‘Absolutely sublime,’ he pronounced, ‘especially, my dear, after the simply hideous places we’ve seen today.’
He gave a quick shudder of revulsion and raised a plucked eyebrow in my direction.
‘I mean, wouldn’t you think a picturesque period farmhouse with attractive grounds would be an easy enough brief in rural Cornwall? Wouldn’t you?’ he enquired urgently.
‘Er, yes, I suppose I would.’
‘Of course you would! But you’d be wrong. Shall I tell you why?’
I opened my mouth to invite him to do just that, but before I’d drawn breath he’d rushed on indignantly.
‘Because just when you think you’ve found the perfect grande maison, the perfect country pile, you look a little closer and discover’ – he gasped and clutched his mouth dramatically – ‘quelle horreur! It’s got a pylon in the front garden, or there is an assortment of satellite dishes hanging from the roof, or they’ve got a circular washing line twirling around in the back garden set in rock-solid concrete, I mean, imagine! Imagine the taste someone’s got to have to do that to their house!’
He gazed at me in horror, feigned a swoon, then quickly seized my arm. ‘You haven’t got a twirly washing line or a satellite dish, have you?’ he asked anxiously.
I assured him we hadn’t and he recovered enough composure to raise an immaculately manicured finger to his temple and massage it gently. I swear his bottom lip wobbled.
‘I’m delighted to hear it, my dear, but of course it doesn’t help me in my quest for a suitable house for the Doggy Chocs commercial. I tell you frankly, I’m distressed, most distressed,’ he murmured. ‘What on earth am I to tell Sam?’
‘Who’s Sam?’ I asked, suppressing a giggle. I’d forgotten people like Bruce existed.
‘The director,’ explained Pippa.
‘Too divine,’ purred Bruce, eyes shining. ‘Married, of course,’ he added petulantly.
He sighed and turned away, resuming his survey of the portraits. Suddenly he gasped and clapped his hands.
‘Heavens! What an unbelievably noble nose! Who’s that?’ He peered at one of the more imposing males in the collection.
‘One of my husband’s ancestors,’ I explained. ‘I’m not sure who it is but Nick comes from a long line of big-nosed bigots. You’ll meet him later and, er, probably see what I mean.’
I couldn’t quite imagine Nick instantly taking Bruce to his heart, so I thought it only fair to warn him of impending rejection.
‘Can’t wait,’ breathed Bruce, ‘I adore bigots.’
‘Big mistake,’ muttered Pippa, taking my arm as we went through into the kitchen. ‘You should have said he was a sensitive little flower. Bruce is very into macho men, the butcher the better, in fact.’
‘Christ. Nick will run a mile,’ I murmured.
I filled the kettle while Bruce minced joyfully around the kitchen, exclaiming at all he saw.
‘Oh, the beams, the beams, and – oh God, is that a range? Is it real?’
I assured him it was.
‘And the floor! Proper flagstones, none of your imitation Battersea lark, ooh, aren’t you clever to have a house like this and a bigoted husband to go with it?’
I grinned, thinking they’d been my exact same thoughts not a few moments ago.
‘Where is the husband, by the way?’ asked Pippa, sinking elegantly into the wheel-backed chair by the range and crossing her incredibly slim legs. I tried not to feel envious.
‘With the sheep as usual. He knows you’re coming, though, so he’ll be in soon. It’s ages since he set eyes on anyone in a skirt; he’ll be delighted to see you but it’ll play havoc with his blood pressure.’
I absent-mindedly flicked the biscuit tin down again as I spooned out the Nescafé, and, without thinking, helped myself to a flapjack. Pippa jumped up and was beside me in an instant. She grabbed my arm in a vicelike grip, eyes shining.
‘I knew it!’ she squealed. ‘I just knew it! Didn’t I say so in the car, Bruce? She is! You are, aren’t you?’ she asked urgently. ‘Look at you – you can’t keep your hands off the biscuit tin, and look at the size of you already! You old dog, why didn’t you tell me? How many months are you?’
I stared at her in bewilderment. ‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘Pregnant! I knew it! Why didn’t you tell me on the phone? How many months are you – four? Five? Funny how it shows on the face and neck, isn’t it?’ she observed, surveying me critically with narrowed eyes. ‘And the legs, of course, but everyone always piles it on there. Can I be godmother?’
