How Hard Can It Be?

by Allison Pearson

  ‘And your point?’

  ‘My point is that, were you in the US, say, your involvement in these kinds of charitable works would not be a sideline to your investment activity. They would be part and parcel of it. Your giving would not be some secret. It would be a way of signalling, not just to the financial community but far beyond, that you are a major player. Britain punches well above its weight in many respects, but it has consistently punched below its weight in philanthropic terms. We pride ourselves on a wealth of good deeds and voluntary work at the micro level, I’m sure you see that in every village round here, but we’ve never been good at the larger picture. The tradition is there, but it’s been patchy; you have to look back to the great industrialists of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries to see it in action. The wonderful libraries, museums, the concert halls. Many of the visionary philanthropists were from this part of the world, too, not from those softies down South. Now, they really are mean bastards.’

  A small intake of breath from Alice. A chunky grin from Palfreyman.

  ‘So, what you’re saying is …’

  ‘What I’m saying is, restart the damn thing. The tradition. Make a splash. Set a trend. Make other wealthy families think, “bloody hell, those Palfreymans are doing all right. Brand new concert hall (named for Kathleen Ferrier perhaps), just went up in Leeds with the Palfreyman name on the foundation stone. Why aren’t I doing something like that?”’

  ‘Kathleen Ferrier? Me mum’s favourite,’ says Sir Geoffrey.

  ‘Mine too. I grew up on “Blow the Wind Southerly”. Mum heard her perform in Leeds.’

  ‘My mother too! Could have been at the same concert, couldn’t they? Still live round this way, does she?’

  ‘She does. Twenty miles thataway.’ I gesture out across the lake. ‘So putting something back into the cultural life of the area that made you. And all the while you can be sure, completely sure, that your investments, the funds that will power that kind of enterprise, are performing as strongly and as securely as possible in our hands.’

  ‘Down among the softies.’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘Why not come back this way if you’re so keen on the place?’

  I look at him. Tell the truth for once.

  ‘I’ve got to get the kids through school and university. Pay for that lot first. Husband just left me, so need to get things back on track. Houses are definitely a lot better value up here. I’ll take the train next time, mind. That helicopter was not my cup of tea, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘Bit rough, was it? First time?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘So why take it?’

  ‘Urgent case. Needed to see you very badly.’

  ‘Don’t let Jeannie hear you saying that.’ He pauses, then walks over to a cabinet. ‘Let’s have a fookin’ drink. Settle your stomach. Bit late for Mr Petal over there, he’s a lost cause, but you girls could do with one.’

  And so we stand, two minutes later, all four of us, each with a glass of whisky in our hand. Nothing else was on offer. Beside me, Gareth wavers like a reed in the wind.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers. A toast. Here’s to EM Royal,’ Sir Geoffrey says, ‘and, while we’re on the subject, Her Majesty the Queen.’

  ‘The Queen,’ I say loudly and fervently, and drain the contents of my glass. It’s like being bitten awake. ‘Um, forgive me, Sir Geoffrey, do I take that to mean …’

  ‘It means that you’ve changed my fookin’ mind, lass, something that last happened to me on a racecourse around twenty-five years ago. Pal of mine told me to back a different horse to the one I fancied.’

  ‘And did his choice win?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it did. Maid of Honour, 11 to 4. I made two hundred quid that day.’

  ‘I like to think we can offer you better returns than that.’

  ‘I bloody well hope so. Anyway, I’ve said I’ll stay now, and I’ll stay. Man of my word. Cheers. But I want you on the case, mind, not that daft ginger apeth.’

  ‘Of course,’ Alice and I say together. Gareth slips from the room, presumably to call London and give them the good news. Or else to regurgitate his Scotch.

  Sir Geoffrey is back in front of his fire now. He looks me in the eye, unmoving, his own eye as hard as flint, and says: ‘I’m a soppy old bugger, you know. I can’t say no to a Kate.’

  Too fookin’ right.

