by Jayne Buxton
Millie could sense my apprehension this morning. It would have been hard for her not to sense it, because I did that most unforgivable of unforgivable things. I shouted at her. No, despite being fully aware of all the research showing that shouting at children damages their self-esteem and kills off neural pathways a dozen at a time, I screamed at her. About spilled orange juice.
Here’s a brief description of the scene so you can see just how unreasonable I was: I ask Millie to please move her orange juice away from the edge of her cereal bowl or she will surely knock it over; Millie persists in keeping her orange juice next to her cereal bowl, and promptly knocks it over; I stand up from the table in a fit of temper and tell her how stupid it was, and that she should have listened to me in the first place; I mop up the orange juice with a paper towel, which of course disintegrates in my hand because, whatever they tell you to the contrary on TV, paper towels are useless when it comes to absorbing spills of more than a teaspoonful; I am so incensed that the paper towel isn’t working and that the juice is now running over the edge of the table and onto my pale leather handbag that, in response to Millie’s statement that “It’s only orange juice, and I didn’t mean to,” I say to her (wait for it): “Not only was that a stupid thing to do BUT YOU ALWAYS DO IT. YOU ARE SO CLUMSY.”
As any good mother knows, this kind of statement breaks every rule in the parenting handbook: (1). Never shout. It means you have lost control of the situation. (2) Never hurl insults at your children, using such inflammatory and defamatory words as “stupid” or “clumsy.” (3) Never say always. If you tell your child they always do something, it will become a self-fulfilling prophesy. Instead, focus on the isolated incident at hand, and criticize the behavior not the person.
I know all this. Everyone knows all this. Do they, like me, know it even as they are shouting and hurling insults and saying the word “always”? Are they better than me at stopping themselves before the shouted insult rises to their lips, and saying instead, and in a calm tone of voice: “Well, that was a bit silly, darling. But never mind. At least it will help you to remember not to put your orange juice so close to your cereal bowl next time.” I’m sure they are, so within minutes, perhaps even seconds of my outburst, I am filled with guilt. I drop the ineffectual paper towel into the bin and walk around the table to give Millie a hug. She, of course, wants nothing to do with me. I lost control of the situation when I shouted, but now I’ve really lost control because I’m apologizing for my terrible behavior and begging her forgiveness. And all in full view of Jack, who has watched the whole incident open-mouthed and no doubt had a few of his own neural pathways damaged in the process.
I made an extra effort to be calm on the way to school, even managing to remain unruffled when Jack walked straight through a muddy puddle in his new school shoes. But Millie didn’t thaw until we got to the school gates, at which point she relented and gave me a hug. That’s the glory of young children, and the saving grace of the less-than-perfect parent I suppose. No matter how horrible you are to them, they usually forgive you. They just can’t seem to sustain their anger, such is their desire to see you in a positive light.
It was indeed only orange juice, but the whole incident left me feeling unsettled and full of remorse. I knew my flare-up was the side effect of the tension I was feeling: a sort of giddy satisfaction at something having gone very right at work, combined with nervous anticipation of the meeting with Gary, which, let’s face it, could easily go very wrong. So I stood in the shower and made promises to myself: I will not allow my own feelings about work (and future visits from Duck Decoys) to spill over into life with the children; I will count to ten before I shout. In the event of absolutely having to shout, I will do so without ever using the words stupid and clumsy, or for that matter, bad and horrid.
Now here I sit in the kitchen at ten to eleven, as if in wait for a visit from the Crown Prince of Prussia. I’ve even blow-dried my hair, which I rarely do on a Friday. I’ve also been mapping out possible routes to the request for a date with Gary, trying to settle on one that will seem uncontrived.
The doorbell rings and I can muse on the problem no longer. I walk to the door, mussing up my hair a little as I go. (It wouldn’t do to look as if I’ve just brushed it.) When I open the door I am greeted by Gary’s wide smile. It’s still sexy.
“Hiya. Here for the lights,” he announces.
