The Godmother (4 page)

When Caspar was eight years old, his first sister Katie was born; three years later, another daughter, Poppy, arrived on the scene. Francesca may have given up the law but what she had achieved was far more impressive—a genuinely happy, successful family—and to think I'd felt sorry for her that day I crossed my fingers and ignored the tumbling flowers. I looked over to her, cuddling with Nick on the sofa, watching Katie rip open birthday presents. You are wrong, Francesca. Being me isn't easy, because all I want is to be you.

I collected my coat and said my farewells. I cast a backward glance at their small terrace house and saw smoke slipping out of the Velux window in the roof. For a moment I saw the lit end of a spliff, or whatever it was called, glowing in the dark and knew Caspar was hard at his new-found hobby. Before starting the car, I sent Caspar a quick text about his birthday. It was subtle. Erudite. Poetic.
b at ur bday lunch or the iPod gets it.
I drove back through the city with the roof on, playing soppy Sunday night music which I loathe but never switch off. I nearly drove to Claudia's house, but there was only so much domestic bliss I could take in a day, so I turned the Mini homeward, to face the first Sunday night alone, with no work to focus on for the following day.

As I kicked the door of the studio behind me my phone started to ring. To my surprise it was Samira. Samira didn't do Sundays. I rolled over the edge of the sofa arm and awaited my apology for the previous night, but not a bit of it. I should know Samira better by now. I think her family motto is “It is better to die than to apologize,” which would explain why none of them speak to each other.

“Suicide watch for single Sunday-nighters,” she said.

Naturally, I was offended.

“Not just you, you daft cat; my single friends and appendages who are in London are coming over for supper. It's a new thing I invented while you were away. I can't stand Sunday nights any more. I was about to throw myself off the building, so I'm starting a movement. Are you coming? It's very casual.”

For a moment I was too disoriented to respond. Being social on a Sunday night was a big ask. On top of which, self-pity had crawled back in and snuggled up in my chest and I was a beat away from singing “On My Own” from
Les Mis
.

“Come on, Tessa. Crying on your own in the dark is not the way an adult woman should spend her Sunday night.”

That is what I loved about Samira; she never minces her words and she tells you how it is. Of course, if you did it back to her, she wouldn't speak to you for weeks. But as I have learned over the years, your friends don't change; you just learn to ignore or embrace the bad bits. So I got up and started the unfamiliar experience of having a clothes crisis on a Sunday evening. I know Samira's friends. They do casual like George W. Bush does vocabulary.

An hour later I pulled up to Samira's flat, feeling pretty groovy. The roof was back down on my Mini; I had opted for denim miniskirt, cut low on the hips to show off my two main attributes: a flat stomach and good legs, even better when brown. I had taken the car to keep the goose bumps and men out cruising at bay. It was Sunday night—how raucous could it be? I was wearing a disgusting flesh-colored bra with three-inch straps which looked hideous off but worked wonders under a white T-shirt which in turn showed off my tan and hid my back spots when I had them. Which I didn't at that moment, thanks to the sun.

I was wrong about Sunday-night abstinence. Samira's casual Sunday supper turned out to be a boisterous curry for thirty. There was something of the Blitz mentality to it. What did we on suicide watch have to lose?

A couple of waiters from the Indian had been bribed away from their busy Sunday-night delivery shift to feed and water us. That was a nice touch, I thought. Who had curry on Sunday night? Couples. It was a smart middle finger from Samira to the “cozees.” I told her this but she frowned at me.

“My uncle owns the place.”

Oh well, so much for irony.

It was fun because so many singles had brought their single friends, so it wasn't cliquey or over-bearing. If they had children, they weren't telling. No one mentioned schools. I drank Tiger Beers happily and chatted to whoever was in my eye line and it was great. In the hours that I was there, no one asked me what I did, which is the sign of a great evening. Small talk evaporated in the presence of big chat. No one wanted to talk about daily lives; they wanted to talk about places and people, books and great hidden-away bars in other cities.