  6.01 pm: On the flight back with an excited Alice – Gareth decided to stay over in York and get the train in the morning – when a text arrives from Emily. ‘Mum, is it OK if Luke comes for dinner? Don’t get your hopes up he’s not like a real boyfriend just someone I’m seeing. Please don’t be embarrassing, OK? Love you xxx’

  Kate to Emily

  How could I possibly embarrass you, darling? Love you too xx

  I dozed off for a few minutes. Utterly sapped after giving everything I’d got to win Sir Geoffrey round. When I wake, I see Alice has used her pashmina as a pillow for my head.

  ‘No wonder you’re tired,’ she says.

  ‘Good tired, though,’ I say. ‘The best kind of tired.’

  We’re about to land when my phone rings. A number I don’t recognise. ‘Alice, can you call our driver, I’d better get this.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Reddy?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Hello, this is just a courtesy call to alert you to a high level of spending on your Viva card and five missed payments. We’re sure you are aware of this, but we wanted to bring it to your attention.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We take five missed payments very seriously.’

  ‘I haven’t missed any payments.’

  ‘The spending is on Play Again. Multiple repeat purchases.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We have notified you by post.’

  ‘I haven’t opened my post.’ Who has time to open their post?

  ‘The outstanding amount is six hundred and ninety-eight pounds. We ask you to settle this immediately as there is no direct debit set up.’

  If you rack your brain too much, does it actually seize up? I’m trying to think, but my head feels like an abandoned building. (‘Roy? Roy, help me here!’)

  ‘Mrs Reddy?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, still here. Yes, obviously, this is unacceptable, shouldn’t be happening, and I will make steps, sorry, take steps to ensure that it, it … it stops happening.’

  Lucky I’m not giving a presentation to Sir Geoffrey. I sound like I’m translating from Martian.

  ‘We wanted to alert you, in case there is any suspicion of fraud, in which case we would advise you to put an immediate stop to these payments.’

  ‘Ben. Roy thinks it could be Ben.’

  ‘Excuse me, Roy who?’

  ‘Sorry, Roy is my … my assistant.’

  Funny look from Alice.

  ‘Sorry, I think I may have tracked down the problem. Let me deal with it right away. Goodbye.’

  Benjamin! Bloody hell. No wonder my credit rating is so crap. Looks like Ben has used my card and registered it to his bloody Play Again game. Roy did try to warn me. Which is greater, shock of unpleasant revelation or sheer amazement at the maths? Probably the latter. The equation, by my calculation, goes as follows: If X spends Y hours playing Zombie Road Rage or whatever on his phone, then the number of undead being splattered across the tarmac, multiplied by pi, will equal the number of man hours, or woman hours, that X’s mum – call her K – will need to work, in addition to her regular employment, in order to pay for X’s fun.

  The joke being that Ben would find all of this perfectly reasonable. I should be calling him, right now, to sort out this mess and shout him into some kind of shame, only 1) I haven’t got the strength at the end of today of all days, 2) By comparison with the belfie this is quite a modest abuse by my family of technology, and 3) Ben never answers his phone. Because, of course, actually speaking to another human is the one thing that teenagers refuse to do, despite having a pho
ne practically grafted onto their palms. Also, because he’s much too busy playing Zombie Road Rage or FIFA or Bubonic Babies to talk.

  Kate to Ben

  Hi darling, we need to talk about the bill for all these extras for your games? I don’t have direct debit set up on that card and you nearly got me arrested. x

  Ben to Kate

  Soz lol xx

  Talk about Helicopter Parenting.

  26

  GUILTY SECRET

  3 am: When did I decide? About what I had to do? It took me a while but it was no coincidence, I feel, that a female friend showed me the path. Emily was sleeping soundly in the bed beside me, in what I still thought of as Richard’s place, although dear Joely was welcome to the Hog Symphony. Em had taken all of the duvet, naturally, when I found my eyes open at 3 am, the hour when mothers wake and wonder if their children are happy. For once, it wasn’t Perry and the bloody menopause. Thanks to Dr Libido and daily hormones, the night sweats had ceased and the vast mental weariness had lifted. If I was not quite my old self, then at least the new one no longer feared the future. My phone lit up in the dark and there was an email, so I read it.

