Coming Clean (22 page)

“I get that, but if he found out you’d been snooping, have you any idea the ruckus it would cause?”

“I know. It was a stupid thing to even think of doing.”

“You’re not wrong, ’cos now you’re in deep shit. Mum saw you and she’s called nine-one-one.”

“Fuck. What do I do?”

“OK, get in there and tell her you were checking the brickwork. Pretend the pointing needs redoing or something. But for Chrissake do it quick. The police are on their way.”

A burst of static did little to block out the sound of approaching sirens.

Dear Sophie, thank you for your thank-you. So glad you liked the hat. Yes, those earflaps can be really useful when the wind starts to bite.

I’m e-mailing because a thought occurs. As you know Amy is about to enter puberty. This is not only a period of rapid growth and development, but it is often the time when young people start to reflect on their sexuality. I am sure you agree that it is important for Amy to know that, straight or gay, bisexual or pansexual, she will be loved, accepted and respected by all of us. It struck me that you might find it difficult to have such an intimate conversation with her—in which case I am more than prepared to step into the breach. Do let me know your thoughts.

All best,

Roz

PS: Maybe we could get together for coffee sometime?

I couldn’t believe it. The woman was incorrigible. Was there no way to get through to her? I was tempted to reply as follows:
You arrogant, patronizing, condescending bitch. Butt the fuck out of my life or I will be forced to run you over.

It was Saturday morning and Greg had just picked up the kids. As usual, he was taking them back to FHF’s place. Then they were all going out to lunch. I thought about calling and asking him to turn back. He needed to see this e-mail. But I knew what he’d say—that I shouldn’t confront FHF because it was important to keep the peace for the sake of Amy and Ben. Then he would promise me, as he always did, that he would deal with her. Sod that. A lot of good “dealing” with her had done. I decided not to call him. Instead my fingers began flying over the keyboard.

Roz,

Once again you have crossed a boundary and interfered in matters that don’t concern you. As Amy’s parents, Greg and I will decide when and how to confront issues concerning our daughter’s personal development. If I find out that you have broached the subject of Amy’s sexuality—or indeed discussed any other private intimate matters with her—I will prevent you from having any further contact with her.

Sophie

“Stick that up your matriarchal society and smoke it,” I muttered. Then I pressed “send.”

In the end I decided to forward FHF’s e-mail along with my reply to Greg. I realized he would accuse me of declaring war on her—and he’d be right. But I didn’t give a damn. If there was going to be a war, then bring it on.

I was driving to Annie’s, ostensibly to have coffee, but really to meet her newly hired housekeeper, Kathleen, and give her “the once-over” (Annie’s phrase, not mine), when I got a text from Phil:
Disaster averted. Managed to convince Mum and police there was no pervert and that it was just me checking brickwork.

I pulled up outside Annie’s and texted back:
Thank God. Now Betsy doesn’t have to visit you in Big House. Meanwhile stop being such an arse. Hugs and kisses, S XX.

Annie’s front door was opened by a busty, bustling woman I took to be Kathleen.

“You must be Sophie,” she said, all smiles and top o’ the mornin’ Irish accent. “Oime Kath-leen. Come in. Come in. I’ve heard so much about you. Terrible thing with your husband. Terrible thing. But the good Lord never sends us more pain than we can cope with and that’s a fact.”

“You think?”

“I do. I do. Having said that, my knees are giving me terrible gip just now. I’m a martyr to the pain. To tell you the truth, I could really do with the Good Lord easing up a bit, but at my age I suppose you have to expect it.”

Kathleen led me into the kitchen. Freddie and Tom were painting at the table. Annie was spooning coffee into the French press. I gave her a hello hug and said hi to the boys.

“OK, you two,” Annie said. “What do you say to Sophie for the wonderful LEGO sets she sent you for Christmas?”

“Fank you,” Tom mumbled, engrossed in his painting.

His big brother was more forthcoming. “Yeah, it was great. Dad helped me build this massive monster. Then Mum trod on it.”

“Oh, come on, Freddie,” his mother said, pushing the plunger down in the coffeemaker. “It was an accident. You left it in the hall for me to trip over.”

“Yeah, but you still destroyed it.”

“Now, now,” Kathleen broke in. “Your mammy’s already said it was an accident. Let that be an end to it.” She turned to me. “Don’t you think Annie has the most beautiful house? And she did it all herself.”

“I know. She’s amazingly talented.”

“You should see my room. It’s like something from one of those TV home makeover shows.”

