Coming Clean (21 page)

We talked about parents and I told him how much I was missing mine. “And of course my old dad has started having group sex with hookers.” The words were out before I could stop them. I had this tendency to lose my brain-to-mouth coordination when I drank. Huck burst out laughing.

“I’m not kidding. My dad is seeing this hooker named Anita. In a weird way we’re all hoping it’s an aberration brought on by Alzheimer’s. I’m not sure we could forgive him otherwise.”

Huck said he took the point. “So he can still . . . you know . . . perform at his age? That’s something, I suppose. I mean, there isn’t a man alive who doesn’t live in fear of ascension deficit disorder.”

“Well, I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about on that score.” Once again my inner thoughts had made it onto the outside.

“Huck?”

“Yes.”

“Could we pretend I never said that?”

“Sure.”

“So how’s about we order dessert?”

I chose lemon tart. He went for the crème brûlée. We didn’t have to wait long.

“How’s yours?” I said.

“Fabulous.”

I watched the guy at the next table load his dessert spoon with chocolate brownie and bring it to the lips of his female companion. A moment or two later, she reciprocated with some creamy meringue.

“The other youth workers seem like a great bunch,” I said. “I can’t get over how enthusiastic they all are. I guess they’re too young for the cynicism to have set in.”

Huck smiled. “Cynicism is something you really have to fight in this job—particularly as you get older. Once it gets the better of you, you might as well give up.”

“Araminta’s not quite what you’d expect,” I said.

“I know. She’s an odd one. If it had been left to me, I’m not sure I would have hired her. Don’t get me wrong—she’s a great girl. She’s super smart, her heart’s in the right place and, believe it or not, the kids there have really taken to her. I think it’s because they’ve never come across anybody like her before. They treat her like some kind of weird specimen. But if you ask me, she’s just biding her time until some banker whisks her off her feet and she can return to the country to sprog. She’s actually Lady Araminta Elphinstone—suffice it to say that she and Pemberton get on like a house on fire. Her dad owns this huge manor house and her mother’s something on a horse.”

“Umm, I can see that an unreconstructed Marxist socialist such as yourself might have issues with that.”

“You know me so well,” he said, smiling.

I sat there feeling oddly relieved.

“So,” I said, “I’ve been having some thoughts about how you could get some media coverage for the youth club.”

First I suggested he have a chat with Greg, who I thought might be able to sell the story to the
Vanguard
. “I’ll make sure he knows to expect your call.” I also thought it would be a good idea for him to make contact with Judy, an old friend of mine who specialized in charity PR.

“But won’t she expect some huge fee?”

“Yes, but only after she’s raised stacks of money on your behalf. She takes her commission from the proceeds.”

Finally I suggested that life at the Princess Margaret housing projects might make an item for one of the late-night news programs. I gave him the names and numbers of a couple of contacts I had at BBC 2 and Channel 4.

“Sophie, I don’t know what to say. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Wait until you get a result. Then I’ll let you bring me back here for dinner.”

“You’re on.”

I offered to pay half the bill, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Even though it was barely a five-minute walk to my house, he also insisted on driving me home.

“I’ve had a great evening,” I said as he pulled up outside. “And it was a real eye-opener seeing around the youth club.”

“I hope it hasn’t depressed you too much. And thanks again for the contacts. I’ll let you know how things turn out.”

“Make sure you do.”

We double kissed good-bye. A moment later I was standing in the freezing night air watching him drive off.

G
reg dropped Amy and Ben home first thing on Sunday morning.

“So did you have a good time with Grandma Val?”

Amy shrugged. “It was OK.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Ben came back, dropping his rucksack at my feet. “She never stopped kvetching. She didn’t let us watch TV and she made me wear two sweaters to go out and Dad didn’t even say anything. She’s such a nudnik.”

“Your grandmother is not a nudnik,” Greg said. “She’s getting old. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to upset her. And anyway, you managed to get one of the sweaters off without her noticing.”

