The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy (44 page)

‘Mmm,’ he says dreamily, leaning back his head to drink a couple of swigs of beer from a bottle. He holds on to the bottle and I notice him glancing over at our table, smiling slightly and then taking another gulp of beer. ‘And how are my lovely nephews?’

‘They’re great. Over-enthusiastic puppies,’ I say. ‘They roam around the house, make the most appalling mess, even when they try to clear up, wrestle and fight at least a couple of times a day, eat more or less constantly and talk non-stop, mostly asking me questions all at the same time and then accusing me that I love one of them more than the other when I prioritise one question over another. I’m looking forward to the summer holidays.’

‘Why?’ he asks suspiciously. ‘You normally find the holidays exhausting. In fact, the summer is the only time that I have heard you seriously entertain the possibility of going back to work full-time.’

‘Funny, how people talk about going back to work as though looking after three children isn’t work,’ I say. ‘Work is much easier than looking after children.’

‘I read an interview with John McEnroe and he said that it was easier to play a Wimbledon final than look after his children,’ says Mark. ‘Mothers beat themselves up about things
much more than most other people, apart from elderly Catholic women.’

‘Actually, motherhood and guilt are so entwined that it is difficult to see where one stops and the other starts. The guilt just becomes second nature. Although since I have given up work there is a guilt vacuum looking to be filled,’ I say, knowing that he is treating me like one of his patients, gently lobbing questions in ever-decreasing circles until the subject that he wants to tackle is finally in focus. But he forgets that I was once a journalist who spent a lot of time watching politicians wriggle away from awkward questions.

‘Anyway, I’ve got lots of things planned,’ I say. ‘I might go and stay with a friend in Dorset, then go on to Mum and Dad, and we’re going to Italy.’

‘Who is the friend in Dorset? Have I met her?’ he asks.

‘You mean have you slept with her? The answer to both questions is no. Actually, she is a mother at school and the wife of Emma’s boyfriend,’ I say.

‘That sounds complicated,’ he says.

‘It’s a difficult situation. My friend Isobel knows her husband is having an affair and she is close to identifying Emma, but Emma doesn’t want me to tell her until she has extricated herself from the relationship with Guy,’ I explain. ‘And the extrication process is taking longer than I anticipated.’

I think of Isobel. I have rarely encountered someone so utterly convinced of the way her life is constructed. In all the time that I have known her, she has never demonstrated any shred of doubt. And yet her husband has spent the past year systematically drilling through the foundations so that the whole edifice threatens to crumble around her. I wonder what she will be able to retrieve from the wreckage.

‘So how’s your crush?’ he asks, ordering another beer and checking his mobile phone for messages at the same time. Mark is one of the few men I know who can genuinely do two things at once. ‘You haven’t mentioned him for ages. In fact he is conspicuous by his absence.’

‘That’s very Jonathan Ross to throw in a question like that. Whatever happened to subtlety?’ I say, hoping to head off the conversation.

‘You’re being evasive,’ he says.

‘He’s fine,’ I say. ‘We don’t talk much any more.’

‘So why is that?’ he asks.

‘We lost interest in each other, I suppose,’ I say benignly. ‘How are you enjoying celibacy? Life alone isn’t one of your strengths.’

‘Lucy, I don’t believe that you woke up one day and found each other unattractive,’ he says. ‘You can only do that if there has been no declaration of intent.’

‘I don’t really want to talk about it,’ I say, standing up.

‘You’ve slept with him, haven’t you?’ he says. ‘You’ve got that air of abstraction about you.’ It’s an outrageous provocation and I fall straight into the trap.

‘We were at a party, there was a minor tangle, we didn’t even kiss and I decided that we should put a bit of distance between us,’ I say. ‘In fact I think I have behaved pretty impeccably.’

‘Did you tell Tom?’ he asks. ‘If you haven’t, then I am going to remain suspicious.’

‘There was nothing to tell,’ I say.

‘If there was nothing to tell, then why are you being so cagey about it all?’ he asks.

‘It takes a lot of concentration,’ I say. ‘Trying to avoid thinking about someone is quite exhausting.’

‘There is nothing relaxing about being in a state of constant desire,’ says Mark.

