I Don't Know How She Does It

by Allison Pearson

  Great. My daughter will become the world’s first well-rounded anorexic. Admitted to Oxford weighing seventy-five pounds, she will rise from her hospital bed and take a dazzling first in Philosophy. She will then do a job for six years, become a mother, give up work because it’s all too much and spend her mornings in Coffee Republic decoding the entrance requirements for St. Paul’s over skinny lattes with the fluent Japanese-speaking housewife, Davina Brunt. Jesus, what is the matter with these women?

  “Sorry, Angela, gotta run. Plane to catch.”

  Still struggling to pull the minicab door to on its gouty hinges when Angela fires her parting shot. “Look, Kate, if you’re serious about getting Emily into Piper Place I can give you this psychologist’s number. Everyone’s using him. He’ll coach her to draw the right sort of picture at the interview.”

  I take a deep grateful breath of the sweet ganja-rich air in the back of Winston’s cab. It takes me back to mellower days, a time before children, when being irresponsible was almost a duty.

  “And what does the right sort of picture look like, Angela?”

  The Brunt woman laughs. “Oh, you know, imaginative but not too imaginative.”

  * * *

  GOD, HOW I DESPISE myself after conversations with Angela Brunt. I can feel Angela’s maternal ambition getting into me like a flu bug. You try to fight it, you try to stick with your hunch that your child will do perfectly OK without being force-fed facts like some poor little foie-gras gosling. But one day your immune system’s a bit low and bam! Angela’s in there with her league tables and her average reading scores and her psychologist’s phone number. You know what’s really pathetic? In the end, I’ll probably put Emily down for Anorexia High: fear of what insanely competitive schooling will do to my child is outweighed only by fear of holding her back, of her somehow falling behind and its being my fault. And the race starts earlier every year; there’s actually a kindergarten in our borough with a wall devoted to the Impressionists. The mothers have reluctantly come round to the idea that money can’t buy you love, but they think that money can buy you Monet, and that’s good enough for them.

  Exhausted working mothers helplessly enrolling their girls in academies of stress. It’s not the only way, but maybe it’s the only way we understand anymore. Stress. Success. They even rhyme.

  9:28 A.M. “What’s that lady’s problem?”

  “What?”

  Winston is studying me in the rearview mirror. His eyes, so brown they’re almost black, are flecked with laughter.

  “Angela? Oh, I don’t know. Urban angst, frustrated woman living vicariously through her kids, insufficient oral sex. The usual.”

  Winston’s laugh fills the cab. Deep and grainy, it reverberates in my solar plexus and, just for a moment, calms me.

  Traffic on the way to the airport is so heavy I have plenty of time to dwell on the forthcoming ordeal of meeting Abelhammer. When I talked to Rod Task last night he said, “Jack seems pretty excited about meeting you, Katie.”

  “That’ll be because of Greenspan’s half percent interest-rate cut,” I improvised. Could hardly tell my boss that I have sent my client e-mail promising disorderly conduct and week in bed, not to mention love and kisses.

  Can’t seem to stop scratching. Washed my hair last night with new shampoo: allergic reaction maybe? Or perhaps I’ve picked up some lower life-form in the back of Pegasus. Like a swamp, the prehistoric cab could easily be breeding ground for any number of invertebrates.

  On the other hand, the music swirling round it hails from the opposite end of human development. The hot blare of trumpets and the syncopated snap of the percussion remind me of Rhapsody in Blue.

  “Is that Gershwin, Winston?”

  He shakes his head. “Ravel.” My cab driver listens to Ravel?

  We are passing the Hoover factory when the slow movement starts. It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Halfway through, a flute comes in and just sort of breathes over the piano; when I close my eyes I see a bird hovering over the sea.

  3:00 P.M. EAST COAST TIME, OFFICE OF SALINGER FOUNDATION. Arrive with a spinning head at the office of the appalling Abelhammer just round the corner from the World Financial Center. Accompanied by my assistant, Guy, who shows no sign of jet lag. On the contrary, Guy is hideously up to speed and knows the Nasdaq fluctuations better than his own pulse.

  Have picked out suitably offputting outfit for presentation to Abelhammer: chaste, charcoal, below the knee; Sicilian widow’s shoes. The look is Maria von Trapp before she cut up those bedroom curtains.

