Chapter 20
‘Mummy, why are you crying?’ India caught my eye in the driving mirror from her back seat vantage point in the rear of the car.
‘Oh, I was just thinking about poor little Humbug,’ I lied, trying to stem the tears that were flowing insistently, despite my best attempts to hold them in. ‘He was such a brave little thing, and now he’s dead.’
‘Will he find Granny Morgan?’ she asked anxiously, although her only knowledge of her great-grandmother was through the stories I’d told of her.
‘I’m sure he will,’ I assured her, smiling in spite of the fact that Suzy’s carelessly spoken words and the photographic evidence of Nick’s infidelity were crashing through my head like unstoppable waves on a pebbled shore. Nick’s face had had such a look of peace in that photo. And what was it he’d said when he’d rung Amanda? He desperately needed her in Milan? When had he rung her? When had she gone out there? And why hadn’t he told me she was there with him when he’d rung home a couple of nights ago?
‘My throat still hurts, Mummy,’ India whined, curling herself into a ball – as much as she was able, within the confines of her child seat.
‘Granny Sylvia will be back this evening,’ I soothed. ‘If you’re still feeling bad tomorrow then you don’t need to go to school. Granny will tuck you up and bring you lovely things on a tray in bed.’ Whatever Sylvia’s faults, she was kindness personified when dealing with anyone not feeling one hundred percent. What wouldn’t I give not to have to go to school tomorrow; to stay in bed and have lovely things that wouldn’t make me throw up brought up to me on a tray?
‘When’s Daddy coming home?’ India said plaintively, continuing to move restlessly in her car seat. I glanced in the mirror. India’s previous pallor had been replaced by a red flush that stretched from her throat right up to her left ear. Oh my God! What if it was meningitis? Nick would just have to come home now, Italian contract or no.
‘He won’t be long now, darling. He may even be home tonight.’ I spoke with a confidence I certainly didn’t feel. ‘Anyway, look, we’re almost home now. Liberty and Kit shouldn’t be too long. We’ll have tea and then tuck you up in bed with Calpol and a lovely hot-water bottle.’
The house, once I’d managed to persuade a fretful India to leave the warmth of the car and go into it, was in darkness, and felt cold and unwelcoming. The kitchen table was still laid with the remains of the morning’s breakfast and, in our hurry to be out of the house that morning, the door to the utility room – Bones’ only means of access to the rest of the house – had been left open. He could be anywhere, revelling in the fact that the entire house was his kingdom until our return. He’d acquired a nasty habit lately of peeing in dark corners of the house – anywhere where he could find a nice soft place to park his backside – and he needed watching like a hawk.
I settled India in front of her favourite cartoon programme and, wrapping a duvet around her against the almost damp cold which had settled in the sitting room like a melancholic maiden aunt who has outstayed her welcome, I went back through the hall to ring the doctor’s surgery. Their line was constantly engaged so I returned to the kitchen to think about food. Realising I’d have to unload the dishwasher in order to reload it with the breakfast things, I sighed and pulled on the handle. Cold, greasy water, afloat with the remains of last night’s shepherd’s pie, poured over the edges of the door, soaking my feet and the kitchen floor.
Right, I told myself, you can either be grown-up about this or scream. Swallowing every possible expletive I could think of in the knowledge that India would not only hear them but also store them up for future reference, I went to find the mop and bucket.
Bones, looking incredibly guilty, was in the process of sneaking out of the dining room, standing stock still when he saw me, before making an undignified dash to the utility room and his cat flap.
He’d certainly found somewhere to park his furry bottom. The basket of clean clothes, which I’d left in the dining room in an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ attempt to fool myself I didn’t need to do a week’s ironing, was now scented with a particularly pungent aroma of tomcat pee.
And that’s when I did shout, and holler, and stamp my feet and throw the tainted washing at the dining-room door. And carried on shouting when Liberty, home from school, and, giving me a look of absolute astonishment, handed me the phone and told me Nick was ringing from Italy.
‘Harriet, what is the matter?’
