by Ali Harris
In another big box I find lots of boxes of Batqers Harlequin miniature crepe crackers. I pull down another box and discover sets of wooden reindeer, boxes of beautiful hand-carved toy soldiers and tree decorations depicting Christmas tableaux. In one a little girl is putting a present under a tiny tree, in another a child is receiving a gift from his parents. There are lanterns and candy containers, hundreds of glass baubles still in their boxes, which, when I turn them over, state that they were made in the small German town of Lauscha and are dated 1937. There are ornamental Santa’s boots and little statues of Father Christmas himself, complete with a wiry wool beard. As I gaze at them all, suddenly I know just what I have to do. It’s just a case of deciding when. And how.
Because this is too big a job for me on my own.
Later that morning, I bound out of the store into the crisp air, wrapped up in the gorgeous belted 1960s three-quarter-length dogtooth-check coat that I pulled out of The Wardrobe this morning. I’m finally tiring of my old, trusty duffel coat. It may be warm and practical, but this coat is surprisingly snug too, with the added bonus that I feel so chic in it, it actually makes me want to leave the house so I can put it on. I’ve had it for two years and still can’t believe I’ve never worn it before. And the other great thing about it is that I can get away with wearing my plain black trousers and a jumper underneath and still feel like I’ve made an effort. Although I have to confess, I pulled on the tight, blush-coloured angora jumper this morning as it feels so warm and soft. And instead of my old black trousers I’m wearing a pair of cute, cropped cigarette pants. I took Lily’s advice and rolled my hair up from my face again. She’s right, it does suit me. I even tried painting my lips a dark, wintry red. But the brogues remain, albeit with a lick a polish, which has made them look surprisingly fashionable. You know, overall it’s a surprisingly cool look.
I want to be sure I’m always ready for a surprise visit from Joel. I haven’t seen him since our date at Somerset House, which ended at his hotel, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about him. And he’s called and texted me regularly since, to apologize for being so busy. He’s promised we’ll go out again soon. Until then, I have plenty to occupy me.
I’m feeling pretty chirpy as I leave the store and am in such deep thought about the treasures I found in the stockroom this morning that I don’t see Carly coming in the opposite direction.
‘Oof, sorry!’ I say as I bump into her, spilling her latte down her front. She shrugs glumly as she looks at me and then brushes her shaggy fleece waistcoat, which is now dripping with milky coffee and which I’m sure is supposed to be massively stylish but actually makes her look like an Afghan hound. A coffee-soaked Afghan hound, to be precise. Her hair hangs in straggly strands over her shoulders, she is wearing what looks to be a cream crochet doily on her head and for the rest she is wearing head-to-toe black with what appear to be black Doc Marten boots, which I thought went out of fashion when Madness did. Her big Bambi eyes are smudged with black liner, which gives the appearance she’s been up all night. I’m sure it’s a trendy look, but it’s really terrible. I have never seen her looking so unkempt or so sorrowful.
‘Hey, what’s up?’ I ask as she finishes brushing herself down.
‘Oh, you know, just work stuff,’ she shrugs. ‘Turns out it’s not that easy being an assistant manager. Designers still hasn’t sold anything, Elaine is being a total bitch about it, and Rupert has called me in for a meeting to discuss things this afternoon. And the rest of the staff keep badgering me to go and makeover their departments next. I mean, as if I haven’t got enough on my plate. Don’t they understand it takes time and energy to be creative?’
I nod sympathetically as she sighs and sips what’s left of her coffee.
‘I just don’t understand why no one else can see what I see. This store needs something fresh, new and exciting,’ she goes on. ‘It might take some time but the customers will start to accept my vision soon. After all, it works for Rumors . . . I-I just don’t understand why it isn’t working here . . .’ She falters a little; her unwavering confidence has clearly been knocked. ‘God, listen to me,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘I sound like such a bore, banging on about work. I seriously need to have some fun. With alcohol and people and—’
I have a brilliant thought. ‘Why don’t you come out with me?’ I suggest excitedly, thinking how fab it would be for Carly to get to know my friends. They’d love her. Everyone does. ‘I’m going out tonight with some people from work. They’re lovely . . .’
