The Meltdown of a Banker's Wife (8 page)

BOOK: The Meltdown of a Banker's Wife
12.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

22

Gordon and the boys always arrived before she left with the kids for school, despite the original agreement that the builders would time their arrival not to coincide with the morning rush. The first morning, they had unexpectedly turned up and since then they seemed to have totally lost all sense of time. Still, she would deal with him later. Now to get the children to school. At the gate, she gave them each a big fat cuddle and tried to transmit courage into Michael's soul.

‘Michael, don't stand for any nonsense from Algy and Toby. They must be very sad and lacking something in their lives to be bullying you. Look at them straight in the eye. Don't cry. And if they do anything, tell the teacher straightaway, OK?' Michael nodded and attempted a smile. Sometimes she really felt she'd like to take them out of school. Educate them at home … but then they'd probably develop no social skills and wouldn't be strong enough to face the real world. On the other hand, what sort of social skills would they be developing, mixing with the likes of Algy and Toby? What was she doing, telling Michael not to cry? She'd always sworn that she wouldn't turn her children into emotionally-stunted automatons. She'd allowed them, within reason, to express themselves honestly and not be stuffed into stereotypical moulds. But she didn't want Michael to be vulnerable, leaving the gate wide open for every little harpy to pick at him as he grew up. It was horrible that vulnerability and sensitivity were taken advantage of, but then, mused Mel, how far from gorilladom have we really come? We're still gorillas. Gorillas that can send other gorillas into space; can hurl themselves
around at high speed in metal boxes and think they can control the world around them. If she looked at Poppy for example and saw her as she really was, a hairy gorilla with pendulous arms and equally pendulous breasts, the woman seemed rather pathetic … rather like King Canute telling the sea to turn back. With this in mind, she went over to Poppy, who was air kissing and indulging in excessive social grooming practice with the school governors and members of the PTA that she thought might be able to help her climb the greasy pole one day.

‘Hi Poppy,' smiled Mel nonchalantly.

‘Oh hi, darling,' replied the distracted Poppy. Poppy obviously had bigger fish to fry at this little social gathering. She ignored Mel and carried on chatting, giggling and fluttering her eyelashes at Bob, the PTA treasurer. Mel stood where she was and had a little chat with Rupert, who was on the fringes of the PTA and not quite considered ‘one of us'. Rupert was rather a shy individual who reddened every time he was addressed. It amazed Mel that he'd put himself up for election as Chair recently. Needless to say, he got nowhere although his experience as managing director of a software company should have made him eminently qualified. It was always the same, wasn't it? People that get elected know the right people but know nothing. That's why the world is in such a mess, thought Mel. The most powerful nations of human gorillas in the world were led by the most stupid and self-serving, because the stupidest ones never had to try to learn anything since their life was mapped out at birth along a straight, diamond-encrusted path and the self-serving used the intelligence that had pushed them up from the bottom of the pond to ensure that they were ‘all right Jack'. To get anywhere on the winding road to power, one had to pick the lice, fleas and ticks from the coats of those born to it. Just as Poppy was doing now, as a matter of fact.

‘Oh, Martha! You are so witty!' she laughed inanely. ‘Oh,
we really must meet up for drinkies soon. Why don't we make a date for an evening next week? Bring your hubby and we could make a foursome with Tarquin!'

Mel was glad to see that Martha looked rather non-plussed at the prospect although, to be honest, Martha always looked like that. She didn't know if it was because she was emotionally stunted or had been given too much botox, but Mel had never seen anyone who was not comatosed look more vacant and gormless. Finally, Poppy pulled herself away from her lovely friends and found Mel still standing there, arms folded.

‘Oh hi, darling! Are you still here?' she laughed, rather surprised. Rupert slowly left Mel's side, walking off towards his car, staring at his shoes.

‘Hello sweetie,' smiled Mel in a grimacing sort of a way. ‘Do you fancy a cup of tea and a chat?'

‘Oh … well maybe tomorrow, Melly. Have to get to my personal trainer. I always meet Pedro in the morning. You know … Pedro Monterez? He trains all the “names”. He's recently been interviewed by
Hi!
magazine.'

‘Has he now? Has he really?' Mel nodded her head and kept eye contact with Poppy. She could not conceal the sarcasm.

‘Sorry. I'm afraid that this can't wait.' She took a deep breath.

