What She Wants (35 page)

grumpy or delighted, depending on the mood. But this morning, she could hear them downstairs, already tucking into their breakfasts she deduced, from the noise of spoons clattering into bowls. She pulled on her candlewick dressing gown, the one that made her look like the Michelin Man’s fatter sister, and dragged herself downstairs, prepared for the disaster of her two children making their own breakfast. Instead, Matt was there, whisking up some eggs while the kids sat sedately at the table with cups of milk. He looked terrible, as if, whatever he’d been up to all night, sleep hadn’t been on the agenda. Hope’s heart hardened as she looked at him. He hadn’t phoned or anything, she’d been sick with worry, thinking he’d driven the car into the ditch or was lying in a pool of blood somewhere. And now here he was, blithely unaware of what he’d put her through, making the children’s breakfast as if he did it every morning. Saying nothing, she marched over to the kettle and switched it on. ‘Mummy, Daddy’s making Fwench toast,’ announced Millie happily. Is he now, thought Hope grimly. ‘He better tidy up after himself,’ she hissed. Matt gave her a long, hard look which Hope ignored. She made a cup of instant coffee and marched silently back upstairs. Let Matt look after the children for a change; she was going to go back to bed and read. But this plan, which had always seemed such a nice one because she never got the chance to do it, wasn’t as enjoyable as she’d thought. Instead of being able to relax with her detective novel, she sat and simmered, listening to every word from the kitchen, all the while wondering where the hell her husband had spent the night. She wouldn’t ask him: no way. It was up to him to tell her. If he didn’t tell her, she’d never ask. Never.

The cold war continued all week. Every morning, Matt was gone before Hope had got the children dressed and ready. Every evening, Matt was coolly polite to her, inquiring about the children’s behaviour as if the pair of them were distant acquaintances meeting on the street. He’d just grunted when Hope told him about her job. She cooked dinner mechanically and they ate in silence, with the television on in the background. In bed, they lay like statues, each one at the farthest possible edge, determined not to let so much as a big toe mistakenly reach across the expanse and touch the other person. Finula had obligingly told Hope that she’d been delighted to give dear Matt a bed for the night after the row. ‘Artistic types can be hell to live with,’ she’d said, clearly thrilled to have insider information on the Parkers’ family life. Hope had agreed with that. Men were so good at war, Hope realized sadly on Wednesday afternoon as she peeled carrots for dinner. They could sustain it for much longer than women. She longed for the battle to be over but for once, and possibly for the first time in her life, Hope resisted the temptation to rush up to her husband and beg forgiveness so that life could go back to normal. He was wrong this time after all; she couldn’t plead for forgiveness when the fault was Matt’s. She’d done that all her married life and for the first time, she realized that it was a mistake. The pattern had to break. Or something had to break. But although Matt was the one in the wrong, he carried on as if he was furious with her for something. On Thursday, she drove Matt to the artists’ centre in the now customary stony silence and then took the children to Hunnybunnikins. The eagerness with which they raced in to meet Giselle made Hope aware that the cold war was having an effect on them. How could it not? No matter how hard she tried to behave normally when the children were present, the atmosphere in the cottage was positively Siberian.

would have to stop tonight, she decided firmly. They’d have a frank discussion with no abject apologies on her part, and they’d sort it out. Feeling slightly more upbeat than she had all week, Hope drove on to her first morning’s work. Erwin Donald’s machinery hire business was situated ten miles outside Redlion on the Killarney Road. The office was a cold looking concrete structure attached to the enormous, steel-doored garages where the machines were kept. Hay balers and harvesters cost hundreds of thousands of pounds and few farmers could afford them, which was why men like Erwin made money hiring out machinery. But February was a quiet time on all fronts. The weather was generally too bad for even building work, which meant there wasn’t much call for any of Donald Machinery’s wares. ‘We just need someone to keep the place ticking over until Moira gets well again,’ said Erwin, a giant of a man in his fifties with a shock of red hair and an explosion of freckles on his face. ‘It’s really only answering the phones and that. Moira was going to get the files sorted out for the tax man before she got sick,’ he added, as he switched on the light in the office. Hope bit her tongue to stop herself gasping with the cold. The bare little room felt icier than outside. No wonder poor Moira had got sick. The only miracle was that she hadn’t succumbed to double pneumonia before shingles. Shivering, Hope looked around at the forlorn white walls, the big steel filing cabinets and the old linoleum on the floor and hoped there was a heater behind one of the two elderly wooden desks. ‘We can have the office phone switched through to the house, you see, so we didn’t spend much time here,’ Erwin said apologetically as if noticing the desolation of the office for the first time. ‘There’s a kettle and teabags and there’s a toilet down the hall.’ He dragged an old hot air heater out from under one of the two desks and switched it on. Hope half expected it to fuse the electricity system but after a few moments, it began to belch out warm, fusty air. When Erwin

