The Dilemmas of Harriet Carew. Cristina Odone
Читать онлайн книгу.
look out of the rain-washed window. The garden looks bare already and the ground muddy and unkempt.
‘Biscuits?’ I ask as I take down a tin from the cupboard. Maisie’s latest autumnal composition comes unstuck from the cabinet door, leaving four little pebbles of Blu Tack.
‘I shouldn’t …’ Charlotte shakes her head as she stretches out her hand for a biscuit.
I notice a big new gold ring on her third finger. ‘Gosh, is that new?’
‘Yes.’ Charlotte smiles down at it. ‘Jack bought it for me. It was for our fourteenth anniversary and …’ She stops, blushes prettily and gives me a quick look. ‘He is soooo romantic, Harriet. He really is a Romeo at heart.’
I ask myself when was the last time Guy acted like Romeo, and decide it was when he stood under my window, slightly the worse for wear, calling up to me in the middle of the night because he’d locked himself out.
‘It’s as if we’re living through a second honeymoon – he’s so considerate and sweet and –’ Charlotte gives me a wicked grin ‘– passionate.’
I sink my teeth into a biscuit.
Charlotte’s and Jack’s very demonstrative relationship has always been a source of amusement for Guy. ‘Flirting with your husband is in bad taste, Charlotte,’ he likes to tease her. But it has always secretly irked me. I can’t help but wonder if the Collinses really do have vast quantities of great sex. How often do they do it a week? Twice? Three times? More? I feel at once envious and guilty. Half the time, when Guy snuggles up with intent, I stop him with an, ‘Oh, darling, I can’t.’ I’m so exhausted by the endless clucking and feeding, answering of children’s questions, office work and shopping that, by the time I make it to bed, the last thing I want is communion with another person.
But surely this is only normal, after fourteen years’ marriage. Isn’t it?
The doorbell stops my dissection of conjugal sex. It’s Lisa, our American neighbour, with her house keys: she sets off for Barbados tonight.
‘Barbados: isn’t she lucky!’ I say to Charlotte as Lisa follows me into the kitchen.
‘You’re lucky not to have to work.’ Lisa never seems to take on board that I do work, even if part-time.
‘I do,’ I object.
‘Oh, I know, I know,’ Lisa holds up her hand to stem my protest. ‘There’s all that picking up after the munchkins and buying enough cotton buds and loo-paper rolls, and checking your husband’s got a clean shirt. I know that’s important, but I have to worry about how China’s exports are doing, and which country has the most solid manufacturing base.’
Yes, Lisa has the luxury of thinking about grown-up issues. But motherhood is like a washing machine that only has one setting – the hottest – and shrinks your interests from reading Italian art critics to getting the Stain Devil on your skirt before the jam from Maisie’s toast sets in; from analysing the pre-Raphaelites’ technique to checking that the stench emanating from Tom’s book-bag is not last week’s packed lunch rotting away. Motherhood means the almost total suspension of big thoughts and big books, exhibits, theatre outings, even reading the newspaper from start to finish. You promise yourself every day for fifteen years that, next year, it will be different; you’ll finally be free of bedtime schedules, school runs, homework, and Yoga for Twos. But every year you also acknowledge that Maisie wants more attention than you give her; that Tom is shy and needs you to bring him out; that Alex doesn’t take his work seriously enough and needs constant monitoring; and that your place is unquestionably with them.
‘It’s harder than it looks,’ Charlotte sulks as Lisa strikes a pose against our refrigerator.
She looks slim even in a baggy white tracksuit. Charlotte sets down the biscuit she was nibbling.
‘Such a blessing,’ I tell Lisa, ‘to be free of the school schedule.’
‘You’d better believe it.’ Lisa tosses her glossy highlights. ‘I wouldn’t be caught dead in a hotel with kids around. They make a racket and pee in the pool. Gross.’
‘Tea?’ I offer, but Lisa shakes her head. Of course: she only does H20 and Dom Pérignon. ‘Doesn’t your mother live there now?’
‘Barbados? No, Bahamas. Down, dog, down!’ Lisa pushes Rufus’s snout away from her all-white outfit. ‘Lives with her analyst. I hope he gives her a discount!’ Lisa laughs. ‘Anyway, it lets me off the hook!’
‘Oh, hullo!’ Guy’s radar for Lisa’s infrequent visits is foolproof; the hermit who can’t be prised from his refuge when Charlotte, Ilona’s boyfriends, the gas man or the postman are at the door, pops out the moment our leggy neighbour drops by.
‘Hi there!’ Lisa automatically shifts into testosterone response: her eyelids flutter, mouth puckers in a pout, and her breasts lift as if suddenly fitted into a balcony bra. No male is exempt from her full blast. I’ve even caught Lisa fluttering her lids at Alex and Tom.
Guy’s eyes are on Lisa. ‘Are you off then?’
‘Yup. Can’t wait. Need my sun.’
‘Some people have all the luck.’ Guy flicks the switch on the kettle. ‘If you’re ever in need of a chaperone, I’m willing. I mean, lying in the sun sipping daiquiris next to half-naked women will be burdensome and unpleasant, but someone’s got to do it.’
‘I thought you were a hard-working writer, tied to his desk?’ Lisa teases with a flick of her hair. So did I, I think sourly.
‘For that kind of assignment, I think I could put Rajput on hold.’
But Lisa is checking her BlackBerry. ‘Hey, it’s eleven o’clock! I’ve got to go to my threading. Listen, I really appreciate it. I’ll get the kids a T-shirt.’
I see her off, then slump in the kitchen chair.
‘Please don’t tell me what threading is.’ Guy shakes his head as he takes his mug and retreats to his study.
‘God, I would NOT like her next door. She’s a living reproach, isn’t she?’ Charlotte shoves the rest of the biscuit in her mouth.
‘I know. And all three males in this house hyperventilate in her presence.’
Rain spots the window pane, it’s chilly despite my cardy, and before me stretches a decade of noisy kids, peed-in pools, and humdrum holiday destinations. Even Charlotte and Jack, who can afford it, can’t go away during term time, and in the holidays they have to bear in mind Charlotte’s father, a widower in Staffordshire, who complains of dizzy spells.
‘Typical no-com,’ Charlotte mutters.
Charlotte’s theory is that the world is divided between the no-commitments like Lisa, and the over-committeds like us. No-coms can spend hours on threading, St Tropez tans and Brazilians, without worrying about robbing children or elderly parents of quality time. Over-coms can’t. No-coms can spend their holidays without the in-laws and Christmas without some batty aunt, and they can stay late at dinner parties without fearing the au pair’s sulk the next day. Overcoms can’t. No-coms can be spontaneous about cinema and sex. Over-coms can’t see the latest George Clooney or lock the bedroom door without first ensuring that the kids, Ilona and Rufus are safely occupied. In fact, over-coms cannot move for fear of failing someone in our lives.
I pour another cup of tea. Charlotte looks positively depressed.
‘Cheer up!’ I smile reassuringly. ‘Once Lily and Maisie are about … oh, sixteen, I reckon we can be more like no-coms. Only thirteen more years to go.’
‘There’s something I haven’t told you.’ Charlotte has turned puce. ‘I’m pregnant.’
‘But she’s the same age as you!’ When I ring my mum with Charlotte’s news, she sounds genuinely, and rather insultingly, shocked. ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’