Shopaholic & Sister (9 page)

“Cosmo!” she suddenly barks. I follow her gaze and see a toddler blundering into the string quartet. “Come away, darling!”

“Cosmo! Great name,” I say, trying to be friendly. “Like, after the magazine?”

“The
magazine
?” She stares at me as though I’m a total imbecile. “Actually, it comes from the ancient Greek word
kosmos
. Meaning ‘perfect order.’ ”

I feel prickles of embarrassment and resentment. How was I supposed to know that?

Anyway,
she’s
the stupid one, because how many people have heard of
Cosmo
magazine? About a million. And how many have heard of some old Greek word? About three. Exactly.

“Do you have children?” she says with polite interest.

“Er . . . no.”

“Do you keep horses?”

“Er . . . no.”

There’s silence. Lulu seems to have run out of questions. I guess it’s my turn.

“So . . . how many children do you have?”

“Four,” she replies. “Cosmo, Ludo, Ivo, and Clarissa. Two, three, five, and eight.”

“Wow. That must keep you busy.”

“Oh, it’s a different world when you have children,” she says smugly. “Everything changes. You can’t imagine.”

“I probably can,” I say with a laugh. “I helped out Suze when Ernie was newborn. So I know what it’s like—”

“No.” She gives me a patronizing smile. “Until you’ve actually been a mother you have no idea. None at all.”

“Right,” I say, feeling squashed.

How can Suze be friendly with this woman? How?

Suddenly there’s a rattling at the library door and Suze appears. She’s holding a baby in one arm and her mobile in the other and is a picture of consternation.

“Hi, Suze!” I say quickly. “I was just bringing you a glass of champagne!” I hold it out to her, but Suze doesn’t seem to notice.

“Lulu, Wilfie’s got a rash!” she says anxiously. “Have yours ever had this?”

“Let’s have a look,” says Lulu, expertly taking the baby out of Suze’s grasp. She examines him for a moment. “I think it’s heat rash.”

“Really?”

“It looks like nettle rash to me,” I say, trying to join in. “Has he been near any nettles recently?”

No one seems interested in what I think.

“You want Sudocrem,” says Lulu. “I’ll get some for you, if you like. I’m popping to the chemist’s later on.”

“Thanks, Lulu. You’re an angel!” Suze takes Wilfie back gratefully, just as her mobile rings.

“Hi!” she says into it. “At last! Where are you?” As she listens, her whole face crumples in dismay. “You’re joking!”

“What’s wrong?” Lulu and I say simultaneously.

“It’s Mr. Happy!” wails Suze, turning to Lulu. “He’s got a flat tire! He’s by Tiddlington Marsh.”

“Who’s Mr. Happy?” I say in bewilderment.

“The entertainer!” says Suze desperately. “There’s a whole roomful of children in there, just waiting for him!” She gestures to a pair of double doors, beyond which I can see lots of children in party dresses and smart little shirts, racing about and throwing cushions at each other.

“I’ll zip along and pick him up,” Lulu says, putting down her glass. “At least we know where he is. I’ll only be ten minutes. Tell him to stay put and look out for the Range Rover.”

“Lulu, you’re a total star,” says Suze, subsiding in relief. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Jealousy burns through me. I want to be the one who helps Suze.

“I don’t mind picking him up!” I say. “I’ll go!”

“You don’t know where it is,” Lulu says kindly. “Better if I go.”

“What about the children?” Suze glances nervously toward the room, where the sound of screaming kids is getting louder.

“They’ll just have to wait. If there isn’t an entertainer, there isn’t an entertainer.”

“But—”

“I’ll entertain them!” I say, before I can stop myself.

“
You
?” They both turn and gape at me.

“Yes, me,” I say confidently.

Ha. I’ll show them who’s the most supportive friend to Suze.

“Bex . . . are you sure about this?” Suze says, looking anxious.

“No problem!” I say.

“But—”

“Suze . . .” I put a hand on her arm. “Please. I think I can amuse a few children for ten minutes.”

Oh my God.

This is utter mayhem.

I can’t hear myself think. I can’t hear anything except the screaming of twenty excited children running round a room, bashing each other.

“Er . . . excuse me . . .” I begin.

The shrieks increase in volume. I’m sure someone’s being murdered in here, only I can’t see who because it’s all a blur.

“Sit down!” I bellow over the noise. “Sit down, everyone!”

