by Gill Sims
Lalabelle and Trixierose’s faces lit up at the sight of the delicious beige freezer goodness that the other children were shovelling in, doused in liberal quantities of tomato sauce. Kiki, however, recoiled.
‘GOD, no, Ellen! We are total clean eaters. Don’t you have any micro salad leaves, or pomegranate seeds, or manuka honey?’
‘There’s a token bowl of cherry tomatoes and cucumber on the table for the children to ignore,’ I suggested.
Kiki peered at the bowl. ‘They don’t seem to be multi-coloured heirloom tomatoes?’ she complained.
‘No,’ I said. ‘They are bog-standard ones that were on special offer because no fucker is going to eat them. They are only there to salve my conscience and make me feel like I’ve made a gesture towards nutrition.’
‘Mummy, can we have the fishfingers now?’ pleaded Lalabelle.
‘Darlings, you know we don’t eat things like that, do we?’ sang Kiki.
‘But we do, Mummy,’ said Lalabelle in surprise. ‘We do it all the time. We had chicken dippers and smiley faces last night!’
‘No, darling. Last night we had an avocado and quinoa salad, didn’t we? Mummy took a lovely photo of you and Trixierose enjoying it for Instagram, remember?’
‘Oh,’ said Lalabelle in disgust. ‘You mean the yucky stuff you made us pretend to eat before we had our proper tea?’
‘Ha ha ha!’ trilled Kiki. ‘Such an imagination you have, Lalabelle, aren’t you funny! Oh fine, yes, have the fishfingers.’
‘Right,’ I said, once Lalabelle and Trixierose had helped themselves (since I had failed to ever ask Kiki the inspiration behind her children’s names, she had insisted on telling me anyway – apparently her main goal when naming her children was to find something ‘unique’ that would be part of her ‘brand’ and really ‘stand out’ on social media. I did try not to judge. I failed). ‘Let’s get on then. I think we’ve really got everything pretty much sorted now, Kiki, though any help you could offer would be fantastic, of course.’
‘Well, I’m very busy with work, so I can’t do much,’ said Kiki.
‘What do you actually do?’ asked Cara.
Kiki laughed merrily. ‘I’ve told you Cara, I’m a social media influencer. None of you have followed me yet, though I keep telling you @kikiloveandlife!’
‘And is that an actual job now?’ said Cara. ‘Do you make money?’
‘Well,’ said Kiki, ‘I mean, I’m still building my brand, of course, but the really big influencers can make millions.’
‘Yes, but how do you become one of them?’ said Cara, who I suspected was just winding Kiki up now.
‘Um, well, you build your brand … you network … um … I like to travel. So I offer a really unique view on how to travel with children and then brands get in touch and offer to partner with you for holidays and the like.’
‘So, like free holidays, you mean?’
‘Well, not free, you are working while you are there, you have to take photos and write reviews. It’s harder than it sounds,’ insisted Kiki.
‘So, what sort of places have you been to then?’ enquired Cara silkily (I rather admire Cara’s ability to be quite evil under the guise of being caring and concerned. I lack such subtlety and guile).
‘Well, we went to the Seychelles, all-inclusive, to a luxury resort last month,’ said Kiki smugly.
‘Oh,’ said Cara, the wind rather taken out of her sails.
‘Ugh,’ interrupted Lalabelle. ‘I hated the stupid Seashells. The food was all funny and it was TOO HOT!’
‘Nonsense, darling, you loved it. Mummy has lots of lovely photos of you having a fabulous time,’ hissed Kiki.
‘But what about actual money, to live on?’ said Cara.
‘Well, sometimes they pay me too,’ said Kiki.
‘And is that enough?’
‘Well, it doesn’t really matter. My husband’s a hedge-fund manager.’
Cara muttered something unrepeatable. I don’t think she will be following Kiki on Instagram anytime soon.
‘Right, could we just get back to the Christmas Fair, PLEASE?’ I said in a desperate attempt at assertion, much though I had enjoyed Cara interrogating Kiki.
‘Hang on!’ cried Kiki. ‘I’m going to take a photo of all the children round the table, it’s perfect for a “family chaos” shot for my blog.’
‘Hang on,’ objected Katie. ‘You can’t just take photos of our children as well to put online!’