I met a guy called Sebastian. He was tall, with receding hair and bow legs, but handsome. He made me laugh and fetched me more Tiger Beer. When he went to the loo, Samira sidled up to me and told me he was an adviser to the government, a bit of an operator. I thought that was kind of sexy. I'd never been out with a civil servant before. He gave me his card. Modern unmarrieds do that. I glanced down. It was official, he worked for the Department of Trade and Industry. He said he had to go, and I felt quite bereft when he said goodbye. Twenty minutes later, I saw the big and little hand converge on twelve and knew it was well past my bedtime. I thanked Samira, then took the plush lift down to the ground floor. Outside on the pavement Sebastian was talking to a group of people I hadn't met. He smiled at me as they all waved goodbye.

“I thought you were going,” I said, standing alone on the pavement with him.

“My goodbyes took a little longer than expected.” He smiled. “How are you getting home?”

I waggled my car keys at him. He frowned.

“What?”

“You've drunk too much.”

“I haven't really. I've eaten masses.”

“You have and I should know, because I was trying to get you pissed. Where do you live?”

“The Embankment.”

“Fine. It's on the way. I'm driving you home, then I'll get a cab,” he said. Which is what he did, except between the driving me home and getting that cab, he ended up in bed with me.

It happened like this. He parked my car in my underground parking space, we went to the lift and got in. Instinctively, I pressed 11. My floor. One below penthouse. Before we got to the fourth floor he had taken my hand and pulled me towards him. Maybe he thought by pressing 11 I was giving him the green light, and I didn't have the heart to say it was a mistake. So I kissed him back and it was nice. Really nice. He did all those things that men are supposed to do but, despite all the books, magazine articles and prominent comediennes out there trying to redirect them, they still don't. He brushed a strand of hair off my face. He held my hand, then wrapped us up in our entwined arms. Courtesy of five weeks of the pigeon pose, this caused me no actual bodily harm. He ran the back of his hand down my face so lovingly that when the lift door pinged open I followed him out of the lift, opened my front door and let him in.

I didn't even get to go through the pretence of making coffee as things moved pretty fast from that point onwards. What startled me was how much my body betrayed me and obeyed him. I didn't care that my bra was enormous, or that my knickers were not matching. I wanted skin-on-skin action and clearly I didn't care whose skin it was. My passion fueled his, which in turn threw jet fuel on mine, and I pressed myself against his body. At one point it was as if we were having sex though we were still fully clothed. I could feel his hard-on through his trousers as he pushed against me.

We tumbled onto the bed, I lifted my bottom and together we pulled off my knickers. I kicked off my boots and used my feet like a monkey to work his trousers down over his hips. Perhaps it was his bow legs, but the jeans never got further than his knees. I didn't care. Hands, mouth, hair, neck, chest,
everything was everywhere, and then boom, he slipped inside me and my whole body shuddered. I knew then that this didn't happen very often. That something could fit so well. We pushed and heaved, squeezed and clawed and for a few mind-blowing minutes I was free of all thought, my whole being existed for this sensation and this sensation only. It was glorious. Magnificent. And then as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

“Oh no!” he shouted. Which I thought was kind. I don't think he wanted it to end quite then either, but I didn't blame him—if I'd been a boy, I would have come in the lift. So I thought he'd done pretty well to last as long as he did. He shuddered to a halt. My body took a while to catch on that it was over and went on arching, longing, but the pressure was gone and there was nothing to push against. We lay there for a moment just recovering. Letting the animal leave and the civilized person return. My animal was being stubborn. It wanted more. You couldn't invite a wolf in and ask it to leave without feeding it. Untrained animals didn't behave like that.

Sebastian rolled off, stood up and pulled his trousers back up. Once he had done his fly up he was fully dressed. It was as if it hadn't happened. I tried to smile. But couldn't. He walked towards the bathroom. I heard the shower go on, which I thought strange, but then I heard the loo flush and I guessed he'd wanted a little privacy to pee and fart simultaneously. I lay there thinking about the story of Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller. The story goes, he took his new girl to meet his parents. They had a cozy little supper in the Millers' small house. After dinner Marilyn got up to go to the loo. Embarrassed by the proximity of the bathroom, she ran a tap while she peed to protect her modesty. Later the playwright asked his parents what they thought of his new girlfriend, to which his mother replied, “She's a sweet girl, Arthur, but she pisses like a horse.”

I must have been smiling when Sebastian peered over the bookcase.

“Don't pretend you're so easily satisfied. You're scowling underneath.”