The kids never really enjoyed themselves when they went to stay with their paternal grandmother. For the last couple of years, Greg and I had done our best to keep visits to a minimum, but it was hard because Val adored Amy and Ben and loved having them come to stay. The children objected to going on two grounds. First, she fussed over them in exactly the same way as she had fussed over their father. She worried about them being too cold, too warm, too thin. She was forever pressing food on them. “And I’ll cut the crusts off your bread, darling, shall I?”

Then there was the TV issue. Although Val owned an ancient portable, she disapproved of “all the intellectually bankrupt drivel” that was shown and watched very little apart from the news and the occasional wildlife documentary. When she came to stay with us, she was forever pointing out that Greg and I allowed the kids to watch too much TV. This, she opined, would serve only to dull their brains. Despite our protestations and theirs, when Amy and Ben went to stay with her, she refused to let them watch more than twenty minutes each day. Instead, they were expected to avail themselves of her extensive book collection. C. S. Lewis was encouraged. Cartoon Network was not.

“They were so miserable,” Greg said. “I cut the visit short.”

“Dad took us back to Roz’s,” Ben announced. “And I’ve been teaching Dworkin to high-five. She can almost do it.”

“Good for you,” I said, tousling my son’s hair.

“You got time for a cuppa?” I said to Greg.

“I would, but I have to get back.”

“Yeah, Dad’s got to help Roz,” Ben piped up. “She says the house needs a good spring clean. But I don’t understand. It’s still winter.”

Amy rolled her eyes. “It’s just a phrase. You can spring clean any time of year.”

I was flabbergasted—not that Roz, the militant feminist whom I’d assumed until now lived in politically correct squalor, was spring cleaning, and in January to boot, but that Greg was helping her.

“Mum,” Amy said. “Please close your mouth. You look like a fish.”

I turned to Greg. “Run that by me again. You are helping Roz to spring clean?”

“Yes. What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, for a start, it involves
cleaning
. You know . . . scrubbing sinks, loos, ovens—that sort of thing.”

“People change,” he said.

“Clearly. So what brought it on?”

“Easy,” Amy piped up. “She told Dad that in her house a conventional gender-based allocation of chores wasn’t an option.”

My flabber having been gasted for the second time in as many minutes, I stood blinking at my daughter. “Excuse me? How on earth did you remember all that?”

“Roz explained what it meant and it just stuck in my brain. And I think she’s right. Men should share the chores.”

“She also told Dad,” Ben said, “that he needed to get his sorry arse into gear. That bit stuck in my brain.”

My jealousy had turned to amusement. I found myself grinning at Greg. “I’m trying to imagine you in a frilly pinny with a feather duster in your hand. I bet you look really cute.”

“Whatever,” Greg said, refusing to engage with my teasing—or even look me in the eye. Was it possible he was actually ashamed of how he’d behaved when we were together?

He said he had to go.

“OK, but remember to wear rubber gloves at all times. You don’t want to become a martyr to dry, chapped hands. They can be murder, particularly in winter.”

“Very funny.” With that, he kissed the kids good-bye and turned to go.

Unable to resist one final tease, I started singing. “Gonna shake and vac, put all that freshness back . . .”

•   •   •

S
ince Amy and Ben were glued to the TV, getting their first cartoon hit in days, I decided to call Annie. I was bursting to tell her about Greg having turned into the Pine Sol Lady.

“She has so got him under her thumb,” Annie said, laughing.

“I think she probably has. And I have to say I take my hat off to her.”

“Oh, stop it. The woman’s a tyrant. Would you honestly want to be like her—bullying your man into submission?”

“Well, it seems to have worked. Pleading and yelling got me nowhere.”

“And bullying won’t get her anywhere in the end. Greg’s no wuss. Right now he’s still in love, but he won’t put up with it for long. One day soon he is going to snap. Mark my words.”

“You reckon?”

“I’d put money on it.”

“Don’t do that,” I said, laughing. “You’ve already lost one bet.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean my so-called date with Huck. You had it so wrong and I had it so right.” I gave her a rundown of the evening.

“So there was no mention of meeting up again?”

I explained that we’d vaguely mentioned him taking me out for a thank-you dinner if he managed to get some publicity for the drop-in center.

“So do you think he was just using you and that all he wanted was to pick your brains about this publicity thing?”