‘Has Algy got any problems at home at the moment, Poppy?' she enquired.

She was sure that Poppy appeared slightly startled for a moment, before regaining her composure. ‘No, of course not. He's very creative, which makes him rather sensitive and highly-strung, but it's always like that for the gifted, isn't it? I find it myself. I bleed within if someone cuts the branch of a tree. I cannot bear to watch ‘Children in Need' or look at someone with a disability. It hurts me too much. Algy is just the same, poor mite!'

Mel suddenly realised that she was staring at Poppy with
her mouth lolling open in amazement. She closed it quickly and it seemed that fortunately, tender little Poppy hadn't noticed any sign of incredulity in Mel's expression. Poppy carried on.

‘I'm a bit of a poet, actually. In the Romantic genre … you know … Wordsworth, Keats? Obviously I'm not as good as they are, but I am just completing a collection at the moment and have had some very favourable feedback from a few publishing houses.' She attempted to look modest in an immodest, obvious sort of a way. Mel was speechless … the woman actually believed in the mythical personae she was depicting herself and her demonic son to be. She truly was sick, possibly psychotic. Somehow, Mel was going to have to get through to this deluded individual so that she could put the poor woman on the track to reality. She'd thank her for it one day, she told herself. Yes, of course she would. So she informed Poppy of her son's bullying behaviour towards Michael in the calmest voice she could manage.

‘Well, I'm sure that Algy didn't mean it in that way. Your son's probably just too sensitive. Is he still playing with dolls?' asked Poppy, thinly veiling her bitchy intention with a pseudo-concerned expression. Now, at this point Mel felt that she was hypocritical not to just slam her fist into Poppy's nasty little mouth, or undertake an intricate anal surgical procedure without anaesthetic, but if it was all right for Poppy to be totally insincere then it was for her, too. ‘Slowly, slowly catchy monkey.' She would make sure that the teacher was aware of the situation. She would write an articulate and rational letter to the headmistress and she would take Michael to boxing lessons. There was absolutely no point in confronting Poppy with the truth about her offspring because she was obviously too stupid to understand.

‘Well, if you could just talk to him about it,' she suggested. ‘As Algy is so sensitive in nature, he is bound to appreciate your kind guidance. I expect he would be very upset that he
could have hurt Michael. I do hope he can cope when you tell him. Break it to him gently would you? I don't want him to feel hurt that his good intentions have been so misunderstood,' smarmed Mel.

‘Oh, of course,' assured Poppy. ‘Social skills are something children need to learn, don't you think?' It did indeed seem to be of paramount importance to some people. Mel had judged her adversary perfectly. She was turning to leave when Poppy called, ‘Oh … by the way, Mel …'

Oh no …

‘Yes?'

‘I was wondering if I could have a chat with you in the near future about investments. That sort of thing. Perhaps you and Alan, Tarquin and myself could get together in the near future. I'm not sure that our investments are doing that well for us at the moment. We have a lot invested in the Middle East oil fields you see and with the wars going on and on, we're seriously considering moving into something safer. We thought about arms and military equipment. What do you think? Your hubby's something in the City, isn't he?'

Oh, thought Mel, so we do score some points in the social hierarchy after all!

‘Of course,' assured Mel, ‘I'm sure that Alan would be delighted to meet you both. Leave it with me.' She patted Poppy's hand. As expected, this patronising gesture was lost on her.

The kitchen was in complete turmoil when Mel returned home. She felt like walking back out again. At least the dog would get an earlier walk than usual. Mel didn't feel like confronting anyone else this morning. All she wanted to do was to watch a load of crap on the TV, curled up on the sofa. But the nettle had to be grasped and grasped right now. Heartened by the success with Poppy, she felt it probably wise to sort Gordon out there and then.

‘Gordon, can I have a word please?' Aha … Gordon
displayed the same desperate expression she always felt she had when confronted with this phrase.

‘Er … yes, of course, Mrs Simkins … Any problems at all?'

‘Only that you have been in this kitchen for approximately twelve out of at least forty-eight working hours that you were contracted to have worked by now. The kitchen looks like Baghdad and we're sick of eating kebabs and chips. I seriously think we will be facing a humanitarian disaster in this house if it continues much longer and the media may be extremely interested.' Mel liked the use of the veiled threat.

