“Too red-blooded,” adds Lyds, constructively.
Okay, I’m now rather wishing I hadn’t broadcast the fact he was a needs-it-once-a-day man to them all on numerous drunken occasions while I was alive.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” said Tash, eyes flashing. “A thirty-six-year-old widower is Mr. Eligible, whereas a thirty-six-year-old female divorcée is secondhand goods.”
“You’re not secondhand goods!” groans Liz. “Jesus, Tash. You sound like one of those bitter fat blokes who sit on their bar stools moaning about women because they haven’t got laid since they were fifteen. The ones with bits of scrambled egg in their hair who don’t fancy Michelle Obama.”
“Thanks, Liz!” Tash laughs despite her offense. “Okay, let’s put it another way, and be horribly honest: who’s hotter, a thirty-six-year-old widower or a thirty-six-year-old widow?”
“Are we talking Angelina Jolie?” asks Lydia thoughtfully, twirling hair around her finger. “Because if we’re talking—”
“No, Lydia. We are not talking Angelina Jolie. I’m talking normal. Not loaded either. Because I’m sure I’d have more interest if I were loaded, not that I’m talking about myself…”
“Absolutely not,” says Liz mischievously.
“No, I’m talking about widows.” Tash is warming up, getting impassioned now. “I mean, would we be saying that such-and-such widow was too horny to be single for long? I don’t think so! I think we might find that ick. It’s as if women are expected to throw their sexual selves on their husband’s funeral pyre in some kind of hara-kiri!”
Good point! I’m with you on this one, Tash.
“A-hem.” Jenny is shifting on her seat, uncomfortable at the turn in the conversation. Clearly, she doesn’t want to dwell on the sexual habits of widowers. I suspect she’ll protect Ollie’s chastity for years out of loyalty to me, like a formidable Victorian aunt. “Shall we have a quick rundown on the Help Ollie campaign? It’s getting kind of late. I’ve got to get back.”
Everyone agrees, with faintly disguised embarrassment. Parma ham parcels are put back on plates half eaten. Wineglasses are planted back on their bamboo coasters. It’s serious again.
“I can report that the supper strategy is working well, Jenny,” says Suze, doing one of her officious little councilor coughs.
“Without lasagna?” says Jenny.
“Ottolenghi baked aubergines,” says Tash, tapping something onto her iPhone. “With pomegranate.”
Oh, jeez. When will they realize that Ollie is a steak and chips and peas man? Put the pomegranate away!
Suze clears her throat. “Let me report back some gaps in his groceries.” She consults her pad. “He’s out of vacuum cleaner bags, English breakfast tea and cat food. Who’s in charge of placing Ollie’s supermarket delivery again?”
Liz put up her hand sheepishly.
“If you could add those to the next order.”
“Yes, sir.” Liz winks at Jenny.
I like that wink. I like it that Liz and Jenny are becoming friends. I really do.
“Now, have you checked out the Facebook Sophie Brady R.I.P. site yet, Jenny?” Suze asks, tapping her pen on her knee.
Tell you what, I have. I have lain on top of the Wi-Fi cloud—feels like sitting on an ant heap, in case you’re wondering, itchy with info—and read some of it. Embarrassing and touching is all I’ll say. (“Brave?” Reckless more like. “Clever?” Failed my math exam. Twice.) I wanted to correct them, like on Wikipedia, but couldn’t.
“There are seventy-five messages in the online book of condolences so far,” continues Suze. “I hope we’ll triple that number in a week! Make sure you let all your friends know. I’m going to photocopy a note and ask the teacher to put it in year two’s book bags.”
“Life is so fucking unfair!” blurts Lydia suddenly, making everyone jump. “Why didn’t someone in a crap marriage die? Why take someone as loved as Sophie? Why?”
Oh, Lord, the woman’s going to blow. Someone do something.
“Let’s take heart from the fact that Ollie could be doing so much worse,” says Liz calmly. “Looking on the bright side, well, he’s not had a breakdown.”
She didn’t see him lying naked on the bathroom floor with my pink pashmina over his head last week.
“I can’t even begin to imagine how George would cope without me.” Lydia sniffs. “Flora would be whipped away by the social services.”
