was just hoping you’d be able to help me. I’m writing a feature on cougar wives and I thought you’d be perfect to comment on what it’s like to be married to a much younger man. We’d need a little chat on the phone – I can call back if now’s not good and then we’d take a lovely photo, with a stylist and make-up artist and everything. We’d make you look really young. So—’
‘I’m not married to a younger man. They got my age wrong.’
‘Oh. Are you sure? Because on IMDB it says that Jake is thirty-five and if you’re forty-four then …’
‘I’m not forty-four. I’m thirty-four. Just. It was my birthday a couple of months ago, so I’m not even thirty-four and a quarter.’ Christ, she sounded like Toby.
‘Oh.’ Isobel’s genial tone had vanished. ‘Are you
sure
?’
‘Feel free to check.’ Rosie’s face was burning. This was outrageous, she’d done nothing, nothing, except fall in love with Jake when he was an unknown and wash his pants for years, but as a result this cheeky mare thought she had carte blanche to insult her. She heard the front door opening. ‘Sorry, I have to go.’
‘Rosie, wait! How about an interview anyway? How It Feels to Be Married to Patio Man?’
Rosie hung up, as Jake sauntered into the room. ‘I have to go!’ she snapped at him.
‘Oh. Right. Lovely to see you too, my darling. Boys OK?’ He added as a kind of afterthought.
‘Fine.’ Fuming, Rosie grabbed her bag and dashed out of the front door, across the drive, down the road, and crossed on to the Green. It was still light; the days were getting longer and people were out walking their dogs and sitting on benches contemplating the ducks on the pond.
An unfamiliar nanny/maid – there were about eight on rotation – opened the Conifers’ front door. ‘Hello, come in.’
‘Am I late?’
‘Yes, they’re all in there.’ She nodded towards the room where Gary Guitar and Peppa Pig had last been seen battling for supremacy. Rosie hurried through. A cloud of perfectly highlighted heads turned from the uncomfortable white sofas.
‘Rosie!’ cried Patrizia. ‘Last but, of course, not at all least.’
‘Sorry! Jake was late home.’
‘Husbands.’ Everyone shook their head understandingly. ‘Darling, you should have told me, you could have borrowed one of my girls,’ said Patrizia. ‘Or if you need someone more permanent I’ve just heard of an amazing Filipina who’s on the market. She refuses to take a day off, can you imagine how wonderful? She doesn’t even have a problem with Christmas and she works from six to nine every day, Sundays too.’ The room mumbled in approbation. ‘
Plus
she costs a pittance. She’s bound to have been snapped up, but you never know, if you offered her six pounds an hour rather than five … Champagne?’
‘Great, thank you.’ There was a bowl of peanutty-looking things on the table. Rosie couldn’t resist; she was starving. She should have eaten with the boys. She stuffed a handful into her mouth, then spluttered, coughed and gasped.
‘Are you all right?’ asked a Chinese woman, one Rosie dimly remembered from the birthday party, chatting to Caroline about lipo.
‘Just a bit …’ Rosie tried to enunciate, eyes watering. ‘A bit hot.’
‘Wasabi peanuts,’ Patrizia explained. ‘Spicy. Suppresses the appetite.’ She clapped her hands. ‘So, introductions. Everyone, this is Rosie. Rosie, this is Caroline, Bella, Elise, Minette’
‘Hi.’ Rosie waved.
Minette was the Chinese woman and Caroline the one who’d asked for tickets to
Twelfth Night
. Bella was in a tracksuit, but not the sort mums wore to the school gates in St Pauls, but the kind Gwyneth donned to work out with Madonna. Elise had a black bob splattered with grey streaks, an indignant face obscured by huge glasses, and was in a sleek, bronze-coloured shift dress.
‘So shall we all start?’ Elise asked impatiently.
‘Before we begin,’ said Caroline, ‘I must just
‘I’m not married to a younger man. They got my age wrong.’
‘Oh. Are you sure? Because on IMDB it says that Jake is thirty-five and if you’re forty-four then …’
‘I’m not forty-four. I’m thirty-four. Just. It was my birthday a couple of months ago, so I’m not even thirty-four and a quarter.’ Christ, she sounded like Toby.
‘Oh.’ Isobel’s genial tone had vanished. ‘Are you
sure
?’
‘Feel free to check.’ Rosie’s face was burning. This was outrageous, she’d done nothing, nothing, except fall in love with Jake when he was an unknown and wash his pants for years, but as a result this cheeky mare thought she had carte blanche to insult her. She heard the front door opening. ‘Sorry, I have to go.’
‘Rosie, wait! How about an interview anyway? How It Feels to Be Married to Patio Man?’
Rosie hung up, as Jake sauntered into the room. ‘I have to go!’ she snapped at him.
‘Oh. Right. Lovely to see you too, my darling. Boys OK?’ He added as a kind of afterthought.
‘Fine.’ Fuming, Rosie grabbed her bag and dashed out of the front door, across the drive, down the road, and crossed on to the Green. It was still light; the days were getting longer and people were out walking their dogs and sitting on benches contemplating the ducks on the pond.
An unfamiliar nanny/maid – there were about eight on rotation – opened the Conifers’ front door. ‘Hello, come in.’
‘Am I late?’
‘Yes, they’re all in there.’ She nodded towards the room where Gary Guitar and Peppa Pig had last been seen battling for supremacy. Rosie hurried through. A cloud of perfectly highlighted heads turned from the uncomfortable white sofas.
‘Rosie!’ cried Patrizia. ‘Last but, of course, not at all least.’
‘Sorry! Jake was late home.’
‘Husbands.’ Everyone shook their head understandingly. ‘Darling, you should have told me, you could have borrowed one of my girls,’ said Patrizia. ‘Or if you need someone more permanent I’ve just heard of an amazing Filipina who’s on the market. She refuses to take a day off, can you imagine how wonderful? She doesn’t even have a problem with Christmas and she works from six to nine every day, Sundays too.’ The room mumbled in approbation. ‘
Plus
she costs a pittance. She’s bound to have been snapped up, but you never know, if you offered her six pounds an hour rather than five … Champagne?’
‘Great, thank you.’ There was a bowl of peanutty-looking things on the table. Rosie couldn’t resist; she was starving. She should have eaten with the boys. She stuffed a handful into her mouth, then spluttered, coughed and gasped.
‘Are you all right?’ asked a Chinese woman, one Rosie dimly remembered from the birthday party, chatting to Caroline about lipo.
‘Just a bit …’ Rosie tried to enunciate, eyes watering. ‘A bit hot.’
‘Wasabi peanuts,’ Patrizia explained. ‘Spicy. Suppresses the appetite.’ She clapped her hands. ‘So, introductions. Everyone, this is Rosie. Rosie, this is Caroline, Bella, Elise, Minette’
‘Hi.’ Rosie waved.
Minette was the Chinese woman and Caroline the one who’d asked for tickets to
Twelfth Night
. Bella was in a tracksuit, but not the sort mums wore to the school gates in St Pauls, but the kind Gwyneth donned to work out with Madonna. Elise had a black bob splattered with grey streaks, an indignant face obscured by huge glasses, and was in a sleek, bronze-coloured shift dress.
‘So shall we all start?’ Elise asked impatiently.
‘Before we begin,’ said Caroline, ‘I must just
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