by Gill Sims
‘Gunnar is my camper van!’ sniffed Louisa. ‘That’s his name!’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ snapped Michael. ‘Louisa, you are thirty-eight years old. I am sixty-eight years old. I am not referring to a fucking camper van by name. Kindly grow up. As I was saying, if you come within a country mile of a policeman in that thing, especially with all those bloody children bouncing around inside, you will be arrested sharpish and your children taken into care. Is that what you want?’
Louisa muttered something.
‘I SAID, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?’ shouted Michael.
‘No, Daddy,’ said Louisa in a small voice.
‘RIGHT!’ said Michael. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. So tell me how you got yourself into this pickle and let’s see if we can come up with a plan for what you’re going to do now.’
As Louisa started to explain how she was now virtually penniless, due to Bardo having the retreat and everything in it listed as a limited company, therefore entitling her to no share in it, and how she had no paperwork showing the money she had put into it at the start from the sale of her flat, or any of the considerable bailouts Michael had given her, Sylvia nodded at the door and indicated we should leave.
In the kitchen, Sylvia sank down at the table and sighed. She suddenly looked very old and fragile.
‘Do you think I could have a drink?’ she asked. ‘Assuming, of course, that my freeloading daughter has left you anything in the house. Oh God, that wretched girl! What a stupid mess she is in. It’s my fault really, I spoiled her. Michael was always the only one who could handle her, and I used to end up just giving into her if he wasn’t there, because it was easier than putting up with her tantrums. And, of course, he was always working in those days, so she got her own way an awful lot, which is probably why she’s now such a horror. I should’ve stood up to her, instead of letting her grow up thinking all she had to do was stamp her feet and she’d get what she wanted. Thank you so much for taking her in, Ellen, you’ve no idea how grateful I am. I can imagine how awful she’s been.’
I was gobsmacked: Sylvia was being human. Sylvia was acknowledging that she might have been wrong. And Sylvia was admitting that one of her children was less than perfect. All this as well on a day when someone had actually succeeded in shutting Louisa up and wringing some semblance of manners from her. I was rather scared of what might happen next on a day of such unnatural behaviour from Sylvia and Louisa.
Next door Michael started shouting again, and Simon shot through.
‘Best just to leave them to it, I think!’ he gasped, as Michael’s roars drowned out Louisa’s wails of protestation.
‘Apparently, she has been hanging around here, refusing to get off her backside because despite all her protestations about how much she hates Bardo, she was hoping he would come after her and declare his undying love, renounce Whatsit, and they would all live happily ever after. Dad’s just disabusing her of this notion now. Actually, darling,’ he put down the wine bottle. ‘Do we have anything stronger?’
Of course we had something stronger. Now I was rich beyond the dreams of app-arice (Simon just looked at me when I told him that quite brilliant pun), I had taken to buying quantities of artisan gin instead of Waitrose own-brand. I got out several bottles and suggested we could take our mind off things with a little gin tasting.
Gin may not have been the best choice under the circumstances. Simon was summonsed back to the sitting room by another bellow from Michael, so Sylvia and I were left alone with the bottles. An hour later, we were both rather emotional, as Sylvia gulped, ‘I gave up everything up for my children. Everything. There were days when I didn’t even know who I was any more. I still have days like that. And what was it all for? Louisa throwing her life away on that bloody unwashed hippy! S’all my fault, I was a bad example, making her think you need a man. Don’t need a man. Stupid mans. Fish’n’bicycles, you know! I should’ve been like you, Ellen. You do horrible ’pooters, but you got your independence. You could leave Simon tomorrow, an’ you’ll be all right. You won’ though, will you? Promish me you won’ leave Simon? You’re a good example to Jane. Independence! Own money. Wish I’d had my own money. An’ career.’
I hiccupped. ‘Don’ you think I’m a bad mother, bein’ away from them too much? Other people bringin’ ’em up? Is bad of me. Feel very bad. Guilty ’bout it. Always too busy.’
