My Life On a Plate

by India Knight

  ‘You’re always telling me who stocks size 26, which is hardly the same thing, Robert. Anyway, I’m glad you like it.’

  You’ll notice Robert is not asking me how much the outfit cost. This is one of the things I like him for. It’s another blessing to add to my list, actually, because I know for a fact I would die if I were ever involved with anyone mean, and Robert’s the least mean person I know. Financially, at any rate.

  You’d think I’d never been to a party before. I can’t sleep. I make up all sorts of little scenarios as I lie next to Robert in the dark: my splendid pea-green entrance, the colour of my frock matching the face of every other woman in the room. I replay the scene again and again in my head, until by the end I am, in fact, Madame de Pompadour wowing jaded Versailles to a choir of seraphim. Then I feel guilty and include Robert in my fantasy game. He becomes an irresistible, studly, gigolo-but-classier type, with eyes – but of course – only for me, despite the pleading entreaties of the assembled throng, who turn away from Dunphy as one.

  Oh. Where did that come from? I wish I could go to sleep. I turn my head and peer at Robert in the darkness. He even sleeps neatly. He gets into bed and doesn’t shift position until the morning. He looks like a picture of someone sleeping. His T-shirt is very white. His pyjama bottoms are – I lift the duvet and have a little peek – pristine: washed silk. Robert never dribbles or drools in his sleep. He doesn’t snore. He could be dead.

  I must have gone to sleep at some stage – the last thing I remember is counting all the shades of Chanel nail polish I own, like the highbrow creature I am – because now it’s the morning. Rise and shine!

  Robert’s already in the shower, and emerges briefly to kiss me on the cheek before racing off muttering something about the inevitable meetings. ‘I’ll meet you there,’ he says. ‘I might not make Sadler’s Wells, but I’ll see you at the party afterwards. I’ve got the invite in my pocket.’

  The slamming of the front door coincides with the appearance of Charlie and Jack, the latter clutching his stomach melodramatically and wailing about being ‘starving’.

  ‘Please feed me, Mummy,’ he begs. ‘I have woken up so so weak. Mummies need to feed their little children,’ he adds reproachfully.

  ‘Jack!’ I say. ‘You’ve only just woken up. I’m not refusing to feed you, you silly child.’

  ‘I am a starving child,’ Jack sighs, lying down weakly on the hall carpet. ‘I am a child that always, always starves.’

  ‘You are a fathead,’ says Charlie. ‘Mummy, can I have Coco Pops for breakfast? Also, I need my swimming things. Also, can I have ham sandwiches instead of cheese? I really hate cheese these days.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since yesterday. But I really love ham.’

  ‘Ham is from pigs’ bots,’ yells Jack, jumping up, his famished state temporarily forgotten.

  ‘You are a bot,’ says Charlie. ‘A pink, piggy, bottomy bot.’

  ‘Muuuuuum…’ Jack starts, welling up.

  ‘Okay. Clothes on, faces and teeth, and downstairs,’ I bark. ‘Charlie, don’t tease Jack. Jack, don’t be so wet. Come on,’ I add, clapping my hands – why? I know from experience it’s hardly likely to galvanize them – like a sergeant-major. ‘Let’s go.’ I have the feeling that, all things considered, today might be a long day.

  I haven’t spent this much time getting ready since I was a teenager, when the promise of a party was always far more thrilling than the angst-inducing, what-if-the-spinning-bottle-lands-on-me reality: the long afternoons spent comparing pink, usually frosted Rimmel lipsticks in Woolworths (in defiance of Kate’s orders); the hours spent deciding which plasticky, glittery Miss Selfridge earrings that week’s pocket money should be spent on (ditto: ‘Pearl studs, darling, so classic’); the 3 35p facepacks from Boots that practically took a layer of skin off; the endless fiddlings with gel and Babyliss tongs – all performed with a minimum of two girlfriends, each of us coming on like Diana Vreeland in stripy legwarmers (‘No, you use the frosted highlighter here. It really opens up the eye’). Tamsin, who was always of our number, had a passion for wigs. She spent her weekends between the ages of thirteen and sixteen going to parties looking like Dolly Parton, with cascading, shiny white-blonde curls and a bra stuffed with Kleenex.

  I could do worse things than ask Tamsin along tonight, I reflect, as I head off for my massively expensive facial. She might like to come round and get ready with me, for old times’ sake. I leave a message on her machine before getting into the car, and then drive the forty minutes it takes to get to Knightsbridge.

