47
The next day, 17th June, starts like any other. I wake up in my own bed, having somehow transported myself there in the night. Robbie is slumbering beside me, snoring lightly. Grizelda is reposing on the lid of the laundry basket. The house is quiet, apart from birdsong.
I have a headache, which crept up in the night, because yesterday I drank my own bodyweight in booze, and fully deserve the stonking hangover coming my way. Groggily rearing out of bed, I stumble downstairs and begin clearing up last night’s detritus, which Robbie no doubt imagines he already dealt with. The table is greasy with curry oil and littered with shards of naan bread – a feast for our resident mice. No one switched on the dishwasher, so it’s stacked with dirty plates and cutlery, thrown in every which way. Ditto the washing machine, which has finished a cycle but not been emptied, so it’s full of dank clothes.
After dealing with it all, I treat myself to paracetamol washed down with tea, which I drink in the garden, admiring our field of weeds and withered plants. Sitting on the swing Robbie hung from the cedar tree, I sway on the seat in the early morning sunshine, gazing at the boughs above. There’s a fresher feel to the air today, sunny but not as sultry, and the slight cool breeze is a balm to my aching head. Ethan and Hazel grew out of this solid honed plank years ago, but we didn’t like to take it away because of what it stood for. What it swung for. Our new lives, and new family, and new start. There was a time when this oak slab soared high into those branches above, and perhaps it will again one day. My children seem so young still, and yet soon they’ll have moved on, with their own lives and families. Life moves so fast. You have to slow down occasionally, stop it slipping from your grasp.
Back in the kitchen, I look at my Instagram page and see that my following has already plummeted to 30K. ‘Falling quickly’ as the shipping forecast would say. Ah well, it’s still more than an average working mum might expect. I post a photo of Grizelda sitting on the bread bin, then check my emails and find one from Imogen telling me that Vince has called his usual 9 a.m. meeting. He has a streak of sadism which makes this even more likely after parties. Reading on, I see we’re being summoned to brainstorm a new documentary format Petroc has devised, called Get the Church to Me on Time. It’s a renovation show set in a beautiful derelict chapel in Batheaston, exploring the challenges of restoring religious buildings. Vince is describing it as ‘God meets Grand Designs.’ What a good idea.
As I lay out the breakfast things, smiling to myself, Robbie comes down looking smart in a suit, ready for a breakfast meeting in Bath.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not bad, considering. But I could do with a coffee if you’re making it.’
After a strong cup from his cafetière, I take a long shower, regretfully washing out my curls along with the last vestiges of yesterday, emerging a new(ish) woman. The headache has receded to a light thud, easily manageable, and for once I take my time with my make-up, erasing the bags under my eyes, the age spots at my temples, editing my face until it’s the glossy online, polished version. Because I’m worth it. In the cold light of day, it’s clear my lovely green dress is speckled with shepherd’s pie, so I wear a blue skirt with red roses embroidered on it, and a mustard-yellow T-shirt, with my new sandals. Adding a silver clover brooch that Hazel bought me for my fortieth birthday, I study myself in the mirror. Maybe I’m imagining it, but my hair still looks like it has an ounce of bounce. A very slight wave. The outfit has Mrs-Brown-from-Paddington vibes, just as I intended. I want to look bright, and fun, and nice, and not boring. You dress as you are, or at least as you’d like to be.
On my way back downstairs, I bang on the twins’ doors bellowing ‘Time to get up!’ and then go down to feed Grizelda. But Robbie is already doing it, and I catch him stroking her, saying ‘You is a pretty kitty’ in the silly voice he reserves just for her. She gazes at him with disdain, before eating her breakfast with her usual dainty precision.
Hazel comes downstairs with her hair restored to its smooth glossy sheen. Avoiding my eyes, she busies herself eating cereal, scrolling on her phone. Pouring myself another coffee, I casually don my parental gardening gloves.
‘Quite a day yesterday, wasn’t it?’
She shakes her head, one finger on her phone.
‘But a result in the end, no?’
My daughter tips the bowl to get the last of the cornflakes. ‘Hmm-mmm.’
‘Oh, go on, tell me something.’
She looks up, a gleam in her eye. ‘It was a good day.’
‘Invite him round.’
‘Never.’
I laugh, mussing up her perfect hair. ‘One day.’
My gloves are still on when Ethan finally appears, but this tender cutting needs to be carefully handled. He shuffles in, sliding into a chair and pulling the packet of Shreddies towards him.
‘Thought I might come by the skate park tomorrow, if you’re around.’ He usually heads there on Saturday mornings.
