Young Wives' Tales

by Adele Parks

  Frankly, Mick is overshooting by flirting with me. He’s overrated as the office Lothario, particularly by himself. OK, he is rich enough, good-looking enough and bright enough. This means he simply wouldn’t ever have been enough of a man for me to date. I always specified that at least one of these attributes was rated ‘exceptional’. Not that there’s even the question of my dating now. I’m married. I have Peter. I spent a long time wanting Peter and waiting for Peter.

  Peculiar then that my La Perla scanties are fluttering. I send Peter a messenger note, which is safer and more immediate than e-mail.

  Sex God,

  My La Perla scanties are fluttering thinking of you. Don’t be late home tonight.

  Kitten

  Well, my knickers are jumping – it’s just a little white lie. I do not believe that honesty is always the best policy. Seconds later he replies.

  Kitten,

  Sadly, I think I do have to work late tonight. Did you manage to call a plumber about that leaky tap in the cloakroom?

  For a moment I wonder if I’m missing something coded. Can a leaky tap have a cheeky connotation of which I am ignorant? But sadly, it’s not coded; we do need a plumber. I reach for the phone and call my PA to instruct her to deal with this. She waves to me from her desk, which is opposite mine. I note this as the criticism she intended but I’m unmoved. I don’t do friendly. Fraternizing with the staff simply confuses things.

  It is some relief that the markets are buoyant today and I have to concentrate quite hard so as not to make any mistakes. I do concentrate and I don’t make any mistakes, but I do make quite a few killings and I feel somewhat brilliant by the time I close down my computer at the end of the day.

  Mick drifts by my desk and asks if I want to join him and some of the other guys for a well-deserved drink. I meet his eyes and search for the spark of chemistry that I felt this morning. Nothing. No flutters or shudders. He does look cute with a six-o’clock shadow but he’s once again retired back to his appropriate box, the one labelled ‘colleague’. What a relief.

  ‘Thanks for the offer, Mick, but I think I might have an early night tonight. I have a big presentation to a pissed-off client tomorrow.’

  ‘Unlike you to upset clients, Lucy.’

  ‘I didn’t. I’ve inherited this mess.’

  ‘Who from?’

  I check my notes. ‘Joe Whitehead. Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a tosser. He’s just joined our team, although I have no idea how he got a job here.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s the Chairman’s godson,’I suggest.

  ‘Maybe. I’m struggling to find an alternative explanation. He’s rather stupid and the most dangerous sort of stupid because he thinks he’s a genius.’

  ‘Obviously the client is expecting full-on suck-up. I’m going home now but I want to run through the figures again later on tonight.’

  ‘Fair enough, see you in the morning, Princess.’

  His easy acceptance of my rejection of his offer of a drink underlines the fact that Mick has no serious intentions on me. This morning’s mild flirtation may not even have registered on his radar. I’m a married mother and a colleague – there are less complicated fish for him to fry. Mick likes his sex to be hot, frequent and self-contained.

  The disappointment stings me deep in my gut. How can that be? I don’t even want him. Why do I want him to want me? How very ordinary of me.

  I get home in time for Auriol’s bath but don’t interfere as Eva has already drawn it; I don’t want to upset their routine. I pour myself a gin and tonic and go to my bedroom where I lie on my bed. I can’t be bothered to fire up my laptop just yet, so I pick up Vogue and carelessly flick through the pages.

  The magazine is a long-term favourite of mine. I’ve subscribed to it since I was a fresher. As usual, the magazine is crammed with picture after picture of breathtakingly beautiful girls. I jot down the details of a new lingerie brand that is just being noticed and the address of a perfume store that an A-list actress has opened in Covent Garden.

  Auriol bursts into my bedroom armed with her teddy and a book. It’s remarkable to me that whenever she bursts into my consciousness I am freshly aware of her brilliance, vibrancy and beauty. It takes my breath away every time. It’s not that I forget how gorgeous she is in between times, it’s just that one’s own child is exquisite beyond memory. She rather reminds me of some of the models on the Vogue pages. She’s probably closer to their age than I am. This thought is brutal.

