Just What Kind of Mother Are You? (6 page)

His smile fades as he admits this to himself and, as he checks his watch once more, he thinks, maybe I should call it a day. She was scared. Even doped up, she was really, really scared
.

He had harboured a small hope that she might kind of get into it
.

Because, that could happen, right?

But, no. That wasn’t how it had gone. So maybe best to leave it at that, find other things to do
.

But then a thought occurs to him
.

Suppose the next one gets into it? Suppose she’s been waiting for something like this? For someone like him. That could happen. It was possible
.

A silver BMW Z3 pulls up alongside him, and a harried-looking woman in her mid-forties climbs out, approaches his driver’s side door
.

She’s carrying a stack of papers and is holding them in front of her open blazer, trying to conceal the fact that her ugly belly is straining her skirt to bursting
.

He opens his door, looks directly into her eyes and smiles. She averts her gaze, trying to gather herself. ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr—’

‘Not at all.’ He shrugs to indicate that it’s been no bother and holds out his hand. ‘Call me Charles,’ he says, trying to pull himself back to the business of charming this feckless woman
.

But it’s hard
.

Hard because his mind is still on the girls and he’s thinking: Of course it’s possible that the next one will play out differently
.

I mean, anything’s possible, right?

8

F
OUR YEARS AGO
, we’d been invited to Kate’s for a dinner party. Something that had never happened before or since. There were to be six of us – Kate and Guy, Alexa and Adam, me and Joe. Kate had not long since moved her children back into the state system and though we’d always kind of known each other over the years, this was her doing what people like Kate do – expanding her social circle to include the parents of her children’s new friends.

I was eager to go in that way you are when you’re invited to something new and different. No one I knew had dinner parties. Certainly not the other parents in school, who, probably like me and Joe, couldn’t face the thought of tidying up and cleaning the entire house on a Friday night
as well as
cooking, and after a full week at work. Or maybe they were all secretly having dinner parties and just didn’t invite us. Anyway, I’d never been to one, so I was both excited and anxious.

Kate, I was pretty comfortable with by then and Guy, I knew from saying hello to at school and around the village. Alexa, I was intimidated by. I confided this to Joe as we made our way up the front path, and rather than settle me and give me words of reassurance (as was his usual way), he looked at me with a pained expression, whispering, ‘Why are we here, baby?’

Before I could reply, Guy answered the door, bottle of wine in
hand, and immediately I felt deflated. My shoulders slumped, my chin poking forward in a pathetic posture.

He greeted us exuberantly, almost shouting, ‘Hello, the Kallistos! Come in, come in!’ His face was a perfect show of warmth and welcoming, deftly masking what he’d instantly noticed as our first major gaffe: our outfits.

Joe had worn his only suit, a cheap black Burton’s thing he put on when he was required to drive someone to a funeral. With it, he was wearing a new white shirt and a spotted tie. He did look lovely, as he always does in a white shirt because of his dark colouring, but Guy had on faded jeans and a round-necked jumper.

I was wearing a new dress I’d bought that day from Next. It was strapless and cut above the knee, made from shiny red fabric with great big black roses all over it. And for reasons best known to myself, I’d been and had a spray tan.

I dreaded to see what the women were wearing.

I shot a panicked look at Joe as Guy beckoned us in, and he said, ‘Well, we’re here now,’ tenderly touching my bare shoulder briefly, guiding me, encouraging me to move forwards.

I was like my old grandad – he was dead now, but for the last ten years of his life he had suffered from Parkinson’s. Whenever he was faced with walking through a doorway, he’d freeze. The top half of his body would be leaning ready to go, but the bottom half was stuck fast, as if his shoes were glued to the carpet. The only way we could get him moving was to march him steadily to the tune of ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’.

Surprisingly, I began humming, and it worked for me as well.

Kate and Guy had not long moved into the house, so there was the smell of wood shavings and linseed in the air. They were having oak flooring installed throughout, and I wasn’t sure whether I should remove my heels – reckoning if I knackered an eighty-quid-a-square-metre floor with a pair of cheap stilettos,
it would be just about the worst thing ever. But Guy didn’t say anything so I kept them on. Just tried to walk on the balls of my feet.

