Coming Clean (5 page)

“That’s not fair,” Amy says, indignant, but still giggling. “We may be at public school, but we can all read and write.”

“If you say so,” Greg snorts.

I tell Amy that he’s only teasing. By now I’m gathering up dirty plates from the kids’ dinner, which are lying on the table. A couple of Connect Four counters have found their way into a bowl of half-eaten ice cream, which has since melted. Bearing in mind the promise I just made to Ben, I try not to snap at Greg. Instead I just moan. “Greg, would it have been too much for you to put the dirty plates in the dishwasher?”

Greg says that, typically, I’ve walked into the room just as he was about to do it.

“Yeah, right.”

I carry on clearing the table, huffing and puffing as I go.

“There you go again. Making a martyr of yourself.”

I don’t want to start a fight, so I just glare at him. He picks up an end of baguette and starts chewing. I turn on him and tell him off for eating so loudly.

“Jesus was a martyr,” Amy announces, clearly trying to deflect the impending conflict. “Because he died on the cross for all our sins. It says so on that great big notice they’ve got outside Saint Michael’s.”

“Actually, not everybody believes those stories,” Greg says. He’s doing his best to be diplomatic, but as an atheist he finds it hard. “I mean, we don’t really know if Jesus ever lived.”

“You mean, like the Loch Ness monster?” Ben has just appeared, still in his school uniform, still holding his blanky. So much for his going willingly to the bathtub.

“Not exactly,” Greg says. We’re both doing our best not to laugh.

At this point, Greg disappears upstairs to change out of his work clothes and I turn my attention to the trash can. As I tug on the black plastic liner I start muttering to myself, begging it not to burst.

“Anyway, I like Mrs. McKay,” Amy continues, getting back to the subject of her head teacher. “After Chloe Peterson started telling everybody she hated her fat thighs, Mrs. McKay gave all the girls in our class a talk on body image. She says we should be proud of our bodies and that it’s OK for girls to be any shape they want.”

“What, even an oblate spheroid?” Ben pipes up.

“And what,” I ask, “might an oblate spheroid be when it’s at home?” Yay, the liner has come out intact. I gather up the top and start knotting it.

“It’s a round shape, but it’s squished at the top and bottom. The Earth’s an oblate spheroid. We did it in science class.”

It occurs to me that maybe Greg and I, along with the other “concerned” (i.e., pushy) Parkhall parents, don’t give the school the credit it deserves.

Ben turns to Amy. “You’d look really weird that shape.”

“Oh, shuddup, Ben. You smell.”

“Schlemiel!”

Fighting back the laughter, I just about manage to pull off a stern: “Ben, don’t use that word. It’s not nice.” I take the plastic liner over to the back door. Greg can take it out when we get back.

“Granddad says it.”

“I don’t care what Granddad says. I don’t want you saying it.”

“Mum doesn’t want you using it,” Amy chips in, “because it means penis.”

“What’s wrong with penis?”

Just then the front door opens. Klaudia is back from her English class.

“What’s taking your dad so long?” I mutter. “We need to get going in case there’s traffic.”

“But will somebody please explain what’s supposed to be wrong with penis?”

I tell Ben that there’s nothing wrong with penis per se, but people tend not to respond well to being called one.

I kiss the kids good night and remind them about having baths and washing their hair. “And for the last time,” I say, “will the pair of you please stop trying to convince Klaudia that Starbursts are part of your five veggies a day.”

Just then Greg reappears wearing a pair of crumpled chino shorts that he’s clearly just pulled out of the dirty-laundry basket. Over the top he’s wearing a white T-shirt. This is clean at least, and unless you’re standing inches from his chest, you can barely read the
DUNDER MIFFLIN PAPER COMPANY
logo.

“So,” I say, looking him up and down. “You’re going out in those shorts, are you?”

“I couldn’t find a clean pair. If you’re too embarrassed to be seen with me, don’t come. But it’s eighty degrees outside and there’s no way I’m wearing jeans.”

I’m about to say that I suppose I should be grateful he’s not wearing socks with his sandals, when I notice that he is staring at Amy. “Amy, are you wearing eye shadow?”

“Yeah, great, isn’t it?” She flutters her eyelids to show off the wobbly turquoise eye frosting. “It was Klaudia’s, but she didn’t want it anymore. And she gave me nail polish, too.”

