Husbands (3 page)

Three years, a white wedding, a baby boy and a decree absolute later I realized I was still on life’s journey. Far from Oscar answering all my questions, his existence just forced me to ask new, harder ones.

Bella hadn’t actually worn out her passport and crossed continents like I had but she was always seeking out new experiences too; she was a stone that gathered no moss. Bella looked Latin although born in Scotland and had moved to London in her early twenties. I’m not sure how she passed her time before that, she doesn’t yak about her family much. My guess is that she has a perfectly respectable middle-class background and a respectable
2:2
degree to boot. This hardly fits in with the bohemian lifestyle that she likes to pursue and portray so she is tight-lipped about her teen years.

We bonded because we were broke and knew well
the tedium of temping. We bonded because we soon discovered that we love a decent paperback, our Boots loyalty cards, window shopping and white wine. We bonded because we believe you have to laugh or else you’d cry and we believe that there’s something in horoscopes. We bonded because Bella said nice things about my son (even while he was in his buggy and asleep she noticed his above-average intelligence and creative temperament). We bonded because, in short, she is kind.

Bella’s line rings. She picks up the handset quickly. Philip is probably asleep and she won’t want to wake him.

‘Hiya.’ I don’t need to introduce myself.

Monday 10th May 2004

Bella

Philip has already eaten half a grapefruit and two slices of wholemeal toast by the time I make it to the kitchen. He is standing at the sink rinsing his plates before he stacks them in the dishwasher. He does this because, he tells me, a build-up of crumbs, rice or even tomato sauce will eventually cause the dishwasher to break and, he points out, nobody likes putting their hand in the filter bit to scoop out soggy spaghetti or peas. He is undoubtedly right but still I am aware that I rarely rinse. He smiles and pats his hands on a tea towel before turning his attention to brewing me a cup of the strong, black, Colombian coffee that I need to kick-start my morning.

‘You didn’t need to get up,’ he says. ‘It’s not yet seven.’

It’s true that I don’t need to get up, I’m officially resting, that much Philip and I agree on. What I am resting from and for is far more complex. I think I am resting from a lifetime of catapulting from unsuitable job to unsuitable job. I live in hope that a bit of ‘me-time’ will give me the necessary space to discover my vocation. Philip thinks I am resting to prepare my body for
pregnancy. Look, he might be right. I might conclude the same after my ‘me-time’. Or I might not. I have issues. It’s complex.

I can see that some kids are nice kids. My friends’ kids, for example. Amelie’s eight-year-old, Freya, and six-year-old Davey, and Laura’s Eddie, are ‘nice kids’. If they weren’t I probably wouldn’t see their mums or at least not until the children were safely tucked up in bed. If, one day, I was ever to have kids I’d definitely want ‘nice ones’, like Freya, Davey and Eddie. But ‘if’ and ‘one day’ are the phrases I’m most likely to use when I talk about kids, whereas Philip has chosen names and picked out schools for an entire football team.

I keep telling him there’s no rush, I’m just thirty. Phil and my friends view my considered approach out of character; I’m famed for making rash decisions (few of which, in retrospect, are ever too brilliant, which is my point). In the past I changed job and home with the same frequency as other people change their sheets. Historically, I haven’t been too reliable with men either. So, I’m rather proud of my cautious and considered approach to motherhood. Philip doesn’t see it that way; he thinks I’m being obstreperous. We’ve been married just shy of six months and in his ideal world I would now be five months up the duff. I’m just getting used to ordering for
two
when I ring the pizza delivery guy.

‘I like getting up to see you off to work,’ I smile and I plant a fat kiss on Phil’s lips. He pats my bum and grins appreciatively. Secretly, he likes the fact that I always scramble out of bed to wave him off to work in the mornings; he values any effort I make. I yawn widely.

‘Were you on the phone to Amelie until late last night?’ he asks.

I nod. ‘Amelie and then Laura.’

‘How are they?’

‘Amelie was a bit quiet. It was Ben’s birthday yesterday. He would have been thirty-seven.’

‘That poor woman. She’s done so well.’

‘I know. She’s endured Christmas, the children’s birthdays, her birthday. It’s so sad, isn’t it? Previously, these were such joyous occasions, now they are just horrible days she has to get through. It just keeps going on and on.’

