Is he still going on about the eagle? Since Amsterdam, eagles have been popping up right left and centre. Well, I shouldn’t be ungrateful to the universe for helping me fulfil my destiny.
‘Hello Lou, where were you hiding? You missed the church service!’ My dad, William, catches up with us, gives me a quick hug and Nick a warm handshake.
‘We were detained.’ I wince at my father calling me Lou but don’t want to correct him in front of Nick. ‘The church is the boring bit anyway, just like weddings.’
‘Louisa, you said it would start at two.’ Nick reprimands.
‘I got a bit confused by the times,’ I reply airily. ‘Right, you guys go on the terrace and enjoy the nice weather. I’ll get us drinks. Dad, don’t say anything embarrassing about me, will you?’ I add jokingly while giving him a stern stare.
I need a fag. Badly.
Staying with Nick for the past week has been hard.
I rush off in the mornings in order to have my first cigarette away from his prying eyes. My evening routine before leaving work involves a complete change of outfit, dry shampoo, tooth brushing and mouthwash followed by extra-strong menthol gum to get rid of the smoke smell.
Food is another sore subject. I stopped posting appetizing vegan meals on Instagram and passing them off as my own cooking. Nick would always make unwelcome comments such as ‘Those mushrooms are delicious, but I can’t wait for you to replicate the madeira and truffle girolles you posted on Insta’ or ‘This mash is lovely but I’m eager to try your famous roasted garlic and potato ravioli’. After that, I nipped into a posh delicatessen on the way home one evening to pick up a green asparagus and chervil velouté along with a sweet onion and spinach tart to pass as my own cooking. It set me back an eye-watering £25.76.
Drinks are easier to manage. I usually make sure to order drinks myself whenever we go out, so I can indulge in some cheeky rum or whisky added to my soft drink, unbeknownst to Nick.
First a fag. Then a drink. Maybe I’ll go for an apple cider with lots of ice. Must remember to buy Dad a lager and Nick some lemonade too.
I join my father and Nick outside ten minutes later.
‘Ah thanks, Lou.’ My father proffers grabbing the pint I brought back from the bar. ‘Where’s yours?’ he asks, noticing I only have two drinks. I downed my cider at the bar.
‘Louisa quit all alcohol weeks ago. She’s doing really well.’ Nick grins with blatant pride.
‘My Lou? She wouldn’t give up sherbet for love nor money.’ Dad roars with laughter, much to my annoyance.
‘You’ll find your daughter is full of resources.’ Nick winks at me.
‘Nick, why don’t you tell Dad about your work?’ I suggest, eager to change the subject.
‘Indeed, Louisa, I was just telling William he could join any of my seminars. I’d also be happy to give him one-on-one sessions.’
‘You’re not a guru or something, are you?’ My father laughs, trying to hide his discomfort.
‘No, William. Let me reassure you, I’m not. I help people take a holistic approach to their lives to improve their spiritual, physical and mental health.’
‘Ha! Good job I’m not cuckoo then.’
‘I counsel people from all walks of life. Any time you want to talk, about anything really, I’m available. For you or anyone close to you who might need support. Do you have any friends who might be gay, by any chance, and need emotional guidance?’ Nick whips out his business card.
Oh no. I’d forgotten about my gay father business. I should have known it’d come back to haunt me at some point!
‘Gay? Blimey. There is a chap called Gaylord who I tee off with at the golf club. Thinking about it, his specialty is the back door putt. He talks a lot about shaft length. And always walks around the course playing with two balls in his hand. Fancy that, he could well be a jessie!’ My father scratches his head in amazement.
This conversation is taking a turn for the worse. Thanks to my fib in Abu Dhabi, Nick believes William Davies is a gay just come out of the closet.
‘Isn’t the weather gorgeous today?’ I butt in.
Nick has his serious businessy look. I can tell he won’t be steered from this conversation so easily.
‘Well, if your friend needs to speak to a professional on a casual level... Here’s my card. There are more than 1.3 million lesbian, gay or bisexual people in England, making up 2.5% of the population. I am doing my bit to help them find their voice. I run seminars in Brighton every year. Such a wonderful, vibrant city.’
