The Little Things

by Jane Costello

  I now have one master document, an enormous complex file that’s then broken into more easily manageable chunks. It’s organised by child and day of the week and features everything, from which after-school activity they’re due to attend to what homework they have and which particular kit they need to have washed and ironed in advance.

  ‘This looks like the work of a psychopath,’ Suzy tells me as I flick through my file brandishing a highlighter pen.

  ‘Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,’ I tell her.

  ‘Oh, I’m not. As someone who’s always gone for the seat-of-pants approach I’m full of admiration,’ she says, sliding an omelette onto a plate and placing it in front of Max, who’s only just back from swimming club.

  ‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do for your school art festival yet?’ she asks, placing his dinner in front of him. Max is so skinny you could play ‘Yankee Doodle’ on his ribs – but his calorific intake per day could keep an entire rugby squad for a week: his plate is piled high with chips, a two-egg omelette lavished with cheese and the bit he (oddly) likes best, a mountain of cucumber and carrot sticks.

  ‘I want to do that Henry VIII thing I told you about,’ he says, our conversation about the Dissolution of the Monasteries clearly having had a big impact on him, even if my only contribution was to murmur and nod a lot.

  ‘Max, that would be ridiculously complicated,’ Suzy says.

  ‘It’d be good though,’ he argues, taking a bite of cucumber.

  ‘I can help him, if you like,’ I offer, approving wholeheartedly with my eldest nephew’s refusal to be defeatist.

  The competition, it turns out, is being judged next Friday and he has to come up with a piece of art with the theme of ‘Kings and Queens’. Max wants to create a massive collage of Henry VIII beheading Anne Boleyn, featuring – obviously given that he’s nine – the most gruesome detail possible.

  ‘I warn you, Hannah, these things are really competitive,’ Suzy tells me. ‘Some of the kids spend weeks on them. Max should’ve started it ages ago.’

  ‘Ah, we’ll be all right, won’t we, Max?’ I say conspiratorially as he grins back at me through a cucumber smile.

  Max and I spend every evening for the next seven days working on his project. I say ‘Max and I’, but that might not give an entirely accurate impression of the dynamic that develops as the week progresses.

  Having agreed with him that bigger is probably better, I go out and buy a large artist’s canvas that I nearly have to hire a white van to transport home, along with a ton of new paints. Then I start snaffling spare fabrics to create the collage bit, from anywhere I can find them: old dusters, handkerchiefs, tinfoil. Who’d have known that an old pair of opaque tights would’ve made such a nifty royal codpiece! Once I hit on the genius idea of making Anne Boleyn’s head from a ping-pong ball, I become a woman possessed: it’s as if my flopped artistic aspirations at school had had a second chance. It’s only on Day Three – when I’m encouraging the twins to shovel as many KitKats down them as possible so I can use the wrappers to make armour for the guards – that I notice Max’s attention has started to wane. By which I mean he’s watching someone on YouTube play Minecraft and hasn’t contributed to the picture all night.

  ‘Max, what are you doing?’ I ask, sounding unnervingly like Suzy.

  ‘Hmm? Oh, just watching a vlogger – Stampylongnose.’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘I’m sure he can buy something over the counter for that.’

  He ignores me. ‘Max, this isn’t meant to be my competition.’

  ‘But you’re doing brilliantly, Auntie Hannah,’ he replies, refusing to look up from his iPad.

  I purse my lips. ‘Do not try to flatter me into doing this entire project for you,’ I reply, though he’s got a point: my picture is ! ‘Come on. Join in.’

  He drags himself up and grabs a paintbrush. ‘My friends and I were talking about the facts of life today,’ he announces casually, dabbing the brush in some blue paint.

  I freeze in panic, glancing around for Suzy, Justin, anyone. But the former is on bath duty and the latter is working late.

  ‘Oh . . . were you?’ I reply.

  ‘I know more than you probably think I do,’ he tells me proudly. I realise I’m holding my breath, feeling desperately unqualified for this conversation.

  ‘Maybe you should talk to your mum about this?’ I suggest, through strangled vocal cords.

