by India Knight
‘Not sick like that, darling. I just mean I don’t feel very well. Could you stop hopping for a second? You’re making the bed shake.’
‘Why are you sick, Mummy?’ asks Charlie.
‘Because I had too much wine, Charlie.’
‘Wine! Yuck! It’s made of people’s feet, we learned it at school.’
I sigh and try, unsuccessfully, to sit up. ‘Wine is not made from people’s feet, Charlie. It is made from grapes.’
‘No, people’s feet,’ says Charlie, looking solemn and rather disgusted by the idea – as well he might be. ‘They stomp round and round a round wooden thing, a bawel, I think it’s called, until their red foot juice comes.’
‘Darling, I am going to be sick like Jack if you carry on. Those people are stomping on grapes. It’s grape juice that comes out. And anyway, they don’t make wine like that any more.’
‘Ooh, I could crush a grape,’ says Robert, opening one eye. ‘Morning, boys. How are you feeling, best beloved?’
‘Poorly,’ I say. ‘Very poorly indeed. Poorly and sick and not wanting to think about people’s revolting feet.’
‘Good party?’
‘I sang Barry Manilow songs and danced,’ I say miserably.
Robert bursts out laughing. ‘Lovely,’ he says. ‘That must have been nice. Your dulcet tones…’
‘We can’t all have been choirboys, Robert,’ I say grumpily. ‘I know I have a horrible voice. It’s not my fault.’
‘Did their ears bleed?’
‘No, they did not. Their ears twitched with joy.’
‘You look a bit rough,’ Robert continues. ‘Your eyes are all rabbity and red.’
‘I slept in my lenses,’ I say, pushing Jack, who is miming rabbithood, off my stomach.
‘I hate fizzy,’ Jack says, apropos of nothing.
‘Mummy loves fizzy wine,’ Robert says unhelpfully.
‘Mummy is teetotal,’ I say. ‘And Daddy’s going to give you your breakfast today.’
‘How?’ says Robert, who is really getting very much on my nerves.
‘By pouring some cereal into two bowls, adding milk and making toast, if you’re up to it,’ I say. ‘And glasses of juice wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘But I never give them their breakfast,’ says Robert. ‘It’s the weekend. I’m tired.’
‘Go away, all of you. You are apathetic human being,’ I tell Robert. ‘All men give their children breakfast sometimes. And I have a hangover. Which doesn’t happen very often. Do help.’
‘Hardly my fault you got drunk,’ says Robert. Why is he being so churlish? ‘I hardly stood there and forced you.’
‘Robert. Please. Give them their breakfast.’
‘God’s sake,’ huffs Robert, getting out of bed and stomping across the room to his dressing gown. ‘My wife’s an alkie. It’s not very feminine, you know, Clara, getting drunk like that all over London, with strangers. It’s hardly attractive.’
‘Go away, Robert,’ I say. And, eventually, he does.
And then, of course, Kate rings.
‘Why are you sounding like that?’ she demands. ‘Have you got the flu? I do keep telling you to take echinacea. It strengthens the immune system. Yours is very weak, from overeating and lack of exercise. I haven’t had a cold for two years now.’
‘I have a hangover, Kate.’
‘A hangover?’ (‘A handbag?’) ‘How revolting. Why on earth have you got a hangover?’
‘Because I got drunk.’
‘Clara! You’ve really got to take your life in hand. You eat too much, you get drunk… you’re going to come unstuck. Do you have any nux vom?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t say “what”, say “excuse me”. Nux vomica. Homoeopathic remedy for dipsomaniacs. It might help. Why were you drunk?’
‘I went to a party.’
‘I go to parties all the time and I don’t get drunk,’ Kate says. ‘Drunk women, darling – nothing more unattractive, like tramp ladies who smell of urine. Poor Robert. Where was he?’
‘I don’t smell of urine, Kate. Robert was there, for a bit. But then I went dancing.’
‘Who on earth with?’
‘My new friend Christian, whom you’d love, by the way. I’m going to introduce you next week.’
‘For God’s sake, Clara. What are you doing going dancing in the middle of the night with strange men? He could have murdered you.’ She shudders audibly. ‘Or worse.’
‘What’s worse than being murdered?’
‘Rape, Clara,’ says Kate sternly. ‘I really don’t think you should be roaming the streets of London with rapists. You’re in deep trouble. Meet me for lunch.’
