Larger Than Life

by Adele Parks

  That’s why I’m biting my tongue now, though Kate is biting my thigh. I drag her towards the door with one hand, whilst using the other to carry my files and laptop, and balancing Tom on one hip. I wonder if Kate’s violent tendencies are because she’s from a broken home or because she’s intrinsically genuinely awful.

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ I assure Hugh brightly and falsely, whilst mentally and reluctantly kissing bye-bye to my noisy night at Champagne Charlotte’s. ‘Come on, Kate, we’ll walk your dad to the Tube and then go and buy a Häagen-Dazs.’ She scowls – I might as well have offered to pull out her toenails or torch cute puppies. I reassure myself that the only person who is less enamoured with this childminding arrangement than me is Kate.

  We set off towards the Tube station, dodging left and right to avoid large umbrellas belonging to harassed office workers who are dashing to the nearest pub or fighting over available cabs. I glance through the window of Champagne Charlotte’s. It looks warm and inviting. It’s already heaving with boisterous boys and girls. I look away quickly before Hugh notices my longing. Although he probably wouldn’t notice anyway, because he’s excitedly telling me about things that happened in the office today. He loves his new job. He’s always been extremely driven, but I’ve never seen him quite so enthusiastic about work in years. He likes the people who work there, he likes the clients, he likes the creativity. He’s never been happier and I’m really happy for him. We reach the Tube station. Hugh strides towards the ticket machine. It salves his social conscience to travel by Tube now and again rather than always by taxi. Bugger that, once he is safely on the Northern line I’m going to hail a cab. It’s bad enough having to be responsible for Kate and Tom, there’s no way I am going to attempt to be so on public transport.

  Two of the ticket machines are out of order; two are not giving change; the fifth is surrounded by jubilant Italian teenagers who can’t read English and, even if they could understand the instructions on the machine, would feel that it was unpatriotic to hurry. We stand in the miserably long queue, with people with miserably long faces. Kate lies on the floor and screams that she hates me. Hugh doesn’t react to this antisocial behaviour (‘don’t pander to her, that’s what she wants’), but grabs his ticket, kisses Tom and the space near my left ear and pushes his way through the ticket barrier.

  Kate screams on. This she-devil is the half-sister of the being I’m carrying. That must count for something. I dig deep for some reserves of patience and understanding, whilst sighing silently and hoping to God Kate takes after her mother. I drag her along the dirty tiled floor whilst fruitlessly pleading with her to stand up. Besides the fact that I’m in serious danger of losing my balance and dropping Tom, I can’t take any more tuts of disapproval. I want to shout at passers-by that she’s not mine, that I’m just shagging her father, but I don’t think it will help. God, I’m tired, I’d love to go home right now and hide away under the duvet. Still, there’s no chance of that for the next several hours. Scrub that, the next several years. I rally and think of my grandmother’s motto, ‘make do and mend’. Of course, she was referring to a ripped shirt or frayed basket; I’m battling with shredded patience and tattered nerves.

  Surprisingly, we all do make it to the Häagen-Dazs store in one piece. I hand Kate and Tom cones stuffed with tutti-frutti and strawberry ice cream. I know that Becca wouldn’t approve of me feeding them ice cream, which secretly motivates me. Kate’s cone sways precariously for a split second and then the tutti-frutti hits the deck, leaving evidence of its fall on Kate’s school coat and my trousers. She lets up an enormous wail; the horrifying pitch is such that it prompts at least three other customers to consider calling the police and the social services. I quickly buy her a replacement, which she accepts ungracefully, shooting me looks that clearly indicate she holds me responsible for the catastrophe. I have a distinct feeling that it’s going to be a long evening.

