“Oh, I’d have been highly delighted,” said Molly as she took the bottle from the microwave and handed it to a grabbing Henry. “I dream of Hugh having a concubine. I’d be very happy with light scullery duties, just so long as she took over in the bedroom and breeding department. Really.” She gave a bright smile and I knew she was trying to lighten the atmosphere.
“So how come you know her name?” I persisted, stunned.
“Looked at her credit card. She paid the bill – which was why I thought it could have been a client or something – and then when the waiter took the saucer away to the counter, I crept to the loo with my pashmina over my face. Saw it as I went past.”
“Did you see her?”
“Not clearly.”
“But?”
She shrugged. “Small, fairish – not blonde – and pretty, I suppose, but in a very mousy, nondescript sort of way. Nothing special at all, Liwy, and certainly no competition for you.”
She was being kind. Being protective. Dear, sweet Imo, who twice in the space of five minutes I’d cast as a she-devil in my husband’s bed, a temptress, a Jezebel. But lovers on the skids have no redress. No dignity either.
“And did Johnny…?”
“Oh God, no, he didn’t see me. I made sure of that. And anyway, they left more or less as soon as we arrived, thank goodness. I was terrified Mum would spot him.”
“Off for a night of spine-shattering sex, no doubt,” I said bitterly.
“She didn’t look the spine-shattering type, Liv.”
“They never do,” I said sadly.
I got up and cleared away some glasses. I knew my eyes were filling up, so I ran the taps at the sink and dithered ineffectually with a dishcloth to hide my face.
“Very odd,” murmured Molly to Imogen behind me as she sat Henry on her lap, rubbing his back to wind him. “I mean, Liwy’s right, a tacky affair with a mousy blonde, it’s not exactly his style, is it?”
“Hardly,” said Imogen drily, “and he’s always been erudite on the subject of extramarital sex; always been very happy up there on the high moral ground. Well, how the mighty have fallen.”
Down in the sink a plate almost came to pieces in my hands as I wished, not for the first time, that they didn’t know quite so much about my husband, about my marriage. I wouldn’t dream of making disparaging remarks about their partners, but Johnny, it seemed, was fair game. He was public property, you see, belonged to all of us, always had done, and whilst –
“Christ!” Imo shrieked suddenly. I spun round to see her clutching her head, as a stream of yellow liquid splattered on the wall behind her.
“What was that!” she yelled, frozen to her milk crate.
“Projectile vomiting,” muttered Molly, grabbing a dishcloth and hastening past her to mop it up. “I believe I mentioned it earlier. So sorry, Liwy, your wall. I’ll – Oh, Imo, did it get in your hair? Here, I’ll – ”
“Not with that!” screeched Imo, leaping to her feet as Molly brandished a vomit-soaked rag. “No, really, Mol, he missed,” she breathed. “I’m fine, truly.” She sat down again shakily, smoothing her hair. “Jesus, does he always do that?”
“Periodically,” admitted Molly, scrubbing away, “although he’s supposed to have grown out of it. Most babies do at about three months, but not my Henry. He doesn’t know when the joke’s over. I wouldn’t mind betting that in years to come he’ll be offering you a gin and tonic and still be taking aim at your highlights.”
Imo shuddered. “That’ll charm the pants off the girls. Let’s hope his incontinence clears up by then. Although I have to say,” she smiled smugly, “whilst I don’t know much about children, I don’t think you can claim the monopoly on that, Mol. I’m pretty sure all babies are incontinent.”
“Oh, Imo, I’m afraid you misheard,” smiled Molly. “That’s my affliction, not his.”
Imogen looked appalled. “Molly! God, how awful, poor you!”
“Yes, poor me. Still lactating with number one, sick as a parrot with number two, and now, thrillingly unpredictable in the waterworks department too, but don’t worry, Imo, it only happens when I laugh, and believe me, there’s precious little to laugh about in my life at the moment.”
“Evidently,” said Imogen weakly. “God, remind me to avoid this child-bearing lark. I’ll have one in a test tube, or adopt. Yes, that’s it, I’ll send out for one, like a pizza – except, hang on, now here’s one I would take home with me. Hello, darling, how’s tricks?”
Claudia appeared in the doorway in her nightie.
“Claudes!” I jumped up. “It’s ten o’clock! What’s the matter?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, fumbling across to the dresser for her glasses. She put them on. “But tricks is fine thanks Imo. I like your dress.”