We all chimed in agreeing that Kiki was not using our kids as content fodder, about which she got quite sulky and said we were being very unreasonable. And Jane wonders why I am trying to discourage her from Instagram!
When we FINALLY returned to discussing the fucking Christmas Fair, Kiki said, ‘What about décor for the hall?’
‘Fuck, yes, good point!’ I said.
‘I could be in charge of that!’ offered Kiki.
‘That would be fabulous, thank you.’ I said gratefully. ‘I think someone said there’s a box of decorations somewhere in the PTA cupboard at school – tinsel and stars and bits and pieces – and I’m sure we could all lend some fairy lights for the night too.’
Kiki blinked slowly. ‘I was thinking more some sort of Scandi chic theme,’ she said. ‘I really want to make this stand out – the Halloween disco was a bit tacky, if you don’t mind me saying so. We should do something really eyecatching for the Christmas Fair. What is the budget for décor anyway? I reckon I could do it all for about two grand, but obviously if the budget can stretch to more I could really make it pop.’
Once we had all finished laughing, we gently explained to Kiki that there was no budget for decorations. If the entire evening RAISED £2,000 we would consider it a job well done. At best, if the tinsel in the school cupboard was particularly threadbare and bedraggled, she might be allowed £5 to run amok in Poundland.
Kiki was wide-eyed with horror, until Cara suggested that she should look on it as a challenge, and use it as an chance to write a blog post about Christmas decorations on a shoestring. Kiki still looked unsure, but Cara had said the magic words of ‘Instagram opportunity’ and so Kiki was unable to refuse. She retreated to a corner to pout into her phone and take some selfies while her children mainlined ketchup and we tied up the loose ends. Once everyone finally left, I cleared tables, loaded washing machines and stared hopelessly into the fridge for inspiration for something for dinner for Simon and me, while snacking mindlessly on leftover fishfingers until he finally got home, having opted to ‘work late’ rather than face the PTA hell of a house full of children.
Friday, 11 November
I had little desire to go straight home after work for another evening of resentful silences and angry sighing at each other, so since the children were both on a sleepover at Sam’s house, I accepted the invitation to go for Friday drinks with the rest of the team (minus Lydia, who was rushing home so the nanny didn’t hand in her notice again, and Ed, who could not come because it would involve speaking to People. I sometimes think I should introduce Ed and Simon – they both seem to have the same fear of People and could sit in a companionable silence, quietly hating everyone around them).
I had the wit to stay off the Gibsons this time, not because of the pickled onions but because they are neat booze, they get you shitfaced in an unseemly short amount of time, and I wasn’t entirely sure I was capable of undoing the complicated fastening of my trousers in time if I was hammered, before I weed myself.
I took a deep breath and braced myself before I opened the front door, ready for the horrible atmosphere inside. All was quiet, apart from Judgy Dog, who hurled himself upon me with joy. One always gets at least ten minutes of unadultered adoration from Judgy when you come home – he is happy you are back because he thought you were gone forever, and then he remembers that you left him and so he sulks for the next hour after that. Out of all of us, though, Judgy seems to be the one coping best with my return to full-time work, as he gets picked up by the dog sit
ter in the morning and gets to spend the day terrorising (terrierising) her other charges, before being returned in the evening. I love the lovely dog sitter.
‘At least someone is pleased to see me, hey boy?’ I said, scooping him up and burying my face in his fur. People rave about the delicious scent of a newborn baby, but I never really got it. Babies smell of talcum powder and sour milk and Sudocrem and shit. I much prefer the smell of Judgy’s fur, which is sort of biscuity, with a hint of mud and a whiff of fresh air. Unless he is wet, of course, in which case he just smells of wet dog, which is not so nice. He did his favourite thing of snuggling into my neck and making a strange groaning sound, while wrapping his paws round my hand so I couldn’t let him go.
‘Someone loves me anyway, don’t they, Mr Woofingtons?’ I whispered in his ear. He looked at me indignantly. He doesn’t like being called Mr Woofingtons, as he feels it is beneath his dignity.
There was no sign of Simon, who I assumed had either pissed off out since there were no kids at home, or was sulking somewhere, so still holding Judgy I trudged through to the kitchen in search of another glass of wine, and maybe some crisps to act as blotting paper.
