“Ok,” I say slowly, “However, I am not going on a long walk and I must be back for four as the girls have swimming at six and they need a decent tea. Do you hear me? Four at the latest.” I smile, but the smile doesn’t meet my eyes. My eyes are hot pokers branding my words onto his brain.
Geoff smiles back. “Great,” he says lightly. “You put the soup on, butter some of that seeded loaf you picked up yesterday and get the girls ready. Say we leave in half an hour?” And, grinning broadly, he struts purposefully into the study and closes the door behind him. I hear the rustling of maps. For a split second, I make to get up and demand that if he so wants to go on a damn family walk that he can bloody well help make the soup, butter some bread and chivvy the girls along. It’s so damn obvious that they won’t want to go – they never want to go on walks these days – and now I’ll have to cajole and bribe them to come along, simply to placate him. But I don’t.
If I don’t do this, I voice to myself, life will be intolerable for the rest of the afternoon and perhaps into the evening too, and Geoff might even ground Pippa and Evie which will mean no swimming and more anguish. So, to maintain the status quo, I reluctantly do as I am asked – but I make a note in my diary of everything that has just transpired. This is one area in my life that is going to change, I write in bold. Definitely.
4.45 p.m.
We return from our ‘short’ walk. As predicted, the girls are absolutely furious that their dad has made them negotiate several hills, and I am livid that we didn’t get back at the time I specifically requested. We are grumpy and plastered in mud, and Evie’s prized yellow hoodie is sopping wet.
“But why, Dad?” whines Pippa. “You know we hate hilly walks, and that last one was really steep and slippery.”
“It’s good for you to get some exercise,” replies Geoff coolly, pulling off his walking boots.
“Why make us walk up a really steep and dangerous hill when you know that we don’t like it?” she complains. “There are lots of FLATTER walks that we could have gone on.” She stops mid-sentence, stands tall and declares in a very clear voice: “I know why you did it. It’s because you wanted to go out and because you wanted some hard exercise – so you decided that we would climb that hill. You’d planned it all along.” She storms off, and I silently applaud her. This happens all too often. Today, she has come out and said something that has been bugging me for a long time. But perhaps I should have said it, not her? All this might not matter to you but what about us? It mattered to us, I write.
Monday morning.
Geoff will be away with his work until Friday evening. As he leaves, he gives me a friendly reminder that it’s going to be cold and snowy and to remember to grit the path and driveway well. “It’ll all be just fine,” I reassure him. “I have a week off work and no time constraints to worry about as the schools are shut until Thursday. If anything, it’ll keep me fit.” I walk round to Chris and Mel’s house and begin my duties.
11.30 a.m.
I begin to realise just how huge their garden actually is, and I am already starting to loathe it. Having salted their ample driveway, cleared the paths of twigs and general garden detritus, watered the house plants and fed the animals, I am ready to curl up and cry. Frazzled and aching from head to toe, I crawl back home and lie down on the sofa with the curtains closed.
It’s six in the evening, and I’ve been back at Chris and Mel’s since half past four. I’ve bribed Evie to play with Rusty in the back garden for an extra three pounds pocket money as I simply don’t have the energy to walk him properly. They’ll never know, I think guiltily. The weather forecast has been updated. It’s going to freeze first, then the snow will arrive just before breakfast time.
6.30 p.m.
Hell – I have forgotten to feed, water and sing to the guinea pigs. I shout across to Evie and we hack it round to the utility room where I check their water and dump three carrots and a lump of hay inside their cage as instructed. “Are they dead?” I whisper, peering inside the cage. I feel faint.
“No, Mum – I can see them hiding,” replies Evie, pointing to their tunnel. I open the cage, pass Snack to Evie and bribe her to sing with me for another pound. “Perhaps we could give them a treat to say sorry?” she suggests.
“Good idea. I’ll find some tasty veg in the fridge when I lock up,” I reply.
I return shortly afterwards with half an iceberg lettuce and feed a few leaves through the cage bars. “That’ll cheer you up, guys,” I say, and we go back home.
