by Jane Green
Thank you, God. Thank you. I’ll never do a bad thing again.
But meanwhile it’s made me completely paranoid about phones being put down and people listening outside doorways, so before I carry on talking to Trish, even though I’m practically whispering, I double-check outside the kitchen door to make sure there’s no one standing there.
“So maybe I’m being completely stupid,” I whisper, “or maybe there’s something I’m just not seeing about Lisa, but how come she always manages to pick such bastards?”
“I know!” Trish agrees. “You would think that after The Deserter she’d deserve someone really lovely, but he’s just an arrogant prick.”
“And she’s so wonderful,” I muse. “Is it insecurity?”
“What’s going on in here?” The door opens and Lisa strides in, grinning. “Are you two having a private conversation or can anyone join in?”
“We were just saying how handsome Andy is,” I bluster.
“I know,” Lisa nods. “He is gorgeous, isn’t he? Even though he is a bit of an arse.”
Trish and I breathe an audible sigh of relief. “Oh, God,” I say. “Actually we were just saying that we couldn’t believe how he talks to you.”
“I know. What did his last slave die of? Overwork?”
It’s an old one but hearing it in this context makes us both laugh with relief.
“So why do you put up with it?” I ask. “Does he treat you like that all the time?”
“Not all the time,” Lisa says, “and I know he isn’t a keeper, but it keeps the loneliness at bay, and, as horrific as I know it sounds, it’s better than no one at all.”
“Really?” Trish looks doubtful. “I always think you’re so incredibly self-sufficient. Surely it’s better to wait for someone really special than to put up with someone just for the sake of it.”
Lisa shrugs and admits, “I’m not so good at being on my own, and anyway, he has his positive points.”
“Such as?” I’m still a skeptic.
Lisa grins. “Such as he treats me well in some respects. Look.” She proffers a new bracelet-clad arm. “He gave me this the other day. And he takes me to nice places. And”—she leans forward conspiratorially—“he’s bloody amazing in the sack.”
There’s an awkward silence as Trish and I look at each other, not quite sure what to say. Not because of the revelation, but because we can’t see how this could possibly be a positive point when you have a tiny baby.
Trish bursts out laughing. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“No. Honestly. It’s the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.”
“How can you even think about sex? Aren’t you too tired?” My eyes are wide with disbelief. And just a smidgen of respect.
“Too tired? Are you crazy? It’s about the only thing I have to look forward to right now.”
I think back to just the other night. As usual I’d climbed into a hot bath at eight o’clock, and was tucked up in bed in my flannel pajamas by quarter to nine. Bliss. I figured fifteen minutes of reading and then lights out at nine. I knew I’d be asleep within two minutes.
But at 8:54 Dan walked in, sat on the bed, on my side, and leaned over to give me a kiss. I was hoping it would be a mere peck on the lips, but when he didn’t move his head back more than three inches a familiar feeling of dread came over me.
And, lying in bed, resting against the pillows, with my husband coming in for another kiss, which I suspected would involve tongues, I did a quick calculation.
We had sex last Monday, which means it’s been ten days. Once a week is probably a reasonable expectation, not an unreasonable one for me to fulfill, so do I have to do it tonight, and if so—I glanced at the clock—could I get it over and done with in fifteen minutes?
I’m hoping to match Trish’s world record of six.
Or could I do what I often do—but not too often because I don’t want Dan to get too upset—and tell him I’m too tired? Because frankly I am too bloody tired. I’m permanently exhausted, and still nursing during the day so my boobs feel, and look, like cow udders and I’ve never felt less desirable, nor less desire, in my entire life.
And so sex has become about going through the motions. Something I have to do to keep my husband happy, but I try to do it as seldom, and for as little time, as is humanly possible.
“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “Let me just state for the record that if I never had sex again in my entire life it would be too soon.”
“Hear hear!” cheers Trish. “Every time Gregory looks at me and raises his eyebrow my heart sinks.”
