Out of My Depth (6 page)

‘So I’ll buy all the fresh milk there is, and then I’ll get long life. What do children eat? Fish fingers? Ice cream? Biscuits?’

‘Yep, yep and yep. Are you going to make them eat like little English kids, at quarter to five or some ludicrous hour?’

I smiled in the dark. ‘Yes, of course I am. I want them packed off to bed before dinner, thank you very much. That’s what the English do and I am thoroughly in favour.’

‘Well, of course, from our point of view. But it’s still a fucked-up way to raise a family. I mean, my mother would not have dreamed of giving me my own little tea at goûter time and then sending me off to bed. It’s bizarre. Don’t these people like their children?’ He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at me, earnestly. ‘And if the parents work, what on earth possesses them to pick them up from crèche or whatever at half six, and then pack them off to bed an hour later? Do you know, there are kids who get picked up from nurseries in Britain in their pyjamas? Jackie told me. Are these parents insane? Do they not want to see their offspring at all?'

I giggled. ‘Maybe they don’t. I don’t know. But that’s just the way it’s done in the UK, and that’s that. And British parents would think you were mighty weird if you said any of that to them, because for them it’s completely normal. They would be horrified at the idea that toddlers could stay up until ten.’

‘Yeah, because then they couldn’t spend their evenings watching hardcore porn.’

‘Well, we’re doing it the British way this weekend, even if it does mean cooking two dinners.’

Roman reached out in the dark and stroked my cheek. ‘That’s one of the best things about you, you know, Suze. The fact that you don’t want kids. Most women of your age would be washing contraception down the sink by this stage of a relationship, and secretly buying soft little baby clothes and stashing them in drawers. But you’re rational about it, and I love you for that.’

I reached up and stroked his hand. ‘We’re too selfish to have children,’ I said. It was almost mechanical. I had said it so many times that by now it had to be true. And it worked both ways: one of the things I liked best about Roman was the fact that he hated babies. If he didn’t want to have them, it meant I couldn’t. It meant I was safe. ‘So,’ I continued brightly, ‘I’ll get in lots of children’s food. Pasta twirls and chocolate biscuits in animal shapes. On Friday we can go to market in the morning and stock up on fruit and veg, before I go to the airport. There’s a market somewhere on Friday, isn’t there?’

‘Sure to be. You just want to tell them everything’s fresh.’

‘Of course I do. People love that. Can you run over to Pierre’s tomorrow and pick up some eggs?’

‘Eggs from those chickens over there?’ He pointed to the hillside next door. The chickens had long since gone in to roost. ‘Yes, I can see that would work. Scrambled eggs for breakfast? They’re from, oh actually, you can see the chickens! As if you’ve just remembered.’ He was silent for a moment. In the moonlight, I could see him frowning at me. ‘Susie?’

‘Mmm?’

‘These people are your friends.’

‘My oldest friends.’

‘So why does everything need to be perfect? It’s not a hotel and nobody expects it to be one. Let them muck in and help cook. They’re hardly going to mind.’

‘Because they’re my friends. I want it all to go smoothly, for them and for us.’

‘I know you like to take care of the details but when, say, Dylan and Esme were here, two weeks ago, you weren’t like this.’

I shook my head. It was hard to explain. ‘You don’t understand. Dylan and Esme are our friends. They’re from our world.’

‘They’re more high-powered than your lot. They have serious jobs and responsibilities. Your schoolfriends have crappy jobs to pay their mortgages, like most people. But you were relaxed with Esme and Dylan. And now you’re having kittens over a bunch of miserable housewives. Pourquoi?’

