Hens Dancing (7 page)

At the bar, I become panic-stricken by the thunderbolt reality that I am out having a drink with a man. On my own. What will we talk about? He is bound to think I am pursuing him. Am I pursuing him? Why have I come? What shall I drink? I'm starving. Will I look deliberately suggestive if I have crisps?

The barman has been patiently waiting, but begins to shift from foot to foot and roll his eyes. I take a deep breath and order the first drink that enters my head. ‘Two Pimms, please, and some prawn cocktail crisps.' David appears next to me and is drawn, as I am, to silent contemplation of the lengthy procedure of the Pimms' creation. The barman must be about to do his cocktail exam. Everything is going in – strawberries, lemon, cucumber, orange, apple, a glacé cherry and finally a pink paper umbrella. On the bar, surrounded by pints of Guinness and halves of cider, the Pimms are lush and outrageous, like a couple of dolled-up transvestites on a commuter train. I am thrilled with my choice of drink. I hand one of the confections to David with a flourish, along with a pink foil packet of prawn cocktail crisps.

‘Shall we sit outside, or have you finished the game?' Have regained my nerve, am full of renewed poise, and am looking forward to my drink. Another boules player is
at the bar now, and his face is a mask of severity as he gazes at David with his pink drink. David's lime-green shirt seems to me the perfect backdrop to the cocktail, and, emboldened by the first gulp of Pimms, I say so, loudly.

David puts his glass down on a low table behind him. ‘I think I'll have a pint as well as this,' he says hastily, and the boules player unbends visibly and turns back to his cronies.

I drink all of David's Pimms as well as my own, and eat both packets of prawn cocktail crisps. I am thoroughly enjoying myself and can't believe I was nervous. I share my feelings with David.

‘I am so glad Giles made me come out, because now I realise that it's no big deal to go for a drink with a man.' He looks taken aback for a moment, but rallies.

‘Would you like another drink?'

‘Yes, I'd love one, and shall we have something to eat? I'm starving.' Am vaguely aware that protocol would have preferred him to say this, but he hasn't and I have, so what the hell. He reaches for the menus from behind the bar, and passes me one.

‘Go ahead. I won't. I thought you might have eaten with your kids, so I had something earlier, but don't let that stop you.'

My stomach shrivels like a slug with salt poured on it, and I feel blushing embarrassment rise in a tide up my neck and onto my face.

‘Oh, God, I can't. I'm not hungry at all, actually, I forgot I'd had those crisps. I'm full, in fact. Completely full.'

David is grinning. ‘Only teasing. Come on, let's order quickly before they close the kitchen. I'll have a steak sandwich, what about you?'

Can only just bring myself to say, ‘Me too, please.'

June 2nd

Am enjoying a most satisfactory morning, having spent half an hour scraping dried Weetabix and worse off The Beauty's high chair. It looks lovely now, and she is in it, dressed for success in shocking-pink tights and leopard-skin miniskirt. Have never seen anything as delicious as this miniskirt, which is made of soft felt and is full like a tutu. It came by post this morning from Rose, accompanied by a card announcing her arrival. Decide to go and get her room ready to avoid doing any work for a bit longer.

I have a setback with the joys of morning upon reaching the spare bedroom. Sidney had peed on the pillows, and even more insultingly, padded little black raspberry footprints over the crisp sheets to reach his lavatory. I fling open the window and hurl the gross,
damp pillows out, shrieking, ‘Urgh, bastard cat. God, I loathe you.'

Muffled echo of the ‘Urgh' noise comes from outside, and I peer out to see David and Smalls, who have just arrived in the ambulance, with the pillows which must have landed on their heads. Quickly step back from the window and hope they haven't seen me as I can't be bothered to explain.

