How Hard Can It Be?

by Allison Pearson

  I retrieve my tights and knickers from the basin, let the vile water out, and rinse them again. I wouldn’t say they were clean, but they’ll have to do. Wring them dry as best I can, then step quickly back into the damp knickers. Now I take the biggest orchid leaf I can find – its shiny green surface is waterproof and, when it’s flipped over, forms a perfect dug-out canoe – and I slip it into my pants so it can hold Mr Velikovsky’s hand towel snugly in place. Then I pull on the tights, which, amazingly, look fine. Now kneel on the floor and clean any splashes of blood with gold-handled, monogrammed loo-brush. I feel like the murderer at the scene of my own crime.

  How long have I been in here? Seems like hours, but probably only minutes. Come on, Kate, get it together. Maybe there’s still time to rescue the pitch? Check myself in the Venetian glass mirror, dappled with age, which hangs over the washbasin. Cheeks very flushed. Quickly apply powder from compact. Touch up lipstick. The towel feels bulky between my legs, like I’m wearing a soggy nappy, but don’t think it can be detected through my skirt. I pray it can’t. Leave loo and return to the meeting room. I can hear Gareth’s warm Welsh tones and feel reassured. It’s going OK. Apologise quickly to everyone, in light, bright voice, mention something about seafood for lunch, then I pick up the pitch where I left off, thanking Alice and Gareth for their contributions. There is bewilderment in Alice’s eyes, but that glorious smile is fixed in place. Good girl. I see the Russians relax. Under my skirt I can feel the knickers, unpleasantly damp and cold, and under the knickers the orchid leaf, waxy and stiff, like a biodegradable sex toy. Doesn’t matter, so long as the bloody tsunami is kept at bay and nothing leaks.

  ‘Mrs Reddy?’ The bruiser speaks. It’s like listening to a cement mixer. ‘Mr Velikovsky, he would like to ask you something.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Please fire away.’

  ‘Mr Velikovsky, he would like to know if you can get his son into Eton College. Sergei he likes mathematic.’

  ‘Ah, well, Mr Velikovsky,’ I say, staring fixedly at the Matisse, since I still don’t know whom I should be addressing, ‘we can offer clients assistance in a variety of different ways. I’m afraid that it’s not possible simply to obtain a place at Eton any longer; there is a demanding admissions process, which of course is a tribute to the quality of the school.’ (No harm in a plug. The Velikovskys of this world, currently buying up entire parishes of London, can’t get enough of such traditional British fare; the only hitch is that not all of it can be bought, not even for ready cash. That annoys them, and makes them want it all the more.)

  ‘Your son may well be in a position to sit that test, but bear in mind that there are many other excellent schools which I’m sure would look very favourably on a child of Mr Velikovsky.’ (Basically, pick any cash-strapped ancient boarding school in need of a new science block, and Vlad’s your uncle.)

  ‘Needless to say, I would be more than happy to advise Mr and Mrs Velikovsky on the matter of bespoke tutoring services for Sergei. Some of these are available for as little as five hundred pounds an hour.’ I give a slight smile, which is returned by the Tsar. He’s the one. Must be. He certainly gets the joke. (Offer men like him, or their partners, anything that smacks of a genuine bargain and they will rear back in horror. Why should they, of all people, even dream of saving money? Give them some utterly ridiculous quote, on the other hand, and they perk up. Only the best will do, whether it’s a yacht, a wife, or the Oxford graduate with impeccable manners who will very patiently coach Sergei in the future perfect of avoir. The future can always be perfect, if you’ve got the cash.)

  There is a pause. Then the man in the middle gets to his feet, followed hurriedly by the other two. He comes round the table and approaches me, eyes sizing me up, flicking from my toecaps to my earrings with a sort of shameless candour, as if he were about to purchase me or put me up for sale. The Tsar and the brute hover behind him, radiating respect. If Napoleon had ever ditched the conquest of Europe and retrained as a chartered accountant, he would have been Vladimir Velikovsky.