‘Nah,’ slurred Sylvia. ‘I was always there for my children, an’ look how that turned out! An’ I’s guilty too. Too worried ’bout what people thought. Too busy making sure cushions and curtains and flowers matched. ’Pearances not everthing! Should’ve been more, whaddaya call it, more “chilled”. Never let them in the drawing room, ’cos they would make a mess. Shoulda let ’em in drawing room. Maybe Louisa would be a nice person if I’d let her in the drawing room? Maybe all this hippy bollocks is a, a, I dunno, a rebellion ’gainst me, an’ my Laura Ashley curtains? Though …’ Sylvia squinted at me, ‘Simon’sh not sho bad. He got you. You’re alright. Part from the ’pooters. I don’ like ‘pooters. Internet. Bad. Scary. S’there any more gin?’
‘Oooh, I know!’ I chirped as I slopped more gin into Sylvia’s glass. Bafflingly, there didn’t seem to be much room for tonic. ‘I could show you how to use the internet. You can buy stuff! An’ you can go on eBay an’ win stuff, and learn how to do anything on YouTube. ’Cept flicky eyeliner. Thass tricky. You could do lots of stuff! I love winning things on eBay. Last week, I winned three chandeliers an’ a giant crystal pineapple on eBay! Chandeliers was all the same, I din’t realise I had bid on them all, I’s going to put them in my holiday cottage in Wells-next-the-Sea with the shoes. Less you want one?’ I added generously.
By the time Michael, Simon and Louisa came through, Sylvia and I were singing along to Kate Bush and practising the dance moves to ‘Wuthering Heights’ courtesy of YouTube.
‘Michael, LOOK!’ shouted Sylvia. ‘I CAN DO ’POOTERS NOW! Ellen showed me how, an’ I’m gonna win stuff on eBay too! ’Pooters is FABLUS! Ellen, can I win a ’pooter for my own self on eBay?’
‘Oh dear God! What the fuck has happened in here?’ said Michael in horror as Sylvia attempted a high kick but over-balanced and lurched into his arms.
Friday, 29 July
The crisis talks on How Do We Solve A Problem Like Louisa continue. In fairness, now the summer holidays have started she has actually been reasonably useful this week and looked after Peter and Jane while I was at work. Michael must have had a word with her as well, because she even attempts to tidy up and hoover while I am out. She is rubbish at it, of course, and I have to redo it when I come home, but I suppose at least she is trying.
I am trying to be nice about all this and focus on the childcare fees Louisa is saving me, and not on how much money she has cost me over the past few months, including having to buy a new blender due to the sperm smoothies. Although having found out just how generous Bardo had been with his special ingredient, I am very glad I did, because there is not enough Milton in the world to sterilise that away.
Tonight I met Hannah and Sam for a ‘first week of the holidays’ debrief drinky. I asked Katie along too because I think she just needs to spend a bit more time with grown-ups and a bit less crying in front of Paw Patrol and trying not to claw her own eyes out with boredom.
Katie has actually turned out to be rather a kindred spirit, and I wish I had found this out months ago. I have taken refuge over the road from the rows between Louisa and Simon and their parents more than once recently, and had a lovely time putting the world to rights with Katie over a bottle.
Simon was drooping round the bedroom as I was trying to get ready, gloomy at the prospect of another night with his sister and parents, while Louisa alternately wept and raged at Michael and Sylvia’s refusal to pay for Gunnar’s repairs and allow her to set off on her travels. Michael has, however, got his lawyers onto Bardo to try to wring some cash out of him, which will come as a nasty shock to his hippy arse.
> Hannah texted me while I was putting on my makeup to make the mysterious announcement that she was bringing ‘someone’ for us to meet, so I took pity on Simon and said, ‘Why don’t you come too? Louisa can make herself useful and babysit.’
He perked up straightaway and said, ‘Really? You wouldn’t mind? That would be lovely!’
Poor Simon. It is a dark day when he actually feels going into the company of People is preferable to the sanctity of his sofa.
I wasn’t terribly surprised when the ‘someone’ Hannah was bringing for us to meet turned out to be Charlie. I’d had a coffee with him a couple of weeks after That Drink, and then suddenly his messages and suggestions to meet up had tailed off, and Hannah had become elusive as well. I had hoped he had taken my advice and called her, and it seems that he had, because they were like a pair of loved-up teenagers.