  8

  It’s Kate who first notices Sam camping on my doorstep. I live in Clapham, and there are often down-and-outs rolling around my neat residential street – it’s one of the many colourful juxtapositions that make up London life. However, the vagrants are rarely dressed in Karen Millen and hoofed in L. K. Bennett. Sam and her sadness stand out like Scary Spice on a Saga holiday. Her red-rimmed eyes tell me everything I need to know at a glance. She explains that she couldn’t face either checking out ancient names in her palm pilot or going home to her empty flat, which offers little more in the way of company than a bottle of wine and a box of microwave chips. She adds that there’s only me who understands ‘because we are so alike’. I’m extremely shocked and offended by this comment. It truly terrifies me. Does the outside world see me as such a dismal throwback? Sam thinks the suffragettes were a 1970s pop band. She’s a pushover where guys are concerned. It’s embarrassing. I may have bemoaned a lack of Hugh in my life in the past, but the difference is I’ve only ever bemoaned the lack of Hugh in my life; Sam has bemoaned Alan, Bart, Clive, Doug, right through to Zachary, all with equal vehemence. It’s a big difference. Her inconsistency is maddening, and threatens any real sympathy I might be persuaded to muster.

  There again, she found my consistency absolutely bewildering, yet she was always the other end of a handkerchief.

  (G&)tea and sympathy are the order of the day.

  I try to view her presence as a blessing; at least she always knows how to entertain Kate and Tom. And it’s a good thing Hugh had to go out; he wouldn’t have seen Sam’s presence as anything other than an irritant. Listening to Sam’s stories of her countless near misses is some way away from his idea of fun. He claims that her stories depress me and that she causes me to be irritable. This simply isn’t true. In fact, the reverse is the case. It’s not very nice to admit, but Sam’s stories of her hapless love life make me mentally jump with joy that I have Hugh and that I’m in such a great relationship – I mean, there but for the grace of God. Anyway, whenever Sam comes round for a debrief of her unromantic liaisons, Hugh grabs his car keys and mumbles something about ‘taking it for a wash’ and leaves me alone to the job of superglueing together Sam’s shattered heart and self-esteem. I wonder if I could pull the same stunt and leave Kate or Tom in charge of Sam; looking at the state Sam’s in, there is only a minuscule chance of the more conventional alternative being a viable option.

  Kate falls through the door and runs directly to the sofa. She picks up the remote and tunes in to Cartoon Network. I know that the only way Hugh can ever persuade her to stay in with me is with the bribe of Cable TV. Still, I’m not complaining; one down, two to go. I change Tom’s nappy (there really isn’t anything more disgusting in the entire world and I simply don’t believe mothers who say that you get used to it) and I pop him to bed in the spare room. Finally, I deal with Sam. I pour her an enormous G&T and whilst the kettle is boiling I eat three slices of toast.

  ‘Kate, give me a hug,’ demands Sam. I’m amazed to see Kate actually skip across the room into Sam’s open arms.

  ‘Can I have one too?’ I ask. I can only assume this request is hormone-driven. Kate tuts and sidles reluctantly towards me. Too well drilled to actively refuse, too much of a four year-old to pretend to enjoy complying. I wish I’d never asked. Her second journey across my coir matting floor leaves another set of muddy wellington-boot prints, and as she hugs me she blows an enormous gum bubble that pops in my hair.

  I’d say it was deliberate sabotage but I have no absolute proof.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve heard your daddy say that bubble gum is not allowed,’ says Sam, through her smudged mascara and sniffles. ‘Take your wellies off and go and wash your hands before you touch anything.’ It amazes me that even a distracted, heartbroken Sam is more capable of babysitting than I am, especially since I’m trying hard. However, the instructions, although well-intentioned, come too late. I can already see sticky fingerprints on the B&O stereo, the aluminium coffee table, the TV, the remote. I’ll have to go to the hairdresser’s to get the
effects of the burst bubble cut out of my hair and, for some reason, logical only to a four-year-old brain, Kate has chosen to take off her muddy Wellington boots whilst sat on my white goatskin rug. I sigh but say nothing.

  I pour Sam another large G&T (lordy, she got through that one quickly enough) and I try to silence Kate’s demands for peanut-butter sandwiches, Coke and Twiglets. I can supply the Coke and Twiglets, as I bought them especially for her, but I don’t have any peanut butter. When she visited last week her undisputed favourite sandwich filler was Nutella. Last week I hadn’t any Nutella, this week I’ve stocked up heavily on it, but Kate simply stares at me as though I’ve suggested poisoning her.

  ‘Yuk. Never touch it,’ she yells categorically. ‘It’s so calorific.’