‘I can’t, Kate. We’re going to Paris and I need to pack.’
‘I’m sending someone over with nux vom,’ she says. ‘I’ll call you later to see how you are. God, you’re selfish,’ she adds, suddenly incensed as well as horrified. ‘I was phoning to tell you Max and I have set a date.’
‘Good, I’m glad. He’s nice.’
‘Nice? Nice? Is that all you can say?’
‘Oh, Kate, please, not now.’
‘Lear was right,’ Kate says.
‘Who’s Lear?’
‘KING Lear,’ Kate yells. ‘Christ, listen to you. I spent a fortune on your education and you’re unfamiliar with even the basics.’
‘It’s just you said “Lear” as if you were talking about a close friend. You could have a friend called Leah, for all I know.’
‘Lear is a close friend,’ says Kate, furiously. ‘Lear and I are twin souls.’
‘ “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth…” ’I say, making a monumental effort to keep hold of my temper.
‘ “To have a thankless child!” – yes, Clara. Sharper. Goodbye.’
*
I eventually manage to stagger out of bed – the whole room seems to be tilting to one side – and into a soothing, cleansing bath, which I have to leave early because Charlie and Jack sound like they’re murdering each other downstairs; their screams carry all the way up two floors. I wrap a towel around me and race down, to find that Jack is lying on the kitchen floor, screaming and bleeding from his mouth.
‘Oh, my God,’ I cry. ‘Charlie, what happened?’
‘We were just fighting,’ says Charlie in a small voice. He has gone white, like a little ghost. ‘And I pushed him by mistake and he fell, and then blood came.’
‘It hurts,’ Jack sobs, spraying my face with blood. I open his mouth with my fingers and feel around. No broken teeth. His tongue’s okay. He must have bitten his lip, hard.
I rock Jack in my arms and kiss him. ‘You’re going to be fine, darling,’ I say, over and over. After a few minutes, Jack starts calming down. ‘Charlie is a poo and I hate him,’ he wails.
‘I hate you,’ says Charlie.
‘Do you?’ asks Jack in a perfectly normal voice, with no tears. He is apparently galvanized with fascination at the notion of Charlie’s hatred, tipping his head to one side, his ailment temporarily forgotten.
‘A bit,’ says Charlie. ‘Sometimes.’
‘I love you sometimes,’ says Jack, making a sad little face and twirling his hair in the way he did when he was a baby. ‘But not when you make me fall. It hurts me so so much.’
‘Mummy?’ says Charlie in a small voice. ‘Jack is quite sweet sometimes, isn’t he?’ He walks over to his brother and strokes his hair solemnly, whispering, ‘Sorry.’
‘You’re both quite sweet sometimes,’ I say, feeling choked. ‘And I love you. Where’s Daddy, by the way?’
‘Upstairs, listening to his music.’ Charlie shrugs. ‘Come on, Jack. You can be Friar Tuck, if you like.’
‘It’s like being a single parent,’ I tell Amber on the phone half an hour and two Nurofen later. ‘No, really. I might as well be absolutely on my own, because that’s what it’s like. He’s given them breakfast three times in his life. He’s never, ever, not once, got up in the night, even when Jack was born and
I was up every hour and nearly lost my mind through tiredness. And then he just buggers off and listens to The Pearl Fishers on his fucking earphones when he’s bored of them. I mean, they could have had a really terrible, ambulancey accident. He’d never have heard. I was only trying to have a bloody bath in peace.’
‘You would, though, Clara,’ says Amber. ‘You’d have heard.’
‘That’s my point exactly. Only I would hear. I might as well be by myself,’ I repeat. ‘I mean, he loves them, obviously, but really – I’ve never come across anyone so unwilling to help with them.’
‘It’s funny,’ says Amber. ‘He seems such a new man.’
‘Well, he is, I suppose, in some respects. He’s in touch with his feminine side in some ways, like clothes. But not in others, like bunging a fucking chicken into the oven every now and then. And he was nice last night, when I was drunk – he walked me round and gave me Evian. But you know, any friend would do that, wouldn’t they? You’d do it.’
‘Of course I would,’ says Amber. ‘I have.’
‘So have I.’ I sigh. ‘It’s like living with a friend, Amber. Is that really what we want?’