  My resolve to keep tone of meeting a couple of degrees below zero melts when Jack Abelhammer walks in. Instead of the gray-haired Brooks Brothers patrician I had imagined, here is a languid close-cut jock, around the same age as me, with a slow-release George Clooney smile that reaches his eyes before the mouth is fully engaged. Damn. Damn.

  “Well, Kate Reddy,” says the appalling Abelhammer, “it’s a real pleasure to put a face to all those figures you’ve been sending me.”

  Huh. I update Salinger on performance of the fund over the past six months. Everything easy-peasy until one of Jack’s junior consultants—a scowling Agent Scully redhead—pushes wire specs up bridge of nose and says, “Can I ask, if your forecast returns for Japan are so low, why are you overweight in Japan?”

  “Ah, now that’s a very perceptive question. One for you, Guy, I think.”

  Graciously deferring to my assistant, I take a seat and sit back to watch the little creep try to wriggle his way out of that one. Casually check mobile.

  Text Message from Paula Potts to Kate Reddy

  Emly snt hme

  frm skool wiv

  NITS. Hole famly

  mst be treatd.

  U 2!

  cheers paula

  I can hardly believe what I’m reading. Have traveled across the Atlantic importing lice like Colorado beetles. Excuse myself from meeting and hurtle to the loo. In the seasick-green light of the executive washroom, I try to examine hair, pulling strands away from head. What do nits look like? Can see cluster of eggs near parting, but possibly dandruff. Frantically comb hair.

  It is impossible to get out of prearranged dinner with Abelhammer. Can hardly use emergency pest control as excuse.

  7:30 P.M. BRODY’S SEAFOOD RESTAURANT. Over dinner, sit very upright like Queen Mary and some distance away from table. Vision of busy nits rappelling into client’s clam chowder.

  “Can I offer you a lift back to the hotel, Kate?” asks Jack.

  “Um, fine, but can we stop at a drugstore? I need to get something.”

  His eyebrows rise in expectation.

  “I mean shampoo. I have to wash my hair.”

  “Now? You want to wash your hair right now?”

  “Yes. Get London out of my hair.”

  Attagirl. Imaginative, but not too imaginative.

  REASONS NOT TO HAVE AFFAIR WITH ABELHAMMER

  1. Have not had legs waxed since Halloween.

  2. Nits could parascend onto immaculate Harvard Business School buzz cut.

  3. Major client, ergo unprofessional.

  4. Am married.

  Shouldn’t these points be in a different order?

  10

  Birthday

  FRIDAY, 6:02 A.M. Today is my son’s first birthday and I am sitting in the sky 3,000 feet above Heathrow. The plane is much delayed: poor visibility, crowded airways. We have been doing this for fifty-three minutes now, the altitude equivalent of treading water, and it’s making me nervous. Can feel my shoeless feet flexing under the blanket to try and keep us aloft. I think of all those jumbos whispering past each other in the fog.

  Over the PA comes the voice of the pilot, one of those chummy call-me-Pete types. Heart sinks. At moments like this do not want pilot to be called Pete. Urgently want pilot to be chap named Roger Carter from Weybridge, Wing Commander, Battle of Britain type, mistress in Agadir, good friend of Raymond Baxter from Tomorrow’s World. Sort of cove wh
o could bring us into land with one hand tied to his handlebar mustache, if necessary. You see, I have to stay alive. I am a mother.

  Pilot tells us we will have to head for Stansted. We are running low on fuel. No cause for concern. No, none at all. Today is Ben’s birthday. I need to land safely to collect Teletubbies cake from bakery, also to dress my son for his first party in burgundy cords and soft cream shirt before Paula can put him in the Desert Storm khaki grunge she favors. Dying is totally out of the question. For a start, Richard could never bring himself to tell Emily about periods; he would delegate to his mother, and Barbara would give Em a brief talk about personal freshness before producing something called a sanitary napkin. And she would refer to sex as That Department, as in “there’s nothing amiss between Donald and me in That Department, thank you.” (In the great universal stores of life, I believe That Department is to be found on the floor between Ladies’ Separates and Domestic Appliances.) No, no, no. I have to live. I am a mother. Death wasn’t really an issue before; I mean, obviously you wanted to avoid it for as long as possible, but ever since having the children I see the Unsmiling Man with the Scythe everywhere and I jump higher and higher to avoid his swishing blade.

  “Everything all right for you, madam?” In this, the dimmest possible cabin light, the flight attendant has become a letterbox of lipstick around an ice-white smile.

