by Adele Parks
"I blurted out that as we were so hot we could paddle in the pond." Daisy looks aghast just recounting the story. We all sympathize. He'll now think that she is some sort of hippie, at-one-with-the-earth type. She's lost him.
"He said that was amazing as he was going to suggest the same thing but thought that I'd think he was mad or that I'd be scared of getting arrested. Isn't that staggering?"
Yes, we're astounded.
"Well, weren't you scared of getting arrested?" asks Rose.
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"Or that he was a new age traveler in disguise?" asks Sam.
Daisy smiles benignly.
"No. I just tugged at the laces of my shoes and we both waded in, barefooted with trousers rolled up to our knees. We had sex in the fountain."
We each take another gulp of wine.
It appears that Daisy has found her teapot.
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he summer is unusually hot and everyone's enjoying it. It is great to see babies in prams, old people in deck chairs in their gardens, and young people sitting in boisterous groups drinking lager, imitating our more stylish friends on the Continent. Yet it is still fair to say that we haven't quite got that je ne sais quoi. Two weeks of homespun sunshine a year and fifty weeks of dull, depressing British weather culminates in SED (Sun Exposure Dementia). The symptoms of SED are widespread and easily recognizable but nonetheless very disturbing. Women suffer severe color blindness and an inability to estimate dress size, manifesting in garish ill-fitting, unsuitable clothes such as boob tubes, floral ra-ra skirts, inflatable mules, pedal pushers (only acceptable if you haven't yet had your eighth birthday party). Men also suffer from SED, they confuse where items of clothing should be worn: handkerchiefs on heads, socks under sandals and the entire removal of T-shirts (not recommended, unless you've ever appeared on Gladiators). It isn't as though we cultivate acres of toned, bronzed, cellulite-free limbs, like those widely available in Europe. We Brits are a mass of barber-pole appendages.
Even accepting these sartorial faux pas as an integral part of the British summer and balancing the fact that we are really
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rather stylish in the winter, I still prefer the summer. Exceptionally, this year, we've had good weather since June and so we are beginning to adapt. Most of us have got past the barber-pole stage and although not exactly sporting a deep, even tan, exposed flesh has moved from white to beige, or at least from blue to white. Sandal-blistered feet have progressed from plaster-bearing softies to hard-skinned pros. The majority of us have forced ourselves through the doors of a gym, and although not quite Greek gods and goddesses, we are generally less flabby. By August we've exiled fuchsia pink, got the hang of white and beiges, and reintroduced the temporarily banned black. All in all, a walk in Covent Garden is less of an assault on the senses than it was in June.
The consistently good weather has encouraged us to chance our luck, and we plan a Sunday lunch picnic. Promptly at 12:30, Luke, Sam and I stand at the gates of Hyde Park, waiting for the others. We watch little girls eating ice-creams playing shop and mummies and partners while little boys spit Coke from between the gap in their teeth, showering others with killing accuracy. Fat old ladies gather on park benches. Too fat to close their sweaty legs, they sit akimbo and unashamed, chuckling at dogs chasing their tails. Students, free from the horrors of revision and exams, play with Frisbees on the burnt grass or learn to roller-blade. Daisy and Simon arrive, holding hands and gazing at each other. Sam makes a face and pretends to throw up. I just grin. I'm with Luke so I can't be too childish. Their goo-goo eyes make me feel sloppy so I reach up to ruffle Luke's hair. He looks a bit surprised but grins and kisses the top of my head affectionately. At 1:20 Sam points over the road, at Peter, Rose, Lucy and the boys.
"There they are, at last." From the moment we spot them we understand why they are late. Sam, Luke and I have one bag between us. It contains the things that we picked up from the deli on the way here. Crusty loaf, couscous with Mediterranean
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vegetables, an assortment of cheeses, black and green olives dripping in oil, a two-liter bottle of mineral water and a couple of bottles of chilled wine. We've also brought a travel rug and at Luke's insistence, his Frisbee. Daisy and Simon have brought a similar-sized bag, which will be full of similar goodies. Lucy is carrying a brown-paper bag, which by the look of it contains four bottles of champagne. She doesn't bother with food in summer. By contrast, Rose and Peter are carrying the volume of luggage expected for a two-week holiday. Admittedly they are carrying a baby apiece but they also have at least three other large bags each. It's obvious to us, their friends, that they are rowing. Lucy walks in front of them both, grinning and rolling her eyes. We all use this gesture to signal a domestic alert. Peter, red in the face and perspiring, strides ahead of Rose, trying to keep pace with Lucy.