She kissed her godmother, fingering the grey silky material covetously – very much a Du Bray in the clothes department was our Claudia – before going to kiss her other godmother and pick up the baby.
“How come Henry isn’t in bed and I am?” she said, crouching down.
“Henry doesn’t sleep, darling,” said Molly, ruffling her hair fondly. “He’s a changeling. He doesn’t behave like other, normal babies. He’s only been put on this earth to vex his mother. He’s from the planet Thwart.”
Claudia giggled, then suddenly looked serious. She straightened up, folded her arms. “She’s told you then, has she? About Daddy?”
There was a silence. I hastened across to her anxiously. “I did actually, darling. Do you mind?”
“Course not,” she said, pushing her dark fringe back impatiently. “I said you should share it more, not bottle it up.”
“Well, quite,” I agreed nervously. My daughter was ten, going on twenty-four.
“And how do you feel about it, my love?” asked Molly gently.
“Oh, I’m OK. Daddy says he’ll see me on Sundays and I know from books that he’ll feel really guilty about making me a product of a broken home, so I’ll probably get loads of treats and things, and trips to Thorpe Park, which’ll be cool. I won’t get spoilt, though. Susan, in The Chalet School adventures hasn’t got a father, but she’s not spoilt ‘cos her mother’s strict but fair, so I expect I’ll be the same.” She nodded firmly.
“Good, good,” said Molly faintly.
“And, anyway, it’ll all come right in the end. Something good will come out of it, I’ll be bound.”
“I’ll be – ” Molly turned wide eyes on me.
“Angela Brazil,” I muttered. “She found all my old books.”
“Ah.”
“And Mummy should get out more,” Claudia said firmly. “Don’t you think?” She rounded on her godmothers.
“Oh yes, absolutely,” they chorused quickly.
“Mrs Parker, Clarissa’s mother in The Faraway Island, was devastated when Mr Parker went off to America, but she busied herself, and lo and behold, he came back!”
“So – how do you suggest I busy myself, my darling? Bustling round the kitchen baking scones? A bit of embroidery, perhaps? Then lo and behold – ”
“Oh no,” she interrupted scathingly, “those are just meaningless chores invented for the enslavement of women. No, I thought you could go to the pub with the builders.”
I gulped at this child of mine.
“Why not?” she insisted. “They go out every single night to the Fox and Ferret before picking up their curries. Well, you could go with them, Mum, get a curry too. You like curries.”
“And some tinnies too, perhaps?” murmured Imo.
“Good idea. And then when Dad comes over to pick me up, you could be down in the caravan, watching telly with them. It’s tactics, Mum. I saw it on EastEnders. Bianca did it to Ricky. You’ve got to get Dad to wake up a bit, make him jealous!”
“Right, darling.” I nodded. Tactics. From a ten-year-old girl, drawing on an eclectic mixture of fifties boarding school books and contemporary soaps.
“And you’ve got to find yourself, too
,” she declared importantly.
I sighed. “Even if did, my love, I’m not sure I’d recognise her.”
“Oh, don’t be so wet,” she retorted. “It’s just a case of getting out and about. I mean, Nanette’s always asking you over.”
“Oh God, not Nanette, Claudes.”
“Who’s Nanette?” pounced Molly.
“She lives in The Crescent,” said Claudia, turning to her. “She’s always having things called fork suppers with men in blazers called Clive, and Mum never goes.”
“I think you get the picture,” I muttered drily, clearing the glasses.
“Sounds rather fun,” grinned Molly maliciously. “Where exactly does this Nanette hail from?” She got up and peered out of the window, knowing that, such was the nature of The Crescent, most houses could be clearly seen.
“There, over there on the end.” Claudia joined her, pointing eagerly at a lighted window with frilly Austrian blinds. As I joined them, to my horror we saw a hand wave back.
“Oh God, she’s seen you, Claudes. She thinks you’re waving?”
“Well, that’s OK.”
“And now she’s disappeared! She’s probably coming over!”
“Well, fine, that’s fine. She can have a drink. I like her, Mum.”
“And I do too, darling. She’s very kind, but – ” I spotted her garden gate opening. “Oh no, she is coming over – hide!” I dived down under the table. “Tell her I’m out,” I muttered, face pressed down into the rush matting.
