Losing Me (29 page)

Barbara looked directly at Sally and Jeremy. “OK, am I right in thinking that neither of you is prepared to give up your job, or work fewer hours, to become a full-time parent to Freddie?”

They shuffled, toyed with their empty wineglasses. “Probably not,” Sally said.

“Right. Well, in that case, we have to think about the next-best option.” Barbara emphasized again the warm family atmosphere at Larkswood House. “The teachers and houseparents get to know the kids really well. He will be really cared for and nurtured.”

“By strangers,” Sally said. “Great.”

“Your choice,” Jack came back. “It’s either that or you let him go to a specialist day school in London and come home every night to au pairs. Because I’m not going to be staying forever. Believe it or not, I do have a life.”

Neither Sally nor Jeremy spoke.

Barbara made the point that Freddie need only be a weekly boarder at Larkswood House. “He’ll be home every Friday night. On the weekends you need to put away your BlackBerries and laptops and have some proper family time. If you put in the effort, he will start to feel loved and his behavior will change.”

Sally looked at her husband. “You know, Jem, spending more time together as a family would probably do us all good.”

Jeremy didn’t exactly roll his eyes, but the expression on his face radiated cynicism.

“So what’s this place going to cost us?” he said.

Barbara smiled. “Ooh, I’d say an arm and a leg and several bits of offal.”

•   •   •

As Barbara didn’t have her car with her, Jack insisted on driving her home.

“I just want to say how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for Fred these past weeks,” he said as they pulled away. “You’ve been brilliant.”

“You are most welcome. Deep down, Freddie’s a good kid. And like I keep saying—very bright.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Jack said. “And I will keep on at Sally and Jeremy to spend more time with him.”

“It’s all he needs.”

“Unlike my son-in-law, who deserves a right royal kick up the backside.”

Barbara laughed.

“He suffers,” Jack went on, “from what I call ‘entitlement’ disorder. Jeremy thinks that being rich gives him the right to get his own way. He—and Sally, too, for that matter—simply assumed that Fred would waltz into Eton or Westminster. When something goes awry, they panic. Plus they worry about what their friends will think.”

“I understand,” she said. “You don’t have to apologize. . . . So do you think they might go for Larkswood House?”

“If it’s everything you say it is, then I’m sure they will. And Fred certainly seems up for boarding.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” Barbara said, shaking her head. “How one child’s educational problems can get sorted pretty much overnight—so long as his parents have money. It’s so bloody unfair. Kids like Troy just get left to rot.”

“I know. The system stinks. But I’m not sure what we as individuals are supposed to do.”

“Get up off our backsides. Make a difference—that’s what I set out to do when I went into teaching.”

“And you did what you could,” Jack said. “You can’t save the world.”

“I know. Besides, I have a husband who is already doing that.”

As they pulled up outside her house, Jack turned to her. “Barbara, don’t take this the wrong way, but I was wondering if you’d let me buy you dinner sometime.”

“Jack, don’t take
this
the wrong way, but are you coming on to me?”

He smiled. “Do you always say precisely what’s on your mind?”

“Not always, but mostly.” She paused. “But seriously, I’m married. I’m flattered, but I’m . . .”

“A beautiful, intelligent woman who is with a man who doesn’t deserve her.”

And there he was, moving in, gently cupping her face in his hands and kissing her. She found herself kissing him back with an urgency that startled her.

“I’m sorry,” he said afterwards.

“For what? For kissing me?”

“No, for criticizing your marriage. It was wrong of me.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re only echoing what I’ve already told you.”

“So, say you’ll have dinner with me.”

She felt a wave of panic. Instead of letting it engulf her, she managed to ride it. “All right. Yes. I’d like that.”

Chapter 12

W
hich Font Are You?
Barbara was on Facebook doing BuzzFeed quizzes. Pam’s old school friend Heather Babcock had got Courier. She’d posted:
Huh and here was me thinking I was more of a Times New Roman sort of a gal.
Barbara got Requiem, which pretty much reflected her mood.

