My Life On a Plate

by India Knight

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said he bought a joke leaving present for a woman at the office – a woman who was retiring. I could tell he was lying. I asked what the present was and he said a dildo.’ Naomi allows herself a terse little smile.

  ‘A dildo?’

  ‘Yes. Hardly the thing for Vera from Accounts, as it were, I said.’

  ‘Well, er, quite. Hardly the ideal gift for an elderly stranger.’

  ‘No. Anyway, I said I’d noticed some odd restaurant bills that weren’t on his expense account – I’d checked the dates and they were all when he was supposed to be working late. Richard’s a very bad liar. So he told me. Said he’d been seeing this… woman… for a few weeks.’

  I’ve had my back to Naomi all this time, poking around the cooker and fiddling with what she’d no doubt refer to as ‘condiments’.

  ‘So,’ she says. ‘We need to make a plan.’

  ‘Make a plan?’ I repeat stupidly. ‘What kind of plan?’

  ‘Well,’ says Naomi, allowing herself a proper smile. ‘We need to decide what I’m going to do, obviously.’

  ‘In what respect, Nomes?’

  ‘You know,’ she says. ‘A plan of action. We need to get organized.’ She rustles through her handbag again. ‘I made a list earlier. Where can it be?’

  ‘What do you mean, you made a list? What kind of list?’

  ‘A list of options. I haven’t done anything so far. When Richard told me, I said, “I see.”’ She looks at me for approbation, but I stare back like a startled fish. ‘I haven’t made a fuss, Clara. He does so hate fuss. But I need to decide what to do next.’

  ‘Chop his balls off?’ I mutter to myself.

  To my utter amazement, it seems to me that Naomi is actually quite enjoying this. To her, her husband’s infidelity constitutes a new task – and God knows she loves tasks. The curse of the stay-at-home mother, I’ve always thought, first strikes when the children start going to school, when the carefully orchestrated days – nutritionally balanced lunch at 1 p.m., toddlers’ swimming group at 3, creative play at 4, piano practice at 5 – stretch emptily ahead, and women like Naomi start wondering what they are actually for. Workless, hobbyless and childless for much of her day, Naomi needs something to keep her mind occupied. And Richard – the thoughtfulness! – has provided it.

  ‘You could go shopping,’ I say. ‘On his card, I mean. That’s always quite cheering. Are you sure about these ravioli?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ Naomi says as I place a steaming plate in front of her. ‘Is that salad dressed?’

  ‘Only lightly. Of course, you could always get incredibly fat as revenge. You could become obese and grow a moustache. You could lie around all day eating. That would serve him right.’ The idea appeals to me enormously – for a minute, I feel half-sorry that it isn’t Robert who’s putting it about.

  ‘I don’t think so, Clara,’ says Naomi. ‘Do try and be serious.’

  ‘Well then, what? Take a lover?’ As if.

  ‘Hang on, I’ll get my list. Right. Here we are. These are my options. Are you listening? Okay. One, make his life hell.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘No. It was tempting for about three seconds, but really – think, Clara. If I make his life hell, he’s hardly likely to come back to me with his tail between his legs.’

  ‘Do you want him to?’

  Naomi puts down her fork. ‘I do love him, Clara,’ she says, in the tone of voice someone might adopt were they considering putting down their ancient dog. ‘I’m used to him. We’re comfortable together. And then, of course, the children…’

  ‘Well, yes, the children,’ I say, clinging on to the notion – not least because the idea of staying with someone because you’re ‘used to them’ somehow lacks appeal to me. I mean, I’m used to my ancient Birkenstocks, but it doesn’t mean I’ve stopped buying shoes, or window-shopping, for that matter.

  ‘And the thing is, Clara,’ Naomi says, warming to her theme, ‘the thing is that I’ve invested a lot in Richard.’

  Eh? ‘What do you mean, invested?’ I ask.

  ‘I really wanted to get married, Clara. I’m not like you. I’d wanted to get married since I was a little girl. I knew what kind of dress I was going to wear by the time I was twelve. I’d picked all my hymns and worked out the order of service. I’d thought about the flowers. I wanted to live in the kind of house we live in, with the kind of man who would make me feel… comfortable. I never wanted to work, as you know – I’m not ambitious that way – and I wanted children. I invested everything I had in getting Richard. He was a good catch.’ She looks up. ‘He still is.’

