The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy

by Fiona Neill

  We had sex several times. It was invested with all the passion of months of unrestrained flirting and the knowledge that it wouldn’t ever happen again. Then he told me he thought he was in love with me, and I told him that he loved all women and that he would get over me quickly when he was reacquainted with his Kosovar translator. He looked taken aback, because he had forgotten that he had told me that, and I decided that was a good moment to call another cab home.

  When I finally got back to our flat, Tom was in bed pretending to be asleep. His shirt lay neatly folded on the chair, and as I leant over to sniff the collar I inhaled the sickly smell of Opium, the olfactory backdrop to so many relationships of the nineties. He greeted me effusively and then we ended up having sex. Neither of us asked where the other had been. I spent the next three weeks worrying that I could be pregnant, that Tom might not be the father, that someone would find out. I promised myself never to get into this kind of situation again, because, unlike Emma, who was often involved in love affairs with complicated shapes from triangles to hexagons, I couldn’t carry it off. Monogamy suited me, I decided.

  The next day I looked through Tom’s pockets and found a phone number scribbled in childish handwriting on a piece of paper. It had the same prefix as Emma’s number so I called her, explained the situation and she told me the woman’s name. Joanna Saunders. She said that she worked on the commodities desk. And this is when I realised that it isn’t difficult to hate someone you have never met.

  Emma, who was already destined for greatness and a good few rungs higher up the ladder than Joanna Saunders, arranged for her to go out for lunch with me, saying I was a derivatives trader who might prove a good source for financial stories.

  I came in the pub with a fixed smile that I had been practising in a mirror on the way, and went and sat down opposite her at a small round table. Even before she gave me her hand and confirmed her name, I could smell the perfume. It made me feel sick. I cut to the chase, there being little need for small talk in these situations.

  ‘I’m Tom’s girlfriend,’ I said. I have never seen anyone look more astonished. Her face split into different bits, registering so many emotions in such a short space of time that I thought it might never reconfigure.

  ‘There isn’t much point in lying, because I saw you the other night, so tell me what’s going on. I don’t want to make a scene and I’m sure you don’t because there are a lot of your colleagues here,’ I said, waving to Emma on the other side of the room.

  Joanna told me that they had met at Emma’s party.

  ‘I’m sorry, but that’s not enough detail,’ I said.

  ‘That was the first time we met,’ said Joanna Saunders. I found myself admiring her skin. It was pale and English and her lips were plump and full as she sucked diet Coke through a straw. Her hair was cut in a messy bob and she kept pushing straggly bits away from her face. She was wearing a pea-green coat with a pink silk lining and it took a lot of self-control to avoid asking where she had bought it.

  ‘Did you know that he had a girlfriend?’ I asked, gripping my glass of wine so hard that I thought it might break.

  ‘Yes, he told me that you were living together and that you would probably get married,’ she said. That was unexpected.

  ‘Have you slept together?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said without looking up. ‘He called me up a few days after that party and we went out for a drink at a pub near my house and then he came back and stayed until about three in the morning.’ I tried to remember when that might have been and resisted the urge to get out my diary then and there to pinpoint it.

  ‘How many times did you have sex?’ I asked. Although it might seem masochistic, there was something reassuring in establishing all the facts, as though it might make sense of everything.

  ‘I can’t really remember,’ she said. ‘Do you really want to know all this?’

  ‘Did you have sex the other night?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I saw you in the street just beyond the Tube station,’ I said.

  ‘No, we wanted to but the owners of the house interrupted us and Tom said he had to go because you were going to arrive,’ Joanna Saunders said. This time a more defiant look had entered her eye, the sort of look that a woman gives to another woman when she knows she is holding some of the cards.

  Then I picked my handbag up off the floor, took out my mobile phone and called Tom.

  ‘I’ve got someone here who wants to speak to you,’ I said, my tone giving away nothing, as I passed the phone to Joanna Saunders, who was now very pale. ‘Speak to him.’

  ‘Hi, Tom, I’m, er, having lunch with your girlfriend,’ she said. ‘I think you’d better come right now because I can’t handle this.’

  About ten minutes later, Tom arrived at the pub from his office. Emma came over and kissed him hello and led him to the table where I was sitting with Joanna Saunders. I poured him a glass of wine from the bottle I was drinking.

  ‘Lucy, I think we should talk about this somewhere else, on our own,’ he said, looking pale, knowing he was cornered.

  ‘I think we should talk about it right here, right now. All the central characters are present,’ I said. ‘Besides, if you are ever tempted to have sex together again, this moment will always come to mind and it will definitely temper your appetite, I think. Happy endings need good beginnings and this wouldn’t qualify.’

  Joanna Saunders shrank back into her chair and I sat there ripping up beer mats.

  ‘Lucy, I’m so sorry,’ Tom said looking desperate. ‘It meant nothing. It was a moment of madness. It will never happen again.’ I remained silent.

  ‘You’ve been away filming so much. We’ve been drifting, don’t tell me that you’ve never been tempted.’

