by Gill Sims
‘You don’t even like me!’
‘That’s not the point. And we’re not talking about you and me.’
‘You could at least pretend to like me. You are supposed to say, “Of course I like you, Ellen, I love you.” Even if you don’t like me. Which you don’t.’
‘Ellen, for someone who has spent the last forty-five minutes complaining to me that Louisa is a petulant child, you are behaving very like one yourself. If you don’t help Louisa, what will happen to her? And more importantly, what will happen to her children?’
‘Don’t care.’
‘Ellen! You are infuriating. Grow up.’
‘Shan’t.’
‘Louisa will end up on benefits in a council house, probably miles from anyone she knows and minus any family support. Without help with the children, she probably won’t be able to do this freelance work she’s got, which will mean that once the baby is old enough, she will end up in some dead-end job, barely able to support her children. It will be a wretched life for all of them. And yes, Louisa is feckless and irresponsible and she should never have had so many children without any sort of plan about how she was going to support them, but the fact is, she has had them, and now that must be dealt with. And how do you think Simon will feel if you condemn his sister and nieces and nephews to a life like that?’
I felt a strong temptation to stick my fingers in my ears and sing ‘Lalalalalala, I can’t hear you!’ Bloody Jessica, why does she have to be so morally upright about everything? She was supposed to be on my side. S’not fair. She wouldn’t give the wine back either.
I continued to seethe and mutter indignantly to myself on the train home, which earned me some odd looks, but it did have the advantage of stopping anyone from trying to talk to me, because normally I seem to have one of those faces that says, ‘Yes, please do sit next to me and tell me your life story/ask me impertinent questions about myself/invade my personal space’.
Friday, 12 August
Tomorrow Michael and Sylvia are returning to France with Louisa and the children, Gunnar having been scrapped and an old left-hand-drive people carrier purchased instead to convey them there. I was still refusing to give up the money, and everyone hated me.
After another hideous row with Simon about it, I walked out again, unable to stand the resentful glares and loaded silences in the house. It was so unfair that everyone was blaming me when this whole mess was of Louisa’s making due to her bad decisions. All I wanted was a Pinterest-worthy holiday cottage or some olive groves with ancient retainers. That wasn’t so much to ask, was it?
Eventually, at a loose end, I got the bus to Hannah’s house. Charlie answered the door and took one look at my tear-stained face and said, ‘Oh my God, what’s happened?’
Over several enormous glasses of wine, I sniffed and sobbed out my sorry story, as Hannah patted my hand and made the sympathetic noises that I wanted to hear. That is why Hannah is my best friend. We long ago made a pact that no matter what we did, we would always be on each other’s sides. Us against the world. I finished snottering out the tale and waited happily for the proper indignation that my wretched sister had been so unforthcoming with.
Charlie and Hannah looked at each other. Where was my indignation? Where? Charlie sighed.
‘Ellen, this isn’t you.’
‘Yes, it is. It is absolutely me. It’s MY money!’
‘Yes, of course it is,’ put in Hannah. ‘But this mean-spiritedness isn’t you, not at all.’
‘Well, I’d give you the money, Hannah, in an instant. I just don’t like Louisa.’
‘That’s not really the point though, is it?’ said Charlie. ‘The point is that she is Simon’s sister, and this is the right thing to do.’
‘It is, Ellen,’ said Hannah. ‘And you know it is.’
‘You are meant to be on MY side!’ I wailed at Hannah. ‘What happened to us against the world?’
‘I am on your side!’ said Hannah. ‘I am trying to stop you making a terrible mistake and destroying your marriage.’
‘Look at it this way,’ suggested Charlie. ‘How are you going to feel, sitting in your holiday cottage in Wells-next-the-Sea (why there, by the way, you seem obsessed with the place?), knowing Louisa and your children’s cousins are sitting in some dismal bedsit with peeling wallpaper?’
‘I would feel fine. Possibly smug. And I googled it and it looked nice. Beaches and tea shops. And cheaper than Cornwall. And not so far.’
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ said Charlie. ‘You’d feel like shit, and deep down, you know you would. Do the right thing.’
Oh FFS.
I went home and marched in, giving the door a good slam (if they were going to make me do this, I was determined to extract every ounce of drama possible from it).
Simon was watching Wheeler Fucking Dealers. Louisa and the children had moved into Michael and Sylvia’s hotel a few days before.
‘FINE!’ I shouted. ‘They can have the money.’
Simon jumped up. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes,’ I muttered grudgingly, still not quite believing I was actually saying this.
Simon was hugging and kissing me and telling me I was wonderful and marvellous and how much he loved me, which was all very nice, if not a holiday cottage. Then he rang Michael and they agreed that, yes, I was very marvellous and I started to think maybe this wasn’t actually the stupidest decision I’d ever made.
Later, after some more wine, Simon showed me Louisa’s new house on his computer. I had refused to look at it before, not wishing physical evidence of my stolen dream rubbed in my face. It was actually a rather ugly little modern bungalow, quite dark and dingy inside, and not nearly as nice as my own house. I am clearly a terrible person, because this made me feel a great deal better.
‘Where are the olive groves?’ I cried. ‘Where will Pascal wander to mourn his lost love, Marie Claire?’
‘I think you’ve had enough wine, darling,’ said Simon, as he steadied me to bed.
