Larger Than Life

by Adele Parks

  ‘Good girl.’

  Fine idea.’

  ‘Well done, you.’

  I catch Penny’s eye. She’s wearing rubber gloves as she’s washing the kitchen floor and has just finished cleaning the bathrooms. Although she planned the menus, did all the shopping for the weekend’s catering and has made every meal so far, she has not received as much praise as Sam gets for offering to stick a couple of rashers of bacon under the grill. I wonder if she’s noticed. Libby obviously has, because when Sam leaves the kitchen to go and find her fag packet Libby comments, ‘I wouldn’t waste your time cleaning loos if you want to get noticed.’ She drops three teaspoons of instant coffee into a mug. She does this in slow motion; it’s obvious that she feels wrecked too. ‘men don’t see dirt, they don’t notice when it’s messy, so why would they care if you tidy up?’ She shuffles to the fridge and pulls out a pint of milk. She sniffs it carefully, but of course it is fresh because Penny wouldn’t have sour milk in any fridge that she’s in charge of. ‘they notice drink. Pour them a glass of wine or fetch a can and a cheer goes up.’ And whilst she doesn’t have to be explicit, it’s obvious that Libby’s next observation is that men notice the food that soaks up hangovers. Therefore, despite the fact that breakfast is the simplest meal to prepare, it’s always the meal that earns the most lavish praise.

  I think it’s pretty good of Libby to share this advice with Penny, but Penny doesn’t thank her, she doesn’t say anything at all. She waits until Sam reappears from the sitting room and simply says, ‘Would you make breakfast, Sam?’ (Although I do notice that the smile is a little stiff.) ‘then I can take the children to church. I looked up the mass times yesterday. There’s one at eleven.’

  ‘Do they go to church every week?’ I ask.

  ‘Most.’

  Religion. What will we do? Will I instruct my baby that there is a God (other than the modern-day ones, such as Amex and Robbie Williams) or will I admit that, as far as I’m concerned, the jury is still out? There’s so much more to parenting than buying the latest Nike trainers and, not for the first time, I wonder if I’m qualified. Hugh and I have yet to discuss the God issue. We must, and soon. Maybe I’ll broach the subject on the car ride home. And I’ll find a way to bring up the fact that I am planning on going back to work after the baby is born. It strikes me that besides sex we haven’t done much together to actually prepare for this baby’s birth. We haven’t even agreed a name and I can’t pin him down on whether he’s planning on attending the birth or not.

  ‘I’II come with you,’ I offer. It’s so out of character that Penny initially thinks she’s misheard me. It’s true that I don’t regularly attend church – in fact, I limit my visits to weddings and funerals. ‘You’ll never manage all the kids on your own,’ I justify. I don’t suppose Penny wants me to go to church with her but on the other hand she can’t refuse my offer. It wouldn’t be very godly; it wouldn’t be very Penny.

  I bully Kate and Tom into wearing something vaguely smart, or at least clean, and, as Libby has shuffled back to bed to take advantage of the, I assume, rare chance of a lie-in, I ask Millie if she wants to come too.

  ‘Why should I?’ she demands. Fair question.

  ‘We’re stopping off at the newsagent’s on the way home to buy newspapers and sweets,’ I reply. It’s a tough call. Millie will have to leave her Barbie and Steps videos or trust someone else to choose her favourite sweets.

  ‘OK, then, I’ll come,’ she sighs, making it clear that her agreement is reluctant.

  Millie won’t put on anything suitable for church. To be fair, it soon becomes obvious that she doesn’t actually own clothes that would be considered suitable. God is just going to have to accept her fluorescent-green mini skirt, silver halter-neck top and ruby-red sling-back sandals, worn (with undeniable flair and a dollop of unconventionality) with multicoloured, stripy tights. To prove she knows she’s going somewhere a bit special, Millie also chooses to wear about twenty friendship bangles; it looks as though the weight of them is going to make her tumble sideways. Penny is obviously horrified and if I’d realized that Millie’s appearance was going to upset her so much I would have allowed Millie to put on her fake tattoos; as it is, we have to hurry.

  By some miracle, we manage to get all children to the church on time and, by another, they all look set to behave impeccably throughout the service.