I'd pulled the sheet over me because in the dim light I didn't want to go rooting around for my pants, but suddenly he whisked it off me and pulled me up out of bed. Taking my hand, he led me to the steam-filled bathroom. The lights were really dim. Thank the Lord for dimmer switches and the fact that my extractor fan was currently not working. In the dim, steamy room,
Sebastian started to undress me properly. The T-shirt came up over my head. The bra released its load. My skirt fell to the floor and I stood naked in front of him. He undressed quickly and pulled me under the flow of water. At last I was going to christen my wet room.

“Let's do that again,” he said, “and this time I'll try to take a little more time about it.”

He poured shower gel into the palm of his hand and slowly started to work the suds all over my body. It was a high-quality valet job, inside and out. I returned the favor by ruining a good blow-dry for a blow job. But it was worth it. Sebastian's bow legs were perfect for standing-up sex; they provided a nice sturdy A-frame with the added benefit of a ledge. Once it all started again, though it never reached the peak of those first few moments in the bedroom, it was good. Really, really good. A shag to remember. We ended up having sex twice more during the night until I begged him to stop and passed out with a smile on my face as a misty pink dawn crept up the river.

In the morning he was still there. I had to look twice at the profile of a body in my bed before believing it. For a moment I thought he might be dead, because he was so still. When Cora came to stay as a baby, I used to get up in the night four or five times just to check she was breathing. I would gently put my hand on her chest and, with my own breath held, wait for her next inhalation. Despite trying to eat this man the night before, I was now afraid of any physical contact. I rustled the sheets instead and watched with relief as he stirred. He turned over sleepily.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello.”

“My name is Sebastian, I believe we've met.”

“Once,” I replied. “Very fleetingly. How are you?”

“Exceedingly well,” he said. “I had the most amazing dream. There was this girl with fantastic legs, I've not come across inner thigh muscles like it. She wrapped her legs around me like they do in the movies. Incredible.”

All the time he was speaking, he was running his fingers up and down my arm. I didn't think it was possible to feel like having more sex, but from nowhere a familiar and not completely unwanted burning sensation eked its
way into my conscience. I hadn't even brushed my teeth. Last night or this morning. But in true Muppet style, this man brought out the animal in me and this time, very slowly, we rubbed ourselves into oblivion. He used his hand and my fingers to get me there, but get me there we did, as did he, neck on neck, right up to the end. If it had been a race, there would have been a photo finish. I lay back and laughed. I couldn't take the stupid look of satisfaction off my face.

“Your work here is done,” I said. Then regretted it. In case he took me at my word. He glanced at the clock by my bed. “Shit, it's late. I'd better get going.”

“And me,” I said, before I realized it wasn't true.

“Will you join me for a shower?” He was smiling again.

“Absolutely not. I don't trust myself. I will shower alone.” I jumped out of bed and walked to the bathroom, not caring that he was probably looking at my bottom. I sent him in after me with a Virgin Upper Class traveling set, complete with virgin toothbrush. He emerged, buffed and clean-smelling, with slicked-back wet hair, a few minutes later.

“You're going to work in jeans?” I asked as he finished tucking his shirt in.

“I keep a suit in the office for emergencies.”

I smiled but there was a little voice in the back of my head wondering if I was the emergency.

We walked to the tube station, stopping for coffee and croissants on the way, which we ate out of paper bags. A stay-over is a big thing. Sex in the morning doesn't mean much—once they are there they might as well—but a conversation? This was unusual. Now coffee and croissants—could this be…? I tried really hard to stop myself imagining the gorgeous little bow-legged children. But I failed. They were there, alive and kicking and making me nervous. We went as far as Westminster together, laughing all the way, and then he left, kissing me on the mouth.

“You were incredible,” he said, then the doors closed and Sebastian was gone.

There was silence from Helen as she turned a miniature bottle of Perrier around in her fingers. I stared at my friend from across her sleek modern dining table. Finally I had got her without the babies, but she still wasn't all mine.

“Weren't you listening?” I said, sipping my wine. “He said, ‘You were incredible,' and left.”

Helen looked up and frowned at me. “I can't believe you pretended to go to work. What were you wearing?”

“My suit.”

“You put on your suit?”

“It sort of happened by accident. I was on Monday morning autopilot.”

“This was on Monday?”

“Yes. I told you. Weren't you listening?”

“Sorry.”

