The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy (29 page)

Robert Bass comes over and gives him wipes, because he is the sort of father who carries wipes at all times. He hovers but then walks away, because there is no excuse to hang around.

‘I’m really sorry,’ I say to Celebrity Dad.

‘It really doesn’t matter,’ he insists. ‘Actually, it’s quite nice to have someone talk to me. Everyone has ignored me apart from that woman over there. I guess that’s an English thing?’ He points to Alpha Mum. ‘She has asked me to join a committee to organise a party for parents.’

‘But we’re not having a party,’ I say.

‘But I agreed,’ he says with a puzzled expression.

‘Maybe it’s just you and her, then,’ I say quizzically.

‘What happened to your eyebrows?’ he asks.

‘Home-dyeing disaster,’ I tell him. Close up, even half-sighted, I can appreciate the overall gorgeous effect. Celebrity Dad collects his child and walks off. Mothers rush over to me.

‘What did you talk about?’ asks Yummy Mummy No. 1.

‘His marital problems, whether he should change agents, why he doesn’t have a nanny, the inside story,’ I tell them nonchalantly.

‘He is in one of the films that I am writing about,’ says
Robert Bass. But no one is listening to him. His position as dominant male has been usurped. He looks at me with an unfamiliar look in his eye, one I haven’t encountered for many years. Jealousy.

I decide that the conversation with Tom can wait for a couple of weeks. Robert Bass’s loss of control is greater than my own and that puts me in a position of strength for the moment. The new term has kicked off very promisingly. I might not be able to avoid the line but at least I am the one unlikely to cross it. And that seems an enviable position to be in.

Later that week, I announce to Tom that I am going to retire to the office to send an email. Subject: parent/teacher drinks evening, which Alpha Mum, in her role as class rep, has just asked me, in my role as her secretary, to help organise.

‘I can’t understand why you put yourself through this,’ says Tom in a muffled voice. ‘It’s destined to end in disaster.’

Without looking, I know that he is in the midst of his biweekly audit of the fridge. ‘Look,’ he says, triumphantly holding two half-eaten jars of pesto sauce. ‘How did this happen?’ He is consulting a typed list of fridge contents that is stuck to the door. This was Petra’s legacy to us during her last weekend in England.

‘I think you’ll find that it is much easier to organise shopping if you tick each item off as you use it up,’ she said. I nodded obligingly, because I knew that she wouldn’t be returning for some time.

I try to be patient with Tom, because his mother’s departure has left him adrift.

‘There is no record of the second jar of pesto leaving the fridge,’ he says.

‘Maybe it’s having an illicit affair with the spaghetti,’ I say. He mutters about systems and I firmly close the kitchen door and go upstairs to begin composing an email to the parents on the class list.

But no sooner have I started than I quickly become bored. I decide instead to first write an email to Cathy, who I know is still in her office, with details of an even more significant event, which took place under our roof earlier this week.

The time for fasting is over, I tell her. The sexual détente has been broken. Hurrah!

I explain in some detail that, last night, I bumped into Tom in Fred’s bedroom at around three in the morning.

‘What are you doing here?’ I said to him.

‘Looking for the tiger,’ he replied wearily.

‘That’s a coincidence,’ I said. ‘So am I. But where is Fred?’

‘He’s asleep in our bed,’ he explained.

So then, I asked, why are we both awake in the small hours, looking for a tiger? It’s unusual, but then these are desperate times, I tell Cathy. And so the months of famine ended, and then we retired for the rest of the night in Fred’s single bed under a Thunderbirds duvet, with Tom exploring one of his favourite post-coital subjects.

‘If you had a gun at your head, and were forced to have sex with any parent in Joe’s class, male or female, which one would you choose?’ he asked.

‘Why Joe’s class?’ I asked.

‘The parents are better looking,’ he said, looking at me intently.

I protested tiredness and then he said, ‘I quite fancy that mum with the perfect arse.’ He meant Yummy Mummy No. 1, I tell Cathy.

‘But she’s so vacuous,’ I protested.

‘No more puddle-like than Deep Shallows,’ he responded witheringly. ‘All that careful dishevelment is too mannered. I bet you, underneath it all he probably topiaries his pubic hair with a pair of nail scissors. And the way he puts on that tortured-writer act is risible.’

‘Who on earth are you talking about?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.

