‘On Monday.’
‘Er, well probably not Monday, Pen. But you know, soon.’
‘No, on Monday, Henny. At twelve o’clock.’
I glanced up.
‘I rang him,’ she said grimly. ‘From my mobile. Because I knew you wouldn’t. He’s got an interview with a journalist at eleven, but he’ll see you after that. Now if I were you, my friend, I’d put that cloth down and give it to my daughter. Then I’d go straight upstairs and see to my wardrobe. You might want to sort out some interview clothes since this is the first one you’ve had in fifteen years. Unless, of course, you think that a crushed velvet skirt and a T-shirt proclaiming you’re up for some dyslexic sex is appropriate, in which case, go as you are.’
And giving me an arch look, she relieved me of the J-cloth and went to find Lily.
Chapter Two
Theoretically, weekends were reserved for a spot of action under the marital duvet. No marathon sessions, you understand, nothing to threaten a middle-aged heart, but a burst of reasonable activity on a Saturday night, followed by a going-through-the-motions on a Sunday morning. On this particular weekend, however, a combination of tiredness on my part and inebriation on Marcus’s – plus increasingly savvy children wandering round the house – had saved us the effort. Thus it was that on Monday morning, as my husband stood at the bedroom window buttoning up his shirt and preparing to go to work, I sensed an air of deprivation about him.
‘It’s a sad day when a man starts envying his cockerel,’ he remarked bitterly as he gazed down at his bantams in the cobbled yard below.
‘Hmm,’ I murmured distractedly from the bed, deep in my Daily Mail.
‘Look at him, the bastard. He just wakes up, struts out of his coop, and with a cock-a-doodle-doo, nails the first bird who passes. The fact that it’s his sister couldn’t matter less – it’ll probably be his aunt next. Look at him, Henny. That’s the fourth one he’s had this morning.’
‘I know.’ I sipped my tea sleepily. ‘I’ve been watching him. Angus has too. Hope he’s not getting ideas. He’s hardly a role model.’
‘He’s fit though, isn’t he?’ said Marcus enviously, his nose getting closer to the glass. ‘He’s a fit lad, and a happy lad, too. Christopher the cockerel is undoubtedly a happy lad.’
‘Yes, but what about the poor hens? They’ve hardly opened their eyes and they’re being rogered.’
‘Trodden,’ he corrected. ‘Technical fowling term. Trodden.’
‘Ah.’ I looked up from my newspaper and narrowed my eyes thoughtfully. ‘I like it,’ I decided. ‘Very apposite.’
‘Not in your case,’ he snorted, turning to me. ‘You haven’t been trodden in weeks.’
‘Eight days, actually,’ I replied crisply, licking a finger and flicking over the page. ‘We did it last Sunday.’
He sighed and slung his tie resignedly round his neck. Pulled it up, like a noose. ‘You see? That’s so depressing. The fact that you know exactly how long it’s been.’
‘It’s not depressing, Marcus, just necessary,’ I said cheerfully. ‘You lie. And you have far more of your quota than most married men your age. I promise you, you are not short-changed.’
‘Says who?’ he squealed indignantly as he sat on the end of the bed to put his socks on.
‘Says the mummy mafia, that’s who. One thing I have learned since coming down here is that these girls don’t know how to drink. One bottle of Sancerre at lunchtime loosens tongues, and believe me, a couple of times a week for a fifteen-year-old marriage is not bad going. Some of these women haven’t done it for months.’
‘Like who?’ He turned, interest getting the better of him.
‘Like Sophie Carter for one. She hasn’t let her husband near her for three months.’
‘Three months!’ He yelped in agony as he went back to his socks. He shook his head sadly. ‘God, poor old Eddie. Poor old Eddie Carter. He comes home from the City after a ghastly commute, works his fingers to the bone to pay the mortgage and the school fees, and all the poor sod wants is a bit of legover normalis …’
‘Sophie works as well, don’t forget,’ I remarked. ‘She’s probably tired.’
‘Ha!’ He gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Call that work? Poncing around in a friend’s antique shop?’