I met Amelie Gordon six years ago when I got a job as a cleaner and general dogsbody at Richmond Rep Theatre. At that time I had a vague notion that I might like to ‘get into theatre’, perhaps be a make-up artist or a set designer. Ben was a playwright and, that season, Amelie was producing one of his plays. It soon became apparent to me that Amelie was a trooper. Not only had she just given birth to Davey but she managed everything from ticket sales to resolving artistic differences between the cast. She even rolled up her sleeves and painted scenery alongside me. Lots of Ben’s success can be attributed to Amelie’s talents and dedication.

Amelie is the sort who glares back at the bullying brutality and realities of life with courage and humour. I haven’t got the same va-va-voom. I’m not a shrinking violet but then nor am I the sort of woman who faces problems full on. When inevitable difficulties or even inconveniences come my way, I try to ignore them. I can be very boy-like. I fill my life with inconsequential
concerns; I dance, duck and dive past harsh realities. I used to hate it when it came to handing in my notice, however frequently I did it. Invariably I’d resort to sending an e-mail as I walked out of the office on Friday night. Neither I nor my staple gun was ever to be seen again. I was also a bit of a wuss when it came to giving guys the elbow. I’d ignore calls, break dates and let bunches of flowers wilt rather than say that I didn’t fancy someone any longer.

If Amelie is an owl, then I’m an ostrich and my friend Laura is a swan. She’d tell you she is a duck because her self-esteem isn’t what it should be. But she is a swan.

Even though Amelie is one of my best friends I was astounded when she came to my wedding only months after she lost Ben. Throughout the day, if I caught her eye, guilt slashed me to the bone. It seemed irresponsible to be pretty and happy in front of Amelie who, despite the disguise of a wide crimson hat, was clearly stricken. If I had been in her position I’d have sat at home with a big box of tissues and an even bigger box of tranquillizers. But Amelie came to the wedding and behaved with unimaginable dignity, bravery and poise. She embodies the twenty-first-century equivalent of the British war spirit. I live in awe of her.

‘Things will get easier for her,’ says Philip. He kisses the top of my head.

‘And will Laura meet the man of her dreams and fall head over heels in love?’

‘Definitely,’ grins Phil.

I love his calm, confident responses. Whenever I talk to Amelie I cannot imagine her grief fading and it’s hard
to imagine the man who will make Laura happy; for one thing she never meets a soul. But when I talk to Philip I do believe their lives will be joyful again.

Phil and I are not alike yet we are well suited. His ambition complements my lack of it. His direction and drive have stopped me meandering aimlessly and I was in serious danger of doing that, ad infinitum. My gregarious nature compensates for his shyer moments. My dress sense has saved him from being labelled a young fogey.
And
he makes a perfect cup of coffee.

‘What are your plans today?’

‘I’m meeting Laura for a coffee. I’ll probably go to the gym and I’m thinking of tidying out my winter wardrobe. Bagging stuff up for the charity shops, deciding what I’ll need to buy for the summer.’ I try to sound as industrious as possible despite my day being essentially one of mooching and lolling. Philip has the good grace not to notice my idleness, or at least, not to comment on it.

‘Sounds fun. I’m going to shave.’

‘Kiss me,’ I demand.

‘I’ll scratch you,’ he warns.

‘I don’t care.’

We kiss and I know I am the luckiest woman on the planet.

Laura

This morning, like most mornings, I got up approximately two hours before I woke up. Eddie’s disregard for sleep is directly proportional to my dire need for it. I operate in a zombie-state. I can sing, recite rhymes, answer an unending string of ‘why’ questions and still not be fully conscious.

I try to keep Eddie in either my or his bedroom until at least 6 a.m. when kids’ TV starts, then I let him charge, like a cork from a champagne bottle, into the sitting room. I leave him alone with the remote (mastered aged two) and I return to patchy sleep, often interrupted as I hear him switch from Noddy to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I can hear him stampede around the room insisting that some imaginary baddie
die
. I long for thicker walls. Not that thicker walls would mean my child would display fewer signs of delinquency, but at least I wouldn’t be as aware of them.

At seven I drag myself into the shower and turn the water on full blast. It’s freezing cold which makes me scream.

‘Problem, Mummy?’ asks Eddie with his trademark composure.