She’s looking at me with a strange expression, her perfectly plucked eyebrows drawn together.
‘Who are you going out with?’ she says in a puzzled voice. ‘People from the shop?’
I nod vehemently and her face falls.
‘And I wasn’t invited? Bloody Elaine, she’s turned everyone against me.’
‘Oh, she’s not coming, or anyone else from the shop floor, for that matter,’ I add hastily. ‘Just a few of my close friends who work behind the scenes, like me. There’s Sam, who does all the deliveries – you won’t have met him – then there’s Jan, Justyna and Velna – they’re the cleaners. They’re funny and sweet, but they finish really early in the morning so you wouldn’t have met them either. Ooh, but you might know Felix from Security, he starts his night shift at seven . . .’
‘The old bloke who looks like he should be in a Carry On film?’ Carly replies, a smile crawling over her lips.
‘Yes! That’s him! He’s great. Then there’s Lily; she works downstairs in the—’
‘The old dear from the tearoom?’ Carly splutters as she takes another sip of coffee. ‘Are you serious? Oh, Sarah, you are funny.’ She holds my arm as she bends over laughing. ‘You’re seriously going for a big night out with a couple of pensioners, some foreign cleaners and a delivery boy who probably hasn’t even got his GCSEs? Oh, wow!’ she laughs grabbing my arm. ‘You do know how to live life in the fast lane, don’t you!’ She wipes away a tear of laughter and smiles brightly at me. ‘You know what I like about you, hon? Somehow you always manage to cheer me up.’
I grit my teeth, feeling both upset and defensive. They may not be the sort of people Carly’s used to hanging out with – they may not be rich or stylish or have trendy jobs – but they’re real. And they treat me like a human being and not some stupid stockroom girl whose only use is to make other people feel better about themselves.
I look at Carly and it dawns on me suddenly how shallow she is. ‘Fine, don’t come,’ I say lightly as I start walking off. ‘Your loss.’
And it is her loss, I think as I leave her standing outside the store like an abandoned and bedraggled puppy. It really is.
I arrive at Lola and Raffy’s nursery right on the dot of three forty-five. I managed to leave work on time today, despite it still being busy when I left. Sharon, in an out-of-character act of kindness, offered to take over from me for the rest of the afternoon. I suspect it was more to do with the fact that Rupert had decided to do a spontaneous stock-check. She and Rupert are really bonding these days. They’ve become quite the little team and it’s rather sweet to witness. Anyway, I left them to it and then texted Delilah again to let her know I’d be picking the kids up as normal but that I needed to be back in town this evening. I still haven’t heard back from her, which is unusual. But I’m sure she’ll understand. She’s probably just been too busy to reply.
The kids’ nursery is located in a church just off Regent’s Park Road. It’s nestled within yet another wealthy, tree-lined square full of multi-million pound Georgian houses, overlooking Regent’s Canal. The kids don’t go to a church nursery because of any religious proclivities that Delilah has. I think it’s more to do with the fact that her yummy mummy friends all send their children there too, and apparently it has the best Ofsted reports in the area. So in order to get Lola a place Delilah attended Mass for a few months. Sometimes it’s good for me to know that my big sister feels the need to pretend to be somet
hing she’s not some of the time, too, in order to fit in. Living in this ridiculously wealthy village full of the rich and famous I always feel like I’m in the wrong world. I look around at the shiny, expensive cars that are parked in front of the houses, the beautifully painted pastel façades, the perfectly pruned window boxes, and then I think of the type of place I’d be living in if I tried to rent somewhere on my paltry wage: a dark, dank shoebox in the outer echelons of North London. Not that I’ve ever looked into it. The set-up at Delilah’s has always worked so well, I’ve never actually considered moving out on my own. But now the prospect of some privacy for me to bring friends home (and by ‘friends’ I mean Joel) is looking seriously appealing. Delilah’s place has never felt like home. Not really.