I almost dropped the dog when I found Simon in the kitchen, apparently cooking, and through the door into the dining room, which we only use on special occasions, I could see the table was laid for two, with candles lit (and all the crap which is usually piled on the table had also mysteriously vanished. Where was it? Hopefully not thrown out – I had many useful pieces of paper Carefully Filed amongst the piles of shit).
‘Are you expecting someone?’ I enquired coldly.
‘Only you, darling!’ said Simon cheerfully (what did the bastard have to be so cheerful about, I wondered darkly? Throwing out my Important Bits of Paper?).
‘I thought I’d make us some dinner!’
‘Did you actually make it, or did you defrost something I made?’
‘Well, technically I bought it from M&S. Does that count?’
‘You may count that as you cooking,’ I conceded graciously.
‘I thought perhaps we need to spend some time together. Without rushing about and juggling stuff and trying to do eleventy billion other things at the same time, to use your favourite phrase.’
‘“Eleventy billion” is not my favourite phrase. “Arsed-faced cockwombles” is my current favourite phrase!’ I informed him.
‘I quite like that,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I thought it might help. To have a meal together, to talk instead of shouting, maybe even to try and remember why we married each other …’
‘Is this about sex?’ I said suspiciously. ‘Are you only doing this because you want a shag?’
‘No! I mean, I wouldn’t say no, but that’s not why.’
‘And are you going to do the dishes as well?’
‘Of course, darling, that’s the beauty of kind Mr Marks and Mr Spencer providing dinner, there will be two plates to go in the dishwasher and the rest can be chucked out.’
‘That’s not very green,’ I grumbled. ‘They would frown upon such a cavalier attitude to sustainability at work.’
‘Well, you’re not at work now, are you?’ said Simon briskly. ‘So why don’t you put down that smelly mutt and come and have a glass of wine and something to eat.’
‘He smells LOVELY!’ I objected. ‘Don’t listen to him, Judgy, he doesn’t know what he is talking about.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Simon.
Over dinner (beef Wellington, a bit retro, but jolly tasty) he said, ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that about my mother supporting my father. I just feel … inadequate sometimes, when I look at where my father was at my age, and where I am. Actually I feel like a failure compared to him – we’ll never be able to afford a house like theirs, or to send two kids to boarding school. And I suppose I’m jealous, not only of what he achieved but that he never had to worry about picking up kids or cooking or housework. He cut the grass on Sundays and that was it.’
‘But no one is where their parents were at their age anymore,’ I said. ‘Of course you’re not a failure, it’s just that the world has changed. Most people don’t live like they used to, or live like their parents, and women no longer want to just be housekeepers living off their husband’s money, even if their husband can afford for them not to work. Look at Kiki. Her husband earns a fortune, and she’s still trying to make it as a social media influencer –’
‘A what?’
‘Never mind what it is, darling. The point is that she wants something for herself, achievements of her own, beyond fulfilling her basic biological function. We all do. And if it was all easy and fabulous for your dad, how do you think it was for your mum, always putting him first, thinking of everyone before herself? It must have been quite boring and frustrating for her – she has almost said as much at times.’
‘I suppose so. Oh God, Ellen, when did life get so hard? It all sounded so easy, didn’t it? We got married and we were going to live happily ever after. What happened to us?’
‘I suppose we grew up.’
Later he said, ‘I miss you. I feel like we’re just ships that pass in the night at the moment.’
‘That’s what my parents used to say when they were both working. We could leave each other notes, like they did.’
‘With all due respect, darling, I don’t think that’s the solution, given your parents went on to have an extremely bitter and acrimonious divorce.’
‘No, I suppose not. What is, then?’
‘I don’t know, darling. We’ll think of something.’
Tuesday, 22 November
An email from Jessica today. I suppose at least I should be grateful that she had heeded my instructions not to call me at work (even though I have noticed they are fairly relaxed about personal calls, I just don’t really want to talk to Jessica because she will invariably have something she wants to boss me around about). My heart still sank when I saw her name pop up in my inbox, for there is never any chance that Jessica is just getting in touch for a chat, or to impart good news, or to send me an amusing cat meme. She always wants something, or is ordering me to do something. I am finding it hard to make the transition from eternal optimist to pragmatic pessimist, though, so I remained hopeful, despite the subject header being ‘Christmas’.