I wake at half past three on Tuesday morning worrying about my house-sitting duties. I am not coping very well. I can hear a storm outside and peek through the bedroom curtains. It’s blowing a gale and hail-stoning. I can just make out the end of Chris and Mel’s driveway, and my heart sinks. Damn, this is all I need. I mentally run through the list of family activities planned for Tuesday and Wednesday: dentist, Brownie run… Now, that’s an idea…
Wednesday, 10.30 a.m.
Ten excited Brownies, a Young Leader and their Brown Owl rock up to Chris and Mel’s. Some have arrived on foot and some by toboggan. Others have hitched a lift with Brown Owl in her battered four-by-four. All are kitted out in a wonderful array of hats, scarves, gloves and boots. They have each brought a spade or shovel along as requested. “Girls, we should be extremely grateful to Mrs Richards for allowing us to come here to get our Community Service Badge,” says Brown Owl. “Now, Mrs Richards, what needs to be done?” We divvy up the tasks – snow blasting and shovelling, dog-feeding, de-icing, bins, post-sorting and warm-drink-making because it is perishingly cold and we don’t want the Brownies to become hypothermic.
Two Brownies, accompanied by the Young Leader, are permitted to walk Rusty around the village with strict instructions to return by one o’clock. Brown Owl hands them high-visibility jackets to wear, and the Young Leader is put in charge of a mobile phone to be used in case of emergency. We watch everybody run off to their designated tasks, and work begins. At first, Brown Owl and I keep a tight eye on proceedings. As time goes by, however, we relax a little. Well, quite a lot. Everyone is busy and having fun. “How about a cup of tea?” I suggest. We tramp into the kitchen and pop the kettle on.
11.00 a.m.
Brown Owl receives a call on the emergency mobile. She listens in silence. Her expression says it all. “Amy,” she says carefully. “The girls have lost Rusty.” I go to find the dog. I feel sick. I spot the Brownies and Young Leader by the postbox. They are all crying and apologising. Rusty is nowhere to be seen. I feel even more sick.
A passer-by clad in full ski gear and carrying a snowboard over his shoulder informs us that a stray Labrador has been spotted up the road near the shop. He is found. We discover him leaping about, as happy as can be. Rusty sees me and barks, as if to say: This is great!
Back at Chris and Mel’s, I search out the Brownies tasked with clearing the lawn. One is using the blower to cover the others in snow. A snowball fight is happening dangerously close to the extension cable and, as I go to warn them, there is a loud POP. The machine cuts out.
1.00 p.m.
Ten shivering Brownies, a tearful Young Leader, a relieved Brown Owl and a very stressed me are singing and eating chocolate by the guinea pigs’ cage. I am desperately trying to work out how I can explain away the broken blower and why Rusty has sore paws from getting too cold. One of the Brownies holding Attack yells and drops him. “Mrs Richards – he’s got diarrhoea…” I ring the vet.
9.00 p.m.
When Grandma calls at nine, I’m so wound up that I vent my feelings about everything that’s happened this week. However, by the time I come off the phone to her, I feel so much better. Talking to somebody I love and admire has helped me realise that this challenge has been unexpectedly enlightening. Grandma said that I’m a people-pleaser and have allowed myself to take on too much. I did find it hard to say no, I type on my laptop. Do I
let people take advantage of me? Is my kindness and generosity used by others for their own personal gain? I close up my laptop, pensive.
Week Three. Friday, 6.00 a.m.
It’s Evie’s eleventh birthday and, as in many families, there are customs and traditions that we follow religiously. I personally ensure our family upholds these momentous events every year because I so want our children to have fond memories of this extra-special time in their lives. I have valiantly tried to involve Geoff in the birthday preparations over the years, but I have had to accept that he just doesn’t get it. His friends don’t get it either – I have asked them. Perhaps they just don’t want to get it? In fact, if I think about it, Geoff doesn’t get all the preparation that goes into making Christmas and his birthday special either. He thinks all the wonderful meals, presents, treats etc. appear as if by magic. Wonder what he’d say if one year I went on strike? I muse. Wonder what he’d do if I put him in charge of Christmas or a birthday? “No way,” I mutter. “We’d have a bloody awful time.” I leave him sleeping and sneak downstairs to get to work on ‘The Cake’.