I didn’t answer and returned to my paper as he disappeared into the bathroom to comb his hair. Two minutes later he was back. ‘Still,’ he observed, raising his chin as he adjusted his tie in the mirror, ‘he’s obviously doing something wrong. Perhaps I should set him straight? Give him a few tips next time I see him in the Fox and Firkin? Or even set Sophie straight.’ He grinned at his reflection. ‘She’s a good-looking bird, probably just needs a refresher course. I’d soon have her back on track.’
‘I’m sure Eddie would be delighted,’ I drawled. ‘Sophie too, come to that. I can’t think why you don’t offer your services to Relate, Marcus. Think of all the marriages you could save. You should be available on the National Health.’
He laughed as I slipped out of bed and made for the shower. I grabbed a towel en passant and pulled my T-shirt over my head. Suddenly I was aware of him watching me.
‘Hen,’ he wheedled, following me as I went to the bathroom. ‘All this talking dirty has got me a bit …well, you know. I don’t suppose you fancy a bit of –’
Oh Lord. I nipped quickly into the shower cubicle and turned the taps on full blast. Grinned at him through the steamed-up glass. ‘Sorry!’ I yelled as the water poured off me.
When I emerged five minutes later, padding back into the bedroom in my dressing-gown and rubbing my hair with a towel, Marcus was doing up his cufflinks and reaching for his jacket.
‘Tease,’ he muttered gloomily as he thrust his arms in the sleeves.
‘Marcus, it’s Monday morning, for heaven’s sake. The children are prowling around downstairs and Linda’s due any minute. Anyway, I thought you were on the seven forty-eight?’
‘Could have made it the seven fifty-two,’ he said huffily.
‘Oh, great. You’d have allocated precisely four minutes for our love-making?’
His eyes widened. ‘Who said anything about doing it twice?’
I threw the towel at him and went to brush my teeth.
A few minutes later I was back, combing my wet hair thoughtfully off my forehead. Marcus was busy filling in his star chart on the back of the bedroom door.
‘So you don’t think that’s work then?’ I asked lightly as I came through the door.
‘What?’
‘What Sophie does. In the antique shop.’
‘What, prancing around sticking labels on rocking chairs? Hardly rocket science, is it?’ He coloured four red stars in a row, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.
‘So you wouldn’t mind if I did it?’ I sat down damply on the side of the bed.
‘Did what?’ He turned.
‘Well, you know, work. You wouldn’t mind if I went back to work.’
‘Back?’ He regarded me with amusement. Controlled his mirth as he reached for his briefcase. ‘As what?’
‘Well, what I was before.’ I hesitated. ‘A sort of …personal assistant.’
‘To whom?’ he asked.
‘To a military historian, as it happens.’
His face slowly lit up with delight. ‘A military …’ But it was too much. A huge snort of laughter escaped him before he could finish. He guffawed, he staggered, he dropped his briefcase, he slapped his leg and, finally, he collapsed on the bed beside me, howling.
I regarded him, lips pursed, as he wiped his eyes and made hysterical retching noises. Was he going to be sick, I wondered. Eventually his mirth subsided.
‘Oh God,’ he gasped, ‘that’s good. That’s very good. A military historian, yes, splendid.’ He gave a hiccup of mirth. ‘A subject you’re well acquainted with, your knowledge of which,’ he struggled for composure, ‘is extensive. Tell me, which particular battle, from our illustrious past, will
you be regaling him with first? The Battle of the Bulge, perhaps? The 1854 Crimean Uprising? The Peloponnesian War?’
‘It’s not that funny,’ I snapped, snatching up my hair-brush and stalking to open my wardrobe. ‘I don’t need to be qualified in that sense. He’s Penny’s uncle, and he just needs someone to organize his day, that’s all. Someone to keep his diary, do some typing, that sort of thing.’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said weakly. ‘Yes, quite right.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘I’m sure you’ll be brilliant. And no, I don’t mind at all. Oh God,’ he gasped, getting up from the bed, ‘that was funny. That was really very funny.’
I turned, suddenly. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘Mind what?’
‘If I’m not here? At home?’
He raised his arms helplessly. Let them fall to his sides. ‘Why should I mind? There’s no one else here, for Christ’s sake. I’m at work, the kids are at school …’
‘And if they’re not, there’s always Linda,’ I put in quickly.
