‘So, how do you two know each other?’ she asks. What she means is not ‘how’ but ‘how well’.
I try breeziness. ‘Oh, you know, we ran into each other a few times, a few years ago, I mean, a few times.’ For heaven’s sake, Jack, help me here. Take the distress out of the damsel.
‘I was a prospective client of a bank where Kate used to work,’ he explains. ‘She was very persuasive.’
‘I know,’ says Alice. ‘Kate can talk anyone into anything.’
‘Then we kept in touch, on and off,’ (no, we didn’t), ‘and I happened to be in town, and thought I’d swing by to say hello. See how the new job is going.’
‘Riiiight.’ Alice looks at Jack, then at me, then back again at Jack. ‘And you both lived happily ever after.’
I bury my nose in my empty glass, breathe in the lingering fumes as if they were an ocean breeze. Beside me, Jack is a calm sea. I very badly want to hold onto him. Or float away on him – either would be fine.
‘Yes, pretty much,’ he says at last.
‘Starting when?’ Alice asks.
Jack nods his head, weighing things up, looks at me, looks at her, then replies: ‘Starting now.’ He takes her hand again. What about my hand? ‘Lovely to meet you, Alice. Beautiful dress. Excellent party. Will you excuse us? Kate, are you coming? Kate.’
I gaze at Alice, who raises her eyebrows.
‘Alice, I, I—’
‘Kate, go now. Before you don’t.’
‘But.’
‘But nothing.’ She glances over my shoulder. ‘Jay-B is coming back with Hrump. Second helpings. Go now.’
In the end, I grab Jack’s hand, not the other way round, and we scarper, like twelve-year-olds caught smoking behind the bike shed. I turn round to Alice as we go.
‘See you at work!’
‘Hope not.’ And the young woman, who fears she is unloved and may stay that way, watches an older woman, who fears the same thing, make a grab at happiness.
Alice thinks: I don’t know how she does it. But I know why.
19
COITUS INTERRUPTUS
11.59 pm: Sex. Don’t worry, Kate, it’ll come back to you. It’s not terribly complicated. Like riding a bike. No, I don’t want to think about bikes, or Richard’s bike gear in the utility room. As we are going up in the lift, to the tenth floor of the hotel, a line from a book floats into my head. ‘It was getting to be known that was embarrassing: all that self-conscious verbalization over too many drinks, and then the bodies revealed with the hidden marks and sags like disappointing presents at Christmastime.’ (‘Roy, who wrote that?’)
The only person, apart from Roy, who I can pretty much guarantee will be able to tell me where that line comes from is standing in the lift with me, his face pressed into my neck, his arms holding me tight. I can’t ask Jack if he recognises the quote because then he will know I am nervous. Nervous that undressing me will be an anti-climax, that I will be a disappointing Christmas present, that we’ve waited so long for this moment and it turns out we’re just two middle-aged people. The lovers I pictured us to be, smooth-skinned and firm of flesh, hungrily lunging at each other with joy and confidence, feels impossible to conjure in these anxious seconds as the elevator ascends.
The first time I saw Jack, I looked at him across the desk in New York and I thought, I wonder what it would feel like to have all that energy inside me. Out of nowhere. It made me blush just thinking it. He saw me blushing and he laughed. He knew, I bet he knew. I’d never experienced anything like that before. I’d barely known the man for forty minutes and my body was already over-riding my conscience or any other qualms. I think it’s the only time in my life I was ever felled by desire – I mean brought to my knees by it. I like to think I’m a level-headed creature, but Jack spoke directly to my body, which gave its permission without consulting the rational centre in the brain, the one generally charged with captaining the ship. ‘O Captain! My Captain!’
We are at the door to his room now and Jack is swiping the key card, trying to get the little light to turn green and let us in. Not working. He tries again. Rubs the card on his coat sleeve. Again. No green light. Amiably, while holding onto me, Jack kicks the door, then, with some ferocity now, he kicks it again.
He kisses the top of my head and takes my face in his hands. ‘Here’s the thing. If I go downstairs to the front desk to get another damn key card, you won’t be here when I get back, will you?’
‘I will. Of course I will.’
‘No, you won’t. I know you, Katharine, you’ll think it’s a sign.’