  My motivation for coming to the service is ill-defined. I know for definite that I didn’t want to sit amongst the smells of a fried breakfast, yet another trigger which my oh-so-sensitive stomach reacts to. And a tiny bit of me thinks that, however self-righteous and irritating Penny is, it isn’t fair to expect her to manage all the children on her own all the time. Who would have thought that rubber gloves could unleash such sympathy?

  And then again there is something more than that.

  It may be curiosity. It’s certainly a novelty spending a Sunday morning in church rather than simply spending in the supermarket or on the King’s Road. It’s not that I want to pray or anything. It’s not that I have anything particular that I need help with. My life is just fine. Hugh and I are having a baby and he speaks of me in glowing terms to his brother. Everything is fine. And, anyway, even if it wasn’t fine, mumbling silently in my head, to a silent something in my head, is unlikely to be much practical help. Having said that, I find myself mumbling anyway. Something about ‘please, silent something in my head, let it be fine’. Because it can’t harm, can it?

  There is no flash of lightning, no parting of the seas, no obvious sign of divine intervention. But, sat amongst the shiny wooden benches and smiley old women, singing hymns that I sang as a child, and watching the early spring sun filter through the stained-glass windows on to the worn marble floor, I feel peaceful. Supported. I lose myself to the sound of the choir and simply enjoy the confident, understated harmony of combined voices.

  It’s a relief.

  The feeling of calm doesn’t last as long as the sermon.

  Penny has to take her youngest two outside the church – one is screaming louder than the tenor is singing, the other has peed his pants. A fact revealed to us during silent prayer, when Tom yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Naughty Marcus has done splashy wee-wee all over the floor.’ Penny’s oldest child, Josh, has listened to more propaganda than your average Russian during the Cold War, and sees me as the devil incarnate. Given a choice of companions he’d rather spend time with Cruella DeVil. He eyes me warily and I know that I have only a matter of minutes before he starts to bawl. Kate and Tom are fighting because, apparently, Tom’s coin for the collection box is shinier than Kate’s. Millie is bored and keeps kicking the pew in front of her. Each time she does so she apologizes in a loud voice and explains to the angry occupants that she comes from a one-parent family and has never been in a church before, not even to be baptized. The entire congregation sigh communally for her poor lost soul and glare at me. The ones who still possess the majority of their faculties look at my ringless left hand and my swelling stomach. They mutter something about cushy number on the welfare state, tut their disgust and turn back to their hymn books.

  I no longer feel supported.

  I just want a fag.

  And a stiff gin.

  When the service is over I quickly usher the kids outside, trying to avoid the vicar’s handshake and Marcus’s pee. I’m delighted to see that Sam and Libby are waiting with Penny.

  ‘We thought we’d come and meet you and we can all walk back together,’ smiles Libby.

  ‘Or pop to the pub,’ suggests Sam. She catches Penny’s eye and adds defensively, ‘For a lemonade, there’s a garden.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ comments killjoy Penny.

  ‘Well, I do,’ I assert. I’m in need of a drink, even if the only stiff thing about it is the straw.

  Penny insists on taking Kate and Tom home with her. She exercises her right as auntie and I, common-law stepmother, have no rights at all. Oh, I don’t care, let her take t
hem. It can’t be healthy that I’ve started to actively seek Kate and Tom’s company. I am pleased that Libby opts to join Sam and me. It’s understandable. As Londoners we are all deprived of fresh air and we think it’s a luxury to sit on a bench near a tree, even if it is still chilly and we have to keep our coats on.

  ‘Shame Penny didn’t want to join us,’ ventures Sam. Whilst I’m not losing sleep over her absence, I don’t say as much. It’s unnecessary to be mean to a woman whose idea of a good time is donning rubber gloves and cleaning loos. ‘Penny is awash with old-fashioned housewifery skills that are dying out. I feel I could learn a lot from her. She does her own decorating, hangs wallpaper and everything. She showed me some photos of the children’s rooms; she’s painted adorable stencil designs all around the walls and ceiling.’

  ‘Really?’ I try to stifle my yawn behind a polite smile, but fail.

  ‘She can ice cakes, arrange flowers. She knows stuff like the importance of turning a mattress.’ Sam sighs her adoration. ‘You’d find her interesting, too, if only you’d give her a chance. Remember, they say it takes all sorts to make a world.’