The morning improves again when a large delivery lorry hums up the drive with my order from a poncey garden catalogue. The company is called Haughty Hortus, which I think is nearly as good a name as Teletubbies. I have bought a Vita Weeder, which is a chic trowel, and a glamorous fork called a Daisy Pusher. Their arrival necessitates a morning in the garden. The Beauty enjoys this, and almost eats her first worm. Well, I hope it's almost. The worm is wiggling from her mouth as she sucks it in like her favourite pasta. I yank it out as soon as I notice, but cannot tell how tall, or rather long, the worm was before it went in. She sobs bitterly at the loss of her worm, and I am about to cave in and give it back rather than have to go inside and find more wholesome bribes when Sidney the creep arrives. He slinks over to The Beauty and insinuates himself like Shere Khan. She pats him vigorously, cooing and a little breathless, with a fat, spent tear wobbling on her cheek. He departs. Regretfully I down my top new tools and return to the house to find
elevenses for The Beauty and to say thank you to David for taking me out last night.

Having greatly enjoyed most of the evening except for the moment of salted-slug stomach, am now keen to find other people to go for drinks with. Telephone my mother to ask if she can think of anyone. She suggests The Gnome, and I am underwhelmed. Get off the telephone and find The Beauty mimicking me. She is sitting in her toy car under the kitchen sink, babbling sweetly into her pink plastic mobile telephone.

June 9th

The bathroom is finished. Vivienne appears as David is taking me on a guided tour of its beauty spots and areas of perfection. We are admiring the copper pipe which runs from the high cistern to the loo when she opens the door.

‘Gosh, this is wonderful, isn't it? Venetia, did you know that there is a black Labrador mounting Rags on your lawn?'

I am out of the mermaid's palace in a flash. ‘That creep, Digger. I think Rags is on heat. Who let that filthy brute out? I shut him in your car, David. God, I wish you wouldn't bring him here.'

All this is wasted breath. David is demonstrating the power shower to Vivienne, and anyway couldn't care less what Digger does to Rags, as he won't have to bring up a litter of freak pretend-Labradors with terrier-length legs or worse. Fortunately, Rags has protected her virtue and is sitting firmly on her tail looking apologetic; Digger saunters down the drive with garbage investigation rather than carnal matters on his mind. Vivienne appears in the garden with The Beauty, fresh and twinkly of eye post-rest, and David; I am sidetracked by noticing that all three of them are wearing purple T-shirts and look like the perfect family in a cereal advertisement. On reflection, Vivienne's wild red hair makes them a bit too avant-garde for cereal; perhaps a new car commercial is more the look. David is giving her the full programme of events now the bathroom is officially open.

‘… And we're going to use it to photograph this mate of mine's handbags. He designs them, and has a backer who will pay for the location and give me some of the pictures.'

I am not sure about all this, and wish Rose had not gone suddenly to Spain instead of coming this weekend to advise me. I must be looking especially blank, as David suddenly breaks off and turns to me.

‘I thought you would like it, Venetia. And don't forget, part of the deal was that I could use it for photographs. You'll really like Rob, anyway, and it'll be good for you to
get to know a new crowd. You never know, if you chat Rob up enough he might give you a free handbag.' I open my mouth to tell him he is a patronising git, but he has already turned back to Vivienne, who is becoming very excited.

‘Who
did you say was coming? Robin Ribbon? Oh, I've read about his designs, I'd love one. Venetia, you are lucky.'

I find her words unaccountably red-rag-like: ‘Well, I don't want one, and I don't want to meet any sodding handbag-makers. You must be mad, David, if you think I've got time to deal with all this sort of nonsense. God, I left London years ago to get away from handbags and all that they stand for.' My outrage gathers momentum. ‘And how am I meant to show off that bathroom properly if you aren't here?'

‘Why won't I be here? I'm not going to leave you to deal with something I've set up.' Exasperated, scowling, David runs his hands through his hair. The Beauty leans towards him from Vivienne's arms to pat his shoulder. She then reaches for his hair and grips a few locks tightly in one fist. David tries to detach her, but she continues breathing heavily and gripping. He grabs both her hands, and clasping them as if pleading with her, says simply, ‘I don't want to put you through any hassle, it'll just be a bit of fun.'

Awful how unused I am to dealing with genuinely
thoughtful men. Feel guilty, and supress lemon-faced emotions in a rush of hospitality.

‘Shall we all have some lunch to celebrate you finishing it?' The Beauty catches my effervescent mood and suddenly launches herself from Vivienne's distracted embrace and hurtles, arms and legs whirling, towards the floor. David neatly catches her and she pulls his face towards hers and peppers his cheek with her first kisses.