‘Maybe it is a sign, Jack.’
‘It’s not a goddamn sign. I’m telling you. The card doesn’t work. The forces of the Universe are not arranged against us. It’s a dumb piece of plastic, not an Old Testament God trying to tell us not to make love.’
After another kiss, he leaves me, sprints the length of the corridor to the lift, turning back impishly for half a second to wink at me, and goes to get a replacement key. I turn and walk the other way.
It is a sign.
Jack to Kate
‘Had we but world enough and time, this coyness, Lady, were no crime.’ I was left in the hotel room with two champagne glasses and a huge anti-climax. Where did you go? Let me guess. Urgent meeting with the part of you which thinks you have to keep doing everything for everyone and not one damn thing for yourself? Climb down off that burning stake, Joan, and give a guy a break. J XXO
For the first time since we met, Jack sounded angry or at least highly pissed off. I didn’t blame him. When he turned up at the office party, I could not have been more excited. Wild again, a child again. As we walked towards Old Street looking for a cab, our combined breath making speech balloons in the frozen air, I was drunk on happiness. But once we were at the hotel, all the doubts started elbowing their way to the front of the queue. I was too old, too encumbered, too beholden, too otherwise engaged. I had responsibilities, promises to keep, a dog to walk. Morality aside, I didn’t feel I could subject this handsome apparition to my bikini-unready body. I needed a few weeks’ lead time for tummy, legs and deforestation down below; I knew enough about recent trends in pubic hair to guess that Jack hadn’t seen a retro Eighties bush since, well, the Eighties. The front I was putting on, supported by corsetry and the D&G dress, was just that, a lovely facade. I wasn’t ready to let Jack backstage.
Kate to Jack
I’m so sorry. Please don’t be angry. I’m all over the place. I’ve got so much stuff going on with the family at the moment. And I don’t know who I am. Please know that I wanted you then, wanted you from the first moment we met, and can’t imagine ever not wanting you. K xxx
CHRISTMAS EVE
10 am: ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men.’ So sings the heavenly host, which means a company of angels, by the way, not a chiselled chap in a velvet jacket clasping a bottle of fizz. Although I could do with a heavenly host right now in this kitchen, not a grumpy husband in Lycra. Notice that there is no mention of goodwill toward women. Funny, that. I guess we are far too busy dealing with those bracing gusts of ill will caused by every single family member nicking our personal stash of Sellotape, so there is none to be found when we sit down to wrap the presents. Then there are the multiple calls – oh joy! – on our limited time. Such as carrying Nigella’s turkey in brine, slopping around in a large bucket, into the back garden. At this time of year it’s ‘fine’ to leave the soaking turkey in a cold place, according to the recipe. Check! If you put it in the garden, though, make sure the turkey is securely covered to protect it from ‘foxy foraging’. Double check! I’m not taking any chances with twelve people for lunch.
With more swaddling than the baby Jesus and a baking tray and cast-iron casserole dish to weigh it down, Nigella’s turkey sits in its bucket on the garden table, so I can observe through the kitchen window. It gives me immense satisfaction, feeling I have not only got ahead of the game, but that I will be
serving to my in-laws a bird far superior to anything yet produced by my sister-in-law. Ah, Cheryl, who combines the culinary expertise of Escoffier with the social skills of Tyrannosaurus Rex.
Cheryl is married to Peter, Richard’s accountant brother, and they have three perfect sons. Somewhere along the way, I have lost track of my nephews’ accomplishments and awards, but, luckily, Cheryl always keeps us up to date via her helpful summary in the family’s hand-printed Christmas card. The first two boys all got ten A*s apiece in their GCSEs, plus Grade 8 Suzuki sodding harp or lyre or something – I think that was Edwin. Barnaby soon joined him in the National Youth Orchestra, the youngest non-Asian child to be admitted, which is simply amazing, really, as Cheryl will be sure to mention while she flicks through Ben’s Grade 3 piano book with rapturous condescension.
‘Oh, look, Barney! Ben’s doing that adorable little Scottish jig you played when you were in kindergarten.’ You get the general idea.
