An Enormous Yes (20 page)

His words were still washing over her, but she was so appalled she could barely concentrate, until another mention of ‘our daughter’ focused her attention.

‘Obviously, she could come to visit, although I wouldn’t want the baby staying too long. That may seem harsh, Maria, but I’m just no good with babies.’

I, I, I, I, I … What about
her
, for God’s sake and – more important – what about Amy herself? He was talking about the flesh of his flesh, yet without the slightest interest in any child or grandchild, beyond restricting their hours of access. It was all she could do not to march out in disgust – except she had done that already, on Wednesday, and with disastrous
consequences
.
Instead, she said nothing whatsoever; just clenched her fists in an effort to control herself, and let him maunder on.

‘Oh, I admit I’ve let myself go, but with you here, Maria, I’m pretty sure I’d buck up. Of course, it wouldn’t be like the old days, with a whole circle of my arty friends inviting us to gigs and poetry-readings and all that sort of stuff, but you and I could go to films and plays together.’

And who would pay, she wondered? Two seats in a West End theatre could set you back well over £100, and even movies weren’t cheap.

As the tide of fantasy finally petered out, there was a sudden awkward silence in the room, but he probably hadn’t noticed that she hadn’t made a single comment yet.

‘So what do you think?’ he asked, putting his plate on the floor so he could move across and hover by her chair.

All at once, an image of Felix flashed into her mind, his incredulous, indignant face as she relayed Silas’s proposal: to swap her ardent
artist-lover
for a monstrously selfish, clapped-out invalid and spend her days taking him for check-ups at the hospital, or eye and hearing tests and chiropody appointments. And, suddenly, to her horror, she felt a great, explosive guffaw beginning to well up in her throat. Desperately, she fought it. It would be insulting and unkind to laugh – in fact, completely
unforgivable
– and, in any case, would wreck all chance of Amy ever meeting him. So, with a frantic effort, she tried to turn the laugher into a dramatic, belching cough.

‘I’m sorry, Silas,’ she snorted, clapping her paper napkin to her mouth, as she struggled to suppress the slightest hint of mirth. ‘There’s a piece of pizza stuck in my throat and I just have to spit it out.’

And, dashing into the kitchen, she did indeed spit into the sink, as her guffawing coughs choked slowly to a halt, to be replaced by further
resentment
. It was as if she needed to spit out the last two hours, along with her fury, her distaste and her total bafflement as to how on earth she could respond to this new, abhorrent life-plan, while still retaining Amy’s hopes of a meeting with her father.

W
HILE SHE WAITED
for a train in the dingy underground station, Maria reviewed the life class she’d just left. The male model had provided a real challenge but, unlike her days at art school, she hadn’t averted her eyes from his penis but studied it with zeal; its indolent limpness, the interesting blue veins snaking along its length. She had also managed to capture the sharp angles of the model’s figure and brooding hauteur of his face. Felix was impressed – she was pretty sure of that – although he had deliberately tempered his praises, as he always did these days, to prevent any of the students picking up the slightest hint of their affair.

That affair was on her mind because of tomorrow’s trip to Cornwall and, as she stepped into the carriage, she was anxiously aware that tonight was her last chance to mention the plan to Amy. Her daughter, she feared, was unlikely to welcome the news of an entanglement with another man when she was still distressed about the delay in meeting Silas. The problem was, Silas was still holding out for a personal relationship with
her
before he would agree to one with Amy – although he had at least accepted that she couldn’t move to Lewisham on account of her commitment to the baby. Amy, however, was ignorant of all the tricky bargaining involved, and she could hardly explain her deep distaste for any such relationship, without damning him in his daughter’s eyes.

Yet, as she alighted at Oxford Circus and changed to the Victoria Line, she burned with indignation at his blithe assumption that she would want to share his bed – further proof of his narcissism and total lack of interest in her feelings and situation. Was he even capable of sex, at the age of seventy-six and after all his cancer treatment? According to Kate, even Viagra couldn’t work a miracle.

Not that she had seen her friend of late, with so much on her mind, but she decided to pop in now, on the way back home, so they could catch up with each other’s news and discuss the Silas dilemma.

However, Kate seemed flustered as she opened the front door and began pouring out her own woes. ‘Maria, forgive me if I don’t ask you in, but you’ve caught me at the worst possible time. I’m at my wits’ end, phoning all my friends, in the hope one of them can help. You see, Janet was meant to be collecting the girls today and keeping them till seven, but she’s just let me down, would you believe, right at the last minute. And I’ve booked a Botox appointment specifically for today, because it takes a good five days to work and I just have to look my best for Paul’s big do next Wednesday. Of course, I should have gone this morning, but they were fully booked and only fitted me in at half past three, as a favour. And, anyway, even if I’d cancelled it, I’d still be in a fix, because I’d arranged to go straight on from the salon to visit my aunt in hospital. She’s not far off the end, I reckon, so I just can’t let her down. Besides, I’d promised to bring her a—’

‘Don’t change a thing,’ Maria said, interrupting the cascading tide of words.
‘I’ll
get the girls from school, give them tea and stay till you get back.’