  ‘Okay.’ He shrugs. ‘Do you want to know one of the facts of life I know, though? Just one?’

  He is clearly dying to have a conversation about this. And, although it’s the last thing I want to discuss, I feel backed into a corner, unable to refuse in case for the rest of his life he can think about sex only in a way that’s shrouded in repression and shame.

  ‘Okay,’ I say uneasily. ‘Just one fact of life then.’

  He nods. ‘Rivers never flow uphill. That’s one of the most important facts of life there is.’

  I decide to have an early night after that.

  After a quick bath, I head to my room and log on to my laptop to see if I’ve had any response about my Skype interview the other day.

  I’m not expecting one yet, if I’m honest – they said I wouldn’t hear from them until after they’d finished interviewing other candidates. But, to my surprise, there is an email right at the top.

  I close my eyes, my heart racing. This could be it: my direct route to James, that blue-sky lifestyle and a glitzy yacht party every other day. I open the email and begin scanning its contents.

  Dear Ms MacFarlane

  Thank you for your time the other day. You were an excellent candidate and we feel certain that your experience and enthusiasm will make you a valuable addition to a company here in the UAE.

  Unfortunately, it was decided shortly after we spoke to you that we perhaps need to go in another direction with our plans – and are therefore intending to out-source our marketing to an agency for the next six months. Under these circumstances, the job you applied for is unfortunately no longer available.

  I am sorry to have wasted your time, but it was wonderful talking to you and Mike and I both felt you had some super ideas.

  On a separate note, I have been trying to find a scarf just like the one you were wearing. Can you tell me where you got it please?

  Yours sincerely

  Paula Cullen

  Telling James is such a humiliating affair I can’t even describe it. When he looks at me through the webcam, the only thing I can see is pity in his eyes. It makes my stomach clench.

  ‘Something’ll come up, Hannah. You’re a success – you always will be. Dubai is just your kind of place. It’ll be worth it once you get here. The hotels here are amazing. The weather’s fantastic. Everything’s just so . . . top of the range. Seriously, you’ll love it. So don’t lose faith.’

  I nod.

  ‘So what have you been up to?’ he continues.

  ‘Oh, just helping Max with this big art competition the school are running,’ I tell him. ‘Although, somehow, I seem to’ve ended up doing the entire thing myself.’

  ‘Is that allowed?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m sure everyone does it. Besides, as I was telling Michael the other day, the idea was all Max’s.’

  He pauses for a second. ‘Who’s Michael?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Michael. Who is he?’

  ‘Oh, just one of the school dads,’ I reply. ‘He’s a nice guy if . . . very short. And balding. A bit overweight, too.’ The more untruths I add to this description, the hotter my skin becomes.

  I have literally no idea why, not least because James has never looked more gorgeous than tonight. It’s not just that the tan has given the (admittedly false) impression that he’s got those biceps by living some kind of Action Man existence, the type who’d hang out with Bear Grylls at weekends, catching fish with his bare hands. Being in Dubai has made him grow in confidence, too. Okay, he still wants my opini
on about every decision he seems to make out there, but he now has this appealingly well-travelled, capable air.

  ‘I love you, James,’ I tell him spontaneously.

  He hesitates and looks as if he has something he wants to tell me. ‘I love you too.’

  ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course,’ he replies, shifting in his seat. ‘Just . . . well, it’s been a long time since we’ve been . . . together.’ He looks at me meaningfully. ‘You know, physically together.’

  It takes a moment for the words to filter into my brain, for said brain to compute them and work out that he’s basically reminding me that he hasn’t had a shag in months. The poor guy probably has such a severe case of blue balls they’re a step away from flashing like the light on top of a police car.

  ‘I know,’ I agree awkwardly. ‘But there’s not a hell of a lot I can do about that.’

  He chews his lip. ‘Well, I was reading the other day that when couples are a long way away from each other, and they can’t, ahem, make love,’ he says, ‘then they have to make do with what they can. Via a webcam.’

  My mind races to decode what he’s saying. Which is basically this: he wants to have webcam sex. Oh, Laaawd Almighty!