I wave as another mum approaches the nursery just as I do. I recognize her immediately even though she is wearing the usual identikit Primrose Hill yummy mummy uniform of super-skinny jeans, black high-heeled ankle boots with scary-looking studs all over them, an expensive-looking white T-shirt, a black blazer with the sleeves rolled up to reveal the lining, and some flimsy black chiffon scarf around her neck with skulls all over it. I’m sure it’s designer but I don’t for the life of me know who, and besides, wearing it in this weather is utterly pointless. As are her big bug-eye sunglasses. I mean it’s mid-December, for God’s sake, and raining!
I put my hand up and wave. ‘Hi, Sassy,’ I say brightly. We’ve met many times; not only is she one of Delilah’s good friends but I see her here at the nursery on average three times a week.
She looks at me blankly, iPhone in one hand, designer handbag and dog lead in the other, with what looks like an oversized rat attached to it. She tries to furrow her brow. Then she realizes she can’t, due to the Botox she’s obviously had recently. She flicks her highlighted Californian-blond hair and smiles instead, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘Hiya . . .’ she says slowly. I wait for her to remember my name. ‘. . . uh, uh . . .’ She looks around, clearly hoping for someone to rescue her.
I clasp my hands and wait. I’m not helping her, no way. I raise my eyebrows and smile encouragingly.
‘Delilah’s nanny!’ She snaps her perfectly manicured fingers and looks ridiculously pleased with herself despite the fact that she hasn’t actually remembered my name. ‘I just didn’t recognize you in that gorgeous coat. I think I saw it in the window of MaxMara when I was shopping on Bond Street last week, right?’
I swallow the urge to tell her I paid ten pounds for it in a charity shop on Kensington High Street.
‘I have to say, I wouldn’t have thought it would be your kind of shop,’ she adds sweetly. But the put-down is loud and clear to my ears.
‘Really? Why is that?’ I challenge, feeling dangerously close to breaking point.
She blinks slowly and her heavily kohled eyes flicker up and down my body. ‘Oh. No reason,’ she says, and her laugh grates as much as her comments do. She screeches as the rat jerks on its lead and pulls her off balance. ‘Monet! Bad dog! No!’ She flutters her fingers and smiles. ‘Bye, er, er . . .’
‘EVIE!’ I bellow in annoyance as she gets ungraciously dragged up the path towards the nursery entrance. ‘My name is Evie! And my “designer” coat is from a charity shop!’
She glances back with what I think is a startled expression, but because of the Botox I can’t be sure. She’ll remember me next time.
Twenty minutes later I’m trudging across Primrose Hill, flanked by Lola and Raffy, who are both chattering ten to the dozen. Raffy is refusing to be carried because he wants to pat dogs. Which means we are having to stop approximately every thirty seconds as another one passes us.
‘Ruff ruff dog!’ he says happily to the poodle we’ve just passed as Lola tells me all about her day.
‘We had some snacks, then we did do painting, then we did sing a bit.’ She clears her throat to give me a demonstration: ‘“Jingle bells, la la laaaaaa”. Then we had milk and biscuits, mine was yummy and I ate Raffy’s too! Then I skipped and hopped and jumped and now I’m exhausted, Teevee, I am.’ She sits on the ground, which is both wet and muddy, and folds her arms.
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ I say, shaking my head sadly. ‘That means you must be too tired to make some Rice Krispie cakes to have as a treat after tea . . .’
Lola scrambles up, her dark curls bouncing on the collar of her red winter coat. She jumps up and down so that her wellies make a squelching sound in the mud.
‘Not too tired, Teevee, I’mnotI’mnot! Let’s goooo!”
She pulls me by the hand as Raffy yells and pulls me by the other hand and, laughing, I scoop them both up under my arms and run across the hill as their squeals pierce the darkness of the winter afternoon, making it suddenly feel infinitely warmer and brighter somehow.
