Young Wives' Tales (31 page)

‘I can’t take all the credit,’I say, which is no word of a lie but gives the impression that I could perhaps take some of the credit and I’m just being modest. I begin to dole out healthy-sized beakers of punch to the adults. ‘Is that the doorbell? Do you think it is likely to be kids trick or treating already?’

I’m mildly irritated. I haven’t had time to arrange the treats on the pumpkin plate that I bought last year especially for said purpose. Why don’t I have the time to do anything properly and elegantly any more?

‘It’s not trick or treaters,’calls Peter from the hall. ‘It’s just the twins.’

‘The twins?’I didn’t invite them. Last week I saw just about enough of them to last me a lifetime.

Peter bustles the boys down into the kitchen. Henry is dressed as a wizard, Sebastian as a little devil. It suits him. I can see in an instant that the costumes are handmade and not by the au pair; they don’t have an au pair. Rose is right behind them. Oh God, he didn’t invite her too, did he?

It’s always an awkward moment when we find
ourselves in confined spaces, particularly with people we have in common. Luke and Connie are overly nice to Rose so that she doesn’t feel betrayed that they are still friends with me, which I find irritating and unnecessary after all this time. They fling their arms around her and comment that she looks wonderful. It’s a trifle nauseating, although, it pains me to admit it, she does look reasonable. New haircut and new clothes are in evidence. Has she lost weight? Is she wearing make-up?

‘I can’t stay,’says Rose. I hadn’t heard anyone ask her to. ‘It’s very nice of you to invite the boys over mid-week,’she adds.

She’s making a point. She doesn’t think Peter sees enough of them considering we all live very close to one another, despite the fact that we took them on a week’s holiday just last week. We never get any credit for the things we do manage. Just criticism for the occasional lapse.

I beam broadly. ‘They are always welcome. After all, it’s their home too,’I say to annoy her.

‘No, it’s not.’She looks directly at me for the first time. Normally she prefers to avoid my eye. I’m not too sure as to why. I don’t have the power to turn her into stone. Believe me, if I had, she’d know it by now.

Luke picks up the wicker basket of cakes and offers her one.

‘No, thank you. I’m not a fan of shop-bought cakes,’she says. How did the she-devil know they were shop-bought? ‘Besides, I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

‘No doubt you have somewhere special to go,’I comment. Under my breath I add, ‘after all, it
is
Hallowe’en.’

She hears me, which isn’t a bad thing. But from the filthy look that Peter fires in my direction I fear he did too, which is a bad thing. I really would be more magnanimous in my victory, if only I felt victorious.

‘I’ve a date, actually,’says Rose, and then like the witch that she surely is, she turns on her heel and vanishes.

With her she takes quite a lot of the party spirit.

The children stuff themselves on fizzy drinks and cakes and become hyper. I don’t bother to try to get Auriol to stick with water. I haven’t the energy for the battle, and besides, Connie won’t gossip about my failing. The children scream and behave daftly, as expected, but the adults are much more subdued. We munch our way through the soup and pie and it’s all delicious; compliments are duly given to Eva but the atmosphere is tainted. Although we make reasonable headway into the punch, none of us appears the least bit merry. It’s amazing that Rose can ruin a party even when she’s not at it.

Connie and I escape the hot house by offering to drag the kids to two or three neighbouring houses to trick or treat. We leave Luke in charge of Flora and Peter in charge of the bag of jelly lollypops (bought from Harrods, delivered to my office by courier). I haven’t bothered to put them on the pumpkin plate. There’s not much point, everyone knows I’m not perfect.

As the door slams behind us the kids dash ahead and straight up the path of our neighbour.

‘That was a million laughs,’I comment to Connie.

‘Well, you didn’t help get the evening off to a glorious start, did you?’she points out with best-friend killer honesty. ‘Why can’t you be more pleasant to Rose? She’s never done anything to hurt you.’

‘Hasn’t she?’

‘No, she hasn’t, Lucy. She’s lovely. Everyone knows she is.’

And that’s why I can’t be more pleasant to her.

‘You could just try being polite. Peter would appreciate it. Why do you complicate things?’

‘Some things are just irresistible, Connie. You know that,’I reply.

I feel chastised by Connie’s appeal and worse, I know that once all the guests have gone, I am going to hear more of the same from Peter.