  I read two chapters of Alice Through the Looking Glass to Auriol. The illustrations are delightful and, for once, she doesn’t keep interrupting me with ridiculous questions about unrelated subjects, like ‘What’s your favourite colour, Mummy?’or ‘Did you have a pet when you were a little girl?’

  I bundle her off to bed as soon as possible. When her light is off I realize I’ve forgotten to ask her how school is going. Still, she’d tell me if she had any issues, wouldn’t she?

  Instead of supper I take six different vitamins and drink a glass of green wheatgrass tea. It tastes foul but my homeopathic nutritionalist swears by it. Then I dash back upstairs, flop on to my bed, and turn my attention to the suck-up presentation.

  What’s needed is a mix between show-and-tell and hand-holding. It will be a doddle. After a while, I check the clock. It’s nine thirty. Peter is not home. I consider calling him to ask when he will be back. It might be worth staying awake. But then, it might not.

  I fight a yawn. I used to have so much energy, so much buzz. I was known for surviving on four or five hours of sleep per night. I used to say you can sleep when you are dead, and I still believe that. I do…

  I can hear my mobile screeching somewhere near my ear. Disorientated, my first thought is that I’ve fallen asleep at my desk. I fight through the fog of deep slumber and as I pick up the phone I remember that I’m not at the office but at home in my bedroom. It’s probably Peter telling me he’s on his way back.

  ‘Peter!’My expression is a subtle mix of delight and frustration. I want him to know that I’m pleased to hear from him but I don’t want to let him off the hook too easily for being late home. I perfected this tone when I was his mistress and spent countless evenings waiting for him to call.

  ‘Sorry, Princess. It’s not your husband – it’s the man of your dreams.’

  ‘Nightmares you mean, Mick.’I whip my response back at him. Quite a feat, as I’m barely conscious. It doesn’t do to let colleagues push their noses into one’s home life. On that subject, what is Mick doing calling me at – I struggle to see my watch; the room’s pitch black – at 10.30 p.m.?

  ‘How are the numbers?’he asks.

  ‘They add up,’I reply coolly.

  ‘Finished with the presentation, then? Put it all to bed?’

  ‘Yes.’I don’t admit I’m also in bed. Which self-respecting trader admits she’s knackered at 10.30 p.m.? All the other guys will be just warming up for party time.

  ‘Knew you’d have it licked, Princess, so I’m calling to see if you’ll change your mind and want to join us. We’re heading over to Notting Hill; that’s your neck of the woods, isn’t it?’

  Yes, but not his. ‘Why are you coming all this way west?’

  ‘Some of the guys are going on to Hammersmith to that strip joint, Secrets. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not my thing.’

  ‘Lap dancers aren’t your thing?’My surprise is audible.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I like a dance as much as the next guy. I just think Secrets is a bit down-market compared to some gentlemen’s clubs I go to.’

  ‘Right. Well, a man has to have standards,’I quip. ‘Anyway, you didn’t call me to give me your list of the top three booty bars in town, did you?’

  ‘No. It was just your name came up in conversation –’

  Did it? I want to ask the context but know I can’t. Mick wouldn’t tell me the truth anyway. It might have been that the guys were talkin
g stocks and shares and saying what a good day I’ve had, or they might have been discussing strip joints and quite a different set of figures. The sexism is only a problem if you let it be.

  ‘As I said, I thought you might fancy a drink after all your hard work today.’

  ‘Peter’s not home. The nanny has left for the night, there’s no one to look after Auriol,’I reply.

  ‘The guys were saying you’d have an excuse and that you never party any more. Oh well. No worries. We didn’t really want you here anyway, Princess. Just didn’t want you bringing one of those lawsuits against us, crying that all the business is done round the lap table rather than the board table and that you weren’t given the chance to join in. See you tomorrow.’He hangs up.

