Confessions of a Demented Housewife

by Niamh Greene

  Second Son David called to ask me to pick him up next week. ‘I don’t want Mum making a song and dance,’ he said. ‘The last time she came to the airport she brought out an enormous welcome banner – it was really embarrassing – everyone knew I was only flying in from Heathrow.’

  ‘I don’t know how I’m going to persuade her, David,’ I said. ‘She does love to make a fuss.’ Immediately had vivid flashback of the time she welcomed Joe and me back from our honeymoon with a brass band.

  ‘Please, Susie,’ he begged. ‘Max is very sophisticated. He wouldn’t understand her ways and I really want to impress him.’

  Promised to do my best but am filled with a sense of doom. If Max is so sophisticated, he’ll never understand Mrs H’s decision to hang on to candlewick bedspreads she’s had since the 1970s. Or her creepy obsession with Barry Manilow memorabilia.

  27 September

  Angelica Law is on the cover of TV Ireland Today!. I spent all morning reading about how she’s settling into Irish life. ‘Everyone has made me feel so welcome,’ she said, in an obvious reference to our new-found friendship. ‘We feel like we’ve always been here.’

  There were a dozen photos of her lying in various positions round her living room and across her baby-grand piano. Spent ages fantasizing that I could be in the next photo spread as her favourite gal-pal.

  Fantasy was rudely interrupted when Louise called to say she wants to bury her placenta in the back garden and plant a rosebush over it.

  ‘What?’ I gasped, feeling instantly faint.

  ‘Yes. Do you know that some people like to eat theirs because it’s so nutritious? But I’d like to bury mine – it’s meant to be a very sacred thing. Do you think the hospital will let me take it home?’

  I didn’t trust myself to say anything. Am kind of hoping I can develop some mystery illness, preferably before Louise’s due date. Unless the PI tracks down Steve soon, it’s the only way I’m going to get off the hook.

  28 September

  Had horrible nightmare last night. Walked in on Louise peeling onions with a Jamie Oliver limited-edition kitchen knife, then tossing them into a sizzling pan with her placenta. ‘Nutritious and delicious,’ she kept singing, over and over again, as she rocked her baby back and forth, and I tried to escape by clawing with my bare hands at a blocked-up window.

  Called PI at nine a.m. for an update.

  ‘This guy’s pretty tricky to track down,’ he drawled. ‘He covers his trail real good, if you catch my drift.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I asked, hoping he’d start talking normally soon. It was really tiring trying to decipher the Magnum, PI speak.

  ‘It means, doll-face,’ he went on, snapping chewing-gum, ‘that he’s a player. I need more time.’

  ‘More time? How much more time?’ My stomach did a little flip of unease.

  ‘Hard to tell. I’m hot on the trail, though, so it shouldn’t be too long.’

  He hung up.

  Am a bit nervous. This guy charges by the day so the longer it takes him to track Steve down the more it’s going to cost. I’m trying to put that from my mind, though – Louise has a great savings plan: what better way to spend it than on tracking down the father of her baby?

  PS Watched a very interesting piece on Oprah this morning about saving your marriage once the kids are born. A selection of self-satisfied authors spent ages explaining how a couple’s happy union can steer into very dangerous territory once children enter the picture. ‘You may forget to behave in a romantic and thoughtful way,’ one said, smiling into the camera and looking utterly gorgeous while Oprah nodded.

  ‘Before the kids came along you’d cuddle up together on the sofa and watch TV together, but now you sit in chairs at opposite ends of the room and fight over the remote control. Am I right?’

  Everyone in the audience clapped wildly as if they’d all had the exact same problem.

  ‘You need to reconnect,’ she went on. ‘Get off the chair, snuggle up with your partner, hold hands, remember what it felt like to be romantic with each other – even if it’s only for five or ten minutes. The effort will pay off.’

  Am thrilled that Joe and I are apparently still acting like newly-weds and that lying about on the sofa eating chocolate and watching Grey’s Anatomy is a sure-fire way to reach our fiftieth wedding anniversary.

