Young Wives' Tales (51 page)

‘Then why did you sleep with someone else?’

Rose looks me in the eye and her question is delivered without malice or anger, she’s simply bewildered. No doubt when Peter was hers she never had so much as a moment’s discontent. She never wavered, or made mistakes or felt frustrations. She made cakes and other sweet things.

Listening to her tirade against me was painful. Not because I felt unjustifiably vilified but because being so close to broken dreams is entirely miserable. Her list of inconvenient consequences, affronts, insults and pain that my pursuit of love has caused her is sickening. I want to apologize to her that she had to go through so much misery so that I could have Peter and I want to apologize that I didn’t appreciate Peter and Auriol enough to stop myself having meaningless sex with a stranger and bringing this new heap of trouble to her feet, but I can’t. I can’t tell her about my frustrations, jealousies and discontent that led me to such an extreme measure, because all I was kicking back from is, clearly, all that she wants. If I tell her that domesticity was beating the very life out of me I will simply be hurting her more.

I’m not that evil.

Any explanation for my actions that I give must not appear to be a justification, because nothing can justify my betraying Peter. I cannot expect this woman’s pity or sympathy but I do owe her something.

‘I’ve struggled with being a second wife,’I admit. ‘You’re a tough act to follow.’I steal a glance at Rose and see that she’s astonished that I’ve confessed as much. ‘I did try my best.’

‘And your best has always been so damned sensational, hasn’t it, Lucy?’

‘Not when it came to being a mother, it seems. I’m really trying now, Rose. I want to be a better mum and wife. I really do. I’m never going to do it the way you
do.’Rose shoots me an agitated look. I rush to reassure her. ‘Not because there’s anything at all wrong with the way you mother, actually the opposite. I was – I am – jealous of you. I’ll never be as good in the same way. But I’m trying to find my way. I
am
trying, I’m turning over a new leaf. And this is not the moment to bring my family down like a card house. I had sex with someone else. It’s over. He’s gone. It meant nothing.’

‘It might mean everything.’

‘Only if you tell Peter. Otherwise it still means nothing. Please don’t tell him, Rose.’

‘And that’s it, is it, Lucy? Your new leaf is going to be based on more secrets and lies. If I keep quiet the problem hasn’t gone away, it’s just hibernating.’

‘I don’t think I have any choice, Rose.’

‘Yes, you do. You know you do. You, more than most, always have a choice.’

The bell rings, signalling that the play is about to start. We both bolt for the door. I don’t know whether she’s going to talk to Peter about Joe or not, but right this second there’s a little girl dressed in a green rollneck jumper, brown tights and carrying two prickly branches who needs to see me in the audience, so we can’t discuss this for another moment.

Of course I cry. The boys’performances as villagers are fairly perfunctory but that does not stop great big fat tears sliding down my cheeks and splashing into my lap. I take some comfort from the fact that there are few dry eyes in the house. Not many parents can steel themselves against the sight of earnest children belting out ‘Oh Little Town of Bethlehem’.

In the last month or so I feel I have been doused and wrung out more often than an old sock on washing day. I have felt despondency, hope, elation, love, anger and just ten minutes ago something nudging up towards pity. I pity Lucy. How extraordinary is that?
She
is jealous of
me
. What a revelation. This knowledge drifts into my consciousness and cushions me in a way much finer emotions have not been able to. I never took so much comfort from biting my tongue and holding on to my self-respect. I never felt consoled as I scrambled on to the moral high ground. Isn’t it strange that something as base as Lucy’s jealousy can placate
me. It goes to show I’m not as purely delightful as I’ve always thought I was. Pitying her is a bonus. I feel quite light-headed.

But even while I pity her, I do not like her. And I owe her nothing at all. My emotions are a jumble and so it is unsurprising that the squishy red lips lisping out the well-rehearsed lines that ‘There’s no room in the inn,’Fran’s (rather good) enactment of a weary Mary and the terrified shepherds facing the angel Gabriel cause me to blub.

The surprise is I’ve forgotten my tissues. Darn. I always carry a small packet, how could I have been so careless? I quietly sniffle and snuffle, hoping I’m not attracting too much attention. It transpires I am, when suddenly not one but two handkerchiefs are proffered at the same time.

