Coming Clean (17 page)

“That’s nonsense. Of course you’re not an appendage. You’re still you.”

“No, I’m not. Do you remember how I was when I worked at the BBC? I thrived on the pressure. I was confident, articulate, never afraid to speak my mind in meetings. It’s you who keeps reminding me that people had me down as the next editor of
The
World at One
. Now I’m this pathetic, insecure person who lives through her children.”

“Annie, I won’t have that. You are anything but pathetic.”

“OK, get this. Last night I couldn’t sleep because I was lying awake fretting about how many playdates the boys have had this term and plotting a mental graph of their popularity rating. I’ve got nothing else to think about apart from them and running around after Rob. My brain feels like it’s turning to mush—like something abandoned at the back of the fridge.”

I took both her hands in mine. “Come on, we all worry about our kids. You worry if they’re as smart as other kids. You worry about how many friends they’ve got. It’s normal. Has it occurred to you that you’re exhausted because it’s Christmas and you need a break?”

Annie shook her head. “It’s not Christmas. I’ve been feeling like this for ages. Maybe I’d be able to cope if it was just the kids making demands, but Rob’s just as bad. Marriage needs to be a partnership of equals, but ours isn’t. Because he earns the money, Rob is the self-appointed senior partner. He has absolutely no respect for what I contribute to our family.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. He just takes you for granted, that’s all. The only person who’s lost respect for you is you.”

She wiped her eyes again. “Soph, do you think I should go back to work? You went back when your kids were still babies.”

“Yes, because it was the right thing for me. That’s not to say I haven’t had to live with the guilt. You even think that my working helped destroy my marriage.”

“I never said that.”

“No, not in so many words. Annie, you’ve always believed that while the boys are young, your place is with them.”

“I know, and deep down I still believe it, but the thing is, being at home with kids is so bloody boring. I know Tom’s at school and Freddie’s at playgroup, so in many ways I’m over the worst, but it still feels like I spend my entire life responding to their wants and needs. Do you know what I did yesterday? I counted how many times they called out ‘Mummee,’ and do you know how many it was?”

“I don’t know. Twenty?”

“Fifty-seven.”

I admitted that did sound like a lot.

“Rob says I’ve made a rod for my own back. He says I’m too available and that I should tell them to bugger off occasionally. I suspect he’s got a point. Anyway, now they’re hyper because it’s almost Christmas and I’m constantly refereeing fights. I’m worried that Tom’s developing violent tendencies. When I asked him a few weeks ago what he wanted for Christmas, he said, ‘Stuff that explodes.’ This from the child who was raised on
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
and
The Gruffalo
. I make sure they’re not exposed to violence on TV. And when I think back to all the hours I used to spend with him making green eggs and ham out of Play-Doh . . .”

“Hon, listen to me. Everything you are feeling is normal. Being at home with young children is boring. The point is that so few women admit it. It’s one of the last taboos. If we admit that motherhood bores us, what sort of mothers are we?”

“I wanted to be such a great mother.”

“You are a great mother. You are an amazing mother. You’ve given so much of yourself to your kids, and by doing that, you’ve created wonderful memories for them.”

“But I’ve failed.”

“How on earth have you failed?”

“I’ve failed because I’m not happy. Staying at home to raise children is supposed to be this fulfilling, joyous experience. And I’m so miserable.”

“That’s because you’re finally admitting that you can’t go on being this human vending machine, constantly dispensing care and attention. You have needs, too, and they have to be met.”

“So do you think I should go back to work?”

“That’s not for me to say. Only you know that. What I do think is that you need a proper rest and a break from the boys.”

“But I only just had a break. Rob and I were in China for two weeks.”

“That was back in the summer. You’re allowed another one. It’s not a crime.”

I’d managed to make her laugh. “I think about going back to work all the time,” she said. “But what’s the point of even trying to get a job in broadcasting? There’s nothing out there, and even if there were, I’ve been out of action for so long I’m not sure anybody would take me on.”

“Might still be worth putting out some feelers at the BBC. You must have loads of contacts.”

“OK, let’s imagine for the sake of argument that I got a job. What then? What about the boys? What about Rob?”

“I guess with two salaries coming in, you’d get a housekeeper. Talk to Gail. She thinks housekeepers save marriages.”

“Actually, that’s not so daft,” Annie said, smiling. “She may have a point, but even then it would feel like I’d be letting the boys down.”