  I’m tempted to tell her that peanut butter is more calorific, but realize that this is not a dignified argument to have with a four-year-old. I offer her avocado and mozzarella, a banana or French plum jam. It appears that neither my fridge nor my life are particularly child-friendly. She finally accepts the banana, pulling a face, which clearly communicates her belief that I am trying to poison her. I wait, expecting her to demand that Sam act as food taster, rather like Queen Elizabeth I. Finally she settles back in front of the TV.

  I decide to concentrate on cheering up Sam, at least I’m practised in that skill, but I realize that I am doing a fairly poor job when I can’t even remember the name of the guy she’s been seeing. Nor do I help myself with my defence – that it isn’t my fault; I’ve only met him once and they’ve only been an item for five minutes. Sam struggles to hide her irritation and points out that they’ve been seeing each other for three months. To be pedantic, they’ve been seeing each other two months, two weeks – she always rounds up. Coincidentally it’s the same length of time I’ve been pregnant. I tell her that she doesn’t need a man to define her. She tells me that she knows she doesn’t need a man, and if she had a pound for every time someone has said that she’d stop applying for a slot on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? She just ‘wants one’.

  Sam is thirty-five. Her life story is roughly as follows. From the age of nought to fifteen she spent looking beautiful and imagining being Cinderella, or similar (it is my personal belief that this is the reason behind Sam’s shoe fetish – in her mind pretty shoes are intrinsically linked to the happily ever after). Aged sixteen to twenty-four she latched on to a specific boy or man for a period of two to three years in the hope he’d propose. This strategy was so extreme and followed so strictly it even led to her delaying her university entrance for three years as she was ‘so close’ to a proposal from some guy or other. The proposal didn’t come, so she changed track and went to university to meet more men. Turned out to be more of the same men because, despite an impressive array of candidates and considerable effort on Sam’s behalf, a diamond ring never materialized. When she graduated, aged twenty-four, she heard her body clock ticking so loudly that she thought the wake-up call was coming from Big Ben. In response she shortened the probation period she’d allow for prospective husbands to demonstrate their commitment. Her boyfriends were given anything from a month to six months, maximum. If at that point there was no indication of serious intent (at the very least the suggestion of a weekend break in the Lake District) she dumped ruthlessly. Problem is, Sam attracts commitment-phobes like Winnie the Pooh’s pantry attracts wasps. As time passes and Sam panics, she swaps one hopeless case for another with increasing, and alarming, rapidity. The result is that despite being gorgeous, funny, kind and generous, she’s still alone.

  She’s lonely.

  Becca is doing a night class in furniture restoration.

  And I’m pregnant.

  We all have our crosses to bear.

  It’s a melancholy evening, which bizarrely recommends itself to me. Between us we consume (besides the G&Ts and toast) four pots of tea, an entire packet of chocolate-covered Hobnobs and a fish-and-chips supper (two and a half weeks’ calories in less than two and a half hours). Sam also smokes twenty Marlboro Lights and drinks a bottle of Chardonnay.

  ‘You’re not drinking?’ Sam refills her own glass. She is so absorbed in her own problems that she barely pauses for my response.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not smoking?’ She offers me the pack for a brief second and then lights up and inhales deeply.

  ‘No,’ I mutter.

  ‘Another detox programme?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘But you are eating chocolate?’ she insists.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Odd detox programme. Whose is it?’ But she doesn’t wait for a reply. It’s quite depressing that an absolute reversal of thirteen years of ruthlessly strict habits draws no more attention than this from my best friend, which makes me wonder if we are on different planets. At the very least we are operating in different time zones.

  Melancholy tips into maudlin, slips into depression and finally nose-dives into full-scale despair by about 9 p.m. and after the second bottle of Chardonnay. I am actually relieved when Becca arrives to pick up Kate and Tom, as she interrupts Sam’s monologue about how she feels incomplete and if that’s so wrong, saying a man completes her, then come the revolution put her against the wall and shoot her. I am tempted to shoot her there and then when she crashes into my telephone table, knocking over a vase of flowers, breaking it and spilling water on to a pile of papers that Hugh has left in the hallway.