  ‘I don’t understand “invested”,’ I say, wondering whether this might not be the time to explain the basics of feminism to Naomi. I give it a quick try. ‘Once, Naomi, more recently than you’d think, women didn’t have the vote…’

  ‘Who cares?’ says Naomi. ‘I never vote. Don’t start telling me about that boring Pankhurst woman. What I am trying to say is, I studied men like Richard for a long time. I saw what they wanted. They work hard, you know, and after they’ve finished their couple of years of playing hard, they want a woman who’s going to make their life easy.’

  ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this,’ I say. ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘So I made myself into that kind of woman,’ Nomes continues. ‘I was kind of like that to start off with, which helped.. I’ve always dieted. I go to the hairdresser once a week. I have beauty treatments. I’ve learned to cook. I can talk to his colleagues. I produced nice children. Our house is pretty impeccable. I buy flowers twice a week and polish the floorboards myself. I make him nice dinners and ask him about his day. I never moan about having my period or about being depressed. You know.’

  ‘Naomi,’ I say, my appetite having – almost uniquely deserted me. ‘Listen. I know we’re different in the way we think. Everyone wants to feel secure, I can understand that. But really – you don’t have to reinvent yourself. You don’t have to be a bausfrau, even a glamorous one. You’re what – thirty-five, tops? Is that really what you want? Because maybe this has happened to make you re-evaluate. I mean, I hate to sound like Kate, but it is possible. Don’t you want mad love? Passion? Risk? To be able to talk about you every now and then? Because as requests go, it’s hardly an outrageous one. Don’t you want not to have to work at it all the time?’

  ‘No,’ says Naomi. ‘Absolutely not. I want what I have. I want Richard. I’ve always wanted that and nothing’s changed.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, feeling weak but also faintly admiring. ‘What’s on your list?’

  ‘Okay. Here we go. One, make his life hell. That’s no good. Two, meet the woman and explain it all to her.’

  ‘Explain what?’

  ‘That he’ll never leave me. That he likes boeuf en croûte and Janet Reger underwear, not… oh, I don’t know, Pot Noodles and Bhs knickers. That he might be fucking her’ – Naomi blushes slightly, though less than me – ‘but that he makes love to me. That he loves his children…’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I get the picture. I wouldn’t do that quite yet. It’s a bit mini-series, as an approach, and it implies she’s more of a threat than she is.’

  ‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ says Nomes. ‘Which leads us to option number three. Be more like her.’

  ‘What, like Acne Girl?’

  ‘That’s rather a good name for her. Yes. Be more common. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’ve just told me that he likes you for what you are.’

  ‘Hmm. She wears very cheap scent. I’ve noticed. Number four: do nothing.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Nope. Not a thing. Carry on entirely as normal.’

  ‘I see. And what does this achieve?’

  ‘It shows him I’m not humiliated. It shows I’m not going to get hysterical.’

  ‘But aren’t you humiliated?’

  ‘Not as much as I thought I’d be.’


  ‘Right. So keep on with the fillet steak at home, as it were, until he tires of the Little Chef burger?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What if he thinks, hey – I can keep on having both?’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘You sound very sure.’

  ‘I know Richard, Clara. I’ve studied him. I know him inside out and back to front. Actually, I think this might well be some kind of midlife crisis. Men get them, you know.’

  I am staring at the half-eaten ravioli on my plate. The cream and Parmesan have congealed somewhat; the rocket leaves on the side, though still glossy, have started to wilt. It’s not unappetizing as such. There’s nothing wrong with it. But it could look better. It could make me want it more. It could make my appetite rear up and roar. It’s like my life, I think to myself in that dazed, half-lit way you sometimes find yourself drifting into in the middle of a conversation. It’s my life on a plate.

  ‘You’re lucky to know Richard so well,’ I say, getting up. ‘I mean it. I don’t know what I’d do in your shoes. Good luck with it, Nomes. I’ll do anything I can to help.’ And I get up and clear the dishes. I hold our plates under the tap and the water washes the debris clean away. The food grinder roars into life briefly, crunching up the remains of our lunch.

