by Beth Moran
‘And Jenny was like a superhero! And we were too,’ Jonno squealed, waving his hands in glee.
‘Grandpa Fisher was here, again?’ Ellen frowned thoughtfully for a brief moment before shaking it off and glancing playfully at me. ‘Sounds like you’ve had an exciting day. Jenny can fill me in on how much of that actually happened while we sort out dinner.’
‘All of it happened,’ Dawson said. ‘Apart from Jenny being like a superhero. Also, we were late for school, and she gave me the wrong lunch. This whole thing is a complete disaster. Ask Maddie.’ He thumped out of the room, leaving a horrible silence. A trickle of sweat ran down my back.
‘I can explain.’ Really, Jenny? Does your explanation include being both incompetent, and a danger to yourself and these kids?
‘I know.’ Ellen smiled, her eyes dancing. Somehow that made me feel worse.
10
No more death-defying rescues were needed that week, which was the only discernible improvement. Chaos, lateness, clinging onto a whisper of control. Countless more mistakes. Spending a few precious hours sifting fruitlessly through documents and clearing out junk before bracing myself to pick the children up again. Each evening, Ellen and Will came home to a house upside down, a list of Dawson’s complaints and a very frazzled nanny pretending she was just starting dinner. They insisted I ate with them, which was a mixed blessing as the kids revealed more of my bad decision-making, poor time-management and general failures through the hilarious (or so Ellen and Will thought) stories of their day.
I felt utterly useless and miserable. Being out of my depth was not good for me. It brought back black, oppressive memories: the constant gnaw of anxiety, the mind-numbing exhaustion, feeling trapped in a situation I was too pathetic to handle, but too hopeless to leave. My previous breakdown, floundering to live up to pressure and demands, had nearly destroyed me. After that I had held back the shadow of that bleak time by carefully living within my capabilities. Sticking to work I found easy, safe, manageable. By staying in Zara’s apartment, refusing promotion, avoiding a social life, choosing a relationship where I had no power, I abdicated any sort of meaningful responsibility in order to prevent the trauma of being overwhelmed, and the horror that came with it.
Now – now – as if taking on the responsibility of a derelict house weren’t enough, I’d added five helpless, vulnerable, impossible children to the mix.
It was pretty clear I was messing this up. Why on earth didn’t Ellen fire me?
Friday, I slept until late, then lay in my lovely, warm bed for another couple of hours just because I could, ignoring the Hoard on the other side of the door. Too physically wiped out to face yet more cleaning, too emotionally wiped to go through more paperwork, I read for the rest of the afternoon, which seemed appropriate considering I had the book club later that evening. At seven, I dressed in my most Friday-night-ish clothes (a bottle-green wrap dress Zara had worn once before deciding it was too last season and a denim jacket), slung a silver pendant round my neck and slipped into a pair of shoes that had been so expensive that I really ought to get around to selling them. I felt too bone-weary to be nervous, but I did feel a buzz of anticipation while waiting for Kiko’s friend Frances to pick me up.
Frances had none of Tezza’s qualms, veering between the piles of junk and skidding right up to the front door before repeatedly tooting the horn on her pick-up truck until I hurried around the side of the house. She leant over and opened the door, offering a hand to help me up.
With cropped white hair and tiny blue eyes peeking out from a road-map of wrinkles, she looked so frail as she stretched across the seat that I feared she might snap in two inside her tweed suit. I hesitated, briefly, and she yanked on my wrist so firmly that I scraped an inch of skin off my shin while hoisting myself up.
‘Frances,’ she said, in between reversing out onto the road and zooming forwards. ‘And behind you is Florence.’
Florence was a brown Labrador, sitting up on the back seat as straight as her mistress, tongue dangling.
‘Thanks for the lift.’ I pushed my glasses more firmly up my nose and gripped the door handle with my other hand.
‘No problem. Only a minute or two out of my way,’ she barked, deftly speeding around the corner.
‘I’m eighty-four,’ she went on. ‘Did you guess?’
‘About ten years too young.’ I smiled.
She knotted her wispy eyebrows at the road ahead. ‘I hope that wasn’t an attempt at flattery. I’m not ashamed of looking, or acting, my age.’ We screeched into the Common car park and pulled up right outside the café, on the grass. Opening her door, she climbed out. ‘I gave up worrying about what anybody thought about me years ago.’