“What's wrong with you? Why are you being so vague?”

“Sorry,” she said again, twisting her long hair around her finger. “The twins kept me up again last night.”

“Aren't the nannies supposed to do that?”

“Only I can feed them and at the moment, they're hungry. Growth spurt, I think…It's very boring. Why haven't you told me about this bloke before?”

Not my fault. Blame the bloodsuckers you've got attached to your nipples. Sorry. Think warm positive things and try not to sound too vinegary. “I've only been back six days.”

“I feel like I'm completely out of the loop.”

I stretched my hand across to hers. “Don't worry, Helen. There's nothing in the loop anyway.”

“Easy for you to say. You're in it.”

Didn't feel like that to me. “I have tried calling a few times. Didn't the nanny tell you?”

She frowned, clearly pretending that she was trying to remember, when I knew perfectly well that all my messages would have been passed on.

“Anyway, I'm telling you now and you're missing the point. He said, ‘You
were
incredible.' It's brilliantly delivered. I was being complimented and cut loose in one go.”

“What if he'd been going all the way to Canary Wharf?”

“He works for the government. Westminster. It couldn't have been easier. I just doubled back on myself and changed when I got home.”

“Sounds as if he liked you—he bought you a croissant. Are you going to pretend to go to work next time you see him?”

It is very irritating talking to someone who doesn't listen. “No, Helen. If he'd said, ‘You
are
incredible,' I may have been in line to receive more crois
sants. Because ‘You are incredible' means let's have a drink, do it all over again tonight, and tomorrow night, and see where this thing goes. ‘You were incredible' means thank you and goodnight. A genius vanishing act. Especially considering I don't have a moral leg to stand on. I shagged him after a forty-minute conversation over sag aloo. I consumed him. I took my fill, he took his; it was a short-lived contract.”

“I think he'll call.”

“You would,” I said. “Your life is perfect. So in your world he'd call. Not in mine. And don't give me any of that ‘Desiderata' bollocks about love being as perennial as the grass, because I've hit an extended bald patch.”

Helen stood up, grabbed a sponge and began to wipe at a perfectly clean surface. I know it was a big house, but Helen had plenty of help. A cleaning lady came every day. A nanny came during the weekdays to help with the babies. And they had a wonderful woman who lived with them. Rose is her name. I'd known Rose almost as long as I'd known Helen. Originally she came from the Philippines; she'd been Helen's father's housekeeper in Hong Kong and had looked after Helen since she was a baby. Helen's parents' marriage hadn't lasted long, so she had spent her school holidays back in Hong Kong with Rose and her father. In reality, of course, it was Rose. Tycoons don't become tycoons by being home every night reading bedtime stories. Rose used to fly back and forth to Hong Kong accompanying Helen on those trips, but Marguerite, Helen's mother, was not a hands-on parent either. She was busy jetting around Europe as a newly divorced wealthy woman. The nannies she hired never lasted very long. Helen had an incredible knack for making their lives a misery. So in the end Rose simply stayed with Helen wherever she was. I suppose Rose is responsible for Helen's upbringing. No, not responsible. Her parents are responsible for that. But she put in all the legwork. Her hair was plaited, her teeth were cleaned, she was dressed, fed and watered by Rose. The only constants in Helen's life were Rose, Marguerite's absence and her father's wealth.

Marguerite and I do not get on. Her open criticism of her daughter has left me gaping in the past. If I was brought up in a greenhouse, Helen was like one of those tiny plants that manages to grow out of a rock face. I came to the conclusion a long time ago that Marguerite only went through the disruption of pregnancy in order to cement alimony. I'm not saying her father didn't pay
Helen any attention. He did. He worshipped her. But that's not the same thing. I guess Helen's childhood was that destructive combination of being spoilt and neglected at the same time. When her father died unexpectedly, Rose came to join Helen in London permanently. She'd been here ever since. I think Rose was supposed to be retired now, but she never sat down, she couldn't. Needless to say, with Rose, the nanny and the daily, there was never any mess in Helen's house. In fact, there was barely any evidence of life and certainly none of the twins.

“I'm jealous,” said Helen.

“Like hell you are. I got dumped on the tube.”

“Sounds to me like you experienced one spectacular shag. Something I would offer Bobby and Tommy's school fees for right now.”

“Ah, still no action in that department?”