by Sue Margolis
“You’re rather smitten with young Araminta, aren’t you?”
Huck burst out laughing. “Oh my God, you’re jealous.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“OK, a bit maybe. It’s just that she’s really beautiful and clever and you spend so much time together.”
“Yes, discussing the PR campaign. I don’t think you appreciate how much there is to do.”
“I do understand,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m just feeling a bit tired and insecure, that’s all.”
“Well, stop it. You have nothing to worry about. Minty is not my type. The woman plays croquet, for crying out loud.”
With that, he kissed me very thoroughly indeed.
Chapter 15
After much debate it was decided that Coffee Break’s makeover should include a new name. We knew that renaming it was risky because it could alienate our older listeners. On the other hand, the Coffee Break handle seemed twee and old-fashioned and wasn’t going to help the show broaden its appeal. Several names were suggested. When we put them to the vote, one clear winner emerged: Women’s Lip. It was a tad last millennium, but we were on familiar enough terms with the women of middle England—even the younger ones—to know that they wouldn’t respond well to a name that was too out there.
We also decided to lose the serial, on the grounds that it was dated. Ditto the dull and long-winded items on nature and crafts.
The two weeks allotted to us by Liz were spent brainstorming, planning and redesigning. Meetings tended to go on well into the evening. (Suffice it to say that Amy and Ben registered their dismay in the most voluble terms.) By the end we were all pretty wrung out—not to say apprehensive. There was a general gut feeling that the new format would work, but nobody was sure. It was Liz who kept everybody’s spirits up by telling us that we were doing a great job and that Women’s Lip represented the dawn of an exciting new era in women’s broadcasting.
During those two weeks, Huck and I didn’t see much of each other. The publication of the Vanguard piece coincided with more rioting in London, Leeds and Manchester. The plight of the underclass was big news and pretty much overnight Huck had become the media’s social-deprivation commentator of choice. When he wasn’t appearing on TV or radio, he was giving talks and lectures all over the country. On top of that, Judy’s PR initiatives were beginning to bear fruit. Donations were coming in not just from individuals, but businesses as well.
I’d watched him on TV several times, and he was impressive. He wasn’t merely intelligent and articulate, but he was expressing original ideas, which were driving a new debate about how to combat poverty. He was calling for the leaders of all three parties to sign on to a hundred-year plan to fight deprivation and raise up the underclass.
He argued that governments were by nature shortsighted—they could never see further than the next election. Huck insisted that in order to lift people out of the poverty trap it was important to think long term and recognize that results couldn’t be achieved between one election and the next. Change would take decades. Most politicians and commentators thought he was a daft idealist. He responded by saying that he wasn’t ashamed to be called an idealist and that idealism was precisely what modern Western politics lacked.
After his last TV appearance I texted him: Great stuff. Idealism gets me really horny.
His bosses at the charity, aware of what an inspirational ambassador for the poor they had, made sure he had the time off he needed to pursue his extramural activities. He also managed to negotiate leave for Araminta—albeit unpaid—on the grounds that she was an invaluable aide and adviser.
I still couldn’t help thinking that her role went beyond that of adviser, but on the nights they were away together, Huck would call me before bed and was always full of how much he missed me and couldn’t wait to ravish me.
• • •
Finally, the first edition of Women’s Lip was about to go live to the nation.
I stepped into the lift with Nancy. Des, today’s producer—who had been put in charge of the maiden show in return for all his hard work during the strike—was already down in the studio setting up. Liz was there, too. The editor didn’t usually watch the program go out. The chairman of GLB certainly didn’t. But she and I had so much emotion, not to mention our professional futures, invested in the new program, that we had to be there to see it out of the starting gate.
Nancy was nervous, but had been behaving impeccably. Everybody had noticed the change in her. She wasn’t making quite so many demands and had started making polite requests rather than barking orders. I hardly dared say it, but the therapy seemed to be working.
The doors closed and the lift headed towards the basement.
“There are moments,” Nancy said, “when I still can’t believe we beat STD.”
“Me, neither.”
“And I think it’s totally brilliant that you’ve been made permanent editor. I hear you got a hefty pay raise.”
“It certainly wasn’t hefty, but I’m not denying it’s going to make life a bit easier.”
“I bet you can’t wait to start spending money on clothes. Just think. You can ditch all your old work outfits and get into some decent tailoring. I’m pretty sure Joseph goes up to your size and I’m always here if you need any advice.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said. The woman might have been making progress in therapy, but she was a long way of being cured.
Today’s program lineup was impressive. Samantha Cameron had agreed to come on and talk about the ups and downs of raising small children at No. 10 Downing Street. We had Whoopi Goldberg talking about her new movie, followed by a discussion on women’s rights in Afghanistan. Finally, in place of the serial, Nancy was hosting a phone-in on tattoos—did women love them or loathe them?
We were just about to go into the studio when my mobile rang. Nancy went on ahead while I stopped to answer it.
It was Mrs. McKay, the head teacher at the kids’ school. I could feel my heart beating against my chest. Mrs. McKay called parents only when there was bad stuff to report. Something had happened.