‘Well, a friend you have sex with,’ Amber says.
‘Let’s not even go there, Amber. Not now. And even if you did have sex, it wouldn’t necessarily make it all okay,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t mend it. You have sex like you brush your teeth. It’s nice, it’s fine, but it’s hardly…’
‘What?’ says Amber. ‘Spit it out.’
‘Well,’ I say. ‘I’m probably not thinking straight because I think I have alcoholic poisoning. But it’s not my idea of marriage. It’s not my idea of teamwork. It’s not my idea of sharing.’
‘Oh dear,’ says Amber, in a small voice.
‘It’s my idea of the perfect flat share,’ I say. ‘If we were flatmates we’d be in clover. But he’s my husband.’
‘Yes,’ says Amber. ‘And the father of your children. And you know, Clara, better than most, what happens when parents split up.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t talking about splitting up…’ I gasp, appalled.
‘Yes, you were.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘You were,’ Amber insists. ‘You know you were.’
There is a pause. It is quite long.
‘Yes, I suppose I was,’ I say.
I feel like I’ve pulled my finger out of the hole in the dam. Everything is coming pouring out. I might drown. We might all drown.
‘We’re leaving in a minute,’ I say. ‘I’ll phone you from there.’
‘Have a nice time,’ says Amber. ‘He does love you, you know.’
‘I know.’ I hang up and drag our huge suitcase – far larger than the weekend requires: Robert likes to be prepared for every sartorial eventuality – down into the hall.
‘Ready?’ says Robert. ‘Let’s go.’
The hotel is one of those places you drool about if you find yourself leafing through Condé Nast Traveller at the hairdresser’s: old-fashioned enough to have elegant old ladies taking tea in the fountained, chandeliered marble lobby, but friendly enough for one not to feel like something the cat’s dragged in. There’s a hotel in London I sometimes go to to interview people, a temple of minimalism, where I feel like I’m making a mess, like I’m soiling, just by standing at reception. This hotel is not like that. It’s splendid, opulent: a French Claridge’s. It is delightful, and Robert and I beam at each other all the way up to our room.
The bellboy turns the key into the lock and motions us through. ‘Christ!’ I gasp. ‘It’s like a palace.’
‘It’s the honeymoon suite, Madame,’ says the bellboy. ‘This is your drawing room’ – he gestures towards two vast, overstuffed brocade sofas, an elegant, spindly-legged bureau, a drinks cabinet, a giant state-of-the-art widescreen television, an Aubusson rug, and so on. ‘And through here,’ he says, leading us on, ‘is the bedroom. Music, here,’ he says. ‘Champagne in here, chilled. The bathroom’ – he beckons again – ‘is over here.’ The bathroom is a huge 1930s-style affair, all marble and yellow lighting, with towels the size of bedsheets and toiletries from Floris. The bath is very deep. ‘Jacuzzi,’ he says, ‘if you press this button.’
‘Thank you,’ says Robert, pressing a note into his hand. ‘Merci.’
‘Let me know if you need help with anything else,’ says the bellboy in his precise English. ‘Will you be dining in the restaurant tonight?’
‘Yes’ says Robert. ‘Clara? Yes, I think so. Nine o’clock, please.’
‘Very good,’ says the bellboy. ‘Enjoy your stay. And congratulations!’
‘He thinks we’re married!’ I say, sitting down on the bed.
‘We are,’ says Robert.
‘I mean freshly married. He thinks it’s our honeymoon.’
‘Good,’ says Robert. ‘We’ll get better service.’
‘I’m going to unpack and have a bath,’ I say. ‘I feel all planey. How long until dinner?’
‘About an hour. I’ll go after you.’
He goes into the living room and pushes buttons. ‘Music?’ he shouts. ‘There are a load of CDs. What do you fancy?’
‘You choose, Robert. Something nice to have a bath to. But not too loud – I’ve got to call home.’
‘Why?’
‘To check on the boys,’ I say, stifling a sigh of exasperation. ‘And on your mother.’ Robert’s mother is looking after the boys – a treat to which they have looked forward all week.
‘Can’t you call tomorrow?’
‘No. I want to call them now.’
‘Okay,’ says Robert, in a tight little voice. ‘But we’re away on our own, Clara. I thought this was about us.’ He says the last two words in an American accent, to signify the fact that he gets the joke. But he’s pissed off.