I press the send button and potter around for a bit, procrastinating about writing the school email. A few minutes later, my heart leaps when I see that Robert Bass has sent me an email. For the first time ever. Since this doesn’t break any of the rules, I feel quietly elated.

Very glad to hear good news, it reads, but puzzled why you want to share this with the class, unless you are considering a party with a seventies theme involving car keys. Can only assume that I am the puddle. This not very good for my self-esteem. I stare at the screen in shock, but there is no time for reflection because a message from Yummy Mummy No. 1 follows almost immediately. Dear Lucy, rather too much information for my taste. Can only assume I am the woman with the perfect derriere. Ciao, ciao.

Then Alpha Mum writes. I can no longer tolerate your cheap attempts to sabotage my rule as class rep and wish you to consider your position.

Forget puddles and shallows. I’m in deep water. The email has gone to everyone on the class list. I leave the sitting room, feeling a little shaky. Tom has already gone to bed. I watch
Newsnight
until it finishes and decide that nothing that ever
happened to me at work was as frightening as what has just come to pass.

The early-morning insomnia regresses into a night spent tossing and turning. The darkness has a terrible way of exaggerating fears. My stomach churns with nerves. At two-thirty, I think I hear noises and creep downstairs, carrying a Star Wars light sabre. ‘May the force be with me,’ I say to myself.

In the sitting room, I decide to raid Sam’s secret sweet supply promising to replace everything I eat the following day. I bring a Cadbury’s cream egg up to the bedroom and force myself to eat it slowly. First I lick it like a lollipop, until it starts to melt. When the white cream becomes visible, I allow myself to nibble the sides, counting twenty seconds between each mouthful. Then I throw caution to the wind and stuff the rest of the egg in my mouth and munch it loudly with my mouth open. This is much more satisfying, but my nerves are unassuaged. The urge to unburden myself to Tom is irresistible. I poke him in the ribs. He groans.

‘There aren’t any burglars and I’m not getting up to look,’ he mumbles. ‘The dog will get them.’

‘But we haven’t got a dog,’ I say, my mouth full of chocolate.

‘Visualise one and then you’ll get less scared,’ he says.

‘It’s worse than that, Tom,’ I tell him.

‘Has the boiler burst again?’ he asks sleepily and immediately falls into a heavy slumber. I wake him by running my left toenail up the side of his calf.

‘Lucy, have mercy,’ he says, closing his eyes again.

‘Tom. I have sent an email to every parent in Joe’s class telling them everything that happened last night,’ I say. Now that I am describing the problem out loud, it seems even worse.

‘What happened last night?’ he mumbles.

‘We had sex and discussed which parent was most beddable and you said that you favoured Yummy Mummy No. 1 because of her perfect bum,’ I say.

‘Are you trying to seduce me?’ he asks, sleepily rolling over on to his side with a hopeful look in his eye. ‘God, what’s that in your mouth?’

‘A chocolate egg. I’m trying to tell you that I have done a terrible thing,’ I say, licking my lips.

‘People like you don’t do terrible things, Lucy,’ he says. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘But we do,’ I say, pleading with him to listen. ‘Not by design. By accident. Not that I am trying to absolve myself of responsibility for my actions, because I know that is one of my worst traits.’

‘What exactly have you done?’ he asks, sighing and closing his eyes again.

‘I thought I was sending an email to Cathy about rekindling our sex life, but instead I sent it to the class list,’ I say.

He sits bolt upright. He understands.

‘You fucking idiot,’ he says slowly, holding his head in his hands and rocking backwards and forwards. ‘I have done my best to maintain amicable relations with these parents over the years, a carefully balanced strategy aimed at being neither too friendly nor too unfriendly, and now you have revealed the inner workings of our sex life. I’ll probably be impotent from now on, because for ever after I will associate sex with fear.’

‘I’m really sorry,’ I say. ‘I think Yummy Mummy No. 1 was actually quite flattered. She doesn’t see much of her husband, it’s probably good for her ego.’ He groans. ‘I think the stay-at-home dad was a little more insulted.’

‘Did you say that I called him Deep Shallows?’ he asks weakly.

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Actually, I think he’s quite a nice bloke. I was just trying to wind you up because I think you fancy each other,’ he says. ‘Why were you telling Cathy about this anyway?’