They’re not even stopping for a beat. I climb up onto a chair and put my hands round my mouth.

“Anyone who sits down . . .” I roar. “Will get a
sweetie
!”

Abruptly the screaming stops and there’s a crash as twenty children bump down onto the floor.

“Hello, everybody!” I say brightly. “I’m . . . I’m Wacky Becky!” I waggle my head. “Everybody say . . . ‘Hello, Wacky Becky!’ ”

There’s silence.

“Where’s my sweetie?” pipes up a little girl.

“Er . . .”

I scrabble in my bag, but there’s nothing except some herbal sleeping tablets I bought for getting over jet lag. Orange flavored.

Could I—

No. No.

“Later!” I say. “You have to sit still . . . and then you get a sweetie.”

“This conjurer is
rubbish
,” says a boy in a Ralph Lauren shirt.

“I’m not rubbish!” I say indignantly. “Watch! Er . . .”

I quickly put my hands over my face, then pull them away. “Boo!”

“We’re not babies,” the boy says scornfully. “We want tricks!”

“Why don’t I sing you a nice song,” I say in soothing tones. “Row, row, row the boat . . . la la la . . . the moat . . .”

“Do a trick!” squeals a little girl.

“We want a trick!” yells a boy.

“Do-a-trick! Do-a-trick!”

Oh God. They’re chanting. And the boys are banging the floor with their fists. Any minute, they’re going to get up and start bashing each other again. A trick. A trick. My mind scurries about frantically. Do I
know
any tricks?

“OK!” I say in desperation. “I’ll do a trick! Watch this!”

I spread my arms with a flourish, then reach behind my back with swirly, elaborate movements, spinning it all out as long as I can.

Then I unhook my bra through my shirt, trying to remember what color it is.

Oh yes. It’s my bright pink gingham one with the bows. Perfect.

The entire room is agog.

“What are you doing?” says a little girl with wide eyes.

“Wait and see!”

Trying to keep the air of mystery, I loop one bra strap discreetly over my arm, then the other. The children are all staring at me avidly.

Now I’ve got my confidence back, I think I’m doing rather well at this. In fact, I’m a bit of a natural!

“Watch very carefully,” I say in a solemn, magician-like voice, “as I am now going to make something . . .
appear
!”

A couple of children gasp.

I really could do with a drumroll here.

“One . . . two . . . three . . .” In a flash of pink I pull my bra out from my sleeve and hold it aloft. “Ta-daah!”

The whole room erupts in ecstatic cheers.

“She did magic!” a red-haired boy shouts.

“Again!” squeals a little girl. “Do it again!”

“Do you want to see me do it again?” I say, beaming in delight.

“Yaaaaay!” they all scream.

“I don’t
think
so!” comes a bright, clipped voice from the door. I turn round—and Lulu is standing there, looking at me with undisguised horror.

Oh no.

Oh God. My bra is still whirling round in my hand.

“They wanted me to do a trick,” I explain, attempting a nonchalant shrug.

“I hardly think those are the sort of ‘tricks’ that children are going to appreciate!” she says, raising her eyebrows. She turns to the room with a bright, mummyish smile. “Who wants to see Mr. Happy?”

“We want Wacky Becky!” yells a boy. “She took off her bra!”

Fuck.

“Wacky Becky’s got to . . . er . . . go now!” I say brightly. “But see you next time, children!”

Without quite meeting Lulu’s eye I squash my bra into a tiny ball, stuff it into my bag, and back out of the room. I head over to the buffet table, where Luke is helping himself to salmon.

“Are you OK?” he says in surprise. “You’re very pink.”

“I’m . . . fine.” I grab his glass and take a deep gulp of champagne. “Everything’s fine.”

But it’s not really fine.

I keep waiting for Lulu to leave, so I can have a good chat with Suze—but she doesn’t. She hangs around, helping to make the children’s tea and clear up. Every time I try to help, she’s there before me with a damp cloth or a beaker or some piece of mummy advice. She and Suze keep up a constant dialogue about the children, and it’s impossible for me to get a word in.

It’s not until about ten o’clock at night that she leaves, and I finally find myself alone in the kitchen with Suze. She’s sitting by the huge Aga stove, feeding one of the twins and yawning hugely every three minutes.

“So, you had a lovely honeymoon?” she says wistfully.

“It was fantastic. Totally perfect. We went to this amazing place in Australia where you could scuba dive, and—”

I break off as Suze yawns again. Maybe I’ll tell her tomorrow.