I burst out laughing, and then compose my features, raising an eyebrow at Trish. “Coming to bed, darling?” I say, doing my best Dan impression, as Trish splutters.
“Oh, God! That’s it! That’s the look! It’s the same as Gregory’s! Either you’ve been sleeping with Gregory or all men have exactly the same look!” And she falls about laughing.
The kitchen door opens and Andy looms in the doorway. “Babe?” he says sternly, looking at Lisa. “The sugar?” and the three of us laugh even more, as he looks confused for a second before shutting the door and going back to the living room.
By the time we get back into the living room, Gregory and Dan are getting on like a house on fire. Gregory is exactly the sort of man I would have chosen for Trish. He’s short, ever-so-slightly tubby but in a cuddly, attractive way, and incredibly jolly. He seems to have a constant smile on his face, and jolliness just exudes from every pore. I can’t imagine anyone disliking this man. Ever.
Nor can I imagine him at work, and yet he’s the head of public affairs for a huge television company, and prior to that was the head of public affairs for one of the nation’s leading politicians, and before that he was a lawyer.
In other words, you don’t get much more high powered than Gregory, and yet you could not hope to meet a more down-to-earth or more humble man, and I am delighted to see that he and Dan have found loads of things in common, and more delighted, in an incredibly puerile way, that Andy is completely left out.
Ha!
But the fact that he is an arse and that even Lisa thinks he’s an arse begins to make me immune to his good looks—I’d go as far as to say he’s becoming less good-looking by the second—and I start to feel slightly sorry for him, sitting by himself on the sofa. And so I go to sit next to him, figuring I’ll at least make a bit of an effort, maybe give him a second chance. “You seem to be very comfortable with Amy,” I lie, given that I haven’t even seen him look at Amy, but it seems like a good place to start. “You must like children.”
Even as the words come out of my mouth I’m regretting them, because as soon as he looks at me I know what he’s seeing, and I hate what he’s seeing.
He’s seeing a dowdy suburban mother who can talk about nothing but her child, children in general, or variations on the theme, such as nursery schools, nannies, and the pros and cons of Gymboree.
I had a career! I suddenly have the urge to shout. I have a career! I’m a successful professional! I’m not just a mother, I’m a person too!
Although now that I’m supposed to be going back to work in a couple of weeks, I’m starting to rethink the whole thing. I never thought for a second I’d be the kind of woman who would be satisfied with just looking after a baby, but now that I’m home I love it. Seriously. It’s the most fulfilling, wonderful thing I’ve ever done, and I’m not sure I’m ready to go back to work. I just have to figure out a way to broach the subject with Dan.
But meanwhile I still read the newspapers, thank you very much. I still watch the news from time to time. I still know what’s going on in the world and I hate that this man is looking at me with the kind of expression that says I couldn’t possibly have anything to say that would be of any interest to him whatsoever.
“I’m not that used to children,” he says. Looking bored. “But luckily Lisa takes care of all that.”
I just bet she does.
“Lisa t
ells me you’re a photographer,” I attempt. “What kind of work do you do?”
“Editorial mostly,” he says. “Although I’m looking to branch out into more commercial work, and I’ve been talking to a resort in the Caribbean about doing their brochure, which looks like it’s going to come off.”
“Really? That sounds great. We’re always looking for new photographers when we do our campaigns. Maybe you’ve got a card?”
Go on, I’m thinking. Ask me what I do. Let me tell you how interesting I am, how much more than just a mother I am.
“Sure,” he says. “I’ve got some upstairs. I’ll give you one before you go.”
And I can’t help it. At this point I should have just left it, admitted defeat in the face of such self-absorption, but I was on a roll, and determined to show this arrogant man that I was his equal. Hell, I was even better than him.
“Our last campaign was done by Bruce Weber,” I say. “You probably saw it. Calden. We won three awards for it. He did a great job.”