‘Shut up, Pippa,’ I said crossly, snapping the biscuit tin shut. ‘What on earth are you banging on about? Of course I’m not pregnant. I’d have told you if I was.’
‘You’re not?’ Pippa stepped back in amazement. ‘I could have sworn – are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure – don’t be ridiculous. Don’t you think I’d know?’
‘But how come you look so – how come your face is all …’ Pippa trailed off in confusion.
‘Fat?’
‘Well … yes.’
‘Oh, thanks very much,’ I said tartly. ‘You always did have a sublime sense of tact, Pippa, but this is ridiculous!’
‘Well, you said it!’
‘Because you so obviously meant it!’
‘But you must admit, Polly, you have put on quite a bit of weight and you are wearing that baggy maternity thing, and I knew you wanted to get pregnant so I naturally assumed –’
‘Well, you assumed wrong,’ I snapped, ‘and this is a T-shirt, actually. Don’t they sell them in London any more?’
‘But you’ve been trying for ages, haven’t you?’ she persisted. ‘Surely you should be – you know, sort of – pregnant by now?’
‘Pippa, could we talk about this some other time?’ I hissed, jerking my head meaningfully in the direction of Bruce, who was leaning against the dresser inspecting his nails with studied indifference.
‘Oh, don’t worry about Bruce,’ said Pippa, dismissing him airily. ‘He likes girl talk.’
‘No, don’t mind me,’ said Bruce, as if it were his feelings I was concerned about. ‘Treat me as an honorary girlie. I love all the chat, although I must say I could probably skip the pregnancy debate, not having a vested interest, if you know what I mean. Mind if I take a look around the rest of the house?’
‘Please do,’ I said, relieved to be shot of him. ‘Here, take your coffee.’ I handed him a mug.
‘Thanks. And take no notice of this anorexic stick insect. I think you look lovely, very Rubenesque. Ta-ra!’
He wiggled off in the direction of the dining room, pert little bottom tucked well in, hand stuck out to one side holding an imaginary cigarette. I watched him go, gnashing my teeth at his covetable bottom.
‘Rubenesque,’ I muttered darkly, splashing milk into mugs, ‘marvellous, isn’t it? My best friend tells me I’m so fat I could be pregnant and a perfect stranger tells me I look like an overblown tart in a picture. Anything else you’d like to get off your chest while you’re down here?’ I banged the empty kettle down viciously on the hob.
‘Oh, don’t be like that, Polly,’ said Pippa soothingly. ‘I wasn’t trying to upset you or anything, I was just excited for you because I knew you wanted to be pregnant.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ I said shortly. ‘So that’s that.’
I curled up on the old chintz sofa in the corner, usually occupied by Badger, our black lab, and sulked into my coffee. Pippa slunk furtively over, kicked off her shoes and curled up beside me.
‘But … there’s nothing wrong, is there?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I mean, you haven’t got your tubes crossed or anything like that, have you?’
‘No, of course not, it just takes time, that’s all. These things don’t happen overnight, you know, Pippa!’
‘Don’t they?’ Pippa looked surprised. ‘God, I always thought they did. I thought the moment you came off the pill, that was it – wa
llop, up the duff, in the club, off to the gorgeous gynae and before you knew where you were you had baby sick all down your jumper.’
‘That’s what I thought too, but it’s simply not true. It’s just a load of propaganda put about by our mothers who were clearly terrified we were going to get pregnant at the drop of a pair of trousers and flaunt the love child in front of the neighbours, but let me tell you, Pippa, it’s much more complicated than that – there’s a lot more to it than we’ve been led to believe.’ I nodded sagely.
‘Like what?’ Pippa looked confused. ‘I thought you just sort of … did it?’
I shook my head and smiled benignly at her. ‘Oh, Pippa, you’re woefully misinformed, very much behind the times. In the old days, yes, I’m sure they did just “do it”, but these days, what with modern science and everything, well, it’s much more technical, much more advanced.’ I pursed my lips knowledgeably.
‘It is? In what way?’
‘Well, first you’ve got to read all the books, then you’ve got to take your temperature every morning, then you buy the egg-detecting kit and set up a sort of mini chemistry lab in your bathroom, complete with foaming test tubes and dipsticks and –’
‘Egg-detecting kit?’ Pippa’s eyes were like dinner plates. ‘What are you, a hen or something?’