In the “Which Actress Would Play You in the Movie of Your Life?” quiz, she landed Tina Fey: “bright, bubby, sparkling personality, doesn’t take life too seriously.” Yep, the BuzzFeed elves certainly had Barbara pegged. To her, life was just one big ol’ shindig.

She was trying and failing to take her mind off Tiffany and the children for a few minutes. In other matters, there was also Jack’s kiss. It had thrilled her, overwhelmed her—left her feeling giddy and wanting more. When was the last time she’d felt like that with Frank?

If Jack hadn’t done the gentlemanly thing and said he needed to get back, she might have ignored her son’s whereabouts and invited him to share her bed—or at least the bed in the spare room. It appeared that her hitherto sluggish libido had suddenly been recharged—with a vengeance. So much for antidepressants suppressing one’s sex drive.

She knew perfectly well why it had happened. He was the grieving widower. She was the forlorn wife. They were both lonely and found each other attractive. Jack had listened to her, taken an interest in her—flirted with her. She’d found it intoxicating. Nevertheless, she was old enough and wise enough to know that jumping into bed with another man wasn’t going to solve the problems she was having with Frank. It could only make things more complicated. Suppose she fell in love with Jack? What then? Her life was strenuous enough right now. She couldn’t cope with the added stress of an affair. She needed to break it off now, before it spiraled out of control.

Bored with quizzes but still looking for something to take her mind off things, she spooled through the rest of her newsfeed. Somebody had posted a picture of a puppy dressed as Yoda Dog
.
Below it Pam had put up one of her inspirational quotes:
Joy is what happens to us when we allow ourselves to recognize how good things really are.
Fabulous. Barbara could print that out and stick it over Tiffany’s hospital bed.

She hadn’t posted a Facebook status in ages. But she didn’t have anything to say—nothing cheerful, at any rate. If she was honest, she was getting fed up with Facebook. The pictures of puppies and kittens, the affirmations, the show-offy snaps of Pam and Si sipping neon cocktails by their pool had always irritated her. Lately they made her angry. It seemed that the only reason people went on Facebook was to inform everybody how perfect their lives were. If they weren’t doing that, they were airing their first-world problems:
Noo! Our neighbor has the same Laura Ashley wallpaper as us. The corner shop just ran out of pickled cherries—it’s like North Korea here. Crap, I have to reset my password again. My Brie is too hard.

Then there were Sally and Jeremy, who weren’t her Facebook friends but whose world had been rocked because their son couldn’t get into the “right” school.

Sally had called this morning to thank Barbara for all her help.

“Honestly, Barbara, I don’t know what we’d have done without you. I can’t tell you how enormously grateful we are.”

“I really didn’t do that much.”

“You did heaps. Without you, it might have been years before Freddie got his dyslexia diagnosis. And I do hope you can forgive Jem for his behavior last night. He finds it very hard to cope when things don’t go his way. We both do. Anyway, we’ve made an appointment to go and look at Larkswood House. I’ll keep you posted.”

A couple of hours later, a bunch of calla lilies was delivered to Barbara’s door. They arrived in a green and gold Harrods van and came with a handwritten card:
Dearest Barbara, Just to say how simply
marvelous you’ve been. Muchos hugs from all the Fergussons
.

Barbara knew she was being mean and uncharitable—particularly to Sally and Jeremy. She thought back to last night and how she’d judged them. She had to keep reminding herself that they weren’t bad people. They’d sent her flowers, for crying out loud. Her Facebook friends weren’t bad people either. They were just regular middle-class folk caught up in their middle-class lives. She understood that. She was one of them. God help her, hadn’t she been known to curse when the supermarket had no quince jelly to go with her manchego? But—if she could toot her own horn for just a moment—she had the good sense not to moan about it on Facebook. She even had the good sense not to moan about it at home. If she did, Ben and Jess would come down on her. “Mum, will you just listen to yourself? Just go away and check your privilege.” She’d Googled the phrase a few years ago, when the kids first started to use it, and discovered that as a white, middle-class Westerner, she had no right to moan about anything. The notion was crazy, but like a lot of crazy notions, it contained a scintilla of sense.

