Prime Time

by Jane Wenham-Jones

  I couldn’t hold her gaze. I turned away and pressed down the plunger on the cafetière. ‘No, not at all,’ I said, feeling dreadful. ‘But then I haven’t really seen him recently, have I?’

  ‘You were talking to him the other night.’

  ‘Well, yes, but only about ordinary stuff – he seemed just the same to me. Who was the text from, after all that, anyway?’

  ‘Someone from work, he said. About an early meeting on Monday.’

  ‘Well there you are,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he was just a bit tired and irritable. Friday night, you know.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Charlotte. She picked up her handbag. ‘I’d better be going.’

  I held out the mug of coffee I’d just poured. ‘Aren’t you going to have this?’

  ‘Better not. I’ve got a viewing at nine and I’ve got to go into the office first.’ She took it from me anyway and had a mouthful.

  I filled another mug for myself. ‘Did you ask Roger why he was like that?’

  ‘Of course. He just got grumpy and said he was sick of the kids always in his things.’

  ‘Well then. I’m sure everything’s OK.’

  She shook her head. ‘But they’re not always in his things. And if they are, he’s never minded before. And you know something else? He keeps taking Benson out!’

  I raised my eyebrows as if I didn’t understand.

  ‘Come off it,’ said Charlotte irritably. ‘You know as well as I do that’s not normal. You know I’m the only one who ever takes that dog anywhere. I have to line them all up against the wall and threaten no food/TV/PlayStation/sex for a week before any of my family will shift their arses to give Benson any exercise.’ She snorted. ‘But now, suddenly, Roger the Dodger is born again! Lovely long walks along the beach they have, apparently. And the dog does actually come back with sand on him so he’s not spending the whole time in the pub.’

  ‘Is he trying to get fit, perhaps?’ I asked her lamely.

  Charlotte scowled. ‘You tell me!’

  I didn’t get much sleep that night either. Partly because I’d already had two hours by dozing off in the cinema and missing the whole of Electric War Dog Part Two. (Fortunately Stanley was so engrossed he didn’t notice, and by telling him repeatedly how brilliant I thought it was, I’d managed so far to avoid having to discuss the plot.) And partly because I’d eaten so much stuffed crust pizza (the new regime would begin on Monday) that my stomach was in spasm.

  But mostly because my conversation with Charlotte was going round and round in my head. Should I send Roger a text to warn him yet again to stop seeing Hannah?

  I hoped he wasn’t stupid enough to be meeting her on these long walks on the beach – if so, he’d soon be caught out in a place like Broadstairs, where you only had to stop and discuss the weather with a member of the opposite sex for someone to pop up behind the nearest lamppost and speculate on the state of your marriage – but was simply continuing his counselling by phone (not that that wasn’t bad enough, if his wife didn’t know about it).

  But, dear God, suppose I texted him and Becky picked that up too? And actually read it this time. Or Charlotte did. She’d be furious if she found out I knew something and hadn’t told her. I’d have to wait till he was at work on Monday. Then tell him Charlotte was on to him. Though surely he must realise that already if she’d quizzed him about the text business.

  Did he have a death wish? Or was he so besotted with this Hannah that he was losing the plot? It would be so much better if I could get to Hannah herself. Tell her in no uncertain terms to sling her hook.

  By the time it got to 1 a.m. and my stomach was still protesting and I’d moved on to worrying about the alarmingly long list of work I had to do for Mike over the weekend, having had the whole of Friday away from my desk, I decided to get back up, drink some soothing herbal tea and see if any inspiration might come to me on the gnome front. I still had brochure copy to finish and a set of scintillating ads to produce.

  I sat at my computer wrapped in several jumpers and tried to concentrate. But for every sentence I produced on the jaunty angle of a gnome’s hat or the quirky irony of his fishing-rod prowess, I spent 10 minutes thinking dreamily of the next filming session with Cal and another 20 fretting over what I was going to do about Roger before his marriage to Charlotte fell apart.