  PPS Just thought – maybe I should write my own guide to marriage after children. It could be an award-winning bestseller. Maybe then The Gerry Ryan Show would take my calls.

  29 September

  Angelica has asked me for coffee! I knew it was only a matter of time before we really hit it off. Granted, there’s no set date or location, but the signs are good that I’m sure to become her confidante soon.

  ‘We must do coffee, Susie!’ she called gaily, as she jumped nimbly into her Range Rover Sport at the school gate. ‘Call me!’

  She held an imaginary phone to her ear, then took off at speed before I had a chance to ask for her number. But, still, it’s progress. Could see some of the other mothers looking at me enviously but pretended not to notice. It’s very important not to act superior when you’re the Chosen One. It will be soon enough to lord it over them when I become Angelica’s closest gal-pal and learn the deepest, darkest secrets about the ins and outs of her marriage to her famous-actor husband.

  That afternoon, I found myself bragging to another mother at the school gate that I was going to have coffee with Angelica Law soon.

  ‘Do you mean her charity coffee morning?’ she asked, smirking.

  ‘What charity coffee morning?’ I was puzzled.

  ‘The one she’s holding to raise funds for the children’s hospital. It’s such a worthy cause – she told me about it when she dropped Brandon to mine last week. It’s strange you haven’t had your invite yet. Everyone else has…’ She trailed off, letting me put it together.

  ‘Oh, that coffee morning,’ I bluffed. ‘No, not that. This is a personal invitation. You know, just the two of us.’

  I stalked away, trying to hold my head high. Am sure it was an oversight on Angelica’s part not to invite me to her charity do. I’ll have to remind her about it next time we meet.

  PS Dad called to ask if I’d remembered to deadhead the roses at the country house. Didn’t want to admit that we haven’t been back since the end of the summer, or that I have no idea what deadheading roses involves. How can I be expected to juggle all these balls in the air at once? It’s not humanly possible.

  30 September

  Louise called to ask my expert opinion about breastfeeding. ‘Why do you want to know?’ I said.

  ‘Well, it’s vital to breastfeed to build up the baby’s immunity, obviously. I’ve been reading all about it – the research is really compelling.’

  ‘Well, I know nothing about breastfeeding,’ I admitted cheerfully. ‘I bottle-fed my two – Jack still loves his.’ I looked fondly at him. He was happily sucking a half-empty bottle of juice as he lay watching Bob the Builder.

  There was a cold silence.

  ‘I do hope you’re joking, Susie,’ Louise said icily.

  ‘No, I’m not. What’s the matter?’ I was worried she was about to announce that bottle-fed babies were at risk of developing serious psychological problems in later life.

  ‘Everyone knows breast is best, Susie,’ she went on. ‘That wasn’t really fair to Katie or Jack, was it?’

  Decided to say I had to rush to the loo so I wouldn’t have to answer. ‘Weak bladder,’ I explained. ‘You’ll know all about it in a few months’ time.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ she answered. ‘I’m up to a thousand kegel exercises a day. My pelvic floor has never been stronger.’

  PS Am quite shocked that Louise, of all people, would even consider breastfeeding, what with the leaking and sagging bosoms it involves. Wonder if she knows she will quite possibly never again fit into a La Perla lace set. Maybe I should tell her.

  1 October

  This morning
I caught Joe scrolling through the texts on my mobile phone. Luckily I had been forced to burst in on him in the bathroom to get my Clinique tinted moisturizer or I’d never have known about his deceit.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, aghast that he appeared not to trust me.

  ‘Em, just looking for a phone number,’ he stammered, shamefaced and guilty.

  I knew instantly that he was lying. ‘It doesn’t look like that to me,’ I said, snatching the phone and dangling it between my thumb and forefinger so I could give it a good clean with a handy Dettox wipe before I used it again. Then I stalked out of the bathroom, leaving him looking mournful on the toilet seat, his trousers round his ankles.

  Am suddenly worried that Joe feels the need to check up on me. Am also very annoyed. Just because I almost had an adulterous affair with Lone Father and exchanged some (OK, lots of) sex texts with him, he has no right to violate my personal property.

