Confessions of a Demented Housewife

by Niamh Greene

  Was greeted at the impossibly clean door, with a proper old-fashioned brass knocker polished to within an inch of its life, by Angelica herself. Was teeny bit disappointed not to see a real live butler in tails, but tried to hide it.

  ‘Heeeey, Katie!’ she twanged. ‘Brandon will be soooo happy to see you!’

  Katie scowled and kicked the ground with her toe.

  ‘She’s a little shy,’ I said, nudging her through the door and hoping she wouldn’t make a scene.

  ‘I understand,’ Angelica said, cocking her head to one side and looking instantly earnest and concerned – just like Bill Clinton, in fact. ‘Brandon wasn’t a good mixer either but we got him some extra coaching and he really improved.’

  She beamed at me, revealing the most perfect set of choppers I’d seen since my LA trip last year. I immediately had nightmarish flashbacks of being holed up in a Beverly Hills hotel room with only 239 TV channels for company. I beamed back, unsure if she wanted me to give her a high-five or something.

  ‘Are you all set for the party?’ I asked, hoping she’d invite me in so that I could have a good nose round and maybe be introduced to a famous friend, like Bono or someone.

  ‘Well, the caterers were late getting here,’ she said, ‘you know what it’s like, but I think we’ll be OK – at least the jugglers and clowns have arrived, right?’

  Hearing this, Katie scampered off without a backward glance, leaving me standing alone on the doorstep.

  ‘OK – I’d better get back in there and try to organize the chaos! See you later, Susie.’ She closed the door without asking me in and I was forced to trudge back down the driveway alone. Can’t be sure, but think I saw the Edge looking out of the window as I left.

  PS Came to me in a blinding flash that Angelica’s grass looked as if it had actually been combed. She must have live-in staff to cater to her every whim. Am more determined than ever to develop a deep and meaningful friendship with her.

  21 September

  Mrs H arrived at eight a.m., wearing a pair of tight canary-yellow dungarees she had obviously kept from the 1970s and waving some paintbrushes.

  ‘It’s painting-party day!’ she chirped, whipping a roller and a jumbo bottle of turpentine from her holdall and presenting them to Katie and Jack with a flourish. ‘Are you ready to go?’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ I heard Joe mutter.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  ‘Didn’t Joe tell you, dear?’ Mrs H said, fondly tapping his cheek. ‘You and the children are going to help me redecorate my house today – just in time for David’s homecoming.’

  ‘Is this a joke?’ I glared at Joe, who stood, shamefaced, by the yucca plant. (NB Must remember to water it ASAP. Although suspect it may be too late and I may have to purchase new plant – something hardier, requiring less care. A cactus, maybe?)

  ‘A joke? Decorating is no joking matter, dear,’ Mrs H ploughed on. ‘Painting parties are all the rage – all the best TV designers have them. Many hands make light work. Isn’t that right, children?’

  Katie and Jack looked dubious, sensing that actual physical work might be involved.

  Spent rest of day at Mrs H’s house, following her barking orders to strip, sand and paint anything within arm’s reach.

  ‘I really don’t think David would want you to go to so much trouble,’ I puffed, weary from slapping magnolia cream on everything and dying to get home for American Idol.

  Mrs H narrowed her eyes as she adjusted her paint-spattered headscarf so that a stray hair was called to task. ‘I don’t think you realize quite how fashionable my David is, Susie dear. He had his colours done years ago.’

  ‘What’s his favourite? Pink?’ I heard Joe mutter darkly from beneath a dust cover.

  Mrs H decided to ignore the barb and stuck her brush into the turps once more. ‘Yes, the place must be spick and span. We can’t let the Irish down – I’d never forgive myself if things were less than perfect. Never.’

  Didn’t think the time was right to interrogate her about the true nature of Second Son David’s relationship with the weatherman from Toxic TV. Besides, it will probably be much more fun to watch things play out.