I sighed. It was impossible to explain it. ‘Because I know where I stand with our friends. I’m successful in my own right, too. And you are.’ I looked at him, nervously. He didn’t contradict me. ‘Esme and Dylan have a house in Umbria. They know the score. There’s nothing at stake with them. But I have no idea what Amanda and Izzy and Tamsin are like any more. I’m . . .’ I stared at the sky, at the millions and billions of stars above us. My stomach was in knots. ‘I just want to be the best.’ I said suddenly, briskly. This was something Roman would understand and accept. ‘I’m really proud of this house and our life here, and I’m happier than I ever thought I could be, and I suppose I want them to see what I’ve done. I want them to think I’ve done well. I want them to be jealous. At school I was the new girl. I was always catching up. I was the one who got Bs for everything. I was good but never very good. Not even at art. Now I’m very good. I’m very good at what I do, and selling pictures faster than I can make them. I have the best house, the best partner, the best life. I suppose I think I can cement that this weekend.’ I forced a smile. ‘Not very nice, maybe, but there’s your answer. I’m also three stone lighter now than I was at school, and that has to be worth displaying.’

Roman reached out and found my hand. ‘You’re not being nasty,’ he said, sounding relieved. I knew it was because he understood me again. Roman could not bear neurotic women. ‘You’re sharing your good fortune. That’s all it is. The girls are going to be blown away.’

London

Amanda was packing. The big suitcase was open on the kingsized bed, and clothes were piled neatly beside it. Deciding what to take was driving her demented, and she didn’t mind admitting it. She couldn’t trust the kids to pack their own bags. They’d only take useless junk. Books, magazines, biscuits, and ancient, random toys. They would forget toothbrushes and underwear and swimming things. Patrick was just as bad. Left to his own devices he would go on holiday with a spare pair of pants, a packet of crisps and a Terry Pratchett novel, and he would probably be happy enough. Nobody was going to thank her for folding casual clothes, smart clothes, pool clothes and pyjamas, and packing them neatly into their two matching cases. Nobody would notice that she’d done it. They would not hesitate, however, to come running complaining if she left anything out. It was a mother’s lot to be unappreciated. She was coming to see that it was a wife’s lot, too. Patrick sat around having his convenient headaches, while she did everything.

She wondered about jackets and sweaters. On impulse, she picked up the phone and dialled. Susie answered, slightly breathless.

‘Âllo?' she said, sounding quite French. It threw Amanda off her stride.

‘Yes. Right. Susie?’ she asked.

‘Amanda! How are you doing?’

This was the fifth time they had spoken since the invitation arrived, but they had always kept their chat to a minimum, saving the proper catching up for the weekend. Susie always sounded friendly. Amanda thought she’d sound friendly too if she had a farmhouse and a French boyfriend. If she got paid a fortune for painting pretty pictures.

‘Fine, thanks,’ Amanda said, rather more curtly than she had intended.

‘You’re not pulling out on me?’

Amanda looked at the lilac walls, and the matching floral bedlinen. It was time to get their bedroom redone. It looked terribly Laura Ashley; the lilac had somehow mutated to pale mauve when she hadn’t been looking. Why did that always happen?

‘Oh, God, no,’ she said, vehemently. ‘I can’t wait. And the kids are manic with excitement.’ This was a lie. Jake and Freya were rarely manic with excitement about anything their parents arranged for them, but Susie didn’t know that. ‘Just packing, and wondering about the weather.’ Amanda looked out of the window. It was drizzling gently, and the sky was thick with cloud upon cloud upon cloud. The windowpane was smeared with the tiniest of raindrops. ‘I’m sorry to keep asking. You see, it’s disgusting here,’ she explained. ‘Not at all August-like. November has come early. You’re well out of it.’

‘Oh, you don’t have to tell me. It’s sweltering. Really, truly hot, sweetie. Bring the flimsiest things you can. It doesn’t even cool down at night. I know it’s hard to imagine, probably, if it’s grim in London, but I promise you, I haven’t worn a cardigan for months. Trust me.’

‘Fabulous. Thanks, Susie.’

‘See you at Pau.’

Amanda smiled as she put the phone back on its charger. Her jealousy under control. She was pleased with herself. Susie had been her best friend, her tuck shop buddy, and she was glad she had done well. They had both done well. That was what made it bearable. They had both done well, in different ways.