  PS Scrolled through all my old texts to see what Joe could have been reading and found one solitary message from Lone Father from when we were in the throes of our passionate flirtation.

  It said: C u at playgroup.

  Luckily I no longer harbour any feelings for him or I would have been quite upset.

  PPS Have decided I should keep the text to remind myself that adultery is wrong in all circumstances and that I must never go down that road again, even if Joe insists on sitting on the toilet for unreasonable periods of time, then forgets to spray the lavender room-deodorizer.

  2 October

  Last Lamaze class with Louise. Am very relieved. Don’t think I can take the pressure of being supportive and kind any longer. Had another horrible dream last night. Louise was in the throes of labour, squealing in agony, while I tried desperately to find her favourite Billy Joel song. Then J-Lo burst through the double doors, waving what looked like a pair of pliers and talking about an emergency forceps delivery.

  Clearly I’m in a high state of stress.

  Skidded up to the class venue with seconds to spare, Louise huffing and puffing about being late again.

  ‘This is excellent preparation in case you go into labour early and I have to make an emergency dash to the hospital,’ I soothed, trying to judge whether I would be able to manoeuvre the people-carrier into a parallel-parking spot by the kerb.

  ‘What do you mean “emergency dash”?’ Louise squeaked.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I replied, patting her enormous puffy knee. ‘First babies always take ages to come. You could be in labour for days. We’ll have plenty of time.’

  Shuffled into the hall to find everyone sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking scared. Not surprising after last week’s distressing video.

  ‘Tonight we’ll concentrate on helping birth partners to be encouraging and supportive during labour,’ the instructor said.

  There were sighs of relief as everyone realized they wouldn’t have to witness another actual birth.

  I didn’t think I needed much coaching in this area but I nodded sagely to show what a good and helpful student I was being.

  ‘OK. So, what kind of supportive things could you say and do while your partner is experiencing labour pains?’ she asked.

  ‘You could massage her back and tell her she’s doing a great job,’ one husband piped up, pleased with himself.

  ‘You could rub her forehead with a damp flannel and play some of her favourite music,’ another offered.

  I could feel Louise glaring at me, willing me to contribute, so I tried hard to think of something good to say. ‘You could tell her that lots of women have children in unconventional circumstances and that it’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ I said, my voice booming oddly round the room.

  The Lamaze instructor nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, of course. Your relationship is just as valid as any other.’

  All the other couples nodded and murmured their agreement. I could see Louise from the corner of my eye: she looked as if she was going to give birth at any second from the shock of realizing that everyone really did think we were lesbian lovers and au fait with all sorts of outrageous sexual antics involving turkey-basters.

  ‘Em, yes,’ I mumbled, trying to change the subject, ‘and you could bring her something to nibble, a Toblerone, maybe?’

  PS Think Louise is feeling down. We travelled home in silence and she got out of the car very quickly when I pulled up outside her house. Well, she tried to. It took her three or four attempts to haul herself out of the passenger door. Must think of some way to cheer her up. Lymphatic drainage to improve her knees’ mottled appearance might work.

  PPS Am teeny bit worried that we’re supposedly officially ready for childbirth. Don’t think our Lamaze Rocks! stickers will do us much good in the delivery suite.

  3 October

  Bumped into Angelica this morning. Well, I kind of hung round her Range Rover Sport until she came out of school, but still.

  ‘Hi, Susie,’ she called brightly, when she spotted me lurking by the boot. ‘How arrre you?’

  ‘I’m great, thanks,’ I said cautiously, waiting for her to invite me to the charity coffee morning.

  ‘I’m sooo glad I met you,’ she continued. ‘You’re just the person I was looking for.’

  ‘I am?’ I was thrilled – she was going to ask me to help her organize it. As long as she didn’t expect me to make anything, it’d be fabulous.

  ‘Yes, I’m in a bit of a pickle. You see, I have an appointment this afternoon and Brandon’s nanny is off.’ She sighed. ‘You couldn’t take him for me, could you?’ She batted her eyelashes at me.