Peter is sitting in front of me. He turns and holds out a handkerchief. It would be symbolic if it was one that I had given him on behalf of the boys on their first Fathers’day, but it is not. I bought his handkerchiefs from BHS; the one he’s offering is Paul Smith. The other handkerchief is offered from my right. I look to see who is making the donation. Craig.

I hadn’t noticed that I’d slipped into a seat right next to him. Because Lucy and I were battling out our differences in Year Two’s classroom we nearly missed the beginning of the show. Flustered, I rushed into the hall and flung myself into the first available seat I spotted. I wonder if he thinks I did it on purpose. I have no idea whose handkerchief I should take. There’s no
etiquette for this particular situation. I grab both and blow my nose noisily, on each, in turn.

When the performance is over the children file in untidy lines back to their classrooms. A few brave kids break rank to rush into the audience to soak up their parents’praise, and to get and give an excited hug. I’m stunned when Henry and Sebastian are among this number. They fling themselves at me and tuck under an arm each.

‘Well done, boys. Stellar performances,’I gush.

I hope they can’t see I’ve been crying. They’ll be embarrassed and this spontaneous show of affection will be retracted instantly.

‘Oh, Mum, we didn’t have to do nothing,’says Henry.

‘Didn’t have to do
anything
,’I correct.

‘Hi Dad,’says Sebastian casually, as he spots Peter.

‘Your mum is right, you were great villagers. Lots of realism when you were pretending to be asleep,’says Peter with a wink. ‘Good costumes,’he adds.

‘Mum made them,’says Sebastian. ‘Even the sandals. They’re way past cool, aren’t they?’

‘Way past,’confirms Peter.

I feel uncomfortable with all this sudden and vocal appreciation. The boys really must be pinning their Christmas gift hopes on me and ditching the possibility of Santa bringing the latest Hot Wheels contraption. I shoo them away and tell them to go back to their classroom to get changed. I turn to Peter.

‘Can I have a word, Peter? It won’t take long.’I don’t meet Lucy’s eye.

We wander along the corridor, away from the noise of the hall. Many of the parents are tucking into their second round of mince pies and mulled wine; others are dashing for the door, keen to get back to the office before their bosses notice their absence.

As I walk along the corridor, decorated with handmade paper chains and snowflakes, I consider how best I should phrase what I have to say.

People think it’s hard when you are left with a couple of screaming babies that have barely settled into a night-time routine, let alone started potty training. That wasn’t the hard bit – Peter hadn’t been around much from the moment they were born anyway. He’d huffed and puffed if he had to do the least little thing. If he bathed them twice a week, he’d expect a medal. The hard bit wasn’t the fact that he didn’t want me – even that I learnt to live with. The hard bit was explaining to the boys why Peter left. They first started asking that tricky question when they were four. Auriol’s age. They came home from school, gobsmacked to discover that most mothers and fathers lived in the same home. They asked, over and over again, why did Daddy leave?

I look at Peter, who is carefully examining a painting of a robin redbreast. I wonder how he would answer that one. What is the correct answer? Because he couldn’t keep it in his trousers? A little explicit for four-year-olds, I fear.

I told them it was because he fell in love with Lucy and Lucy had fallen in love with their daddy. I even went so far as to list Lucy’s many attributes so that it
seemed like a natural thing, and they wouldn’t think of their father as abhorrent. But even though I tried to be careful I couldn’t stop the hurt and fear.

‘He must not like me,’said Henry, in alarm. His little face twisted with pain and confusion.

‘No, darling, he just didn’t like Mummy enough.’This was the most sanitized response I could come up with.

Sebastian started to laugh. ‘Now, you’re joking me, Mummy.’

Henry turned to me, face awash with incredulity and astonishment, ‘But that’s impossible.’

That’s love.

There was weekend after weekend when they begged me not to have to go to Peter’s. It’s boring, they complained. I’d pack up their favourite toys and insist they went. I’d call Peter and tell him to take them to the circus or the fair because I knew they desperately wanted to do these things. And I’d sit alone while Peter and Lucy played happy families, using my sons as a supporting cast. I kept reminding myself of the importance of the boys building a relationship with their daddy.