‘Come on now, Frances.’ A man near the café entrance stopped, reaching into the truck to take out a beautiful walking-stick and handing it to her. ‘You never worried about that.’
‘Ha! Well. If we all stopped fretting about other people’s opinions, we might actually get something done around here.’ She waited for Florence to join her before striding forwards at a fine clip for a woman with a walking stick.
‘And no, this isn’t to steady my old bones.’ She twirled the stick. ‘It’s to prevent bushes, nettles, wild animals or nincompoops from getting in my way.’
The rest of the club was already inside. The man made sure Frances had a seat before introducing himself as Jamie. He coughed twice, tried in vain to smooth a fluffy clump of hair sticking out on one side of his head and said hello to Sarah, before helping her load glasses onto a tray.
Everyone else sat down around two tables pushed together, covered in a red cloth with a dinky vase of flowers in the centre, Florence curled up underneath. Kiko and Ellen waved and grinned ‘hello’ before burying their heads back in their notebooks.
‘Hi. I’m Jenny,’ I said to the person next to me.
She glanced up from her phone long enough to look me up and down. ‘I know. Ellen’s hired help.’
I vaguely recognised her from the school playground. ‘Are you Lucille?’ I guessed.
‘Yes.’ She slipped her phone into her bag. ‘I hope Kiko made it clear that this is a serious club. We hold serious, informed, educated and intelligent discussions. For serious lovers of literacy.’
‘Um. Do you mean literature?’ Usually I would have ignored this slip, but the way her thin nostrils flared when she said the name Kiko meant I felt it my duty as a fellow lover of literacy, and literature, to correct her for the sake of future discussions. If she was going to be, like, serious about it.
A splotch of pink managed to push its way through her impressive layer of foundation. ‘Just be warned, this isn’t an excuse to drink wine and gossip. If you want a laugh or some fun times, try the bingo.’
No wine, gossip or laughter. I had been warned!
‘Glass of wine, Jenny?’ Sarah held up a bottle.
‘Yes, please.’
‘And don’t scarper without me telling you what happened in the café today between that bloke with the smelly dog and Kylie Jones: Hot. Gossip. With a capital H.’ She fanned her face, and winked at me. ‘Have some crisps.’
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I blamed it on being overtired. I was especially overtired of people treating me as beneath them. I held my glass up to Lucille in a toast and laughed again. ‘Cheers! Isn’t this fun?’
She tutted. One tut, from between her disconcertingly white teeth.
‘Almost as fun as the Oxford debating society.’ I grinned.
‘Oxford University?’ she asked, stiffly.
‘Yes. Did you go to university, Lucille?’ I asked, burying my face in my glass. I knew she had gone to a nearby establishment currently facing closure due to their habit of pumping out sub-standard qualifications locally derided as equal to a Cub Scout badge. I didn’t judge her for that – for goodness’ sake, I’d flunked out of enough college courses. But I couldn’t stand intellectual snobs. And fake intellectual snobs were possibly even worse.
Lucille narrowed her eyes, ignoring me and calling to Ellen, ‘Can we get started? This book can’t be adequately discussed in half an hour.’
This book, in my opinion, couldn’t be discussed adequately no matter how much time we had. But we had a jolly good go.
The book was Lucille’s choice, a novel entitled The Wheel of Woman. I had quickly scanned Kiko’s copy earlier, which had left me none the wiser about the plot. Or the characters. Or the setting. I did know it was something to do with a woman. And some sort of wheel. Which might have been metaphorical. Or real. Or both.
It didn’t appear to be my kind of book.
Or anyone else’s, for that matter.
Sarah sat back in her chair and took a big bite of Bakewell tart. ‘I didn’t get it.’
Lucille rolled her eyes. ‘No surprise there. Did you even finish it?’
‘I read the last couple of pages. Does that count?’
‘Honestly!’ Lucille bristled. ‘How are you possibly going to appreciate the—?’
‘What did you think, Kiko?’ Sarah interrupted.
‘Well. Yes.’ Kiko shuffled about on her cushion. ‘I thought some of the description was very… thought-provoking. And the lack of dialogue – an interesting technique. I’m not sure about the sexual violence. Seven pages seemed excessive to describe one incident.’
‘It was the most significant moment of the book,’ Lucille snapped. ‘Ripe with meaning. The broken lamp being a metaphor for the wolf. Genius!’
