gone?”
I nod.
“Oh good. I’m so not in the mood for a Kate and Pete marriage analysis right now.”
“Not very nice.”
Joe helicopters a squealing Evie above his head. I take a deep breath.
“Joe. There’s a message from a hotel receptionist on the answering machine.” Joe looks blank. “Said you had a reservation.”
Joe levers up from the sofa and saunters over—deliberately casual?—to make coffee. Standing at the island unit, Evie on his hip, he positions his back to me so I can’t see his face. He puts his left hand in his back jeans pocket, like he needs to put it somewhere or it might start tapping.
“I thought it could be a nice night away for some of the new design team. A thank-you for all those late nights last month and the Cucumber Project. But anyhow it’s . . .”
Joe’s thrown these thank-you sessions before. They went to Cornwall last year. They spent the weekend surfing and drinking and smoking dope. I spent the weekend sleeping and practicing breathing exercises and wishing I could go out and get properly drunk.
“But why Saturday, bang in the middle of our weekend?” My voice is high-pitched, needy. It’s not my voice. I hate him for making me sound like this. And I’m not convinced by his explanation: He won’t meet my eye.
“Thought you might like a night free of me. You could get Alice or someone round for a . . . Chardonnay playdate. But as I was saying . . .”
Okay, he’s struggling. Only yesterday he declared Alice “a bit shallow.” He thinks it’s despicable that she left the father of her child. Now he’s encouraging me to see her?
“But you don’t . . .”
“Amy!” Joe snaps. “If you’ll let me get a word in edgewise, I’m trying to explain that it’s been canceled. Loads of them can’t go that weekend. Let’s do something nice together instead.” He rattles the biscuit tin. It’s empty. I finished them off last night when I couldn’t sleep. “Never any bloody food in this house.”
“You do the shopping, then.”
“You’re at home all day . . .”
“Just sitting on my arse!” I snap. “You try hoofing round Sainsbury’s with Evie having a meltdown and everyone staring at you like they’re going to report you to the social services while weighing up the comparative merits of Digestives or HobNobs. . . .”
“Okay, okay.” Joe picks up his coffee and buries his head in
Design Week
. “I get the point. Sorry.” He stabs at the crumpling paper, shakes it out. “Oh, yes. Forgot to say, Alice phoned. Says she’s booked you in for some beauty appointment or something in town. Bumped you up the waiting list. I’ve written down the details on a Post-it.”
Ah, eyebrows.
“Amy?”
“Hmmm.”
“Don’t burn money. Tweezers in the bathroom cabinet.”
Eleven
AT THE PELICAN CROSSING, EVIE LETS RIP, EMITTING A noise totally disproportionate to the size of her lungs. A middle-aged woman tut-tuts into the pram. “She’s hungry,” the woman says tersely, as if it were any of her business.
I stamp on, from Kilburn to Queen’s Park. The high-rise council blocks disappear from view. In their place, rows of pretty Victorian houses, clouded by magnolia trees. While the perimeters of the two areas blur a little, Queen’s Park has distinguished itself from its less salubrious neighbor in the last few years. With neat avenues radiating from its eponymous lush green park, it is what estate agents call a bijou “urban village,” populated by wealthy, trendy Londoners—media, music industry, the odd actor—who downshifted from Notting Hill when they had families. They recycle. They drive gas-guzzling SUVs. Their children do yoga. They also get extra tutoring to give them the edge on their classmates. Oh yes, and the local boutique sells out of UGG boots within days of their arrival on the shop floor.
In the park café, I collapse like a pushchair, folded arms clicked tight to my ribs, knees crossed, shyly constricted. Nicola
I nod.
“Oh good. I’m so not in the mood for a Kate and Pete marriage analysis right now.”
“Not very nice.”
Joe helicopters a squealing Evie above his head. I take a deep breath.
“Joe. There’s a message from a hotel receptionist on the answering machine.” Joe looks blank. “Said you had a reservation.”
Joe levers up from the sofa and saunters over—deliberately casual?—to make coffee. Standing at the island unit, Evie on his hip, he positions his back to me so I can’t see his face. He puts his left hand in his back jeans pocket, like he needs to put it somewhere or it might start tapping.
“I thought it could be a nice night away for some of the new design team. A thank-you for all those late nights last month and the Cucumber Project. But anyhow it’s . . .”
Joe’s thrown these thank-you sessions before. They went to Cornwall last year. They spent the weekend surfing and drinking and smoking dope. I spent the weekend sleeping and practicing breathing exercises and wishing I could go out and get properly drunk.
“But why Saturday, bang in the middle of our weekend?” My voice is high-pitched, needy. It’s not my voice. I hate him for making me sound like this. And I’m not convinced by his explanation: He won’t meet my eye.
“Thought you might like a night free of me. You could get Alice or someone round for a . . . Chardonnay playdate. But as I was saying . . .”
Okay, he’s struggling. Only yesterday he declared Alice “a bit shallow.” He thinks it’s despicable that she left the father of her child. Now he’s encouraging me to see her?
“But you don’t . . .”
“Amy!” Joe snaps. “If you’ll let me get a word in edgewise, I’m trying to explain that it’s been canceled. Loads of them can’t go that weekend. Let’s do something nice together instead.” He rattles the biscuit tin. It’s empty. I finished them off last night when I couldn’t sleep. “Never any bloody food in this house.”
“You do the shopping, then.”
“You’re at home all day . . .”
“Just sitting on my arse!” I snap. “You try hoofing round Sainsbury’s with Evie having a meltdown and everyone staring at you like they’re going to report you to the social services while weighing up the comparative merits of Digestives or HobNobs. . . .”
“Okay, okay.” Joe picks up his coffee and buries his head in
Design Week
. “I get the point. Sorry.” He stabs at the crumpling paper, shakes it out. “Oh, yes. Forgot to say, Alice phoned. Says she’s booked you in for some beauty appointment or something in town. Bumped you up the waiting list. I’ve written down the details on a Post-it.”
Ah, eyebrows.
“Amy?”
“Hmmm.”
“Don’t burn money. Tweezers in the bathroom cabinet.”
Eleven
AT THE PELICAN CROSSING, EVIE LETS RIP, EMITTING A noise totally disproportionate to the size of her lungs. A middle-aged woman tut-tuts into the pram. “She’s hungry,” the woman says tersely, as if it were any of her business.
I stamp on, from Kilburn to Queen’s Park. The high-rise council blocks disappear from view. In their place, rows of pretty Victorian houses, clouded by magnolia trees. While the perimeters of the two areas blur a little, Queen’s Park has distinguished itself from its less salubrious neighbor in the last few years. With neat avenues radiating from its eponymous lush green park, it is what estate agents call a bijou “urban village,” populated by wealthy, trendy Londoners—media, music industry, the odd actor—who downshifted from Notting Hill when they had families. They recycle. They drive gas-guzzling SUVs. Their children do yoga. They also get extra tutoring to give them the edge on their classmates. Oh yes, and the local boutique sells out of UGG boots within days of their arrival on the shop floor.
In the park café, I collapse like a pushchair, folded arms clicked tight to my ribs, knees crossed, shyly constricted. Nicola
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