  ‘I have, but I’ve never acted on it. That’s the big difference. Infidelity has no grey areas.’ I think that was the biggest lie I had ever told, and I knew one day that I would have to pay for it. I just didn’t want to settle the account right then. But the right moment to engage in such a confession never came up, and as time elapsed and everything returned to normal it seemed ridiculous to rock the boat. Besides, I had grown accustomed to Tom trying to make amends. It is much easier to play the role of victim than villain. And if I hadn’t had my Green Room moment, then perhaps I would never have forgiven Tom.

  ‘What do you want, young lady? Excuse me, do you want a drink or are you decorative?’ says the barman. Then I remember, the key to getting served in a London pub is to look nonchalant, as if you don’t really care. No noise, just a few subtle hand gestures.

  ‘One glass of wine and two pints of beer, please,’ I say, pleased at my efficiency and wondering how long it has been since someone called me young lady.

  ‘What kind of beer?’ he asks, not unreasonably.

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Well, since you ask, bitter, lager or stout.’

  ‘What do most men order?’ He looks at me blankly.

  ‘Well, it’s a question of taste. We’ve got Adnams, IPA, Stella, you name it we’ve got it. What does your boyfriend normally have?’

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ I say frostily.

  ‘Well, your husband then,’ he says, looking at the ring on my finger.

  ‘He’s not my husband either,’ I say. He raises one eyebrow.

  ‘Is he a lager man?’ he asks patiently.

  ‘I’m not sure what kind of man he is,’ I say, sighing.

  ‘Just give me two pints of that, please,’ I say, pointing to the closest tap.

  So I return to the table holding three drinks against my chest, contemplating the moment when I will sit down and we will touch. Flesh against flesh. It is inevitable because the seat is so narrow. The anticipation is akin to staring at a delicious plate of food when you are really ravenous, holding out as long as possible for that first mouthful, knowing that no subsequent one will taste quite so good or be quite so satisfying.

&nbs
p; ‘Thanks, that’s very generous,’ says Robert Bass.

  I put down the drinks, walk around the table to the bench and sit down, cross my legs, place my left forearm along the length of my thigh and lean back, bumping my head against the sharp pointed foot of one of the little carved figures on the back. It is Saint Eustace, the patron saint of difficult situations.

  Robert Bass is involved in sorting out his two beers. For a moment I worry that he is lining them up, checking the distances between each glass, in a way that reminds me of Tom. Not because Tom’s manias bother me, but because I don’t really want to think about him right now.

  It looks like a serendipitous arrangement. Then I realise that actually he is moving them out of the way so that he can pick up the glass with his left hand. And I can gauge by looking at the slightly superior muscle tone in his right arm that he is definitely not left-handed. Which means that the ensuing combination of movements that leave his right arm parallel to my own is premeditated. I marvel at the subtlety of all this.

  There is a visceral need for contact to be made, as though we can only relax when we have crossed this hurdle. I can feel the heat radiating from his arm and am aware of the slightest motion. I can even measure the rise and flow of his breath. I wait for him to exhale because then the hair on his arm gently brushes the sensitive flesh of my lower arm and there is a sense of loss each time he breathes in and away from me.

  Neither of us should be here. Now that I am sitting at this table, I know with absolute certainty that there is no space in a marriage that allows for late-night drinks with virtual strangers at a location that you have both agreed upon because you implicitly understand that there is little likelihood of bumping into anyone else that you know. I am in unchartered waters, recklessly swimming away from shore, but it’s not an unpleasant sensation.

  ‘So how is the book going?’ I ask, nervously pulling a thick strand of hair over my top lip to rub the tip of my nose, a habit that evolved years ago during revision for exams. I must try and think of other subjects for general conversation, but at least this one guarantees a degree of loquaciousness.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ he says, looking down at his beer. ‘I’ve resolved the other crisis, but now I’m mired in a new one.’

  ‘So what shape has this new crisis taken?’ I ask.

  ‘Are you really interested? I promise I won’t be offended if you aren’t,’ he says without waiting for me to respond. ‘I’m writing a chapter about how political upheaval in Latin America informed film-making in the eighties.’

  I remain silent because his arm is now firmly resting against my own and I worry that if I say anything he might move it. I wonder if he is as conscious of this proximity as I am. Yet he might be thinking about whether Arsenal has scored against Charlton tonight, or the aesthetic values of the handlebar moustache as worn by the central character in Zapata Westerns. Hot crowded pubs suddenly seem filled with endless possibilities. I struggle to concentrate.

  ‘There were also a few really well-known Latin American films like The Official Version that actually won Oscars, which I obviously need to mention. It was about a woman who discovered that the baby she had adopted had been stolen from a mother disappeared by the military. Then, of course, there were mainstream Hollywood hits like Oliver Stone’s Salvador, which is particularly interesting, given US involvement in Central America. My dilemma is whether to include analysis of how European and American film-makers were also inspired by these same events and their different cultural and political approaches to the same subject matter.’

  ‘Very interesting,’ I say distractedly. The air is heavy with silence again, and I decide to head for the high ground and go back to the bar to buy some crisps.