“Oh, stop it, you two,” Annie said, coloring up.

Just then Freddie knocked his plastic beaker of paint water onto the floor.

“Oops.”

“Not to worry, darlin’,” Kathleen soothed. “These things happen.” She picked up a roll of paper towels off the table, tore off a wad and got down on her knees, cursing the Good Lord as she went. A few seconds later the puddle of gray water was gone. Kathleen struggled to her feet and let out a loud
oomph
. “There you go. All done. Now, then, Annie, what do you think these two would like for their lunch? How’s about I make you some of my special homemade burgers. Big-man food, that’s what growing lads like these need.”

“With chips?” Freddie said.

“Absolutely. And I make them from scratch, too. None of your frozen rubbish.”

“Actually,” Annie said, “I’m out of spuds.”

Kathleen said it was no problem and suggested she and the boys take a walk to the supermarket. “And maybe we’ll stop off at the park afterwards. They can sail Tom’s new boat on the pond.”

“Yay.”

Tom went to find his boat.

“Can I bring my ladybug?” Freddie asked.

“Yes, but only if you promise to let it out of that matchbox when we get to the park. Surely the poor thing will die of suffocation, and you don’t want to be killing ladybugs.”

“I wouldn’t kill it. Plus you don’t usually see ladybugs in winter, so it’s really special. I’ve put airholes in the box and it’s got leaves to eat.”

“That’s good, because killing them is a sin. Ladybugs are the spirit of the Virgin Mary.”

“So ladybugs have the ghost of Jesus’s mother inside them?” Freddie was looking none too happy.

“Something like that,” Kathleen said.

I was waiting for Annie to say something to her about not frightening the boys with talk of ghosts, but she didn’t.

After they’d gone, Annie and I sat drinking coffee at the kitchen table.

“So what do you think of Kathleen?” Annie said. “Freddie and Tom adore her. She’s so maternal.”

“She’s definitely that.”

“I just know that when I start work, the boys are going to be fine with her. I’ve already let her do the school run a couple of times. And Rob loves her because she irons his pants and socks and feeds him second and third helpings of Irish stew. He says it reminds him of visits to his gran in Dublin when he was a kid. I have to admit the stew she cooked the other night was magnificent. You should taste her dumplings.”

“She seems perfect,” I said. “Exactly what you’re looking for. But I have to say that remark she made about ladybugs being the spirit of the Virgin Mary bothered me slightly.”

“You’re kidding. And I thought I was the worrier. All Rob’s Irish family go on like that—particularly the old ones. Kids learn to take it with a pinch of salt.”

“Really? OK, if you say so.”

Annie told me to stop fretting and topped up my coffee mug.

“I’ve got something to show you,” I said, unfastening my bag and handing her a printout of my latest e-mail from FHF.

Annie took a sip of coffee and started reading. “I don’t believe this. Right. That’s it. There’s nothing else for it. The woman has to die.”

“Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to me.”

“I mean, where does she get off on being such a bitch? Have you spoken to Greg?”

I said that I’d forwarded the e-mail to him and was waiting for him to get back to me.

“Well, if you ask me, it’s about bloody time he put her in her place.”

“I know, but he clearly has a problem confronting her.”

“You need to have another talk with him. He has no right to let her treat you like this.”

“Well, if he doesn’t stand up to her, I will. If it comes to it, I’ll talk to my lawyer. It might be possible to keep her away from the kids.”

“Good for you.”

I swallowed some coffee. “Oh, FYI, I’m meeting Huck again tonight.” I explained about Greg wanting him to write a piece for the
Vanguard
and Judy agreeing to work on a PR campaign.

“Oh-kay . . . and this isn’t a date, just like last time wasn’t a date?”

“Correct. He just wants to thank me for helping him.”

Annie raised an eyebrow and said that, on second thought, she would wait a few days before letting me have the fiver she owed me.

•   •   •

A
s usual, the Taste of the Raj—Formica-topped tables, bring your own booze—was packed with young medics from the local hospital down the road. While we queued for a table, Huck said—what must have been for the third or fourth time since he’d picked me up—how grateful he was for everything I’d done.

“Huck, you have to stop thanking me,” I said, laughing. “All I did was e-mail a few people.”

It turned out that Judy wasn’t the only one who had come through. The night before Greg had called him and suggested he write a first-person opinion piece about the Princess Margaret houses and how successive governments had failed the families living there.

