‘Mummy?’ said Billy.
‘Yes?’
‘Can you stop, please?’
Monday 21 October 2013
Times practised ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’ before school 24, hours spent worrying whether Billy will get into choir 7, times changed outfit to pick up Billy from choir auditions 5, minutes early for pickup 7 (good, apart from reasons for same: i.e. impressing hopeless love prospect).
3.30 p.m. Just about to pick up Billy and get choir audition results. Beside self with nerves.
6 p.m. Freakishly was already waiting inside the school gates before Billy came out. I saw Mr Wallaker emerge onto the steps and glance round, but he ignored me. Was sunk into gloom, realizing that now he was officially single, he feared that all single women, including me, were going to nibble at him like piranhas.
‘Mummy!’ Billy emerged, grinning the fantastic ear-to-ear grin, as though his face was going to burst. ‘I got in! I got in! I got in the choir!’
Delirious with joy I encircled him in my arms at which he grunted, ‘Ge’ awfff!’ like an adolescent and glanced nervously at his friends.
‘Let’s go and celebrate!’ I said. ‘I’m so proud of you! Let’s go to . . . to McDonald’s!’
‘Well done, Billy.’ It was Mr Wallaker. ‘You kept trying and you made it. Good effort.’
‘Um!’ I said, thinking maybe this was the moment when I could apologize and explain, but he just walked off, leaving me with only his pert bum to look at.
I just ate two Big Macs with fries, a double chocolate shake and a sugar doughnut.
When he’s hot, he’s hot; when he’s not, he’s not. But at least there is always food.
PARENTS’ EVENING
Tuesday 5 November 2013
9 p.m. Hmmm. Maybe he isn’t not hot. I mean, not completely not hot. Arrived at parents’ evening, admittedly a tad late, to find most of the parents preparing to leave and Billy’s form teacher, Mr Pitlochry-Howard, looking at his watch.
Mr Wallaker strode in with an armful of reports. ‘Ah, Mrs Darcy,’ he said. ‘Decided to come along after all?’
‘I have been. At a meeting,’ I said hoity-toitily (even though, unaccountably, as yet, no one has asked for a meeting about Time Stand Still Here, my updating of To the Lighthouse) and settled myself with an ingratiating smile in front of Mr Pitlochry-Howard.
‘How IS Billy?’ said Mr Pitlochry-Howard kindly. Always feel uncomfortable when people say this. Sometimes it’s nice if you think that they really care, but I paranoically imagined he meant there was something wrong with Billy.
‘He’s fine,’ I said, bristling. ‘How is he, you know, at school?’
‘He seems very happy.’
‘Is he all right with the other boys?’ I said anxiously.
‘Yes, yes, popular with the boys, very cheerful. Gets a bit giggly in the class sometimes.’
‘Right, right,’ I said, suddenly remembering Mum getting a letter from my headmistress suggesting that I had some sort of pathological giggling problem. Fortunately Dad went in and gave the teacher an earful, but maybe it was a genetic disorder.
‘I don’t think we need to worry too much about giggling,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘What was the issue you had with the English?’
‘Well, the spellings . . .’ Mr Pitlochry-Howard began.
‘Still?’ said Mr Wallaker.
‘Ah, well, you see,’ I said, springing to Billy’s defence. ‘He’s only little. And also – as a writer I believe language is a constantly evolving, fluctuating thing, and actually communicating what you want to say is more important than spelling and punctuating it.’ I paused for a moment, remembering Imogen at Greenlight accusing me of just putting strange dots and marks in here and there where I thought they looked nice.
‘I mean, look at “realize”,’ I went on. ‘It used to be spelt with a z and now it’s Americanized – that’s with an “s” by the way. And I notice you’re spelling it on the tests with an “s” because computers do now!’ I finished triumphantly.
‘Yes, marvelous, with a single “l”,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘But, at this present moment in time, Billy needs to pass his spelling tests or he’ll feel like a berk. So could you perhaps practise when you two are running up the hill in the mornings just after the bell has rung?’
‘OK,’ I said, looking at him under lowered brows. ‘How is his actual writing? I mean, creatively?’