‘Because she knew that we hadn’t had sex for ages,’ I say weakly, ignoring his first comment.

‘Do you really have to share this kind of detail with your friends?’ he says. ‘I’ve got to sit next to her at dinner soon.’

‘I know. But on the good side, that’s one thing you don’t have to worry about, because she never got the email,’ I say.

‘You are such a Pollyanna,’ he says. ‘I’m never doing the school run again. By the way, did you say that we had sex twice?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘But that’s the most impressive detail,’ he says regretfully and then falls into a deep sleep again.

I used to find Tom’s ability to sleep through a crisis reassuring. It diminished the magnitude of my worries, reducing them to dust. Over the years, it began to pique me, as I always seemed to be the one stumbling around the house, dealing in a maddened state of tiredness with whatever the darkness chose to throw at me. I was the night watchman for crying babies and then for children with fevers that always rose in the night. I saw the night breathe life into common-or-garden niggles, turning them into exotic problems. Tom, on the other hand, slept through all this beside me, immune to the driftwood of life washing up in our bedroom, occasionally complaining if I disturbed him when I finally climbed back into bed, exhausted but with little hope of going back to sleep.

The following morning, giddy with fatigue, I walk away from school alone. I decide to stop for a coffee to gather my thoughts. ‘Hello, Lucy, would you like to join me?’ says Robert Bass suddenly from behind me in the queue. ‘I don’t have any topiary appointments this morning and I promise I won’t talk about my book.’ I jump.

Given the email, it seems impolite to turn him down, even though I know that I am breaking several resolutions all at once. I stare resolutely at the ground. Avoiding eye contact is not difficult on a morning like this.

‘I’ll have a double skinny latte frappuccino,’ I say breathlessly at the counter.

‘Doesn’t exist,’ says the waitress.

‘Do you want me to order for you?’ asks Sexy Domesticated Dad. ‘Why don’t you go and sit down over there.’ He is pointing to a small table for two in the most discreet corner of the café.

He walks over carrying two mugs of coffee and sits down opposite me.

‘How are your eyebrows?’ he asks, as if enquiring about a family pet. ‘They didn’t respond to the call of the wild?’

‘They’re fine,’ I say, gritting my teeth and rubbing my forehead absent-mindedly. ‘I’m just a little tired.’

‘I’m not surprised, after all your, er, activity,’ he says.

We sit there for a few moments in companionable silence, sipping coffee and staring out the window.

‘I’m really sorry about my message on Christmas Day. Technology obviously doesn’t agree with us,’ he says. ‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention that to anyone. Not that I think you are meaningfully indiscreet, it’s just after that email last night, I got worried in case you inadvertently revealed to the world my own impropriety.’

‘I won’t say a word to anyone,’ I say, trying to remember who I have already told. ‘I’ve learnt my lesson from this mistake.’

‘Actually, it was quite reassuring to my wife,’ he says. ‘After my, er, setback on Christmas Day, she became uncharacteristically suspicious of you. She said there are lines in relationships that shouldn’t be crossed. When I showed her the message last night, she realised that you’re still at one with your husband, if you know what I mean.’

‘I do,’ I say, nodding so vigorously that coffee spills from my cup.

‘If you know there’s a line, then it’s more difficult to cross it,’ he says slowly as if searching for the right words.

I’m not sure exactly what he is talking about and I look up. He puts out his hand and grips the fleshy part of my arm below the elbow. I anticipate pleasurable sensations but instead he holds it so tightly that I can feel the blood start to pound in my fingers. He looks over to the other side of the café and I follow his gaze.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Alpha Mum and indeed most of the other mothers from our sons’ class sitting round a table in the opposite corner. A deathly hush falls over the café as the entire group turn around to stare at us.

With great clarity of mind, I suddenly remember this was the day for our mothers’ coffee morning. Even Robert Bass pales.

‘We got here before you,’ I wave cheerfully, knocking my coffee over him. ‘We weren’t expecting such a good turnout. Do you want to come and join us or should we join you?’ I shout, mopping steaming coffee from his lap with my scarf. He winces.

‘No gain without pain, I suppose,’ he whispers conspiratorially,
recovering his composure. I get up and stride purposefully towards the table and sit down beside Yummy Mummy No. 1. Robert Bass sits the other side of me. I admire his attitude.