The sun's almost directly overhead, it pours on to our eyelids and pricks our skin, making us uncomfortably hot; I can't wait to stretch out and sunbathe. Peter's red face is partly to do with the heat and the weight of his bags but I also recognize the sweating of pure fury. He is carrying Henry and inadvertently bouncing him up and down, rather too energetically. Henry looks a bit travel sick; although only eight months old, he has a built-in device that tells him that there is little point in drawing attention to his discomfort. Rose isn't looking angry and heated, she's tearful and heated. She's carrying a wailing Sebastian, who obviously isn't quite as sensitive as Henry to the social acceptability of bawling his head off. She struggles along the path trying to avoid kids on roller-blades and people walking dogs. The gap between Rose and Peter widens as he allows her to struggle with the baby-equipment bags, picnic bags and the crying child.
I have this to look forward to?
Luke hands me our picnic bag and runs to meet Rose. He says hi to Lucy and nods curtly to Peter; he is obviously dis-
pleased that Peter is allowing his wife to struggle alone. Rose doesn't know what she's done wrong. She remembers that when they first met Peter was attracted to her motherly ways. He was always going on and on about her huge bosom and medicine cabinet. The reality has proven to be light-years from the fantasy, Peter only just hides his disgust at Rose's leaking breasts and irritation that he's sharing her attention with the twins. I proudly watch Luke. His face breaks into an extraordinary smile for Sebastian and Rose. He soothes and smooths the situation. He relieves Rose of her encumbrances and chats animatedly to her, telling her that her dress looks nice, that we've only been waiting two or three minutes ourselves. By the time they are at the gate Rose is laughing and looking a lot more relaxed. Even Peter looks calmer, more at ease. There are greeting kisses and hugs all round.
"There's so much to think about when we bring the boys," offers Rose. We all nod and say it doesn't matter. Secretly, we girls are all in awe of Rose for producing not just one child but two, the way they do in films. Not only producing them but continuing to nurture them and even to bring them out, instead of making them stay at home for the first twenty years of their lives, which must be tempting.
"Especially when you change their clothes three times before leaving home," snaps Peter. We hurriedly talk about other things—where we should sit and whether or not everyone is ready to eat.
"I'm afraid they'll burn. It's hard to find something for them to wear that is at once cool and protective," comments Rose sensibly, not prepared to let Peter get away with criticizing her. Peter scowls.
Lucy adds, "She's right, Peter, the boys do both have a touch of Rose's red hair; they are so very fair skinned, you can't be too careful."
Rose looks grateful for the defense. I'd be furious with
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Lucy for alluding to the fact that the boys have red hair, an issue we studiously avoid. I shoot Rose a sympathetic smile but she's too practical to let Peter's sulking bother her, she's moved on to matters of greater importance—wondering if the twins' bottles are i
n danger of overheating.
Extensive debate ensues. Where is the perfect picnic spot? We trek the whole of Hyde Park and eventually settle. We need shade for Rose, Daisy and the boys, but Sam and I are ignoring the government health warnings and want sun. We need to be near the roller-blade path (Lucy's request, although I'm not sure if this is because she is going to have a go, or whether she wants to ogle men's bums). We need a big space so that we can play Frisbee (Luke, Simon, Sam), but not too near noisy children (everyone but Rose). We can't be too close to quiet couples, in case the twins cry disruptively (Rose), and not too near a bin (me). We can't be too far from the ice-cream van (all the girls), or too near the loos (all the girls). After UN-style negotiations we finally find somewhere that pleases us all. Well, actually, Lucy says she isn't going to move another step and through fear of her temper we capitulate. Excitedly, we spread out the picnic rugs and food. It looks brilliant, just like one of those glossy spreads in a style magazine.