  His joke, like most jokes, finds its foundation in a basic gripe or grievance. It’s accepted that many deals and contacts are made in the bars over a bottle of Bolly. Women are pissed-off that after they have children the abundant after-hours networking opportunities are history (mostly they are pissed-off because this says something quite definitive about the men they had children with, who, incidentally, are able to continue their late-night networking). I find it simple enough to pay a babysitter and get my ass to the latest minimalist bar without delay or fuss. If that’s what the job takes, you’ve got to do it. Therefore Mick’s comment is unfair. I’m normally holding my own with the letchy guys. I was out with them just last…I pause.

  I can’t quite remember when I was last out with my colleagues on a purely social basis. Last week I had to fly to Berlin and was away two nights. I had a client function on the Thursday and I worked late on the Friday. I grab my diary and flick through it. The last time I agreed to a social was six weeks ago. A lifetime in the City.

  I drag myself off the bed and into the bathroom. Splashing water on my face, I consider the possibility of daubing on some fresh lipgloss and grabbing a glittery top. I could call Peter; tell him to get home immediately so that I can go to a strip bar with the other men.

  I pause again. Look back into the mirror. When did I become the sort of woman who falls asleep too exhausted to take off her make-up? My face has weird indentations where I’ve slept heavily on the embroidered pattern on the Egyptian cotton bedlinen. My mascara has gone into the fine lines which run like ebullient tributaries from the corners of my eyes. I lean closer to the mirror. And I have lines around my mouth. My skin has started to age, there’s a general sagging. Slight, probably undetectable to the average citizen, but if a woman in her twenties were to look at me she’d know I wasn’t in her gang. I will soon be the type of woman people categorize as beautiful for her age.

  I carefully remove my make-up, shower, gently pat myself dry and then apply about a dozen insurance policies (a.k.a. bust-firming gel, anti-cellulite cream, foot and hand moisturizer, neck moisturizer and something a bit special for around my eyes). I get back into bed, turn out the lights and wonder where Peter is. I can’t claim that he is out more than he used to be; his job demands a lot of him, it always has. The difference is that when I was his mistress it was Rose waiting at home and I was out at work events right by Peter’s side. I’m not suited to inactivity.

  Just after we got together Peter was offered a great position in another merchant bank. We decided that it was a good idea for him to take it, not only for the extra money but because we both agreed that a bit of space between us was healthy. It had been fine working together when we lived apart but nobody wants to be together 24/7, do they? I hadn’t realized how much time we both spent in the office, way more than we spend at home. By not working together we’ve lost quite some intimacy and now Peter goes to different parties, client dinners and work conferences. Lots of them. And I stay at home and the most exciting thing that happens to me of an evening is a call from Mick.

  I sit up and put on my bedside light once more. I suddenly feel too agitated to sleep. I love Peter so much, I do. More than myself. More than my child. This is more unusual than one would imagine. Most men assume that they are their partner’s number one beloved but the majority of mothers secretly love their children far more than they love their men – at least they do until their children become teenagers. Peter charms me. At his best he’s clever, fun, interesting, dirty, and essential to me. At his worst he’s still essential to me. I am essential to Auriol and I find that responsibility gut-wrenching. I’m sure I must fail in her eyes fifty times a day. I don’t like failure, especially my own. Her love is such a responsibility.

  I idly flick through my diary to ascertain when Peter and I last went out together and alone. Five weeks ago. We go out often but usually with other couples, colleagues or contacts. I’m not sure when that shift in focus happened either. We used to passionately pursue time to ourselves; now our entertaining friends fill in the conversational gaps over the bread basket. It’s not that we are bored with one another, it’s just that we’ve heard all one another’s stories over the last seven years.

  Wow. I hadn’t realized that. I flick through the yearly calendar at the back of my diary another twice, just to be sure. I feel tremors of excitement in my stomach and within seconds the tremors flourish into full-blown triumph. A feeling I can now luxuriate in forever. It isn’t a difficult sum. After all, I was at their wedding and the cause of their divorce. ‘I do’to decree absolute was five years and two months. Four months less than my marriage to Peter, as stands. I have been Peter’s wife longer than Rose was.

