by Jane Green
‘You’re nuts,’ Vicky says as Deborah sighs. ‘So what’s this about a radio show?’
‘Oh yes. I’ve got a christening in the country this weekend but Radio Two want me to be a guest on some evening show talking about, you guessed it, speed sex. I can’t do it so I thought maybe you could.’
‘When is it?’
‘Saturday night.’
‘Oh great. How do you know I haven’t got a fantastically hot date on Saturday night?’
‘Have you?’
‘Wishful bloody thinking,’ sighs Vicky, because for the last few months her dating life has been disastrous, or, as she likes to say to Leona, ‘What dating life? I have no dates and no life.’
Throughout her twenties Vicky had an incredible time. As a young staff writer she was constantly meeting eligible men, bedding them if she felt like it, having relationships if she chose, or affairs if that was what was on offer. She was, as the saying goes, footloose and fancy-free, never worrying about the future because it was assumed that sometime around thirty Prince Charming would show himself and she would then go on to live the life that her brother appears to have stolen from her, which is all the more irritating because he’s three years younger, and really, what right did a thirty-two-year-old have to have everything she was supposed to have?
Unlike some of her friends, Vicky had been dying to turn thirty, knowing that thirty was when it would all happen, when her happy ever after would start. It never occurred to her that it wouldn’t happen, that five years on she would still be exactly where she was ten years ago, except with a better wardrobe, a bigger flat, and fewer prospects.
At twenty-five there were men everywhere. Tall men. Short men. Funny men. Ugly men. Nevertheless, men. So many men, so little time, she would say then, when elderly aunts would ask why she didn’t have a boyfriend.
Now, at thirty-five, the good men have slowly dropped out of the dating pool leaving the weakest specimens behind, and Vicky is well aware that the older she gets, the harder it’s going to be.
‘There are always the divorcees,’ Kate said to her recently, but Vicky has always shuddered at the thought of inheriting someone else’s baggage.
‘What if they have children?’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be involved with someone else’s children, plus it means the ex-wife is going to be in your life forever. Thank you very much, but no. I need to find a single man, not a divorcee.’
‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Kate said. ‘Anyone thirty-five upwards is going to have baggage anyway, and frankly I think there’s something deeply suspicious about someone in their late thirties or forties who’s never been married. The last thing you want to do is fall in love with a commitaphobe.’
‘I don’t buy that stuff about it being odd when men are single in their thirties. Look at Daniel. He’s not odd.’
‘So why aren’t you having a proper relationship with him instead of just the occasional shag?’
‘God, no. He’s not my type.’
‘But you like him and you fancy him enough to have sex with him?’
‘Yes,’ Vicky admitted reluctantly.
‘Then I bet there’s something wrong with him and you’re just not telling me.’
‘Okay, you got me. There is something wrong with him. His penis is orange.’
‘Oh ha ha. I just don’t want you to keep thinking your life is going to start when you get married.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ Vicky grunted. ‘I think my life already has started. Some people would kill to have my life.’
‘Just as long as you remember that,’ Kate said. ‘Does that mean you’re going to stop banging on about wanting my life?’
‘No. I do want your life. But how am I supposed to have a husband, kids, dogs, an Aga and a house in the country without a man?’
‘You could start with the Aga and the house in the country.’
‘I would, except I think I’d die of loneliness.’
‘God, there’s no winning with you, is there? You’re just too bloody clever by half.’
‘How do you think I got to be Features Director of Poise!?’ Vicky grinned.
But she wasn’t feeling quite so good about it at night. Lately, when she’d taken her make-up off she had been shocked to notice that tiny lines had started appearing around her eyes, lines that she’d swear hadn’t been there a month ago.
And talking of her eyes, the skin underneath suddenly seemed very thin. Now, when she had late nights, no amount of Touche Eclat managed to conceal it, and her skin seemed to show every drink, every odd cigarette, every vice that had managed to go unnoticed in her twenties.
During her twenties her weight had gone up and down like a yo-yo. If ever she felt her jeans were becoming ever so slightly tight, she would cut back for a couple of days and lose five pounds in the process.
Now those five pounds seem to be permanently attached to her stomach. She’s been cutting back for a month, and she’s only lost a pound and a half. At exactly what point in her life did diets stop working and, more to the point, why?
Everyone seemed younger at work. Not, obviously, Janelle, who was truly ageless – the joke being she had a portrait of herself locked away on the top floor of the office that was ageing far more mercilessly than that of Dorian Gray’s – and not Stella or Leona, who were slightly older than Vicky, but every freelancer seemed to be getting younger and younger, and the fashion assistants who came and went with every season were practically still in kindergarten.
Vicky was forever getting phone calls from freelancers pitching ideas, and as soon as she heard their bright, young, eager voices, she wanted to tell them to go away and come back again in ten years, when they had a bit more life experience and actually understood the demographic of their readers.
Some of them even had good ideas, but it was all about execution, and the brightest twenty-four-year-old in the world couldn’t understand what buggy envy was really like – that feeling when you were pushing your second-hand Peg Perego down the high street thinking it was pretty damn hot all things considered, only to pass three Bug-a-Boos that you could swear were sneering at your instantly inferior Peg Perego.