  PS Had strange dream in which I was covered with magnolia paint from head to toe and Lone Father was rubbing me down with the turps rag in a very seductive way. Am most alarmed that he is still lurking in my subconscious. Thought I had eradicated from my mind all thoughts of him and his come-to-bed eyes.

  22 September

  Katie’s swimming lessons started again today. Am a bit worried that, after I’ve paid through the nose for professional coaching, she can’t do much more than paddle from one side of the pool to the other with one foot on the bottom, waving her Barbie armbands about.

  ‘Every child goes at his or her own pace, Mrs Hunt,’ the instructor said, twirling his official-looking whistle and acting disinterested, just like Simon Cowell does when some no-hoper belts out ‘My Way’ out of key on The X Factor.

  ‘Yes, but Katie’s been attending the class for almost two years now,’ I said. ‘That little boy is new and he’s in the deep end already.’

  I pointed to a child diving into the water confidently and then flipping over to do back crawl across the pool.

  ‘Ah yes, Brandon.’ The instructor sighed. ‘Well, he’s a special case. He has talent. I fully expect him to be a Big Name in swimming in the future. A Very Big Name, in fact.’

  Then I spotted Angelica Law sitting in the gallery, cheering energetically and madly waving an American flag as Brandon started the butterfly stroke, his little Speedo cap glistening under the chlorinated water. All the other parents stood watching, mouths open.

  ‘Susie!’ she called, when she spotted me. ‘Come sit by me!’

  Everyone turned and stared as I picked my way gingerly towards her, blushing furiously, like a lovestruck teenager.

  ‘Who’s she?’ I heard someone ask, as I wobbled by.

  ‘Maybe she’s famous too,’ another suggested, and they craned their necks to get a better look as I tottered past, trying to suck in my bum cheeks.

  ‘Thank you soooo much for Brandon’s cute birthday gift the other day,’ Angelica sang, patting the seat beside her and indicating that I should sit. ‘I’m real sorry I couldn’t ask you in – James’s agent was visiting and I had to supervise. Those boys can go a little overboard, if you know what I mean.’ She giggled impishly and winked at me.

  ‘So, Brandon likes to swim?’ I said, watching as he did another back flip and shot through the water.

  ‘Uh-huh, he had private coaching back in LA – they think he may make the Olympics some day, if he works hard enough.’

  She frowned as her phone beeped. ‘Sorry, Susie, I have to take this – James is having a bad day. You know how men are.’ She raised her eyes to heaven knowingly.

  Spent the rest of the lesson trying not to eavesdrop as she chatted to her famous husband but could hear James shouting that his new director was a wanker and that he’d walk off set if he didn’t get a new trailer soon. It was so fascinating and I was so busy basking in Angelica’s golden glow, smirking in a superior way at the other parents, that I even forgot how pathetic Katie’s attempts at swimming were.

  Had a huge row with Joe when I got home. He is refusing to train Katie and Jack to be Olympic swimming champions, or all-Ireland medallists at the very least. In fact, he refuses even to wear a tracksuit. Or a whistle. Which is a terrible start. It’s bad enough that he wouldn’t introduce American football to Ireland last year, but now he’s scuppering the children’s chances of being gold-medal swimmers. All it would involve is six a.m. training sessions for the next ten years or so.

  ‘Why can’t you be more sporty?’ I fumed, munching a jumbo sausage roll and feeling really cross.

  ‘I am sporty,’ he said. ‘I love football.’

  ‘Watching Liverpool versus Manchester United on TV doesn’t make you a sports hero,’ I snapped.

  ‘Well, I’m sp
ortier than you,’ he said, as I licked the last of the sausage roll off my greasy fingers. ‘Unless eating counts as an Olympic sport, these days.’

  PS Am furious Katie and Jack will never be Big Names in swimming and have to defend their good characters against baseless allegations of steroid abuse, etc. Their father is to blame. Also, how am I expected to participate in any kind of serious exercise training? I’m up to my eyes looking after two very demanding children and a dog.