“Oh, great,” I say, managing to sound surprised, as if this whole thing had slipped my mind.
Gary comes into the house, stomping his boots on the mat to shake off the dust. He stands there waiting for directions from me, a stepladder slung over his shoulder.
“So, where do you want me to start?” he prompts.
“Well, there are ceiling lights in every room that don’t work. I’m not sure whether it’s just the bulbs that need changing, or whether there are some malfunctioning transformers somewhere,” I say, rather proud of my grasp of the technical vocabulary. “Whatever the case, I need your help as I can’t change these lightbulbs anyway!” I laugh.
“Can’t say I blame you. Those little clips on the lights are bastards to remove, and even worse to put back.” His voice reminds me of someone but I can’t put my finger on it.
“So, do you want to start up or down?” I ask.
“How about up at the top?” he asks. Now I know why he sounds familiar. His voice is very Johnny Vaughn. Smooth and knowing, with just a hint of a hard edge.
I walk upstairs ahead of him, hoping my bum doesn’t look too big from his vantage point. We head to my bedroom, which looks extremely respectable, the knickers, bras and wet towels having been stuffed into drawers and linen baskets, and the pile of books and assorted birthday cards, loose photos and used tissues that usually clutter the bedside table having been shoved into the closet.
Gary flicks the light switch on and off to get a sense of where the trouble lies in this room, then sets up his stepladder at the end of the bed.
“Right, I’ll leave you to it,” I say breezily. Then, being fully aware that the real purpose of today’s visit is for me to develop some sort of rapport with him so that I can ask him out, I add, “Would you like a coffee?”
“Cheers. That would be great. One sugar please,” he says, flashing another one of his irresistible smiles before lifting his head to face the ceiling, where he is already struggling with the removal of one of the bastard clips.
As I’m making the coffee I’m desperately searching for some ruse that will enable me to spend some time talking to Gary. Coffee isn’t enough. There’s got to be a reason for me to stay there with him and have a conversation.
I make two cups of coffee and head upstairs, where I discover Gary is getting through the lights at an alarming rate. He’s already in Millie’s room. Quick, think fast.
“Do you mind if I stay in here while you work?” I venture. “I was about to start sorting out Millie’s drawers.”
“Fine with me.” Gary replies, stepping down from his ladder to move it along under the next faulty light. “By the way, so far it looks like just a lightbulb problem.”
“Oh, good,” I say, pulling out Millie’s middle drawer, which is, happily, quite a mess. Thank goodness I didn’t get around to it when I was doing the closets last weekend.
We pass the next minute or two in silence, me occupied by the removal of heaps of T-shirts and sweaters from Millie’s drawer, Gary by the unbending of a bent lightbulb clip with a pair of pliers. I’m sure he’s going to move on to Jack’s room and then downstairs without our having made any conversation at all when he says something that can only be described as a gift.
“So isn’t your husband any good at this sort of thing then?” he asks, indicating the ceiling lights with a flick of his head.
“Well, actually we’re divorced,” I say. Then, anxious not to let this opportunity slip away, “I’ve found that after two years of living on my own, I’ve gotten quite good at things plumbing related, but electrical stuff is b
eyond me. I’m a desk job person, you see, not very good with my hands.” Now if that isn’t an invitation for him to delve into the details of what I do for a living I don’t know what is.
“Really, what do you do then?” he asks, stopping to look down from the height of his ladder.
“I’m a product manager for Cottage Garden Foods. I manage their marmalade business. So if you ever want any marmalade, you know who to come to.” I sit in quiet contempt of my cringe-making words. If he ever wants any marmalade he’s going to go to Sainsbury’s isn’t he?
“Really? Well, I’ll remember that. I happen to love marmalade for breakfast,” he says.
“Really? I bet you’re a coarse-cut man, right? You know, it’s a proven fact that men prefer their marmalade with large chunks in it. Scott took it to the Antarctic, and Hillary hauled it all the way to the top of Everest.”