‘There’s always Linda, and they’re both teenagers, for crying out loud. You fuss over them too much, Hen. It’s high time you did something else.’ He reached down for his briefcase. I saw his shoulders start to shake again. ‘But forgive me if military history wasn’t the first thing I imagined you’d hit upon on your return to the workplace.’
Still giggling quietly to himself, he picked up his loose change from the chest of drawers and tottered out to the landing.
‘Oh, that’s made my day,’ I heard him gurgle as he went downstairs. ‘Really made my day.’
‘Better than sex?’ I called after him.
‘How would I know?’ he yelled back. ‘I can’t remember.’
With Marcus out of the way and the bedroom to myself, I continued my ministrations in earnest. First I applied my make-up with infinite care, then slid on a silk shirt, then stockings, and finally – the little black suit. I shimmied into it excitedly. Despite Penny’s warning I hadn’t even bothered to try it on, so sure had I been of its suitability, its timeless elegance, its mixture of cutting-edge chic and sophistication.
But – horrors! What was this? I gazed at my reflection. Was the skirt really so short? I tugged at it frantically. The shoulders so padded? I whipped the foam inserts out and slipped the jacket on again. Oh no, hopeless. Like a bosomless bra. Hurriedly I shoved the pads back in. Yes, no, it was fine, I decided. Fine. Not in the least bit eighties. Not in the least bit like Joan Collins in a Martini advert.
In the mirror, pale grey eyes stared anxiously back at me from a heart-shaped face. My hair, dark and feathery, framed my high cheekbones, and my skin was clear and creamy, but – my eye travelled down – those legs …Since when had those knees become so round? So bulbous? So patently embarrassed to be out on display? Was it because I wasn’t used to seeing them? Hadn’t seen them for years? I tried going out of the room, stalking confidently back in – and catching a surprise glimpse of myself in the mirror. But it was no good, the knees still screamed, ‘What are we doing here?’ Hastily I ripped the black suit off and replaced it with something more matronly, more suitable for going to parents’ evenings and sports days – and visiting, well, learned professors, actually. I nodded my head confidently and went downstairs.
Predictably, I ran the children to ground in the playroom. They were sprawled in front of the television in what passed for their pyjamas, horizontal on a sofa apiece, their heads propped up on bent elbows like a couple of Roman Emperors. In true, Epicurean style the remains of a feast – presumably gorged after Marcus and I had gone to bed last night – lay abandoned on the floor. A flotsam of banana skins, empty crisp packets and lemonade bottles rolled luxuriantly on the carpet. Muttering darkly I stepped through the midden to gather the detritus, bent double like a cotton picker, whilst my irritated offspring frowned around me, desperate not to miss a second of some crucial dating programme; desperate to know if Maria had snogged Darren.
‘Breakfast,’ I informed them, trying not to snap.
Angus, eyes still on the screen, silently held his hand out for a plate.
‘No, in the kitchen.’
‘Can’t we have it in here?’ whined Lily.
‘’Fraid not, darling, you can sit at the table today. Come on, I’ve made you bacon sandwiches.’
Lily dragged her eyes away from Darren and gazed up at me. ‘Why are you looking so smart? What’s with the skirt and pearls?’
‘Come on, chop-chop!’ I said, ignoring her and hastening to turn off the box. As the room went quiet, so the spell on my children was broken. No longer held in thrall to the magic lantern, they gazed blearily into space, as if they couldn’t quite remember what they were doing there. Then they got wearily to their feet, swinging their legs around as if they were made of lead, and dripped after me to the kitchen.
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ I beamed as they slid languidly into chairs at the table. I sat opposite them, clasping my hands expectantly.
‘Oh God. You’re not pregnant, are you?’ Lily looked appalled.
‘Of course I’m not pregnant.’
‘Don’t be silly, she’s far too old,’ said Angus.
‘I’m not, as it happens,’ I said testily.
‘That would be so-oo embarrassing.’ Lily shut her eyes.
‘Anyway, darlings,’ I began again, re-lacing my fingers and smiling brightly. ‘You know how I’ve always – well, always been here for you. Always taken my role as a mother very seriously, and how I’ve always – well, not in a horrid way, but rather looked down on mothers who weren’t around to collect their children from school, that sort of thing.’