  PPS Think the dog has fleas. Caught him scratching frantically this afternoon. Am putting off going to the vet. Can’t remember if I still owe for the last visit when Jack tried to tie Spiderman to the dog’s back and he ended up with a prolapsed disc.

  23 September

  Louise called at eight fifteen a.m. ‘We’ve forgotten to do a birth plan,’ she squealed. ‘You need to get on to it right away.’

  ‘A birth plan?’ I asked, wondering what the hell she was on about. ‘There’s no real planning, Louise,’ I ventured. ‘Usually you just go into labour, push and shove and the baby arrives.’

  ‘No, Susie!’ she screeched. ‘You need to make a list of my preferences for the labour ward. We spoke about this.’

  ‘We did?’ My mind was blank.

  ‘Yes. I’ll email you my list. And don’t forget the Lamaze class tomorrow night.’

  She hung up abruptly.

  Received Louise’s email. Discovered that, as well as a medication-free birth, she apparently wants a five-star delivery suite with

  Low lighting. (Jack’s Thomas the Tank Engine lamp will probably be unacceptable – must double-check)

  A compilation CD of calming, soulful music. (NB Greatest Pop Hits may be inappropriate – perhaps substitute with whale sounds?)

  A trained hypnotist on hand to help cope with contractions. (NB Check Yellow Pages – do not book magician by mistake)

  A TENS machine. (NB Must find out what this is)

  Round the clock massage – suspect I may be expected to provide this

  Gas and air – for use as a last resort.

  Called her back to ask what she needed the CD for – it’s not like she’s going to be in the mood for boogieing her way through crippling contractions.

  ‘It’s to keep me calm and focused,’ she said. ‘All you have to do is put my favourite music on a disk and have it ready to play when I’m dilating. I probably won’t even need a TENS machine if you get the mix right.’ She hung up, making some excuse about a crucial presentation and the CEO.

  Am at my wit’s end. This sort of thing is most definitely not included in the birth-partner job description. Feeding ice chips is de rigueur, but setting up a mixing deck and sound system is just asking too much. Feel very shaky. Have no idea how I’ll manage to meet Louise’s unrealistically high standards of perfection without cracking.

  PS Have been getting heart palpitations all afternoon. Am putting this down to the fact that I’m frantic I’ll compile a CD of music Louise hates. Spent ages trying to remember acts she likes but couldn’t think of one band, except Salt ’n’ Pepa from the eighties. And I’m not sure if ‘Push It’ is an appropriate track to play.

  PPS Have broken out in unattractive boils on my chin. Think it may be severe physiological reaction to internal stress and turmoil. Or some kind of allergic reaction to the instant-cookie mix I shared with the dog last night.

  24 September

  Went to second Lamaze class with Louise.

  Was quite looking forward to it – it had been very entertaining last week, what with all the huffing and puffing and touchy-feely conversations, etc. In fact, the only disappointment had been the fruit plate at break. Surely expectant mothers and their life/birthing partners need something more substantial to sustain them. Like blueberry muffins, for example.

  Filled Louise in on my fledgling friendship with Angelica on the way there but she didn’t say much – think she was a bit annoyed I’d been late picking her up. (As if I am personally responsible for Lost running over time.)

  The room was darkened when we got there so I was all set for lots of lounging around in the candlelight and a spot of aromatherapy massage but instead a video projector jumped into life.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I whispered, to a couple at the refreshments table as I watched Louise try to lower herself on to an enormous floor cushion. (She’s quite ungainly now – it took her three attempts to sit down.)

  ‘It’s a birthing video,’ they whispered, looking excited. Well, the woman looked excited, the man was glassy-eyed and white with terror.

  I settled back to watch and remind myself of the miracle of birth, etc., etc. In my pocket I had a half-eaten packet of cheese and onion crisps that Katie hadn’t finished, so I munched them quietly under cover of darkness, delighted that Louise couldn’t see me so I didn’t have to share. She doesn’t seem to understand that eating for two does not extend to other people’s food as well.