‘Too many queers. I wouldn’t want to bend down to stick my parasol in the sand. We go to Bournemouth. The jewel of the south coast! Very civilized – lots of beaches and sunshine. Who needs Spain, eh? We even took the ferry once and went properly abroad. Did all of Normandy. We very much enjoyed Deauville.’
‘Deauville, uh huh.’ Nick nods with solicitude. ‘Did you spend much time in the casinos there? Would you like to talk about it?’
No, no, no. I know exactly where he’s going. I led Nick to think my father is also a gambler. We do not need to go there right now.
‘Dad!’ I exclaim, alarmed. ‘How is the shed? Nick, Dad is planning a massive shed-of-the-year type construction at the end of the garden. I’m sure he’s dying to tell you all about it.’
‘In a minute, Lou. I just need to answer Nick’s question. I very much enjoyed the casinos. Did lose a few bob but nothing major. I’m not much of a gambler. Now, my buddy Bob, that’s another story. He thinks nothing of dropping a monkey at the dogs.’ Dad tuts, shaking his head.
‘Interesting.’ Nick rubs his chin, deep in thought. ‘Does your friend Bob feel the need to be secretive about his gambling? Does he have trouble controlling his habits? Do his patterns lead him into financial difficulties? Does his family express concern over them?’
‘Jeez. I don’t know.’ My father ruffles his balding patch of hair. ‘Bob’s doing all right. He’s got his railways pension.’
Nick raises an eyebrow and shoots me a meaningful glance. ‘Well, William, I am always available to talk to your friend, should he need understanding and encouragement.’
‘Couldn’t you two find more appropriate subjects of conversation? Nick, will you please go and get me a plate of vegan food right now? I’m going to faint if I don’t eat something immediately’ I fan myself. I’m desperate to get him away from my father.
As soon as Nick’s out of earshot, my father pats my hand with sympathy. ‘Lou, my darling. Your boyfriend Nick. Nice fella. He seems to be obsessed with gays, though. Are you sure he’s straight?’
Jess
Sunday. The Christening. The Hawk and Hare. 2 pm.
It’s a warm afternoon and the party has spilt from the function room onto the terraced lawns. There must be well over a hundred people here. Where did they all come from? Only seventy people RSVP’d. Good job I asked the caterers to plan for more. I can spot Scott’s extended family, my own relatives, a bunch of Scott’s kickboxing buddies and workmates – too many. I have shaken hands, air-kissed and greeted people non-stop since we arrived at the pub.
Charlotte thrusts a John Lewis carrier bag at me. ‘Happy christening! Is it what I’m supposed to say?’
‘Charl! What are you doing here? I thought you were in New York!’
‘Well, I am heading to Heathrow in an hour. Molly was so cute in the church – till that vicious vicar started pouring water on her head. Hey, I would have screamed the place down too. I hope she likes the pressies.’
Unwrapping yet another Sophie the Giraffe, and a bundle of Aden + Anais swaddles (useless as I never swaddled Molly), I exclaim, ‘Love it! Thank you!’
‘Jess, my uncle Raymond would like to see the girls. Any idea where they are?’ Scott shows up, holding a pint of Guinness at which I frown.
‘Mia is, er, was with Carla. And Molly with Lola. Scott, do you remember Charlotte from uni?’
‘No way! Charl! Looking good!’ Scott eyes her up and down before encasing h
er in a bear hug.
Charlotte does look good. Not that he had to comment out loud in front of his wife, did he? Clear complexion, shiny hair, long limbed and athletic. Her! She used to be a bit chunky back in the day. Boys always liked to hang out with her though, even back then. Being a Crystal Palace supporter, she used to join Scott and the lads at Uni at the pub for footy nights. A pang of jealousy nicks the middle of my chest like a Swiss army knife. Maybe, just maybe, I could look half as good if I didn’t have a child riveted to each leg and more time to look after myself.
‘I was just telling Jess I won’t stay long. I need to fly back to New York. I’m working to a deadline. I design urban green spaces, mostly on top of buildings, but I also work on indoor projects. I have an assignment for the Waldorf Astoria which is very time-consuming,’ she explains modestly.
‘Well, thanks so much for coming. I know how busy you are.’ I squeeze her hand between mine.
‘No worries – my mother would have killed me if I didn’t. I’ll go see her for a bit now before I jet off.’
Charlotte’s mum – another person I didn’t have a clue was attending. Ursula Davies’ doing, no doubt.