  When I was yawning at ten-second intervals and had got seriously cold despite the layers, I decided to give up. It was almost 4 a.m., and I was desperate for sleep. I’d have three or four hours, I thought as I clambered back beneath the duvet, and then start on the gnomes afresh. I’d better do some housework sometime too, and then there was shopping …

  I woke with a start to the sound of the doorbell ringing. Confused, I rolled over and looked at the clock – bloody hell, it was 10.05!

  Stanley was standing in the doorway in his pyjamas, hair on end. ‘I think that’s Dad,’ he said rubbing his eyes.

  I sat up. ‘Well, go and open the door. Why didn’t you set your alarm?’

  ‘Because I thought you’d wake me – why didn’t you set yours?’

  ‘I didn’t think I needed to – I always wake up earlier than this!’

  The door bell rang again. ‘Go and get dressed!’ I yelled. I pulled on my dressing gown, stumbled downstairs, and pulled open the front door. Daniel was there, looking irritable.

  ‘Sorry – we overslept,’ I said unnecessarily.

  ‘I can see that,’ he replied. ‘What on earth have you done to yourself?’

  I peered in the hall mirror. My hair was standing up on one side, flattened on the other where two days’ build-up of hair wax had left it matted in clumps. My eyes were puffy, my face crumpled by the pillow – there was actually a crease right across one eyebrow. I looked horrendous.

  ‘Did you have a lot to drink last night?’ he asked disapprovingly, as if a drop of alcohol had never crossed his lips and it was another person entirely who, on his 32nd birthday, had stumbled out of the taxi and been sick in a hedge.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ I said, hoping the empty bottle of Macon wasn’t visible through the open kitchen door. ‘Not that it’s anything to do with you.’

  ‘It is when you’re taking care of my son,’ he said sanctimoniously.

  I looked at him with a rush of real dislike. To think I’d been married to this tosser!

  ‘One,’ I said, in a low voice so that Stanley wouldn’t hear and become even more traumatised, ‘he is our son. Two, if you had kept your dick in your trousers you’d be looking after him as well, and three,’ I finished sweetly, ‘whenever did you become such a pompous git?’

  Daniel’s eyes narrowed but as he opened his mouth to reply we both heard Stanley’s feet coming down the stairs.

  ‘Hello, mate,’ called Daniel heartily.

  ‘Daddy’s here,’ I trilled joyfully. ‘Are you ready?’

  Stanley had on his jeans that were too long and a sweatshirt that was too big. He hadn’t combed his hair. He looked at me and frowned.

  ‘Just got to put my trainers on,’ he said, going to the cupboard under the stairs. I beamed at Daniel, who was clearly frustrated he’d been prevented from making some peevish reply.

  ‘We’ll be back about six,’ my husband said heavily when Stanley had shuffled back along the hall.

  ‘Have a lovely day!’ I said gaily. ‘Love you!’

  Stanley frowned again but let me hug him. ‘Love you, too,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Bye, bye!’ I stood waving madly on the step, seeing Stanley anxiously scanning the street in case any of the neighbours’ kids had spied me in my night clothes, until the car had driven away. Then I went into the kitchen and gave Boris an update on the situation. ‘That man is a wanker,’ I said.

  Boris moved aside so I could appreciate the decapitated mouse he’d brought me. He wound himself round my legs and gave one of his special meows that only I could understand. It meant he was agreeing with me. ‘A total tosser,’ it said.

  I looked at my to-do
list with something close to despair. After a concerted session of moaning to the cat while eating therapeutic slices of toast and Marmite – this was medicinal – a shower, and an hour trying to make my hair look like it had in the shop – once washed it just looked rather short and rather uneven and no amount of hair gel or wielding the straighteners seemed to change that – it had turned into afternoon and I hadn’t even got started on the jobs I’d intended to finish by six.

  I looked at the paper in front of me and tried to prioritise.

  1) Write copy for gnome ad for Sunday mags. Urgent – Mike wants Monday morning.

  2) Finish brochure for sodding, boring water coolers – ditto.

  3) Look at treatment and proposed script for corporate video for dull, tedious company that Mike wants feedback on.