  When I return, I notice that a stool has appeared on the other side of our table. I am already feeling proprietorial about the territory we have marked out as our own and wonder where it came from. Then I spot a familiar sheepskin coat lying on top.

  ‘We’re not alone,’ says Robert Bass.

  Yummy Mummy No. 1 appears and sits down on the stool. I note that her bottom is so small that there is no overhang and that she is wearing a button-down white shirt that highlights her perfect cleavage.

  ‘In answer to your question, I think that you should definitely include both. You’ll widen your audience for the book and given what’s going on in Iraq at the moment, it would be a timely reminder of other US foreign-policy blunders,’ I say. What a great response. I feel proud of myself.

  ‘I will then,’ he says, smiling at me. ‘I needed someone to endorse what I was thinking. Thanks.’

  ‘A meeting of minds, I see,’ says Yummy Mummy No. 1, staring at our arms. ‘Well, this is fun. Very cosy.’

  I do my best to shift away from Robert Bass.

  ‘I think I might order champagne,’ she says.

  ‘I’m not sure they do champagne by the glass in pubs,’ I say. Although the pub might be a moderately hostile environment for us, we are at least capable of fading into the background. For Yummy Mummy No. 1 it is an entirely foreign affair.

  She waves people over to try and order drinks and then offers the young girl in the silver dress a tip to take her coat to the cloakroom. I shrink with embarrassment.

  ‘Actually, I was thinking about a bottle,’ she says excitedly. ‘I mean, I know strictly speaking, there is nothing to celebrate, but perhaps we should commiserate in style.’ She gets up to go to the bar.

  ‘Safety in numbers I guess,’ says Robert Bass.

  ‘Not for the sheep,’ I say, pointing at the coat, and he laughs.

  ‘She said that she was driving home and saw us going into the pub and decided on a whim to come and join us.’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘She was really rooting for you during the vote. When Alpha Mum said that you are the kind of person who would give a Snickers bar to a child with peanut allergy, she stood up and said that there are a lot of things that could be said about you, but no one could ever accuse you of being an inattentive mother, and that you had changed more nappies than she had eaten sliced bread,’ he says.

  ‘Well, that’s definitely true, because she’s been on a wheat-free diet for years,’ I say. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Well, actually I didn’t say anything,’ he says.

  I must look disappointed, because he adds, ‘I thought it might look as though . . .’ Then he stops, and I stare at him, willing him to finish the sentence because otherwise I will spend the rest of the night and the next week trying to fill in the blanks. ‘I thought it might look as though I was . . .’

  But like me, he is transfixed by Yummy Mummy No. 1. We watch in wonder as the crowd parts seamlessly to allow her passage to the front and a barman comes over instantly and asks for her order. They recognise an exotic creature in their midst. She comes back to the table empty-handed and I commiserate.

  ‘That nice man is sorting everything out,’ she says. And sure enough a few minutes later the barman solicitously comes over to the table with a bottle of champagne, which he flamboyantly opens, and a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me joining you. After that whole debacle I really needed to unwind. Have you called your friend with the crisis back? She owes us all a drink. If you hadn’t disappeared, it would have been a hung vote,’ she says.

  Robert Bass shifts uncomfortably in his seat and a gulf opens up between our lower arms. It is impossible to gauge how much he has revealed, so I opt for a skeletal response.

  ‘She’s going to call me later,’ I say, trying to resist any further elaboration. Although Yummy Mummy No. 1 is one of those women who reveal only the most tangential details of her own life, she has this uncanny ability to inveigle other people into terrible indiscretion and then disapprove of their emotional incontinence.

  She is not unfriendly. In fact, she is generally unerringly polite and attentive, although I suspect she has little interest in many of us. She is probably competitive, but I am neither rich, posh, nor thin enough to quali
fy as a legitimate rival. Nor am I sufficiently versed in the rules of engagement, which include complicated concepts such as wearing exactly the right proportion of Top Shop, designer and vintage. I couldn’t say whether she is certain of the ground beneath her feet, because I don’t really know much more about the machinations of her life now than I did when I first met her a year ago. There are few hints of a more complex interior dialogue. Maybe her life simply has an easy script. No bleak moments. No doubts.

  I used to hang on to the few crumbs she threw my way, looking for clues that might reveal a dark crisis lurking within. But there were only so many questions that you could ask to calculate whether her need for ever more extravagant home improvements might reflect an inner crisis about the quality of her happiness.

  Tonight, I notice that she has a large plaster and dressing on the palm of her left hand. Her hands are small and bony, almost childlike in their proportion, and the flesh has a translucent quality so that you can see the bone structure beneath the surface. They make you want to pick them up and stroke them.

  ‘How did you do that?’ I ask, hoping for clues that might hint at some hidden drama.

  ‘It’s slightly embarrassing,’ she says conspiratorially, and I lean forward towards her, because there is definitely the promise of intimacy.

  ‘My husband has to go to Brussels for a couple of nights,’ she says, ‘so he took me out to dinner at the Ivy and while I was trying to sever a particularly stubborn joint on the leg of my lobster, the scissors slipped and cut open my hand.’

  She laughs loudly. I try to disguise my disappointment.