Don't You Want Me? (18 page)

‘Apparently so,’ says Rupert, going pink.

‘And you sleep at her house.’

‘Darling, I live in Scotland. Where else am I going to sleep?’

‘In a hotel,’ says Cressida.

‘But I have two spare rooms,’ I tell her. ‘Going to waste. This huge house. And besides, he only comes about once a year.’

Frank makes a funny sort of noise again. I don’t think he likes Rupert much. In Paris, when he and I first met, Frank told me that he thought all middle-class people were ‘knob-ends’.

‘Really?’ says Cressida, not remotely convinced.

‘Really,’ I tell her. ‘I promise. And just in case you’re wondering, we don’t fuck.’

‘I wasn’t,’ Cressida says, glacial again. ‘Wondering.’

‘Well, then,’ I say cheerfully, graciously not pointing out that her last remark is in fact a lie. ‘There’s no problem, is there?’

‘Course not,’ says Rupert, putting his arm around Cressida’s shoulder and kissing her cheek.

‘It’s, um, it’s just a bit unusual, isn’t it?’ Cressida asks, ignoring the kiss and taking a sip of white wine. ‘But I suppose that’s modern life for you.’

‘It is
entirely
usual, to me. Would you prefer it if two people who once liked each other enough to get married now had absolutely nothing to do with each other, like freaks?’ I ask her.

I hate this. It’s so
English
and puritanical that it drives me spare. I mean, here’s Rupert. He was once an important part of my life, and I still like him enormously – love him, in a way. What am I supposed to do – cull him because we once shared a bed? He didn’t beat me, or abuse me, or behave meanly to me in any way: we just got married by mistake, and divorced on purpose. And now Cressida – and there are plenty more like her – looks at me sniffily because we’re still friends and he stays with me occasionally. Why? Why is this considered odd, when it is in fact the very opposite – when it is the acme of normalcy? My uncle Henri so liked his ex-wife that they slept together two or three times a year, for old times’ sake. So what? What’s it got to do with anyone else, sanctimonious prigs that they are? Still, not necessarily a good idea to hold Oncle Henri up as an example, in these particular circs.

‘No,’ says Cressida slowly. ‘I wouldn’t prefer that.’

‘Well, then, for heaven’s sake,
grow up
.’ I say this slightly too ferociously, eliciting a ‘Steady on’ from Rupert.

‘Do you not,’ Cressida asks me timidly, ‘worry about your daughter?’

‘Honey? What about her?’ I am inches away from losing my temper: I know what’s coming next. I know it by heart.

‘In my profession …’ begins Cressida.

‘Cressida’s a nanny,’ explains Rupert. ‘What’s it called again? Oh, yes: a career nanny. It means you only nanny for people in Belgravia.’

‘It’s just that in my profession,’ she continues, ‘I see what divorce can do to little people first-hand.’

‘Really,’ I say. ‘Well, happily Rupert and I didn’t have any little people together.’ (I used to think that ‘little people’ was a euphemism for ‘dwarves’. Everything in English is a euphemism, for people like Cressida.)

‘But with your
second
husband …’

‘We weren’t married.’

Cressida sighs. ‘Your “partner”, then. In terms of social and personal development,’ she parrots, ‘the child really thrives most when it lives with both its parents.’

‘Really,’ I say again, taking a deep breath. ‘Well, isn’t that nice.’

‘Your daughter,’ Cressida continues, ‘has an absentee father, you see.’

‘And a mother who’s obsessed with sex,’ Frank adds with a grin, in a failed attempt at lightening things up. He’s unbelievable, he really is: not a squirm of discomfort, not a blush, not a quiver at the words ‘absentee father’.

‘Lots of children have absent fathers,’ I say, looking at Frank. ‘It can’t really be helped, Cressida. No one wakes up in the morning and thinks, I know, I’ll get pregnant
and then separate from my husband, just to make sure my child has an absent father, because that’s what I really want for her most of all in life – an absent father.’

‘I wasn’t saying you’d done it on purpose,’ she says, putting a hand on my arm.

‘I should hope not. So what is your point, exactly? Because it’s getting late and I’d quite like to go to bed.’

‘Well, nothing, really. I was just, you know,
saying
.’

‘Well, thank you for your insights. For your information, as far as I’m concerned, divorce doesn’t mean the end of friendship, and separation doesn’t mean your child automatically becomes a sociopath or a bed-wetter. OK?’

‘OK. I’m sorry if I spoke inappropriately,’ Cressida says. ‘But I do so believe in the family, you see, and …’

‘We all believe in the family,’ I snap. ‘Some of us have more extended families than others, that’s all.’