“If it turns out that working makes you feel better about yourself, then you won’t be letting them down. Kids need parents who are happy and fulfilled, not miserable and resentful. But like I said, it has to be your decision.”

“I know.”

I could see the panic on her face.

Six thirty a.m., Christmas morning

“J
ingle bells, Batman smells, Robin’s run away. It’s no fun when his smelly bum keeps farting every day. . . .”

I pulled the duvet over my head and tried to ignore my children, who were bouncing on my bed and—in between belting out scatological versions of Christmas songs—demanding to open their presents.

“But can’t we just open one small present each?” Amy whined.

“No,” I said. “You have to wait until your dad gets here. That was the deal.” Greg wasn’t due until nine. A bit of me wished I’d asked him to sleep over last night in the spare room. I’d thought about it, but in the end I’d decided I wasn’t ready. Every time Greg and I spent time together—like at the kids’ multicultural generic holiday play—my emotions began churning and for the next couple of days I felt a bit discombobulated and down. I knew that having their father here on Christmas Day was right for the children. I also knew that I needed to protect my own emotional equilibrium. That meant keeping the time I spent around Greg—particularly in what had been the marital home—to a minimum.

For the umpteenth time I suggested the kids go downstairs and put on
The Muppet Christmas Carol
DVD, which they’d never seen and which I’d bought for the sole purpose of entertaining them until Greg arrived. “I’ll take a shower and then I’ll come down and make pancakes. How’s that?”

“I bet you’ve got us a puppy,” Ben said, landing hard next to my right ear. “To make up for you and Dad splitting up. Dillon in my class said his parents got him a dalmatian when his parents got divorced.”

“They haven’t got us a dog, dummy,” Amy said, climbing into bed with me. “We would have heard it barking.”

“Not if they gave it to the neighbors to look after, double dummy. So when can we get a dog?” My son yanked the duvet off my head. “When can we?”

Finally realizing I had no choice but to embrace the day, I hauled myself into a sitting position. “I’ve told you, it’s just not fair having a dog when we’re out all day—especially now that Klaudia’s gone. Now can we please change the subject?”

“So,” Ben persisted, “you and Dad definitely haven’t got us a puppy, then?”

“Correct. And please will you stop jumping? You’re going to damage the mattress.”

“I’m getting up,” Amy said, sliding out of bed. “I want to put on my glitter nail polish.”

Amy disappeared. Ben carried on bouncing. “But you’ve got me the go-kart I wanted, haven’t you?”

“What? Ben, this is the first time I’ve heard you mention a go-kart. And anyway, have you any idea how much they cost? They’re hundreds of pounds.”

“God, this is going to be such a rubbish Christmas.” He came down hard on his bottom. “I mean, now that you and Dad have split up, you’re meant to spoil us. Dillon’s getting a go-kart for Christmas. And his dad’s taking him and his sister to Disneyland Paris.”

“Good for Dillon. Now will you please go and watch TV and let me get up?”

•   •   •

I
sat on the edge of the apricot plastic bath with its cracked side panel and began brushing my teeth. The eighties bathroom—cheap frosted glass shower cubicle, his and hers sinks (apricot) set into beige marble-effect laminate—had always depressed me. But right now it wasn’t the apricotness, or the mildewed, clogged grot that was making me sad. It was the “his” and “hers” sinks. In particular: the “his.”

The glass shelf above Greg’s sink used to be full of his stuff: toothbrush, electric razor, blades and shaving foam dating back to when he didn’t own an electric razor, nose hair trimmer, dental floss, mouthwash, half-used tubes of Tums, antiperspirant guaranteed to keep his man-pits fresh for forty-eight hours. Now the shelf was empty. Below it, the sink—which on the days that Mrs. F didn’t come to clean had always been caked in soap scum, beard and nose hairs—was spotless. I switched off the electric toothbrush, ran my hand over the apricot porcelain and felt my eyes welling up.

The doorbell rang bang on nine. Greg still had his key, but had stopped using it. He said that since this wasn’t his home anymore, he felt awkward letting himself in.

“It’s Dad! Yay.” The kids—dressed now and full of blueberry pancakes—abandoned
The Muppet Christmas Carol
and rushed to the front door. I got up from the sofa and paused the DVD.

The next thing I heard was cries of delight from the hall. “Dworkin! You’ve brought Dworkin!”

“Mum,” Ben yelled. “Dad’s brought Dworkin.”

