talking about boyfriends,” said Lizzie.
Amy opened her case and took out one of her eleven Barbie dolls. “BARBIE’S got a BOYFRIEND,” she yelled. “He’s called KEN. She’s going to MARRY HIM. I’ve got her a BRIDE’S DRESS.”
“Amy darling,” said Lizzie. “I keep telling you, Barbie is never going to marry Ken.” Bewilderment and disappointment spread across Amy’s face. “Barbie has been going out with Ken for almost forty years without tying the knot,” Lizzie explained patiently as she passed round the honey-glazed poussins. “I’m afraid Barbie is a commitophobe.”
“What’s a COMMITOPHOBE, Mummy?”
“Someone who doesn’t want to get married, darling. And I don’t want you to be one when you grow up.”
“What are you all talking about?” said Alice, whose blonde pigtails were spattered with black paint.
“Boyfriends,” said Frances.
“ALICE has got a BOYFRIEND,” Amy yelled. “He’s called TOM. He’s in her CLASS. But I HAVEN’T got one.”
“That’s because you’re too young,” said Alice wisely. “You still watch the Teletubbies. You’re a baby.” Amy didn’t appear to resent this slur.
“How old’s your boyfriend, Alice?” Catherine inquired with a smile.
“He’s eight and a quarter,” she replied. “And Tom’s mummy, Mrs. Hamilton, she’s got a boyfriend too.”
“Good God!” said Lizzie. “ Has she?”
“Yes,” said Alice. “Tom told me. He’s called Peter. He works with her. In the bank. But Tom’s daddy doesn’t know. Should I tell him?” she added.
“ No ,” said Lizzie. “No. Don’t. Social death, darling.”
“Tiffany, have you got a boyfriend yet?” asked Alice.
p. 75 “Er, no,” I said. “I haven’t.” She went off and sat on the swing with a vaguely disappointed air.
“You know, it’s horrible being single in the summer,” I said vehemently. “All those happy couples necking in the park, or playing tennis or strolling hand in hand through the pounding surf . . .”
“Personally I think it’s much worse in the winter,” said Emma, “having no one to snuggle up to in front of an open fire on some romantic weekend break.”
“No, I think it’s worse being single in the spring,” said Catherine. “When everything’s growing and thrusting and the sun’s shining, and it’s all so horribly happy. April really is the cruelest month, in my view.”
“Being single in autumn is the worst,” said Sally ruefully, “because there’s no one to kick through the leaves with in the park or hold hands with at fireworks displays.”
“Well, I often envy you single girls,” said Lizzie darkly. “I’d love to be single again.”
“Well, we’d love to be you,” said Catherine, “with such a nice husband.”
Lizzie gave a hollow little laugh. I thought that was mean. I glanced at Martin, quietly painting away.
“Love is a gilded cage,” said Emma drunkenly.
“No—‘Love conquers all,’ ” said Catherine.
“ ‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry,’ ” said Frances, with a smirk. “I’m glad that’s true—otherwise I’d be unemployed!”
“ ‘Love’s the noblest frailty of the mind,’ ” said Lizzie. “Dryden.”
“ ‘Love’s not Time’s fool,’ ” said Sally. “Shakespeare.”
“ ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’ ” said Emma. “Ditto.” And for some reason, that cheered me up—I didn’t know why.
“Come on, Tiffany—your turn!” they all chorused.
p. 76 “Er—‘Better to have loved and lost than never loved at all,’ ” I said. “Tennyson.”
“However,” said Lizzie, “according to George Bernard Shaw ‘there is no love sincerer than the love of food.’ So eat up, everyone!”
August
p. 77 On Saturday the first of August I opened The Times, turned to the Rendezvous section and found my ad, under “S” for “Sparky.” I was quite pleased with it. It didn’t look too bad, alongside all the
Amy opened her case and took out one of her eleven Barbie dolls. “BARBIE’S got a BOYFRIEND,” she yelled. “He’s called KEN. She’s going to MARRY HIM. I’ve got her a BRIDE’S DRESS.”
“Amy darling,” said Lizzie. “I keep telling you, Barbie is never going to marry Ken.” Bewilderment and disappointment spread across Amy’s face. “Barbie has been going out with Ken for almost forty years without tying the knot,” Lizzie explained patiently as she passed round the honey-glazed poussins. “I’m afraid Barbie is a commitophobe.”
“What’s a COMMITOPHOBE, Mummy?”
“Someone who doesn’t want to get married, darling. And I don’t want you to be one when you grow up.”
“What are you all talking about?” said Alice, whose blonde pigtails were spattered with black paint.
“Boyfriends,” said Frances.
“ALICE has got a BOYFRIEND,” Amy yelled. “He’s called TOM. He’s in her CLASS. But I HAVEN’T got one.”
“That’s because you’re too young,” said Alice wisely. “You still watch the Teletubbies. You’re a baby.” Amy didn’t appear to resent this slur.
“How old’s your boyfriend, Alice?” Catherine inquired with a smile.
“He’s eight and a quarter,” she replied. “And Tom’s mummy, Mrs. Hamilton, she’s got a boyfriend too.”
“Good God!” said Lizzie. “ Has she?”
“Yes,” said Alice. “Tom told me. He’s called Peter. He works with her. In the bank. But Tom’s daddy doesn’t know. Should I tell him?” she added.
“ No ,” said Lizzie. “No. Don’t. Social death, darling.”
“Tiffany, have you got a boyfriend yet?” asked Alice.
p. 75 “Er, no,” I said. “I haven’t.” She went off and sat on the swing with a vaguely disappointed air.
“You know, it’s horrible being single in the summer,” I said vehemently. “All those happy couples necking in the park, or playing tennis or strolling hand in hand through the pounding surf . . .”
“Personally I think it’s much worse in the winter,” said Emma, “having no one to snuggle up to in front of an open fire on some romantic weekend break.”
“No, I think it’s worse being single in the spring,” said Catherine. “When everything’s growing and thrusting and the sun’s shining, and it’s all so horribly happy. April really is the cruelest month, in my view.”
“Being single in autumn is the worst,” said Sally ruefully, “because there’s no one to kick through the leaves with in the park or hold hands with at fireworks displays.”
“Well, I often envy you single girls,” said Lizzie darkly. “I’d love to be single again.”
“Well, we’d love to be you,” said Catherine, “with such a nice husband.”
Lizzie gave a hollow little laugh. I thought that was mean. I glanced at Martin, quietly painting away.
“Love is a gilded cage,” said Emma drunkenly.
“No—‘Love conquers all,’ ” said Catherine.
“ ‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry,’ ” said Frances, with a smirk. “I’m glad that’s true—otherwise I’d be unemployed!”
“ ‘Love’s the noblest frailty of the mind,’ ” said Lizzie. “Dryden.”
“ ‘Love’s not Time’s fool,’ ” said Sally. “Shakespeare.”
“ ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’ ” said Emma. “Ditto.” And for some reason, that cheered me up—I didn’t know why.
“Come on, Tiffany—your turn!” they all chorused.
p. 76 “Er—‘Better to have loved and lost than never loved at all,’ ” I said. “Tennyson.”
“However,” said Lizzie, “according to George Bernard Shaw ‘there is no love sincerer than the love of food.’ So eat up, everyone!”
August
p. 77 On Saturday the first of August I opened The Times, turned to the Rendezvous section and found my ad, under “S” for “Sparky.” I was quite pleased with it. It didn’t look too bad, alongside all the
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