Young Wives' Tales

by Adele Parks

  Young Wives’Tales

  By the same author

  Playing Away

  Game Over

  Larger Than Life

  The Other Woman’s Shoes

  Still Thinking of You

  Husbands

  Young Wives’Tales

  ADELE PARKS

  MICHAEL JOSEPH

  an imprint of

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  MICHAEL JOSEPH

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published 2007

  1

  Copyright © Adele Parks, 2007

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book

  EISBN: 978–0–141–90072–8

  For Jim

  1

  Monday 4 September

  Rose

  I close the door with a little too much force; the slam reverberates throughout the house. In the instant that the bang disappears I notice the emptiness. A void. Silence. I consider shouting ‘Hello’but I know there is no one to answer. The blankness shouldn’t be a surprise. This is the third September I have returned to an empty home after a long summer break and noticed the all-consuming silence. The calm is partly a relief, partly heartbreaking. This year the hush is particularly distressing because I did not have to cajole, bribe, beg or threaten my boys to get them to surrender their vice-like grips at the school gate. This year, Sebastian ran into the playground without so much as a backward glance, let alone a kiss goodbye, and even Henry (normally the most openly affectionate twin) was only prepared to wave at me. From a distance.

  Haven’t I done a marvellous job? Excellent. Wonderful. I should be congratulated. I have produced confident, independent and secure boys. Well done me.

  I think I’m going to cry.

  I briefly consider pouring myself a glass of whisky. But dismiss the silly idea because in reality the only spirit in my cupboard is cooking sherry. I could have a glass of wine. I think there’s half a bottle of Chablis in the fridge but I content myself with putting on the kettle. Strong coffee is the more sensible choice and I’m famed for my sensible nature.

  The phone rings; its cheerful tring is a Red Cross parcel. I pick up hastily and gratefully.

  ‘It’s me.’

  Me, in this case, is Connie, one of my best and oldest friends. She sounds tearful and I remember that it’s her eldest daughter’s first day at school.

  ‘How was Fran’s drop-off?’

  ‘OK,’she mutters; she doesn’t sound convinced. ‘She looked amazing. The uniform is so cute. But…’

  ‘But…?’I prompt.

  ‘Is it usual for them to cling to your leg and sob? I couldn’t pry her off; she was like a tiny monkey. She kept begging to come home with Flora and me. She even offered to tidy up her Barbies – that’s unprecedented.’Connie is trying to laugh but I’m not fooled.

  ‘Very usual,’I assure her. ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’

  ‘I want vodka, but I’ll settle for coffee. I’ll be with you in five. I’m just around the corner.’

  If I round up, Connie and I have known each other for nearly twenty years, which is phenomenal and unbelievable. To have known someone that long must mean I’m a fully fledged adult, and digesting that fact requires a mountain of sugar, not a teaspoon. We originally met through my sister, Daisy. Daisy and Connie went to university together; they were very tight. Connie and I have only become particularly friendly in the last five or six years. We both have kids and, sadly, Daisy doesn’t. I’ve found that kids pull you towards women that you would never have considered being friends with if you didn’t have children in common – it’s one of the perks of the job. Besides, Connie was very kind to me when my husband left me for one of our mutual friends.

  The situation was officially ugly.

  Connie was a great pal of Lucy, the mistress, but despite that she’s managed to walk a diplomatic line and remain friends with both of us. Sometimes, I think I should have demanded that Connie take a more moralistic stance. I should have asked her to spurn her old buddy and my deceiving ex but I couldn’t risk it. Friends were thin on the ground at the time and so few people are prepared to see the world in black and white. Extremism isn’t fashionable. Not even extremely nice. People who are extremely nice are mistrusted or taken advantage of. Believe me, I’m talking from experience. So, I make do with knowing that Connie is a great friend to me and I ignore the fact that she’s a great friend to Lucy as well.

  Since Peter left, I’ve battled with every instinct when talking to Connie and somehow I’ve trained myself to make only casual, polite enquiries about Peter and Lucy. I do not allow myself the indulgence of ridiculing or vilifying them, which would embarrass and compromise her. I limit myself to the type of enquiry one makes after an old work colleague two people might have in common – civil, distant, even a little distracted – and I glean the occasional piece of choice information using this covert method.

  Sometimes, in the early days, I couldn’t help myself; little bits of pain or grief would eke out however tightly I tried to guard my feelings – and I’d mention Peter’s name. I might have moaned about him or admitted I missed him. Yet I did this with the absolute certainty that I could trust Connie. She’d never, ever repeat to Lucy anything I say about him. This is a remarkable feat of self-restraint for anyone, but for Connie it’s a breathtaking tribute to our friendship. Connie isn’t discreet and it must kill her to keep mum. I’ve never allowed myself to reveal my true feelings about Lucy at all. The thing is I don’t have the vocab – I don’t like using expletives.