“How about you? How’s life with three kids?”

“Oh, you know.” She gives a tired smile. “It’s fine. Exhausting. Everything’s different.”

“And . . . you’ve been spending loads of time with Lulu,” I say casually.

“Isn’t she great?” says Suze, her face lighting up.

“Er . . . great.” I pause carefully. “She does seem a
teeny
bit bossy. . . .”

“
Bossy
?” Suze looks up in shock. “Bex, how can you say that? She’s been my total savior out here! She’s helped me so much!”

“Oh, right.” I backtrack hastily. “I didn’t mean—”

“She knows exactly what I’m going through.” Suze sighs. “I mean, she’s had four! She really
understands
.”

“Right.”

And I don’t understand. That’s what she means.

As I stare into my glass of wine, there’s a sudden heaviness about my head. None of my reunions are going quite like I thought they would.

I stand up and wander over to the Aga, where lots of family photos are always pinned up on the cork wall. There’s a picture of me and Suze dressed up for a party in feather boas and glittery makeup. And one of Suze and me in hospital with a tiny Ernie.

Then, with a pang, I notice a brand-new picture of Suze and Lulu, sitting on their horses, in matching riding jackets and hairnets. They’re beaming at the camera and look just like identical twins.

And as I gaze at it, I feel a sudden determination growing. I’m not losing my best friend to some bossy, horse-faced riding queen. Whatever Lulu can do, I can do.

“Maybe I’ll come riding with you and Lulu tomorrow,” I say casually. “If you’ve got a spare horse.”

I’ll even wear a hairnet, if that’s what it takes.

“You’ll come?” Suze looks up, staggered. “But . . . Bex. You don’t ride.”

“Yes, I do,” I say airily. “Luke and I did some riding on our honeymoon, actually.”

Which is . . . sort of true. Nearly. We were going to go on a camel ride in Dubai, except in the end we went snorkeling instead.

But anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ll just hold on tight . . . and it’ll be fine!

BY TEN O’CLOCK the next morning I’m ready. And I don’t want to boast, but as I survey myself in the mirror, I look utterly fab! I went to the riding shop in the next village first thing in the morning, and totally kitted myself out. I’m wearing snowy white jodhpurs, a tailored black riding jacket, shiny boots, and a beautiful new velvet riding hat.

Proudly I reach for my pièce de résistance—a big red rosette with shiny ribbons. There were loads of them for sale, so I bought one in every color! I carefully pin it onto my collar like a corsage, smooth down my jacket, and look at the effect.

God, I look so cool. I look like I’m going to win at Crufts.

No. I don’t mean Crufts, that’s the dog show. I mean the other one. The horse one.

I can start riding every day in Hyde Park, I think in a sudden burst of excitement. I’ll practice hard and get really good! Then I can come down here every weekend and ride with Suze. While I was in the shop I even filled out a form for a riding competition next month, as a little incentive.

“Tallyho!” says Luke, coming into the bedroom. “You look very dashing. Very sexy.” He raises his eyebrows. “Great boots. How long are you going to be?”

“Not that long,” I say knowledgeably. “We’re just going to go for a hack through the woods.”

“Becky . . .” Luke looks at me carefully. “Have you ever been on a horse in your life?”

“Yes! Of course I have!”

Once. When I was ten. And I fell off. But I probably wasn’t concentrating or something.

“Just be careful, won’t you?” he says. “I’m not quite ready to become a widower.”

“I’ll be fine!” I say, glancing at my special new “equestrian” watch with compass built in. “I’d better go!”

The horses are all kept some way from the house in a stable block, and as I approach I can hear the sounds of whinnying and hooves clattering in the stable yard.

“Hi!” says Lulu, appearing round the corner in a pair of ancient jodhpurs and a fleece jacket. “All set—” She breaks off as she sees me. “Oh my God.” She snorts with laughter. “Suze, come and look at Becky!”

“What is it?” Suze hurries round the corner and stops dead.

“Gosh, Bex,” she says. “You’re very . . . smart!”

I take in Suze’s filthy old jodhpurs, her muddy boots, and her battered riding hat. As I look down at my own shiny gear I suddenly feel mortified. How could I have been so stupid?

But I’m not going to act embarrassed in front of Lulu. Chin up.

“I wanted to make an effort!” I say, trying to sound light and matter-of-fact.