It went without saying that I was delighted for Huck that Greg had called, but at the same time I felt oddly sad. Years before, when Huck sent me postcards from India, Greg used to get jealous. My husband’s behavior irritated me, but at the same time I knew it was a sign of how much he loved me. Back then it would have taken one hell of a lot of persuasion on my part to get Greg to lift a finger to help Huck. Now that had all changed. Greg had moved on. He had no feelings left for me and didn’t give a damn that Huck and I were back in touch.

The BBC and Channel 4 hadn’t made contact—at least not yet—but as Huck said, bearing in mind he hadn’t expected anybody to take an interest, two hits out of four was pretty amazing.

After fifteen minutes, a waiter finally showed us to a table. “It’s so good speaking to people like Greg and Judy—and you, of course,” Huck said. “Most people are so hard on the kids we try to help. They think the poor should be able to pull themselves up, but hardly anybody understands that poverty isn’t simply about bad housing and going without stuff. It’s about going without love. It’s about going without respect. It’s about not being valued. It’s about being raised surrounded by violence and abuse.”

I was enjoying listening to him. He spoke with a passion that drew you in. There was something enormously sexy about that.

“So, changing the subject,” he said, “how are things at work? Do you think this strike is going to happen?”

“Pretty much,” I said, picking up a menu. “Unless Shirley Tucker Dill does a U-turn, which seems highly unlikely. What with everything else, it’s a pressure I just don’t need right now.”

“Meaning that you’re still struggling with the breakup with Greg?”

“Actually, it’s something—or rather someone—connected to the breakup rather than the breakup itself.” I hadn’t meant to tell him about FHF, but despite having off-loaded to Annie, and later on to Gail, I was still fuming.

We ordered some samosas and chana chat to start, followed by chicken ginger and lamb keema. The waiter brought us some glasses and a bottle opener and Huck and I started on the Cobra
beers we’d bought on the way over. For the next fifteen minutes I knocked back the beer and let rip about FHF while he listened, his expression alternating between amazement and concern.

“How do you get through to somebody like that?” I said finally.

“I’m not sure you do. She’s a controlling, spiteful woman with a bee in her bonnet about her superior mothering skills. Wouldn’t surprise me to discover that she was actually a pretty crap mother.”

“You reckon? Funny, the thought never occurred to me.”

“A great intellect doesn’t necessarily equal a great mother. I wonder what she’s hiding.”

I decided that I had monopolized the conversation for long enough. “So, how’s it going living back with your mum and dad?”

“To tell you the truth, it’s getting pretty unbearable. They’re both retired, so I’m all they’ve got to focus on. I’ve started flat hunting, but on my salary there’s not much I can afford.”

A thought immediately occurred to me. “Don’t suppose you fancy renting my attic room. If we vote to go on strike, I’ll be desperate for some extra money. It’s pretty big and it’s got an en suite—admittedly, it was installed in the mid-eighties and I accept you might be put off by brown porcelain and imitation gold taps . . .”

“Say no more. It sounds perfect.”

“But you haven’t even seen it. You might hate it.”

“OK, so when can I come around?”

“Well, right now it’s full of junk. Why don’t we say Monday night? That’ll give me time to have a clear out.”

“OK, you’ve got a deal.”

•   •   •

I
spent all of Sunday dejunking the attic room and doing my best to make it look presentable. I managed to disassemble the baby cot that Amy and Ben had both used, ditto the high chair. It was a struggle and I strained muscles I didn’t know I owned doing it, but I just about managed to find space for them, plus the baby bath and the playpen, in one of the eaves’ cupboards. That done, I bagged up the rest of the stuff that was lying around the room. This included piles of old clothes, books, board games and a foot spa (unopened) that Val had bought me five or six birthdays ago.

I cleaned the en suite—the imitation gold taps cleaned up rather well, actually—and vacuumed and dusted. Because we’d only ever used the room to store junk, it contained no furniture—not even a bed. I decided that if Huck wanted to take it, the simplest thing would be to order everything online from Ikea. It would be here the next day.

I’d just put the last bag of rubbish out for the bin men when Greg called. He wanted to know if it would be OK to bring the kids home a bit later than usual. He and FHF had taken them to the science museum and they’d only just gotten back. “Roz and I are about to start dinner. I should get the kids back to you by nine.” So they not only spring cleaned together, they cooked together. Greg really had changed. When we were together, he’d gone through a phase of cooking (and causing chaos in the kitchen) if I was going to be home late, but it had never been an activity we shared. As I imagined them chopping and slicing and sharing a bottle of wine, I couldn’t help feeling jealous.