‘I do not understand how you can possibly imagine that this shoddy and tardy workmanship can really be worth the price we're paying.' She was nonchalantly leafing through the
Radio Times
and found a write-up on the consumer programme ‘Cowboys Inc.' She read it with pointed interest, holding it in front of her for Gordon's edification.

‘I am very sorry, Mrs Simkins. Very sorry indeed. Right boys, we have two more days in which to finish this job. How would that be for you, Mrs Simkins! We've had a lot of trouble with trounce lining and silver gizmo plugs. Not to mention bevelled buggers and distals! But I'm sure you understand that.'

‘Well, no … I don't actually. I do not believe that any of those terms mean anything but then I'm only a lay person and you're the expert. All I know is that I feel it is doubtful that you shall be paid in full and that I expect a large discount for the amount of time and trouble caused and of course, to maintain your good reputation,' added Mel sweetly.

Gordon's face expressed all Mel needed to see to reassure her that her message had sunk in. They'd have a new kitchen very soon, she was certain.

23

Iggy Pop was behind the sofa, nose rested on one paw, ear half pricked up, hoping for the words that brought joy to his life. She whispered ‘Walkies' very quietly and immediately Iggy became a frenzied dervish, jumping up at her with tail spinning like the blades of a helicopter. His legs were shaking with excitement. Anyone would think he never had a walk! She wished she could get excited this easily. Ozzie the cat watched the display in disgust. Mel could almost see the think bubble over his head … ‘Dogs! Absolutely pathetic!', as he turned and stalked out of the room with his tail poked haughtily up in the air. When she finally attempted to put Iggy's lead on it was difficult to find the bit of writhing furriness that should have a collar on. The lead got wrapped around all his legs to the point where his lower limbs looked like the pins at the top of a French knitting doll, but he didn't notice. His paws kept moving and his tongue kept licking even when he had trussed himself up on the floor like a chicken. It took a long time to untangle him enough for him to walk. Finally they were out. Iggy pulled and coughed as his collar choked him, but he was totally oblivious to the pain and the lack of oxygen and carried on pulling Mel up the road like a traction engine. She really would have to see about some training for this dog. Perhaps then she wouldn't have tennis elbow. If the dog was hypoxic because he had choked himself, it would make no difference to his brain function, because he was completely mad anyway. Just once it would be nice to go for a sedate and dignified walk, where he could be trusted not to stick his nose in someone's crotch
or take all the food from picnicking families. And just as they had left the grassland of the park behind and embarked upon the busy, traffic-lined road, the dog decided to squat and do a huge runny poo in the middle of the crowded pavement. Yes, she was prepared. Yes, she had a poop scoop and plastic bags but … oh, the misery of trying to clean up sloppy, stinky stuff in front of loads of well-dressed shoppers! People kept almost falling over her as she scrabbled around and Iggy nearly pulled her face down into the mess on several occasions. She let the warm weight drop into the scented nappy sack. Iggy was pulling again before she had time to knot the bag and she was sure everyone was looking at her and her little steaming parcel in utter revulsion. And would you credit it? There wasn't a dog litter bin for what seemed like a mile. She had to pass food shops, designer boutiques and nail bars and even met two friends on her way. She didn't want to seem rude so she stopped and chatted superficially for long enough to be amicable but short enough for the smell from the contents of the sack not to have insulted their nostrils. All the while, Iggy was being extremely friendly in the most disinhibited of ways just when everyone seemed to have a dress on … well, the women anyway. A couple of chaps were even wearing kilts. Why, oh why? By the time Mel was dragged over the threshold, she was mortified beyond belief and never wanted to be seen in public again. Seriously, if she even went out of the door in future, she would have to wear a comedy beard and a paper bag on her head. Ozzie opened one eye and peered at them both. Mel looked in the mirror and saw what he saw … a deranged-looking, sweaty, red-faced mad woman with hair partly plastered to her head and partly sticking up on end. Iggy seemed totally unperturbed by the whole affair. He lunged at his water bowl, sloshed water all over the room with his great lolling tongue, climbed into his basket, circled it several times, then collapsed in a contented and satisfied flump.

The boys were hard at it in the kitchen. There seemed to have been more progress in the past two hours than in the past fourteen days. This, at least, lifted her spirits a little, but she decided that crawling under the bed covers for an hour's siesta was the only way she could recover from her morning ordeal and be human enough to cope with the children after school. She was just dropping into that lovely snoozy phase when the phone rang. Normally, she'd have put it on answer phone, but she'd forgotten in her post-walkie mortification period. It rang on and on … in the end she thought she'd better answer it because it might be something more important than a cold call from a double glazing company. ‘Yep,' she answered, non-committally, just in case she had to pretend to be some religious maniac from a strange sect to put said caller off.