Simon was a little stand-offish with Charlie at first, but Charlie, being a good soul and sensing Simon’s hostility, made no mention of our meetings, saying only that he had bumped into me by coincidence a few months ago and, learning he was now living in the area and was single, I had given him Hannah’s number.
Simon thawed somewhat after that, joking that I always did love a chance to matchmake, and even going so far as to remark that Charlie was lucky I hadn’t found out he was single before Louisa arrived, or in my desperation to get rid of her I might have tried to set them up instead, ‘Though God knows what you’d have done to Ellen to deserve that!’
I was rather jealous of Hannah and Charlie, not because of Charlie, but just of how besotted with each other they were and unable to keep their hands off each other.
‘Awwwww,’ said Sam. ‘Isn’t it sweet! Our little Hannah has found love, and without a single dick pic. You didn’t send a dick pic, I assume?’ he asked a rather startled Charlie, who then had to have Hannah’s abortive foray into online dating explained to him.
‘What about you, Sam?’ asked Hannah. ‘Now you’ve split up with Mark, are you looking for someone else?’
‘Oh God!’ said Sam. ‘Not really. Mark was okay, but it was an awful lot of effort. I mean, the sex was great, but I’m not sure it was really worth having to be interested in his opinions on Made In Chelsea and Geordie Shore. I honestly don’t know if I can be bothered. I’ve got the kids and the dog, and my friends, and I’m probably good with that. I know I’m an awful let-down to the gay clichés, I should be running around gagging for cock, but to be honest, I’m pretty happy as I am. I mean, never say never. If I meet The One, then great, but if I don’t, it’s not the end of the world. I can just snuggle up on my own with my cashmere bedsocks on and watch Poldark.’
‘Mmmm, Poldark. Ooooh, Cap’n Ross!’ sighed Katie, Hannah, Sam and I together, while Charlie and Simon exchanged resigned looks.
AUGUST
Thursday, 4 August
A summit meeting was called this evening. A solution has apparently been found for Louisa and the children which has been agreed as satisfactory for everyone.
A house is for sale adjoining Michael and Sylvia’s property in France. It’s not huge, and it needs some work, but it’s just big enough for Louisa and the children. Michael and Sylvia will be on hand to support Louisa and look after the children, and Michael and Simon have called in every favour they have ever been owed to get Louisa some freelance graphic design work, which will enable her to be at home with the children and earn something of a living as well – the hope being that once she’s done a few jobs, word will get round and more will come in. Although Michael and Sylvia’s house doesn’t have enough space for Louisa to live with them long term (to quote Sylvia, ‘it’s only a tiny chateau’), she can stay with them while the property sale goes through and her house is renovated. This all sounded marvellous, but I had an uneasy sense of foreboding, as everyone looked at me expectantly.
Michael cleared his throat, as he said, ‘The only thing is, well, it’s a bit delicate. It’s the money.’
‘The money?’ I repeated.
‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘The thing is, all in, we’re looking at about £100,000. I’m afraid Sylvia and I just don’t have that sort of capital to invest anymore. So, we wondered if you and Simon would be able to put it up?’
‘Me and Simon?’ I was so stunned that all my mother’s insistence that it was never ‘me and X’ but always ‘X and me’ was forgotten.
‘We have the money, Ellen,’ Simon said quietly. ‘Our own mortgage is paid off, and your remaining app money is enough to do this.’
‘But the app isn’t making any money anymore!’ I said, as I surreptitiously kicked my latest handbag under the table out of sight.
‘It is actually, darling. It’s not making the pots of money it once did, but it’s still bringing in a few thousand a month.’
‘So you want me to give all MY app money to Louisa? So she can move to France and DRAW FUCKING PICTURES?’ Oh my God, this is what an out-of-body experience feels like. I could hear my own voice shrieking and see myself hammering on the table like a mad woman, but I didn’t seem able to stop myself.
Simon and Michael were saying something about how, no, it wouldn’t be giving the money, we would own the house and land and Louisa would live there, but all I could really hear was the blood roaring in my ears as I fought the urge to throw myself on the floor and shriek and kick like a thwarted toddler as I yelled that I was going to scream and scream until I was SICK! I couldn’t help but feel that would be deeply satisfying and the main impulse stopping me was that I was wearing a fairly short skirt and if I did that, I would almost certainly flash my knickers at everyone and they were distinctly grey with dubious elastic, and my bikini line also left a lot to be desired.
