by Sara Downing
I know I’m not old, far from it, but there is no way, even with a thorough skin care routine (and I have always been careful) and good genes, that the little lines and wrinkles can be staved off indefinitely. I don’t want to lose that enviable glow of youth, but here we are, it’s being eroded before my eyes, little by little. I still think I look young, but compared to the firm and even skin tone I remember having as a twenty year old girl, then yes, I do look a lot older. Nothing more I can do about it though than I already am, but it’s a bit depressing nonetheless.
Is it that desire to keep the world turning and leave something behind when you depart that drives people to have families? Or is it really just an inbuilt urge to have someone to nurture, to pass on all you know to, someone who looks a little bit like you and a little bit like your other half, or like other members of your family, who you hope will inherit all your good points and none of the bad? I am always fascinated but the way we are all made up of little bits of so many people; a mother's bright blond hair, a father's piercing blue eyes, a grandparent's talent for music, an auntie's artistic skills..... Everyone says I look a lot like my mum; I can’t imagine having a child who looks like me. Something a bit spooky about it. It makes me feel a bit queasy, actually. Maybe because we never really know what we look like, do we? How many times in real life do we pull the same expressions as the ones we see in the mirror? Mirrors never show us the frowns of concentration, the strange pensive expressions when we are daydreaming, or the open-mouthed trancelike TV-watching face. And neither do they show us amazement and surprise, or happiness, or how our eyes dance when we smile? That's why most adults hate having their photos taken – it's just that they don't recognise the person in the picture as the one they see with the neutral dead-pan expression in the mirror every morning. This twenty-first century obsession with looks and being perfect gives us such a lot to live up to.
It’s a good job Mark can’t see himself in the mirror right now. His current facial expression is fit to shatter the toughest mirror, even for one who is so handsome by day. He had gone up to bed as soon as we got home, pleading exhaustion. I had fiddled around for a while downstairs, going over the evening's conversation in my head and trying to come to terms with it, under the pretence of locking up and making myself a last cup of tea.
He looks as though sleep had come the instant his head hit the pillow. Uh-oh, he’s on his back though, which doesn’t bode well for a peaceful night's sleep for me, as it generally presages higher decibel levels of snoring. His mouth looks as though it has been propped open with a matchstick, and with his face bereft of colour as he sleeps, he looks like a slightly chubbier version of Edvard Munch's The Scream. Maybe that is what he is doing – screaming in his dreams, trying to resolve some work issue or other, or screaming at me, trying to make me see reason in a domestic argument dream. Or maybe he is just so tired he had passed out and lost all control of his facial muscles. Poor thing, he works so hard and really needs his sleep, and luckily for him, he generally gets it. Sleeping like a log is definitely an expression invented for Mark. He does brilliant log impersonations.
Actually, the evening had gone heaps better than I had hoped, although I would never have guessed at the outcome being what it is. Mark had been thrilled to arrive home and see me all glammed up for an evening out, a beaming grin on his face as he ran his eyes appreciatively over my new Jigsaw dress and latest pair of LK Bennett patent leather heels. ‘You can take the girl out of the city but you can't take the city style out of the girl!’
‘Well, you know me, any opportunity to get them out. The heels, I mean,’ I’d said, feigning innocence and waving one leg in the air to show off my gorgeous footwear. My very intentional innuendo had had its desired effect as the corners of Mark's mouth turned up into that wayward come-hither smile of his. The neckline on my dress did ‘get them out’ a bit in the true sense, too, I suppose. Mark liked to see me with a bit of cleavage; he wasn't one for keeping me under wraps, for his eyes only, like some men could be. I often saw him clock other men's reactions on seeing me, and enjoying the thrill he got from recognising that they found me attractive too, smugly congratulating himself that I was his. Well that had lightened the tone for the start of the evening, at least.
‘As you are looking so gorgeous, I suppose I had better spruce myself up a bit too. Can't have the glitterati of Purbrook thinking I’m not worthy of you, can we?’