Amy presents her newly painted fingernails. It’s her very first effort and she’s got pink glittery polish all over her fingers. I think she looks so cute—not that I’d allow her out in the eye shadow. I’m reminded that my first baby is growing up and that a few years from now she’ll be wearing makeup and nail polish for real. Part of me wants her to be ten forever, but at the same time I can’t wait for us to start bonding at the MAC counter.

Amy takes one look at her father’s expression. “What’s wrong with it?”

“You’re ten. That’s what’s wrong with it.”

“At least I’m not going out with Mum in dirty, crumpled old shorts. And anyway, all the girls in my class practice putting on makeup and painting their nails.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to.”

I tug Greg’s T-shirt and remind him that time’s getting on. He gives his daughter a look as if to say, “This discussion isn’t over,” and then heads into the hall. Before following him, I whisper to Amy that she looks fab and that she should leave her father to me.

“He’s such a schlemiel,” she mutters.

“Mum, Amy said ‘schlemiel.’”

“Shut up, Ben,” Amy says.

I tell my son to be quiet, pick up my handbag along with my large canvas tote and decide to leave the situation.

Klaudia comes flip-flopping down the hall in her yellow Havaianas. Her blond hair is swept back into a giant claw clip. A few wenchlike wisps hang around her face.

Klaudia is twenty and for a moment I want to be her—sexy, confident, sun-kissed Klaudia, her life barely begun, her head full of plans and possibilities.

She says hi to both of us and apologizes for being late. “Zey cut bus,” she announces. Despite nine months of English lessons, her Polish accent is as pronounced as ever.

I tell her it’s not a problem, adding that the kids have eaten and require baths and hair washes.

“We should be back by half ten.”

“No prob-lyem.” Klaudia smiles. “You take time.”

No sooner has Klaudia closed the front door behind us than I can hear Amy and Ben shrieking for her to come quick. Apparently a mouse is scratching its way out of the trash can liner.

I look at Greg. “I told you we had mice. You wouldn’t listen.”

“Great, so it’s my fault as usual.”

“I think we should go back.”

“Klaudia will be fine. She was raised on a farm. A mouse isn’t going to faze her.”

We keep walking and I make a mental note to call in a pest control company.

“Do you fancy Klaudia?” I blurt.

“What? Where did that come from? She’s practically a child.”

“She’s twenty.”

“Whatever. I can barely tell her apart from Amy’s friends. And anyway, she’s got a boyfriend back in Warsaw.”

“So what? That wouldn’t stop you feeling tempted.”

“Oh, please.” He looks genuinely appalled.

“And these Saturdays, when you go to Sussex . . . you are spending them with the tank, aren’t you?” It strikes me that these are odd questions, bearing in mind that I’ve just told Annie I’m not sure my marriage has a future. Surely I shouldn’t care if Greg’s having an affair—or if he fancies Klaudia. But part of me clearly does.

My suspicions seem to amuse Greg. He starts laughing. “Sophie, do you honestly think I’ve got the energy for extracurricular sex? I mean, for starters, having an affair takes a great deal of organization, not to mention expense. There are the secret rendezvous to book, cool trendy adultery clothes to buy.”

“Of course, because you wouldn’t want her to see you in dirty, creased shorts. Whereas I don’t matter.”

“Absolutely. And I’d have to start working out. Then there’s the stress of making sure you didn’t find out. The moment I booked a hotel room I’d be worrying about you finding my credit card statement. On top of that, I’d need constant alibis, a secret cell phone and e-mail address. Then there’s all the guilt. That alone would be enough to ensure I couldn’t get it up. I swear that all I do on a Saturday is go to Pete’s. We work on the tank, have a pub lunch and then I come home. Ask him . . . ask the pub landlord.”

“OK, I get it. I just wanted to be sure, that’s all. Bearing in mind everything we’re going through, nobody would think it strange if one of us had an affair.”

We head towards the car, which is parked a few yards down the street. Greg says he’ll drive. What is it about men—even supposed feminists like Greg—insisting on driving when they’re out with their wives and girlfriends? Would their testicles fall off if they let a woman get behind the wheel?

“OK, so what about you?” he says as we climb in.

“What about me?”