had explained how to deal with phone callers, and they’d arranged a time for him to come to Curlew Cottage with the JCB, he left. Hope stared at her little empire and shivered some more. The pale blue woollen polo neck and plain black trousers that had seemed businesslike earlier weren’t adequate protection against this place so she left her coat on. Two cups of tea later, the phone hadn’t rung once and Hope was bored out of her mind. Was this what she’d put her two beloved children into a playgroup for? To sit in a freezing office for two mornings a week and look at a silent phone? There wasn’t even a radio to amuse herself. She looked at her watch. An hour had crawled by. Two more interminable ones to go. She toyed with the idea of phoning Mary-Kate to ask if Erwin had really needed help or if Mary-Kate had bullied him into it but perhaps that was a bit paranoid. As she couldn’t face another cup of tea, Hope prowled around to keep warm and began opening filing cabinets. Erwin hadn’t asked her to do anything other than answer the phone but she had to do something to earn her wages or she’d go mad with boredom. The first filing cabinet drawer went back ten years and seemed heat and tidy with files labelled tax, accounts, outstanding,
etc.
Hope opened the second drawer which, according to the label, contained papers from nine years ago. The note was accurate: the papers were nine years old. They weren’t filed however. They were just jumbled on top of each other. In disbelief, Hope lifted some out, little slivers of paper drifting out from the haphazard pile and fluttering to the floor as she did so. She flicked through the papers and realized that everything from bills and receipts to catalogues and price lists was jumbled up in the pile. She checked the third drawer. Still the paperwork of nine years ago and still messy. She began to see why Moira had developed an illness rather than cope with the tax forms. Hope smiled. She now had a task. Rolling up her sleeves, she sat down and began to sort through the paperwork. By half twelve, she’d dealt with four phone calls and had

filed one drawer with ruthless efficiency. There was something very satisfying about sorting out such utter mess, she thought. If she was doing it every day, she knew she’d probably have a different view, but for now it had been enjoyable. Deep in the realms of technical details and uncomplicated pieces of paper, Hope had forgotten the war with Matt. Bits of paper didn’t give you reproachful glances or make you feel guilty. They just lay there waiting to be assigned a proper place. She left an explanatory note for Erwin with his phone messages adding that she’d done a bit of tidying up, then she switched off the heater and left, feeling strangely satisfied. Mary-Kate’s assistant, a shy young man with the most un-Irish name of Otis, was in the middle of serving a customer when Hope entered the chemist, so she sat on the chair beside the prescription counter and waited, feeling impatient and eager to tell someone about her morning. ‘Mary-Kate said you’re to go through to the back,’ Otis said when she’d asked for Mary-Kate. Surprised at this, Hope hurried through, expecting the aroma of her friend’s favourite blend of coffee to be scenting the air. Instead, the coffee maker was off, the gas fire was off and Mary-Kate was just pulling her raincoat on. ‘Sorry to barge in,’ Hope said, immediately apologetic. ‘I just wanted to tell you how I’d got on at Erwin’s. I can see you’re on your way out so I’ll let you get ready.’ ‘What are you like?’ said Mary-Kate fondly. ‘It’s you I’m going out with. We’re going to the Widows for a sandwich to celebrate your new job.’ Hope felt absurdly pleased. It was so nice that somebody appreciated her. ‘How did you know we’d be celebrating?’ she asked. Mary-Kate laughed. ‘Stop with all the daft questions and tell me how you got on with Erwin.’