Music was coming from the kitchen, a dreamy acoustic female artist I didn’t know. As we walked in I found Kate and Alexa by the Aga, tasting and stirring, both wearing similar outfits of pale linen, both wearing minimal make-up, both with their hair pinned up loosely, as if they were in a Nivea or a Neutrogena commercial. I felt like a total idiot as they turned around, their broad smiles not matching the alarmed look in their eyes as they regarded first me, and then Joe. Then, chiming more or less together, ‘Wow, Lisa, you look … fantastic! I love your dress, where is it from? … Joe! So great to
see
you.’

Embarrassed, I mumbled an answer, thrusting the bottles of wine we’d brought at Kate, saying something along the lines of
Thanks for inviting us
. Then I quickly pulled out a stool from the kitchen island in an attempt to hide myself.

Joe said a quick hello, gave the ladies a peck on the cheek and did the obligatory, ‘How nicely the house is coming along, Kate,’ while Kate did her best exasperated expression, sighing dramatically, replying, ‘Well, we’re
getting there
,’ as if they were not renovating a home but were in fact building a school in Namibia and were struggling to locate a clean water supply.

‘I’ll open another bottle,’ Kate said, walking across the room. Turning, she added, ‘Joe, you go and join the boys – leave us girls to gossip. Adam’s brought a stupidly large selection of bottled ales for you to get through.’

Alexa had turned her back and was taking another taste from the pot on the stove. ‘Kate,’ she said, her voice snippy with criticism, ‘these onions are not completely softened, you can’t serve the tagine like this, it’ll be awful.’

Kate, over by the fridge, didn’t comment.

‘You should do what I do,’ Alexa went on. ‘I soften a ton of onions, sometimes shallots, at one time. Then I freeze them in batches, and I use them as I need … it saves ever such a lot of time …’

‘I’ll remember that,’ said Kate, smiling tightly.

‘I do it with peppers and aubergines as well,’ Alexa added. ‘They freeze a lot better than you’d imagine.’

Quietly, I said to Kate, ‘I’ll eat anything, I’m starving. I’ve not had anything since breakfast.’

Work had been crazy. Fridays are always the most popular day for adoptions. Then I’d had to go straight through to Ambleside to pick up Joe’s mum, who was babysitting. Joe was still on a job at that time, so he couldn’t get her. Then I had to feed everyone, because even though Joe’s mother is more than capable, she won’t use our cooker because she says she’s unfamiliar with it. And it’s easier to go along with it than to cause a problem.

‘Gosh,’ said Alexa, leaving the tagine and sitting down opposite me, ‘you are a busy bee, Lisa. Are you still at the animal shelter?’

I nodded. Took a big gulp of the white wine Kate had set in front of me. ‘Lovely,’ I said to Kate. ‘Just what I needed.’

Alexa took a sip of hers, saying, ‘I’ve been working myself, actually, at the gallery around the corner from the cinema.’ Again, I nodded. ‘All helps towards the school fees!’ she quipped.

This was absolute nonsense, because everyone knew Alexa’s mother-in-law paid the children’s school fees, because her mother-in-law told everyone. Dorothy Willard, Adam’s mother, was one of those noisy, aggravating women who volunteered at the charity shop a couple of mornings a week and loved telling anyone who’d listen about her talented grandchildren. About how they were
positively thriving
at the superb school she and her husband paid for. ‘Well, it’s what one does for
one’s offspring,’ she’d say as I’d dump down a hardly worn winter coat on the counter, or else a stack of Mills & Boons that my mother liked to read. I’d smile at her, saying, ‘You must be very proud,’ and she’d go all mock-modesty, replying, ‘Well one shouldn’t boast, but—’

I think Alexa liked to work to pass the time, or just to get out of the house, but was ashamed to admit such frivolity to the likes of me – the type of person who works because she has to eat, and so forth. I didn’t hold it against her. No point. The Lakes has always been littered with two extremes of women: the ones who never work … and the ones who never stop.

‘How many days do you do at the gallery, Alexa?’ I asked, because I couldn’t think of anything more interesting to say to her.

‘Oh, just two or three mornings. I fit it around my MA.’

‘Your MA?’