Finally his ears pricked up. “Calden? The hotels?”
“Yes.” Now it’s my turn to be nonchalant and bored.
“What do you do there?” His tongue is practically hanging out, so eager is he now to talk, because the campaign was huge, and anyone worth his salt—and even a few who aren’t—knows about it, and all the creative people are desperate to get involved with the next one.
“I’m marketing director,” I say, and before he has a chance to engage me further I stand up. “Whoops, I smell a nappy that needs to be changed. Come on, Tom.” I scoop Tom up from his position on the Gymini and walk over to the changing table. “Let’s sort you out.”
When we are finished and Andy is still looking at me in that eager, enthusiastic, networking sort of way, I purposefully sit next to Trish and Lisa and start talking sleep training with them.
And I spend the rest of the afternoon successfully avoiding Andy’s attempts to talk further.
“So what did you think of them?”
Dan, Tom, and I are back home. Tom has been bathed, fed, read to, and is now fast asleep; Dan is reading the Sunday Times at the kitchen table; and I am opening fridge, freezer, and cupboard doors in search of some inspiration for supper.
Dan puts his paper down. “I thought they were really nice,” he says. “Really nice.”
“What about Gregory? You seemed to hit it off with him.”
“I did. He was at that lunch I went to last week and knows the speaker really well, and he was just so interesting. I liked Trish as well.”
“What about Andy? Wasn’t he awful?”
“I barely spoke to him, but I heard your conversation.” Dan grins at me and I smile back, the picture of innocence.
“He was desperate to get in with you and you wouldn’t give him the time of day!” he chuckles. “That’s my girl!” and I shrug and laugh.
“So did he manage to palm a card off on you, then?” Dan says as I nod, taking Andy’s card from my pocket and tearing it into pieces over the garbage can.
“As if I’d work with someone as arrogant as that,” I say, snapping the lid of the garbage can shut.
“Quite right too,” Dan says. “He was arrogant. And far too good-looking.”
“Yes, but less good-looking every second you talked to him. What about Lisa? Didn’t you like Lisa? Isn’t she lovely?”
“To be honest,” Dan says, shrugging, “I didn’t spend that much time talking to Lisa either. I was just so caught up with Gregory.”
“Oh.” I’m disappointed. I wanted, want, Dan to love my new friends as much as I do, want him to be as enthusiastic about them as I am, want so much for his approval.
“Well, next time you’ll get to talk to Lisa, and you’ll love her. She’s great.”
“Speaking of loving people.” Dan stands up from the table and comes over to me, putting his arms around my shoulders and pulling me close. “Have I told you recently that I love you?”
“Hmm. I’m not sure I’ve heard that for a while.” I look up at him and smile. Dan has a raised eyebrow. He has the look.
Tonight I let him kiss me. Tonight I do more than let him kiss me—I kiss him back. We move to the bedroom, and forty minutes later—clearly tonight is not the night for world records—Dan is pulling his clothes on and heading out the door to get a curry, and I am lying in bed knowing that I have just won myself another week’s grace.
13
Those moments of loving, of caring and kindness, of knowing exactly why we married each other and exactly why we plan to be together until death us do part seem so rare these days.
I didn’t expect the first months after having a baby to be so hard, didn’t expect a child to come between us instead of pulling us closer together.
I suppose that if anyone had warned me, warned of the exhaustion, the loneliness, the loss of identity, I would either have thought they were lying or assumed that it may happen to other women, to other couples, but wouldn’t happen to us.
But of course it does happen to me, does happen to us. Those first few weeks are terrible, and send me to bed most nights with my back turned to Dan, the result of yet another argument, more unspoken resentments that erupt late at night in a show of fierce words and raised voices.
For I am the one who gets up each night with Tom. Several times a night. I am the one who is unable to leave the flat until lunchtime, unable to even get out of my pajamas, having to walk my colicky son up and down the stairs to keep him from screaming.