‘Are you and Dad splitting up?’ enquired Angus, without much apparent grief or interest.
I stared at him, horrified. ‘No, of course not. Of course we’re not splitting up. No, it’s just that I thought – well, I thought I might …in a very minor way, and only a few days a week, sort of …get a job. Thought I might go back to work.’
Angus frowned at his cutlery. ‘Did you use this knife to spread some Marmite with?’
‘What?’
‘Before you cut my bacon. Did you use it for Marmite?’
‘No, Angus, I didn’t.’
He sniffed it. ‘Smells funny.’
‘So!’ I smiled brightly. ‘What d’you think?’
‘I think I’ll change it.’ He got up and went to the drawer. Riffled around for another knife and sat down again.
‘What d’you think?’ I repeated evenly.
‘About what?’ Lily reached for Pony Magazine to read as she ate.
‘About me getting a job!’
‘Oh.’ She shrugged. Flicked a page over. ‘Fine.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Why should we mind?’
‘Well, darling, as I’ve just explained, I’ve always taken my maternal role very seriously. Always been there for you. This is quite a departure.’
‘How can you be there for us when we’re at boarding-school?’ enquired Angus.
‘Well, you’re at boarding-school now, yes, but when you were younger …I suppose what I’m saying is, I wouldn’t have dreamed of working then. Like some mothers did,’ I added smugly.
Angus looked surprised. ‘Oh. We always thought you probably wanted to, but couldn’t do anything.’
I frowned. ‘What?’
‘We didn’t know you chose to stay at home,’ said Lily. ‘We just thought – you know, that you hadn’t got any qualifications and couldn’t get a job.’
My mouth fell open.
‘Of course I could have got a job!’ I exploded. ‘What nonsense, of course I could. I just didn’t want some – some nanny bringing you up!’
Angus shrugged. ‘We wouldn’t have minded. Tom Fowler’s got a really fit nanny.’ He grinned. ‘I wouldn’t have minded that.’
‘Oh Angus, you would. And Tom’s mother worked all hours – she hardly saw her children.’
‘Yeah, but she’s really co
ol. She does all the marketing for Stella McCartney,’ put in Lily. ‘Gets wicked clothes and goes to all the London parties. Tom and Jessie went to one at Visage with her last week. She must be your age, Mum, but she looks loads younger.’
‘So does Will Jessup’s mum,’ said Angus. ‘She works in publishing, just published Jonny Wilkinson’s autobiography.
Will met him at a photo-shoot. Got a rugby ball signed by him and everything.’
‘Well bully for Will Jessup!’ I snapped. I regarded my children in horror. ‘Are you saying you’d have liked it if I’d gone out to work? Had a cool job in marketing or publishing?’
‘Well, obviously,’ laughed Lily, getting up to put her plate in the dishwasher. ‘But don’t worry, Mum,’ she squeezed my shoulders and ruffled my hair affectionately as she came back. ‘We can’t all be high achievers. We’re happy with you just the way you are.’ She reached for an apple and sat down again. ‘These aren’t Dad’s, are they? Can’t I have a secret Sainsbury one?’ She glanced around then bit into it dubiously.
‘Well, I’m – I’m staggered.’ I slumped back in my chair, appalled. Stared blankly at the wall behind them. ‘All these years I’ve sacrificed for you.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Angus asked, puzzled.
‘For you two!’ I shrieked, sitting up. ‘Put my career on hold to bring you up.’
‘What career?’ Angus looked bewildered. ‘I didn’t know you did anything. I mean, I know you once worked for Dad, but –’
‘Didn’t know I did anything!’ I exploded. ‘I’ll have you know I was extremely high-powered before I met your father.’
‘Really? What were you?’
‘I was a – a very personal assistant. To a very important man!’
‘Oh right. Who was he?’
‘He was a – an advertising man, like your father. His name escapes me, temporarily, but he was fearfully important.’
‘Did you earn much money?’ asked Lily.
‘Certainly I did. Certainly! Loads of it.’
‘How much?’ asked Angus.
‘Well,’ I blustered, ‘it won’t sound much by today’s standards, but seven thousand pounds a year was a lot of money in those days.’
Not That Kind of Girl Page 3