“Mummy, that’s silly. She’ll know you’re here; your friends are here, for heaven’s sake. Of course you can’t hide.”
“I think Claudia has a point, Liwy,” said Imogen. “And anyway,” she paused, lifting the curtain again and peering out of the window, “if Nanette looks anything like Cruella de Vil I’m afraid it’s too late.”
There was a familiar crunch of gravel, then “Coo-ee!” – and a rap of jewelled knuckles at the door. Claudia flew to open it, and two seconds later in came Nanette, just as I was crawling out.
“Olivia! Goodness, you’re always crawling around under that table! Every time I pop by you seem to be down there looking for something!”
“Dropped my lipstick this time,” I muttered, since make-up was the first thing that came to mind as I looked at her face. Blimey, she always wore the works, but tonight it looked as if she’d applied it with an industrial high-pressure hose. Mid-fortyish and resplendent in a tight cerise sweater which had a sequinned bird of prey lurking ominously over one shoulder, skin-tight white pedal pushers and high pink mules, she also had lipstick all over her teeth when she grinned.
“Nanette, it’s lovely to see you,” I lied as I scrambled up. “Um, come in and sit down. We were just having a drink. This is Molly Piper, by the way, and Imogen Mitchell, my best friends.”
“Oh, really?” Nanette looked enchanted, especially by Imogen, and extended a bony, suntanned hand. “Gosh, and what a shame, I’d love a little drinky but I can’t stop, I’m afraid. I’m just on my way out to my evening class. It’s my sexual awareness and crochet group tonight, you see, but I’ve heard so much about you both,” she lied, “and I’m thrilled to meet you at last!”
“You too,” murmured Molly and Imogen, looking totally fascinated and agog at this vision.
“But what I have brought,” Nanette went on, brandishing a leather-bound book, “is my diary, and I intend to pin you down once and for all, Olivia! So sad about all this ghastly business,” she murmured sotto voce, turning to Imogen and Molly, for all the world as if I wasn’t there. “Of course she’s told you…? Well, of course she has and, actually, I’m afraid everyone knows. Half the county’s talking about it – but don’t you think she should get out more? Show that randy old so-and-so – Oops,” her hand went to her mouth, “scuse my French, Claudia. You know how I adore Daddy really – show him just who’s boss around here?”
“I’ll get Mummy’s diary!” chirruped Claudia happily, as my friends nodded mutely at her. “Here!” She grabbed it off the dresser and handed it to Nanette.
Two heads then bent low together, as my daughter and my neighbour compared, conspired and pencilled in, with Molly and Imogen – less wide-eyed now, and more highly amused – exchanging mouth-twitching, eyebrow-raised glances.
As I scrubbed a plate savagely in the sink, I found myself turning, and looking with new-found hatred at Nanette’s jet-black hair. So. She adored ‘randy Daddy’, eh? So perhaps it was her? Yes, why not? She was local, they’d been seen together in a local restaurant, she was probably a sex maniac, so yes, perhaps it was Nanette that Imogen had seen, in a blonde wig? Nanette – Nina – of course. My eyes flew to the breadknife on the side. I could plunge it into her back right now, just as she bent over the diary, watch the blood spurt out, see the horror on my friends and my daughter’s faces. I frowned. Would they instantly call the police? Where exactly would their loyalties lie? As I gazed at her, wondering what the devil I’d do with the corpse – freezer perhaps? Compost heap? – I suddenly came to. I shuddered and turned back to the sink. God, I was a low form of life, wasn’t I? Capable of anything at the moment. And, of course, this was a form of madness, I thought miserably. I suspected anyone and everyone, including my kind neighbour, who wasn’t my type – or Johnny’s either come to that – but who was only trying to help, and had simply come over to invite me to supper. Nanette snapped her diary shut, satisfied.
“Friday next week then. Nothing too formal, more of a smart but casual affair, six or maybe eight of us in all, and I’ll make sure you’re suitably paired off, Olivia.” She tapped her pencil on her diary and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Ye-s, I’ll probably do something fairly simple, a salmon en croute perhaps, with a choice of desserts – tirimasu, banoffi pie, that sort of thing – oh, and I’ll probably be wearing my beige suede suit, Olivia – you know, my Gucci.” She shot Imogen a quick look to tell her she knew her labels. “So maybe something like your silk palazzo pants? With a new sweater? I gather Romano’s in Radlett have got a sale on at the moment, maybe we could – ”
“Thank you, Nanette,” I interrupted weakly, “that would be lovely, and don’t worry, I’ll sort myself out, sartorially speaking.”