‘My master’s,’ she replied. ‘I’m doing a master’s in cultural studies.’

‘Sounds … difficult,’ I said.

‘It is. It’s taking up far more of my time than anticipated. Adam keeps complaining that he’s lost me to the world of academia
once again.’

I noticed Kate was not commenting on Alexa’s degree and, sensing I knew the reason for this, didn’t say anything further.

Alexa, as well as doing silly, pointless work to fill her time, loved to study. I have no idea what a master’s in cultural studies actually is, but I can guess the reason she’s doing it. So little people like me will think: Wow, not only are you incredibly beautiful but you’re really, really clever as well! How is that even possible?’

She’s not the only attractive woman I’ve met with this affliction. I want to say to them, ‘Stop.
Please
, just stop. You
already have what we all want. You
got the beauty
, you already got the free pass. It is enough.’

‘Will you be a doctor when you finish this one, Lex?’ Kate asked her.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Gosh, imagine that! Two doctors in the house,’ and, as if on cue, the men came in, carrying their beers, looking for food.

Alexa’s husband, Adam – Dr Willard – was dressed casually, wearing similar clothes to Guy. When he entered the room I immediately became self-conscious again.

Kate said, ‘Lisa, have you met Adam? No? Oh, Lisa, this is Adam. Adam, Lisa.’

I nodded at him politely, and he smiled in my direction. He was what I’d describe as kind-looking. Not handsome, but his face had a softness that was appealing. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you. You’re the animal-sanctuary lady, yes?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Bet that’s a tough job, dealing with the general public in that way.’

I was about to tell him a couple of anecdotes but, before I could answer, Alexa cut in. ‘Oh, isn’t it just the worst? You wouldn’t believe the silly things people ask for at the gallery. And why does everyone think they can bag a bargain? I blame those haggling programmes. Gone are the days when they’re willing to pay a fair price for something.’

Adam ignored her, kept his gaze on me. ‘What’s the biggest problem you come across at a place like that?’

‘Money,’ I said. ‘Well, the lack of it. The vet fees can be in excess of twenty thousand, and then there’s the food costs and the—’

‘Where does the money come from?’ asked Alexa.

‘Private donations, mostly. Some kind, rich old ladies leave us their estates. The rest we find from fundraising, and a little from
a regional animal charity that pays us to take in cats and dogs from other branches.’

Joe was smiling as he watched me speak. He had his proud face on. He hadn’t done what I thought he might – that is, removed his jacket and tie, undone his top button. He remained the same as when we’d arrived, and I felt a flush of love for him. He was grinning at me shyly, which meant he was trying to hide that he’d downed at least three beers already. He does that when he’s not quite comfortable. Actually, he does it if the beer is put in front of him. He’s like a kid who can’t say no.

An hour or so later, and the tagine with the uncooked onions had been eaten, the wine loosening us up sufficiently so that the conversation was free-flowing, the stilted awkwardness of earlier gone.

I was in the middle of recounting the basic plot of a BBC drama I’d been following, saying to everyone, ‘And it’s the banter between the two detectives which makes it so lifelike,’ when Alexa cleared her throat and slapped me down, informing me that, ‘
We
don’t really do TV, Lisa. Most of us here are readers, aren’t we?’ And I felt the energy in the room change.

Nobody challenged Alexa. And, naturally, I felt stupid and gauche, but as I looked around the room, everyone avoided my eyes and I wasn’t sure if I’d been making a fool of myself for a while (and they’d all been too polite to say), or if it was Alexa’s comment that they were embarrassed by.

I glanced at Joe, but he was no use. He had that loose, devilish expression that told me he was so drunk he was either about to start singing, or else fall asleep. Checking my watch, I saw it was still only nine thirty. I knew then there was no way he’d make it through to the end of the evening.

Kate lightened things momentarily by serving up Delia’s strawberry-shortcake ice cream, which everyone declared an absolute success. More wine was poured, and Guy ushered the
children, who’d been watching TV in the den (not readers, then), upstairs to bed.

Things went downhill after that.

Alexa, sensing perhaps that she’d killed the conversation earlier, took on a real gossipy air, leaned in at the table and began telling us about a couple they all knew who were having marital difficulties.