  This is the second time in twenty-four hours that I’ve been given this advice and still I doubt it. Indeed, I’m piqued beyond reason that Sam would even think so.

  ‘What makes you think that just because I’m pregnant I want to turn into the type of woman who knows how to remove stains?’ I demand. Libby and Sam look at me pityingly. My example was a bad choice; likelihood is I will want and need to know how to remove stains from shirts, dressing gowns, carpets, coats and car seats; all sorts of stains, sick, milk, milky sick, Ribena, squashed banana and worse. It’s a dismal train of thought, so I change the subject and ask, ‘Where are the chaps? Didn’t they want to join us?’

  ‘James has gone back to bed,’ says Libby.

  ‘Wise,’ I approve.

  ‘Gilbert never drinks at lunchtime,’ says Sam.

  ‘Old fart,’ I comment, but dilute the harsh words with my sweetest smile; my gesture is unnecessary as Sam doesn’t seem to be listening to me. ‘And how are your heads?’ I probe.

  ‘I have to stop drinking so much,’ says Libby, laying her head on the wooden table and moaning. ‘It wasn’t just last night; I had a very heavy session on Friday as well.’

  I really like Libby, more and more. This is more like it. Forget stencilling and turning mattresses. There’s no need to assume that mums throw in the towel as far as having fun goes. It’s obvious that Libby’s life is no picnic, but I’m thrilled to note that she isn’t letting her spirit, youth and beauty go to waste.

  ‘Did you have a good time?’ I ask.

  ‘Millie, why don’t you go and play on the swings?’ suggests Libby.

  ‘Don’t want to.’ Millie can obviously sniff a good debrief from quite a distance and is not prepared to lose out. Libby glares at her daughter and, after a short but undignified battle involving bribes of a bottle of Coke and a packet of crisps, Millie slinks off towards the swings, which puts her out of earshot – although her mother warns us that she’s quite good at lip-reading. Libby chooses to answer my question anyway.

  ‘Kind of. Some of the gang from work invited me out for a few drinks, and as Millie was having tea at one of her friends’ and I’d arranged for her to be picked up from there by her babysitter… ‘Self-justification elegantly mixed with guilt is possibly Libby’s natural state.

  ‘So you were young, free and single, as it were,’ I say, trying to hurry her along.

  She nods. ‘Well, a quick one turned into a slow several. The works: beers, wine, tequilas, a nightclub and… sordid S.E.X. with a friend of one of the junior consultants.’ She whispers the last bit.

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she assures, half cheerfully, half ruefully. We pause to open a packet of crisps for Millie; personally, I doubt whether this will be a robust enough distraction.

  ‘And was it any good?’ I ask dutifully. No one ever makes a confession of this kind except in the hope that they’ll be asked for details.

  ‘Not sure,’ whispers Libby. ‘When I woke up the next morning there were two things on my mind. One, who is this P.E.R.S.O.N. L.Y.I.N.G. next to me? Two, how can I remove H.I.M. without attracting the attention of you know who.’ She spells it out quickly although Millie is at least fifty yards away; Libby obviously thinks she’s currently in training for MI5.

  I smile sympathetically.

  ‘Actually, there were numerous other questions springing to mind, vying for attention. What time is it? What day is it? If it’s a weekday what shall I put in Millie’s sandwiches? Is her school shirt ironed? How did I get home? How did my K.N.I.C.K.E.R.S. get stuck on top of the headboard? Who blew out the candles? Is that a red wine stain on the carpet? If so, will Fabriclean remove it? I decided that my rudimentary decision to concentrate on the original two questions was wisest.’

  Sam and I laugh and Sam asks, ‘did you get rid of him without inciting the wrath of the scary…’ She makes a movement that’s a cross between a wink and a nod as she motions towards Millie.

  I notice Millie tut. Obviously our attempts to preserve her childhood innocence are as ineffective as they are ludicrous.

  ‘yes and no. Getting rid of him was a doddle. He seemed rather too keen to make an exit, especially after he spotted the Pokémon stickers on the fridge door and the Mickey Mouse toothpaste in the bathroom. However, we didn’t manage to accomplish his flit without being spied on by the ever-vigilant… ‘Libby points at Millie.