She packed for herself and Patrick. Her clothes took up three-quarters of the suitcase. He only needed a few pairs of shorts, some trousers, a couple of T-shirts and a shirt. She, on the other hand, needed dresses and accessories, hats, jewellery, skirts, sarongs and God only knew what else. She undressed quickly, avoiding the sight of her naked body in the mirror, and tried on her white and gold bikini. It felt all right, and she turned quickly to try to catch her reflection in the mirror while she was still slightly off guard.

Jesus. What a pig.

Amanda despaired of her body. She was grossly overweight and there was no way she could be seen dead in this bikini, even if it was Versace. Her stomach lolled over the top of it, saggy and disgusting. Her thighs were pasty and white and thunderous. They were riven with cellulite. Every part of her was descending. Her tits needed far more support, these days, than a little bikini like this could possibly give them. Her upper arms were a disaster. This bikini did not work miracles, so it was no good. She took it off quickly, and changed into her pink one-piece, throwing the bikini into the bag anyway, in case she had a moment alone to soak up some rays.

The one-piece was much better. It was a fat lady’s swimsuit; fifties-style, with a wide bottom and a halter neck that, somehow, flattered her sturdy shoulders.

Amanda pulled out the scales. She lied to everyone and told them that she had no idea how much she weighed. But she knew precisely, and she weighed herself at the same time every day. She stood on the scales while the machinery considered her bulk, and waited for the number to flash up. Thirteen stone thirteen: unlucky indeed. A pound more than yesterday. The number was mounting and mounting at the moment. She was a whale.

Thirteen stone thirteen was probably what she had weighed at Izzy’s wedding, the last time she had seen Izzy and Susie. She’d had an excuse, then. Jake had been six weeks old. Amanda had fought her way to the wedding through a haze of undiagnosed post-natal depression. She could, unfortunately, recapture precisely the way she had felt that day. The six-month-pregnant stomach that did not respond when she tried to pull it in. The uneasiness she felt at being dependent on a pink Ghost dress. She had invested everything in the hope that the dress was transforming her battered body, and secretly she had known that no piece of cloth was that capable. There were the slipping breast pads that she kept yanking back into place, terrified of leaking milk everywhere. Her confusion that the breast milk was just coming and coming, even though she was bottle feeding. She had had her hair done, applied a full face of make-up, and wrapped Jake in angelic white. Patrick was supporting her as best he could. Still, Jake did three huge poos during the church service, and her dress had ended up stained with yellow. Her left breast managed to ooze a small patch of milk around the pad and onto her dress, where Patrick assured her it was not visible (she chose to believe him, and avoided mirrors). She had battled constantly with the feeling that this was not how her life was supposed to be, that there had been an enormous mistake, that she was only twenty-four and it wasn’t fair.

And then, at the reception, when she felt done in and desperate to go home, some middle-aged woman made a bitchy comment, and finished her off.

It was ludicrous, she thought, that she could transport herself back across eight years so easily. The woman, Martin’s aunt, had said, loudly, to the man she was with, ‘There’s so much public education out there now about breast being best. But some people just don’t seem to want to give their children the best start!’

It had destroyed Amanda. She had tried to breast-feed, and now, eight years later, she could privately admit that she gave up too soon. But it had been agony! The baby had been crying from hunger, and she had been crying with pain and frustration, and both of them had breathed an enormous sigh of relief when she offered him the bottle. Besides, it meant she could share night duties with Patrick.

She had never expected her personal decision to be a matter of public comment. Hearing the woman’s snide remark shattered her, instantly. Patrick led her, sobbing, out of the room, and made her tell him what had happened. She wanted him to go and confront the woman, but he gently declined.

‘This is Izzy and Martin’s day,’ he said, in his spineless, conciliatory voice. ‘We can’t pick a fight with one of their guests. Don’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s got to you. The only thing to do with people like that is to ignore them.’

She had acceded to his platitudes, but she was, to this day, furious that he hadn’t stood up for her. Izzy had sorted it out, after Amanda cried all over her, and left mascara on her wedding dress. The woman had conveyed an apology via the bride, and the incident had been forgotten. Except that it hadn’t. Amanda had left Izzy’s wedding reception, clutching her baby, forlorn with the realisation that her joint second-best schoolfriend was a better friend to her than her own husband would ever be.