‘For one thing I don't think there are any glitterati in Purbrook, and secondly, you look gorgeous, if a little day-worn.’ I plant a kiss squarely on his lips, and tweak him on both cheeks. So we can still flirt, despite our recent differences. That’s encouraging.
‘How long have we got till we need to be there?’ Mark asks, curling himself around me. I know where he is taking this.
‘Not long enough,’ I reply, gently prising him off me and nipping in the bud his idea of a little pre-dinner appetiser of the bedroom kind. I protest that my hair and make-up have taken far too long to mess up, lovely and spontaneous though it would have been.
‘Oh you're just too sensible,’ he complains, but still with that languid smile of his. ‘So I'm having a shower on my own then. Boring.’ Laughing, he disappears up the stairs, leaving me to pour us a little drop of something nice and cold to whet the whistle before we leave.
Mark and I did actually have quite a pleasant evening, amazingly enough, given my initial dread of it. He had come home from work in such a good mood, and our early-evening flirtation had done a lot to temper the feeling of the occasion. The restaurant had been gorgeous as well, which helped. With the arrival of the starters – a mixed finger-buffet of Chinese delicacies – we could tell the food was going to be of a standard to make us want to come back. The staff had it just right, hovering attentively in the wings in that easy way that only the Chinese seem to be able to manage with any aplomb. English waiting staff always come across as either too ingratiating or downright unbothered, with no happy medium. So we had launched ourselves into the food with abandon, voraciously eating sticky ribs and sesame toasts and licking our fingers (not each others' as we used to in restaurants in the heady days of our youth – we have matured a bit since then), totally caught up in the wonderful taste sensations.
So when Mark turned serious it had come as a bit of a bolt out of the blue, god knows why, and I was caught with sticky fingers mid-air. How much time had we spent talking about babies over the past few days? We went over everything yet again; my career and how it mattered to me, how I felt about the baby issue, and marriage, and this time it actually seemed to come out right. I felt like I was making a good case for the defence, so to speak, and Mark seemed to be listening to me and taking it all on board, but at the same time, the lawyer in him coming out to put his own views across.
But then something really weird happened. I looked at Mark and suddenly wondered why I was sitting here making a case against something that was, for the majority of people, the most natural thing in the world. Maybe I was drunk – I was certainly more than a little bit tipsy – but all of a sudden I found myself making an about turn and not so much giving in to Mark, but agreeing to maybe, just maybe, give it a go.
I wasn't quite sure what had happened to me. It felt like an out of body experience – there I was, hovering in the air in this fancy Chinese restaurant, watching a woman who looked and sounded like me tell her partner how she had not so much changed her mind but could see where he was coming from, and how maybe she would be OK with a teensy-weensy bit of trying for a baby, just for a while to see what happened and how scary it felt once she threw her pills in the bin. How, if she didn't feel too uneasy about that, she might somehow be able to get her head round the whole idea. How, although she thought she wasn't in the least maternal, the rational side of her mind must be kicking in and telling her to do the right thing. How she must like kids seeing as she spent so much time with them, day after day. How she didn't know where all this had come from but suddenly she felt compelled
to say it. Provided of course he kept his end of the deal and they could start planning their wedding, too.
Maybe Mark had laced my wine with some kind of baby-loving hallucinogen? It hadn't felt like me in that restaurant, saying all those things, but, there, I had said them and I couldn't take them back. Mark had looked as overjoyed as the day he had popped the question. His whole face had lit up, eyes sparkling, and was that a tear I detected in the corner of one eye?