  4) Iron at least one school shirt.

  5) Go to supermarket (nothing in house for dinner, let alone nourishing roast with three veg would make if were proper mother, and almost out of cat food too)

  6) Get petrol (been on red for two days).

  7) Hoover.

  8) Contemplate washing basket.

  I decided to tackle the list in reverse order of how much brain activity it required, thinking I would start with the mundane and build up to the gnomes and water-coolers once I was fully awake. I collected various garments from Stanley’s bedroom floor and carried an armful of washing downstairs wondering how Fab-at-40 Cal would think I was if he could see me now, and, remembering that the next filming session was in the gym, how many days of only hot water and spinach leaves it would take to make my stomach look flat.

  Stanley’s school jumper had blue paint on it; his trousers were adorned with several lumps of playing field. I noticed his tie wasn’t anywhere to be seen and, predicting the usual crisis at 7 a.m., I loaded up the washing machine and went in search of his blazer to see if it was stuffed into a pocket.

  I eventually located the blazer screwed up into a small ball inside his school rucksack together with some dog-eared exercise books, an assortment of sweet wrappers and a half-eaten apple. Clearing out the débris I also came across, in various stages of disintegration, an interesting array of letters home that I should clearly have been reading since the beginning of term.

  There was one enquiring whether I’d like to join the PTA or stand as a governor (not terribly); another urging me to support the Wine and Wisdom Evening (no problem with one half of it, but sadly lacking in the other); a third informing me of the system of getting appointments for parents’ evening (a bit late, now I’d already found my own method of barging in and then bursting into tears), and a stern missive from the headmaster explaining the importance of the school fund which I was evidently meant to be contributing to.

  I gathered them into a pile to leave accusingly in Stanley’s place at the kitchen table and had a shufty round the outside pockets in case any more treasures lurked. One stiffened rugby sock later, I found a creased white envelope with my name written on the front. It was from Andrew Lazlett.

  A brief, friendly, handwritten note told me that he’d had a word with Stanley and they both thought it would be a good idea if Stanley started going to Homework Club which ran from four to five each day and that perhaps if I were picking Stanley up one evening, he, Andrew, could have a quick chat with me to “catch up”. Stanley knew all about this and would be talking to me about it.

  It was dated over a week earlier – Stanley hadn’t said a word.

  ‘I forgot,’ he said blithely, when he returned to find me in a post-housework slump, washing and ironing done, chicken in the oven, car full of petrol but the brochure copy still in its infancy.

  ‘They have a tendency to forget,’ said Andrew Lazlett when he returned my phone call the following morning in his break.

  ‘I’d almost forgotten myself,’ I admitted, as I joined him that afternoon for the low-down on Stanley’s prowess on the homework front.

  I’d been deeply immersed in brochure copy all day, fending off Mike’s increasingly hysterical phone calls, and it was only when Stanley failed to materialise at 4.30 that I remembered he was staying on at school till 5 and that I was supposed to be there at 4.45 p.m. to see Andrew first.

  I was directed to the library where an assortment of boys were dotted about at tables, heads bent over books. I spotted Stanley at the back, chewing his pen. Andrew Lazlett was seated near the door, jacket over the back of his chair, hands behind his head, legs stretched out in front. He got up when he saw me hovering in the corridor.

  ‘Carry on, you lot. I’ll be back in a minute – no throwing things.’ He nodded sternly at a small, angelic-looking boy with a shock of red hair. ‘Especially you, Lewis.’

  Andrew Lazlett put his jacket back on. For a moment Stanley looked up, caught sight of me, and looked hastily down again, apparently deep in concentration. Andrew joined me outside and indicated I should follow him. ‘I’ve simply got to have a cigarette – you won’t tell, will you?’

  We went through a fire door at the end of the corridor and crossed the car park. ‘Not cracked it yet then?’ I said, as we slid casually behind the bike sheds. They were surprisingly deserted.