Everyone continued to talk at me as I struggled to breathe, the single thought running through my head of ‘MY MONEY, MY MONEY, MY MONEY!’ as well as fury at Simon for springing this on me in front of everyone. He obviously knew this was coming, had discussed it with his parents and Louisa and yet didn’t think that it might be a good idea to talk to me about it first. What the fuck did they think I would say?
‘Oh yes, jolly good, excellent plan, I’m completely happy with that, absolutely, let’s give Louisa (who hasn’t actually done a stroke of work in the last ten years) all the money that I have made for my family’s future so she can piss off abroad and live my dream in her adorable tumbledown villa, which will almost certainly have olive groves and probably an ancient retainer called Pascal, who lost his only true love, Marie Claire, in the war, and she will draw pictures for a living, which is practically the same as painting watercolours, and in the meantime, I will just carry on drudging away in a sodding office, trying to juggle the children and work and everything bloody else, and I won’t even have a holiday cottage in Wells-next-the-Sea to keep my excess shoes in, or even a DREAM because LOUISA HAS STOLEN MY DREAM! Will I buy her a nice shady hat as well SO SHE DOESN’T GET SUNBURNT IN THE OLIVE GROVES WHILE SHE IS STEALING MY DREAM? Will I? Just so her stolen dream is complete? WILL YOU ALL BE HAPPY THEN?’
I hadn’t actually realised I was shouting all this out loud until it dawned on me that everyone was looking at me in confusion and consternation, possibly not entirely sure who Pascal and Marie Claire were, so I stood up with what dignity I could muster and announced I was going out now and I may be some time, and stormed out of the house. I got as far as the end of the front path before I realised I had no money, phone or keys with me, so had to storm back in, collect my bag and re-storm out, which rather spoilt my dramatic exit, as a second storming is never as effective as the first, however hard you might slam the door.
Sunday, 7 August
Louisathedreamstealergate rumbles on. Simon has attempted appealing to my better nature, pointing out that, realistically, Louisa will never survive in the real world on her own and that it will be the children who will suffer. Apparently she needs to be somewhere that she will have the support of her family, to help her with the children, and since even with the app money
(MY app money) buying or even renting a house for her round here would not be feasible, the best thing is for her to move near to Michael and Sylvia, where everything is so much cheaper. I hear the rational side of his argument but unfortunately it seems I don’t have a better nature – I expect better natures are for people who have holiday cottages and haven’t had their DREAMS STOLEN!
Eventually, sick to the back teeth of the bloody Russell family harassing me, and since Sam and Hannah were both on holiday, I rang Jessica to ask her out for lunch to attempt a little family solidarity of my own.
I poured out the story to her as we ate overpriced salad and Jessica decorously sipped a single glass of white wine and I downed glassfuls with abandon. Finally, I said, ‘So you see? They are all being so unreasonable. It’s just NOT FAIR! Why do they think they can ask me this?’ and sat back to let Jessica’s indignation soothe my battered soul.
‘Actually, Ellen, I know it seems unfair, but I think you should let them have the money,’ said Jessica.
‘WHAT!’ I sat bolt upright, having been slumped in my chair waiting to be told I was right. ‘WHY should I give them the money?’
‘Well, firstly, you’re not giving them the money, are you? You’re investing it in a property that Louisa will happen to live in.’
‘DETAILS! That’s just details. She is stealing my dream! She will be Pascal’s confidante about Marie Claire, not me.’
‘What? Who are Pascal and Marie Claire? You’re not making any sense, Ellen,’ she said as she moved the wine bottle out of my reach. ‘The point is, the money will still be yours, just in another form. And it is the right thing to do.’
‘No, it’s not,’ I mumbled sulkily.
‘Yes, it is,’ admonished Jessica sternly. ‘She’s Simon’s sister. I’d give you the money if you needed it.’
‘No, you wouldn’t!’
‘Yes, I would, because you are my sister.’