  I don’t worry that Lucy talks about me to Connie. I know that if she does Connie will be loyal and supportive of me, but I can’t imagine the scenario ever arising. I don’t think I’ve ever entered Lucy’s consciousness, not even when she was eating Sunday roast at my house and giving my husband a quick blow-job in our cloakroom before I served up the pudding and coffee. She was always too busy giving literal meaning to the words ‘Let’s take an intercourse break’to think about me. I’m not glamorous enough to rank among her friends and I’m not rich enough to be her client. Therefore, I am beneath her notice.

  True to her word, Connie arrives at my house within moments. I open the door and see that she’s fighting tears.

  ‘There is something worse than them clinging to your leg and begging you not to leave, you know,’I comment.

  Connie plonks Flora, her youngest, on the kitchen floor and sits on
a bar stool; she reaches for the biscuit tin.

  ‘What’s worse?’

  ‘Sebastian and Henry literally skipped away from me this morning. Not so much as a casual endearment flung my way.’

  As I’d hoped, Connie puts aside her own upset and grins sympathetically. ‘I saw them in the playground, they did seem really settled. Running around like crazy. I think it was a good idea to stagger the drop-off on the first day so it wasn’t too overwhelming for the new starters.’

  ‘You mean new parents, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’She smiles, more relaxed now.

  I turn away from Connie and busy myself with making the coffee so I can ask the next question with some dignity. ‘Did you see Peter and Lucy drop Auriol off this morning?’

  Because, here’s the thing. In among the several million crimes against me that my bleep bleep ex-husband has committed, this one possibly takes the prize. He and his hussy mistress – oh, OK then, his wife – have decided to send their child to my school. My school! Well, of course, when I say my school, I mean the boys’school. Hello? Isn’t anything sacrosanct? Well, no, obviously not. With her form I can’t imagine Lucy being squeamish about moving in on my school turf.

  I thought I’d be safe. I never thought Lucy would choose the state school route for her daughter. Peter and Lucy both work in the City and earn shedloads. They could easily afford a posh little school with incredible alumni.

  Sebastian and Henry’s school is gorgeous. It does really well in the league tables and there’s a marvellous playground; it’s almost impossible to get a school with grass in London, yet this one has enormous trees with preservation orders. I’d carefully researched school catchment areas even before I conceived. I insisted Peter and I bought in a particular road to guarantee that we’d get our kids into Holland House. Then several years later, after Lucy had stolen my husband and destroyed my family, the woman had the cheek to announce that she thought it would be nice for Auriol to go to the same school as her big brothers.

  Curse the cow.

  This had to be a calculated move to hurt me. And it did hurt me, which is astounding because I’d thought that I was already dead to pain that she could inflict, slain by a thousand cuts. Their house in Holland Park isn’t even in catchment, but Lucy visited the school and charmed the pants off Mr Walker, the headmaster (and I may mean literally, who knows with that conniving she-devil?). She spun the tale of how it was such a good idea for Sebastian and Henry because they ought to be close to their sister. Cow, bitch, witch. How dare she? As if she cares about the boys’welfare. If she did, then she wouldn’t have slept with my husband, while pretending to be my friend, would she? And Auriol is not their sister. She is a half sister, which is a very important distinction. They have a father in common and nothing more, and what does that mean really? All Peter had to do to earn the title of father was get me up the duff and that simply wasn’t too taxing, whatever he might claim now.

  It’s not like he’s had to mop their tiny bodies with cold flannels to bring down temperatures when they were babies, nor has he once applied calamine lotion to a single chicken-pox spot. He hasn’t ever taken them to the dentist, the doctor or the optician. He hasn’t yet cut nails or hair. He hasn’t packed lunches. He does not do their homework with them. He does not have their friends to his house for tea. He does not sew labels into their uniforms. He does not answer their questions on death or bullies.

  He does play football with them on Sunday mornings, he bought them Game Boy Advance and introduced them to their first love – Sonic – and he does take them on holiday to Cornwall once a year. It’s not that he’s a terrible father, in fact he’s quite a good father; I’m just saying being a father isn’t that tricky, is it? Least not from where I’m standing.

  It’s not that I have anything against little Auriol, either. She’s actually a fairly sweet child, especially considering she’s handicapped with the most evil mother known to the western world since Snow White’s stepmother. But really…the school! Isn’t it enough for the woman that she has my husband and I don’t have a husband at all, mine or anyone else’s? She has silky blonde hair, pert breasts, long legs, lots of cash and more shoes in her wardrobe than Russell & Bromley stock each season. While I have red frizzy hair, breasts that schoolboys would describe as bazookas and fat legs that have so many varicose veins popping and swelling that I look like I’m wearing the tube map. Lucy is a woman comfortable in her skin (although in my opinion she ought to be wearing sackcloth and ashes and beating herself soundly every day). I’m basically a nice enough person who lacks confidence, marked talents and sometimes even a sense of humour. I guess because I can give such a realistic account of us both I understand why my husband left me for her.