“So I gather,” I said.

A moment later the Irish setter—chestnut of coat, floppy of ear, a touch of gray about her whiskers—lolloped into the living room.

Amy and Ben were all over Dworkin, patting and stroking her and demanding to know if they could take her for a walk. Then Greg appeared, his head obscured by a giant poinsettia.

“Roz’s mother’s allergic to dogs,” he said, still taking refuge behind the poinsettia. “She’d booked her into a kennel—the dog, that is, not her mother—but then it occurred to her that it might be fun for the kids if I brought her here.”

Apparently unfazed by her new surroundings, Dworkin helped herself to an armchair. Ben and Amy knelt down and carried on petting her.

“I brought her food and water bowls,” Greg said, handing them to me.

“How thoughtful . . . Look, I don’t mind about Dworkin; I just wish you’d asked, that’s all.”

In fact I did mind. Not about Dworkin per se, who was giving every impression of being a gentle, affable creature, but about what she represented as far as the children were concerned. Judging by their reactions—Ben’s in particular—the dog and therefore Roz had made their Christmas.

“You’re right,” Greg said, finally emerging from behind his protective shrubbery. “I should have called.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, getting down off my high horse. “She looks like a real softy. I can see why the kids adore her.”

“I wasn’t sure what to bring,” he said. “So I got you this.” He handed me the poinsettia. “And I’ve got a couple of bottles of bubbly in the car.” He went to fetch the champagne. Meanwhile Ben started jumping up and down, demanding that he and Amy be allowed to take Dworkin for a walk.

“Can we? Can we?”

“But you’ve been nagging me for hours about opening your presents.”

By now Dworkin was asleep on the armchair, drool seeping from her mouth. I said it was probably best not to wake her. “Tell you what—why don’t we do presents first? And afterwards you can take her for a walk.”

I went into the kitchen to make coffee. When I got back, Greg had dug out our cheesy
I Heart Christmas
CD.

“Oh, by the way,” he said. “Roz sent you this—as a sort of peace offering.”

“Really? Goodness—how thoughtful. I honestly wasn’t expecting a gift.”

Even though I disliked the woman, I couldn’t help feeling guilty that I hadn’t gotten her anything.

Greg handed me a parcel wrapped in coarse brown fabric. I ran my hand over it. “Unusual,” I said.

“Yes, it’s jute. Roz refuses to use wrapping paper for environmental reasons. You can recycle this stuff.” I wondered how I might recycle a square of jute. I supposed I could always unravel it and fashion it into an inch of rope.

The gift tag was made from brown card. It read, “Sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Happy Holidays and warmest regards, Roz.”

“That’s really lovely,” I said. “I’ll open it later. Let’s do the kids’ presents now.”

•   •   •

A
few minutes later, champagne cooling in the fridge, we were all sitting around the tree, listening to Kylie singing “Santa Baby,” the kids ripping into their presents, barely noticing that my unenvironmental wrapping paper was held together with staples.

It was just like old times. Only it wasn’t.

In the end, I’d gotten Greg a bottle of Scotch. I’d decided it was mean not to get him anything and booze seemed suitably unintimate. I’d also given the kids money to buy presents for their dad. Ben got him a wireless computer mouse in the shape of a mouse and Amy got him a
World’s Greatest Goals
DVD. With money Greg had given them, the kids bought me my favorite Space NK jasmine-scented candle.

Since we weren’t a “real” family anymore, I suspected that the present giving and receiving would be particularly sad and poignant. I wasn’t wrong. As I gave the kids thank-you kisses and hugs, I could feel tears at the back of my eyes. I knew Greg was feeling emotional, too, because he held the children so tight that they couldn’t breathe and begged to be released.

The good news was that Greg and I hadn’t been short money to pay for Christmas. He’d cashed in a pension plan he’d forgotten about. It didn’t amount to much, but it was enough to cover Christmas.

Since Ben had decided that, present-wise, this was going to be the worst Christmas ever, I imagined him going into a strop when he saw what his father and I had bought him. But his GX Racers Tightrope Terror—essentially, performing stunt cars—and night-vision goggles seemed to hit the spot. Ditto the very generous Amazon gift certificates from Betsy and Phil.