Buoyed up with new found energy, Hope took the children for a walk in the afternoon. When they got home again,

they were so tired after the walk and their morning in the playgroup, that they were both happy to sit down and play quietly without murdering each other. Hope decided to tackle the ironing. After an hour of ironing fiddly toddler clothes, all of which were rock hard having been washed in the lime-rich local water, she felt both virtuous and tired, yet she still had one more job to do: cook dinner. She flicked through her Queen of the Kitchen book for something simple. Everything she liked the look of involved ingredients she didn’t have and the recipe for stir fried pork - which she did have - required ginger, which she didn’t have. Blast. Slamming the book shut, Hope decided that working women didn’t have time for cooking and she opened one of her favourite jars of instant dinner mix. It was nice to be a working woman again. When the pork was bubbling away and seeing Millie, the main mischief maker, fast asleep on the big armchair while Toby was colouring in, Hope rushed upstairs to check her e-mail. She’d got into the habit of checking it every day to see if Sam or anybody else had been in touch. When she’d left Bath, she’d promised to keep in touch with her friends and had had quite a few e-mails wishing her good luck, Happy Christmas, or asking her how she was getting on. Now Betsey had written and Hope clicked on the message eagerly: Betsey’s correspondence was always a howl.

How are you doing in darkest Kerry, she wrote. God, it must be lovely having got out of the rat race. I’m up to my tonsils with a huge women-in-politics feature and haven’t had a moment to write since Christmas. Dan’s working on a beer campaign and he’s driving me mad. You know what he and Matt get like when they’re being creative. Total nightmare. Dan says he can’t remember what it’s like to have a family dinner at home because I’m either working late or he is.

And we’ve got the Bionic ad awards next Saturday night and I’m longing to hit London and Harvey Nicks to get something new. You know what the competition will be like and if I’m not dolled up to the eyebrows in Chloe or something, I’ll be labelled an old hag forever. Remember last year when Erica turned up in that old pink velvet thing that looked like her granny knitted it? Dan will be mortified if I don’t get glammed up but I don’t have the time. Boo hoo. How I envy you being able to slob around with the kids and not worry about award ceremonies, nannies, nurseries or having your eyeliner straight in the morning. What bliss. Have you met any other mums? I hope you’re making friends. Are coffee mornings still a big thing for non-working women? I was thinking of doing a feature on them. They sound so seventies, don’t they. Do tell us how you’re getting on and if you two are planning a trip back to civilization anytime soon, Ciao, Betsey.

Hope glared at the message. Back to civilization? Where the hell did Betsey think they were - the Congo four hundred years ago? And as for ‘have you met any other mums’ and ‘how I envy you able to slob around…’ What sort of twilight zone was Hope supposed to be in now that she’d left work? Had giving in her notice meant she’d traded in her brain and her dressy clothes as well, turning into a zombie housewife from hell with nothing on her mind but cleaning out the fridge? Betsey had never stayed at home with her kids for more than the statutory maternity leave and obviously reckoned that anyone who did was insane or stupid. Or both. Hope switched off the computer and stomped downstairs furiously. She was so cross that when Matt arrived home,

she forgot the cold war and launched into an impassioned tirade about the email. ‘Honestly, who does she think she is?’ Hope finished as she slopped pork onto plates. ‘It’s as if we’ve been marooned a zillion miles away from civilization and are running round in grass skirts while the natives beat drums around us. And how patronizing to assume that anyone who stays at home with the children has a lobotomy.’ ‘It can’t be that bad,’ Matt said placatingly, pleased that Hope was talking to him again. She’d made the first move, therefore he could now afford to be magnanimous and talk back. He still could barely believe she’d kept up the silence all week. Once, Hope would have been begging for forgiveness within minutes of a row. She was changing, subtly, but still changing. ‘I’ll have a look at her email.’ He stomped downstairs a few minutes later. ‘Stupid bitch,’ he muttered. ‘You see, I knew you’d think it was over the top,’ Hope fumed. But what had upset Matt wasn’t the reference to coffee mornings or the implication that they were living in the middle of nowhere because they weren’t in the UK any more. No. It was that casual reference to Dan’s beer commercial and the excitement of the advertising awards. Matt longed to be in the thick of it all again with an intensity that shocked him. He craved the thrill of the awards, where everybody drank too much and pretended to be blase about the Best Creative Team gong, even though they were desperate to win. He yearned to be in the middle of a brainstorming session on whatever damned beer it was, with ideas rippling around his head like aftershocks from an earthquake and everybody ad-libbing and joking around the table, brilliant minds honing ideas until they were as sharp as Sabatier knives. Hope put her arms around him, suddenly realizing that she’d broken the ice despite her vow not to. Oh well, it was better this way and she was proud of the fact that she’d