‘What’s the matter, you moron? You ring me from fucking Italy to ask what is the matter? I’ll tell you what’s the matter. While you’re whooping it up in Italy with your fancy woman – and don’t tell me she’s not there because the lollipop-lady told me you’d begged her to go out there to be with you – while you’re with the … the magnificent Mandy, I, single-handed, by myself, all alone am bringing up your three children – one, I might add, who is very poorly, am wading thigh-high in floodwater vomited from an antiquated dishwasher that has finally decided to lay down and die and am, even as I speak, throwing cat-pee stained clothes at the dining-room door. And I found Humbug, dead, in the … in the … in the lollipop-lady’s handbag.’
Great big sobs rent the air as I ended my monologue by throwing the phone in the same direction as the ironing.
A hand, holding a glass of white wine, appeared round the door.
‘Here, Mum, drink this,’ said a disembodied, anxious voice. ‘You always say, “if in doubt, put on your lippy,” but I didn’t know where to find your lipstick and I did know where the wine was.’ Kit peered round the door. I took a sip of the wine, unable to speak. ‘Libby has cleaned up the flood and she’s making some tuna pasta.’
Oh God, how much of that little outburst had the kids heard? Had they heard me shouting about Nick’s fancy woman?
I’d never known Liberty to do anything for anyone that didn’t involve bribery, blackmail or threat, but here she was, in charge of the kitchen, sitting me down at the table and forcing me to eat pasta. She’d even persuaded India to leave her little cocoon in the sitting room and, with warm Lucozade inside her, India was managing to eat a morsel of food. I looked closely at her. She did seem slightly better, thank goodness.
No one quite met anyone else’s eye; an undercurrent of politeness bordering on forced jollity ensured that we skirt around the subject that was uppermost in all our minds, but which none of us dared vocalise.
I thought we were home and dry until Kit, without looking up from his plate, where he was in the process of chasing a lone pea across it with his fork, suddenly blurted out, ‘Is Dad having an affair with that Mandy woman?’
‘Mandy? Daddy? Having an affair? Ha ha ha! Whatever next? What on earth gave you that idea?’
‘The fact that you called her his fancy woman on the phone? And that you threw the phone at the door? The batteries have come out and it’s all cracked down one side, you know. It’s totally broken.’
I was starting to feel nauseous: Liberty, bless her, hadn’t drained off any of the oil before adding the canned tuna to the pasta and it was beginning to churn uneasily in my stomach.
‘Just need the loo,’ I said brightly. ‘Won’t be a sec.’
I’d never been as sick as this with my previous pregnancies. Rinsing my mouth with cold water I tried desperately to make up excuses for my actions both in the dining room, and now, here in the downstairs’ loo, where, I was sure, my retching sounds would have carried down to the kitchen.
‘Mum?’ Libby was hovering outside the loo door.
‘Mmmm?’
‘Are you ok?’
‘I’m fine. Several children were sent home from school today and I think I must have caught their bug.’
‘Dad’s on the phone again.’
‘I thought the phone was broken?’
‘It is. He’s ringing on my mobile. He says he can’t get through on our landline or your mobile.’
Very likely. I’d not had any spare cash to top up my mobile for week
s.
‘Can you hurry up? It’s a really bad line and my mobile desperately needs recharging.’ Libby thrust her phone round the door, her squeamishness, like that of any fifteen-year-old girl, rendering her unable to bring herself to actually enter the loo while her mother was in it.
‘Hello, Nick.’ I sat on the loo seat feeling tired, defeated and still very sick.
‘Are you there, Harriet? Can you hear me? This is an awful line. Look, I’m really sorry about all this. I just can’t leave here for quite a while yet.’
‘Nick, why didn’t you tell me Amanda was out there in Italy with you?’
The ensuing pause seemed to go on forever. And then Nick said, ‘Because I knew I’d get just this reaction from you. I cannot do this without Mandy, Harriet. You’re going to have to just put up with it. I can’t afford to rock the boat at this stage.’
When I remained impassively silent, Nick carried on speaking, blurting out, ‘Things aren’t going well, Harriet. The Italian legal stuff is beyond me, and Mandy is the only one who knows how to sort it.’