“Mine would all have to survive on cat food,” observes Liz. “Probably improve their diet considerably.”
“And that’s why Help Ollie is so important,” interrupts Suze, clutching her notebook to her pulsating bosom. “It’s about the community rallying around and looking after their own. The Big Society! This is it, ladies. This is IT! We are the rocks against which Ollie can crash! And if he falls we will catch him.”
Blimey. Who knew lasagnas could achieve so much?
“Hear, hear!” Tash raises her glass. The room is soupy with feeling.
“We will be there for him until he’s feeling better…” Suze declares, going into orator mode again. “Or until…”
“He can’t take any more?” Liz says, exchanging looks with Jenny. The corners of their mouths twitch with repressed laughter.
“No, Liz,” said Suze crossly. “I mean until…”
The room crackles with anticipation. There is a collective intake of breath. I freeze on the wallpaper.
“…Ollie meets someone else.” Suze picks something out of her teeth with the edge of her fingernail. “Don’t look like that, Jenny, it can only be a matter of time. Now, anyone for a nice fat green olive?”
Twelve
1. She—name tbd—must be kind, clever, selfless and adoring of Ollie and Freddie.
2. She must like cats.
3. She must like six-year-old boys. Lego. Farts caught in cupped hands in the bath. Toy Story, 1, 2, 3, on loop every Saturday morning. Football. Jenny. Cleaning sticky yellow wee off the loo seat. Not necessarily in that order.
4. She must not spoil Freddie, only when the moment dictates it, like if he’s crying or missing me. She needs to intuitively know when to make the distinction.
5. She must understand I will always be Freddie’s mummy and the love of Ollie’s life. That’s the deal, love.
6. She must be beautiful but not as beautiful as Ollie thought I was.
7. She can’t be skinnier than me. Or have better boobs. She can’t be the kind of woman who won’t eat cake.
8. She must satisfy Ollie in bed, obviously, but not in the way I did. She must be a different kind of lover, so he can’t make comparisons, and must not give competitive, forget-the-first-wife blow jobs.
9. She is allowed to have her own children with Ollie but she must treasure Freddie as the firstborn.
10. She must not ever change the living room curtains that I had hand-printed at great expense for a sum so eye watering I never even disclosed it to Ollie. Nor redecorate the sitting room. Ditto.
Editor’s note: Does this exclude ninety-nine percent of the women in London? Good!
Thirteen
The letters thumped into her head as if posted through a letter box, making her reverse into the parking space with a loud screech. This is what happened all the time. She’d forget about them. Then, randomly, the letters would be all she could think about and she’d get a tight feeling in her chest, like she couldn’t breathe properly. Did Sophie have something to hide from Ollie? A lover? A past that neither Jenny nor Ollie knew about? And why did she, Jenny, care so much? Yes, she hated the fact that Sophie might have kept secrets from her. But she also needed to believe that Jenny and Ollie’s marriage had been perfect. Perfection protected the past, kept the boundaries between them all defined, unassailable.
She turned the engine off and rested her forehead on the steering wheel, still so deep in ponder that she did two double takes before registering the woman outside her apartment. Yes, there was a woman standing outside her front door, star
ing up at the apartment, transfixed. She was wearing a sequined beret that sparkled silver in the sun. Under the beret her long dark hair fanned in the wind, up and out, in an Annie Hall kind of way. There was something about that hair and general demeanor that reminded her of someone. Who? And why was she staring at the house? Sensing she was being scrutinized, the woman glanced over at Jenny but the strands of her long, dark blowy fringe prevented Jenny from getting a proper glimpse of her face. She walked hurriedly away, until, with a flash of sun-hit sequin, the woman turned the corner.
Back inside the apartment, she jumped when she heard a cough. She wasn’t expecting Sam back from work so early. “So you’re going to Muswell Hill tonight?” He reached for his cigarette box, tapped a fag out and lit it. “Again.”