“Super,” she beamed, “and I’ll make sure the guest list is suitably yummy, particularly a Vautre cote a toil” Nanette had somehow discovered our French ancestry and had a disconcerting habit of breaking into Franglais at a moment’s notice. Imogen and Molly were looking more and more enchanted.
“So! A bientot, mes cheries, and don’t forget, Olivia, Friday the ninth, eight for eight fifteen, canapes on the patio, Kir Royales in the conservatory, be there or be square! Toodle-oo!” And with that she bustled out backwards with a dinky little wave.
“Toodle-oo!” chorused my friends and daughter joyfully.
The moment the front door closed behind Nanette I chucked a plate in the water, strode to the counter, seized the breadknife, raised it high above my head, and with a blood curdling screech of “HYAA-AACK!” plunged it straight into the heart of a granary loaf.
“Traitors!” I bellowed. “The lot of you!”
“Oh, Mum, it’ll be fun!” insisted Claudia, giggling.
“Of course it will,” gasped Imogen, wiping her eyes. “It’ll be brimming over with gorgeous Clives, and possibly a few Nigels too. You’ll love it!”
I thought back to when we were at school, scanned the rows of desks, searching for the girl I wanted: frizzy-haired, cunning-eyed, mean-spirited, never sharing her sweets, let alone her homework, very smelly feet. “I would rather,” I said carefully, “spend an entire weekend in Brenda Archdale’s company, massaging her toes with my teeth, than endure the evening that is about to befall me.”
“Oh God, really?” Molly looked suitably shocked for a moment. Then she caught Imogen’s eye and they both dissolved into giggles. They clutched each other for a moment, until abruptly Molly froze. Her eyes bulged. “Oh God!” She squeaked, snapping her le
gs together. “Help!”
“Serves you bloody well right,” I said callously as I reached into Henry’s changing bag and chucked her a nappy. “Here, try this on for size.”
5
A few days later I was lying in bed mulling it over. Nina. Nina, for God’s sake. Who on earth was called Nina these days? It sounded so pre-war, like she wore a cardy and slippers, or sold smellies in Boots, or even – yes, that’s it – maybe she was foreign? Nina Mouskouri – no, no that was Nana – or, OK, Nina Simone? Oh God, I couldn’t compete with that, I thought hastily, some dark, exotic, dusky maiden. No, far better she was the cardy type. Or could it be an aristocratic name perhaps? I wondered, with a jolt. Wasn’t one of the Mitford sisters called something like – No. No, that was Nancy. I sighed and turned over, bunching up the pillow – then stared. Claudia was beside me, feigning sleep, eyelids flickering. I groaned.
“Oh darling, you said you’d try not to do this any more.”
“I know, but I couldn’t sleep. And anyway, Daddy’s not here, so there’s plenty of room.”
Well, there was no arguing with that. The sun was also streaming persistently through the curtains now, so I turned back and seized the clock, peering myopically at it. Twenty to eight.
“Claudia! It’s twenty to eight!” I shot up like a rocket.
“I know.”
“Well, don’t say I know, flaming well get a move on! You’ll be late for school – again!”
She rolled out of bed, pulling the duvet with her, and dragged herself to her bedroom. “That, Mother dear, was precisely the idea,” she muttered sardonically.
I flew around the room looking for clothes, desperate for a shower but knowing there wasn’t time, listening to Claudia slowly opening drawers and dragging her feet. Hardly the sounds of frenzied activity.
“Claudia, come on!”
“I am!”
I sat down abruptly on the bed feeling a bit of head rush. I held my fingers to my temples. Oh God, I shouldn’t have yelled like that so early in the morning. It always made me feel nauseous. And anyway, so what if we were late, just for once? Sometimes Claudia had a point. I flopped back on the bed. She was so like me in so many ways, and so unlike me in others. Aesthetically speaking, it was plain to see we were a mother-and-daughter act: skinny-framed, beaky-nosed and wide-eyed – which, together with pebble glasses and an unusual dental arrangement, was not a combination Claudia enjoyed at ten years old – but, as I kept assuring her, she’d grow into her looks, as I had done.
Olivia’s Luck (2000) Page 7