Edwin is now at Harvard – ‘Oxford’s not what it used to be, is it?’ – and is sure to find a cure for cancer if only they can give him time off from the Olympic rowing squad. He won’t be joining us for Christmas. Probably on a space mission. All of that I can just about take without hospitalisation, but Cheryl’s kids – wait for it – put on a coat to go outside. Without being asked. I mean, how is it possible to train a boy to do that? I’ve never managed. Ben’s idea of wrapping up warm is, with extreme bad grace and muttered obscenities, to pull on one hoodie over another hoodie. Privately, I think our children are better looking than Cheryl’s – hideously shallow of me, I know, but I need something to cling on to.
11.15 am: ‘Kate, are you sure about that turkey in brine business?’ asks Richard.
My mum and her dog, the doubly incontinent Dickie, have already arrived; Debra is in front of the telly with a tumbler of Baileys watching Love, Actually; the rest of them are about to turn up, and I’m making sure there are enough clean napkins and cutlery to go around.
‘Obviously, I’m sure about it, Rich,’ I reply. OK, I don’t reply. I snap. Apart from the revolting Tofurky suggestion, this is the first interest he has expressed in the food provision for his entire family (three meals a day over the next four days!), and it sounds like a criticism, when, quite frankly, abject gratitude on bended knee with a rose between his teeth is what’s called for.
‘Nigella’s turkey,’ I say stiffly, ‘is marinading in the bucket in the garden with oranges and cinnamon sticks, which will make it incredibly tender and easy to carve. Emily, will you put that phone down and help me, please? I need you to iron the napkins.’
‘Iron the napkins?’ repeats Emily. She sounds like Lady Bracknell pronouncing ‘Hannnddbag’. ‘Literally no one irons napkins, Mum. It’s not like Downton Abbey. It’s a family Christmas. Just chill, OK?’
‘It’s easy for you to tell me to chill, young lady, when you have done absolutely nothing towards Christmas. Will we be getting dressed today at all?’
‘Let me iron the napkins, Kath, love,’ says my mum, who is always quick to deflect my wrath from her beloved granddaughter. She’d have told me to get off my backside and be quick about it if I’d been as idle as Emily is at the age of sixteen, but Mum has mellowed over the years and is now all fond indulgence. For some reason, I find this maddening to the point of homicide. Oh, and you’re not allowed to say a kid is lazy or idle any more, even when they are idle and lazy; they are ‘lacking in motivation’.
‘Mum, can you let Dickie out, please? He’s done a wee over by the fridge.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that was Dickie, love. Probably Lenny. He never does that at home, do you, Dickie? Let’s go in the garden, there’s a good boy.’
As my mother and her peeing pooch go out, Rich looks up from the kitchen floor, where he is in patient negotiations with the primeval Aga. ‘Why can’t we use paper napkins?’ he asks.
Oof! Why do men do that? I mean, surely they know they’re treading on thin ice – they can hear the groans as the frozen water stirs and cracks beneath their feet – yet still they plough on, taking no heed of the ‘Beware, Back Off!’ neon sign flashing above their spouse’s head.
I give it to him straight. ‘We can’t use paper napkins, darling, because, since we were married, your mother has regarded me as the kind of slattern who grew up in a home so common we probably used the word serviette. Which we did, as it happens. And Cheryl makes her own stollen and wreath and probably offers oral sex to Santa Claus to bring her Monica Vinader earrings. So that is why we will be using linen napkins at Christmas dinner. Standards will be maintained. Next question.’
Stressed? No, I’m fine, really. Much better since Dr Libido gave me the HRT. It’s as if I was a churning sea and the hormones have calmed me. I even think my memory may be a little better. (‘Roy, do you think we’re remembering better?’)
Since the kids are both in the kitchen scarfing the sausage rolls I was saving for Boxing Day, I pick the moment to tell them that we will be having a technology break (sounds better than ban) over the next couple of days. No texting, no Facebook, no Internet access. If I’d informed them I was going to chop off a limb each and boil them with the ham and cloves, it could not have gone down worse.
‘You must be kidding,’ says Ben, in the middle of unplugging one set of headphones from his ears and replacing them with a second set, hanging round his neck.
‘Mum, you’re like such a hypocrite,’ says a scowling Emily. ‘You check your phone the whole time.’