‘Well,’ said Mr Pitlochry-Howard, rustling through his papers. ‘Ah, yes. We asked them to write about something strange.’
‘Let me see,’ said Mr Wallaker, putting on his glasses. Oh God. It would be so great if we could both put on our reading glasses on a date without feeling embarrassed.
‘Something strange, you say?’ He cleared his throat.
I sank into the chair, dismayed. Was this how my children saw me?
Mr Pitlochry-Howard was staring down at his papers, red-faced.
‘Well!’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘As you say, it communicates what it’s trying to communicate very well. A very vivid picture of . . . something strange.’
I met his gaze levelly. It was all right for him, wasn’t it? He was trained in giving orders and had packed his boys off to boarding school and could use the holidays to casually perfect their incredible music and sporting skills while adjusting their spelling of ‘inauspicious’.
‘How about the rest of it?’ he said.
‘No. He’s – his marks are very good apart from the spelling. Homework’s still pretty disorganized.’
‘Let’s have a look,’ said Mr Wallaker, rifling through the science papers, then picking up the planets one.
‘“Write five sentences, each including a fact about Uranus.”’
He paused. Suddenly could feel myself wanting to giggle.
‘He only did one sentence. Was there a problem with the question?’
‘I think the problem was it seemed rather a lot of facts to come up with, about such a featureless galactical area,’ I said, trying to control myself.
‘Oh, really? You find Uranus featureless?’ I distinctly saw Mr Wallaker suppress a giggle.
‘Yes,’ I managed to say. ‘Had it been Mars, the famed Red Planet, with recent robot landings, or even Saturn with its many rings—’
‘Or Mars with its twin orbs,’ said Mr Wallaker, glancing, I swear, at my tits before staring intently down at his papers.
‘Exactly,’ I got out in a strangled voice.
‘But, Mrs Darcy,’ burst out Mr Pitlochry-Howard, with an air of injured pride, ‘I personally am more fascinated by Uranus than—’
‘Thank you!’ I couldn’t help myself saying, then just totally gave in to helpless laughter.
‘Mr Pitlochry-Howard,’ said Mr Wallaker, pulling himself together, ‘I think we have admirably made our point. And,’ he murmured in an undertone, ‘I can quite see whence the giggling originates. Are there any more issues of concern with Billy’s work?’
‘No, no, grades are very good, gets on with the other boys, very jolly, great little chap.’
‘Well, it’s all down to you, Mr Pitlochry-Howard,’ I said creepily. ‘All that teaching! Thank you so much.’
Then, not daring to look at Mr Wallaker, I got up and glided out of the hall.
However, once outside I sat in the car thinking I needed to go back in and ask Mr Pitlochry-Howard more about the homework. Or maybe, if Mr Pitlochry-Howard should, perchance, be busy, Mr Wallaker.
Back in the hall Mr Pitlochry-Howard and Mr Wallaker were talking to Nicolette and her handsome husband, who had his hand supportively on Nicolette’s back.
You’re not supposed to listen to the other parents’ consultations but Nicolette was projecting so powerfully it was impossible not to.
‘I just wonder if Atticus might be a little overextended,’ Mr Pitlochry-Howard was mumbling. ‘He seems to have so many after-school clubs and play dates. He’s a little anxious sometimes. He becomes despairing if he doesn’t feel he is on top.’
‘Where is he in the class?’ said Nicolette. ‘How far is he from the top?’
She peered over at the chart, which Mr Pitlochry-Howard put his arm across. She flicked her hair crossly. ‘Why don’t we know their relative performance levels? What are the class positions?’
‘We don’t do class positions, Mrs Martinez,’ said Mr Pitlochry-Howard.
‘Why not?’ she said, with the sort of apparently pleasant, casual inquisitiveness which conceals a swordsman poised behind the arras.
‘It’s really about doing their personal best,’ said Mr Pitlochry-Howard.
‘Let me explain something,’ said Nicolette. ‘I used to be CEO of a large chain of health and fitness clubs, which expanded throughout the UK and into North America. Now I am CEO of a family. My children are the most important, complex and thrilling product I have ever developed. I need to be able to assess their progress, relative to their peers, in order to adjust their development.’
Mr Wallaker was watching her in silence.