And then we are off, rambling through the usual discourse about thin versus thick, orange versus grapefruit. I make him laugh with a couple of Paddington anecdotes I heard yesterday, and before I know it he’s stopped unbending clips and screwing in bulbs and is seated on the bottom step of his ladder laughing as if I’m Bob Monkhouse. For the second time this week I’m full of gratitude for the presence of marmalade in my life.
Eventually my stories come to a natural end, and it’s clear Gary’s going to have to move on to another room. I must stay and finish sorting Millie’s drawer; for the life of me I can’t think of a plausible excuse to leave this task unfinished and take up another one in Jack’s room.
“Anyway, I’ll move on to the next room.” Gary announces, folding up his ladder. “But I’ll have to get that marmalade recipe from you later.”
I finish Millie’s drawer and head downstairs to the kitchen, where I pretend to sift through a pile of bills. A few minutes later I can hear Gary descending with his stepladder and toolbox and setting up for work in the sitting room. He’s finished that and the hallway in no time, and pretty soon all there is left is the kitchen. I glance up and notice that there’s only one lightbulb hanging down, clipless, in here. He’ll be finished and on the road again in less than three minutes if I don’t do something.
When he comes into the kitchen I point to the extractor fan above the oven, all thoughts of pecuniary restraint flying out the window. “You know, I forgot to mention that the extractor fan has been broken for ages and it’s driving me crazy. Would you have time to look at that too?”
Gary glances at his watch, then says, “Yeah. Should do.”
After he’s fixed the single light in the kitchen I watch him twisting and bending to get a good look at the underside of the extractor fan. The bottom of his sweatshirt lifts up slightly to reveal a slip of flesh around his lower back. There is no fat there. Not even the slightest sign of a love handle.
I decide that a bold move is in order. It’s now or never.
“So Gary, do you do this sort of thing at home? Does your wife expect you to spend all your weekends fixing things?”
Then the answer I’ve been waiting for. “Actually, I don’t have a wife. I live on my own. But I do pretty much all my own DIY and electrical work.”
“Ohh, and without anyone to make you cups of coffee,” I say, hardly able to believe my own incorrigible flirtatiousness. I’d like to see Francesca match this. I haven’t done anything this obvious since I called up Sonny Simpson in seventh grade and played the song “Sunny” into the receiver.
Gary can hardly believe it either. He stops what he’s doing and turns around to face me. Through another of his wide, alluring smiles he replies, “Yeah, it’s a shame isn’t it? I could really do with someone to make me cups of coffee.”
I’ve seen this in movies. Two people standing with their eyes locked into each other’s as if time and the rest of the world don’t exist. And it’s happening now. This is obviously how it’s done. I honestly believe that if I wanted to have this man right here on my kitchen floor I could. But I don’t. As Marina says, I’m not looking for casual sex. I’m looking for a partner. And this is only a Duck Decoy after all, if a very beautiful one.
I tear my eyes away from Gary’s and move back behind the table, where I resume the aimless rearranging of my bills. I know what’s going to happen in a few minutes when Gary has finished with the fan. I would almost bet my life on it.
And sure enough, it does. As I see Gary to the door, having paid his bill, he turns and puts his ladder down, then says, “Listen, I don’t mean to sound forward or anything. But would you fancy going out sometime? We could have dinner next Friday if you’re free.”
Bingo. I have just set my sights on someone and corralled them into asking me out. How wonderful is that? I haven’t felt so, well, powerful, in a long time. Perhaps Marina Boyd is really onto something. Perhaps the whole Duck Decoy has less to do with broadening your horizons and teaching you not to judge books by their covers, than getting you to sample the heady experience of playing the game again. And discovering that you’re actually not bad at it.
CHAPTER 21
THE INTERVIEW
For much of the afternoon I’ve been half expecting to bump into Tom. It’s strange not to have seen him at all this week, given that I spotted him at least twice the week before. I wonder if he’s changed his pattern? Or perhaps he’s gone away somewhere. With Grace being so young he won’t be bound by school term dates like we parents of school-age children.