Screams emanate from the big old oak’s branches. Dashing to the ruckus I find Asha and her sons. The boys are stuck up the tree. I’m unsure whether I’m more appalled by Asha’s orange chiffon blouse, basically a sheer tent, which coupled with her white capris and moccasins effectively turns her into a tubby walking traffic cone, or her blatant inability to discipline children.
Hands on hips, Asha shouts, ‘Ridesh! Rajesh! Get your butts down here right now or you’ll be in very big trouble!’
‘Bedlam, I knew it.’ Scott leaps halfway up the tree and pulls the little monkeys out, one after the other, with the audience oohing and aahing.
No sooner do their feet touch the ground than they scuttle away. They go chase the sheep in the adjoining field with a stick, tripping up Scott’s nan in the process and knocking over a topiary.
‘Scallywags. Apples of my eye.’ Asha sighs tolerantly while I wish I could fetch those sticks to give the boys a spanking of my own.
The boys caused havoc during the service, tearing up and down the church aisle while Asha looked on indifferently. I did quite well to ignore the disruption until the boys started playing with the old creaking wooden side door, making it screech like an old witch, so loudly I had to send Scott to remove the rascals.
‘This is going to change your life.’ Asha brandishes a jute bag and gives it a little shake. Bottles rattle inside. ‘This is your new medicine cabinet and your cosmetics toiletry bag, all in one. Right here. All organic, from my go-to local farm shop. Essential oils. Great stuff. I use peppermint in the morning to wake myself and the boys up.’
‘You mean instead of coffee?’
‘I don’t drink it.’ Asha laughs. ‘I diffuse it. Sometimes with wild orange. Lavender has so many uses. I spray some in the evening to calm Ridesh and Rajesh and promote peaceful sleep.’
I glance at the boys, who have kicked the vicar’s bicycle to the ground. Ridesh stamps on the back wheel and Rajesh ties some pink tulle he has nicked from the function room to the handlebars. ‘Does it really work?’
‘Of course it does. People have used plants for healing for centuries!’
‘Maybe there’s a reason why most people don’t use it in this century. Perhaps because we have proper medicine now?’
‘Chemicals. Evil lab-manufactured molecules. Wouldn’t you prefer natural produce? I’ve never used anything else for the kids. Tea tree for nappy rash—’
‘-No Sudocrem?’ I ask dubiously.
‘Never. The essential oil does the trick – not that we needed to use it often. I had them in reusable nappies, which are so much better than disposable nappies at letting their skin breathe.’
‘You mean the ones you have to wash?’ I interject, my head spinning at the thought of soaking soiled pieces of cloth in buckets like in medieval times.
‘Indeed! They’re just as good as reusable sanitary pads. You should give them a go.’
I reel at the notion that anyone in this day and age in the UK would use fabric towels for their period. Asha is a bit wacko.
She reads the labels of several bottles, picks one, opens it and lets me smell it. ‘Eucalyptus. A godsend for fever. I also resort to chamomile for pain.’
‘You mean no Calpol? No Nurofen?’ I’m unconvinced. I use baby paracetamol to doctor the girls like I use sauvignon blanc for myself. Stress, period pains… it works for most ailments. Essential oils, though? What about doing a rain dance and waiting for the gods to make Molly’s teething go poof?
‘I also have oregano, lemon, lemongrass, garlic, rosemary, juniper. Which ones did I forget?’ She rummages in the bag. ‘Ah, ginger, clove, sandalwood. I got you this book from the Oxfam shop, “Heal Holistically”, almost new, save a few dog ears. All the uses and benefits are listed in there. Don’t thank me. Thank Mother Nature.’
Hesitantly, I take the bundle of essential oils and wonder how much they would fetch on eBay. ‘Thanks, Asha and Mother Nature. I’ll definitely give it a go.’
‘Jessica! Jessica!’ Bertha the military nanny runs up to me, out of breath. ‘I am aware I am not present today in my usual capacity as your childcarer, but I ought to make you aware that Molly is crawling on an unsanitized floor inside the pub and consuming a lolly which has been dragged over the same area.’
What is she doing here? I suddenly remember I invited her to the christening in an outlandish outburst of politeness.