Having never been allowed weapons, the Nerf Vortex Nitron Blaster (“with an electronic scope and pulsing lights to assist with accurate aiming”) that my parents sent him went down a storm. Mum and Dad sent Amy a Home Pedicure Set for Girls. She loved it, which pissed Greg off no end. Greg and I got Amy everything she’d asked for: a pink iPod Nano, the Hannah Montana microphone alarm clock and a necklace with a silver jelly bean pendant.

“Oh, and Roz got you both a present,” Greg said.

“Non-gender-specific, naturally,” I muttered, so that only Greg could hear. I imagined ancient Japanese wind instruments or hand-carved yo-yos.

“OK . . . wait for it,” Greg said. “You are going up in a hot air balloon.”

“Wicked!”

“When?”

“Later in the year. As soon as the weather turns a bit warmer. And you won’t be on your own—Roz and I are coming, too.”

“Mum, isn’t that amazing?” Amy said.

“Er . . . yes . . . absolutely . . . Greg, can I see you in the kitchen for a moment?”

“What now?” He followed me out of the living room.

I stood, arms folded, my back against the kitchen counter. “How could you have let Roz organize something like this without checking with me?”

“What are you on about?”

“I’m on about you allowing her to put our children’s lives at risk and me not being allowed a say in the matter.”

“Oh, come on. People don’t die in hot air balloons.”

“How do you know?”

“Because—anticipating that you’d blow a fuse—I Googled hot air ballooning accidents and it turns out that on average there is one injury for every thousand journeys. Have you any idea how that compares with car accidents?”

“So what?”

“What do you mean, so what? It proves that going up in a hot air balloon is pretty damn safe.”

“But you or Roz should have asked my permission.”

“Will you just listen to yourself? Who do you think you are? I refuse to come running to you every time Roz and I want to do something with the kids. You let our ten-year-old daughter wear nail polish and I have to lump it. Now she tells me that you’ve said she can have a tattoo when she’s sixteen. Fabulous. Will I get a say in that? The heck I will. Roz asked me if it was OK to take the kids hot air ballooning and I said yes. Get over it.”

“So for you this is about scoring points, and sod our children’s safety.”

“I can’t believe you just said that. Do you really think that’s the kind of father I am?”

“Why can’t you two ever stop fighting?” Amy yelled. She was standing in the doorway, looking as if she might burst into tears. “It’s Christmas. I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

I went over and put my arms around her. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry. We didn’t mean to upset you. But Dad and I weren’t actually fighting. We were just having a disagreement, that’s all.”

“No, you were fighting. I heard you. So do Ben and I get to go up in the hot air balloon or not?”

“Of course you do,” I said.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“OK.” Sniff.

I gave her a final hug before letting Greg scoop her up.

By now Ben had appeared. He gave no indication he’d heard the commotion. I said that now might be a good time for him and Amy to take Dworkin for a walk. “But I want you back in twenty minutes. And make sure you stick together. And don’t go near the main road.”

A moment later they had their coats on. Even though it was broad daylight, Ben insisted on wearing his night-vision goggles. Amy said he looked like a dork, but that didn’t put him off. He grabbed Dworkin’s lead and Greg and I watched as Ben and the dog set off down the garden path. Amy followed, three or four paces behind, as if to say, “I am
so
not with them.”

I went back into the kitchen. Greg had put the kettle on for more coffee.

“So are we cool about the balloon trip?”

“I guess,” I harrumphed. “Look, I’m sorry for being a control freak, but I would have appreciated a phone call, that’s all. Taking the kids hot air ballooning isn’t like taking them to the zoo. It’s risky.”

“Relax. They’ll be fine. Now can we please let it drop and change the subject?”

I wasn’t inclined to, but I felt I’d made my point. “Fine . . . So, any takers for the tank?”

“Uh-uh. I guess it’s only to be expected at Christmas, when people are spending so much money. I’m sure things will improve come the new year.”

I could have gone into my usual accusatory gripe about Tanky, but in the spirit of goodwill and because I’d promised Amy there would be no more fights, I decided not to.

“Let’s hope so,” I said.

“Turkey looks pretty impressive,” Greg said, nodding towards the twelve-pounder waiting to go into the oven.

“I’ve put an entire pack of butter under the skin like you’re supposed to and shoved a couple of oranges up its backside along with the stuffing. So I’m hoping it won’t be as dry as usual.”

“I don’t ever remember your turkey being dry.”

“You’re just being polite.”

“No, I’m not.”

“God, how awkward is this?” I said. “You being a guest on Christmas Day, bringing me a poinsettia, being polite about my turkey?”