  I address myself to the teeth. “Actually, it’s my baby’s first birthday today and I was hoping to be home by breakfast.”

  “Well, I promise you we’re doing all we can. Can I get you some water?”

  “With Scotch. Thanks.”

  8:58 A.M., STANSTED AIRPORT. Refueled plane still sitting on the tarmac. Pontius pilot says it’s not his fault; we have to go back to Heathrow. Oh, this is just marvelous. As we gain height, two empty whisky miniatures skitter off my tray, nearly landing in the lap of the woman across the aisle. She bestows a languorous smile on me, readjusts her mint-green pashmina, then opens a Gucci travel bag. Takes out aromatherapy bottle and dots lavender onto pulse points, applies face spritz before taking thoughtful sips from a large bottle of Evian. Lets her lustrous nit-free head sink back onto dinky gray cashmere pillow. I want to reach over, tap her on the arm and ask if I can buy her life.

  Once I’m sure the goddess is safely asleep, I furtively open my own bag. Contents:

  Two emergency sachets of Calpol

  Unwashed white medicine spoon with jammy rim

  Spare knickers for Emily (swimming)

  Nit comb purchased for self in NYC

  Lone grubby Tampax

  Hideous puce Pokémon toy from last weekend’s “crisis” McDonald’s visit

  Orange felt tip minus top

  Pongy Pete the Puppy book

  Wad of Kleenex dyed orange by felt tip

  Pack of Banoffee-flavor limited-edition Munchies (disgusting, but only three left)

  Coco Chanel miniature Eau de Toilette (atomizer broken)

  Little Miss Busy book which Emily pressed on me for the journey

  Between my wallet and a wad of dried-out Pampers wipes, I find Jack Abelhammer’s card with home number and message scrawled on back: “Any time!”

  At the sight of his handwriting, I get a sensation of claws scuttling across the floor of my belly: the sensation of far-off teenage crushes, of sex when it was still as much a puzzle as a thrill. Over dinner in New York, Jack and I talked about everything—music, movies, Tom Hanks (the new Jimmy Stewart?), the poetry of Emily Dickinson, Cate Blanchett’s Elizabeth the First, Apollo 13, jelly beans, Art Tatum, Rome versus Venice, the mysterious allure of Alan Greenspan, even the stocks I am buying for him. Everything except children. Why didn’t you mention your children, Kate?

  2:07 P.M. Back from Heathrow, dash into office to show my face. Create impression of intense activity by piling books and financial journals on my desk, then call my land line from my mobile and keep it ringing. Pick it up and have animated can-do conversation with myself about hot new stock before hanging up. Tell Guy I have to pop out and collect some vital research. Hail cab and get driver to take me to Highbury Corner and wait outside bakery while I leap out to pick up Teletubbies cake. Not bad: Po a little po-faced, perhaps, and Laa-Laa more mustard than yellow. Ten minutes later, pulling into our street, can see a blue balloon tied to the front door. As I walk into the house, Ben waddles into the hall, gives a yowl of recognition and starts to cry. Fall to my knees, gather him in and hug him tight.

  This time last year, he was minutes old, naked except for a buttery coat of vernix. Today, dressed by Paula, he is in a red-and-white soccer strip with ADAMS emblazoned on the back. I do not let on how much this upsets me. Instead, when she leaves the kitchen, I calmly hand Ben a carton of Toothkind Ribena and watch as he upends it, drizzling purple flood from neck to navel.

  “Oh, dear,” I say loudly. “Not juice all over your lovely football kit. Better go upstairs and get changed.”

  Yesss!

  4 P.M. Ben’s party is full of Paula’s nanny friends with their charges, many of whom I don’t recognize. They are part of his life without me. When these unfamiliar girls say his name and my son lights up with pleasure I feel a twinge of—what? If I didn’t know better, I’d call it remorse.

  In the sitting room, a handful of nonworking mums are in animated conversation about a local nursery school. They hardly seem to notice their kids, whom they handle with an enviable invisible touch, like advanced kite fliers, while the Mothers Inferior like me overattend to our clamorous offspring.