  I am wary of facials. I’ve had some extravagant disasters in the past. In fact, did I not trust Kate implicitly in the matter of treatments, I wouldn’t be here now. I’ve had facials before, in anticipation of a party or date, that have left me… well, I don’t think ‘deformed’ is too strong a word. Certainly in need of a brown-paper bag: red, swollen, with raised, furious welts all over my newly treated face, left to roam the streets of London wailing, ‘I am a human being,’ like John Merrick. I have suffered. I have been the Elephant Girl.

  Most facials, I reflect as I park the car, are a bloody disgrace. And then of course there’s the small talk: ‘Now, since you have enormous pores, I’ll just apply our special Big Round Shiny Acne Face toner.’ Or perhaps: ‘There’s a lot of grease around the nose area, and of course the chin… Well, we haven’t been cleansing very thoroughly, have we? I’ll just smear on some Kill Yourself Now, You Human Oilslick cream over the worst bits.’

  Kate swears by Karina, though, and I have faith. And indeed, an hour later, I emerge miraculously smooth of face, with a firmness about my cheeks which was not so before. I don’t know what she did – no doubt it was perfectly revolting – but I no longer appear to have any pores. I reflect, once again, on how money is wasted on the rich. I always think this when I’m walking down Sloane Street (which, admittedly, is not very often): all those old bints with tight faces, dripping jewellery and labels and personal trainership – and they still look terrible. If I were married to an incontinent, elderly millionaire, I’d look amazing – and I wouldn’t look people up and down like that, like that woman’s looking at me right now, the cow. Still, she’s probably envying my porelessness, if not my cosy track-suit bottoms ‘n’ giant sweater combo.

  There’s a message from Tamsin on my machine as I arrive home; also one from Charlie’s headmistress asking me to call her. I dial the number in a frenzy of panic, the worst, most macabre scenarios popping, uninvited, right into my head – skulls cracked open like eggs in the playground; teeth flying; little limbs broken and askew; purple lips. Miss Robarts, the school’s secretary, who sounds about twelve, puts me on hold for a while. The stentorian, barking tones of Miss Fitzgerald eventually come on, reducing me, as they always do, to a state of gibberish.

  While other parents – the kind who don’t turn up to school in pyjama bottoms and jam stains – impress me wildly by appearing to be able to communicate normally, adult to adult, with Miss F, I immediately revert to my unangelic twelve-year-old self. Apart from the fact that even standing in her vicinity makes my scalp tingle in the old, familiar way, I always want to blurt out that I’m sorry and that it won’t happen again. And then I want to run away shouting ‘Bum’, though so far I’ve managed to control myself, on this front at least.

  But Miss Fitzgerald has a more sinister confessional effect on me too. She makes me volunteer the kind of headmistress-hostile information I should really keep to myself of a morning: ‘God, Miss Fitzgerald, my hangover,’ that kind of thing. I don’t think she likes me – and why should she, when I blush and stammer like some drug trafficker with a bottomful of condomed-up cocaine every time I clap eyes on her?

  ‘Ah,’ she says. ‘Mrs Hutt.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Fitzgerald. I’ve just had a facial.’ See what I mean? Why did I tell her that?

  ‘Yes,’ she states, as if, being omniscient, she knew all about it. ‘Now, Mrs Hutt…
’

  ‘Yes, Miss Fitzgerald. Is everything all right? Is Charlie okay? I’m sorry about his language, by the way…’

  ‘It’s Charlie I’m calling about,’ she says, in no apparent hurry to put me out of my misery.

  ‘At least he doesn’t swear,’ I say, feeling deeply guilty. ‘He just talks, ah, robustly.’

  ‘I’m not calling about his language, Mrs Hutt,’ she says, sounding – unimpressively for a primary school teacher, really – on the irritated side. ‘I’m calling about his head.’

  Because Miss Fitzgerald makes me feel mad, or bad, or both, I am incapable of thinking logically.

  ‘Is he conscious?’ I ask, feeling briskly efficient, though obviously chilled. ‘I’ll be right over.’

  ‘He is perfectly all right, Mrs Hutt. But he does have nits.’

  ‘Nits?’

  ‘Yes. Head lice. As you are no doubt aware, schools no longer have nit nurses, so you’ll have to deal with the problem at home. Charlie’s teacher informs me that he has had the lice for some weeks now.’