Admittedly Vicky doesn’t quite understand that one either, but luckily Leona is around to take care of any commissions that Vicky can’t quite get her head around – age being less of an issue than children, or Vicky’s lack thereof.
She swore she would never say that even the policemen seemed like children, but she thought it all the time. Just the other day a policeman had stopped her and spoken to her sharply for driving the wrong way down a one-way street (she had been genuinely lost and hadn’t known it was one-way), and she had to physically stop herself from echoing her mother and saying something like, ‘Show a bit of respect, young man’, for he truly did look twelve years old. I’m old enough to be his mother, she thought, as she drove off fuming, and then with a start she realized she really was.
The problem is that Vicky doesn’t particularly feel any older. She may have the lines, the lack of energy, the dearth of decent men, but she still thinks of herself as twenty-five. She still listens to Kiss FM, still wears all the latest trends, still thinks of herself as looking just like the fashion assistants.
When they talk about clubbing in Soho, holidays in Ibiza, Vicky wants to join in, feels entitled to join in, even though she has become increasingly aware that they look at her strangely, that they do not see her as one of them, that they think of her in a similar vein to the way they think of their mothers, and that’s despite her Chloe trousers and ever-so-pointed Jimmy Choo boots.
‘I was there when Manumission first started,’ she wants to shout. ‘I used to go to Bar Italia for cappuccinos at five in the morning when you were still in nappies.’ But now she doesn’t. Now she realizes that the slightly embarrassed silences she gets when she tries to join in, tries to prove she is just like them, are just that: slightly embarrassing, and mostly for her.
Vicky has never had a problem fitti
ng in. But now she finds that she does not have a place in the world. Or at least not the place she wants.
Chapter Five
The Highfield League of Young Ladies was established in the 1940s, at a time when all the women in Highfield were housewives and stay-at-home mums. The League gave them an excuse to dress up, get together, and all in the name of charity, for the money they raised from their various events went to local good causes.
During the eighties the League suffered somewhat. It was a time when the young wives and mothers of Highfield were too busy commuting into the city and concentrating on their careers to focus fully on charitable concerns; but the powers that be are grateful that now, in 2005, life has come full circle, as it always does, and it is once again fashionable for women to stay at home and join the League.
And join the League they do. Ask most of the committee members the reason why they are involved, and they will tell you it feels wonderful to give something back. They will say that once upon a time they had busy, important careers, and they gave them up to raise their children, but now that their children are in school, raising money for the homeless and impoverished is quite as fulfilling as their careers once were.
Where are the homeless in Highfield, Amber had wondered, at an introductory meeting when they first moved to Highfield, because Highfield seemed to have changed enormously from the small artists’ community it had been famous for in the twenties and thirties.
Thanks to the arrival of a couple of celebrities – who live discreetly and quietly and don’t seem to involve themselves much in what there is of a Highfield scene – Highfield has become a place to live, particularly for the aspirational widow of Wall Street, the woman whose husband is constantly working, who knows that all she needs in order to be happy is a mansion, a nanny, and a Hermès bag.
Young, successful, she is this millennium’s soccer mom, except she doesn’t sit around at soccer matches waiting for her children – she’s far too busy for that and what, after all, does she pay the nanny for? (Not to mention the nanny has her own Land Rover, cell phone, ensuite bedroom, and various perks including inheriting gorgeous, barely worn designer clothes from her walk-in luxury closet wardrobe that she never gets around to wearing.)
And nor is she, like the eponymous popular television series, a desperate housewife. There’s nothing desperate about this girl, and if she relates to anyone on Desperate Housewives it’s less the frazzled mother of four (Good Lord, why didn’t she hang on to that nanny all those episodes ago?), and more the sexy single Teri Hatcher mom, and only because she’d kill to look as good in her Seven bootleg jeans.
If she’s anything at all she’s a Charity Chick, or a Manolo Mom. A woman who refuses to be defined by her children alone, who keeps herself busy with various philanthropic and charitable concerns, who ensures she always looks her best at all times. Her mornings are filled working on herself: hairdresser, nail salon and, most importantly, gym, because although she has a fully stocked mirror-clad gym in the finished walk-out basement of her giant and brand new house, exercise just isn’t the same when it doesn’t involve chatting with your friend on the Elliptical next to you, and it’s definitely not the same when you don’t meet the girls afterwards for a smoothie in the café of the new sports club.
Everyone is a member of the new sports club. For just as the women who are moving to Highfield are changing, so the town is having to change to accommodate them. The sleepy, country Connecticut town, just over an hour outside Manhattan, is having to expand, to cope with the daily teardowns of pretty, antique houses to make way for the 10,000-foot-plus new builds to take their place. It’s having to cope with the ubiquitous Starbucks, and not one but four opened in the past year, so now wherever you are in town you are able to hop out and grab a skinny grande latte.