‘Mmm,’ says Cressida, still not looking wholly convinced, but conciliatory now, unlike me.

‘As for sex, frankly, I don’t see why having a child should turn me into a nun, do you? I don’t actually have sex in front of her, you know. I don’t come home and say, Hey, Honey, Mummy’s pulled, want to watch?’

‘Um, no,’ says Cressida.

‘Glad we’ve got that straight. I’m going to bed.’ To my horror, my eyes are prickling.

‘Don’t,’ says Frank, putting his hands on the back of my neck and rubbing my shoulders gently. ‘Stay.’ But he makes me irate too, with his oblivion. This is why I can’t ever have it out with him: I like him so much, we spend a really great evening together, and then he goes and makes a really crass joke a nanosecond after hearing the words ‘absentee father’. I really feel there is something the matter
with him morally. Yes, morally. Sorry to throw about the big scary words, but really:
this is a man who walked out on his own daughter
. And he has the temerity to make jokes about me being sex-crazed!

‘Do stay,’ says Rupert. ‘Have a drink. Here, have mine.’ He offers his glass of Calvados.

‘Please,’ says Cressida.

‘OK,’ I say, turning to Cressida. ‘And I’m sorry. I tend to overreact a bit with that kind of subject.’

‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘It was ghastly of me to bring it up. I’ve had a little too much to drink.’

‘No, it wasn’t. I just get very defensive over the idea that I’m bringing Honey up oddly, or that we’re somehow
bohemian
.’

Frank silently hands me his rather revolting handkerchief and I blow my nose.

‘Well, technically you
are
, quite,’ Rupert pipes up helpfully, earning himself an expertly lobbed cushion at the head.

‘She has a man in her life,’ I say, pointing at Frank, ‘so she won’t grow up weird or scared of men. She has Rupe as a godfather. She has me, and I love her more than anything. She has a lovely child-minder. She has friends. Her father adores her and sends her presents and faxes, and rings her up. He sees her whenever he can – unfortunately, he happens to be based halfway around the world. But I’m not worried about her at all. And now let’s talk about something else.’

We sit in awkward silence for a few minutes.

‘Fancy that video?’ Frank whispers.

‘What’s the time?’

‘Just coming up to two.’

‘Let’s watch it another night. I might feel like a lie-in tomorrow, but Honey won’t, and it’s the weekend and I haven’t asked Mary to come in.’

‘OK. You’re probably right.’

‘I’m going to go up and have a bath,’ I tell him, getting up. I’m not very steady on my feet at all: shouldn’t have gulped Rupert’s Calvados down in one like that.

‘And I’m going to bed,’ says Frank.

‘So,’ I say, turning to Rupert, ‘what about you? Aren’t you tired? It’s two in the morning.’

‘Not too bad,’ says Rupert, looking at Cressida, who looks at the floor.

‘You’re very welcome to stay, Cressida,’ I smile at her, heading for the door and leaving them to fathom it out for themselves – although she doesn’t look much like a girl who puts out on the first date, I know nothing: she may be the dirtiest ride of all. ‘Good night.’

I have a quick bath and fall asleep the minute my head hits the pillow. My last conscious, and unsober, thought is that I wonder what Frank would look like if he dyed his hair brown.

‘I’ve got some juice for you,’ Frank whispers, melding with my dream.

My eyes blear open. I have a terrible, throbbing headache, as though a giant fist had got hold of my head and was squeezing, squeeeeezing …

‘Hoo!’ I exclaim, scrabbling to remember what happened last night. This always takes me a while – I sleep very deeply; my sleeps are like comas – and the hangover is slowing me down further. ‘What are you doing in my bed?’

‘I’m not
in
your bed, Stell,’ Frank grins. ‘I’m in your bed
room
.’

‘Oh,’ I say, raising myself up on to the pillows.

‘I can see your tits,’ says Frank pleasantly. ‘Are you cold?’

‘Aaaaah! Stop looking.’ I pull the duvet up around me. ‘What’s the time? Where’s Honey? Why are you here ogling me? Stop looking, I said, Frank. Stop feasting your eyes like a, a, a
dog
.’

Frank laughs and rolls his eyes and then shades them, handing me the glass.

‘Your dad left a note. Honey woke up at nine last night and they must have stayed up a while, because she’s still asleep. He’s gone out to the shops and he says, do we want to meet him in the Ritz bar at six. No sign of Rupert or Cressida, and his bedroom door’s closed. It’s half past nine. I really enjoyed last night. I’m sorry you got upset at
the end. But you give as good as you get,’ he smiles. ‘At least. And,’ he continues, ‘if your head feels anything like mine, I thought you might like some juice. There’s a pot of tea downstairs.’