Hi Ellen,
Mum says you haven’t answered her yet about whether you are going to her and Geoffrey for Christmas. She says can you get back to her asap, as she is booking her Waitrose delivery slot now and she wants to complete the order so she doesn’t have to think about it again, because she’s got so much else on.
Neil and I and the children are going, of course, and Geoffrey’s daughter will be there too, so I really think you all should come as well.
Please can you email Mum and let her know your plans, because you know those Christmas delivery slots get booked up so fast, and she really doesn’t want to miss out?
Best wishes,
Jessica.
Fuck’s sake! Mum only emailed me yesterday! YESTERDAY! And she made no mention of the urgency to reply to her IMMEDIATELY so she could book her hallowed bastarding Waitrose delivery slot. None whatsofuckingever! In fact, the whole tone of the email suggested that us coming to her for Christmas was pretty much a fait accompli, as she had decided that was what was happening and so we would do as we were told. And now she has gone off complaining to Jessica the Fucking Golden Child about how her second-best daughter has not even bothered to reply, because clearly cruel and uncaring second-best daughter is not concerned about whether or not she gets a prime delivery slot, because second-best daughter is selfish and rude, which is why she loves Jessica the best. Also, what the actual fuck is Mum so busy doing that she has to put her sodding supermarket Christmas order in in NOVEMBER? Is the tennis club going to crumble if she lets her grip on the committee slip for a second? Will the choir mutiny if Mum takes an hour off to put an online order in, and run amok, making the vicar walk the plank? Will the Horticultural
Society go mad without a steady hand on the tiller and repeat the dreadful scene of 2013 when they planted geraniums and begonias in the hanging baskets beside the village shop (Mum still shudders at the memory. Apparently it made the village look terribly common, and just ‘awfully municipal, darling’)?
Perhaps she fears that with her watchful eye distracted in the Festive Season, Geoffrey will take advantage and have an extra sherry before dinner and unleash his inner Daily Mail reader, shouting angrily about The Left and The Immigrants and demanding the Return of National Service, instead of just being quietly racist and homophobic in the corner. God only knows. Mummy likes to describe herself as ‘keeping busy’, but really that means she likes interfering and bossing people about. Especially me. Oh, and the joy of Geoffrey’s perfect daughter Sarah, and Piers, her equally perfect husband!
And Geoffrey. Mum was as smug as a smug thing when, having spent fifteen years playing the lead role of Wronged Wife to rave reviews, after she kicked Daddy out when he got caught with his pants down shagging his secretary at the office Christmas party (quite literally, I do hope they disinfected that photocopier afterwards) about thirteen years ago, she managed to bag herself a rich widower (‘So much more convenient than a divorcee, darling, no tiresome ex-wife to bother with or alimony payments to take into account when working out how much of his pension one will be entitled to’) and departed to live in Georgian splendour in Yorkshire, where she takes great delight in playing the Lady of the Manor, and mercilessly organising the rest of the village, whether they want to be organised or not.
But although as far as Mum was concerned, Geoffrey was a catch (all his own teeth, solvent, Tory voter, suitable house – ‘I don’t know how you manage without an Aga, darling, isn’t it terribly difficult? Well, I do think you’re awfully brave. Can you even make anything from Mary Berry, or do you have to rely on Delia, you poor thing. Or do you just use Nigella? I know her father is dear Nigel Lawson, but she’s just so terribly licky when she’s cooking. Like an over-sexed Labrador!’ – that handy dead wife, and best of all as far as Mum was concerned, ‘At least he’s not the sort who pesters one for that!’), I can’t say I have ever really warmed to him. Of course, our relationship probably wasn’t helped when he told me his beloved only daughter had been very active in the Young Conservatives, and I laughed and said what a good joke and he said, no, really, she had found it super fun, and I said what, really, because I didn’t think people actually did things like that unless they were William Hague, and he got a bit huffy. Also, even though I was twenty-nine when they got married, and had in fact been married myself for several years, Geoffrey felt it was his place as my new stepfather to try to give me paternal advice, such as suggesting that I would probably get pregnant quicker if I gave up my job and stayed at home, as he had read an article that suggested that sitting in front of a computer all day would, in fact, speed up my biological clock. Given that Simon and I weren’t even trying for a baby at the time, I wasn’t entirely grateful for this helpful tip.