‘It is about us,’ I say primly. ‘And so are our children.’
‘Call, then,’ says Robert. ‘Tell me when you’ve finished.’
‘Don’t you want to talk to them?’
‘Not really,’ says Robert. ‘We only left them five hours ago.’
‘That’s not the point,’ I say. ‘Oh, never mind.’
I undress, lock the door and have a divinely long soak, which washes away all traces of my hangover. I wash my hair and wrap it up in a towel. I’m standing in front of the mirror, examining my face, when the door handle turns.
‘It’s locked,’ I shout.
‘Well, open it,’ says Robert.
‘I’m in the bath,’ I lie.
‘Get out, then. I’ve brought you a glass of champagne.’
I wrap myself in a towel, pad over to the door and open it.
‘You can get back in,’ Robert says.
‘No, it’s okay.’
‘I have seen you naked before, you know.’ Robert smiles.
‘Yes, I know. But I’ve washed now.’
‘Have some champagne.’
‘In a while, Robert. I don’t want another hangover.’
Robert sits on the loo seat and sips thoughtfully at his. ‘Tell me more about last night,’ he says.
‘Oh, there’s nothing much to say,’ I say, feeling weary and applying moisturizer. ‘I really liked this man called Christian. Do you remember, very camp, in the pink shawl?’
‘Oh yes,’ Robert says. ‘Well groomed.’
‘Quite. I was sitting next to him, and he made me laugh and laugh. We drank lots of cocktails, and then we sang, and then we went dancing.’
‘Where?’
‘A place called Mimi’s, in a railway arch under a bridge somewhere. We did the mambo.’
‘I didn’t know you could.’
‘I learned.’ I grin, wondering what on earth I must have looked like. ‘It was such fun.’
‘Clearly,’ says Robert impassively. ‘Where was Sam Dunphy?’
‘He was there.’
‘He fancies you,’ says Robert, creeping up behind me. ‘I could tell from the way he was looking at you. And you fancy him.’
‘He does not!’ I yelp. ‘He barely tolerates me. Well, no – I think he possibly slightly likes me. But that’s all. As a friend. And I do not fancy him.’
‘Yes,’ says Robert, looking at me in the mirror. ‘You do.’
‘I do not,’ I repeat. ‘I just had a fun evening. No one asked me about primary schools or property prices or whether I preferred Tesco’s to Sainsbury’s. That’s all.’
‘Hmm,’ says Robert, smiling, unconvinced. ‘You protest too much.’
‘Oh, shoo,’ I say, perturbed. ‘Let me get ready in peace.’
‘Chin-chin,’ says Robert, raising his glass. For a man who’s just accused his wife of fancying someone, he looks remarkably cheery.
We have a drink in the bar before dinner. Robert orders me a bloody Mary. He’s changed into a dark suit. He looks so at ease, Robert, in any given environment. East London last night, a five-star hotel now. He never sticks out, or looks square, or louche, or grotty. He never looks like he doesn’t belong. He always knows what to do; how to behave.
We holidayed as children in a selection of Europe and North America’s more fabulous hotels, so I’m hardly feeling like the oiky country mouse either. But, unlike Robert, I don’t look the part. I look like someone who’s only pretending, who’s dressing up for a game. I look like someone who’s only afforded service because of the company she’s in. I look, really, like what I am: like the kind of person who’s going to go home and change into comfy fleecy tracky bots. He doesn’t.
We’re shown into the dining room, which is as pretty and ornate – gilt, curls, a palpable opulence – as any I’ve seen. A bottle of champagne arrives with the manager’s compliments, for the sexy young honeymooners.
‘It’s nice to be back here. It’s a corny thing to say, but I really do love Paris, don’t you, Robert? There’s something so enchanting about it.’
‘Remember our honeymoon?’ Robert says, raising his glass to me for the second time this evening. ‘Cheers. To Paris.’
‘We were so young,’ I say absent-mindedly. ‘I mean, relatively speaking – people marry later these days. We were…’
‘Twenty-four, five,’ says Robert. ‘Hardly spring chickens.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I had no grey hairs. And I remember being rather overcome. You know, swanning around that posh hotel with the people with Vuitton luggage and big hair and me in my stilettos and little Lycra dresses…’