  From: Sally Carter

  To: Kate Reddy

  Subject: Guilty Secret

  Dear Kate, I’ve been wanting to write to you for some time, since we had that talk before Christmas, in fact, when you tried to tell me about your feelings for that American guy. I know you were looking for some response, even support, from me, and I know I disappointed you, let you down badly, when I didn’t say anything. I wanted to, very much so, but I found it impossible for reasons I couldn’t bring myself to explain to you then. But I would like to try now as, clearly, after separating from Richard, you are wrestling with some big choices about your own future. You said that it’s the kids that matter now, they are your priority, but it matters that their mother is happy too.

  Do you remember I showed you those photos of me in Lebanon? You said I looked like an insanely happy Audrey Hepburn? Well, you were right. I WAS insanely happy. The man behind the camera was called Antonio Fernandez; he was my colleague but, more than that, he was my lover. The bank assigned him to me as a sort of colleague/chaperone when they sent me to the Middle East and we were both annoyed at first – me because I didn’t need looking after by some haughty Spaniard and him because he thought trailing around after some Englishwoman was beneath him. Looking back, I suppose we were like those couples who get thrown together in a screwball comedy and come to love each other, despite everything. That was us.

  We were both married. I had Mike and the two boys, who were three and one then. Antonio had a relatively new wife and no children. Neither of us was looking for anyone else and I was horrified to find myself becoming hugely drawn to this wonderful, magnetic man. Both on a professional and a personal level, the whole thing was impossible. I loved my family and I would never have done anything to hurt them. But Antonio knocked all that certainty away. Morality, loyalty, none of it meant anything compared to the overwhelming desire I felt for him.

  Even thinking about Antonio now – his eyes, his body, his playfulness, the way he said my name – sends an electrical current through me.

  We were together for almost five years, blissfully happy, enchanted times before we had to return permanently to our respective homes. In 1991, the bank gave Antonio a very senior job in Madrid and summoned me back to London. We talked about making a life together. He said he would give everything up and move to England permanently so I could take care of Will and Oscar and we would be a family. He made it sound so plausible but, whenever I was away from him, I would lose confidence. All I could think of was the mayhem that separating from Mike would unleash – my mother would never have forgiven me – and how I couldn’t be that selfish. I was brought up a Catholic and divorce was shameful, an abomination.

  I knew what it would cost me to give Antonio up – well, I thought I did – but I felt it was better for me to bear that sorrow alone than to inflict it on my innocent children and the good man I had married.

  A couple of months after I saw Antonio for the last time, in Beirut, I noticed that my periods had stopped, but I put it down to the shock of losing him. I was a zombie, just moving through my tasks, feeding the boys, putting them to bed, but secretly terribly depressed. By the time I realised what had happened I was already five months pregnant. Too late to have an abortion, even if I’d wanted one, which I didn’t.

  I told myself that maybe the baby was Mike’s, but really I think I knew. When she was born, she had this skullcap of dark hair and amazing coal-black eyes. There was no doubt whose she was. I joked a lot about having gypsies in the family – true, on my dad’s side, way back – and it was good she was a girl so the fact she looked nothing like the two boys wasn’t as stark.

  I called her Antonia for him. It was the one thing I allowed myself. He would never know about her because I convinced myself that was unfair; it might damage Antonio’s life with his wife, and any children they had, so it was better I didn’t tell him. Mike would love her as his own, and so she would have a fantastic father, which he absolutely has been in every possible way.

  Does Mike suspect? I think he both knows and doesn’t know. Antonia is so different from the boys, brilliant at languages and she was instinctively drawn to Spanish, which was wonderful but also made me very sad. Perhaps it’s possible to not know what it suits us not to know?

  You’re the first person I’ve told my secret to, although I wanted to tell my dad when he was dying, but I didn’t dare.