  Was happily enjoying my crisps while watching the spectacle of panting and squealing in the delivery room when, as I was licking the packet to get all the little crumbly bits, the camera zoomed right in to the woman’s private area and did a close-up shot of the baby coming out. Then the midwife was tugging at something, until what looked like an enormous piece of lamb’s liver followed.

  ‘What’s that?’ the man to one side of me squeaked, in a very high-pitched voice.

  ‘The afterbirth,’ his wife breathed.

  There was a stunned silence, until one couple started a slow clap and everyone joined in.

  I turned to comfort Louise, sure she would be inconsolable after the graphic detail. Sure enough, she was sobbing into her limited-edition Chloé handbag.

  ‘I can’t believe it, Susie,’ she gasped, tears falling down her puffy face.

  ‘I know, Lou,’ I said, feeling very weak and woozy. ‘It’s not a pleasant sight.’

  ‘That’s going to be us in a few months!’ she went on, a wide smile spreading across her face. ‘I’m so happyyyy.’

  Then she dissolved into floods of noisy tears while I clutched a cushion and tried not to throw up. Suddenly it dawned on me that while I had given birth to two children I had never seen any of the gory detail. Katie and Jack were handed to me after they’d been given a good wipe. No wonder they edit the gore out of Portland Babies. Am seeing Joe in a whole new light. After all that, it’s a miracle he ever wanted to have sex again.

  PS Still feeling very sick. In fact, may well consider suing Lamaze instructor for post-traumatic stress disorder. Also, am consumed with panic that the doctor may ask me if I want to cut the umbilical cord of Louise’s baby. What if the scissors slip in my hand and I end up slicing off a body part? Or, worse, give it an outie belly-button? And I definitely don’t want to see that gross afterbirth stuff. Have decided that the only way forward is to hire a private investigator to track down Louise’s ex, Steve – he’ll have to step into the breach and be her birth partner. I don’t think I’m up to the job.

  25 September

  Spent the morning wading through ads for detective agencies in the Yellow Pages. Eventually decided on one agency, mostly because it was called Magnum Investigations and the guy in the ad looked like Tom Selleck back in the 1980s, complete with bushy moustache and bright Hawaiian shirt.

  Shaking with nerves, I called and explained the situation as best as I could.

  ‘So, you want him done, is that what you’re sayin’?’ Magnum asked excitedly, in an American accent, once I’d told him the whole story.

  ‘Um, what do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘You know, taken care of. This guy ran out on his broad – he deserves it, right?’

  I could hear him chewing gum at the other end of the line. ‘Em, no, I just want you to find him for me. Then I can go and talk to him,’ I said, even more nervous. Was this guy for real?

  ‘You’re sure?’ Magnum sounded disappointed. ‘It doesn’t cost much more.’

  ‘I’m positive.’ My hands were sweating. ‘So, do yo
u think you can track him down?’

  ‘Sure.’ Magnum sounded bored now. ‘All I need is his name and I’m on the case.’

  I gave him the limited information I had – name, last-known place of work – and he told me he’d be back to me in a few days. I hung up, feeling a bit scared. What if Magnum lost the run of himself and assassinated Steve accidentally on purpose just for kicks? He’d sounded like he was perfectly capable of it – in fact, he’d sounded like he wanted to give it a go.

  A few minutes later Louise called to ask what I thought the normal weight gain was for this stage in her pregnancy.

  ‘Em, twenty pounds?’ I guessed, trying desperately to remember the right answer.

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’ She sobbed. ‘But I’ve gained forty-five already! What am I going to doooo, Susie? I feel like a great big fat BLOB!’

  I spent ages telling her she didn’t look like a big fat blob and that most of the weight was amniotic fluid and water retention. Did an excellent job – she seemed to believe me. No point telling her that her pelvic floor is now shot and that her hips will never be the same again. Or that she looks like the back of a bus from every angle.

  Also decided it was not the time to mention that I have a private investigator looking for Steve. Much better to keep her in the dark until I can talk to Steve and persuade him to become involved. Then I can present her with the PI bill and retire to be supportive from a distance.

  26 September