‘I do not!’ She’s right. I do. I’m addicted to Jack’s texts, feel frantic if there’s too big a gap before another one lands. Scared after what happened – or what didn’t happen – that he’ll give up on me for good.
‘Look, you two, I’m perfectly serious. I think it will be really nice if we can all focus on our family for a few days. The people you are physically with deserve priority over those you are not with. I don’t want phones at the table. You don’t get to see your grandparents very often. And if we can please watch the same thing on TV together rather than us all living in these parallel worlds when we’re in the same room?’
Ding! Without thinking I check my phone and the kids burst out laughing. Text from Jack. Stab the button to make his beloved name vanish. I can’t cope with two worlds colliding, not today.
Jack is spending Christmas with friends in the South of France. Even though I deserted him at the hotel, he turned up at the office two days later, just as I was leaving for the holiday, carrying a large present. ‘It’s not for you,’ he said when I protested. I opened it and it was a PlayStation 4. Clearly, in my intoxicated (by man not alcohol) state I’d mentioned I couldn’t get one for Ben, and Jack had called in a favour. ‘I thought you’d probably like this for Christmas more than anything else I could get you.’
You’d swear the man was trying to make me love him or something.
‘Emily, where are you going, darling?’
‘Out.’
‘I can see you’re going out, but Grandma and Grandpa and Auntie Cheryl and Uncle Peter will be here soon. When will you be back?’
‘Late,’ she says, pulling on my sheepskin coat.
‘You can’t be out late, darling.’
‘Everyone’s out late. S’Christmas.’
‘Surely people are spending time with their families?’ I say carefully. Trying to avoid a major explosion here. Still tiptoeing through a minefield with my daughter. Need to present scene of harmony and festive good cheer when the Northern contingent arrives, rather than Emily screaming and swearing.
‘I’ve still got some bits to wrap for the cousins. Can you help me, love, please? You’re our best wrapper.’
‘Donwanna.’ She’s standing by the back door, her arms folded as though she were hugging herself tight. Looks oddly vulnerable for someone who wants to go and do some intense Christmas socialising.
‘You don’t want to? OK, so if I give you a list can you pick up a couple of bits in town for me and buy some
thing for Grandma Barbara? You know she’s very forgetful at the moment, so maybe some perfume or talc that she might recognise. She loves flowery scents. Or sweets. Turkish delight, something soft that’s not too hard to chew?’
‘’Kay,’ says Emily, visibly relaxing now that I’ve said she can escape.
‘I’ll just get my purse, darling.’
As I turn to fetch the money, Em opens the back door and standing outside is a woman I don’t recognise. I say woman, but she’s more like a large child. Maybe one of Santa’s elves fallen off the sled. Wavy, shoulder-length auburn hair, pointy nose, and freckles. She’s wearing pixie boots, a brown beret and a brown-needlecord pinafore dress over a floral T-shirt. Presumably the winner of our local Pippi Longstocking lookalike competition. May well live in the sky.
‘Hello, I’m really sorry to bother you on Christmas Eve. Is Richard in?’ the elf asks in a squeaky voice. Mellifluous Scottish accent. Although she is standing perfectly still, I get the distinct impression that her favourite form of movement is skipping.
‘Um, he was here, but he’s just popped out to get some logs, I think. Can I help?’
‘It’s Joely,’ the elf says. ‘I work with Richard.’
Double-take. This is Joely, stout purveyor of disgusting teas and menopausal advice?
‘Oh yes, of course! Joely. Joely. Yes, hello. From the counselling centre. Rich has talked a lot about you. Come in, please do come in and wait.’
Joely looks as reluctant to come through the door as Emily is eager to get out. Both the same build and height, they stand there blocking the threshold, neither able to move on account of the other.
‘Emily, this is Joely, Daddy’s colleague at, um work.’ I’m struggling to reconcile this sprite with the woman Richard has mentioned. Judging by the look on my daughter’s face, Emily isn’t that impressed either. I try again. ‘So, Joely does yoga and meditation, and lots of healthy things. Joely, this is Emily, our daughter, and I’m Kate. Please, won’t you come in. It’s cold. Rich should be back any minute.’
How Hard Can It Be? Page 32