It all comes flooding back, sort of. I think I was rude to Cressida, or was she rude to me? I rewind a bit further, back to Frank and lychee cocktails and curry …

‘Oh, and there’s a message on the machine from Dom,’ Frank says. ‘Says should he come to lunch. He’s at the Sanderson.’

‘Oh, God,’ I croak. ‘I don’t feel well. Ring him back and say yes, would you? I’ll be down in a second. Do we have any food in? Bless you for the juice. Do you think Honey’s all right?’

‘Probably had her first late night,’ Frank says. ‘Should I check on her?’

‘No, no, leave her. Will you go now, so I can get up?’

He turns to go.

‘Oh, and Frankie?’

‘Mm?’

‘I loved last night too. Now will you get out, please, so I can get dressed?’

Frank winks, and delicately shuts the door.

Lunch that day is like an advertisement for the extended families I was lecturing Cressida about last night. My father is absent, being otherwise engaged with his tailor, but Rupert’s there, and a bashful, almost-silent Cress, and Dominic and his consort, Keiko (who is almost freakishly tall, especially considering she is Japanese), and me, and Frank, and Honey, who rose regally at ten and doesn’t greet her father with as much crazed, hoppity excitement
as he might have wished for, choosing instead to hurl herself strategically on to Frank’s lap whenever he is sitting down. (I notice Dominic noticing this, and not liking it one bit.) She likes the Hello Kitty doll and accessories graciously offered by Keiko, though, and she
is
nice to Dominic; it’s just she’s nicer to Frank.

Despite our respective hangovers, Frank and I have been to the shops and roasted and stuffed two chickens and a truckload of pumpkin. He, heroically, did the peeling, and mashed some parsnips, while I topped and tailed a pile of green beans. We laid the table in the kitchen and collapsed at about eleven thirty, wondering whether a hair of the dog would be a bad idea. He eventually had a Bloody Mary. I decided against, until lunch time at least.

Rupert and Cressida appeared just before noon, she looking fresh-faced but somewhat sartorially dishevelled, he exuding contentment and thus, possibly, sexual satisfaction.

‘Yummy smell,’ said Cressida. ‘Chicken?’

‘Yup. Did you sleep well? Or are you a little bit shagged out?’ I said blandly. ‘It was a late night, after all.’

‘Oh,’ said Cress helplessly. ‘Oh,’ and she went red and stared at her feet.

‘Beautiful morning,’ Rupert boomed, rubbing his hands. ‘Any chance of eggs?’

‘No. It’s nearly lunch. Have some coffee – it’s in the kitchen. Dominic’s coming to lunch.’

‘Oh.’

‘He’s not that bad, Rupe. If you get stuck with him, you could always compare notes.’

‘Goodness,’ said Cressida.

After lunch, Keiko grabs my arm as I am loading up the dishwasher and says, ‘You show arbum’ three or four times in a row, smiling broadly all the while. ‘What album?’ I ask, to which Dominic, lying on the floor playing Mr Potato Head with a now only mildly recalcitrant Honey, replies, ‘I think she’d like to see the wedding album.’

‘I don’t know where it is,’ I wail. ‘It could be absolutely anywhere.’

‘It’s on the third shelf in the little study upstairs,’ says Dominic. ‘Unless you’ve moved it.’

‘Arbum,’ says Keiko, smiling as though she might burst.

‘Port, anyone?’ This from Rupert, who, I suddenly recall, likes nothing better than spending urban weekend afternoons in an alcoholic haze.

‘Yes, please,’ says everyone, except me. I’m off upstairs to find my wedding pictures, which takes about ten minutes as I have, at some point, moved them out of the study. I eventually find them on top of my wardrobe, covered in dust.

I come back down clutching the leather-bound volume.

‘Ooh,’ says Cressida. ‘Goody. I
love
weddings.’

‘It wasn’t actually a wedding,’ I remind her for the
n
th time. ‘We just had a party.’

‘You wore a wedding dress, though, didn’t you?’

‘Of sorts. I did the big number with the meringue and the veil with Rupert.’

‘Oh,’ says Cressida, but she is kind-hearted and forces a smile this time.

‘You marry Rupert?’ says Keiko, whose accent I shall no longer attempt to convey phonetically.

‘Yes, that’s right. Long time ago.’

‘Ho!’ says Keiko, still grinning. ‘Ho! Many, many husband!’ She claps her hands together, like a child.

‘Er, just the two. Just the one, really. Me and Dominic …’