  I’m telling you now because I’d like to say that it’s OK if you stay put with what you’ve got so you don’t upset the apple cart and you ignore the call of the great love and the passion. You tell yourself those things are passing illusions and other things are more important. But that would be a lie. For me at any rate. I have had a good and blessed life, Kate, but I have missed Antonio every single day for twenty-four years and to see him in the face and being of my beautiful daughter is both my greatest pleasure and the purest agony.

  I sometimes wonder if Antonia’s panic attacks and depression are linked to my deception. Whether she has a sense of something missing. If I should tell her the truth or not. Another thing I torture myself with!

  I saw that you noticed something on New Year’s Eve, when you met her and said she was like Penélope Cruz. You are so acute, Kate, just one of the reasons I feel grateful to call you my friend.

  It’s much too late for me but, as your friend, I want to tell you that I chose wrong all those years ago. Which poet was it who wrote about choosing wrong? If I had my time over, I would make the leap and choose life and love, not duty and convention. Only you can decide what’s right for you, of course, but I want you to know that you will have my full support if you do make a life with Jack. It is Jack, isn’t it?

  I do hope this isn’t too shocking and it doesn’t upset you. I’ve been crying as I type so it may be a bit confused! It felt important that I should tell you.

  Sending you all my love.

  Sally x

  27

  11TH MARCH

  The Day of Invisibility

  Time. It all comes down to time in the end. The young they want to get older, the old they want to get younger. Somewhere in the middle, at the halfway mark, here I am, Janus-like, facing forwards while looking back. Janus, the god of gateways and goodbyes, transitions and new beginnings.

  Funny thing is I never worried about getting older. Not really. Youth had not been so kind to me that I minded the loss of it. I thought women who lied about their age were shallow and deluded, but then I went and bloody well joined them, didn’t I? It had to be done if I wanted a job. No alternative. Women my age are past it, don’t you know that? It’s a sad fact but women, women like me, that is, we’re starting to get the diseases of men; the coronaries, the strokes, the stomach cancer. But men aren’t getting the diseases of women. We turned ourselves into men to succeed in a world designed by them
for them, but they never learned to be us, and maybe they never will.

  This is strength, not weakness. I know that now. You know a lot when you’ve lived for as long as I have.

  Was there a round of applause when I got back to the office, having saved the day with Geoffrey Palfreyman? There was. And so there bloody well should have been, frankly. I didn’t succeed despite being almost fifty; I succeeded because I had five decades of living under my belt, of bitter experience, of hard graft, of riding the rapids of family life, in sickness and in health. You can’t fake that.

  By one extra stroke of good fortune, the chairman happened to be in that day and was told of my remarkable feats up North. ‘Kate can stay until she’s a hundred as far as I’m concerned, if she goes on pulling off deals like that. Look at me,’ Harvey hrumped, ‘I own this bloody outfit and I get up to pee four times a night.’

  What happened next? Oh, yes, my birthday. I almost forgot. Sally and I had agreed that we would walk the dogs on the day itself. Spend it quietly. No fuss. I wanted it to pass as painlessly as possible. Just our usual, then dinner later with the kids. Emily had drawn up a menu of all my favourite dishes and shopped for the ingredients. Ben said he would buy After Eights, part of the repayment plan for his gaming debts.

  11.35 am: The view from the top of our hill is particularly glorious today. Spring is quickening – I love that the first tremor you get of a baby in the womb is called quickening – and it feels as if all the plants and creatures know their time has come again. The hawthorn is in blossom and, everywhere you look, the hedgerows are Nature’s bridal bouquets. ‘No, they’re blackthorn,’ Sally says, bending to peel a sticky bud off Coco’s nose. ‘Blackthorn’s always first, then hawthorn comes after.’

  ‘What would I do without you, David Attenborough?’

  ‘I do have my uses, you know.’ She takes my arm as, for the first time, we select the wide, mown path down the centre of the hill. I have only known her for six months or so, but already Sal has become one of those invaluable people who pick up the baton when our mother’s nurturing powers are waning, and create a new kind of family. I thank Sally for her email. Tell her I have never received a better one in my life, but that I can’t follow my heart as she suggested. ‘With everything that’s happened, Sal, I just can’t. And Jack’s not even around any more.’