Emma comes over.

‘Are you two going to join us?’ she asks, smiling. ‘Or are you going to spend the rest of the evening trawling through family business?’

We go back to the table and sit down again. Cathy and Mark exchange a knowing smile. I am convinced that she has put him up to this, to check the veracity of my account of dealings with Robert Bass. But I’m not annoyed, because I know that both of them have my best interests at heart. This thought soothes me.

Emma questions Mark about his work.

‘Do you always like your patients?’ she asks.

‘I’m less involved in patient care now,’ he says, ‘but when I was training, I generally found that everyone has some redeeming qualities. Actually, what is interesting is that certain groups of patients are more appealing than others.’

‘What do you mean?’ asks Emma.

‘Well, certain psychopathologies produce a commonality of personality traits,’ he says. ‘And some of those traits are more attractive than others. Anorexics, for example, are frequently perfectionist people-pleasers. People with obsessive-compulsive disorder are very inflexible and they always tidy my desk.’

‘Who are your favourites?’ asks Cathy.

‘People with sex addictions,’ he says without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Not because they always try to seduce you, which they do, even the men, but because their success depends on being utterly charming. They are great conversationalists and they make you laugh a lot. They are intent on having a good time.’

‘Like Russell Brand?’ says Emma.

‘Precisely,’ says Mark.

‘How do you resist their advances?’ asks Cathy.

‘I think about the fact that I would lose my job if I succumbed,’ he says. ‘I play out the consequences in my mind. With the men it’s easier, I can’t help but be resolutely heterosexual. And I see more men than women. It’s a more common problem in men.’

‘How can you tell the difference between an addiction and an unhealthy obsession?’ I ask.

‘Some people might view all of these things as a form of addiction,’ he says. ‘But to qualify as an addiction, these things have to dominate your life on a daily basis, you withdraw from people, the addiction becomes your friend. There is also an element of self-loathing. You, Lucy, might be obsessed, but you’re not addicted.’ He sits back, looking satisfied. Mark loves his job.

‘Do you think I am addicted to Guy?’ asks Emma tentatively.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Guy could just as easily be someone else, you are simply addicted to a type of man who can never be yours. Ultimately you fear intimacy, in case you are rejected.’

I am a little taken aback. None of us ever speak to Emma with such honesty.

‘So what’s the cure?’ she asks, sounding less confident than earlier in the evening.

‘You should consciously avoid this kind of man. In as much as you recognise them as a type, they also recognise you,’ he says. ‘You should probably get professional help.’

‘What about you?’ says Emma.

‘Actually,’ says Mark, ‘I think I have met someone I might want to marry.’

‘Fuck,’ I say. ‘When do we get to meet her?’

‘Soon,’ he says mysteriously.

Someone is tapping me on the shoulder. I assume that it is the solicitous waiter and lethargically turn towards the arm of the sofa to ask him for another bottle of champagne, because I have decided to treat tonight as though there is no tomorrow. But it is not a waiter. It is Robert Bass.

He puts his hands on the arm of the sofa and leans over to speak to me. His fingers are splayed and I note that he is scratching the velvet, leaving tiny furrows in its pile in a way that suggests a certain nervous determination.

‘What are you doing here?’ I say, trying to sound less startled than I feel.

‘I’ve just finished having dinner with my editor,’ he says. ‘I saw you and thought that it would be unfriendly to leave without saying hello. What are you doing here? You said you never go out.’

‘I don’t generally. I’m here with some friends, and my brother,’ I say, but I make no effort to introduce him to them.

I get up from the sofa and stand in front of him, standing parallel to the table, to indicate that he shouldn’t sit down with us. He leans forward and kisses me once on the cheek. It is a gesture that on a superficial level looks meaningless. Neither Mark nor my girlfriends seem remotely perturbed. They assume he is an old friend, someone from my
Newsnight
days no doubt. But the kiss lingers a little longer than it should. I feel his cheek against my cheek, his hand on my shoulder. These are knowing gestures, a continuum of the intimacy at the party. I realise that we must both have replayed the episode repeatedly in our minds. When we look at each other, I can see my own desire reflected in his eyes. I start to feel breathless. I
see the front of my shirt moving up and down too fast and start to chew my lower lip. I want to make it bleed to distract myself with the pain and extricate myself from this situation. I think of Fred’s tiny knee, covered in blood, and the way he cried for me, as though there was no one else in the world that could make him feel better. I think of Tom, cool, rational, certain about things.