  I attempt to put my eyes back in their sockets and look relaxed about this suggestion. Which, in all honesty, I probably should be. Why wouldn’t he want this? He’s a red-blooded male – and here I am, thousands of miles away, expecting him to not sleep with anyone else out there.

  I realise as panic races through me that I need to step up to this. I need to be sexy and seductive and basically change the fact that our conversations via this medium have been about as sexually charged as a WI meeting.

  His eyes have softened and his lips parted. I can tell he’s thinking about sex and it’s up to me to get him going – that’s me, in my M&S flannel pyjamas patterned with pink teddy bears.

  ‘You look incredibly sexy tonight, Hannah,’ he murmurs encouragingly. I am lost for words, unable to respond beyond twiddling with the pompoms on my slippers.

  ‘Um . . . you look incredibly sexy, too,’ I offer lamely, realising instantly that this is unlikely to have him burning with desire.

  I try to think sexy thoughts.

  ‘Tell me what you’d like to do with me,’ he whispers, lust dripping from his eyes.

  I swallow. ‘I’d like to . . . um . . . run my fingers through your hair.’ He replies with an underwhelming smile. ‘And, er . . . kiss your lovely lips,’ I add. Oh, God! He must feel as if he’d bought Debbie Does Dallas and found the disc inside had been swapped for Dumbo.

  He looks up and very clearly concludes that I’m not up to this. ‘AND,’ I add frantically before he decides to up and leave, ‘AND that’s not all.’

  He leans forward in his seat as my mind goes blank. ‘I’d . . . I’d like to touch you.’ He raises an eyebrow, looking for embellishment. ‘In . . . private places.’

  He blinks. I know I need to be more specific. ‘You know . . . your . . . um . . .’ A multitude of pornographic possibilities shoots through my mind before I decide I might as well get down to brass tacks. ‘Penis,’ I say queasily.

  He doesn’t respond.

  ‘Oh, God, James – I can’t do this!’ I bluster. ‘I cannot talk dirty. I can be dirty – well, dirty enough, anyway. I’m no prude is all I mean. I’m just struggling to do this without sounding like a biology text book.’

  His face breaks into a smile. ‘Hannah, don’t panic so much about things. Honestly. Let’s forget about it.’

  I have never felt so overwhelmed with disappointment in myself. ‘No . . . no, just wait,’ I insist, leaping over to the music system in the corner of my room. There, I scramble through it and find the sexiest song I can find, ‘S&M’ by Rihanna, which at least has the benefit of zero subtlety. Then I kick off my pompom slippers, position the webcam – and start dancing.

  Now, had I planned to perform my very first striptease in advance, I’d have worn something more suitable: at least some nice black underwear, a little lace, perhaps – or at the very least a few layers that I could peel off with a sultry look in my face. But needs must.

  So I attempt to be as sexy as I possibly can, unbuttoning the top of my jersey-mix jimjams and revealing a bare shoulder. As I’m sashaying across the room, seductively undoing one button after the next, I’m very happy to report that something seems to be happening: James is enjoying it – at least he looks like he is.

  I decide to step things up a gear. I have my top open just ajar – still covering my unmentionable bits – when I start swinging around my chair, twirling my hair. I recall the trailer for that hideous nineties film, Striptease and decide to drag out the standard lamp from the corner and, being careful not to trip over the plug, use it as an impromptu pole to dance around.

  ‘You’re amazing,’ he murmurs.

  This is all the encouragement I need: I become a seductress, a siren, I have sex appeal running through my veins. I am gyrating across the floor, the lamp between my legs, and it’s all going so terribly well that I decide it’s time to reveal a little more flesh. I am just considering whether to edge down my pyjama bottoms when the door BURSTS open.

  There is only one way to respond to this.

  ‘AARRGHHHHH!’

  I grab the duvet and clutch it at my chin as I register Noah at the door, terror blazing in his eyes. I rapidly switch off the music.

  ‘Noah, what is it?’ I ask breathlessly.