‘So, was it an actual wheel, or an imaginary one?’ This was from Ashley, the one person I hadn’t met yet. A plump woman around forty, she wore a pale purple dress with a peach Alice band and frilly yellow cardigan. She reminded me of a bag of sweets. ‘I might have liked it more if I’d understood the bit about the wheel.’
‘The bit about the wheel?’ Lucille flung out her hands in disgust. ‘The wheel was the whole point of the book!’
‘I thought it was about the woman.’
‘The Wheel of Woman! The clue is in the title! Surely even you can understand that much.’
‘And why didn’t the woman have a name? I mean, just “woman”. It made her a much less likeable character.’
‘Argh!’ Lucille stood up. ‘She wasn’t meant to be likeable! This isn’t some book-by-numbers, guess-the-ending-before-you’ve-read-the-first-sentence, nausea-inducing, thought-rotting, auto-tune slush-fest saga. You might have to rummage around in your brain for the on button to read this one.’ She kicked a chair with her wedge-heel.
‘Sit down, Lucille,’ Jamie said.
‘Yes, sit down,’ Frances chipped in. ‘And stop kicking the furniture. You’re a grown woman, not a teenage boy who can’t control his hormones.’ She bent down and patted Florence, who’d come out to see what was going on.
Lucille sat down.
‘Anyone else?’ Ellen asked. ‘Jamie, what about a man’s perspective?’
Jamie looked thoughtful. ‘It made me want to rinse my eyes out with bleach.’
‘Typical,’ Lucille muttered.
‘Excuse me?’ Sarah asked. ‘Typical what? Jamie’s liked all the other books we’ve done.’
‘He said my last choice perpetuated concepts regarding manhood that were offensive and ludicrous, and completely refused to engage in the discussion.’
‘It was called Winning the War Against the Y Chromosome,’ Kiko said, apologetically.
‘Why do all your books begin with a W, Lucille?’ Frances asked. ‘What is this peculiar obsession you have with that particular letter? Have you reached W in your list of books for dominating brainless ignoramuses at book clubs?’
‘Let’s keep it nice, people.’ Ellen held out her hands pleadingly. ‘And keep it about the book, please. No personal comments. Remember, everyone’s viewpoint is valid and respected here.’
‘Don’t be absurd!’ Frances said, huffing. ‘Quite clearly some viewpoints should not be respected. Especially if they aren’t respectful.’
Lucille’s mouth dropped open.
‘Any other thoughts about the book?’ Ellen gabbled, before that comment could be responded to.
No, no one had any thoughts. That was, except for Lucille, but she wasn’t sharing them after being so insulted.
‘Well. That means we’ve plenty of time to choose a book for next month.’ Ellen smiled. ‘Jamie, I believe it’s your turn?’
‘Yes. Right.’ Jamie sat forwards, his eyes flicking towards Sarah before settling on a stray crisp lying on the tablecloth. ‘I’ve chosen the new book by Madelaine Smith. I’ve heard it’s really good.’
‘Flippin’ ’eck!’ Sarah shrieked. ‘I flippin’ love her books! Mum was getting me that for my birthday. She’ll have to give it me early, now.’ She beamed at us. ‘Good choice, Jamie!’
If Jamie had turned any redder he’d have blended into the tablecloth. ‘Thanks,’ he mumbled.
There was a rumble of assent from around the table.
‘Great.’ Ellen picked up her pen quickly, her words brisk. ‘That’s settled, then, we’re all agreed—’
‘Actually,’ Ashley interrupted.
‘Here we go…’ Frances rolled her eyes. Kiko, Sarah and Jamie all simultaneously downed their glasses. Not for the reason I initially thought.
‘Last month we said we’d consider a local author next. You all agreed we’ve neglected local authors long enough. It’s about time we supported local, bestselling author Hillary West. And, honestly, couldn’t we try reading something uplifting? Something we can all understand!’ She paused, chest heaving beneath the ruffles, eyes moist.
‘I don’t think that’s quite what we agreed,’ Ellen said.
‘When’s the last time we did a Hillary West?’ Kiko asked Ellen, who flipped through the book.
‘Well, let’s think… could it be the last time Ashley had a book choice?’ Lucille said.
‘That was nearly six months ago!’ Ashley cried.
‘Which means it’s your turn next month,’ Frances said. ‘No need to push in.’
