vest under her Karen Millen suit.
‘I could’ve dropped him back if you were worried, I mean tired,’ Martin goes on.
‘And let you worm your way back in?’
‘Would I have succeeded?’
‘I wasn’t prepared to risk it.’
‘So there’s a chance then?’
‘Don’t sound desperate, Martin. It doesn’t suit you.’ Claudia turns away from him and focuses her attention back on her son. ‘Jeremy, say goodbye to your
father.’
‘Can’t he come too?’ Jeremy begs, as if Martin’s a Labrador.
‘You can see him during the week,’ she says, fastidiously ignoring the Labrador who’s begging for crumbs. Any crumbs. ‘Wednesday would be good. I’ve got a late
meeting in town. He can pick you up from school. Dulwich, that is. It’s all sorted out. I cleared up the confusion with them today.’
Then, before anyone can answer this, she flips her attention to me. ‘Thanks Vicky. You’ve been an angel.’
You don’t know the half of it, I want to say but I am trying to be gracious.
‘And thanks Steve. You really are a holy man,’ she kisses him. He blushes.
And suddenly we are watching the cab retreat down the street, a dirty emission pluming out of the exhaust, which appears to be held in place with masking tape. Martin is watching his family
leave him behind. For a moment he looks on the verge of crying like a baby. But then he turns away and goes inside, telling me to get a life. Me? What a cheek! I have a life. Maybe not the one I
was expecting but it looks a darn sight more appealing than his right now.
The evening is very, very quiet. The house quieter still. Even Martin can’t fill it with his noise. He has shut himself in the back room. He’ll be grateful for that
zed-bed, you mark my words. Meanwhile I’m grateful for our marriage bed with the clean sheets. For the chirpy snoring so close to my ear. I’m grateful that we’ve stuck with it, me
and Steve, even though we’re different people to the ones who stood in Lewisham register office, pledging our troths. Even though there have been times – bad times, serious times
– when I’ve wanted to go out into the garden, walk across those stepping stones, climb over the fence and up onto the railway cutting and hurl myself under the 10.26 to London
Bridge.
Marriage. That’s one thing I’ll do better at than Martin. Ha!
Thoughts for the Day : Why aren’t I the sort of woman who makes men blush?
Chapter Fourteen: Monday January 14th
Steve has encouraged me to take Imo to the parent and toddler group at St Hilda’s this afternoon. Olivia has already been to pre-school there this morning and has the
collage of Katie Price and Peter Andre to prove it. I don’t really want to go back but Steve said it would do me good, as if I’m ill or something.
Olivia, the big girl for once, has a congregation of smaller children about her, while Imo, still trying to roll over, has managed to wedge herself under the baby gym. As I am prising her free,
a familiar voice assaults me.
‘Vicky! How lovely to see you.’ It’s Amanda, swooping down on us, scarves swishing, beads jangling. ‘I was wondering when you’d make it down here to see us with
your tots.’ She looks at my tots, one with her entourage, the other with her Beryl Cook thighs. ‘I hear Olivia is establishing herself at playgroup.’
‘She seems to have found her feet,’ I say, cagily.
We look at Olivia’s feet, encased in her plastic Cinderella shoes. She has now seated a group of toddlers on a mat and is reading Where’s Spot? to them in a sing-song teacher
voice, slapping their wrists if they try and lift the flaps.
‘She can certainly command an audience,’ Amanda observes. ‘Following in her father’s footsteps.’
I get a picture – a vision – of Olivia as a grown woman, in a dog collar, standing in the pulpit, delivering a sermon on tidiness. Even Jesus folded his grave clothes before leaving
the tomb, I hear her say. And the angels who attended
‘I could’ve dropped him back if you were worried, I mean tired,’ Martin goes on.
‘And let you worm your way back in?’
‘Would I have succeeded?’
‘I wasn’t prepared to risk it.’
‘So there’s a chance then?’
‘Don’t sound desperate, Martin. It doesn’t suit you.’ Claudia turns away from him and focuses her attention back on her son. ‘Jeremy, say goodbye to your
father.’
‘Can’t he come too?’ Jeremy begs, as if Martin’s a Labrador.
‘You can see him during the week,’ she says, fastidiously ignoring the Labrador who’s begging for crumbs. Any crumbs. ‘Wednesday would be good. I’ve got a late
meeting in town. He can pick you up from school. Dulwich, that is. It’s all sorted out. I cleared up the confusion with them today.’
Then, before anyone can answer this, she flips her attention to me. ‘Thanks Vicky. You’ve been an angel.’
You don’t know the half of it, I want to say but I am trying to be gracious.
‘And thanks Steve. You really are a holy man,’ she kisses him. He blushes.
And suddenly we are watching the cab retreat down the street, a dirty emission pluming out of the exhaust, which appears to be held in place with masking tape. Martin is watching his family
leave him behind. For a moment he looks on the verge of crying like a baby. But then he turns away and goes inside, telling me to get a life. Me? What a cheek! I have a life. Maybe not the one I
was expecting but it looks a darn sight more appealing than his right now.
The evening is very, very quiet. The house quieter still. Even Martin can’t fill it with his noise. He has shut himself in the back room. He’ll be grateful for that
zed-bed, you mark my words. Meanwhile I’m grateful for our marriage bed with the clean sheets. For the chirpy snoring so close to my ear. I’m grateful that we’ve stuck with it, me
and Steve, even though we’re different people to the ones who stood in Lewisham register office, pledging our troths. Even though there have been times – bad times, serious times
– when I’ve wanted to go out into the garden, walk across those stepping stones, climb over the fence and up onto the railway cutting and hurl myself under the 10.26 to London
Bridge.
Marriage. That’s one thing I’ll do better at than Martin. Ha!
Thoughts for the Day : Why aren’t I the sort of woman who makes men blush?
Chapter Fourteen: Monday January 14th
Steve has encouraged me to take Imo to the parent and toddler group at St Hilda’s this afternoon. Olivia has already been to pre-school there this morning and has the
collage of Katie Price and Peter Andre to prove it. I don’t really want to go back but Steve said it would do me good, as if I’m ill or something.
Olivia, the big girl for once, has a congregation of smaller children about her, while Imo, still trying to roll over, has managed to wedge herself under the baby gym. As I am prising her free,
a familiar voice assaults me.
‘Vicky! How lovely to see you.’ It’s Amanda, swooping down on us, scarves swishing, beads jangling. ‘I was wondering when you’d make it down here to see us with
your tots.’ She looks at my tots, one with her entourage, the other with her Beryl Cook thighs. ‘I hear Olivia is establishing herself at playgroup.’
‘She seems to have found her feet,’ I say, cagily.
We look at Olivia’s feet, encased in her plastic Cinderella shoes. She has now seated a group of toddlers on a mat and is reading Where’s Spot? to them in a sing-song teacher
voice, slapping their wrists if they try and lift the flaps.
‘She can certainly command an audience,’ Amanda observes. ‘Following in her father’s footsteps.’
I get a picture – a vision – of Olivia as a grown woman, in a dog collar, standing in the pulpit, delivering a sermon on tidiness. Even Jesus folded his grave clothes before leaving
the tomb, I hear her say. And the angels who attended
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