  ‘Thanks, Clara, darling. I do think Do Nothing is best, don’t you? Gosh, do you know, I’m almost looking forward to it,’ she says, with a giggle. ‘Don’t just stand there, Clara! Shall I make us some coffee?’

  ‘I hate coffee,’ I say.

  ‘So you do. Well, tea then. Earl Grey?’

  I am holding the plates in my hands, ready to load them into the dishwasher. One little slip and they’d come crashing down, scattering their bone-hard whiteness all over the floor. But I don’t slip.

  ‘Tea would be lovely,’ I say instead. ‘One sugar, no cancer-inducing sweetener.’

  ‘There was another option, you know,’ Naomi says, giving my arm a squeeze as we stand by the kettle. ‘There was an option five, but I was too embarrassed to say. I’ve cheered up so much though, now I know what I’m doing. Shall I tell you what it was?’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Be more like you,’ Naomi says with an affectionate look.

  ‘Be more like me?’

  ‘Yes. Go with the flow, you know, and see the funny side.’

  ‘The funny side? Of an affair?’

  ‘You know what I mean – I mean, get angry, and then get even, and then joke about it. Just – be more like you.’

  ‘I don’t think you want to do that,’ I say. ‘I don’t think… Well, ha ha, I don’t think, full stop. Shall we have the tea upstairs?’

  13

  And now it’s Friday and we’re off to Julian’s. Without Robert. But never mind, never mind. I mind a lot, actually, between you and me – I mind more than I can say. I don’t often ask him for much in terms of emotional support. It’s humiliating even to have to ask. Surely when you’ve been with someone eight years; they know what upsets and discombobulates you, as well as what makes you laugh. No? Well, evidently, no.

  I’ve already mentioned some of the problems – cows, nature – that I experience in the countryside. The main problem at the moment, though, is sartorial. Charlie and Jack are already wellied-up, with hideous Man U woolly hats perched on their little round heads, raring to go.

  It’s okay for them, I reflect mournfully as I stare at the contents of my wardrobe for the fourth time this morning. My wardrobe is undeniably, problematically urban. It has mummy clothes – big jumpers, stretch trousers, boring shirts, tweedy skirts (so ironic). I don’t like the mummy clothes, practical though they are. They’re fraudulent in some way that, at eighteen minutes past nine on this Friday morning, I suddenly find deeply offensive. I’m not like that, I want to tell the clothes. I used to be a babe – no, really. On the spur of the moment, I peer into my capacious pyjama top. Hello, bosoms. Remember when I exposed part of you at parties, cleavage peering out of low-cut satin dress? The bosoms are silent, as well they may be. It’s been so long since bosom-outings that they’ve probably developed Alzheimer’s.

  None the less, they’re still there, and they’re not bad, if you like that kind of thing. When I get back from Julian’s, I think I might go shopping for – what, my lost youth? Well, yes.

  A framed photograph of Kate sits by the bedroom window. I am on her lap, aged about two. I can’t help but notice that Kate, though undeniably a mummy, is wearing a tiny little Pucci dress and showing a generous amount of toned, golden leg. I glance back at my clothes, feeling exactly – but exactly – like Demis Roussos.

  The wardrobe also contains a scattering of pre-mummy clothes: sexy little things in fabrics you want to stroke, A-line skirts that land just on the knee, tight cashmere cardigans, a fitted coat. I make a mental note to get these dry-cleaned when I get back. If I can squeeze myself into them, that is.

  Angst aside, I need to address the fact that the wardrobe absolutely doesn’t contain a single garment that works in the country. One of the greatest mysteries of life, if you ask me, is the question of how people – women – dress in the country without looking like great big lumpen lesbians. This is what I need to know. This is the information I must have. Because, I think as I reach into the closet and come out with a Nicole Farhi knitted two-piece consisting of anthracite-coloured wide ‘pants’ (snigger) and a matching loose, tunic-like top, this kind of thing only works with heels. And even I know kitten heels are allergic to mud.

  So this outfit, which is perfectly presentable, is going to have to be worn with the only pair of robust flat shoes I own: tan suede lace-ups. I try them on: instant lezzo. I kick the lace-ups off and try the outfit with slim, two-inch heels: leggy, and quite foxy. Lace-ups again: bulldyke. The heels: almost minxy. The flats: Pat from EastEnders, but butcher, as it were – Butcher, even, I snigger, delighted with my own joke.

