The Pile of Stuff at the Bottom of the Stairs by Christina Hopkinson Page A

it?” It’s true. I feel that I work really hard to cultivate friends, while Joel does so effortlessly. Yet another thing I found attractive about him that is now irksome.
    “I think there’s something weird about Michael.”
    “I know you don’t like him. You’re always going on about how much you don’t like him, to such an extent that you’re the one who’s being a bit weird. I don’t know why, he’s not that bad.”
    “He is. There’s definitely something a bit evil about him.”
    “Like what?” I ask.
    “I don’t know. I don’t know him well enough, but he’s a bit Stepford. He’s such an alpha male, with the City swinging-dick job and the kite surfing and the extreme sports, but I’ve never actually seen him behave in a recognizably human manner.”
    “Maybe Mitzi got him made in a lab to order. He’s just what she always said she was going to end up with. Do you remember how she used to say that you don’t love money, you just love where the money is?”
    “Horrible bars in the City, as it turned out.”
    I shiver. “Do you remember that silver place with all the Russian girls? It was so blatant.”
    “But were they any more whorish than Mitzi is?”
    I blanch, which Rufus takes as a sign that something is wrong. “Has Daddy said a rude word?”
    “A bit, yes.”
    “Which one?”
    “I’m not telling you.”
    “I wouldn’t use it anyway. Some boys at school say ‘fuck’ and I think it’s really silly of them to.”
    “Good for you, darling.” I turn to Joel. “Why don’t you look at the half term in May as an opportunity to stake out Michael? An interesting bit of fieldwork.”
5. Is very perceptive about people. Likes to observe then share his observations, and I find them endlessly interesting, except I wish he’d lay off Michael. This isn’t really working, is it? It’s not really the moral equivalent to leaving a tea bag out. His good points are too amorphous and vague, his bad points all too specific. Am I going wrong with The List or is he going wrong with his behavior? The latter, I’m sure. He doesn’t do enough specifically good things. And that is why he drives me mad and why we’ll end up divorced.
    I yawn. Then I yawn again in case he didn’t notice. Please, I say to myself, I’ll call off The List, I’ll never nag again, just turn to me and say, “Darling, you look a bit tired, why don’t you go back to bed and I’ll take Gabe along when I take Rufus swimming?” I watch him in anticipation.
    “I suppose you want me to take Rufus swimming,” he says, instead.
    I shrug, unable to speak.
    “It’s just that I think the chlorine will make me feel sick. You know how sensitive my stomach is.”
    “OK, I’ll take him.”
    “Do you mind taking Gabe with you?”
    The List is back on.
    I continue making pacts with myself at the swimming pool. If he hasn’t done anything to tidy up the breakfast stuff by the time I get back then I’m not even bothering with The List and six months’ grace. It’s over—right here, right now. And even if he’s tidied up, if I discover that he’s read all the sections of the paper already, and done that thing where it looks like he’s spread them across the bed and rolled over them, then I’m certainly not going to bother with writing down his paltry collection of good points.
    “Can’t you even pull up your own trousers, Rufus? You’re five years old.”
    “But Mom, I’m sick of doing everything. Gabe does nothing.”
    “Gabe’s younger.” And incompetent. But possessed of more natural charm than his elder brother. “I’m sick of doing everything, too.”
    Rufus gives me a look. It’s a look that isn’t even to say, “But that’s your job.” It’s a look that says, “You? You have feelings?”
    “Come on,” I chivvy. “Let’s get going. I don’t have time for this.”
    I walk home with almost a thrill of anticipation. Decisions about our marriage don’t need to wait six months; let’s make them