June 11th

Felix, The Beauty and I arrive at school having dropped Giles at the more senior entrance, and are met by a huge poster announcing the Concert with Cake Sale this afternoon. Had, of course, forgotten all about this dainty entertainment, and will now have to forgo lunch with Vivienne and afternoon of gossiping and dawdling at her house. In the school cloakroom the smell of antiseptic smarts from the loos and mingles with a puff of the headmistress's scent as she rustles past with a pile of egg boxes and a grim, determined expression. She smiles vaguely at Felix and I realise that we have failed to brush his hair. The Beauty adores school and settles down, growling happily, to remove books from shelves in Felix's classroom. Felix and his friends assist her and she holds
court delightedly, her gingham bloomers causing mirth among her admirers and huge pride for her.

On the way out of the school with The Beauty, I enjoy a five-minute interlude with two other school mothers. We talk about our children, their starring roles in the forthcoming concert and how many cakes we are baking for the sale. All is a big lie on my part. My cakes, although often surprisingly delicious to eat, are low on physical charms, and I have no intention of making any for the school at any time in case I am humiliated by their not being bought. As for the concert, Felix is still on ‘Old MacDonald' after a year of piano lessons, and shows no promise at all. I never make him practise because both of us hate it so much, and we have begged the teacher to let him give up. She just smiles kindly, and says, ‘Have you tried bribery? He must persevere, he's doing so well.' Another big lie.

Disaster lurks in the car park. I bid farewell-until-the-concert to the other mothers and move towards the car. Rags is leaping up and down in the front seat, whining and scratching as if she has been left for about three hundred years instead of fifteen minutes. I am about to open the door when a wild, flailing paw lands on the lock. There is a whooshing, electrical-sounding multiple click and the car is locked with Rags inside it. And the keys.

An hour with Reggie from the garage ensues. Reggie has an unravelled coat-hanger and wiggles it about
through the car window with the same expression of blissed-out concentration that he might wear for cleaning his ears with a Q-Tip. The morning is overcast and still, a pair of squirrels swarm and tumble around us, then vanish up the trunk of a vast horse chestnut tree, its branches still laden with pyramids of blossom. The Beauty and I purchase a packet of Rolos from the newsagent and loll on the grass watching Reggie. He has taken off the top half of his boilersuit, and its dangling arms fascinate The Beauty, who shuffles over for a closer inspection. It is clear to me that Reggie will never get into the car this way, and we will have to break the window. I am about to say this when he steps back in triumph, foiling The Beauty who is poised to grab a sleeve and tug the whole boiler suit down. ‘We're in,' he says, and opens the door to remove the keys so that Rags the hysterical hell-hound cannot repeat her performance. There is now no obstacle to cake-making.

June 18th

The Beauty and I munch peanut butter sandwiches and join in with rippled applause as Giles and the rest of the Colts A cricket team zap their way to victory against Swinburn House. We find this a most civilised and
pleasant way to spend the afternoon, and are cordially curious as to what is happening on the pitch. Giles is bowling now, but affects deafness when I wolf-whistle at him.

‘Concentration is all-important to the bowler.' A pot-bellied father has sidled up to me, murmuring and sighing, his shirt straining warped blue checks over his paunch, his eyes narrowing to slits as he observes Giles. ‘That boy is not bad for his age; not a bad little player at all.' Sudden spatter of clapping from the parents indicates that Giles has just made a successful move. ‘Well played indeed,' says Papa Pot Belly, and I nod, affecting intelligence.

‘Mm, yes, what exactly did he do, though?'

I am interrupted by a cheer from the parents. Something even better has happened, and Giles is part of it. Suddenly boys surround us, wolfing the sandwiches. Giles hovers over a silver ashet of cakes, and while he is hovering, The Beauty crawls over to him and wraps fat arms round his cricket whites. He picks her up to kiss her, and is suddenly, for an instant, the image of Charles, but the Charles I married, rather than the one I divorced. Am invaded by a million emotions and tears rush into my eyes. Furious blinking follows, while Giles stands in front of me holding The Beauty at arm's length.

‘Mum, she's done a poo, I can smell it,' he hisses, frowning and dumping her in my arms before walking off
with a friend towards the pavilion. More reminders of his father.

June 20th