‘Healthy competition has its place but when an obsession with relative position replaces a pleasure in the actual subject . . .’ Mr Pitlochry-Howard began nervously.
‘And you feel that extra-curricular activities and play dates are stressing him out?’ said Nicolette.
Her husband put his hand on her arm: ‘Darling . . .’
‘These boys need to be rounded. They need their flutes. They need their fencing. Furthermore,’ she continued, ‘I do not see social engagements as “play dates”. They are team-building exercises.’
‘THEY ARE CHILDREN!’ Mr Wallaker roared. ‘They are not corporate products! What they need to acquire is not a constant massaging of the ego, but confidence, fun, affection, love, a sense of self-worth. They need to understand, now, that there will always – always – be someone greater and lesser than themselves, and that their self-worth lies in their contentment with who they are, what they are doing and their increasing competence in doing it.’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Nicolette. ‘So there’s no point trying? I see. Then, well, maybe we should be looking at Westminster.’
‘We should be looking at who they will become as adults,’ Mr Wallaker went on. ‘It’s a harsh world out there. The barometer of success in later life is not that they always win, but how they deal with failure. An ability to pick themselves up when they fall, retaining their optimism and sense of self, is a far greater predictor of future success than class position in Year 3.’
Blimey. Had Mr Wallaker suddenly been reading Buddha’s Little Instruction Book?
‘It’s not a harsh world if you know how to win,’ purred Nicolette. ‘What is Atticus form position, please?’
‘We don’t give form positions,’ said Mr Wallaker, getting to his feet. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Yes, his French,’ said Nicolette, undaunted. And then they all sat down again.
10 p.m. Perhaps Mr Wallaker is right about there being always someone ‘greater and lesser than yourself’ at things. Was just walking back to car when posh, exhausted mother trying to wrangle three overdressed children suddenly burst out, ‘Clemency! You fucking, bleeding little c***!’
FIFTY SHADES OF OLD
Friday 22 November 2013
137lb (helpless slide back towards obesity), calories 3384, Diet Cokes 7, Red Bulls 3, ham-and-cheese paninis 2, exercise 0, months since did roots 2, weeks since waxed legs 5, weeks since painted toenails 6, number of months since any sexual experience whatsoever 5 (Born-Again Virgin again).
Am letting self go to seed – un-waxed, un-plucked, un-exercised, un-exfoliated, un-mani-pedicured, un-meditated, roots un-touched-up, hair un-blow-dried, undressed (never, worst luck) – and stuffing face to make up for it. Something has to be done.
Saturday 23 November 2013
3 p.m. Just came out of the hairdresser’s where my roots were restored to their youthful glory. Immediately came face to face with a poster at the bus stop of Sharon Osbourne and her daughter Kelly: Sharon Osbourne with auburn hair and Kelly with grey hair.
So confused. Is looking old the new bohemian floaty scarf now? Am I going to have to go back, have the grey roots restored and ask the Botox man to add some wrinkles?
Was just pondering this question when a voice said, ‘Hello.’
‘Mr Wallaker!’ I said, fluffing up my new hair coquettishly.
‘Hello!’ He was wearing a warm, sexy jacket and scarf, looking down at me in the old way, cool, with the slightly amused twitch in the corner of his mouth.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I just want to say, I’m sorry I said all that at the school concert and was so lippy with you all those times when you were just being kind. But I thought you were married. And the thing is, I know everything. I mean, not everything. But I know about you being in the SAS and—’
His expression changed. ‘What did you say?’
‘Jake and Rebecca live across the road and . . .’
He was looking away from me, down the street, the muscle in his jaw working.
‘It’s all right. I haven’t told anybody. And the thing is, you see, I know what it’s like when something really bad happens.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said abruptly.
‘I know, you think I’m an awful mother, and spend the whole time in the hairdresser’s and buying condoms, but I’m actually not like that. Those gonorrhoea leaflets – Mabel had just picked them up at the doctor’s. I don’t have gonorrhoea or syphilis . . .’
‘Am I interrupting?’
A stunning girl was emerging from Starbucks, holding two coffees.
‘Hi.’ She handed him one of the coffees and smiled at me.
‘This is Miranda,’ said Mr Wallaker stiffly.
