Young Wives' Tales (5 page)

Tom got engaged six months ago and asked me to be Best Man on the spot. Obviously, I said yes; doesn’t being Best Man guarantee that I get to sleep with a bridesmaid, maybe two? But other than picking out some cool cufflinks for me to wear on the day I haven’t done a huge amount of prep. Jenny got a bit arsy with me. Said I was in denial. Not true, just idle. Look, I get paid to organize all day, draw up charts, weigh up risks, make tough decisions, etc. I don’t enjoy doing it in my free time. So Jenny insisted that Craig should become Co-Best Man. His talents for organization and his particular line in sobriety and reliability offered a yin to my yang. Fine by me. The more the merrier. As I say, petty jealousy and a world full of imagined slights are exclusively girlie domain.

‘The way I see it, mate, the split of duties should go something like this. You find the venue, I’ll supply the booze. You draw up a list of blokes you think we should invite and I’ll call them up.’

Craig looks relieved and pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘That sounds fine. What do you think we should do on the Saturday afternoon? Archery?’

‘Paintballing.’

‘Should we stay at a country hotel?’

‘B and B – more cash for booze.’

‘Absolutely no strippers. Jenny has made that clear. She’d never forgive me.’

‘Course not, Craig, mate,’I say reassuringly and make a mental note to sort out the stripper. Tom would never forgive me if I didn’t.

We wade through the detail of the stag weekend, agreeing on a venue, menu, guest list and entertainment. We settle on paintballing during the day and wine-tasting in the evening – clearly that’s Craig’s suggestion. Wine-tasting sounds a bit up itself but might be a laugh, and anyway I conceded because he agreed to go to a tacky nightclub afterwards. After an hour or so we pretty much knock the event into shape. I type a list of to-dos into my BlackBerry, dictated by Craig, and I relax back on the bar stool. Mentally I sigh with relief. I feel smug. I don’t think Tom will be disappointed in any way.

‘Good work, Craig, mate. Couldn’t have done it without you.’

‘Oh, no problem,’says Craig, blushing. He’s not good at handling compliments, doesn’t get them often enough.

‘Really mate, you’ve put a lot of effort in. All those lists and things. You’re a good bloke.’

‘Couldn’t leave it to you. Could I?’

‘No, not really,’I admit.

‘Responsibility is only a tad less offensive to you than commitment, isn’t it?’

‘Easy, mate. That’s harsh.’I laugh, sip my pint, take a drag.

‘But true.’Suddenly Craig looks stricken with terror. ‘What about the speech?’

‘Speech?’I play innocent.

The thing is, although I’m truly grateful to Craig for digging me out of a hole in terms of bringing a little organization to the stag weekend, I do fancy owning the Best Man’s speech. The thing is – I’m funny.

‘The thing is you’re funny,’says Craig.

‘Meaning?’

‘Well, I’m more earnest than funny.’

‘The aunts would love to hear what you have to say,’I tell him, playing it cool.

‘Yes, and they’ll probably die of shock when they hear anything you have to say, but even so, the rest of the guests will probably appreciate you more than they’d appreciate me.’

This is one of Craig’s many qualities. He’s decent. He probably knows I’m desperate to make the speech. Still, it wouldn’t be gracious to be pushy. ‘We could split it,’I offer.

‘Good idea. I’ll read the telegrams and cards and you can do the funny man stuff.’

‘Deal,’I agree immediately.

But before we can clink glasses and say cheers, Craig adds, ‘I’ll have to see the speech before you make it, of course. No cursing, no revelations about Tom’s ex-shags and
do not
mention the time Jenny was wasted and tried to snog you. It was a long time ago.’

‘OK, you can trust me,’I grin.

‘No, John, I can’t. Even you don’t trust you,’says Craig. And he’s not smiling as he says it. Funny man.

I make an enormous effort to get home early from work; I tell my boss I have an offsite meeting and turn down two offers to eat out, one of which is with a client – he doesn’t pay for my time twenty-four hours a day but he has bought my soul. Normally we go to dinner together once a week minimum. The man’s a bore. He has four jokes which he tells in rotation, on a more or less constant basis. He smokes cigars, which I used to enjoy until I fell pregnant with Auriol, and ever since the smell of cigar smoke has left me nauseous. He drinks heavily and invariably the evening ends with me having to haul his large carcass into a cab. Still, it’s part of my job to feign an intimacy with the man so that he continues to give my company hundreds of thousands of pounds to invest. Usually when he’s delivering his predictable punchlines I amuse myself by thinking private and important thoughts.