  ‘Only because they’ve all gone home,’ Andrew Lazlett said. ‘It’s a different story at lunchtime –’ he pulled a wry face ‘ when I come round here barking at the sixth formers to put them out and set a good example.’ He pulled a packet of Rothmans from his pocket. ‘I’m down to two or three a day.’ He patted his middle. ‘And still paying for it. Even though I’m hardly eating a thing.’

  We both considered his midriff. ‘I’m bloody starving,’ I volunteered supportively. ‘I’m on this new regime where I can’t have any carbs after 2 p.m. and only boring ones before that. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to an evening of hot water and vegetables. I usually live for the moment when I can fall on the wine and crisps.’

  ‘I know,’ he said gloomily. ‘I’m off the beer too. Maybe we should start a support group.’

  ‘What? For those prevented from eating a single thing they like?’

  ‘Something like that. Though I’ve joined the gym in the hope I can exercise the weight off instead of dying of malnutrition.’

  ‘I’m joining one tomorrow,’ I said. ‘The new one up by Tesco?’

  ‘That’s where I went. They had a good offer on – hope it’s still on for you.’

  ‘Luckily I’m not having to pay for it. I’m on this exercise and diet régime for a TV documentary I’m doing,’ I said, feeling a flush of pride as he looked suitably impressed.

  ‘How glamorous,’ he said. ‘And how’s Stanley?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think he’s OK. How are you finding him?’

  ‘He seems fine. I suggested Homework Club because I thought it would be good for him socially. Some really nice kids come along – they seem to have a laugh together. They’ll be chucking things around the room by now.’

  ‘I meant to see if Connor was in there,’ I said. ‘He was Stanley’s friend at primary school but I think he hangs around with other boys now. That’s why I worry about Stanley being left on his own.’ I felt a lump in my throat at the thought and dug my nails into my palms. I couldn’t start that again.

  Andrew looked thoughtful. ‘Connor French? From 7C? I think he comes sometimes. I’ll find out for you.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette and smiled at me.

  ‘Thanks for all your help and interest,’ I said, humbly. ‘You’ve been so kind – you’re very committed …’

  ‘I love my job,’ he said simply. ‘I love being with the kids. It feels like a privilege.’ I looked at him – he was utterly serious.

  ‘How lovely,’ I said, feeling strangely emotional. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that about any job I’ve done.’ I sighed. ‘I’ve always thought there’s something very compelling about people who have a real vocation – to have that certainty that you’re doing the right thing with your life. I always feel I’ve wasted half of mine –’r />
  I stopped abruptly. I’d meant to sound flippant but I suddenly felt like crying again. God, he must think me such a flake. I forced a big grin on to my face. ‘You know that feeling that you’ve had your day and somehow you missed it?’

  He was looking at me intently. ‘What did you do?’

  I kept smiling. ‘Got married, brought up a child, had a crap copywriting job.’

  ‘And have you enjoyed that child?’

  ‘Oh yes. Having Stanley is the best thing I’ve ever done.’

  ‘Then nothing’s been wasted. Being a good parent is worth more than any career – I think.’

  ‘Have you got children?’ I asked, feeling awkward now.

  ‘Two stepsons. Been with them since they were quite young.’ His cigarette was almost finished. He took another long drag on what was left.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said feebly.

  ‘And now you’re in television?’

  ‘Oh no, not really. I just got involved in this programme through someone I know, it‘s only – it’s nothing much.’ I looked at the ground, embarrassed.

  He looked at his watch. ‘I’d better get back.’

  He stubbed out his cigarette and carefully pushed the end underneath the hedge with the toe of his shoe. Then he smiled. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you in the gym sometime?’

  I nodded. ‘God help us.’

  ‘And try not to be anxious about Stanley,’ he said, as we headed back toward the school. ‘It does take them a while to settle in sometimes, but they get there in the end.’ His voice was reassuring. ‘If you’re worried – just give me a call …’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ‘Just give me a call.’ That’s what Cal had said too after he’d emailed today’s filming schedule. Any problems – just call. Much as I liked the idea of hearing his voice, I couldn’t quite bring myself to ring up to ask what I could possibly wear in the way of gym clothes that wouldn’t spell total humiliation.