When I was a child, birthday cakes were nothing like today’s masterpieces. My mum bought a jam Victoria Sandwich from the supermarket and stuck in a few candles, and I was supposed to be grateful. Today, however, the pinnacle of the event is the unveiling of The Cake. This year, Evie has requested a home-baked Pokémon-style creation. Thankfully, the cake is a standard round ten-inch iced sponge, but with an iced Poké ball on top. The sponges were baked in advance and frozen, and now they are defrosted. I only have the icing and decoration to do. I’ve just finished when Geoff marches into the kitchen, ignores the spectacle before him, grunts and embarks on his usual morning breakfast routine. My stressometer rises three notches and I start to chew on my finger. I cough and point at the cake. There is a pregnant pause.
“Yes, Amy. I know that this is the day she was born and supposedly made our lives complete,” he retorts. “I’ll see her later. I couldn’t sleep last night – I’ve been away with work and I need time to recover. You know I can’t function properly without rest.”
“But you are coming to her party?”
“Oh no, Ames, it’s really not my thing.”
“You’ve never been to any of her parties… You said that you would.”
“Amy,” he sighs. “I never signed up to doing kids’ things when I agreed to have them, and I don’t see why my presence at a snotty kids’ party is that important. She’ll be too busy hanging out with her friends, and to be frank, it’s not a worthwhile use of my time.”
“But…”
“Stop it, Amy,” he interjects. “We’d save a fortune if you didn’t spoil her like this. I bet she wouldn’t give two hoots if you got rid of all this sentimental crap like balloons and banners and fancy cakes… It’s all a marketing ploy aimed at women like you. And by God, it works, doesn’t it? Just look at this stuff. Don’t try and involve me, because I DON’T want to be a part of it.”
“I do… I know… but…”
“It’s a day, Amy. It’s one more fucking day and tomorrow is another fucking day… it’s a day that says you’re one year older, that’s all.”
Before I can say another word, he leaves the house and I hear his car pulling out of the drive. Is this what happens in other families? I wonder sadly. Are my expectations too high? He does work hard and we want for nothing. A surge of white hot anger takes me by surprise and I am scared by its intensity. “I don’t do this for me – I do it for HER,” I scream at the goldfish. “If you didn’t get a carrot cake baked by me or presents bought by me or some sort of celebration organised by me for your birthday, you would be the first to complain.” I try to calm down. “I’m not going to let this ruin today,” I mutter as I grab my bag and leg it out of the house. “I must remember to write this up.”
9.00 p.m.
Basking in the afterglow of another successful party, I reward myself with a celebratory glass of Pinot Grigio and pick my next challenge:
TRY A TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY
ANTI-AGEING TECHNIQUE.
Although knee-deep in wrapping paper and plastic packaging, I immediately ring my sister. Jess is the only person I know who has openly admitted to regular Botox, and she often suggests that I treat myself to ‘a jab’. She and I are different – so different that we’ve actually questioned if we share the same parents. Scatty and opinionated, Jess is on a constant diet, pours her svelte body into figure-hugging outfits and totters around in killer heels whatever the occasion. Furthermore, she and Stanley, her partner of sixteen years, are extremely open-minded about certain ‘activities’ that make me cringe in horror.
I wonder if she is a secret swinger. I know that she has a fancy-dress box filled with whips and stuff (it’s under the bed in her spare room) and that Stanley, a traffic warden, is the proud owner of a pair of silver lamé hot pants. I saw them drying on the line once, and Jess admitted that they were his. I haven’t had the courage to ask her about any unorthodox sexual tendencies, though, and I’m not sure I really want to know. She’d probably try to persuade me to join in.
I examine a recent picture of her on my phone. Geoff asks what I’m doing. I show him the image. “What do you think? Jess is fifty-three and looks quite youthful for her age,” I say. Especially considering the number of sleepless nights she’s had trying to knock sense into her wayward seventeen-year-old son. When Adam Anthony was excluded for fighting in school, I didn’t know what they’d do. Then again, I suppose it was inevitable that he’d suffer for being named after the eighties pop star. It was very generous of Geoff to agree to pay for his private schooling.