Two hours later and the kitchen looks like an explosion in a chocolate factory. There are chocolate handprints over the stainless-steel work surface, chocolate splashes over the floor, walls and cupboards, and Lola and Raffy look like they have simply rolled through a vat of chocolate: they are covered from head to toe in the stuff. They are now sitting happily at their table, eating their cakes, having been bribed by me to eat some organic slop for their tea beforehand. It is nearly six o’clock. Delilah should be home at any minute. I am whipping round the kitchen, Flash-wiping everything in sight and trying to make the place look respectable again. I still need to get changed and, in order to be at the pub in Bloomsbury on time to meet everyone, I need to be on a bus by seven thirty at the latest.
Ten minutes later and Raffy and Lola are in the bath in my ensuite, which is a huge treat for them. (They have their own bathroom downstairs with twin sinks and a whole Under the Sea theme going on.) I’m bathing them up here so I can multitask by getting ready at the same time. Tonight I’m going for a pretty floral tea dress with opaque tights, T-bar shoes and a little brooch that I’ve made into a clip and used to pin a section of hair away from my forehead. Which, thanks to Lily, is becoming my signature style. I’ve also got a cute black swing coat, which I’m going to wear over the top and to which I’ve pinned another vintage brooch on the collar. I think of Lily and how proud she’d be of me as I paint my lips red.
I am admiring my reflection and trying not to get hit by flying bath toys when I hear the front door go. Delilah, at last. I glance at my watch. It’s six forty-five so I’ll just have time to get the kids dry and in their beds for stories and then I can dash out of the house.
I lift out Lola and then Raffy and bundle them in big, soft white towels, drying them a little before they fling them off and start tearing round my room naked.
I open my bedroom door and call down the stairs, ‘DELILAH?’ But there’s no answer. ‘LI-LA!’ I shout again. Still nothing.
‘Lola,’ I grab her as she streaks past me, ‘I have a very important job for you that only big girls can do.’
Lola tilts her head and stares at me with a very serious expression on her face. Then she puts her hands on her hips and says, ‘Hit me with it, Teevee.’
I stifle a laugh. Where on earth has she got that expression from? I suck in my cheeks so she can’t see me smiling.
‘Can you get your pyjamas on for Auntie Teevee nicely, and then help Raffy with his, please?’ I beckon Raffy over and he obediently lays on the floor so I can put his nappy on. Then I hand the pyjamas to her and she grabs them.
‘Come ON, Raffy, time for PJs,’ she says bossily, pulling a top over his head roughly, clearly relishing having her very own real-life doll to dress.
I step out of my bedroom, shutting the door behind me and hoping that they won’t do too much destruction to my room while I’m gone. I head down two flights of stairs. Delilah’s clearly gone straight down to the kitchen as she’s not in her bedroom, or the lounge, study or dining room. I am about to descend to the basement when I hear a man’s hushed voice. Will.
‘I can’t talk for long.’ Pause. ‘Don’t be unreasonable. You know my situation, Helen.’
I
sit down on the stairs and lean against the banisters, my heart racing as I strain to hear what he’s saying.
‘I’ve told you what I want,’ he softens his voice, ‘so what are you going to do about it?’ Another pause. ‘You know that’s not possible. Delilah can’t find out. It would destroy her. I love her, which is why I want to somehow make this work without her finding out. Surely you can understand that?’ He lowers his voice and I lean further to try to catch what he’s saying. ‘Listen, can we meet soon? You know how much I want to . . .’
I hear the back door open and close again. I can’t hear any more but I don’t need to. I’ve heard enough.
Delilah’s husband is having an affair. Now I just need to work out what the hell to do about it.
I’m sitting on the bus staring out of the steamed-up windows into the darkness beyond, watching as raindrops pound against the side of the window and then run down the glass as quickly and freely as I imagine Delilah’s tears would if I were to tell her what I’ve just overheard. Outside, the lights from the buildings and streets pulsate like a heartbeat and I hear the steady swoosh swoosh swoosh of the passing cars driving through puddles, their drivers gazing blankly out of their windscreens as if they’ve been hypnotized by their long week of hard work. Suddenly the city seems to me to be a living, breathing nocturnal animal and its dwellers are just little amoebas that live on it.
Speaking of amoebas, I can’t stop thinking about Will-the-Cheating-Bastard.