Fresh from my triumph this morning, I’m sure that if I did see Tom I’d manage to find a way to ask him out, or to induce him to ask me. But without a sighting I’m pretty helpless. I’ve no idea of his last name or address, so I can hardly call him or stake out his home. And another accidental early morning meeting in the park will be out of the question this weekend since Millie and Jack will be with David. It’s beginning to look as though we should have walked home with them last week after all. Now there’s a lesson, probably one that’s buried in Marina’s notes somewhere. Never pass up an opportunity for a conversation with someone, whether Duck Decoy or bona fide dating material, for you never know when that opportunity will arise again.
Since last weekend I’ve decided that Tom might be a suitable duck candidate after all. The news about his wife was very sad. But it shouldn’t mean he’s out of bounds completely. He might still be on the edge of a grieving process, but maybe a harmless dinner or two would be just what he needs.
But all this is pretty academic unless I bump into him again. In the meantime I just have to get on with things. David will be here in half an hour to collect Jack and Millie, and soon after that, five of my friends are coming around for a bit of packaging and branding.
Millie is packing her own bag. She’s decided that her tiny suitcase on wheels with the Little Mermaid on the front is beneath her now that she is almost eight. So she’s asked me to lend her one of mine. She’s busy stuffing half the contents of her room into it. Ever since I told her that she’ll be changing schools after half-term she’s had something of a confident, take-charge air about her. I’m sure she’ll be trembling on the day she starts, but for now the whole thing seems to have given her a boost. I’ve not heard a thing from her about any of the other girls being horrible. Either they’ve given up, knowing they are soon to lose their victim, or she doesn’t care anymore.
I wish Jack were packing his own case, but he isn’t. He’s sitting on the floor of his room in his underpants, crashing trucks together. It isn’t enough to own several large vehicles and move them around on the floor as if on a motorway. The thrill lies in the sound of them smashing together in a miniature simulated road accident. Are all little boys like this? Where does this desire to test the effects of a collision come from? The same place as the instinct to turn a stick or a banana into a gun?
“Hey, Jack. We’d better start getting ready or you won’t be ready when Daddy comes.”
“When will he be here?” he asks without averting his eyes from the road accident.
“In about half an hou
r. That’s not very long. Now let’s decide what you’re going to take.” Then begins the predictable debate about which clothes he’ll take with him. If it were up to him, he’d wear his jeans and cowboy attire all weekend. But that’s not acceptable to David. The case must contain at least one outfit suitable for a lunch with other people and an outing to the movies. It’s not that David minds the cowboy gear, in moderation, but that he thinks we shouldn’t indulge the constant sporting of it. I think this has more to do with David’s acute aesthetic sensibility than any theories about what is or isn’t good for children.
At six-thirty the doorbell rings, and Millie runs to the door to open it. David is standing there, alone. No Chantal. I wonder if she’s in the car, or waiting at his flat, where they are spending the weekend.
“Hi, Ally. How are you?” He looks a little tired, as if he’s been on a twenty-four-hour shoot.
“Hi. Fine. How are you?” I reciprocate.
“Fine, thanks.” He yawns widely. “Sorry, just been really busy this week. Hope the kids are in a sympathetic mood,” he says, then grins.
After hugging David, Millie has gone off in search of her (or rather my) bag, and Jack can now be seen bumping his suitcase down the stairs. His is white and bright green, with a picture of Buzz Lightyear emblazoned on the front.
“Hi, Dad. I’ve packed my trucks for us to play with,” he announces enthusiastically.
“Great. I’ll look forward to that.” David has come into the house now and is standing at the foot of the stairs. He turns to me. “So what have you got planned this weekend?”
“Oh, not much really. I’ve a few friends coming around this evening.” And then the lie. “And I’m going out to dinner with someone tomorrow night. Otherwise, just domestic catch-up really.”