‘So who is her date with?’

‘A guy called Rob, I think.’

‘Where did she meet him? Stamp club?’

‘No.’

‘Did she place an advert?’I ask meanly. Well, honestly, Connie can’t expect me to believe that after six barren years men have suddenly started to beat a path to her door, not without some provocation.

‘What do you care, Lucy,’says Connie. And by her tone it’s clear she isn’t going to say any more on the subject. She’s fiercely loyal to Rose. I feel very alone.

*

It’s after ten by the time we manage to get Auriol and the boys to bed. They are jacked up on sweets and I don’t have the energy to stem the flow, so when I notice Henry smuggle a tube of Smarties under his pillow all I say is, ‘Don’t forget to clean your teeth.’I close the door on them, take a deep breath and go in search of Peter. I might as well face the music.

He’s sitting in his study; he has a large tumbler of whisky in his hand and his eyes are closed. I watch him from the doorway and my chest tightens with love. I still adore him. Even though nowadays we are cross with one another more often than not and even though I know he’s about to scold me as though I am a child, I still worship him. Always have. Always will. So why isn’t it simpler?

‘I know you’re there,’he says without opening his eyes.

‘I can’t deny it.’

‘Did you have a good night?’he asks. His tone is flat.

‘Not really.’

‘No. I thought not.’

‘You?’

‘No.’

‘Still, the children seemed to enjoy themselves and that was the point,’I say with forced joviality.

‘Yes, I think they did. Although the boys are not babies any more. They’ll soon pick up on your antagonism towards their mother unless you can find a way to keep it in check. For that matter Auriol will too. You were hardly a shining example of generosity of spirit tonight, were you?’

I remain silent. I hate it when he behaves like a schoolteacher, my father or God. Especially when he has a point.

‘Why can’t you be nicer to her?’he asks.

How long has he got? ‘It’s not personal. It’s my sense of humour,’I lie. ‘You know I have a wicked streak.’

‘Yes, I do,’he confirms.

How can I tell him that the reason I find it hard to be nice to Rose is because I think she is always judging me and finding me lacking. She saps my confidence as no other soul on this earth has ever been able to do. Everything about her is a condemnation of me. Her flat, sensible shoes chastise my strappy Manolo Blahniks. Her untrammelled hair reprimands my carefully coiffured look – she might as well wear a sign around her neck declaring that spending £250 on highlighting every month is a mortal sin. Her home-cooked organic meals declare that the convenience foods that I have to resort to on occasion are practically poisonous. Besides, everybody is nice to Rose. She doesn’t need me to be nice to her too.

‘Poor Lucy,’says Peter. His tone is full of genuine concern and a little bit of sadness. He knows why I can’t be nice to her. I have to keep making the snide comments about her weight and her tediously dull nature, lest he forgets. Peter loved her once. It is possible that he could love her again. No doubt if the entire situation was reversed Rose would be nice to me. Of course she would, and that irritates me too. I’m not as good a person as she is.

I fling myself on top of Peter. He opens his eyes and stares at me. The intensity is a little overwhelming when he brushes a strand of hair behind my ear and asks, ‘What are you scared of, Luce?’

‘Me? Nothing. I’m never scared,’I reply automatically.

‘No, seriously. What are you scared of?’he pursues.

Before Peter I feared very little in this world, virtually nothing. But now I have all sorts of fears. I fear how much I love him and I fear that he doesn’t love me as much as I love him, or as much as the day he met me, or as much as he loved Rose. But my biggest fear is that I might stop loving him. If I ever stop loving him the world has no purpose, no sense. We stay silent for many minutes. Peter gently strokes my back and continues to stare into my eyes. I begin to feel self-conscious. I haven’t checked my make-up since applying it this morning. And when I weighed myself yesterday I was two pounds heavier than last time I checked. I wonder if I feel heavier to Peter. Am I going to give him a dead leg by sitting on his knee?

‘You’re crying,’he says.

I am? The shame.

‘Peter, please don’t stop loving me,’I blurt, answering his question, albeit indirectly. ‘Even when I’m horrible.’

‘I won’t. We’re forever, Lucy. You know that.’

But he probably once said forever to Rose too, didn’t he? Talk’s cheap. I must look unconvinced because Peter adds, ‘I’ll always love you, even though you
are the most malicious bitch in town and you don’t deserve it.’