  ‘But we de-loused ourselves last week!’

  ‘Unsuccessfully, it seems. She apparently sent you a couple of notes, feeling this was more appropriate than “collaring” you, as it were, in public.’

  ‘I never got them. The notes.’

  ‘So she gathers. I must remind you, Mrs Hutt, that parents are requested to empty their child’s work-drawer once a week, and that this may contain communications from staff. Charlie’s seems to have a good fortnight’s worth of completed worksheets in it. Plus, of course, the notes from his teacher.’

  ‘Oh dear, sorry. I always think the ongoing homework is more interesting that the stuff he’s already finished,’ I say pointlessly. Miss Fitzgerald is silent. ‘Anyway,’ I add, suddenly feeling hideously scratchy around the scalp, ‘thank God he’s all right. I’ll go and get the poison shampoo now and de-louse him again tonight.’

  ‘We’d be most grateful, Mrs Hutt,’ she says royally. ‘You’ll need to do the whole family, of course. Good afternoon.’

  My head is very itchy, but it’s probably psychosomatic. God, I think, sitting down on the kitchen sofa (grubby). I am an appalling parent. I am an atrocious mother. My poor little boy has nits and it takes me ages to do anything about it and even when I do it doesn’t work. I light a stress-relieving cigarette (bad mummies are like the baddies in US blockbusters: we all smoke)’. I am such a lamentable parent, I think, that I don’t even notice what’s going on on my own child’s head. I am a freak. I am a monster. I am obsessed with nail polish and facials and parties, while my sons’ heads could–urgh, what? I wonder what happens if nits are left untreated for months? Does the problem become internalized? Does the grey matter become prey for the vile head lice?

  Tamsin interrupts my internal monologue, just as I am wondering whether I should miss tonight’s party and do de-lousing penance.

  ‘Tamsin, I’m a lousy mother. Literally, ha! I made a joke. Though God knows why at a time like this. Tamsin, the boys have nits,’ I practically sob.

  ‘Oh, Clara, for goodness’ sake. All kids get nits. All the time. I know from school – it’s nobody’s fault.’

  ‘But he’s had them for weeks. And he did say, “My head’s itchy,” a couple of times, but I just bunged the stuff on and ignored him.’

  ‘Never mind, Clara. You know now. Tea tree oil works very well, by the way. Now, about this party…’

  ‘Do come. You could come here and get ready with me. I thought it might cheer you up – assuming you need cheering, of course. Do you, Tam?’

  ‘Well, I could do with a party. But I’m hardly lying in bed weeping about my fate, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Still happy with your decision – about the baby, I mean?’

  ‘Yes. Ish. It’s a bit of a freaky thing to take on. I mean, it just feels completely unreal. I look the same, I feel the same… but there’s a baby growing inside me.’

  ‘Yuck, don’t make it sound like Alien.’

  ‘Foetuses are parasites, Clara.’

  ‘Spare me the human biology class, Tamsin. They’re not parasites, they’re lovely little fluffy noo-noo babies. And anyway, if we’re going to be pedantic, shouldn’t it be foeti? Have you told work?’

  ‘Not yet. I need to decide what I’m going to do, financially and stuff. I’m hoping for a job share. But anyway,’ she sighs. ‘I’d love to come to the party with you. I’ve been reading about your Mr Dunphy all over the place, actually. He’s a bit phwoar, don’t you think?’

  ‘If you like that kind of thing,’ I say haughtily. ‘He’s a deeply unpleasant human being,’ I add, sounding like a dowager duchess. ‘And, for some reason which I absolutely can’t fathom, I’ve been asked to this dinner afterwards, at the Groucho.’

  ‘How extraordinary,’ says Tamsin, sounding puzzled. ‘The dislike can’t be that mutual, then?’

  ‘Dunno.’ I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t want to know. ‘Anyway, come round about 6-ish? The invite says “Dress: Up”, so, you know, bring a decent frock. Bring a wig.’

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ says Tamsin, laughing. ‘I won’t need the Kleenex, at any rate, my bosoms are outsize. I’m practically an H-cup.’

  19

  ‘You’ve lost weight,’ says Tamsin accusingly, standing on the doorstep a couple of hours later. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Only a couple of pounds, I think,’ I reply. ‘Hardly earth-shattering. Did you want a telegram?’

  ‘Makes a difference, though,’ she says, frowning. ‘Especially around the face.’