“She’s got a great rack on her. I’d give her one,” Geoff sniggers.
“Oh, go away,” I laugh. “She probably paid for them and, for your information, she’d never look twice at you.” He guffaws loudly as I dial her number.
“You know what I think, Ames. Get filled and you’ll never look back. My lower jaw non-surgical lift took years off me,” she proclaims. “Stanley’s hair transplants – to cover his widow’s peak – cost thousands, but he looks awesome. Adam Anthony had to forgo a school trip to Mexico because I used the money Geoff sent – sorry – but the op helped Stan get promoted over those younger guys. He’s a Team Leader now,” she preens.
“Geoff sent what?”
“Hell – do it!” she screeches down the line, ignoring my question. “You’ll feel confident and desirable. Don’t you want to feel hot when you hit the town – and I don’t mean hot as in flush. People won’t ever talk openly about having fillers, but they indulge on the sly. Most women would do it if they had the money. Stay young in mind, body, face and spirit for as long as you can and have lots of sex. That’s my motto.”
I analyse myself critically in my hand mirror. It’s true that we label based on what we see, I think. If I see a wrinkled face, I think ‘out of touch’ and ‘past it’. I wonder what people think when they look at me. Do I look old? Make-up helps me to feel good about myself. If I looked ‘fresher’ on the outside, would I feel different on the inside? When I was called gorgeous by Him, I felt amazing. Nobody’s called me that for years.
Just thinking about it makes me melt inside, and I realise that I desperately want to see Him and come across as a vibrant, sexy and amazing mum again. For some reason, it is very important to find out what he thinks of me. This is bloody stupid, I say to myself sternly. I try to push my thoughts out of my mind, but they won’t go away that easily and even as I kiss Geoff goodnight, my subconscious is troubled.
On Saturday, I bump into Bea in town. She asks how my challenge is going. “My sister is adamant that I should get filled. Would you ever go there, Bea?”
A mischievous look crosses her face. “I’ve been having fillers for years now, pet. It’s not really something you shout about, but it’s changed my life,” she grins. “It’s two hundred and fifty quid wel
l-spent. I’d forfeit sex to pay for it; that’s how good it makes me feel about myself.”
“You are a dark horse,” I laugh. “Good for you. I love that you don’t give a damn what others think and you live your life as you choose. I’m learning that I’m too concerned about what others think of me at times. Do you think I’ve any deep wrinkles?” I ask.
She studies my face. “There’s one between your eyebrows. Apart from that, you look good to me.” I take note of what she’s said about my one deep wrinkle.
Monday, 11.15 a.m.
I can’t believe that I have agreed to be filled – today. I’m not a spontaneous person, but I am so excited at the prospect of getting rid of that wrinkle in my forehead, and Dr Jane is so knowledgeable, that I have booked an appointment for later this afternoon. Sod the cost, I reason. I’ll stick it on my secret credit card. I text The Girls and tell them my plans.
When I arrive at the clinic, Cate and Claire are there, waiting for me. I look at my friends in astonishment. Cate smiles back at me sheepishly. “Well, Ames, Claire and I have always secretly wanted to do this, so we decided to share this challenge with you,” she grins, nervously. “I’m going first though. I have a fear of needles.” And she is sick in the waste paper bin next to her.
My deep wrinkle has been plumped out and a tiny bit of filler injected around my mouth. It didn’t really hurt, but it does feel sore. Dr Jane hands me a mirror, and I stare at the instantaneous results in wonder. I look the same, yet different. I feel wonderful. “You’re totally refreshed,” confirms Dr Jane, “and no one will ever know your secret unless you tell them.”
Pumped with adrenaline (and filler), we simply have to celebrate. So we glam up and go out for a drink to toast the fact that we have faced our fears of going under the ‘knife’, that we feel fantastic and that Cate overcame her fear of needles.
51 Weeks Page 5