  ‘Miss Reddy.’ Virtually no accent. The international, border-scorning voice that is firmly rooted in the First Class Lounge at Heathrow, and nowhere else. ‘I believe we understand each other. You have gathered, correctly, that I am something of an Anglophile. And when you admire something, well …’ He trails off, spreads his hands, and smiles. Ice caps may be melting in the Arctic, but the pack ice of the Velikovsky smile remains as hard as stone.

  He takes another step towards me. Oddly, in defiance of the laws of perspective, he seems to be getting smaller the closer he comes. The top of his head is, I would estimate, somewhere around the level of my nipples, which probably suits him just fine. The man with the hundreds of millions is a borderline dwarf. Just for an instant, the walls of the mansion fall away. I am no longer attending a business meeting in Mayfair. I am in Game of bloody Thrones.

  ‘I think’, the munchkin resumes, ‘that we could do business together. Perhaps, Miss Reddy, you and your—’ he glances at Gareth and Alice, as if struggling to suppress the word ‘serfs’, then turns back to me, ‘—and your colleagues would be so kind as to run through the particulars of your proposed investments one more time. Perhaps even twice. Please forgive my caution; over the years, I have found it constructive to’, a momentary pause, ‘take pains.’ Did he say that to the bear? Something tells me this guy hasn’t just taken pains, I bet he’s given his fair share too.

  Twenty minutes later, we walk out into Berkeley Square. A nightingale may well be singing, for we have a firm commitment from the Russians to invest. I apologise to my colleagues for leaving them in the lurch like that.

  ‘Kate, you were awesome,’ says Alice.

  ‘What’s a bespoke tutoring service when it’s at home?’ demands a chuckling Gareth.

  ‘Buggered if I know. Like helping my kids with their homework and charging them a small fortune for it. Not a bad idea, actually. Taxi! TAXI!’

  As I climb into the back of the cab, a wave of heat passes from my chest to my face. Whether it’s a hot flush or a blush of shame I cannot say.

  4.38 pm: We won the pitch. That’s the good news. The bad news is that when we get back to the office, Troy, who clearly set me up to fail, does not bother to hide how pissed off he is. The New Girl, Troy’s gormless apprentice, has clinched the deal when any fool could see she didn’t stand a chance, which is why he gave it to her in the first place. So that she could fuck up instead of him.

  ‘Is Velikovsky a drugs baron? Has he bumped anyone off?’ Troy demands. ‘Do we really want to be associated with him? Did you OK it with Compliance, Kate?’ On and on, like a pesky wasp at a picnic.

  Jay-B strolls out of his office and, to my quiet fury, seems to take Troy’s side, saying that if Velikovsky turns out to be the gangster that everyone thinks he is, the risk to our business could be ‘reputational’. Russian money is notoriously flaky, etc. Even if Velikovsky comes in for forty mill, he could walk out a year later. (Catastrophe for the bottom line, my arse. It’s the Alpha Males closing ranks to squidge the Beta Female.)

  Alice rolls her eyes at me and swigs from a can of Diet Coke. Gareth says he’s going for a sandwich and does anybody want anything. I thank Troy for registering these strong and perfectly valid concerns. Perhaps making them before we went to the pitch might have been even more helpful, but still.

  Troy stares at me. Like Vlad without the muscle. Or the power. He’s weak and wounded, so Handle With Care.

  ‘OK,’ I smile at Troy, ‘you could well be right. Let’s wait for the enhanced due diligence report on Velikovsky, then see what the head of Risk has to say. Agreed?’

  Stomach suddenly cramps, like a labour contraction, and I have to grab the back of a chair to stop myself crying out. Not again, surely. I give it a minute and the pain recedes. Tell Alice I’m popping to M&S for some sushi. Sprint across the piazza. Once in the store, I scoot up the escalator to Ladies’ Underwear, buy a three-pack of pants in a large, comforti
ng size, plus black opaque tights and only remember the sushi as I’m running out. On the way back, I stop off in Boots and consider the sanitary protection display. Never needed anything except Tampax before, except when I brought the babies home from the hospital. I pick up a pack of maternity pads ‘for postpartum care’ and hurry back.