I am the one who deposits him in his father’s arms on the weekends so that I can have a break, swiftly reclaiming him when I see, with mounting exasperation, that Dan has no idea how to soothe his own son.
And I am the one who is filled with anger, and resentment, and just plain damned exhaustion. Who has desperately started to miss going to work, but who could not deal with leaving her son for an afternoon, let alone the entire week, and who has made the decision to stay at home with Tom, working as a freelance consultant for Calden, instead of returning as marketing director.
Dan doesn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. Not when he leaves the house each morning and spends the rest of the day with grown-ups talking about grown-up things and not having to take responsibility for anyone other than himself. Not when he is still perceived by everyone who knows him as the same old Dan Cooper, producer extraordinaire, who just happens to now have a son.
He could never understand what it is to lose your identity, to go from being a professional, successful woman to someone who is screamed at just because she is behind the wheel of a four-wheel drive.
He could never understand what it is like to maneuver a tired, screaming baby in a stroller through the narrow aisles of a supermarket, trying to avoid people who stare at you and the baby in disgust, who even stop you to tell you that you shouldn’t bring a baby to a supermarket.
The crowds rush to help Dan on the rare occasions he will take Tom out for a walk on a Sunday morning, so charmed are they by the sight of a man with a baby.
He could never understand, and I shouldn’t blame him, but I do.
I blame him, and I blame his mother.
“How is my darling grandson?” says the message that she leaves every day, numerous times, on the answering machine. “How’s my darling baby?” she croons, as I shake my head wanting to shake her: he’s not your baby, you silly cow. He’s my baby.
And a few days ago: “Hello, my gorgeous boys,” she says, as I fight the fury rising up within me. I may be the mother of her darling grandson, wife of her beloved elder son, but I seem to have become largely irrelevant. It is all about the boys for her, and I now know how difficult it is for Emma, the daughter Linda never really wanted.
Because whatever Linda says about her daughter, however much she professes to adore Emma, I know, everybody knows, that the boys are the true loves of Linda’s life, that she lives for Dan and Richard, and that as far as she’s concerned Tom is another of her boys.
&nb
sp; And I will not let that happen.
Linda phones, and when I don’t pick up or return her calls, she drops in unannounced, and it’s becoming a daily occurrence. I have tried pretending to be out, but she knows which car to look for on the street, and I have never been much of a liar, so reluctantly I let her in.
“But I phoned,” she’ll say innocently, “and you weren’t here, and I just happened to be passing…”
She always just happens to be passing, and always just happens to have a package with her. These days her unannounced arrivals bear gifts for Tom: an outfit, a toy, some decoration for the nursery she just happened to see and couldn’t resist.
I know how ungrateful I must seem, but she turns up with these ridiculous things that we don’t need. Last week it was a winter coat, when we already have a beautiful winter coat that I picked up in the sale at Selfridges, and the week before a Fisher-Price aquarium that Rob and Anna had bought him when we first brought him home.
I wish she would just ask me. If she would ask me whether he needs anything, whether we need anything, I would at least have the opportunity to say no, or to tell her that yes, actually, we need more towels, or more bibs, or the things we really do need.
Instead I know what she is doing: telling me she does not approve of my taste. Of the things I buy. Of the way I dress my son. Telling me that she can do better. She is telling me that this is a competition—I have absolutely no doubt that in her mind this is a competition—and that she is winning.
She will not win.
I tell Lisa and Trish that I am at war with my mother-in-law, and every time I refuse to accept one of these gifts, send her away, inform her that we already have that toy, or that coat, or that mobile, I am winning a battle, on the way to winning the war.
I tell Dan too, try to explain how I feel, how I know she is in competition with me and that these acts are not bred of generosity but of competitiveness, and that I refuse to let her win.
We argue about it. About her. A lot. Far more than we ever did during the run-up to our wedding, which now feels a million years ago, as if it happened to someone else in another lifetime.