  Millie breaks her sulky silence as she re-approaches our bench and comments, ‘my mother is a disgrace’ in her best Mary Whitehouse accent, behaving as though she were Libby’s mother, rather than her daughter.

  ‘Show no fear,’ I whisper. Libby tries to smile but I can tell she’s concerned. I don’t know what to say to her to make her feel better. But I can’t just sit back and watch her drown in guilt and responsibility. ‘OK, so you slept with a handsome stranger. How bad can that be?’

  ‘Not bad at all if I were simply single, rather than a single mum,’ mutters Libby. It seems that Millie is an albatross and a lifebuoy all at once.

  We’ve all done it,’ says Sam, patting Libby’s hand comfortingly. ‘Well, except for George,’ she adds, which makes me distinctly uncomfortable.

  ‘Haven’t you ever had a one-night stand, George?’

  ‘No, well not unless you count my first night with Hugh.’ I briefly fill her in with the background of my and Hugh’s relationship. It takes a remarkable amount of self-control to stick to the broad brush strokes rather than give her the minutiae, but then I am restricted by time – we have to be back at the cottage for lunch in a couple of hours.

  When I’ve finished, Libby asks, ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’

  ‘Go on,’ I agree cautiously. It must be bad if Libby feels she has to ask to be personal; we’ve assumed a girly level of intimacy and honesty thus far.

  ‘How many men have you slept with besides Hugh?’

  I’m sure if we’d met in our early twenties this question would have been included in the first five questions on meeting one another. Name, age, occupation, which Tube line do you use to get into work and how many notches on the bedpost? The order of questions four and five is interchangeable. But meeting a little later in life normally demands more reticence; I’d hoped to avoid it altogether. ‘Besides Hugh?’ I clarify.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many?’ I stall. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Err.’ I take a moment; my answer is frighteningly unfashionable. If Sam wasn’t here I’d lie, but Sam knows the truth. ‘Em, well, none,’ I finally confess.

  ‘None!’ Libby is so shocked that she nearly drops her drink. ‘No one other than Hugh?’

  ‘No,’ I confirm.

  ‘But you work in advertising?’

  ‘A few near misses. Quite a few. But no actual, you know.’

  ‘Hiding the sausage.’

  ‘Exactly.’
/>   She stops to do the maths. She’s so obviously aghast that I’m distressed for her. ‘That means you were celibate for roughly ten years, most of your adult life,’ she says, incredulous.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you give the impression that you are so worldly.’

  I shrug, what can I say? He was worth waiting for. I hunt for a fresh packet of crisps amongst the debris. At least the rustling breaks the silence.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why just Hugh?’

  ‘I love him. I’ve only ever loved him.’ It seems straightforward to me, but I guess mine could be regarded as a fairly complex moral code. I slept with Hugh although he was married to Becca, but I’ve never slept with anyone else because I’ve never loved anyone else.

  ‘God, Hugh must be amazing to have kept you so… ‘she searches for the word, ‘focused.’ Libby can’t take her eyes off me. In her mind I’m obviously akin to something that’s just landed from another planet. I sometimes wish I were Madonna.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘How am I looking at you?’

  ‘As though I’ve wasted my life.’

  ‘How should I be looking?’

  I can’t think of an answer.

  At great personal expense, Sam creates a diversion. Or maybe she just wants to talk about herself again.

  ‘I’m giving up alcohol too. I feel as rough as budgie crap.’

  Millie giggles and seems to forget her mother’s one-night stand and my lack of them as, this time, she skips off toward the swings, appearing every inch the adorable, compliant seven-year-old. I can only assume she thinks she’s achieved her mischief quota in church this morning.

  ‘I didn’t get to sleep until after 5 a.m. this morning,’ says Sam.

  ‘Show-off. Nooky in the early hours of the morning. I’m beginning to understand why you’re engaged to Gilbert,’ I say, coarsely winking and elbowing Sam in the ribs. It’s funny, since I’ve become pregnant I don’t seem to be able to do anything elegantly, not even discuss the lurid details of my friends’ sex lives. Actually, thinking about it maybe that’s not so odd.