‘No, I wouldn’t dream of asking you. I know you’re off to Cornwall at the crack of dawn tomorrow and you’ll need to pack and—’

‘Calm down, Kate, I can do that later on. I’m perfectly happy to hold the fort, if it’s any help.’

‘Of course it’s a help – it’s bloody wonderful! OK, Botox isn’t my top priority, but I do feel us women should be willing to put in the work. In fact, I see it as almost a moral duty to make the best of ourselves.’

Maria could think of more compelling moral duties. In any case, she would much prefer to ‘put in the work’ on her art than on eradicating
wrinkles
.

‘Thanks a million, Maria. Come on in and I’ll give you the keys. Oh, and I’d better phone the school and tell them it’s OK for you to collect the girls.’

Once she’d made the call, Kate dashed around, collecting up her jacket, bag and sunglasses whilst issuing instructions:

‘You know where the school is, don’t you? And there’s masses of stuff in the fridge for tea. Actually, they like to choose their own food, but do make sure they change first. Polly’s a messy eater and I don’t want her uniform covered in ketchup. And, as for homework – I warn you, you may need to nag.’

‘No problem, Kate, I’m good at nagging! But I’d better get off pretty sharp myself. It’s quite a long walk to the school.’

‘Oh, take a taxi, for heaven’s sake.’

‘No need, if I leave now.’ She waved away the £20 note Kate was holding
out, almost hearing Hanna whisper, ‘What shocking extravagance! Walking’s cheaper
and
good exercise.’ Although Felix, of course, would espouse the opposite view: why not enjoy a bit of luxury for once?

She and Kate left the house together, her friend hailing a cab, as usual, while Maria set out in the direction of Belgrave Square, hoping she would have a chance, when Kate returned, to discuss both Silas and Cornwall. It had been stupid on her part to have left it so ridiculously late to breathe a word about Felix to her daughter. Yet there was something about having an affair at the age of sixty-six that seemed not only inappropriate but also slightly distasteful. Or was she simply echoing her mother’s prudish views? Kate herself approved, thank God, claiming age should be no bar to anything, be it deep-sea diving, or adventurous sex.

Only when she was halfway to the school did Maria suddenly realize that she was still wearing her old painting-smock – a shapeless garment covered with charcoal dust. She was also perspiring in the sultry mid-June weather, and just hoped the girls would forgive her if she turned up grubby and sticky.

What she hadn’t reckoned with, however, were the intimidating mothers – stylish, Sloaney types, who looked at her askance as she joined them outside the school. Presumably, any parent who sent their child to this exclusive institution was expected to dress accordingly, so she placed a wary distance between the smart set and her discreditably scruffy self. Did all these females resort to Botox, she wondered, feeling her usual unease about such procedures, and not just on account of the cost. It seemed a form of cheating to remove all signs of age and, frankly, she would rather look a normal sixty-six, even fraying at the edges, than an enhanced and phoney forty-six. But maybe Botox would become so common that she and her gauche friends in the north would be the only ones with quaint, old-
fashioned
frown-lines. On the other hand, when would Kate and her ilk decide to call a halt – at seventy, eighty, ninety? – or would they soldier on with youthifying treatments even as doddery centenarians?

As the pupils began streaming out from school, she kept a careful
lookout
for Clara and Polly, who would be expecting Janet to fetch them and might therefore fail to see her in the crowd.

‘It’s not fair!’ Clara wailed, once Maria had explained the situation. ‘Janet promised to take us to Queen’s.’

‘What’s Queen’s?’

‘Oh, it’s this really fantastic ice-rink, where lots of famous people go, like Kate Moss and Robbie Williams. And the lights change colour while you skate – pink and blue and green and….’

‘And,’ Polly added, equally enthused, ‘Madonna’s son, Rocco, held his sixth birthday party there. I wish
I’d
done that when I was six.’

‘There’s a bowling alley, too. And Janet said, if we had time, we could bowl as well as skate.’

‘I’m sure she’ll rearrange it for another day.’

‘Can’t
you
take us, instead?’

Maria hesitated. She didn’t have enough money on her to pay for three entrance tickets to some celebrity venue and, in any case, she knew she would only worry that the girls might fall on the ice and do themselves an injury. ‘No, not without your mother’s permission.’

‘Phone her!’ Clara commanded.

‘I can’t at the moment. She’s busy.’ Probably being injected at this very moment with the miraculous toxin that would freeze her lively face into a mask. ‘But, tell you what, we could do some cooking instead.’

‘Cooking’s boring.’

‘Not if we made some sweets.’ Maria ushered both girls along the south side of the square and into Belgrave Place. ‘Chocolate fudge? Coconut ice?’

‘Yes!’ whooped Polly.

‘No,’ Clara repeated, stubbornly. ‘I want to go to Queen’s.’

‘Maria, your top’s all dirty,’ Polly accused, mercifully changing the subject, much to Maria’s relief.

‘It’s not dirt,’ she explained, ‘it’s charcoal.’

‘What’s charcoal?’

‘Stuff you draw with. I’ve just come back from my art class.’