I wasn’t wrong. It seemed that there had been a serious “incident” in the playground. Ben and Arthur had gotten into a fight during which Ben had thrown an almighty punch. This had caused Arthur to fall to the ground and cut his head. He was now in the ER with his mum.
“Ben punched Arthur? But they’re best friends. Is he seriously hurt? Is he going to be OK?”
“I’m sure he’ll be fayne,” the head soothed in that Miss Jean Brodie accent of hers that Greg so loved to impersonate. “He has a cut on his head. He may need a stitch or two and they’ll probably want to X-ray him to check there’s no further damage.”
“Oh God. I have to phone his mum. But how did the fight start?”
Mrs. McKay said she didn’t know. Ben was nursing a bruised hand in the medical room and wasn’t saying much. “I think he’s in shock. The wee laddie didn’t realize his own strength.”
“But Ben tends to shy away from fights. I don’t understand it.”
“Nor does his class teacher. She says it’s totally out of character. I think it would be best if you came and collected him. Then, when you get home, see if you can get him to open up about what went on.”
“OK, I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Oh, and when you get here, perhaps you could pop into my office first so that we can have a wee bit more of a chat about what might have caused Ben’s outburst.”
“Of course.” I pressed “end.” Greg and I were going to get the blame for this. I just knew it. Mrs. McKay was going to say Ben’s behavior was a result of stress caused by the separation.
I pushed open the heavy studio door. By now it was seven minutes to airtime. “Sorry, everybody, but I’ve got a domestic emergency. I’ve been called in to see the head at Ben’s school.” I explained what had happened.
“Go,” Liz said. “Everything’s fine here. Des
has got everything under control, haven’t you, Des?”
“Absolutely.”
“And don’t worry about Ben. He’s not turning into a delinquent. I’ve had three boys. Girls bitch, boys fight. It’s the natural order of things.”
I managed a smile.
“I’m not sure that’s entirely true,” Nancy said. “In my experience children—like mine—who’ve been exposed to Montessori teaching tend to be far less aggressive.”
I didn’t have the time or the energy to argue. I told everybody to break a leg and headed back to the lift.
Ten minutes later I was on my way to the tube and sobbing on the phone to Greg.
“Soph, take a deep breath … What’s happened?”
I told him. “Greg, this is our fault. The separation has been too much for Ben. He’ll be shoplifting next—you wait.”
“Don’t be daft. You’re upset and you’re overreacting. We have no idea why Ben hit Arthur. Right, I’m leaving the office now. I’ll meet you at the school.”
“You don’t have to come. Honest. I can handle it. There’s no point in us both taking time off work.”
“I think we should both be there. It gives a better impression if separated parents present a united front.”
I didn’t argue.
• • •
Just as I’d predicted, Mrs. McKay—earth tones, ethnic earrings—kicked off by probing me about the separation. Her theory was that Ben might be suffering from some kind of posttraumatic stress.
Before I had a chance to say anything, Greg walked in. “With respect, Mrs. McKay,” he snapped, “I think that’s nonsense.”
“Ah, Mr. Lawson. Do come in and sit down.” They shook hands and he sat. “Now, then, I understand that you might be feeling a bit defensive about what happened. Parents often do. It’s not pleasant to discover that your son has carried out a violent attack on another child.”
“Ben is not violent,” Greg came back. “He must have been goaded.”
Just then—to my complete and utter horror—the door opened and in walked Frizzy-Haired Feminist, her frizzy hair partially covered by a Peruvian hat with earflaps. It was identical to the one she’d sent me.
“What the hell is she doing here?”
“Sophie, please calm down,” FHF said, offering me a condescending smile.
Her face was more elfin and waiflike than in her photographs. She was actually very pretty in the flesh. I hated her even more.
I looked at Greg. “I repeat … what is she doing here?”
“I called Roz to cancel our lunch date, but when I explained what was going on with Ben, she thought she ought to come with me to the school.” He looked uncomfortable. I could tell that he wasn’t happy about her being here.
“Indeed I did. I think I can explain Ben’s behavior.”
“And you would be … ?” Mrs. McKay said to FHF.
“Roz Duffy.”
“Not the Roz Duffy—the wraiter?”
“For my sins.” FHF smirked.
Ugh.
“I have to say I’m a huge fan. I’ve read A Feminist Guide to Global Warming three times.”
Of course she had.
“I’m also Mr. Lawson’s new partner,” FHF continued. “And I spend a lot of time with Ben—and Amy.”
“Yes … mainly discussing pornography,” I said.
FHF swung around. “Amy raised the subject. What was I supposed to say?” She turned back to Mrs. McKay. “Since I’m with the children so much, I think I might have some useful insights into Ben’s behavior.”
“Excellent,” Mrs. McKay chirruped. She found a chair for FHF and invited her to sit down. “Now, then, why don’t we all take a deep breath and discuss this calmly?”
“OK, Roz,” I said. “Tell me. Precisely what are these insights you have into my son’s behavior?”
“It doesn’t take a therapist to see that he’s a very angry little boy.”
“Rubbish,” Greg and I shot back in unison.