I think about Pete and me taking Auriol to Tokyo’s Disney World last April. Obviously I did not entertain the idea of Disney in Paris (weather too unreliable) or
America (cellulite too abundant), but I conceded that if we did Disney in Tokyo and we threw in a couple of temples and some cherry blossom trees, the trip would be bearable. Bearable was my benchmark, as we were between nannies, so it was the first holiday we’d gone on without help. It hadn’t been our plan to be between nannies (another one left unexpectedly and unaccountably), so we did not have an itinerary of children’s clubs as a back-up. To be honest I was thinking of cancelling. What a surprise. I genuinely had a great week in Tokyo with Pete and Auriol. I mean, who’d have thought going anywhere with a four-year-old could be such fun? Not me, certainly. But it’s thoughts of Auriol giggling hysterically at Monster Girls and scrunching up her face as she first tried sushi that get me through tedious dinners with colleagues and clients.

At lunchtime I sent Julia, my PA, to buy a dozen helium balloons for Auriol, so I need to take a cab from the office. As I push open the door to our home I’m hit by the smell of something meaty cooking; a casserole of some description would be my guess. I can hear Radio 4 and Auriol’s chatter drift from the basement kitchen. These are good signs. In the past, on the first day home to a new nanny, it has been known for me to be greeted by the nanny already wearing her coat and handing me a letter of resignation. It’s not that Auriol is a terrible child to handle, it’s just that some of these young girls are not experienced enough to manage her creative temperament.

‘Surprise,’I call.

Auriol bounds up the stairs towards me and flings her arms around my waist. I try to stop her putting her hands on my skirt (it’s Emilio Pucci) but the manoeuvre costs me my grip on the balloons and they drift up through the stairwell and hover two flights above us. Eva, Auriol and I gaze upwards at the bobbing mass of pretty pink balloons. I freeze for a moment and wonder if this is going to cause a problem. I often feel entirely at sea with Auriol and have no idea how she is going to react to anything. It astonishes me that I can predict financial markets throughout the world with pinpoint accuracy, I have a widely respected insight into the characters of most people I happen upon, but when it comes to kids in general, and Auriol in particular – I’m stumped. I mean, they are so irrational and unreasonable. So emotional and mercurial.

The balloons hover, teasingly, Eva takes the initiative and laughs, Auriol squeals with excitement and I shrug. This time disaster is averted, no scene. Marvellous.

‘How was school?’I ask.

I try to kneel because I read that children like you to talk to them at eye level. Princess Diana always did that and she had a great way with children. Unfortunately my skirt is too tight and I’m in Sergio Rossi killer heels so it’s not going to happen. I usher Auriol back towards the kitchen. She’s bouncing off the walls and chattering about the new teacher, Miss Gibson or Gibbon or something, and the fact that Fran is in her class. I tell her to stay with Eva and I go to my bedroom to change.

It takes me about fifteen minutes to decide what to
wear because I have resisted going down the lazy mum route which is so depressingly prevalent. I have never been seen in a vomit-sprayed or Weetabix-splodged beige top or baggy leggings. My dry-cleaning bill is enough to buy me a small car every year, but standards have to be maintained. By the time I get to the kitchen I see that Auriol has eaten supper. I’m disappointed.

‘I came home early to take you out to a restaurant to eat,’I grumble. ‘I wanted to celebrate your first day of school.’

My intention is to reprimand Eva for not reading my mind or at least for not checking my schedule.

‘It’s not early for Auriol,’replies Eva. ‘It was after six o’clock when you arrived home. After a full day at school she is hungry at four in the afternoon. I have made enough beef casserole for you and Mr Phillips too. It’s entirely organic as per your instructions.’

‘Oh, I don’t eat much red meat,’I mutter, swallowing my irritation. Irritation seems to be sustaining me quite adequately at the moment, that and decent vitamin supplements.