‘We had art today,’ Clara interjected. ‘And I’m the best in the class.’

‘I’m the best in the
world
,’ her sister trumped.

Their extraordinary confidence, Maria assumed, must be the result of years of training in self-esteem, a concept unknown in her own fifties
childhood
. Devout Catholic girls were expected to examine their consciences twice daily, which made them far more aware of their faults and failings than of any intrinsic worth. Indeed, being top in anything could inculcate the sin of pride and thus was best foresworn – a fact she had better not relay to Felix, if she wanted to avoid his ire.

‘Polly, wait at the lights,’ she warned, grabbing the child’s blue blazer to stop her dashing ahead.

‘Mummy lets us cross on red.’

‘I’m sure she doesn’t.’

‘
Does!
’

Maria suspected she would be ragged by the evening, but she consoled herself with thoughts of tomorrow: strolling across a Cornish beach with
Felix, spending whole days and nights with him, which she had never done before.

‘Tell me more about school,’ she urged, returning her attention to the girls as she shepherded them across the road.

‘At break I played with Gemma. She’s my best friend. We played “my operation”. I was the doctor and I cut her tummy open.’

‘Gosh, that sounds pretty serious.’

‘It was.’

‘And what did
you
do, Clara?’

‘The usual stuff.’ Clara reeled off a list of subjects, with a world-weary expression, concluding with judo and Latin. ‘Only the clever ones do Latin,’ she added. ‘I’m top of the class in that, as well.’

‘And
I
got three gold stars,’ Polly claimed, refusing to be outdone. ‘And a sticker saying “Well done”. I have loads and loads of stickers and gold stars – not just from school, but for being good at the doctor’s, and not crying at the dentist.’

Again, Maria reflected on her own childhood and the nuns’ extreme reluctance to praise anyone or anything, for fear their charges might forget that, basically, they were sinners. She wondered which was worse: to
eradicate
any sense of self-worth in kids, or to regard not crying at the dentist as an act of heroic valour, and praise every childish doodle as a work of art on a par with Michelangelo’s?

‘I want a drink,’ Polly demanded, as soon as they were back at the  house.

‘Please!’

‘It’s boring to say please.’

‘It’s
polite
to say please.’

‘Polite’s boring.’

‘When I was a child, we weren’t allowed to say anything was boring.’

‘That’s boring, too,’ Polly giggled.

‘Anyway, no drinks or food until you’ve changed out of your uniforms.’

‘I’m so thirsty,’ Clara claimed, histrionically, ‘I’ll
die
if I don’t have a drink.’

‘I don’t think that’s very likely.’ Maria was determined to hold her ground, despite more lengthy arguments, and ushered the girls upstairs, to keep a watchful eye on the proceedings. Their bedrooms never failed to amaze her: their sheer luxury and size, and the vast range of toys and gadgets strewn around, often duplicating those in the playroom. She and Amy had shared a bedroom until the child was ten, when a partition was erected to divide the already small room in half. Yet those ten years had been precious and, often, when she had woken in the night, she would look
across at her sleeping daughter, curled up in the adjacent bed, and feel blessed to be so close.

‘Sit here,’ Polly ordered, indicating a small armchair, upholstered to match the hangings on her own mini-but-magnificent four-poster. ‘I want to show you my new swimsuits.’

The garments in question turned out to be bikinis – surely inappropriate for a six-and-a-half-year-old, Maria couldn’t help but think. Would it be make-up at eight, Botox at eighteen?

‘These are for my summer holiday. I forget the place we’re going, but it begins with an M and it’s somewhere very far away, so we have to go on a plane for hours and hours and hours.’

Malibu? Maria wondered. Mombasa? The Maldives? ‘How long will you be gone?’

‘Oh, weeks and weeks,’ the child said, airily.

‘I’ll miss you.’

Polly slipped her hand in hers. ‘Why don’t you come with us?’

‘I’m not sure your parents would like that.’

‘I’ll tell Mummy I want you to come.’

Maria smiled, anticipating her role as grandma when, she hoped, she would be loved and needed like this, at least for a few short years. ‘Right, I’ll leave you to get changed, Polly, and see if Clara’s ready.’

The elder child was already in the kitchen and, within minutes, Polly raced down to join her – although more arguments ensued over the
question
of their tea.

‘You said we could have sweets – fudge and coconut ice.’

‘No, we’ll make those
after
tea. First, you need something healthy. How about an omelette, or a ham and chicken salad?’

Both girls screwed up their faces in distaste.

‘Well, shall I make some sandwiches?’

‘OK,’ Polly conceded, ‘but I only like white bread. And I don’t want lettuce in them, or tomatoes. Tomatoes are all slimy. And I don’t like ham or chicken.’

‘Right, we’ll have “nothing” sandwiches.’

‘What are they?’ Polly asked.

‘Two pieces of bread with nothing in between – no butter, no filling, no ham, no cheese, no chicken.’

‘Yeah, great!’ the child carolled, even managing a smile.

‘I don’t want sandwiches at all,’ Clara mumbled. ‘I want waffles with maple syrup.’