As I reach for the moisturiser I pause and scrutinise myself again in the mirror. Had I really said all that? Was this it, were we really going to start trying for a baby? I am terrified, but in a different sort of way to the terror I had felt when I had been the opposition. It’s as though now I know the enemy, as it were, I can come to terms with the battle ahead a little more and prepare myself for it. Not that it will be a battle, I hope. Maybe a couple of pill-free months of wild abandonment, rampant sex at all hours of the day? It sounds like fun from where I am standing, or from where I will be lying, I should say. Then maybe nothing will happen, no bump will materialise, and Mark and I will be happy to return to our ‘DINKY’ days, accepting the fact that children aren't going to be on the cards, but that we will be enough for each other and be blissfully happy for ever and ever. OK? That’s the plan, for me anyway.
I’d had a major breakthrough on the wedding front, too. Mark had said of course, it was only fair, if it mattered so much to me, that we should get on and do it. Hardly romantic, but at least he was prepared to do it for my sake. I am acquiescing to please him, after all, and what I am giving in on is far more life-changing. So I think it’s only right that he does something for me, too.
My plan is all fine, of course, provided I don't actually go and get pregnant in the process. Just imagine it, all those years of dreaming of walking down the aisle, and when I finally do it, I have to wear a wedding gown the size of a small marquee to accommodate a baby bump.
On the other hand I would never dream of tricking Mark into pretending I was off the pill, whilst secretly popping it every morning as a precaution. No, I don't do deception. I am going to throw myself into both of these major events with the commitment they deserve. I will plan my wedding down to the n’th degree, give trying for a baby my best shot, and if it doesn’t work out, then we have a fantastic (married) life without kids to go back to, don't we? I have my plan, and provided all goes my way, there will be minimum disruption and normal business will be resumed as soon as possible. No problem.
By the time I crawl between the sheets ten minutes later, I have managed to convince myself that what I had promised Mark was not a house full of children to rival the Von Trapps, but the merest whiff of an attempt at starting a very small, very-unlikely-to-happen family. It’s enough to convince me and to stop me lying awake all night dwelling on the various possibilities. I fall asleep instantly. All that wine probably helped.
Five
I arrive at school the following day with a spring in my step, and a spring breeze blowing my hair. I had made a big ceremony of the ‘pill disposal’ at breakfast that morning, throwing the remaining few in the bin with a flourish and a ‘Ta..Da..’ and Mark, still glowing from the previous evening had held me like I was a precious casket, all ready to receive and nurture his future offspring. I am surprised at how ‘up’ about the whole thing I feel too. It all seems quite exciting in a way, a new chapter in our lives, even if I do envisage it as a fairly short and temporary one. I’m not going to make the mistake of mentioning that to Mark. I will deal with that when the time comes, several months after our amazing wedding ceremony and extravagant honeymoon, feigning disappointment at the children we will never have, and quickly helping him get back on his feet and appreciate what we do have, and how good it is.
I have a packed day ahead of me. Preparations have kicked off for the summer play, and the kids in my class being the major contributors to that, most of the work falls to me. But I love it. Auditioning the children for the major roles, they amaze me with the hidden singing, dancing and acting talents that lie dormant all year, suddenly shining through. A shy child who blossoms into a shining star on the stage, a class clown who turns out to have a voice like an angel. It’s always worth every minute of the extra work I have to put in. This year we are doing ‘Joseph’ – I still remember all the songs from when I had been in it myself as a child, and I’ve seen it on the stage in the West End twice since then. Jason Donovan had been gorgeous – I still remember drooling over his smooth, toned and tanned six-pack with the bunch of girlfriends I had gone along with. No sexy abs in our production though; just lots of kids working really hard to have a great time and produce an amazing show, and our ‘Joseph’ will no doubt be just as spectacular in its own way, and his coat just as Technicolor as the slick London version.
‘Morning Grace, how are the rehearsals coming along?’ It’s Tom, my head teacher, bounding into the staff room, arms laden with books.
‘Good thanks, we're going to try and finish the auditions today. Everyone seems to have picked up the songs really quickly – well, how can you fail to, their parents probably all know it well enough to sing along with them at home. I've been waking up in the night humming Any Dream Will Do!’ I laugh.