She smiled cheerily—no point trying to talk him round when he was in the mother of all grumps—and made coffee to make the peace. Sam could always drink coffee late in the day. Rarely did anything keep him awake at night: death, divorce, Lavazza, nothing touched the sides. They sat at the breakfast bar in silence, feet dangling from the chrome bar seats. She plunged the cafetiere too quickly. It spurted up over the sides and she felt his fresh irritation at her clumsiness. She mopped up the coffee from the countertop with a tea towel and wished they had paper towels, like a good old Muswell Hill household. But Sam refused to have a kitchen roll in their apartment on account of it being sinisterly suburban and ruining the sleek lines of the Bulthaup kitchen. “Look, I’m sorry, Sam. It’s just…”
He looked at her with a more forgiving weariness. “I know, I know. Sorry. I suppose I should be pleased you’re no longer sobbing under your duvet.”
Had she really? The aftermath of Sophie’s death had passed in a blur. It was now April. April? She couldn’t really remember how she spent her days now, or how she’d got through it. Perhaps things were a little bit better, she realized for the first time. The days somehow had more meaning.
He ground out his cigarette half smoked in the ashtray. “It’s just that Ollie’s all you talk about, him and Freddie.” He gave her a dry half smile. “Oh, sorry, darling. Do I sound like a heartless tosser?”
“No, my love, you sound jealous.”
She expected him to laugh—she was joking!—but Sam’s blue eyes blazed. “Maybe I am.”
She spluttered on her coffee. “Sorry?”
“I feel like you’ve been stolen from me by Muswell Hill, Jenny. And I flipping well hate Muswell Hill.”
“Come on,” she laughed, flattered, struck by an image of a leafy avenue swallowing her whole. “What’s Muswell Hill got to do with anything?”
“It just winds me up.”
She sighed. “Everything winds you up, Sam.”
“No. Only certain things. Phony things.”
“What’s phony about Muswell Hill?”
“It’s smug. It’s stultifying middle class. It pretends to be in London. But it’s in zone one hundred and three or something. It’s not even got a Tube.”
“Actually you can walk to East Finchley Tube in ten minutes.”
“Yeah, if you’re Usain Bolt.” He stroked the rim of his coffee cup with a finger. He had the cleanest nails she’d ever seen outside a beauty salon.
“Have you ever actually been there, Sam?”
“’Course not. Don’t need to visit Baghdad to have an opinion on it, do I?”
“You’re being very touchy.”
“Well, you’ve gone to the other side.”
“Yes, it’s bloody dangerous in the burbs, Sam. Haven’t you heard of that new drug, cake?”
A smile flickered over his mouth. He was beginning to enjoy himself. “Those women plot, Jenny. From what you’ve told me you’re all plotting.”
Jenny laughed, relieved that they were connecting again. “We’re not plotting.”
“You’re like the witches of Eastwick.”
“It’s the Help Ollie committee, nothing more, nothing less.”
“God help the poor bastard.” He pondered her for a moment, resting his jaw in philosopher’s hand pose. “What exactly are you lot doing?”
“Sorting out Ollie’s childcare arrangements, cooking for him, offering practical help,” she said, fearing it sounded too woolly. “We’ve organized a rota of meals to be made and delivered by local mothers, as well as after-school care for Freddie on the days that Ollie can’t leave work early. Er, that sort of thing.” She hopped down from her bar stool—a high-wire act, never easy, she hated the damn things—and put her arms around Sam’s waist, slipping them beneath his shirt to his gym-crunched belly. “Why don’t you come? Come to the meeting.”
Sam pulled away from her. “Like the reverse psychology, Jenny. No, thanks. I’ve got the small matter of a wedding to organize. In case you’ve forgotten, we’re getting married in August.”
“I know, sorry.” Jenny sighed. She should be doing more wedding stuff, and she felt bad that it was falling so heavily onto Sam’s shoulders. Leaning against the window frame, she pulled back the heavy beige linen curtains. On the pavement opposite the house, studenty types were engaging in a self-conscious drug deal. A noisy group of young girls, an arm-in-arm mesh of shaggy furs and leopard prints and heels, were tripping past on the way to a night out, their laughs exploding like fireworks in the cold night air, making Jenny miss Sophie afresh with a raw pang, like when something sweet touches a sensitized tooth too close to the root. The raggle of girls turned the corner. Apart from a tramp aimlessly plucking a two-stringed ukulele, the street emptied. She pressed her hands against the cold glass, feeling like she was looking for someone. It took a few moments to realize who that someone was. The woman! That woman, she realized with a nauseous flip of the stomach, who looked uncannily like Sophie.