Main Street was once filled with little boutiques, artisan shops, pretty cafés, but the chain stores have moved in, and now the women in town spend their days in Gap workout gear, much like women all over the rest of America.
Apart from the women in the League. They may occasionally wear Gap, but heaven forbid they should wear it to one of their monthly meetings, which are rapidly turning into unofficial fashion shows.
Amber, bless her, was completely unaware of this in the beginning. In fact, if she remembers correctly – which she tries very hard not to do given how mortified she still feels about it – she turned up to one of the early meetings in jeans, a black zip-up fleece (there was a chill in the air) and flat loafers.
Not that she would ever have been seen dead in clothes like that in Manhattan, but Amber has always been something of a chameleon, and so unsure of who the real Amber is that she’ll morph herself into whoever she thinks she needs to be at any given moment.
And she had taken her cues from the women at pre-school, who she quickly realized were not the same crowd who got involved with the League. Admittedly there was some crossover, but the women from school turned out to be doing this for purely charitable reasons – because they wanted to do some good in the world and not because they cared what they looked like, and thus they were relegated to the out crowd in the League, easily spotted by their everyday school uniforms of fleeces, clogs and shapeless jeans.
But Amber hadn’t known this then, had indeed heard about the League from one of the women at school, and had slowly moved her more glamorous Manhattan clothes to the back of her wardrobe as she had tried to fit in with the other mums by wearing what they wore.
At that first League meeting Amber had climbed out of her car and turned as she was halfway down the path towards the front door of the house at which the meeting was being held, because she had heard footsteps behind her.
Tip tap, tip tap, tip tap. A short blonde woman in tight flared suede pants, super-high super-pointed boots, a fringed tweed jacket with a mink collar, and the Luella bag – the very one that Amber had been lusting after for a few months now – was walking up the path.
And Amber, Amber who had battled her way out of her blue-collar background, who had been a successful lawyer, who had had to fight more than any woman she had known, had been overcome with shame and inadequacy.
She had felt like a failure in her fleece and loafers, her understated make-up, and she’d wanted to turn around and go home but it was too late.
She had stood at the back of the kitchen allowing the other women – most of whom knew one another – to mingle, while she attempted to make herself invisible, all the while taking mental notes about what to wear next time.
It seemed that tight trousers with high-heels were the thing, little fitted jackets, lots of fur. Perfect hair, perfect make-up, and a great bag. Admittedly not all the women looked quite like that, but even the ones who didn’t looked like they were trying. Even at her first meeting, from her vantage point by the Sub-zero, Amber could sense the social game-playing and the hierarchies that existed in the room.
On the other side of the island stood a woman Amber had heard called Suzy. Suzy was clearly one of the queen bees. She was head to toe in Gucci, bag to match, and was icily blonde, which, although clearly highlighted, made Amber sure that this woman would rather die than let her roots show.
The other women had buzzed around Suzy like little worker bees. All trying to attract her attention, all trying to get as close as possible.
‘Oh I love that suit,’ Amber had heard one girl say. ‘I was looking at it in Rakers last week but then I bought it in lilac instead. But it looks so great on you I’m going to have to go back and get it in black and white.’
Amber had allowed herself a secret smile, for of course she knew what the girl was saying: you’re not better than me even though you think you are. Even though you’re in Gucci I can afford it too. I’m just as good as you are.
‘God,’ whispered an English voice next to her. ‘Isn’t this awful?’
Amber had turned to see a woman dressed much like herself, the same lack of make-up, the same hair pulled back into a ponytail.
‘Nice to meet you, Amber. I’m Deborah. So let me guess. You’re new to town and everyone told you that you just had to join the League, because that’s where you make all your friends and it’s all for a great cause.’
Amber had laughed. ‘Pretty much. How about you?’
‘My husband, Spencer, and I moved over from London about a year ago, and I thought it was about time I saw what everyone was talking about, although looking at these women I’m not sure it’s for me.’ She’d sighed. ‘But then again it is for a good cause, and I do want to do something. I’m just never going to be one of these super-chic women,’ and she’d gestured down at herself.
Amber, who had already decided that she would be coming back except next time she would out-fabulous even Suzy in her choice of outfit, had shrugged. ‘I feel ridiculous standing here in these old clothes, but nobody told me you had to dress.’
‘You don’t,’ Deborah had said. ‘Unless of course you’re trying to prove something.’
‘Well I can tell you next time I’m going to make more of an effort.’
‘And I thought you looked so normal.’
Amber had laughed. ‘I may look normal on the outside, but inside there’s a desperate social climber itching to get out.’
‘You go, girl.’ Deborah had laughed too. ‘At least you’re honest about it.’
Amber had been joking. But not really. She did feel inadequate, and although she had the name Winslow (which, incidentally, she was tempted to shout from the rooftops: ‘By the way, all you snotty women who are ignoring me because I don’t look good enough in my fleece and loafers, I’m Amber Winslow. Yes, one of those Winslows. Oh now you’re interested. So sorry, I’m busy with my new friend, Deborah, who’s not good enough for you either’), like most of the women who had stood around her in the kitchen that day, money was quite new to her.