FHF wasn’t deterred. “Parental separation is never easy for children. I know. I’ve been there.”
I wanted to throttle the woman, but I couldn’t help thinking back to the little speech Ben had given before we buried the time capsule. Maybe he was angry and until now he’d been keeping it bottled up.
“I have been trying to get Ben to open up about his feelings for a while now,” FHF continued.
“And has he?” Mrs. McKay inquired, her head at an earnest tilt.
“Not yet. But I’m sure he will.”
Mrs. McKay nodded.
“He’s clearly not used to expressing his emotions,” FHF said. “I get the impression that Sophie doesn’t allow her children to express unpleasant feelings such as rage. Her inability to allow this means that those feelings burst out inappropriately.”
I lunged forward. If Greg hadn’t stopped me, I think I would have yanked off the woman’s stupid hat and started pulling her frizzy hair out by the roots.
“Let me deal with this,” he said. He glared at FHF. “You really are a piece of work.”
“Mr. Lawson, please try to calm down.”
He told Mrs. McKay to be quiet and turned back to FHF.
“Sophie and I may have our differences, but she is a wonderful mother and always has been. If anybody needs to address her shortcomings as a mother, you do. Maybe you should look at why you’ve got two druggy sons who’ve dropped out and sleep for a living.”
What do you know? Huck’s instinct about FHF had been right.
“I don’t need this,” she said. “I was just trying to help, that’s all.” She looked at Greg. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Don’t bother. I’m going to spend some time with Sophie. We need to speak to our son.”
Mrs. McKay clearly didn’t know where to put herself. “I think that might be for the best,” she said.
• • •
FHF couldn’t get away fast enough. On her way out, she and Greg exchanged glares. After bidding Mrs. McKay an embarrassed farewell, Greg and I headed towards the medical room to collect Ben.
“Thank you for standing up for me in there,” I said.
“It didn’t take much effort. I meant every word of it. You are a great mum and the kids adore you.”
• • •
Ben was in tears all the way home. He kept saying how he hadn’t meant to hit Arthur that hard, that he was sorry and was Arthur going to be all right?
As soon as we got in, he made a beeline for the TV remote. He clearly wanted to block out what had been going on. “Maybe later,” Greg said, taking the remote from him. “First we need to talk about what happened between you and Arthur.” He led him over to the sofa and sat him on his lap. I went and sat beside them.
“I know it’s been hard for you with Dad and me splitting up,” I said, tousling his hair. “And we realize you’ve probably got a lot of angry feelings towards us, but you can’t take them out on other people.”
“I didn’t,” Ben said.
“Are you sure? You need to be honest. Dad and I will understand.”
“This isn’t to do with you and Dad. I swear.”
“What did I tell you?” Greg said. “OK, what is it to do with?”
Ben started to sob again. “I didn’t mean to hit him that hard. I didn’t. Honest.”
I wanted to cuddle him, but Greg held up his palm.
“So you keep saying,” he said to Ben. “But you did mean to hit him?”
“Yes.”
“But why?” I said. “Arthur’s your best friend.”
“He’s not my best friend. He hates me.”
“Hates you?” Greg said. “I’m sure he doesn’t hate you.”
“He does. At my party, I told my friend Olly the real reason I didn’t want to go back to the Stone Age in my time machine.”
My mind flew back to the conversation that Ben and I had had on this subject. But that was ages ago. I couldn’t believe it was still on his mind. “Because y
ou’re scared of mammoths?”
“Yeah. Anyway, I made Olly promise not to tell anybody, but the next day at school he told Arthur and Arthur started calling me a wimp and a scaredy-cat. Then everybody else joined in. It went on for days and days. They were all chasing me around the playground calling me names. And in the end I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“So you lashed out at Arthur.”
He nodded.
“And not one of the teachers saw what was happening?” Greg said.
“I told my teacher, Miss Clark, that Arthur was calling me names and she just said to keep away from him.”
Greg got to his feet. “Right. Where’s the phone? I need to have another word with Mrs. McKay.”
While Greg was telling Mrs. McKay a few home truths at full volume, I tried to explain to Ben why punching people wasn’t the best way to settle disputes.
“I know, but it happened before I’d even thought about it. I was just so angry.”
“I get that, but you have to apologize to Arthur.”
“All right, but he’s got to promise to stop teasing me.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. I think you’ve made your point.”
“Arthur’s going to be all right, isn’t he? He’s not going to die?”
“Of course he’s not going to die, but he is going to have a very sore head.”
I dug my mobile out of my bag. Before Ben did any apologizing, I had some of my own to do. I went through my contacts list until I found Arthur’s mum’s number.
“Abby, it’s Sophie Lawson. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about what happened. I don’t know what to say. I feel terrible. Is Arthur OK?”
“He’s fine. They taped up his cut and we’re back home. Look, I’ve been talking to Arthur about what happened and he’s admitted that he and some other kids had been chasing Ben and calling him a wimp. I’m furious with him. Somehow I’ve managed to raise a nasty little bully. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. Ben’s teacher wasn’t quick enough off the mark. If she had been, this whole thing might never have happened.”