‘Mel, it's Alan. I'm going to be late tonight. Big Swinging Dick insists we all go out on the town with him for some team bonding.'

‘You're going out tonight. Gosh that's a bloody surprise, Alan! Fine … well you have a marvellous time out on the piss with your lovely mates! Suppose this means you want me to give your dinner to the dog again, does it?'

‘Oh Mel, love, don't be like that. I've told you what's at stake. We talked about it for hours in the garden. It's just going to be extra late tonight. Probably won't be back until three or four tomorrow morning. Most of the guys are booking into a very swanky hotel, but I would rather come home.'

‘What? You want to come home when you could be entertained by the entire population of top-class prostitutes in a swanky hotel? Oh, I am honoured. Is Big Swinging Dick paying for all this frivolity then?'

‘His name is actually Brent Scheissgesicht.'

‘It really helps to learn that fact, Alan. I feel as if I know him already,' Mel replied. ‘OK, well obviously you chaps must cavort around like a bunch of morons and if you have
enough to drink you won't be able to get it up no matter what these amazing nubile beauties do anyway, so why should I see this as a threat!? Who is buying the Krug tonight then?'

‘Well, you know how it is. We've got to do plenty of buying because it is the accepted way of showing the others how well we're doing. Phil says that it is of paramount importance for my future life in banking that I invest in plenty of the best bubbly…' Alan didn't sound convinced by this but Mel knew from past experience that this was indeed how these people progressed up the career ladder. One did not just use one's credit card to buy the crowd Marks and Spencer champagne, these little jollies involved taking out a loan secured on your house and possibly your life in order to throw as much Bolly and Krug down your bosses' and colleagues' throats as was possible before they fell over. Not to mention ensuring a bountiful supply of Columbian marching powder to counteract the effect of the booze and bonking prostitutes into the early hours. It wasn't testosterone which bounced off the walls at these events, it was paranoid, stressy, out-of-their-head people. And what was really terrifying was that these same people were in charge of the economies of the entire Western world. God help us all, thought Mel. It was utterly stupefying that the cash spent on just one of these jollies could pay for at least half of an MRI scanner for a hospital. It was certainly a very weird world.

‘It's OK, Alan,' Mel soothed. ‘I do understand. I just think it's so totally outrageous that people who act like this get to the top in this world, not the ones who save lives, care for people or keep the sewers flowing.'

‘We'll go on holiday soon, babe. We'll all relax together. Thanks for understanding. I'll see you in the morning, OK?'

‘Hmmph. OK. Well, if I get a nasty rash or some uncomfortable warts down there in the next few weeks you'd better watch out! That's all I can say. Leave them alone … you don't know where they've been, OK? Just a bit of friendly
advice which could make your future easier to bear, that's all, Alan. Look after yourself, don't be sick in the helicopter and don't sing when you get back!'

So Mel was left wondering how she was going to get through yet another night watching the TV, after the kids had gone to bed. She was not, repeat not, going to sit like some sad thing, stuffing crisps, olives and pickled onions down her throat washed down with gallons of gin like she normally did. Her stomach was already flipping over the top of her waistbands like an extra apron. It was actually starting to look like she was wearing her bottom on her front. No, she was not doing that. A thought popped into her head … Kelly, Rosa, Imogen, Kasha … she would call them over and they could get drunk together … maybe doing each others' facials like when they were teenagers. She could make some healthy snacks and get some diet mixer drinks and they could all indulge but feel saintly! Yep. She'd pick up the kids and suggest it to the girls at the school at the same time. What an absolute brainwave. She staggered into the kitchen with her make-up spread across her face from dozing on the pillow, only to trip over one of the kitchen workmen who was bent over behind the door, hammering something. When she and the builder had recovered from the shock she gazed in awe at the kitchen … because at last it was indeed a kitchen!

BOOK: The Meltdown of a Banker's Wife
12.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Real Ultimate Power by Robert Hamburger
The Green Lady by Paul Johnston
Hush Money by Susan Bischoff
The Last Queen by C.W. Gortner
Spelldown by Karon Luddy
Love at First Bite by Susan Squires