Despite summer sartorial elegance being a complete anathema to most Brits my friends know how important these things are. Daisy is radiant. She has that glow which cannot be obtained by anything other than great loving with a new man. She is wearing a lilac Elspeth Gibson lace dress, which she bought for a wedding last May. It's far too expensive to wear lolling around in Hyde Park, unless of course you are in that first flush of a new romance and want to look both seductive and feminine. She's pulled it off. Her hair is tousled and while she's only wearing a spot of lip gloss she has on a ton of eyeliner and mascara. She's obtained that smudgy, disheveled look that says fuck me and love me. I look at Simon; it's working.
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I'm faintly uncomfortable when I catch them gazing at each other. They seem so wrapped up in each other that I feel I'm intruding. Sam gazes on wistfully. Poor Sam. Luke and I are beyond that nauseating touchy, sexy, can't-keep-my-hands-off-you stage. We've had that and now we enjoy a more permanent and settled affection, but Sam is still teapot hunting.
Sam is wearing the singleton's summer uniform: a white strappy T-shirt, from DKNY (cost a fortune, designed to look as though it's just "an old thing"), a black Richard Tyler skirt, short, very, and a baseball cap, which of course is worn back to front. She looks like a waitress; this isn't a criticism, this is the look she wants. She's single, she shaves. Her legs are silky smooth and brown. She doesn't sit still for even five consecutive minutes; she's still proving that she's a good sport, a great hostess, a potential mum. No one is looking because Peter, Simon and Luke wouldn't dare look at another woman while Rose, Daisy and I are around. Sam isn't actively trying to attract our blokes, on the other hand, they are men and her entire being is validated through male praise. So when Luke says, "Wow what a hit, you are really good at sports," Sam nearly wets herself with pleasure. I'd hate to be Sam, always having to try, even on a Sunday afternoon. Try to be the funniest, try to be the most well informed, try to be the most attractive. I'm grateful that all I have to do is try to get a suntan. I smile warmly at Luke. He has no idea what I'm thinking but plants a kiss on my cheek anyway.
Lucy's wearing huge Armani sunglasses and white jeans, white T-shirt, and white mules. She looks immaculate and manages to stay immaculate all day, despite playing baseball, holding Henry, and eating a picnic. I'm wearing a black version of Lucy's outfit (although for certain I'll go home looking as though I've been dragged through a rabbit burrow sideways). Rose is wearing a practical but pretty, floaty, navy dress. She always wears dark, shapeless clothes to hide her body; which
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hasn't seen the benefit of an aerobic session or the inside of a beautician's for a couple of years. The guys are wearing guy stuff, canvas khaki shorts and T-shirts. The only variation is that Luke and Simon are wearing tight T-shirts and Peter's is baggier. I guess it isn't just Rose that can't find the time to get to a gym.
The food, alcohol and, most excitingly, conversation flows and the afternoon is blissful. We chat about our families, our jobs, our bosses, our gardens. It's a really easy afternoon. One where everyone gets on with everyone else. We naturally break into conversational groups (well, in Simon and Daisy's case there is plenty of tongue activity but not much articulation). Once we are finally able to wrench them apart, we naturally dissolve the original groups and regroup with someone new. It is all so perfect and comfortable. Simon and Luke discuss the things that boys do discuss when they know each other really well—sports and cars. Any occasional lull and they are able to fall back on telling a joke. Boy intimacy. Lucy talks work with Peter. Occasionally someone will walk over to them to refill their glasses and urge them to quit talking shop.
"Well, each to their own," says Daisy as she comes back from offering another tapenade and salami roll. "Lucy is so blokelike in her ambition."
We shake our heads, pitying her that amazing sense of achievement that she often describes when she clinches a great deal or gets a huge profit-related bonus, pitying her that quarter of a million salary and her enormous apartment in Soho.
The rest of us girls settle down for gossipy, chatty, truly intimate conversation. We never have any other sort.