Barbara closed her laptop. She needed to set the table. Jess and the kids were coming for lunch. She’d just opened the cutlery drawer when her cell rang. It was Jean calling to see if there was any news about Tiffany. Barbara told her what Maureen had told her earlier: that she had an appointment with Tiffany’s doctor in the morning to discuss her test results.

“But I don’t think the prognosis will be great,” Barbara said.

“And the children?”

“I’m planning to drop in a bit later. I’m just praying that the foster parents will agree to look after them for a bit longer. I can’t stop worrying about them, but Troy in particular, because he’s that much older and he understands what’s going on.”

“Of course you’re worried. I’m worried and I’m not even involved. It’s crap you’re going through this on top of everything else. You need cheering up. How’s about I treat us to a boozy dinner next week, somewhere ludicrously expensive?”

“Actually, Jack Dolan has just invited me to have dinner with him. You know, Freddie’s grandfather. Widower. Lives in Gloucestershire. I’m sure I mentioned him.”

“You did. So when you say he’s asked you to have dinner with him . . .”

“I’m saying he’s asked me out on a date.”

“Blimey.”

“And that’s not all. He kissed me last night. And the worst part—or maybe it was the best part—was that I kissed him back. You have no idea how much I wanted him. I haven’t felt so horny in years.”

“Tell me about it.” Barbara took this to mean that things were all pretty tickety-boo with Virgil.

“But has it occurred to you,” Jean went on, “that what you felt last night might not be real?”

“Oh, it was real, all right.”

“No, what I mean is that it probably had more to do with . . .”

“. . . me being furious with Frank and wanting to punish him. I know. I get that. But it was still amazing.”

“I’m sure it was, but please tell me you’re not going to pursue this. You’d be playing with fire. What if Frank found out? I know he’s behaved badly—and not for the first time. But even so, he doesn’t deserve to have you cheat on him.”

“But Ken deserves to have you cheat on him?”

“My situation is different and you know it. I’ve told you that it wouldn’t be the end of the world if Ken found out about my extramarital activities. If you cheat on Frank, you could lose him.”

“I know, and that’s why—reluctantly, I might add—I’ve decided to put a stop to it.”

“Thank the Lord for that. You’re doing the right thing. I mean, what would it have achieved?”

“Great sex, for a start.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Believe me, I do. He wasn’t kissing you.”

“If you’re going to be missing out on sensational sex, you have my sympathy. Of all people, I know what it feels like to be in that position. But even so, you have to end it.”

“I’ve already said I will. I’ll call him. But I can’t begin to tell you how much I don’t want to.”

•   •   •

“Gran’ma, do you want to hear a riddle?”

“I’d love to.”

“What’s brown and sticky?”

Jess rolled her eyes. “Atticus, please. We’re eating. That’s disgusting.”

Atticus clapped his hands. “Aha. Gotcha. It’s not a
pooh.
 . . . It’s a stick!” Atticus and Cleo shrieked at the hilarity and wittiness of it all.

“OK . . . I’ve got another one,” he said. “How do you sell a deaf person a chicken?”

“I don’t know. How do you sell a deaf person a chicken?”

“OY!! MATE!! DO YOU WANT TO BUY A CHICKEN!!!?”

Barbara roared. Jess rolled her eyes. She’d probably heard it a dozen times before. “OK, you two. If you’ve finished eating, take a piece of fruit and go and watch a DVD for a bit.”

They refused to budge. “Grandma’s got Skittles in her cupboard,” Atticus said.

“Fine,” Jess came back. “You can have Skittles.”

Barbara looked at her daughter. “Really? You sure?”

Jess nodded. “Go ahead. I need to talk to you in private.”

Barbara shared a packet of Skittles between two bowls and handed them to the children.

“Atticus has got more than me.”

“Cleo, don’t push your luck,” Jess said. “I’m sure you’ve both got exactly the same. Now, scoot.”

A few moments later the
Chicken Run
music started up in the living room.

“So, no Ben?” Jess said.

“He texted to say he’d be back around lunchtime. He spent the night at Katie’s.” Barbara paused. “You know she’s training to be an investment banker?”

“Yeah, Ben told me.”

“I have to say I’m surprised he’s dating somebody who works in the City.”