‘I’m not pushing in!’ Ashley stood up now. ‘I’m making a suggestion. All views are valid here, and I have strong views on reading local authors at the local book club.’
‘Jamie’s made his choice, Ash,’ Sarah said. ‘There’s only one Hillary West book left – save it for next time.’
‘Shut up!’ Ashley pointed a finger at Sarah. ‘We all know the reason Jamie picked Madelaine Smith, and that’s favouritism.’
‘Eh?’ Sarah blinked. Jamie stood up, opposite Ashley. ‘I told you why I picked that book, Ashley. I don’t have to defend it. If we can put up with tripe about women and their wheels we can cope with Madelaine Smith.’
‘Tripe?’ Lucille slammed her wine glass onto the table, sloshing the recently topped-up contents onto the cloth. Florence poked her head out and barked.
‘Hillary will never reply to my invitation if we don’t do her book.’ Ashley brushed a tear from one eye. ‘Every month I ask and you always shout me down.’
‘That’s because it isn’t your turn!’ Frances shouted. ‘And when are you going to take the hint, woman? She’s never coming to the club! Are you dim-witted as well as unbalanced?’
‘Frances!’ Ellen shouted back. ‘Behave!’ Florence barked a couple more times in defence of her mistress.
Lucille smirked. ‘And, seriously, it’s women like Hillary West and her fans, teeming about the place in flouncy skirts and oversized jewellery, clogging up the roads on their bicycles and cutting their own hair – it’s these women who keep the gender pay gap at 20 per cent. How can you possibly earn the same as a man when you’re steeping your brain in this emotional vomit?’
‘Emotional vomit?’ Ashley squealed. And then she picked up her Coke glass and tossed the contents in Lucille’s face.
Lucille gasped, shook her head like a wet dog, stood up and returned the gesture. Ashley ignored the drips running down her cheek and grabbed the nearest glass to hers, which was empty. A
s was every glass on the table, except for mine, which I hastily picked up. She swiped the crisp bowl a second before Kiko managed to grab it, and launched it at her adversary.
‘If you’ve messed up this sixty-quid haircut I’ll kill you!’ Lucille screamed, as everyone not involved in the fight grabbed the remaining contents of the tabletop and backed away.
‘Well, perhaps you should try cutting your hair yourself!’ Ashley replied.
Ellen and Jamie scooted round and placed a hand on each woman’s arm. ‘Enough,’ Ellen said. ‘That is enough. We can’t end every month covered in wine.’
‘Not when I’m clearing it up, we can’t,’ Sarah muttered.
‘Too much energy!’ Frances pointed her stick at first Lucille, then Ashley. ‘Bored and restless children misbehave, and get irritable, rude and silly. The pair of you are bored witless. You need to stop talking about other people’s stories and start living your own. And that goes for all of you!’ She glared at the rest of us. ‘Except for Ellen, who has finally emerged from the swamp of pre-school parenting and is now making something of herself.’
‘I’m not bored!’ Lucille protested. ‘I have a very high-powered and pressurised job, where I’m highly valued and—’
‘A boring job!’ Frances retorted. ‘No fun and no point, just money going round and round and round. If you’re not bored and dissatisfied with your boring life then why are you such a bitch?’
‘Frances!’ everyone but Lucille said.
‘Well,’ she muttered back. ‘It’s for her own good I’m saying it. And Ashley’s. Why is she so obsessed with this author, who clearly doesn’t give a hoot, if she’s not bored with her own life?’
At Ellen’s request, Sarah put the kettle on while the rest of us cleaned up the mess. Once reconvened with hot drinks and caramel shortbread, Ellen asked for our attention.
‘Frances has a point about living our own stories instead of just discussing other people’s made-up ones. So, I’ve a proposal. Seeing as things aren’t working very well at the moment, why don’t we try something different for this year? Instead of discussing books, we’ll start bringing our own stories. Not made-up ones, not a writing group, but the stories of our lives. It took me twelve years to start seeing my dream become a reality. I can’t wait to tell you what it’s like studying midwifery. But it’s crazy hard, trying to remember how to write an essay and keep up with all these eighteen-year-olds. I could use some encouragement. Why don’t we all set ourselves a goal – something exciting and challenging – and over the year we can share how it’s going? We can set a target to finish our goals by the Christmas party.’