  What else? Perhaps a dress. I fish out a Ghost slip dress from the Old Me collection and bung on a huge sloppy Joe on top. Hmm – not bad. Not exactly flattering, but not bad. Faintly teenagey, perhaps. But the lace-ups, once on, render it instantly ridiculous. Trainers? I can’t say I go a bundle on giant, paw-like feet, but needs must. The trainers make me look absurd. There’s nothing worse than a size 16 woman pretending she’s on her way to the gym all the time; it’s like having a tattoo on one’s forehead saying ‘I am seriously delusional.’

  Jeans? Don’t make me laugh (or cry). A skirt, then. Stepping gracefully over the discarded pile of clothes on the floor, I head for the skirts. A tweedy number, perhaps: very rural. I put it on. What looks vaguely funky in the city turns me into an instant relative of Miss Marple, with a touch of simple-minded elderly milkmaid thrown in for good measure. The only alternative to the flats are my trusty Birkenstocks, which make me look like the kind of saddo that ‘creates’ artwork using a cunning combination of menstrual blood and woad.

  ‘Fuck it,’ I say, scooping up the whole pile and bunging it into the suitcase, along with a couple of evening frocks – we change for dinner at Julian’s – some underpants, a selection of monstrously unsexy bras and a handful of tights. ‘It’s Somerset, not the Milan catwalk.’

  ‘You said the F-word,’ says Charlie delightedly. ‘I know the F-word. I also know the B-word and the S-word.’

  I know I should really tell him off for this knowledge, but I am curious. ‘Come and whisper in my ear,’ I say. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Charlie, swaggering. ‘I will whisper very quietly, because Jack is too small for the words.’

  ‘So are you, darling,’ I say, as Jack wanders off to find Bun, his favourite teddy. I kneel down, my ear level with Charlie’s mouth. ‘Tell me, darling, and then let’s not ever hear the words again.’

  ‘Furg,’ says Charlie, before letting out a squeal of hysterical delight. ‘Bollorgs.’ He peers at me quizzically, not sure whether to carry on. ‘Bumbum. Shit. Shit. Shitty.’

  ‘Charlie!’ I e
xclaim, shocked. ‘That’s terrible. How do you know those words?’

  Charlie shrugs proudly. ‘School. I never say them, though. Mummy, what are bad words for?’

  ‘For when you’re very, very angry and a grown-up, darling.’

  ‘Sometimes I say bumbum,’ Charlie explains helpfully. ‘Like when that annoying Milo won’t stop bothering me.’

  ‘Well, bumbum isn’t too bad,’ I say, giving Charlie a hug and surreptitiously sniffing in his delicious little boy scent – sweeties and grubby hands mixed with warm body. ‘Now, go to your room and find some books to bring with us.’

  ‘We’ve got a secret, haven’t we, Mummy?’ Charlie says, beaming, as he karate-kicks his way out of the room. ‘A bad-word secret.’

  ‘We have, darling,’ I confirm, wandering into the bathroom. See, that’s another thing about the country: it doesn’t go with make-up. You look absurd on a wet walk wearing scarlet lipstick. And, as we have seen, I don’t suit the fresh-faced, natural look – not unless it’s artfully contrived, anyway. I throw the contents of my product shelf into my sponge bag, and chuck in a pair of lipsticks, some eyeshadow and a tube of foundation anyway. I now know for a fact I’m going to spend the weekend looking ridiculous, but what can I do? It’s scrub-faced lezzy or painted harlot in inappropriate clothes, and though neither of the looks is one I particularly aim for in normal life, the latter strikes me as preferable to the former.

  We don’t have a particularly enjoyable journey. Trains can be tricksy when you’re accompanied by two small children, both given to racing off in any direction on the spur of the moment and, more problematically, prone to palling up with every weirdo they can spot. My children insist on roaming up and down the carriage and ignoring beaming, cuddly old ladies and their fellow small boys entirely. Instead, they like striking up long, loving conversations with skinheads, football supporters and the very drunk – their ideal new friend would be a shaven-headed, pissed Millwall fan, although they are also quite partial to tramps.