I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go. I slip on to the bench seat next to Auriol and try to engage her. However, she’s more interested in the TV which has replaced Radio 4 and is blaring from the corner of the room. I follow her gaze. Some beautiful twenty-year-old girl, dressed as though she’s just walked out of a pop video, is being dunked in a pool of custard. When she manages to slither out of the pool, millions of Coco Pops drop from the sky and stick to her. Throughout
the experience she is screaming, ‘Wicked,’and ‘Totally gross man,’in the most awful Birmingham accent. It’s unsuitable viewing on every count.

‘I don’t like the TV on at mealtimes,’I tell Eva.

‘Why do you have a TV in the kitchen and dining room in that case?’asks Eva. I think she is genuinely curious rather than just insolent; besides, as I interviewed twenty-two nannies to fill this position I don’t want to pick a fight at this early stage, so I give her the benefit of the doubt.

‘Peter and I need to keep abreast of the markets. The TVs are used for news channels exclusively.’

In fact I allow Auriol to watch rather a lot of TV at the weekends, but I don’t pay a nanny three pounds per hour over the going rate to allow her the same privilege.

‘NOT TRUE,’shouts Auriol.

Eva and I both pretend not to hear her and Eva switches off the TV. Auriol bursts into tears and splutters a chorus of ‘not fairs’. Eva says she’s tired, Auriol that is, and takes her upstairs for a bath.

When they return forty-five minutes later to say their goodnights, Auriol is looking much calmer and prettier. She’s wearing powder-blue pyjamas from Mini Boden. She looks cute enough to eat. She could be a child model, only I object strongly to the entire premise. I doubt I look quite so angelic. I have a cigarette in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other.

‘You shouldn’t smoke,’says Auriol. ‘You’ll die and before that you’ll look old and ugly.’

‘Do as I say, not as I do, Auriol,’I instruct.

I shouldn’t smoke and I usually try not to in front of Auriol. But besides finding it quite relaxing, I’m a sexy smoker. I keep my finger at an angle and men often comment on how elegant my hands are. When I take a drag, my lips double in size, whereas other people’s lips disappear. It’s a tough habit to kick when it’s so alluring.

‘Rose says you shouldn’t drink either. She says you’ll come to a nasty end.’

Auriol repeats the sentence in a tone which suggests she has little understanding of the expression.

‘That’s just her wishful thinking,’I mutter as I stub out the cigarette and slug back the champagne. I really must have a word with Peter. I do my utmost to minimize Auriol’s contact with Rose but of course chance encounters do happen. When has she had the opportunity to indoctrinate my daughter with her puritanical thinking? The last thing I need is Auriol joining the thought police. I want my child to be hip and relaxed.

‘Come and kiss me goodnight.’

Auriol bobs under my arm and I can smell her clean hair. Unexpectedly I get a lump in my throat.

‘Will you read to me?’she asks.

‘Only if I get to choose the story,’I reply.

She laughs and I take her to bed, generously telling Eva that she can go home ten minutes early. It pays to keep the staff happy.

It’s a wet Sunday; thank God the boys are with me because I really struggle to fill wet Sundays without them. I rang Peter this morning and told him that they were too tired, after starting back at school, to play football or even visit him today.

‘Bloody hell, Rose, they haven’t just started reception class. A school term isn’t new to them. I thought you said it was a good thing to sign them up to the boys’under-eights football on a Sunday morning. You agreed to it.’

‘They’re mooching round the house, they’re quite pale with exhaustion,’I argued.

‘They’re bored. They need fresh air and a bit of horseplay. You mollycoddle them, Rose.’

A few tense and silent minutes pass until Peter accepts that I’m resolute. He sighs.

‘Well, what will they be doing instead?’

‘They won’t be bored; Daisy, Simon, Connie, Luke and the children are coming over for lunch.’

I’m small-minded enough to take great pleasure from
delivering this choice piece of news. I wonder if Peter ever hankers after the splendid Sunday lunches that I prepared when we were together. The guests have remained the same, my cooking has got even better, the only thing missing is him. Not that I miss him. Well, at least, not always.

Connie and Luke met one another at my wedding. Luke was an usher; he’s been a friend of Peter’s since their schooldays. Luke then introduced Simon into our group and he married my sis. We were a tightly knit gang. Very close. Too close as it turned out. Lucy and Peter were too close.

Some women say they didn’t see it coming. When their husbands stand up and announce their intention to bugger off with whoever it may be that has caught their eye, wives are often stunned. I never had that arrogance. I saw it coming.