  His bottom lip wobbles. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine!’ I shriek. ‘But you need to knock next time you come in here. Okay?’ He looks at me, bewildered, then I realise this isn’t what he’s apologising for. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Max says you’re going to kill me.’

  ‘I won’t kill you, of course I won’t . . .’ I narrow my eyes. ‘What have you done exactly?’

  He hesitates, then slowly lifts something up between his fingers. On closer inspection, it turns out to be Anne Boleyn’s head.

  Chapter 9

  ‘They’re doing everything on the cheap these days at work,’ Julia tells me, as I put down the Potty Training in One Week book that Suzy has been failing to persuade Ollie to follow for the last nine months.

  ‘Even the new staplers are crap. And they’ve got a right muppet that’s just started in the marketing department.’

  I sit up on the sofa. ‘They’ve replaced me?’

  ‘No, no, he’s on a placement, that’s all,’ she says. ‘It’s Keith’s nephew. He’s been driving Maria round the bend since she came back from maternity leave. And don’t even get me started on Gary French. He won’t rest until he’s got your old job.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ I murmur.

  ‘Keith was mad to let you go,’ she continues. ‘It makes no sense.’

  I’ve thought about this long and hard since my redundancy was announced. About how I’d just got on with my job without making a song and dance about it, without ever making sure Keith Blanchard knew all about the work I was doing.

  When I think about the number of times Gary took the glory for something I’d done, something he’d basically had nothing to do with, it makes my blood boil.

  ‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘although Keith never says a word about anything – obviously – I know he regrets letting you go.’

  ‘Ah, diddums,’ I mutter.

  She sighs. ‘You and I really need a night out together, you know. It’s been weeks. I know you’re broke, so I’m paying.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. But yes, I agree about the night out. We haven’t been to Camp and Furnace for ages.’

  ‘Done. Right, I better go. M’Lord’s on his way back from the gym. I’d better make sure I’ve polished his doorknobs properly.’

  After I’ve finished the call, I’m about to leave for the school run when the phone rings again. It’s one of those litigation firms specialising in accident claims – who phone everyone in the world and say, ‘T
here’s compensation waiting for you following your recent car crash,’ even if you’ve never been in a car in your life. It takes me ten minutes to get rid of them, before I strap Ollie in and drive to pick up the twins. Then it’s off to Max’s school in time for his art competition tonight.

  Max emerges from his classroom and launches himself at me. ‘Auntie Hannah,’ he says excitedly. ‘Everyone’s saying my picture’s the best. I think I might win.’

  I have to work quite hard to keep a lid on the fact that I’d quite like to jump up and down on the spot and pump my fist triumphantly. ‘Well, it’s a very good picture, Max, but don’t get your hopes up.’

  There is an exhibition that precedes the big announcement, which takes place in the big, draughty school hall to the side of the entrance. It is packed full of pupils and their parents – and not just from the junior school, either. The occasion is so momentous that the infants are there too, along with teachers and governors.

  It is obvious as we tour the hall that one hell of a lot of work has gone into some of these entries: there are stop-motion animations on mounted iPads; life-size models of suits of armour; and even a crumbly papier-mâché head of Prince William that it’s probably a good thing our future monarch will ever set eyes on. I walk round smiling modestly and making suitably humble noises, even if inside I’m shouting, OURS KICKS ASS!

  When I reach our masterpiece, I pause to earwig as a group of kids huddle around discussing it. ‘My mum says it’s a disgrace when a parent has so obviously done ALL the work,’ says one girl, who’s about ten.

  ‘It shouldn’t be allowed to enter,’ agrees an older boy. ‘There’s absolutely NO WAY a Year Five kid would be able to do it.’

  ‘If that wins, my mum said she’s going to complain.’

  I slink away sheepishly, panic shuttling through me as I glance around at some of the other entries. I realise then that, although lots of them have clearly been helped along by parents, none of them looks more obvious that it’s been made by a grown-up than Max’s.

  I feel a slump of despair as I clutch his hand and look across at him as hope shimmers in his eyes. I have let him down, I know I have.