He glances at me warily, and I hasten to reassure him. ‘I won’t let anyone see me. But I could treat you to brunch after?’
My son nods, steadily spooning wheat parcels.
‘Right, it’s a date then.’
He grunts. Job done.
We’re all out of the house by eight-fifteen, though I have to go back to check Hazel’s hair straighteners, and it’s a good thing I do, because she’s left them on, and the whole house could have burned down were it not for my scrupulousness. She’s not nearly grateful enough, but then we’re all scattering in various directions, Robbie catching a lift with a colleague, the twins on the bus pretending they don’t know each other, and me heading to the station. Back to the grindstone.
And yet . . . I go slowly, deciding I’ll get a later train, enjoy the meander through our little town, relish the feel of the sun on my bare arms, the sense of a day beginning. Tomorrow night, I might suggest Robbie takes me out for dinner – we can leave the kids to their own devices while we check out the new Italian place that’s opened near the market. It’ll give us a chance to have a proper talk. I’ve always been the worrier, and Robbie the calmer, but going forward I’ll ask him to do a bit more of the panicking, so I can relax occasionally. I think I’m ready to take my foot off the gas, but I’ll need someone at the wheel, keeping an eye on the road.
Boarding the train, I instantly spot an unattended rucksack, and swiftly move down the carriage, not away from the threat so much as the fret. Why worry? Why not just move on? Life’s too short. Finding an empty seat next to the window, I pick up a discarded local paper. A headline catches my eye: ‘MADWOMAN MOWS DOWN YOGA GROUP’, but before I can read the article, my gaze is snagged by another, bigger, story: ‘PARK WARDEN APPREHENDS PEEPING TOM’. Seems like there was a lot going on in that park yesterday. Ah well, today’s news is tomorrow’s fish and chip paper. No point stressing over it.
Putting the paper down, I settle myself, pull my book out of my bag, turn to page 49, and start to read. It’s going to be a good day.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Hi there. It’s that bit of the book where you thank all the people who helped make it happen. I often skip to that bit first, as if it’s going to give an extra insight to prepare me for reading. So, if you’ve done that, here’s something to entice you. The first thank you goes to Ferris Bueller, because he was a huge inspiration, both in writing and in life. I wish I could be more like him, but I can’t, so I made Clover like him instead. Maybe both of them can persuade the rest of us to take a day off occasionally, to recharge.
Here are the others who deserve my gratitude for their time, generosity and expertise:
From TV Land, I want to thank all the production people I’ve worked with over the years – I never knew a funnier, more flippant bunch of miscreants. Specifically, I’d like to salute the RDF crew, who were my telly family for so many years – Jim Allen, Mel Bezalel, Jack Bootle, Sam Burr, Alexa Carey, Lynn Sutcliffe, Teresa Watkins, and many others. Thank you for making the job so much fun, and providing so many useful anecdotes. And a huge hat tip to the lovely Jo Scarratt-Jones, for being my Beta(max) reader. A superb TV exec (much better than Clover) and Bristolian, her help and insight were invaluable. I would also like to mention Jo’s beloved dad Ron and the wonderful work of the Bristol Royal Infirmary who care for and support so many.
Staying in the West Country, I’d like to thank the Bristol branch of the Price family for responding to random texts like ‘what’s the poshest golf club down your way?’ They were very patient with me, and I owe them a round (of golf or drinks).
Talking of drinks, Clover quaffs an awful lot in this book, and some of what she imbibes is good stuff. I’d like to raise a glass to Frog Stone, who shared her vast wine knowledge with me and indulged a long discussion about coolers. I’m sorry my penchant for prosecco disappoints her.
Once again, I found myself needing to know things about the academic year, school terms, exams etc, and turned to Lydia Aers for teacherly tidbits. An apple for her.
Dziękuję to Marta Antończuck for helping me with my Polish phrases – I was amazed I got them right, and now want to use them in real life.
To my fantastic publishing teams at HarperFiction in the UK and Putnam in the US: you’re the villages that raise the book-baby. Such hard work, skill and passion goes into the publishing process and I’m in awe of what you do. Sales, marketing, copyediting, proofing, cover designing… the credits go on and on. And my excellent editors, Martha Ashby and Tara Singh Carlson – you’re the ones who get the rough cut and have to make something of it. Thank you for working wonders.
All the awards go to my amazing agent, Madeleine Milburn, and her team of agency superstars. We authors can be so needy and insecure, but they’re always there to reassure, support, encourage and respond to obscure questions about rights issues.