  There is an uneasy standoff between the two kinds of mother which sometimes makes it hard for us to talk to each other. I suspect that the nonworking mother looks at the working mother with envy and fear because she thinks that the working mum has got away with it, and the working mum looks back with fear and envy because she knows that she has not. In order to keep going in either role, you have to convince yourself that the alternative is bad. The working mother says, Because I am more fulfilled as a person I can be a better mother to my children. And sometimes she may even believe it. The mother who stays home knows that she is giving her kids an advantage, which is something to cling to when your toddler has emptied his beaker of juice over your last clean T-shirt.

  Here in the kitchen, though, I find solace in the company of a handful of familiar women, the tattered remnant of my original postnatal mother-and-baby group. Amazing to think we’ve known each other for more than five years now. Judith, the plump brunette over by the microwave, used to be a patent agent. Went back to work for a couple of years, but then one day she discovered dog hairs in the back of the family Peugeot. Trouble was they didn’t have a dog. Told herself it was nothing to worry about, until the gnawing sensation in her stomach drove her to slip out of work. Parked outside her own house and trailed the nanny to a flat off the Holloway Road. Inside the unlocked door, she found Joshua fenced in a corner behind a fireguard, watched over by an Alsatian, while the nanny, Tara, amused herself in the next room with a boyfriend who had a Metallica tattoo on one of his pumping buttocks.

  We all told Judith it was just incredibly bad luck, a single rotten apple in the wholesome nanny barrel. “But what if he saw something, Kate?” she sobbed down the phone.

  “Josh didn’t see anything, Judy, he’s not even three. And they don’t remember a thing before they’re five.”

  But Judith never risked child care again. We knew that she tortured herself with the thought of the dog’s jaw so close to her baby’s face because, back in those early days, we lacerated our consciences every time we got home and found a new bump or graze on our own infants. These things happened; it was the fact they happened off your watch that seemed to hurt. And then there was the secret never-to-be-spoken conviction that you would have got there sooner. Got to the table corner before her forehead struck, to the tarmac before his tiny knee. Awacs, isn’t that what the military calls it? Nature gives Mother an advance-warning system and Mother is convinced that no minder or man ca
n match her for speed or anticipation.

  Judith didn’t object when her husband Nigel said that, as she was no longer working, she could get up for the kids whenever they woke in the night. And, as he was under such pressure at the bank, he would need to take a skiing holiday while Judith got on with the relaxing business of being at home with three children under four. (The twins arrived soon after the nanny left.) The Judith I first knew would have told Hubby where to get off, but that Judith had long disappeared.

  The rest of us held firm for a while to the conviction that we had been educated for something better than the gentle warming of Barbie Pasta. But then, one by one, we stopped. “Giving up,” isn’t that what they call it? Well, I’m not calling it that. Giving up sounds like surrender, but these were honorable campaigns, bravely fought and not without injury. Did my fellow novice mothers give up work? No, work gave them up, or at least made it impossible for them to go on.

  Karen—she’s spooning jelly into Ella’s mouth—found herself sidelined at her accountancy firm after it was made crystal clear, by the opaque route of nod and wink, that after having Louis she was no longer considered partnership material. Taking her eyes off the Career Path for a few months, she had found herself on what they call the Mummy Track. (The Mummy Track has the appearance of a through road; you can travel for many hundreds of miles along it before you notice you’re going nowhere.) Karen thought she could do her job in four days, one of those days at home; her boss agreed, and that was the problem. If Karen managed, he said, it would create “an unhelpful precedent.”

  Funny thing is, when you’re starting out you assume their babyhood will be the hard part, that if you can just butch your way through those fuzzy first weeks then everything will return to normal. But it gets worse: at least at six months of age they can’t tell you it’s you that they want.

  Five and a half years after the birth of our babies, only three out of our original group of nine still have jobs: Caroline is a graphic designer in advertising but based at home, so she gets to squeeze all her work in round Max’s school times. She couldn’t make it today because she was putting the finishing touches to a brochure for IBM. Alice—cute face, raven bob, leather gilet, over by the sink—went back to being a director of documentaries that won awards for rooting out corruption in high places and a particularly plangent kind of sadness in low ones. Every night when she got in late from the editing suite, Alice carried a sleeping Nathaniel into her bed. When else would she get to hold him? It was only for a little while, only while he was little. But Nat didn’t grasp that his lease on paradise was short: soon he was lying across the width of the bed, forcing his mother and father into narrow coffins at each side. When Jacob came along, Alice took him into bed too. Soon afterwards her partner, Don, left home, citing a nineteen-year-old researcher and irreconcilable sleeping arrangements.