‘Is she coming on to you?’ I asked, almost politely.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Harriet. Give me a break will you? I have to do what I have to do.’
‘And does that include Mandy?’
‘Harriet, you’re breaking up. I can hardly hear you. Listen, I need you to tell Grace to lay off Sebastian. It’s essential that she does.’
‘Lay off him?’ I laughed mirthlessly. ‘Lay off him? You make it sound like she’s on a diet and Sebastian is a box of chocolates. Why don’t you try laying off Mandy?’
‘Look, Mandy is acting very strangely over something at the moment. It’s all to do with Grace but she won’t tell me what it’s all about. She was quite hysterical last night. I’ve told her she’s being silly – that what happened when you were all at school is all in the past. Even lied and told her Grace was back with Dan. I can’t afford anything, and I mean anything, Harriet, to mess this all up ... .’ Nick was beginning to sound desperate.
‘What, Nick? What do you think she will do?’
‘She’ll be back on the next flight to Manchester for some bloody reason I can’t quite fathom and I can kiss goodbye to fifty thousand pounds and any hope of this contract.’
And then he was gone, cut off as Libby’s out of credit and out of power mobile finally gave up the ghost.
Automaton like, I patted cold water on my forehead, washed my hands and reached for the lipstick I kept in the downstairs loo cupboard in case anyone should knock at the front door. As I painted the vivid colour onto my bloodless lips with a trembling hand, I knew, without any doubt, I could not have this baby. Taking the children out of their private schools in order to release cash; managing to jiggle a new baby with a full-time job – I just couldn’t do it all. Mandy was as much a force to be reckoned with now as she was when I was fourteen. If she wanted to get at Grace – Grace who had never shown her the respect her huge ego demanded and who had now had the temerity to fall in love with her only son – well, that was one sure way of doing it. Through Nick and me. Was Nick having to keep her sweet over there so that she wouldn’t come back before things were sorted, leaving him high and dry? Or was he keeping her sweet because he wanted to? I thought again of the photo. That surely was a picture of a man who was more than happy to have the lovely Mandy in his arms. And in his bed? I felt sick again at the very thought. But really, who could blame him, when it came down to it? I mean, a cross, hormonal wife at home in a Yorkshire November or the gorgeous Mandy in glamorous Italy? No contest.
I went through to the sitting room where India was once more ensconced in Nick’s grandfather’s old chair. I picked her up, stroking her brow, which, thankfully, seemed a lot cooler. ‘Let’s get you to bed, sweetie,’ I murmured, holding her close. ‘Some more Calpol and a good night’s sleep and you’ll be fine. And if not, well, Granny will be here tomorrow to look after you.’ I glanced at my watch – it was nearly seven o’clock. No sign of Sylvia yet.
India was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. Forcing a smile onto my face, I went downstairs to face Kit and Liberty. The supper table had been cleared, the dishes washed, and the kitchen brought to some semblance of order. Libby had even sorted the cat- pee tainted washing and the first lot was already halfway through its wash cycle. My two eldest children now sat at either end of the kitchen table, arms folded, wanting explanations. Avoiding their questioning eyes I went to fill the kettle for the ginger tea my stomach was craving.
‘Mum, what’s going on?’ Liberty’s tone was that of an indignant parent impatiently questioning its offspring.
‘Are you poorly, Mum? Have you got cancer?’ Kit was frightened. ‘Only, Josh Barker said his mum kept being sick when she had cancer …’
‘No, no, Kit. Of course not,’ I interrupted him. ‘Josh’s mum was sick because of the chemotherapy treatment she had to cure the cancer. And she’s fine now isn’t she?’
‘Well, she’s a bit bald.’ Kit, still doubtful, glanced at my hair for any further signs that I might not be being quite honest with him.
Liberty was staring at me.
‘What?’ I asked, taken aback by the look of sheer horror on her face.
‘Oh-my-God!’ she enunciated, each syllable raising a semitone as she spat them out.
‘What?’ I repeated, nervously.
‘You’re not – pregnant are you?’
‘Pregnant?’ I twittered. ‘Pregnant? Oh ha ha ha. At my age? Don’t be so daft. Pregnant! Duh!’