“You could be having an affair just as easily as me.”

“Greg, I go to work. I come home. I eat, attempt to have something resembling quality time with the kids and go to bed. The last time I went away overnight, Gordon Brown was prime minister.”

Greg turns the key in the ignition and we pull away. “So I take it we’re speaking again,” he says.

I shrug. “I guess. Look, I’m sorry if I didn’t communicate properly, but I was sure I told you the right day.”

“Maybe you did and I got confused. Can we just agree that our wires got crossed? I absolutely did not set out to sabotage our date.”

“OK, whatever. Let’s just forget it.”

“Good.”

We drive in silence for a minute or so.

“It was nice,” I say eventually, “watching you and Amy laughing together.”

He nods. “It’s funny how kids drive you mad most of the time and then you have these moments when you’re so overcome with love for them that it brings tears to your eyes.”

“I know.” I tell him about Ben wanting to go back in time so that he can be friends with us when we were children.

He gives a slow shake of his head, clearly touched. “God . . . sometimes you just don’t want them to grow up.”

“Particularly Amy?”

“Look, I know she’s on the verge of puberty, but she’s ten. I can’t bear the way young girls are sexualized these days.”

“Oh, come on. It’s a bit of eye shadow and sparkly nail polish. She’s having fun experimenting. I did the same when I was her age. You make it sound like she was cavorting in a Wonderbra and suspenders.”

Greg grimaces. “I just want her to carry on being my little girl.”

“Same here, but the reality is that a few years from now she’ll be a teenager. If you’re always on her case, she’ll pull away and your relationship with her will really suffer.”

“I know,” he says with a sigh. “You’re right. I need to back off.”

I’m aware that Greg and I are having a rare “moment.” We’re actually connecting. I wonder if he’s feeling it, too. This has to be a positive sign. Maybe this isn’t the endgame after all. I can’t wait to tell Virginia Pruitt.

And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid: “The kids love you so much. I wish you’d spend more time with them.”

“I don’t believe this. Sophie, you’ve just lectured me about not getting on Amy’s case, but you’re on mine the entire time. Do you realize that you never, ever stop nagging? I can’t take it anymore. I do my best with the kids, like I do with stuff around the house. Now just back the fuck off.”

“Actually, you know what? I’m not going to back the fuck off. If you want our marriage to work, then you need to start upping your game.”

“And if
you
want our marriage to work, you have to stop telling me what it is I
need
to do.”

Our “moment” is well and truly over.

•   •   •

I
t’s only when we pull up outside Virginia Pruitt’s house that I realize we haven’t come up with an excuse for not doing our homework. Since it wasn’t a written assignment, we can hardly say the dog ate it. While I’m trying to work out what to say, Greg is still irritable and interrogating me as to why I’m carrying the canvas tote as well as my handbag. I tell him there are things in the tote that I might need.

“In our therapy session.”

I shrug. He doesn’t push it.

Of course our homework is the first thing Virginia Pruitt mentions.

“So, how did the date go?” Her expression is wide-eyed and hopeful.

“It didn’t. There was a mix-up. We got the days confused.”

Virginia Pruitt seems disappointed, but not surprised. My mind goes back to last week. I remember sensing that she had qualms about giving us this homework. I think she half expected it to go tits up.

“I see, so you both chose to sabotage it?” she says.

I’m taken aback. It never occurred to me that I might have had a hand—albeit a subconscious one—in our “mix-up.”

“So you’ve had no Greg and Sophie time this week?”

We shrug like a pair of naughty kids up before the school principal. But she lets it go. There’s no telling off. No punishment. Her lack of a rebuke makes me feel guilty. I feel like we’ve let her down.

She says she wants to spend the session asking about our childhoods. I describe mine as your average angsty Jewish upbringing, from which I emerged unscathed, apart from a fear of raw egg products (cause salmonella, possible death), squeezing zits (causes blood poisoning, possible death), silk (flammable, catches fire, possible death), motorcycles (no explanation required, certain death). Virginia Pruitt actually laughs.

“And now my parents are moving to Florida—to live with my brother, Phil, and his wife and their two teenage boys. They’re getting on and we all thought the climate would do them good. Plus Phil’s a doctor and his wife’s a nurse, so they’re going to be well looked after.”

“And how do you feel about them going?”