  Make a bit of a fuss depositing the sushi on my desk, and loudly offering Alice some, to prove I haven’t gone AWOL, then head straight for the loos. In the cubicle, I remove my damp tights and knickers and place both in the M&S bag. Amazingly, the orchid leaf has done its job. Decide to keep the monogrammed Velikovsky hand towel, aka emergency sanitary napkin, which I roll up small, put in the Boots plastic bag and then my handbag as a war trophy. With toilet paper, I pat dry any part of me down there that still feels damp. The clean-up part of the operation over, I pull on a pair of the roomy new pants – clean, oh, blissfully clean – tuck the wodge-like maternity pad down the front and hastily wriggle into the black tights. I hear the door swing open and a voice calls: ‘Kate, are you OK?’ Alice.

  ‘Fine, absolutely fine. Be with you in a min. Do you want to start Googling high-end vodkas?’

  Laughter. ‘Will do.’

  I need to get back to my desk and make things right with Troy. Can’t afford to show sign of weakness, not at this stage. Am sliding the lock on the cubicle door when I get a whiff of something bad: the rusty odour of dried blood. Damn. Fumble in my bag for perfume and spritz several generous squirts of Mitsouko between my legs, just in case, and a couple into the handbag for good measure. Troy already smells blood. No need to give him ammunition.

  Kate, this is madness, what are you doing?

  Sit down again and just give myself a moment, perched on the loo seat. My heart is racing. What the hell just happened to me? Back there in the oligarch palace with Velikovsky’s vaginal volcano. I feel … what do I feel? A combination of shame and fear. That my body has let me down, sacrificing me on the altar of middle age. That suddenly I’ve been taken back into a primitive world of animal helplessness, one we spend the whole of our adult lives trying to put behind us. My body, once so loyal, so reliable. Fear and humiliation. Please don’t let me down. Not now. I need you to work so I can work.

  Must make another appointment to see that gynaecologist and actually go to it this time. (‘Roy, can you please remind me about that gynaecologist Sally mentioned? Urgent!’)

  Check phone. Donald has left a Voicemail (must be bad, Donald never calls my mobile), Debra has emailed (Shoot Me!) and there’s a text from Ben, which I answer quickly from the loo seat.

  Ben to Kate

  Lift

  Kate to Ben

  Remember I’m at work, sweetheart. If you want me to come and fetch you later from Sam’s can you at least ask nicely? ‘Lift’ is an elevator, not a word designed to persuade your mother to get in the car and pick you up! xx

  Ben to Kate

  K

  Kate to Ben

  What is K? That’s not even a word.

  Ben to Kate

  OK

  Kate to Ben

  Mummy has had a really tough day and

  Delete that. Self-absorbed adolescent male doesn’t wish to know about his mother’s problems. He wants her to be stable, strong, smiley, cook pasta, give the illusion she doesn’t go out to work and exists solely to make his life wonderful. He must never be troubled by the thought of that awful wreck in the oligarch’s palace. At the thought of Ben, and what I’m putting myself through just to give him and Emily a good life, and how I’m making such a bloody mess of it, the dam finally breaks.

  No. Sorry. Dry your tears. That’s quite enough bodily fluids for one day.

  Kate to Ben

  I’ll pick you up from Sam’s house. Have fun! Love you xxx

  Before I leave the toilets, I drop the carrier bag containing my soiled stuff in the bin, making sure to push the orchid leaf as far down as it will go. Wash my hands thoroughly, carefully apply lipstick and return to my desk.

  Right, now where was I?

  What a day that was.

  First there was me breezily saying I’d write Emily’s Twelfth Night essay for her by tomorrow. That was when I thought I’d have almost nothing to do. Next came that bloodbath at the Russian palace. Then, when I was safely back at my desk, I had a whispered phone conversation with Donald, who said that Barbara has started to tidy up fanatically, just like she used to when she was herself, only much worse.

  ‘The doctor says you often see patients with dementia displaying exaggerated characteristics of their old personality. Barbara’s trying to put everything away. She’s hidden my teeth and I can’t get her to tell me where they are. What do you think, Kate, love?’

  ‘I don’t know, Donald. Maybe look in her dressing-gown pocket or her coat?’

  ‘What’s that? Can’t hear you. Can you speak up, Kate, love?’