  ‘Of course I will!’ I almost cheered. This was far better than a dime-a-dozen charity invite. Far, far better. Angelica Law, celebrity mom, was entrusting me with her only child – a child who was ripe for kidnapping. She obviously thought I was VBF material. Things couldn’t have been going better.

  ‘Thanks, Susie, you’re a sweetheart.’ She hugged me and I breathed in what was unmistakably very expensive perfume. Maybe even custom-made scent, exclusively designed for her by a team of perfumiers.

  ‘Can you drop him back by six?’ She pressed her mobile-phone number into my hand and then she was off, waving a perfectly manicured hand out of the tinted window.

  4 October

  Sped round to Louise’s this morning to show her the photos I took of Angelica’s house on my mobile phone. ‘She insisted I came in when I dropped Brandon off,’ I explained, showing her one of the downstairs toilet. ‘I couldn’t say no. She really is so nice, Louise. You’ll love her.’ I sat back and admired the shot I’d taken of the bidet.

  ‘Well, she’s certainly not shy, is she?’ Louise said, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I cradled my mobile, wondering if I should have grabbed some of the toilet roll as a keepsake.

  ‘You barely know her and she’s already asking you to mind her child. I think that’s a bit rich.’

  ‘Well, you see, that’s how we mothers work,’ I explained. ‘We help each other out.’ I was a bit annoyed. ‘You’ll see once you have your own baby.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Louise said. But I could tell she wasn’t convinced.

  PS David emailed me to make sure I wouldn’t forget to collect him and his secret lover Max, the weatherman, tomorrow.

  ‘Can you come in something other than the people-carrier?’ he wrote.

  ‘Sorry,’ I replied. ‘It’s either that or your mother – take your pick.’

  ‘OK, but can you at least clear the back seat of sweet wrappers? I ruined my Lagerfeld suede parka last time.’

  Sometimes I wonder if I’m too kind for my own good.

  5 October

  Picked up David and weatherman Max.

  ‘Yummy, yummy!’ I whispered to David, as Max lagged behind us, dragging a large Prada suitcase. ‘It really is raining men!’

  ‘Shut up,’ he hissed, but I could tell he was delighted.

  Think I’ve fallen in love with Max. He is gorgeous. He
has a perfectly chiselled jaw and a six-pack you can actually see through his clothes. And he’s witty and a bit bitchy – the perfect package.

  Mrs H seems to love him too, especially as he shares her unnatural obsession with cleanliness in the home and spent ages admiring her dust-free surfaces and asking how she got the toilet bowl so sparkly.

  ‘Ammonia and borax,’ she declared, with a self-satisfied grin. ‘The king and queen of the cleaning world.’

  ‘Talking of queens…’ Joe muttered in my ear, glaring at David as he spun Katie and Jack round his mother’s front room to an Abba soundtrack.

  I pulled Max into the kitchen to get the low-down, leaving Mrs H to fill David in on the bingo leagues.

  ‘I was quite nervous about meeting his mother. David said she could be a little overbearing,’ Max confessed, as we made another pot of tea. ‘But she seems lovely – and so understanding of our situation. I think he may have exaggerated.’

  I didn’t want to tell him that Mrs H has no clue that there is any ‘situation’ and if she did she’d probably have a coronary on the spot. No point in upsetting the apple cart. Besides, by tomorrow we’ll most likely be best friends and then I’ll be able to tell him to run for his life.

  6 October

  Mrs H is in complete denial about David’s sexuality. She now thinks his new habit of wearing a smoking jacket and a silk scarf in the house is an excellent way to avoid getting strep throat.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend, Max?’ she asked, straight-faced, as we sat at the kitchen table, drinking from the best bone china she had taken down specially to impress him.

  ‘Er, not exactly,’ Max said, running his manicured fingers through his perfectly coiffed hair.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ Mrs H joked, elbowing him roughly in the ribs so that he spluttered his tea over his Jermyn Street button-down shirt. ‘All you young bachelors living the high life. You need a good woman to sort you out – isn’t that right, Joe?’