  How exciting. How important. I feel something like relief wash over me. Peter has been my husband for five and a half years now, which should be enough, but I’ve always had a nagging anxiety that he belongs elsewhere. He belongs to Rose. I don’t believe they are one another’s destiny or intrinsically, indefinitely linked. But I do believe that being with him is akin to wearing someone else’s jumper, not that I’ve ever bought a second-hand garment in my life – not even at university when it was trendy. I don’t buy into that vintage angle; besides the hygiene issue I’ve always believed some day someone would tap me on the shoulder and say, ‘Excuse me, I think you are wearing my jumper. I’d like it back.’They might strip me in the street as they rightfully reclaimed what was theirs. Sometimes, that’s how I feel about Peter. He was second-hand to me and some day, without warning, someone (Rose) could demand him back. Of course my unease is nonsense. Not logical in the slightest. That’s the thing with irrational fears – they are unreasonable.

  But Peter has been married to me for longer than he was married to her. He’s mine now. He’s mine.

  My God, we have to celebrate. This is fantastic. I flick out the light and anticipate a decent night’s sleep.

  9

  Tuesday 12 September

  Rose

  I drop the boys off at the school gate and swap a couple of sentences with some other mums. I sign up for library duty on Wednesday afternoon and I catch up with Mr Shaw, the PE teacher, so I can quickly ask about the size of the towel the boys are expected to bring to their swimming lessons on Thursdays.

  ‘Any size you consider reasonable, Mrs Phillips,’says Mr Shaw.

  Mr Shaw is South African and in his late twenties. He’s tall, tanned and blond and all the children adore him. Many of the mothers do too. I look at him and see the kind of man I’d like my boys to turn into: strong, polite, happy and with a reasonable understanding of the rules of cricket. I fear that I’ve lost the ability to fancy anyone and even if a dozen naked Greek gods were to fight for my favour, I’d be unmoved.

  ‘I’m very impressed with the quality of the tracksuits this year,’I comment.

  ‘I’m glad you approve,’he says with a wide smile. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Phillips, but class is about to start and I really mustn’t be late.’

  ‘No, of course not.’I’m suddenly embarrassed. What must this man think of me? ‘I’ve got a lot to get on with too. I shouldn’t be standing around chatting,’I assure him. ‘I’m very busy.’

  ‘No doubt. If you’ll excuse me.’He breaks free and starts
to dash towards the sports hall, leaving me standing, awkward and alone, on the pathway outside the school.

  Suddenly, the street is empty. Car doors slam closed as mothers dash off to work or home and the children’s chatter is distant. The school bell rings out and I can just make out Mrs Foster yelling instructions that the children must get into neat lines. I stand still until the footfall ceases altogether.

  I start to think about my day and what I should do next. I wasn’t fibbing to Mr Shaw, I am very busy. I’m planning to clean the windows. I need to pop to Tesco and I need to call the gym and renew the boys’swimming lessons. Sebastian wants to do tennis lessons this year and Henry has shown some interest in karate, so I’ll have to make some inquiries there. I also want to spend some time browsing on the internet. Although it’s only September, I want to start scouring for Christmas presents. The boys’birthday is in December, so it’s always a hectic time. It doesn’t do to leave the planning and purchasing until the last minute.

  I sigh.

  Unexpectedly, I feel down. Very down. I might even use the word depressed and that’s not a word I use lightly. Yesterday, I managed to keep busy and avoided thinking about my treacherous so-called friends. I spent the entire day gardening – energetically raking leaves and weeding – preparing the garden to close down for winter. No one called. I knew they wouldn’t. Daisy will keep a low profile for a week and then call me as though nothing has been said, that’s her way. It’s possible that the men have forgotten anything was said, that’s their way. It will be left to Connie to mend bridges and make friends, but she had a photography job yesterday in Northampton so she wouldn’t have had the opportunity to talk. She’ll call today. I won’t speak to her. Oh no. Certainly not. Not after their impertinence. Never again.