‘Hi, Bertha. Don’t stress about it. Is it the fact she’s eating a lolly which is a problem, or that it has been on the floor?’
‘Both!’ Bertha exclaims, scandalized. ‘Molly is under your mother’s supervision; I therefore did not want to impose myself. Would you allow me to have a discreet word with her?’
‘If my mother is with her, it’s fine. Relax. Go have a drink. Please.’
‘While I have your attention. Could we please briefly discuss your children’s nutrition? I cannot condone the use of processed foods and ready-made baby food in your household, especially as we’re in the process of weaning Molly. I am perfectly happy to cook a healthy, homemade meal each day for Mia and Molly, using fresh vegetables and meat I could buy, sticking to an agreed budget, during work time. I would present you with a list of weekly suggestions from which you could choose a few dishes. We could thus help to improve your daughters’ eating habits.’
Should I tell Bertha I have been there before? I used to lovingly make Mia’s food from scratch. Not from pork scratchings or scratching my bottom. Peeling, chopping, boiling, blending, sweating. Pears, apples and plums. Lovingly freezing them into weaning pots. Does anyone have any clue how much work goes into concentrating a full Sunday lunch into an ice cube? I whipped up every Annabel Karmel recipe from the book. Sadly, the purees usually ended up smeared over the high chair, her clothes and hair, or flicked on walls. Baby food jars and pouches would get the same treatment.
Molly, being the second born, never had the same attention lavished on her. Molly wasn’t breastfed at all, whereas I breastfed Mia for a couple of months before I threw in the towel. She’s been having supermarket baby food. She is, nevertheless, stronger and taller than Mia at the same age. Which means that my breastmilk and my cooking are rubbish. Or, to put it another way, formula and bought food are quite adequate. Asha and her consorts would implode if I dared say that in public.
‘Bertha, the girls are so picky that they never eat anything anyway. If it makes a difference to you, then sure, why not?’
‘Excellent, thank you, Jessica. You’ve been so reluctant to implement any of the changes I have recommended that I was afraid you wouldn’t consider the idea. By the way, I have Molly’s christening present. It’s a double shopping trolley seat cover. Supermarket trolleys are infested with germs. It should come in handy.’
‘What a wonderful idea – thanks, Bertha. It would be eve
r so helpful if you could put it on the present table inside.’ I am ready to dash off as soon as the nanny turns her back.
‘I will do. Thanks, Jessica. See you in a moment.’ Bertha marches away, her bag bouncing against her leg.
‘Was that your new nanny?’ Emily saunters up to me and puts her arm around her waist.
‘Yes. Bertha’s a dragon.’ I nod towards Emily’s print swing dress. ‘Has Lou kicked up a fuss about your dress? She’d better not have. It’s peach, not pink.’
‘Is Lou here? I haven’t seen her.’
‘She just arrived. I saw her with her new guy Nick.’ I sigh and sip my wine. ‘Christenings are stupid. I don’t know who half of these people are, and I’m sure they have no idea who I am either. This lot wasn’t at the church. Scott must have invited them all to the pub only,’ I grumble, trying to pull up my shapewear, which keeps riding down under my dress.
‘Hey – lots of guests, lots of presents!’ Emily comments encouragingly.
‘Where’s that new boyfriend of yours?’
‘Max is parking the bike. Or picking up a fight with one of your guests. Someone just parked in half of the bike parking spot. I hope he’s not going to punch anyone. I just legged it; I didn’t want to see the scene.’
‘He’s a bit of a bad boy, isn’t he? I still cannot believe you shagged his brother. Of all people.’
‘It’s not like I planned it! I know it sounds nuts. It must be fate. Did I tell you Leo used to go after Max’s girlfriends? The stuff he’s told me about Leo is unreal.’ Emily squints and looks over to the car park to check whether Max is walking over to the party.
‘That doesn’t surprise me. Leo’s a sleazy motherfucker.’ I drain my glass. ‘How is it going with Max?’
‘I don’t want to jinx it,’ Emily says quietly, restraining her excitement, ‘but he said I love you yesterday. Well. He actually said love you. That was after I bumped my head on the kitchen cupboard door. Still counts, though, doesn’t it? Cecilia and her boyfriend Mike are here. I saw Auntie Gertrude stare at Max’s neck tattoo then whisper something to Cecilia.’
#Toots Page 26