That’s love.

There are lots of things that nobody ever tells you about having kids. Many new mothers resent the lack of warnings and wander around their homes with a mewing infant in arms, dressed in a spew-spattered dressing-gown and resentfully bewailing that they weren’t forewarned.

Some new mums make up conspiracy theories about existing parents begrudging the freedom childless couples enjoy and assume parents deliberately withhold information, so as to trick others into joining their frazzled ranks. I don’t buy that.

My theory is that the people with kids simply don’t have the time to tell the people without them
everything
. On days when their child has slept, eaten and cooed appropriately they wear a glazed expression akin to a Stepford wife and murmur, ‘It’s wonderful.’But they fail to offer any real insight into the wonderfulness.

On days when babies have refused to sleep, toddlers have peed on carpets and broken neighbours’china, when schoolchildren have sworn, spat or simply refused to acknowledge any rules or guidelines, parents shake their weary heads and mutter, ‘It changes everything, you’ll see.’

But as most days mums really don’t have time to run a comb through their hair, they cannot be expected to carve out the hours required to fully brief expectant parents about the exact nature and extent of that life change.

Indeed, no one warns you that for about five years after giving birth, finding time to go to the bathroom
alone
will rank among life’s greatest luxuries. No one tells you that reliable babysitters are like gold dust. Or that you will dutifully run up and down stairs thirty times a night to nurse a child with a fever, although you are the sort of woman who would struggle to drag themselves to a step class, even one run by George Clooney.

Being a mother means a life of contradictions. No one tells you that children have tiny foibles. A little bop or way of handling a watering can that will reduce you to tears of happiness.

No one tells you that you will vanish. That you’ve never been more important. That you will feel sticky, scruffy and be used as a human trampoline, but that your arms will feel empty if you ever do escape to the shops or an office. You would die for them. You live for them. They take up every moment of your conscious and unconscious mind and more than that.

What is Peter saying now? ‘The boys’costumes are great. Maybe next year you could help out with Auriol’s. Lucy isn’t a seamstress.’

The nerve of him. I stare at this man who was once my be-all and end-all and I almost laugh. He’s looking relaxed and affable. He really doesn’t think there’s anything inappropriate in asking me to help out with making a costume for Auriol, and perhaps there isn’t. She did struggle with those enormous prickly branches today, I felt sorry for her; it can’t have been comfortable. I would have sewn material leaves on to her rollneck jumper.

‘OK,’I nod. And it doesn’t hurt. Helping Auriol – therefore Lucy – doesn’t hurt. In fact, it feels OK. I hand him back his designer handkerchief.

‘Keep it,’he says.

At least until I wash it, is what he means. I smile to myself. Peter could always be a bit overly fussy. This doesn’t hurt me; it amuses me. And I think it’s a bit
of a relief that I’m no longer caught up in a world where BHS handkerchiefs were considered below par. Frankly, there were times when Peter’s snobbery was a little irritating.

He brushes his hair out of his eyes. It’s a familiar gesture. I’m fond of him. I’m mildly irritated by him and fond of him in the same breath. I am not furious with him and I don’t love him. I feel the chains of resentment that I’ve hampered myself with fall from my ankles and arms. I feel weightless.

‘What did you want to talk to me about?’he asks.

‘I was just wondering if it was OK with you for me to take the boys up to north London for Christmas day. Daisy wants to be hostess this year.’

‘Wow, quite a break with tradition for you guys. I know you love Christmas day at your house.’

‘Yes, but Daisy really wants this. I think she’s sick of feeling like the baby and wants to show Mum and Dad that she can cook a great lunch too. Change can be a good thing.’

‘Well, I’ve no problem with the boys going there. They’ll have a great day.’

‘You could stop by in the afternoon if you like, to see them.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. Daisy won’t like Lucy in her house.’

‘I’d make sure Daisy is polite.’He looks unconvinced.

‘I’d make sure Lucy got a warm welcome, as opposed to the one she deserves,’I add with a giggle.

Peter smiles and appreciates my joke. ‘We’ll think about it. Thanks.’