  (‘No, I can’t speak up because I’m at work and they think I’m talking to a client, not a senior citizen in Yorkshire whose wife has kidnapped his dentures.’)

  Once I’d got Donald off the phone with a promise I’d call him back when I got home, I listened to a curt voicemail from Julie. Said Mum needs more help in the house, and we’ll have to pay, so what am I going to do about it? Last time I saw Mum, only a few weeks ago, she seemed fine. It’s almost like my sister is deliberately laying it on thick to punish me for moving away and doing well. In fact, that’s exactly what she’s doing, but such is my guilt at moving away that I don’t protest, or even try to point out that it doesn’t feel like I’m doing well. I surrendered the moral high ground when I moved back down South, and Julie knows it.

  All in all, though, it wasn’t such a terrible day – those Russians had taken the bait for a start – just an exhausting one. My resources were drained, my defences were down, my resistance was low. And let’s not forget the long shadow in which I was living, the shadow of that particular birthday. Do you know it’s a scientifically proven fact that human beings behave worst and most recklessly when their age ends in nine – twenty-nine, thirty-nine, forty-nine, all dangerous years? Maybe we think, ‘It’s now or never.’ And that, of course, had to be the moment it happened.

  7.21 pm: Still at office. Just about to leave work. Have to get back to collect Ben from Sam’s. Email the stuff I’ve done on Em’s essay to my home address. Check work Inbox one last time to see what assault course Jay-B has in store for me the next day. And there it is. A name I never thought I’d see again. Never wanted to see again. (As soon as I saw the name I knew that was a lie.)

  From: Jack Abelhammer

  To: Kate Reddy

  Subject: Hello again

  Oh, Lord, it’s him. It’s really him. Who knew that a name could summon so much emotion? How awful and how amazing. Hello Jack, my love.

  11

  TWELFTH NIGHT (OR WHAT YOU WON’T)

  I didn’t want to think about him. I could think of nothing else. I got home, I went to collect Ben from Sam’s and, while Sam’s nice mum, Hannah, was chatting to me on the doorstep, I made all the right shapes with my face – at least I hope I did. I didn’t hear a word she said. His name was tapping through me like Morse code. Jack. Jack. Jack.

  It was almost as though, by thinking about him over breakfast at the ice rink, I had summoned him, like a genie. That chapter of my life had been closed for a very long time and, as soon as I let the book fall open, Jack emailed me. Can you know that someone is longing for you? Can you sense that a person who rejected you is wild with all regret? Obviously not, but life has its own strange logic and what is coincidence feels like it was meant to be.

  Anyway, I needed to put Abelhammer out of my mind and get Emily’s essay done for the morning. Richard was out (some workshop again), which was a big relief. First, though, I had some washing to do. I boiled a kettle and carried it to the utility room. Clambered over the bike-accessories assault course and got to the sink which I filled with the piping hot water, then added some from the
tap. I immersed the Velikovsky hand towel, and a skein of bright red blood bloomed in the water. It grew and grew like an atomic cloud until the sink was literally a blood bath. I washed the towel again, and then again, before hanging it on the drying rack. The VV in one corner was so densely and lavishly embroidered it felt like moss to the touch.

  I had got through the ordeal at the oligarch’s palace, God knows how, but I had. All that remained was to finish Emily’s essay. She had already started, so my task was to fill the gaps, and expand where necessary. Funnily enough, the topic turned out to be, well, rather topical.

  From: Emily

  To: Kate Reddy

  Subject: Help!!

  Hi Mum, this is what I wrote so far. I don’t know if it’s any good but it’s kind of like what I want to say and I wish I could of have had more time. I’m just a bit stressy. Please do any corrections or adding bits that are better.

  Love you, Emxxxxx

  ‘The most perceptive characters in Twelfth Night are the best at fooling others.’ How far would you agree with this statement?’

  Most of the main characters in the play are either deceiving people or they are being deceived. By the end of Act One, there is a love triangle. Duke Orsino is in love with Olivia; Viola (dressed up as Cesario) is in love with Orsino; and Olivia is in love with Cesario (who is really Viola)—