‘Pippa, one has to know when one’s eggs are being dropped,’ I explained patiently.
‘Blimey, now you sound like a Wellington bomber. I had no idea it was so complicated.’
‘Oh yes,’ I went on airily, ‘it’s really quite intellectually demanding, and there’s an awful lot of background reading to do too.’ I sighed wearily. ‘Terribly time-consuming.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely, it’s essential. First you’ve got to raid the local library for all its infertility manuals just to convince yourself you’ve got knots in your tubes, fibroids in your whatsits or a husband who’s firing blanks, then you’ve got to get hold of that Horizon video about the voyage of the sperm to the egg to realize there’s actually only one millisecond a month when you can possibly conceive anyway and that unless you set the alarm clock for three in the morning and get bonking that very second you haven’t a snowball’s chance in hell of getting the timing right, then –’
‘Christ! First the book, then the film –’ Pippa’s eyes gleamed dangerously. ‘Well, at least you’ve got the T-shirt!’ she guffawed noisily into her mug.
I viewed her icily. ‘This is an extremely serious and sensitive subject, Pippa. It’s no laughing matter, you know.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, composing herself with difficulty, ‘but you know, if I were you, Polly, I’d throw all the books and paraphernalia away and just get down to it. It all sounds a bit ridiculous to me.’
‘I can assure you,’ I said primly, ‘we “get down to it”, as you so charmingly put it, at the slightest opportunity, but, as I said, it’s not quite as simple as that.’
‘Doesn’t it help if you stand on your head? I’m sure I’ve read that somewhere.’
I sighed. ‘Believe me, I’d stand on my head and do cartwheels round the room if I thought it would do any good, but it doesn’t.’
She frowned. ‘But you’re not worried, are you? I mean, you’ve only been married a couple of years and you’re still jolly young.’
‘No, I’m not bloody worried and I wouldn’t have mentioned it at all if you hadn’t brought it up in the first place!’ I snapped.
‘Sorry.’
‘Still,’ I mused, ‘it would be nice. I must say, I’m looking forward to fridge magnets.’
‘Can’t you have those without children?’
‘Not really. Looks a bit naff if you haven’t got the finger paintings to go with them.’
‘Oh. Right,’ conceded Pippa, ‘and, of course, it would give you an interest, give you something to do.’
‘What d’you mean?’ I said, bridling instantly. ‘I’ve got plenty to do. God, I’m rushed off my feet down here!’
‘Really?’ Pippa looked surprised.
‘Really? Really? Pippa, I never stop. I’m at it all day long!’
‘At what?’
‘Well,’ I blustered, ‘being bloody busy, that’s what!’
‘Yes, but what d’you do?’
‘Well, you know, I – well, this house for instance!’ I swung my arm round expansively to indicate its size. ‘It’s incredibly time-consuming!’
‘But I thought you had a daily, a wench from the village or something?’
‘Well, yes, I do, but even so –’
‘Even so what?’
‘Well, God, Pippa, I practically had to redecorate the whole place when we moved in, you know, it was in a terrible mess!’
‘Really? Redecorate?’ Pippa looked around at the rustic kitchen with its oak beams, flagstone floor and plain whitewashed walls. ‘Looks as if it’s been like this since the Middle Ages.’
‘Oh, well, yes, the kitchen has, sure, but various other rooms had to be completely redesigned.’
‘Which ones?’
God, she would go on, wouldn’t she?
‘Which ones?’ I echoed, playing for time.
‘Yes, come on, I want to see.’ Pippa jumped up, seized my arm and pulled me to my feet. ‘I want to see what you’ve done!’
‘Well …’ I faltered, dragging my feet literally and figuratively across the kitchen, ‘the, um, the downstairs loo took forever, of course.’
‘Really? Show me.’
I led her tentatively down the back passage and pushed open the door. She gasped, as well she might. For the walls of this very small room were painted the retina-searing yellow usually reserved for the tennis balls at Wimbledon or perhaps the armbands of midnight cyclists. On completing the job I’d realized of course that the colour chart had lied through its teeth and Morning Primrose was in fact more of a Morning Chuck-up, and in a panic I’d then tried to draw the eye away by madly stencilling fruit and flowers around the borders. Unfortunately the purple and green flora and fauna fought furiously with the acidic walls and the blue and red tiled floor. Busy was kind. Frantic was much more like it.