  But I did have the school. That was my territory. I am class rep this year. A position I’ve done my time to earn. I always volunteer to take the kids on trips when the teachers need an extra pair of hands. I was solely responsible for the cake stall at the summer fair and for two years in a row I sold more raffle tickets than any other mother for the Christmas tombola. I’m known and liked at Holland House. The school gate is my social life, my haven in times of need and where I get a buzz. That’s important. That’s sacred. It should be untouchable.

  I say none of this. I take a deep breath, turn to Connie with two full cups of coffee and a wide grin and repeat my question. ‘So did you happen to see Peter and Lucy at the gate this morning?’

  ‘No. Eva, the latest nanny, dropped Auriol off.’

  ‘I hope she settles,’I say with a smile.

  I can’t quite meet Connie’s eye so I concentrate on blowing my coffee to cool it off. I do hope the little girl settles. I wouldn’t want any kid to be unsettled. But, on the other hand, if she doesn’t settle they might move her to another school. I wish her well but mostly I wish her well away.

  Connie reaches to squeeze my arm. ‘Are you OK with Auriol coming to Holland House, Rose? It’s not an easy situation.’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine,’I lie.

  ‘I feel a little bit to blame. I always think that Lucy was influenced to move to Holland Park after Luke and I moved to Notting Hill.’

  Connie is a lovely girl but a bit self-centred, and she does hold a general belief that the whole world revolves around her and that everyone’s actions are a result of, or a reaction to, her own. To be fair, she is aware of this trait in herself and, more often than not, fights it.

  ‘Or maybe she just moved here to piss you off,’she adds with a grin.

  ‘Maybe, but she hasn’t. It’s great that the boys are just around the corner from their dad if they ever need him.’

  I lie convincingly now. I used to be hopeless at telling the littlest white fib but all skills can be developed with practice.

  ‘Yes. I guess he can drop in any time,’adds Connie.

  I nod and refrain from pointing out that he never has. Instead, I offer her another biscuit and ask if she managed to buy Fran a book bag. They’ve been hard to get hold of – the school outfitter miscalculated demand.

  ‘Yes, got it. Am I supposed to sew a label on to it or can I just write her name on the flap thing?’

  ‘You need to sew a label on the handle. It should be initial and then surname, in blue. Times New Roman font,’I reply confidently. My feet well and truly on terra firma.

  Connie stays for an hour but I can’t persuade her to stay for lunch. She even resists my offer of home-baked bread and soup.

  ‘Are you sure? It’s organic. Over six different vegetables in it. I made a huge batch for the boys, too huge as it turned out. We didn’t manage to eat it all.’

  ‘Rose, you put me to shame. Fran and Flora never get to eat like that. My idea of a healthy meal is a bowl of pasta and some frozen peas,’she says. ‘Can we come round for our tea one day this week so that they get a few veggies and something organic inside them?’

  I laugh and we agree to have tea together on Thursday. I assume and hope Connie is exaggerating
her lack of skills in the kitchen. It’s true that historically cooking has not been one of her talents, but surely she knows that she has a responsibility to the children now. Hasn’t every mum converted to organic produce? I start to tell her how simple it is to make soup, but I don’t even get as far as explaining the most efficient way to prepare and freeze stock when I see her eyes glaze over.

  ‘You know, I always just buy the cubes,’she comments, as she hugs me goodbye and makes for the door.

  I remember the day when there was nothing easier on this earth than persuading Connie to waste time. She was the undisputed queen of sloth. Of course, that was when she was pretending to be a management consultant. Now she is a photographer and runs her own business. As yet her photography business isn’t making her millions but it’s clear that the job satisfaction she gets from her work is priceless. At least she no longer resents her husband for enjoying his work as an architect.

  After Connie leaves I wash the breakfast pots and then clean the house from top to bottom. I congratulate myself as I manage to dust on top of wardrobes and vacuum under the beds. I spend over two hours tidying the boys’bedroom. It is extraordinary how time flies when you’re sorting Lego bricks into different colours and sizes. I do a basket of ironing and put on two loads of washing. One is drying at the moment. I’ll iron that tonight while I’m watching TV. I make a ham quiche and peel the vegetables for tea.

  At 3.15 p.m. I put on a dab of lipgloss and set off to school. I feel a bit guilty. I should have made more of an effort with my appearance. Some of the mums always arrive at the school gate with full make-up and the latest high-street must-haves. But, then again, they have men over four feet tall to make an effort for. I can’t imagine Sebastian or Henry noticing whether I’m wearing the latest fashion statement or an old favourite peach M & S T-shirt; one that’s been comfortable in my wardrobe for a decade. I’m more of a slummy mummy than a yummy mummy.