Miranda was beautiful and young, with long, shiny black hair, topped with a trendy woollen cap. She had long thin legs in jeans and . . . and studded ankle boots.
‘Miranda, this is Mrs Darcy, one of our school mothers.’
‘Bridget!’ said a voice. The hairdresser who had just done my roots was hurrying up the street. ‘You left your wallet in the salon. How’s the colour? No more shades of grey for you for Christmas!’
‘It is very nice, thank you. Happy Christmas,’ I said like a traumatized automaton granny. ‘Happy Christmas, Mr Wallaker. Happy Christmas, Miranda,’ I said, although it was not Christmas.
They looked at me oddly as I walked shakily away.
9.15 p.m. The children are asleep and I am very old and lonely. No one will ever fancy me again ever, ever, ever. Mr Wallaker is at this moment shagging Miranda. Everybody’s life is perfect except mine.
THE SOUND OF SHELLS CRACKING
Monday 25 November 2013
136lb, number of pounds heavier than Miranda 46.
9.15 a.m. Right. I am used to this now. I know what to do. We do not wallow. We do not descend into feelings of being crap with men. We do not think everyone else’s life is perfect except ours, except bloody Miranda’s. We concentrate on our inner great tree, and we go to yoga.
1 p.m. Blimey. Started off in yoga, but realized had drunk too much Diet Coke again. Suffice it to say, it didn’t go very well during Pigeon Pose.
Went instead into the meditation class next door, which you could argue was a bit of a waste of money because it had cost fifteen quid and all we did was sit cross-legged trying to keep our minds blank. Found self looking round the room, thinking about Mr Wallaker and Miranda, then nearly farted in shock.
I didn’t recognize him at first but there, sitting in loose-fitting grey clothes on a purple mat, eyes closed, palms raised on his knees, was none other than George from Greenlight. At least, I was pretty sure it was him, but it was hard to tell. Then I saw the big glasses and iPhone next to the purple mat and I knew it was definitely George.
On the way out, I wasn’t sure whether to say hello or not, but then I thought we had been communing on some sort of level, if subliminal, for the last hour, so I said, ‘George?’
&nbs
p; He put the glasses on and looked at me, suspiciously, as though I was going to force a spec script on him right there.
‘It’s me!’ I said. ‘Remember? The Leaves in His Hair?’
‘What? Oh, right. Hey.’
‘I didn’t know you were into meditation.’
‘Yeah. I’m done with the movie business. It’s all studio movies. No respect for art. Meaningless. Empty. Nest of vipers. I was falling apart. Just about to . . . Hang on.’ George checked his iPhone. ‘Sorry. Just about to get on a plane. I’m going to an ashram for three months in Lahore. Great to catch up.’
‘Excuse me,’ I ventured.
He turned, looking impatient.
‘Are you sure the ashram isn’t in Le Touquet?’
He laughed then, probably only just remembering who I was, and we had a rather alarming hug, and he said, ‘Namaste,’ in a deep movie-producer voice with an ironic expression, then rushed off again, still checking his iPhone. And I realized, in spite of everything, I was actually quite fond of George from Greenlight.
Tuesday 26 November 2013
135lb, number of pounds heavier than Miranda 45 (better), calories 4826, ham-and-cheese paninis 2, pizzas 1.5, tubs of Häagen-Dazs frozen yogurt 2, alcohol units 6 (very bad behaviour).
9 a.m. Just dropped off kids. Feel fat. Maybe will go and get ham-and-cheese panini.
10.30 a.m. Suddenly realized as was standing in the queue that Perfect Nicolette was there, waiting for her hot beverage. She was wearing a white faux-fur jacket and sunglasses and carrying an enormous handbag. She looked like Kate Moss arriving at a black-tie event, only it was nine in the morning. Was tempted to bolt, but had been waiting ages, so, when Nicolette eventually turned and spotted me, I said brightly, ‘Hello!’
Instead of the frosty greeting I was expecting, Nicolette just stared at me, holding a paper cup in one hand.
‘I’ve got a new bag. It’s Hermès,’ she said, holding up the handbag. Then her shoulders started to shake.
Mad About the Boy Page 29