‘Blimey,’ said Pippa in awe. ‘Not afraid to mix your colours, are you?’
‘It didn’t quite come off, actually,’ I admitted. ‘I think I was a mite ambitious.’
‘Never mind,’ said Pippa, blinking, as we turned and wandered back to the kitchen, ‘it was worth a try. What else though? You said on the phone you were up to your eyes in decorating.’
‘Oh, I was, it took ages to do that, you know.’
Pippa stared at me with wide eyes as she lowered herself into the sofa again. ‘So that’s it? The downstairs loo?’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ I said tetchily, curling up at the other end. Christ, what did she expect? A reproduction of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? Sicilian murals all up the stairs? Franciscan angels winding their way down the banisters?
She frowned. ‘But you work on the farm a lot, don’t you?’ she persisted. ‘I mean, you help with the animals and that kind of thing?’
‘Oh, not really,’ I said airily. ‘You see, Nick does most of it, and of course we have Larry and Mick and Jim.’
‘So what do you do then?’ She fixed me with a beady eye.
‘Oh God, loads,’ I said hastily, suddenly smelling danger and realizing what she was up to. ‘There’s – there’s the garden, of course,’ I said wildly.
‘I thought you said on the phone you didn’t know a phlox from a fuchsia and you were going to get a man in to do it?’
‘Ah, well – yes, OK, perhaps I did but – oh I know! Yes, of course, there’s my cooking!’
‘Cooking! You? Like what?’
‘Well, like –’
‘Yes?’
‘God, don’t be so aggressive, Pippa, I’m just trying to think what I do particularly well – oh yes, I know, my baking!’ I finished happily.
Pippa eyed me suspiciously, as well she might. ‘What, like cake
s and things?’
‘Er, yes, that’s it.’
Not a lie at all, because in fact ‘things’ described my baking remarkably accurately. My particular ‘things’ were jam tarts. A circle of frozen pastry with a blob of jam in the middle. I had, of course, meant to master the oven and get down to some serious baking at some stage, and I’d even gone so far as to prop Delia up over the Aga and salivate greedily over her suggestions, but somehow, instead of my greed making me reach for the scales and the caster sugar, it seemed to lead inexorably to the biscuit tin again, so Delia was put back on the shelf to collect yet more dust and the rows of plump, golden scones and fluffy Victoria sponges continued to evade me. And Nick too, of course. Because, to be honest, he felt the deprivation much more keenly than me.
In the beginning he’d praised my efforts, keen to encourage me, but, let’s face it, there are only so many tarts a man can take – so to speak – and when he came in starving hungry from the fields, having packed more physical exertion into one day than most men manage in a week, dying for a juicy fat slab of Dundee cake with his tea, I’d come to dread his weak pronouncement of simulated joy – ‘Ah! Jam tarts again!’ – as his eye lit nervously upon my sticky morsels cringing by the Aga. But of course, as I told myself regularly, there was still plenty of time, and one of these days I was going to get down to some serious baking.
‘OK, baking,’ conceded Pippa warily, only marginally placated. ‘All right, but you can’t do that all day, can you? And the thing is, Polly, I know it’s beautiful down here, but I can’t help thinking I’d go out of my mind with boredom after a while, either that or turn to drink. You’re not drinking, are you?’ Her eyes pinned me to the wall.
‘No, of course I’m not drinking, and listen, Pippa, not everyone wants to run around being a high-powered executive, you know. Don’t you ever feel the urge to rip off your tights and your Chanel suit and run around the fields barefoot?’
Pippa looked doubtfully at her immaculate pink concoction. ‘Not really, and even if I did,’ she regarded me penetratingly, ‘I’d make damn sure I’d shaved my legs first.’
I flushed. ‘Pippa!’ I pulled my legs up sharply and sat on them.
‘Well, it’s true, look at you!’ I tugged my T-shirt down desperately as she hoicked it up with a manicured nail. ‘There are some things only your best friend can tell you, Polly, so I’m telling you. I suspected as much the last time I came down, but now I’m convinced. You’ve gone all fat and complacent because you’ve got your man, haven’t you?’
Going Too Far Page 3