Sam updates us on who she is currently snogging. Although technically single, she doesn't go without sex. She is in a sort of fairly inadequate way seeing two men at the moment. This sounds very glamorous but is depressing. Sam doesn't want to sleep with two men. She doesn't really want sex with anyone.
She wants to make love, in an ongoing and monogamous style. Every week she goes to some club or other and meets some man or other. She is always hoping for commitment and he is always hoping for carnal knowledge. These aren't necessarily mutually exclusive goals, but they tend to be if the carnal knowledge comes first. It usually does with Sam, who is too terrified of looking like a killjoy to say no to sex. Last time we met at All Bar One, we'd devoted much of the evening to comparing and contrasting Dave and Mike. None of us had much enthusiasm for this particular game because none of us had much enthusiasm for either bloke. Including Sam, who says, "The thing is, I'm a firm believer in a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush."
Dave—handsome rugger bugger. Not that clever, funny or interesting, good forearms (!). Met at a pseudo-student party, compulsory snogging. Two slow dances, asked her back to his flat, he had no money to pay cab. Sam uses cab ride to consider whether she should sleep with Dave or not. Would she look too easy? Would he still respect her in the morning? Rose supplies the answers: "Yes and no in that order." The question is academic. Dave suffers from barman's droop. Sam suggests he is a gentleman and sweetly old-fashioned (?). Does manage to perform next morning.
Mike—handsome banker wanker. Not clever, funny or interesting, good job and nice skin. Met at a friend's dinner party. Only male, single guest. Enormous pressure, as other guests hope for public discussion on family planning or whether they should set up home in West London or North. Only variation on Dave's story is sex happens at her place.
Her stories sadden me. I am so grateful that I have Luke.
"I don't think I care if either of them call me again."
We don't care either but it isn't very friendly to say so.
"Really?" asks Daisy.
"Really," Sam confirms. "The sex is fun but I don't think
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either of them are special so I think I'll just accept them for what they are—good sex."
We nod our agreement, then fall silent and think about Sam's comment. There is something very exciting about a one-off sexual encounter. I remember. Of course they are invariably only successful if you really can stand up and walk away. Like Sam, I'd never quite pulled that off. I've always had a hard time separating sex from love. I've known plenty of men who say "I love you" meaning "I want to fuck your brains out." And the women I know are more likely to say "I want to fuck you" meaning "I want you to love me." I have no idea why it's this way, I didn't make the rules.
"I'm hot," whines Sam. She does not mean ho
t, sexy-hard-body-stunning babe, she means hot, sweaty-thighs-sticking-together.
"I wish Richard Gere would just sidle up to me with an ice cube in his mouth and melt it on my thighs. Slowly, very slowly," she sighs. This is one of our favorite games. Erotic fantasy with unobtainable, unreal man.
"Or Antonio Banderas would appear from nowhere, with a bottle of sun oil," adds Daisy.
"Exactly what would he do with the sun-oil bottle?" I ask. We giggle and then we go quiet again. We're thinking about it.
"Or George Clooney would turn up with a wicker fan to fan me."
Rose's casting is commendable but her script is diabolical.
"But it never happens, does it?" I sigh, suddenly and inexplicably fed up. Why am I irritated? It's a beautiful day, I'm with my lovely friends, my wonderful husband and we are replete with delicious food and drunk with champagne. Yet I am ... I don't know ... I look around and see passionate couples kissing and lolling. It makes me feel... I don't know.
"Life isn't sexy men rubbing sun oil into your back, let alone thighs," I grumble.
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Sam stares at me, her saucer eyes expanding to dinner plates.
"Yours is," she says in disbelief. "Your life is a fairy tale; you live in romantic bliss, highly developed, mature perfection."
"I'm not talking about fairy tales, I'm talking soap porn," I mutter.
"Ungrateful bitch."
I can't refute this, especially when she so eloquently argued her case. My life is a fairy tale. I'm married to not quite a knight in shining armor, but a very pleasant architect in Levi 501s. We live, not in a castle with turrets, but a comfortable home in Clapham. Here I am in the middle of Happily Ever After. My life is lovely. I am very lucky. It's wedded bliss and really it is great, just great.
"You need a holiday," says Daisy.