‘Well thank God for that. That would have been, like, so gross. I thought for one terrible moment you were up the duff without a husband.’ And she chortled at her own ridiculous notion.
‘Dad is coming back isn’t he?’ Kit was almost in tears. ‘Has he gone off with that Mandy woman?’
I was saved from answering by a banging on the front door which, in our present state, made all three of us jump.
‘Jesus, who on earth is that at this time of night?’ I exclaimed, jumping up from the table. It was only seven-thirty, but by making a song and dance of the knocking I was able to divert attention away from Kit’s last question.
I shot off through the hall to open the door. Standing on the step, bottle of wine in hand, was a rather apprehensive-looking Dan.
‘Hi.’ He gave me a rueful grin and brandished the bottle. ‘I need to talk to you, Harriet. Can I come in, or have you given up on me as well?’
‘Why, who else has given up on you?’ I asked, taking him down to the sitting room after collecting a couple of glasses from the kitchen and suggesting Kit and Liberty go do their homework.
‘Grace, of course.’
‘I rather thought it was the other way round.’
‘I’ve been to see her, Harriet. Several times. I’ve been a real idiot, I know, but I want her back. I want to go back home and sort all this mess out.’
‘Right.’ I didn’t know what else to say.
‘What’s she said to you, Hattie? She always tells you everything.’
Not any more, Buster. Not after I found her frolicking, with her pants down, with young Enrique in my potting shed.
‘Um, well, she hasn’t said much, really.’
Suddenly I was angry. All the fury that should have been directed at my own husband came tumbling out in an unleashed torrent and hit Grace’s husband squarely where I hoped it would hurt.
‘What is the matter with you men? Why do you need some little floozy to bolster your flagging ego? It’s not all about sex, is it? That’s part of the appeal, obviously, but really you are all little boys. You’ve never grown out of wanting what Mummy says you can’t have. You get bored with the wife and want to move on to the next toy. Because the wife represents the mortgage, the bills, the ritual of sex once a week on a Saturday night in the familiar bedroom, the developing paunch, the loss of hair.’ I paused for breath while Dan looked down in surprise at his still very flat stomach as though expecting a layer of fat to
have appeared around his torso. ‘Whereas the floozy represents danger, sex wherever and whenever you can get it, not being nagged about the wallpaper peeling off in the bathroom. Fun!’
‘Right’ Daniel cleared his throat nervously and loosened his tie. ‘Well, yes, Harriet, I think you’re very right. We men are, as you say, mere pond life compared to you women.’
Pond life? I didn’t recall lowering myself into calling him names. I was just about to protest that he was putting words into my mouth when a second, even louder, knocking at the front door, rent the air.
‘My God, this is getting like Piccadilly Circus! Who the hell is this, now?’
I moved over to the window so that I could peer out onto whoever might be standing there.
‘I think it’s Camilla,’ I hissed. ‘What the hell’s she doing here? How does she know where I live?’
‘Probably because I told her.’ Daniel looked at me steadily.
‘What? Why would you need to tell her where I live?’
‘That’s why I needed to talk to you. I didn’t expect her so soon. Would you just go and let her in?’
I opened my front door for the second time in twenty minutes. Standing there, even more stunning close up, was the auburn-haired beauty I recognised from the Friday evening, weeks ago, when I’d seen both her and Dan going into her flat.
‘Hi, Harriet,’ she said in that nasal twang common to all Australians. ‘I really hope you don’t mind me turning up like this but, the fact is, Patricia sent me.’
Chapter 21
I stared at Camilla, unable to speak.
‘Look, can I come in?’ she said, her voice tense. ‘I assume Dan’s told you?’
Daniel had followed me from the sitting room and was now standing beside me, shaking his head and glaring at Camilla who had one foot over the threshold. She was wearing faded Levis tucked into soft tan leather boots, and the brown cashmere jumper complemented both her hair and complexion beautifully. She really was stunning and, even though Grace was my best friend, I could totally understand how Dan had fallen under her spell.
Goodness, Grace and Me Page 26