at their togetherness in attempting to overcome whatever problem had caused Nick’s insomnia. Their two blonde heads were virtually as one in their mutually concentrated effort over the laptop screen, and I felt inextricably excluded. And frightened.

  Nick jumped – guiltily I thought – as he took his eyes from the laptop screen and acknowledged my presence with a too-hearty smile, while Amanda continued to scroll down, unaware that I’d joined them at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Right, I’ve got it, Nicky darling,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Here’s your missing link. You wouldn’t have been able to make any contact with the people in Milan without this address.’ Realising Nick’s attention had wavered, Amanda looked up at him and then round to where I was standing a couple of feet away.

  ‘Oh, hello Harriet,’ sh
e said coolly, as if I were the guest.

  ‘I hadn’t realised you were here,’ I said, almost childishly. After all these years she still had the wherewithal to make me feel awkward. Even in my own house. ‘I didn’t see your car come up the drive when we were all out in the garden.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t have. When Nicky rang to ask if I’d come over, I decided to grab a lift with David part of the way, and then walk the rest. I wanted to explore these wonderful country lanes. David had a meeting with a client down in Midhope, so he dropped me off in Monkton village and I walked the rest.’ She proffered her trainer-clad feet as evidence and I felt even more resentment as I acknowledged that, even in walking shoes and jeans, she still had the ability to make me feel like a country bumpkin – or the kid from the council estate who’d ventured onto her turf once more.

  ‘You missed all of India’s party,’ I said, turning to Nick, unable to keep the petulance from my voice.

  ‘Oh God. I’m sorry, Hat. I thought this would only take a minute.’ He trailed off lamely, then, obviously feeling cornered, came out fighting. ‘I had to sort this out, Harriet. It would have been impossible to make any progress if I hadn’t. In fact, there would have been no point in my going back to Italy this week if I hadn’t been able to sort out this contact.’

  ‘Italy? You’re off to Italy again? This week?’ I breathed.

  ‘I told you it was on the cards,’ Nick said curtly, plainly embarrassed that we were having this discussion in front of Amanda. She, apparently, was not, giving him a sympathetic look that spoke volumes.

  ‘Well, can I just remind you that Kit and his mates are your responsibility? I think I can hear some of them arriving now.’ And so saying, I turned and retreated without another word. I was wild. Wilder than wild. In fact as wild as a wildebeest in the wilderness. How dare Nick miss his daughter’s birthday party? He was being sucked in by Amanda, seduced by the same Goodners’ charm that had fascinated and enthralled not only the girls and staff at Midhope Grammar, but also my poor brother over twenty-five years ago.