He grins as he says this; his wide, sexy, usually irresistible grin. I know he’s trying to make a joke. It’s the kind of thing I used to say about myself. But right now I consider his ugly comments offensive in the extreme. I could rip his head off with my bare hands or bite off his bollocks and spit them in his eye. It takes every ounce of self-control I have for me to stand up and walk away without kicking him.

‘I have to be up very early tomorrow. I think it makes sense for me to sleep in the spare room. I don’t want to disturb you,’I say calmly.

‘Oh, don’t be like that,’he says, seeing through my transparent excuse as I’d wanted him to. I want to reject him but I don’t want to have to be above board about it. It’s complicated.

‘I’m not being like anything,’I reply. I make a dignified exit.

‘What about a goodnight kiss?’he calls after me.

I pretend not to hear him. If I kiss him and he uses his tongue, I’m not sure I’d resist the temptation to bite it off and then swallow it. A consequence he should have considered before making those ill-advised comments.

‘I’m sure it’s not your sort of thing,’said Craig. Underselling his offer even while he was trying to tempt us. ‘You probably have cooler places to go but I could do with the extra pairs of hands, if you could spare the time.’

Tom shrugged and said he’d check with Jenny but he imagined it would be all right, they’d both go along.

‘Count me in,’I said immediately.

‘Really?’Craig couldn’t hide his surprise.

‘Too right, mate. I love fireworks night, always have.’

I love the smell of hot dogs and onions in buns, I love drunken kids messing around on waltzers at the dodgy fairs that erupt from nowhere. I love the smell of burning. It’s an exciting night, dangerous and colourful.

‘Our school bonfire night will be a relatively small affair. A number of local schools share a sports ground and we normally all chip in together to build a bonfire in the field. There will be a couple of fairground attractions but no death wheel or rollercoaster.’

‘I get it. It will be more coconut shies and hook-a-duck,’I said.

‘Yes.’

‘Sounds great.’Tom gave me a sly wink over the top of his pint glass. He hadn’t forgotten about Connie. Craig, who has a more innocent mind, had.

As we walk to the school sports ground I can’t deny a definite feeling of excitement and anticipation and it isn’t the bangers that I’m getting worked up about. It’s freezing cold and drizzling, but that’s traditional. It’s only 6 p.m. but fireworks belonging to the impatient occasionally flash in the sky, bloom and disappear. As a kid I thought fireworks were like little spells, tiny shots of magic exploding into the air, and I get a similar sense now.

The crowd, as expected, is predominantly families. I start to scan the masses for her face. There are dads carrying kids on their shoulders. There are grandparents fussing over the cost of the neon antennae and flashing wands that the touts are enticing the children with. There’s quite a show of teenagers. The girls are dressed inappropriately for the season, wearing short skirts and low-cut shirts; they refuse to fasten their coats no matter how much their mams nag. The lads stand around smoking, sharing a can or two and cussing in loud voices. It’s familiar.

Jenny, Tom and I check in with Craig. His school is not in charge of anything too grand, at his own insistence. He’s worked behind the scenes for months now
but he didn’t want to light the first firework. His staff is in charge of the various toffee-apple stores that are dotted around the field.

Having asked us to lend a hand, he’s now insisting that everything is under control. It’s easy to doubt him, as he’s looking extremely harassed and kids are nicking toffee-apples whenever his back is turned. Tom, Jen and I agree to see him later and we kill some time in the funfair. We make ourselves dizzy on the waltzers and I prove that I’m a dab hand at arcade games and shooting ranges, which just goes to show my youth wasn’t wasted.

I keep a constant eye out for Connie and am rewarded when I spot her in the queue for cups of tea.

‘I’ll go and get us all a cuppa. Leave you two lovebirds alone for a while,’I tell Tom and Jen, then I quickly disappear into the crowd before they can offer to come with me.

‘Hello, Connie.’I join her in the queue.

‘What are you doing here, John?’She sounds annoyed and panicked in roughly equal proportions, which surprises me – we’d left it friendly enough after our day out. Connie is wearing a pair of the neon disco boppers, which makes me smile. Sometimes she’s so uncool she almost circles back in on herself and becomes cool again.