‘Great, I will try and pop in on you later,’ he grins, his eyes twinkling ‘I'd love to see how it's going and watch my brilliant director in action’. Is he flirting with me? His smile implies a little more than just a professional interest in what I’m doing. Surely not, I pinch myself, we are great friends and colleagues who work very well together, but I have never detected any other vibes from him. No love-interest antennae needed around him, normally. It is great to have a boss who is so dynamic and involved, though. And young. At my old school in London, the head had been just a head, an ancient fuddy-duddy who was ensconced in his office most of the time, barely making contact with pupils, teachers or parents, other than through all the formal channels. This school is so small, Tom has to do a bit of teaching as well, which means that he knows each and every one of the pupils by name, and given that he is always out in the playground at drop-off and pick-up times, he is familiar with most of the parents on first name terms as well. The children love the easy way he has with them, and the quiet sense of respect that he engenders in them is wonderful to see.
But flirting? Perhaps I had imagined it. Surely my hormones aren’t kicking in already; I only threw my pills in the bin just this morning. Tom and I have become friends in the four and a half years I’ve been at the school; Mark and I don’t socialise with him directly but he is very friendly with Evie and James, who knows him from way back when, and he and his ex-girlfriend had often been at various Brookes' parties and functions. I know he broke up with Sophie about a year ago, and we haven’t seen much of him outside school since. They had lived together for ages and had planned to marry, but something major had happened, I don't know all the details, and they had split up. I remember how distraught Tom had been, poor bloke barely holding it together some days at school, but he had pulled through it and as far as I know had been single since. James probably knows all the ins and outs. But why the sudden interest in the love-life of my boss, on the back of one semi-flirtatious comment? None of my business really, unless he decides to talk to me about it himself, which somehow I doubt. I shake myself back into the real world. The bell is about to go and my class will be waiting for me.
Three o'clock comes and I wander into the playground, availing myself for any parent who wants to nab me for an informal ‘chat’. It isn't a concerned or pushy parent who corners me though, but Alex, there to meet Archie and Millie, and it isn't a school matter she wants to talk about.
‘So how did it go with Mark?’ she asks, excitement in her eyes, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me off to a less populated corner of the playground.
‘You two, just play over there for a minute, and keep an eye on Rosie for me, will you? I just need to have a quick word with Grace.’ She motions to the children to run along
out of earshot, knowing they will gladly grab five more minutes of tearing round the playground with their friends.
‘I must be mad but we've decided to give it a go,’ I announce, pulling an ‘I'm not really sure and I'm a bit scared’ sort of grimace.
‘Wow, Grace, that's brilliant news. So you changed your mind then? Clever old Mark, talking you round, you won't regret it, you know, it'll be the best thing ever, you'll see.’ She is so enthusiastic, just like Evie. Hopefully some of it will rub off on me eventually.
‘I'm not sure, but I've said we can try, and we'll see what happens. It's all a bit scary really. I feel like I'm being picked up by all this and carried along. We'll just have to see how it all turns out.’
‘Oh, it's brilliant Grace, you'll love it, you'll see. And you can always come and talk to me, you know that, don't you?’
‘Thanks Alex, I think I am going to need a bit of propping up over the next few months – especially if it works and……Oh my god, what do I do then?!’
‘You'll cope, you'll be fine, look at you, superwoman with all these kids here. Oh Christ, look at Rosie’. Rosie, Alex's three year old daughter, is standing on top of the bicycle racks, arms outstretched like a miniature tightrope walker, her older siblings egging her on as she walks precariously along the metal bar.
‘Time to go, I think,’ Alex says, shouting back to me as she runs to save Rosie from imminent danger, ‘But can you and Mark come for supper on Saturday night? Nothing fancy, just a bit of a get together, please say yes, I haven't had you both round for ages.’
‘That would be lovely,’ I reply. ‘Let me know if you need me to bring anything’. I know she won’t need anything; Alex is the world's best coper, and always manages to put on a fabulous spread, despite having no man around the house to help with all the little practicalities that a dinner party entails.