  ‘It’ll all come back on in a couple of days.’ I shrug. ‘Anyway, I still look pregnant around the stomach. I look more pregnant than you.’

  ‘You do, actually,’ says Tamsin, cheering up and coming in. ‘So, what are we wearing?’

  ‘I went shopping,’ I say, leading her into the living room. ‘Oh, the door again. That’ll be Flo – she’s baby-sitting, bless her. Notting Hill café society must be in mourning.’

  It is indeed Flo, wearing what appears to be a purple nightie, trimmed with rather pretty orange lace, a pair of pony-skin clogs and a giant, tufty coat that looks like it’s made of monkey fur. ‘Am I the most devoted sister in the history of the world?’ she asks rhetorically, as she kisses me hello. ‘Yes, I am. I am a paragon, Clara, and by the way Evie doesn’t know what that means.’

  ‘How is Evie? I haven’t spoken to her since we last met.’

  Flo sighs and places her car keys in a small Hello Kitty plastic purse. There are tiny transfers of pansies on her fingernails. ‘She’s a bit depressed, actually, Clara, and it’s my fault.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I explained apartheid to her yesterday – she asked what it was – and the very idea of it sent her into a decline.’ I nod sympathetically. The same thing happened when I explained the Holocaust to her a couple of years ago. ‘Do you remember when we were little,’ Flo says, giggles mounting, ‘and you had that record called “Free Nelson Mandela” and she said you ought to complain because you hadn’t got one?’ She starts laughing out loud, as do I, at the memory of a twelve-year-old Evie, indignant on my behalf, shaking out the record sleeve with a disgusted face, saying, ‘Someone must have nicked it. What is a Mandela, anyway?’

  ‘Oh, bless her. I must give her a ring,’ I cry. Being a disastrous mother is bad enough, without being a crap sibling into the bargain. ‘Anyway, Flo, thanks for coming. The boys are playing upstairs. I’ve given them a bath and de-loused them…’

  ‘Gross,’ says Flo.

  ‘Yes, it was. Jack had about six, but Charlie had hundreds. I was nearly sick, and they keep moving on the comb in the most repulsive way. They’ve got to sleep with the stuff on their heads, so make sure there are towels on the pillowcases, and don’t let them rub themselves all over the sofas.’

  ‘God, don’t tell Kate,’ says Flo. ‘She’ll tell you about slums and wonder if they have TB. Anyway, I’ll go up, t
hen, and play with them,’ she adds, shedding her monkey fur. ‘Do you want me to help with your make-up? I’ve been reading this really great book.’

  ‘Ah, maybe,’ I say, touched by her offer but not entirely trusting. ‘I’ll come and present my face later.’

  ‘Okey-pokey,’ says Flo, marching up the stairs.

  Back in the living room, Tamsin gives me another long look. ‘I must say, you’re looking very well,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t sound so delighted. Drink? And then I’m going to have a bath. You can too, if you like.’

  ‘Do we have to share?’ says Tamsin. ‘Only, we might not fit.’

  ‘I mean in the children’s bathroom,’ I say. ‘With the ducks and the bubbles that change colour.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Tamsin. ‘I need to shave my legs. Got any gin?’

  ‘As long as you want it for legitimate purposes only,’ I joke, realizing, slightly too late, that the joke isn’t very funny. But Tamsin doesn’t seem to mind, and we clink our glasses together before wandering off to our respective tubs.

  Apart from a spot of bother with the eyelash glue – there’s a flaky spot on the edge of my left eye that suggests occhial dandruff – I am forced to admit that I’ve done pretty well. I look like I used to, I realize, with a yelp of joy.

  I don’t want to disappoint you here. I love transformations in books as much as the next woman – that ‘I was a great big fat caterpillar but now I am a bee-yoo-tiful itsy little butterfly’ stuff always thrills me to the core – but we need to be realistic. I’m still a size 16 (or a big 14, if my dress is to be believed), my legs haven’t grown longer and my curls are not cascading down my back, though, as someone once said, it is indeed a privilege to live in the same era as John Frieda’s Frizz-Ease hair-taming serum. But I look pretty nice, in a slightly round kind of way. In a dim light, I could be mistaken for Sophia Loren’s slightly porkier and possibly lightly pregnant sister. It’s a good look, all in all – green dress, green eyes, black hair, black, improbably long lashes, and the foundation they sold me in the specialist make-up shop is working wonders to emphasize my temporary porelessness.