  ‘I’m not saying all girls are incomplete without guys.’ She still calls women ‘girls’, even though nearly everyone she knows is in their thirties; some would think this endearing. ‘But I am saying people, human beings, are incomplete without other human beings; and having one special human being to love me above all others is my nirvana. I’m always the bridesmaid, never the bride.’ And so she spews forth her words of wisdom as I encourage her to put on her coat and pashmina and fold her into a waiting taxi. ‘I know it’s not a fashionable point of view, but it is my point of view. I want someone to buy a house with, celebrate birthdays with, have kids with and’ – she hesitates – ‘recently I’ve begun to feel fed up that “someone” is always a “different one” or, worse, “anyone”.’ She grabs my hair and stares at me with an intensity that can only be achieved if you have consumed more than half a dozen units on an empty stomach (you can’t count Hobnobs as food) and a dozen more after some fish and chips. ‘You understand, you felt just this way about Hugh.’

  Yes I did, do.

  9

  Hugh finally comes home some time after one in the morning. He wakes me up as he gets into bed but I don’t let on. If I admit to being awake I’ll have to ask where he’s been until this time of night. And I don’t want to have to do that. He probably persuaded his clients to go to his club after the dinner, which will have undoubtedly been a success (Hugh’s charming most of the time, and when he makes the effort he’s irresistible). They’ll have been bowled over by the fact that he has a private membership at Monte’s, especially as Jamie Oliver was actually cooking tonight. It’s worth staying late because the lovely Jamie often pops out front after he’s hung up his oven gloves. Hugh knows how to show his clients a good time.

  Probably.

  What am I thinking? Of course he’s been with his clients. Bloody hell, I’m becoming really paranoid. If I asked him now he’d tell me all about it.

  I think I will ask. Just to prove to myself how stupid I’m being.

  On second thoughts, best not, I don’t want Hugh to think I’m mistrustful. Besides which, he’s unlikely to say, ‘Actually, I’ve been having wild sex with Scandinavian nymphomaniac twins.’ Instead I lie very still, trying to ignore the fact that I feel nauseous again. Hugh falls asleep immediately. The smell of alcohol seeps from his pores and his snores reverberate around the room; weirdly I find this comforting. I’ve never minded his snoring. This is what I wanted. It’s intimate. It’s us. The street light is leaking through the roller blinds, illuminating the room in parts, and casting shadows in other parts
. I can just about make out the silver frames on the Klimt prints, but not the detail of the pictures. Not that I actually need to see them, I know them off by heart. The Kiss and the one with the pregnant redhead. Hugh bought me them for my twenty-first birthday. They’re just posters bought from Athena but I was thrilled; at the time every other student room was decorated with black and white photos of women wearing big hats and too much make-up or men with bare chests holding naked babies. I had the Klimt posters framed in silver, which the guy in the shop advised against, he was pushing us towards the more traditional gold frame. But Hugh pointed out that gold was such an obvious choice, everyone framed Klimt in gold. So I held out for what I wanted.

  Looking at them now I think they might have been better with gold frames.

  Still, no point losing sleep over a decision I made donkey’s years ago.

  I can see the chair at the end of the bed. It’s wooden, with a white seat. Hugh has carefully folded his trousers and left them on the chair back. The trousers and a small pile of loose coins next to his side of the bed are the only obvious signs of his inhabitance. Naturally, his other clothes are hanging in the wardrobe and his CDs dominate the rack, his razors are in the bathroom and he has some travel books on my bookshelves – he’s not a great reader of novels – but it doesn’t seem to add up to very much. Suddenly it doesn’t seem very permanent.

  God, girl, get a grip.

  Talk about middle-of-the-night heebie-jeebies. Of course Hugh’s permanent. He was delighted when I told him about the baby. A baby. Our baby. That’s more permanent than anything we’ve ever done before. More permanent than touring Mexico, or trekking in China, more permanent than choosing Christmas presents together or visiting aged aunts, more permanent than anything, full stop. And permanency with Hugh is all I’ve ever wanted. I need the loo. I really, really need to wee. My bladder is groaning. It feels exactly like a balloon stretched to its limit and full of water. And I feel sick. I thought it was supposed to be morning sickness. The strain I’ve got is obviously insomniac and has no regard for time of day. Right now, in terms of permanency, I’d have settled for Hugh putting his name on the deeds of the apartment.