poor man who was a donkey?” Darcey said. “Who’s he in love
with?”
I
glanced at Jonathan for help.
“No
one,” he said. “I expect he’s got a wife at home, and children, and is quite
glad to go back home afterwards, and get a telling-off from his wife for being
out in the forest all night. But the story doesn’t say, so you have to imagine
what happened to him next.”
“Look,”
I said, as we arrived at the bandstand. “They had a bar set up here, and
there’s the bit where you go through to get on to the set. It’s all closed off
now. I wonder if there’s a performance tonight.”
I
felt a sudden wild urge to text Zé, see if she could pull strings with her
well-connected friend and get us tickets for another performance. I longed to
be back inside the forest, in the darkness, exploring deeper, seeing things I’d
missed last night. Feeling the adrenaline and wine coursing through my body and
turning me, briefly, into someone else, someone without responsibilities, with
nowhere to go but deeper into the dream. Seeing Felix again, watching him in
costume and in character, knowing, this time, who the man was behind the mask.
But that way madness lay.
“You’re
still thinking about it, aren’t you?” Jonathan said, once Darcey had run off to
play on the swings.
“About
what?”
“The
play, Laura. I can see you’ve got something on your mind.”
“I…
yes, I suppose I am, a bit. It was pretty amazing. You saw the reviews.”
“We
can do more of that sort of thing, you know, now we’re in London. It would be a
shame not to.” He lifted Owen up on to the slide. “Down you go, Mummy will
catch you at the bottom. We can organise babysitters, book a few Saturday
nights out. God knows I could do with a bit of culture.”
“Yes,
good idea,” I said, passing Owen back for another go. I imagined going to see a
West End show, having dinner afterwards, being tourists for a night. A few
months ago the idea would have seemed like fun; now it seemed dull and
stifling.
I
looked at Jonathan, laughing with our son as he hoisted him up on to his
shoulders. The past ten years had added a few grey strands to his dark hair. He
bought thirty-four inch waist jeans now, not thirty-two as he used to. But he
was still as handsome as he’d been when I met him. You are extremely bloody
lucky, Laura, I told myself firmly.
“I’m
starving,” Jonathan said. “What are we doing for lunch?”
“There’s
a chicken in the fridge,” I said. “I can bung it in the oven with some
potatoes. Make a salad.”
Jonathan
looked at me, sensing disinterest. “Fuck it, let’s go to the pub,” he said.
“Daddy
said a rude word,” Darcey said.
The
next week, things returned to their normal chaos, and I had no chance to think
about Felix or, indeed, very much else at all. Whether it was a virus or dodgy
chicken nuggets I don’t know, but both the children were horribly ill, and I
spent my days slumped in front of CBeebies with a limp, forlorn little figure
on either side of me, and my nights cleaning up sick. It was awful, it went on
for three days, and by the end of it I felt like a limp rag, and probably
smelled like one too.
When
at last Darcey and Owen were well enough to keep down toast and Marmite and
watered-down apple juice, I packed them off back to school and nursery with an
overwhelming sense of relief. Once I’d handed Darcey over to Mrs Odewayu,
assuring her that it had been forty-eight hours since she was last sick,
whatever had caused it was now in the past and she wasn’t going to infect the
entire classroom, I crossed the road and knocked on Zé’s door. I felt horribly
aware that I hadn’t washed my hair since Sunday and had worn the same jeans for
more days than I liked to remember, but I was also desperately in need of adult
company and a conversation that didn’t revolve around how people’s tummies were
feeling and whether we were going to watch The Clangers or Postman
Pat
with?”
I
glanced at Jonathan for help.
“No
one,” he said. “I expect he’s got a wife at home, and children, and is quite
glad to go back home afterwards, and get a telling-off from his wife for being
out in the forest all night. But the story doesn’t say, so you have to imagine
what happened to him next.”
“Look,”
I said, as we arrived at the bandstand. “They had a bar set up here, and
there’s the bit where you go through to get on to the set. It’s all closed off
now. I wonder if there’s a performance tonight.”
I
felt a sudden wild urge to text Zé, see if she could pull strings with her
well-connected friend and get us tickets for another performance. I longed to
be back inside the forest, in the darkness, exploring deeper, seeing things I’d
missed last night. Feeling the adrenaline and wine coursing through my body and
turning me, briefly, into someone else, someone without responsibilities, with
nowhere to go but deeper into the dream. Seeing Felix again, watching him in
costume and in character, knowing, this time, who the man was behind the mask.
But that way madness lay.
“You’re
still thinking about it, aren’t you?” Jonathan said, once Darcey had run off to
play on the swings.
“About
what?”
“The
play, Laura. I can see you’ve got something on your mind.”
“I…
yes, I suppose I am, a bit. It was pretty amazing. You saw the reviews.”
“We
can do more of that sort of thing, you know, now we’re in London. It would be a
shame not to.” He lifted Owen up on to the slide. “Down you go, Mummy will
catch you at the bottom. We can organise babysitters, book a few Saturday
nights out. God knows I could do with a bit of culture.”
“Yes,
good idea,” I said, passing Owen back for another go. I imagined going to see a
West End show, having dinner afterwards, being tourists for a night. A few
months ago the idea would have seemed like fun; now it seemed dull and
stifling.
I
looked at Jonathan, laughing with our son as he hoisted him up on to his
shoulders. The past ten years had added a few grey strands to his dark hair. He
bought thirty-four inch waist jeans now, not thirty-two as he used to. But he
was still as handsome as he’d been when I met him. You are extremely bloody
lucky, Laura, I told myself firmly.
“I’m
starving,” Jonathan said. “What are we doing for lunch?”
“There’s
a chicken in the fridge,” I said. “I can bung it in the oven with some
potatoes. Make a salad.”
Jonathan
looked at me, sensing disinterest. “Fuck it, let’s go to the pub,” he said.
“Daddy
said a rude word,” Darcey said.
The
next week, things returned to their normal chaos, and I had no chance to think
about Felix or, indeed, very much else at all. Whether it was a virus or dodgy
chicken nuggets I don’t know, but both the children were horribly ill, and I
spent my days slumped in front of CBeebies with a limp, forlorn little figure
on either side of me, and my nights cleaning up sick. It was awful, it went on
for three days, and by the end of it I felt like a limp rag, and probably
smelled like one too.
When
at last Darcey and Owen were well enough to keep down toast and Marmite and
watered-down apple juice, I packed them off back to school and nursery with an
overwhelming sense of relief. Once I’d handed Darcey over to Mrs Odewayu,
assuring her that it had been forty-eight hours since she was last sick,
whatever had caused it was now in the past and she wasn’t going to infect the
entire classroom, I crossed the road and knocked on Zé’s door. I felt horribly
aware that I hadn’t washed my hair since Sunday and had worn the same jeans for
more days than I liked to remember, but I was also desperately in need of adult
company and a conversation that didn’t revolve around how people’s tummies were
feeling and whether we were going to watch The Clangers or Postman
Pat
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