It strikes me that currently Eddie has no concept of
real problems. Happily, he still lives in the state of nirvana where I can solve any problem by proffering an ice cream or agreeing to take him to the park on his bike. I wonder how I’ll cope with him enduring any difficulty as he grows up. My heart almost breaks when I think that some floozy, one day, might bin him because his car is not cool or because he can’t dance. I already want to rip off the heads of little morons who don’t play nicely with him in the playground.

‘No problem, just cold,’ I mutter, as I towel dry and plunge one foot into a trouser leg. ‘No hot water, again,’ I add. Eddie could not care less. I know I’ll be lucky if I get to slosh a sponge around his face before he goes to kindie, he has a predisposition towards filth. ‘The bloody builders must have altered the timer,’ I mutter.

‘Bloody builders,’ he echoes, which makes me think I ought to look for someone else with whom I can discuss the trials and tribulations of having building work done.

The builders arrive just as I am dragging a comb through Eddie’s hair and trying to close the deal on the contents of his lunch box. He wants to pack jam sandwiches, biscuits and a slice of chocolate fudge cake. I open my pitch with ham sandwiches, an apple and a yogurt. I already know that we’ll settle on ham sandwiches, biscuits and the fudge cake. He’s by far the better negotiator.

They arrive at exactly 8.30 every morning. This is half an hour later than we agreed the preceding evening. As soon as they arrive, Henryk the foreman reiterates his all-too-familiar lecture on the importance of punctuality. This immediately disarms me and I lose my ability to point out that he’s late, which is of course his intention.

I shrug mentally, and reason that 8.30 a.m. is early for the appearance of a builder, no matter what time we agreed. Besides, they defy stereotype by being clean-ish, tidy-ish and very thorough. They do, however, revert to type in so much as they have now camped with me for a total of three months when initially I thought I’d be enjoying their company for four weeks, tops. Henryk likes to chat to me; he’s Polish and enjoys practising his English and because I’m short on adult company I encouraged this for a while. But, it transpires, Henryk can chatter for an Olympic sport, which is one of the reasons that the job is taking longer than estimated.

The second reason is there are plenty of things to fix in my dilapidated two-bedroom flat, and Henryk and his team keep finding them. ‘Builders’ is a catch-all phrase; they are electricians/plumbers/decorators/general ‘all-rounders’. When I mentioned as much to my father, on my bi-weekly telephone call to Wollongong, he said the phrase that came to mind was ‘jack of all trades, master of none’. I didn’t find this helpful. Then he asked if I was paying them by the hour, as if I were some sort of an idiot. Dad also questioned whether all the work was strictly necessary. Annoyingly, the answer is yes. Henryk is not a cowboy. The things that he points out as ugly, dysfunctional or impractical in my home are just that.

I think Dad was just a bit jealous because I described Henryk as the bane and saviour of my life. Clearly, a parental role. Dad pointed out that as a qualified plumber, he could do all the jobs for free. I reminded him that, while this was excellent in theory, we live on separate continents and the flight would cost more than Henryk’s
bill. Sadly, I doubt this to be the case and besides, both my father and I know that he doesn’t want to fly to the UK, he and my mum want me to fly home. They’ve wanted this since they saw me disappear through passport control back in 1993. The ferocity of their desire increased when Eddie was born and again when Oscar split. As they are not especially demanding parents I feel all the more mean for denying them this one thing.

Henryk is in his early fifties. He has a moustache and a paunch. I mention this immediately not because I’m particularly shallow and judge people by the way they look but because
Bella
is and does. I was verbose in my praise of Henryk, so delighted was I to find someone who could and would stop my leaking shower and unblock my toilet, and Bella became convinced that I fancied him when I started to refer to him as ‘Big H’. She said my giving him a nickname was proof positive that I fancied him. I found this very depressing. No disrespect, he’s fair dinkum but I think of him as a father figure. Clearly, my best mate sees me as a sad divorcee who fancies her tradesmen. Bleak moment.

Henryk is clever. He has about a dozen degrees, as most Eastern Europeans seem to, and over the months of chatting I’ve learnt that he has an understanding of literature, art and history that would allow him to hold an intelligent debate with the guys at Sotheby’s. He’s cheerful and has a twinkle in his eye. OK, he might have been fun in another century, even attractive, but I don’t, don’t,
don’t
fancy him.