“What you actually mean is that you’re disappointed.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“No. Not really,” Jess said.

“Hang on. Am I’m losing the plot here? I take it that you do remember the ‘Occupy London: Banks Own You’ poster that is hanging in your loo as we speak.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’ve eased up a bit. I can’t get angry with people anymore just because they choose a career in finance and make a pile of cash. Good luck to them is what I say. Can you imagine for a moment what it must be like never having to worry about money?”

“Money doesn’t necessarily make people happy.”

“I know, but at least you can be miserable in comfort. Matt and I were struggling day in day out to make ends meet. We were both exhausted. If it hadn’t been for Ben, I don’t know what we’d have done.”

“Ben?”

“Yes. He’s invested twenty grand in the business.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m not being funny. I’m serious.”

“Ben . . . Your brother, Ben, has invested twenty thousand pounds in the Green Door? Excuse my French, but your brother doesn’t have a pot to piss in.”

“He hasn’t told you, has he?”

“Told me where he got twenty thousand pounds? Er . . . no, he has most definitely been keeping that to himself.”

“OK, this is none of my business. You need to talk to him. . . .”

“I’m talking to you,” Barbara came back. “What’s going on?”

Jess took a breath. “Ben has been playing the stock market.”

“Now I’ve heard everything. Don’t be so ridiculous. What does Ben know about playing the stock market?”

“A hell of a lot, actually. He’s been doing it for months.”

“Sorry, you’re telling me that Ben has been buying and selling stocks and shares . . . from his bed?”

“Yes.”

“And that he’s made twenty thousand pounds in a few months?”

“Correct. Actually, I think it might be more than that.”

“What? Oh, please . . . And if that’s true, he must have needed a pretty hefty sum to start him off. I know he got six thousand from selling the Fender, but that wouldn’t have been enough, would it?”

“He actually started playing the stock market way before he sold the Fender. He only did that to make some cash to live on while he reinvested his capital. He felt so guilty about living off you and Dad.”

“OK, so where did he get the initial investment?”

“You need to ask him. And anyway, Ben’s an adult. It’s his business where the money came from.”

Barbara was beginning to panic. “Just tell me he didn’t do anything dishonest.”

“Oh, what, like selling drugs? He told me that’s what you thought he’d been up to. Why can’t you trust him?”

“I was frightened. I overreacted. I said I was sorry. So you promise me he’s done nothing illegal?”

“I promise. All I can say is that he acquired some capital and he’s been reinvesting and growing it.”

“I don’t know what to say. For once in my life I’m absolutely speechless.”

“Look, Mum, I know you’re shocked, but Ben has done something really kind and generous. Matt and I were at the point of going bust. Ben has saved us. Please don’t be cross with him.”

“I’m not cross,” Barbara said. “So this was the mystery
thing. 
. . .”

“What?”

“Nothing. He hinted at some secret project, that’s all. I assumed he was working on some music story or another. But why on earth was he so determined to keep your father and me in the dark?”

“Like I said, you need to talk to him.”

Jess and the kids were getting ready to leave when Ben turned up. He put his rucksack down on the kitchen table.

“Hey, all. God, I’m starving.” He grabbed a cold roast potato from one of the kids’ plates.

“Hey, Uncle Ben,” Cleo said. “Do you want to hear a riddle? What’s brown and sticky?”

“Er . . . that would be a stick.”

“Aw. You got it.” She turned to her brother. “He got it.”

Ben ruffled Cleo’s hair. “That’s because not so long ago, I was a kid, too.”

“Come on, you two,” Jess said, standing up. “We ought to get going.”

“Why the rush?”

“Mum wants to talk to you.”

Ben looked at his mother. “OK, what have I done now?”

“Jess told me about all the money you’ve made on the stock market.”

Ben glared at his sister. “Oh great. Cheers. Thanks for that.”

“It was an accident. I didn’t mean to.”

“I thought I told you to wait until I’d spoken to Mum.”

“I did. I mean, I thought you had.” Jess finished helping Cleo on with her coat. “Look, I think we’d better get going. You two need to sort this out.” She paused. “Ben, I really am sorry.”