‘Lucy, you have a responsibility to talk to me, you can’t pretend that nothing has happened,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘We’re both complicit.’

‘I have a responsibility to my family and so do you to yours,’ I say. ‘Look, this isn’t the time or the place.’

‘Name the time and place,’ he says. ‘I can’t get through this on my own. I’m really tormented.’ Then my brother, gregarious and friendly as always, gets up and walks towards us.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he asks Robert Bass. I introduce him to the table, relieved that no one knows him by any other name than Sexy Domesticated Dad. I have to get him to leave as swiftly as possible.

‘Let me get a round,’ says Robert Bass, walking towards the bar.

I sit down, feeling slightly nauseous. But this time I can’t blame the drink. I am sick with desire. It’s like trying to stop a chemistry experiment when the ingredients have already been placed in a test tube, I decide.

‘Who is that?’ asks Emma theatrically. ‘He’s gorgeous. He could definitely distract me from Guy. I would even forsake world domination for a share of that.’ It is gratifying to hear an old friend validate my taste in men, but on the other hand it makes me wonder whether Robert Bass is just too obvious.

‘He’s an old friend,’ I say. ‘I haven’t seen him for ages. But I’m pretty sure he’s married.’

‘Marriage is a state of mind,’ says Emma. ‘That’s what Guy says. When he’s with his wife he feels married and when he’s with me he feels like fucking. He says that his ideal is to be single during the week and married at weekends.’

‘That’s because men have a frightening capacity to compartmentalise their life,’ I sigh. ‘Women could never live like that.’

‘So where do you know him from?’ asks Mark. ‘It must be a decade since you last had a job, I mean, since you decided to evolve from white-collar to blue-collar worker.’

‘Why blue-collar?’ asks Emma.

‘Looking after children is like working on a coal face, except there is never any break between shifts,’ I say. Then I turn to Mark and look at him straight in the eye. ‘He’s an old contact,’ I say, deliberately vague. Mark raises his eyebrows twice, but Robert Bass has come back to the table. He sits in an armchair next to me, with Emma on the other side.

‘So what are you doing here?’ she asks, turning her body towards him and smiling in her most engaging manner. Emma is incorrigible. Robert Bass leans on his left elbow so that his back is turned towards me. But his legs slide further under the table. I know that I should shift up the sofa to remove the possibility of any physical contact, knowing that my defences are low, and that every time we touch it sets off a terrible reaction.

But before I can put this plan into action, I feel Robert Bass’s left leg settle resolutely between my knees, pushing up towards my thighs. Either he must have done this kind of thing before, because this is an accomplished piece of daring, or he is simply
intent on having sex with me. Luckily the table is so high that it screens us from suspicious eyes.

Cathy continues to talk. She is oblivious. Mark is at the other end of the table opposite Robert Bass and I am sure that he can see nothing. I know that I should just move away, but since that might draw even more attention to what is going on, I decide to enjoy the moment.

‘So, Lucy, have you made any big decisions about what to do in September, when Fred is at nursery all day?’ she asks.

‘You know, I think I’m going to start painting again,’ I say dreamily, leaning as far forward as possible, so that the area under the table is obscured from view. It is now getting dark outside but the lights inside are not yet switched on. ‘I have an idea for a children’s book and I think I might start doing some illustrations for that and see where it takes me. I’m not going to look for anything full-time. I know that means we still won’t have enough money to completely buy my way out of domestic chaos, but I’ve decided that it doesn’t really matter anyway.’

‘That sounds great,’ she says. ‘My main aim is to turn my triangle into a straight line before it turns into a square.’ She looks at me enigmatically. I have no idea what she is talking about. ‘I want to extricate myself from this relationship and get into something more linear.’

Emma gets up to go to the loo.

She walks away. Cathy is talking to Mark, and Robert Bass turns to face me. His expression reveals nothing. He leans towards my left ear, his breath tickling my neck.