Thursday, 25 August
We are in Cornwall, being properly middle class. The children have frolicked on beaches (kicked sand in each other’s faces and screamed because someone stamped on their sandcastle), and splashed in rock pools (tried to drown each other).
We have picnicked to the max, and frankly if I never see another hard-boiled egg or chicken sandwich, it will be too soon. Peter and Jane have taken to throwing the eggs at each other, which then results in the dog wolfing them down. Eggy dog sick is so not part of the middle-class dream.
I still press my nose longingly against the windows of every estate agency I pass, mourning my lost dream, but I know I did the right thing, however much I may have grudged it. Coventina sent me a letter shortly after they arrived in France, thanking me for her new home and life, which went some way towards mitigating my grudges. I remind myself of this whenever I spot the perfect ‘Honeysuckle Cottage’ and the bile abates somewhat.
Tonight, after Peter and Jane were in bed and I was futilely trying to shake sand out of wetsuits while keeping a close eye on the dog for any more signs of retching, muttering ‘FML’ to myself once more, Simon came up behind me and put his arms around me.
‘I love you,’ he said. ‘And I don’t tell you that enough.’
‘No, you don’t. Not nearly enough.’
‘And I will try harder to make sure you know how much I appreciate you.’
‘Good. I like the sound of that. You could appreciate me by giving me shiny things. I like shiny things.’
‘I can do shiny things, my little magpie,’ he said. ‘I also thought you might like a little treat for your birthday next month?’
‘I am trying not to think about that. I don’t want to be forty. I will just pretend it isn’t happening!’
‘Oh. So you don’t want to go to Paris then?’
‘Of course I want to go to Paris! What about the children? They are not very Parisian?’
‘All sorted!’ he said smugly. ‘Sam
and Hannah are having one each for the weekend. And we are off to the City of Love for romance. And wine.’
‘Will we go to jazz clubs?’
‘You hate jazz. We can go to jazz clubs if you want, but all you will do when you get there is moan that you don’t like the music.’
‘Then can we sit in a bar in Montmartre and watch the world go by while you whisper sweet nothings in my ear?’
‘Isn’t Montmartre very busy? There will be people and –’
‘SIMON!’
‘Okay, we will sit in a bar in Montmartre and I will whisper sweet nothings in your ear, even though you probably won’t be able to hear them because of all the people!’
‘Good.’ I said. ‘I love you too.’
It seems that, all in all, turning forty won’t be quite as awful as I thought it would be.
We are no longer broke, which is a wonderful thing to be able to say.
My mother-in-law can no longer make subtle digs at me (though I am almost certain she will continue to try) because I am the Saviour of The Family – and also because we bonded that one time over gin.
I no longer alternate between terror and hatred of the other mothers at the school gate but have in fact discovered they are all just human, though I am still strongly resisting joining Fiona Montague’s book club, because apparently she makes everyone read terribly highbrow books and then she just downloads other people’s critiques of them from the internet and passes them off as her own, to make herself look cleverer than everyone else.
I have made not one, not two, but three wonderful new friends in the form of Charlie, Katie and Sam, and I also get to feel slightly smug about being responsible for setting Hannah and Charlie up together, so if there is a wedding I will almost certainly be the guest of honour. Plus, there is the benefit of Katie being a kindred spirit just across the road to drink wine with.
And, best of all, I no longer want to sit in smoky jazz clubs with unsuitable men whispering sweet nothings in my ear – it turns out that just one very suitable man grumbling that there are People here and he is too hot will do for me.
I think being forty will be okay. It even gives me hope that one day I will manage to instil a modicum of civilisation into Peter and Jane, and they will stop trying to kill each other. Well, everyone needs a dream!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I used to look at the acknowledgements pages at the end of books and wonder how on earth it took so many people to help write a book – surely it was just the author, together with an editor and a proof-reader and maybe someone to do the typing for you if you couldn’t type. And then I wrote a book and found out just how many people you actually need around you. So here are just a few of the many, many people who deserve such huge thanks for their help with this book!
First, thank you so much to all the fabulous people at HarperCollins for giving me this amazing opportunity, but especially Grace Cheetham, Polly Osborn and Katie Moss, who have been endlessly patient with my constant emails full of silly questions.
Massive thanks also to my fantastic agent Paul Baker of Headway Talent, who is another remarkably patient person.
Special thanks to my lovely friend Donna Pilcher for all her help and advice, and her generally calming presence. Thanks are also due to all the Dahlings (you know who you are), who supported me and encouraged me and gave me the belief that I might actually be able to do this.
To the FIAF crew – Tanya and Mairi and Eileen – thank you for keeping me sane.
Jim Peters deserves a massive thank you too for his patience, photography skills and anecdotes.
Helen and Martin – thank you for entrusting Judgy Dog to me; and Judgy Dog, thank you for keeping my feet warm while I was writing.
My amazing in-laws deserve enormous thanks, not only for all the emergency childcare and hot meals they provided throughout the writing of this book, but for always being there over the years to step in and rescue me from my various crises.
And most of all, of course, to my very own Gadget Twat and Precious Moppets – thank you for all the cups of tea and glasses of wine and for putting up with me.
And last but not least, thanks to Claire Scott for starting all this with a chance remark one day.
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com