the good mood receded too. Jeanie, edgy and agitated, seemed primed for a fight, and every conversational topic seemed to find her and Paul on different sides. Paul admired a house set high upon a bank, Jeanie thought it far too big. Jeanie liked a song on the radio, Paul called it “sentimental.” Paul mentioned that he loved to drive, Jeanie hissed about environmental damage. Jeanie sympathized with the travails of a famous popstrel who had recently lost custody of her children, Paul declared her a lunatic. Jeanie said London had the best food in the world, Paul shook his head and asked if she’d ever been to Hong Kong. And so it went on, and on. Jeanie: thrillers; Paul: detective fiction. Jeanie: musicals; Paul: theater. Soon their arguments were beginning to get personal. “I can’t think why you—” “Oh shut up, Paul, that’s plainly ridiculous …”
By the time we pulled into the driveway, Jeanie was sunk into her seat with her arms tightly crossed around her breasts, radiating cold fury. Paul was sitting beside her with an air of insolent ease, onehand on the wheel, the other arm lying negligently across the top of her seat, holding forth on the merits of basketball (Jeanie having indicated initially that she preferred tennis). We unpacked ourselves and the baby in silence. Jeanie stalked into the house without unfolding her body, without saying a friendly “good-bye” or “thank you” to Paul, without even talking to me .
“Nice end to the day,” Tom said, weary and rueful, as we stumbled into our room. “ That was fun. Not the day, I mean; the trip home. What was up with her? She can be really immature sometimes. You can tell she’s twenty-four, can’t you? Crazy behavior.” He shrugged his wide shoulders. “One minute everything seems fine. The next, for no reason at all, she starts scratching at Paul.” He yawned, pulling off his T-shirt and throwing it onto a chair.
Of course I was moved to defend her (“You were twenty-four yourself not so long ago,” I reminded him tartly), but I took something of his point. “Do you think they’re going to keep this up all weekend?” I whispered, as we got into bed. “I hope not!”
Tom opened his mouth to reply, but his words were drowned out by—what else?—the sound of a very unhappy, very hungry, and very awake small baby.
I was starting to think there was some great ledger in the sky, and that every moment of pleasure was balanced out by a wail from our miserable son. Oh look, said some awful malignant deity, peering down at us. Tom and Q have managed three minutes of happiness, time to poke a stick in that child’s innards to make him scream.
“Are we nearly at twelve weeks yet?” my husband moaned in the cold white gray of five a.m.
16
Jeanie
O ne distinct problem of sleeping in the sitting room was you couldn’t lie in. I longed for my pretty bedroom with its thick mattress and luxurious en suite—but, of course, I’d had to give it all up to Paul. I heard Q and Tom and the baby squalling in the kitchen the morning after our sailing trip at seven; my head was pounding. After trying to ignore them for twenty minutes, I gave up and reluctantly presented myself. Ten minutes later, Paul himself emerged, showered, pressed, and polished in smart linen trousers with a silky cotton shirt. Q and Tom suddenly discovered pressing reasons to take the baby outside, which left the two of us glowering at each other over the breakfast table. Looking at his elegant get-up, I wished I was armored in something more than just my pink gingham M&S pajamas. I was always underdressed around this man.
He lost no time in getting straight to the point. “You talk a lot of crap,” he said airily, “but I like the fact that you have opinions.”
This caused me, briefly, to lose my footing. “Well, yes,” I said vaguely. “Of course I do. Lots of them, actually.”
This didn’t seem to be my strongest point, so I stopped and paid a great deal of
By the time we pulled into the driveway, Jeanie was sunk into her seat with her arms tightly crossed around her breasts, radiating cold fury. Paul was sitting beside her with an air of insolent ease, onehand on the wheel, the other arm lying negligently across the top of her seat, holding forth on the merits of basketball (Jeanie having indicated initially that she preferred tennis). We unpacked ourselves and the baby in silence. Jeanie stalked into the house without unfolding her body, without saying a friendly “good-bye” or “thank you” to Paul, without even talking to me .
“Nice end to the day,” Tom said, weary and rueful, as we stumbled into our room. “ That was fun. Not the day, I mean; the trip home. What was up with her? She can be really immature sometimes. You can tell she’s twenty-four, can’t you? Crazy behavior.” He shrugged his wide shoulders. “One minute everything seems fine. The next, for no reason at all, she starts scratching at Paul.” He yawned, pulling off his T-shirt and throwing it onto a chair.
Of course I was moved to defend her (“You were twenty-four yourself not so long ago,” I reminded him tartly), but I took something of his point. “Do you think they’re going to keep this up all weekend?” I whispered, as we got into bed. “I hope not!”
Tom opened his mouth to reply, but his words were drowned out by—what else?—the sound of a very unhappy, very hungry, and very awake small baby.
I was starting to think there was some great ledger in the sky, and that every moment of pleasure was balanced out by a wail from our miserable son. Oh look, said some awful malignant deity, peering down at us. Tom and Q have managed three minutes of happiness, time to poke a stick in that child’s innards to make him scream.
“Are we nearly at twelve weeks yet?” my husband moaned in the cold white gray of five a.m.
16
Jeanie
O ne distinct problem of sleeping in the sitting room was you couldn’t lie in. I longed for my pretty bedroom with its thick mattress and luxurious en suite—but, of course, I’d had to give it all up to Paul. I heard Q and Tom and the baby squalling in the kitchen the morning after our sailing trip at seven; my head was pounding. After trying to ignore them for twenty minutes, I gave up and reluctantly presented myself. Ten minutes later, Paul himself emerged, showered, pressed, and polished in smart linen trousers with a silky cotton shirt. Q and Tom suddenly discovered pressing reasons to take the baby outside, which left the two of us glowering at each other over the breakfast table. Looking at his elegant get-up, I wished I was armored in something more than just my pink gingham M&S pajamas. I was always underdressed around this man.
He lost no time in getting straight to the point. “You talk a lot of crap,” he said airily, “but I like the fact that you have opinions.”
This caused me, briefly, to lose my footing. “Well, yes,” I said vaguely. “Of course I do. Lots of them, actually.”
This didn’t seem to be my strongest point, so I stopped and paid a great deal of
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