Fourteen
Secrets, all relationships have them, don’t they? The little things we choose not to know about each other, stuffed somewhere we can’t see like clothes that we can’t bring ourselves to throw away but will never wear again in that zippy nylon bag under the bed.
Sliding between houses, I get little glimpses of all my friends discreetly building little slithers of secrets into the fabric of their day.
Take Lydia, for example. She did not accidentally miss that contraceptive pill. She picked up the blister pack last Tuesday from the bathroom cabinet, stared at it for a few moments, then, without popping one out, put the pack back in the cabinet. Did she mention this to George? Of course not! Did she hump George that night? Of course she did! She ambushed him in a pink teddy nightgown with pom-poms that flicked off her hips.
Take Liz. When she got the Facebook message from Riley, the big love of her life—the screwy, intense, creative one who’d dumped her cruelly before she met her husband, Martin—telling her that he still thought about her every day, how did she respond? Did she write back telling him that she was happily married with kids and asking him not to contact her again? No, she did not. She sat staring at the screen, biting her nails, before finally writing back, “I don’t know what to say,” and thus leaving the door wide open for him to respond, “Say you feel the same.” She hasn’t responded to that message yet. But she has gone through her ancient photo album and spent twenty minutes gazing at an old photograph of her and Riley on a beach in Ibiza, their eyes sparkling, their bodies baked gold and limbs entwined. If I’d done the same thing she’d have slapped me. I mean, how can Martin and motherhood possibly compete? It’s like comparing the tummy you had at seventeen with the one that settles around your middle at forty after two babies and a nightly Sancerre habit.
While Tash lies to Marko the Wildebeast, her Polish builder, all the time. I guess the point here is their tryst wouldn’t last another two minutes if either of them told the truth. (That she is bored and horny and he is well hung, disposable and available.) They have a little ritual, you see. He knocks three times on her door. The first question is always, “Anything need doing, baby?” Marko is super cheesy. He bursts through the front door with thrusting pectorals, F
reak Brothers hair flying, pumping with testosterone, like a soft metal star running onto the stage into a shower of airborne lager cans. He actually says, “Huh!” Then he shags her hard against the wall. A few thrusts and he’s done, pummeling Tash to the peak. Afterward he always says, “You love me, baby?” Tash always laughs and says, “Of course.” Bullshit, of course. My dear, she doesn’t give a damn.
And as for Jenny and Sam. Well, things are getting a lot stickier there, let me tell you. The wedding date has piled on the pressure at a time when Jenny clearly can’t cope with it. And it’s not just that. Jenny seems different, like there’s something bothering her when she should be happily anticipating her long-awaited wedding. There ain’t no joy, man. Yes, her best mate’s dead. That’s probably not lifting the mood, granted. But it’s more than that. There’s a twitchiness about her that she’s developed in the last few weeks, a restlessness, some kind of inner struggle. Yes, something has been internalized, sucked in like a breath. For once I haven’t the foggiest.
And Sam? Well, he’s no stranger to secrets. There I was thinking that maybe, just maybe he wants a date for the wedding because he is finally appreciating what he’s got. But what the hell was last night all about then? Who was the woman he was speaking to so intensely at his front door while Jenny was punishing her quads in Legs, Bums and Tums? She didn’t look like a Jehovah’s Witness to me. They don’t do that skirt length. She wasn’t selling tea towels either. But she did look like she meant business.
Fifteen
Jenny unclasped her tan satchel and pulled out her creation with fumbling fingers. She so wanted them to like it. It had taken hours. She had a sore thumb from using the crap kitchen scissors. She’d applied the Pritt Stick to her mouth thinking it was lip salve. No, she hadn’t got a D in her GCSE art exam for nothing. “Sorry it’s taken so long, Freddie. Your mummy fills a lot of pages.”
Ollie smiled at her reassuringly and she felt a little less nervous.
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