“Not intentionally. The impression I get is that he’s so focused on raising awareness about the Princess Margaret projects he’ll do whatever it takes to achieve it.”

“Well, if you ask me, the man’s a fool and doesn’t know what he’s missing. Don’t let him get to you.”

I told her that Huck was the least of my worries. “It seems like there’s a real possibility we might be going on strike. God knows how I’ll manage for money.”

“Hey, come on. Don’t panic. You know Rob and I can always help you out.”

“I know, and that’s so sweet of you, but I can’t start borrowing money from you guys. Please don’t think I’m being ungrateful. It’s just that I’d be scared it would get in the way of our friendship. I’d hate that.”

“OK, but the offer stands.”

“Thanks, hon. I appreciate it . . . So, have you spoken to Rob about going back to work?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“And it was nothing as bad as I thought it would be. He wasn’t exactly jumping for joy and he kept going on about how this wasn’t the deal we’d made, but in the end he said that so long as I took charge of finding somebody to take care of the kids and the house, it was my call. I couldn’t believe it. I think he was just glad to find out why I’d been so down. He’d been scared that I was ill.”

“So there were no recriminations?”

“None. He’s been a real grown-up. So I called the editor at
Today
to say I’d take the job. Then I started contacting domestic agencies. I’ve got three potential housekeepers coming for interviews.”

“Annie, you’ve done brilliantly. I’m so proud of you. So how do you feel?”

“Like this could be a new beginning for me, but at the same time I’m scared to death. I mean, work-wise, I’ve been out of action for so long. Plus I’m worried about how the boys are going to cope.”

“Look, they might kick up at the beginning, but they’re going to be fine.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself.”

•   •   •

M
onday was the start of the new school term. The day began with Amy and Ben whining about having to be left at Debbie-from-down-the-road’s.

“But you both said how much you were looking forward to it. You get the chance to play with Ella and Jack.”

“Yeah, but Ella was horrible to me the whole of last term,” Amy said. “She’s been playing with Megan.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll let you join in if you ask.”

“No, they won’t, because I like Georgia and Isobel.”

“And they don’t like Georgia and Isobel?”

“No, they do, but Megan hates Isobel because Isobel kicked her brother, who’s in year four. And Lola hates Megan because she went off with Tanya.”

“Hang on, where does Tanya fit in?”

“God, you haven’t listened to a word, have you?”

“No, I have. I have, honestly. It’s just a bit complicated, that’s all.”

“Admit it. You don’t care about my life. All you’re concerned about is your bloody job.”

“Oh, Amy, that’s not true and you know it.”

“And we miss Klaudia,” Ben piped up. “She used to cook us pancakes for breakfast.”

“Well, I’m sure Debbie’s got toast and cereal. And if you want pancakes I can make some tonight for a treat.”

Apparently that wouldn’t be the same.

By the time I waved them off on their twenty-second walk to Debbie-from-down-the-road’s, I was feeling so guilt-ridden and wrung out that all I wanted to do was climb back into bed. Instead I put on my coat, picked up my briefcase and headed to the station. There, I picked up a double-shot espresso and a copy of the
Independent
.

I sat on the train sipping my coffee and pretending to read the newspaper. I couldn’t concentrate, though. All I could think about was the situation at work and the potential crisis that lay in store.

When I switched on my computer, I found that STD had sent a companywide e-mail to say how “disappointed” she was by our response to her proposals. She made it clear that these were nonnegotiable and she wasn’t about to backtrack. The ball was in our court.

Days went by and STD kept her office door open, as if to say, “If you want to come crawling, losers, I’m listening.”

Nobody took her up on her offer. The consensus was that we should call her bluff. Meanwhile Des called a staff meeting and said that, assuming STD refused to budge, we needed to think carefully about what our next move should be. It was then that he raised the possibility of taking strike action. The idea didn’t go down well. Several people admitted that their overdrafts were so big that losing even a month’s pay could bankrupt them. Des kept begging everybody to stay calm. “I’ve been in touch with the union and there will be strike pay.” He claimed not to know how much, but the rest of us were in no doubt that it would be a pittance.

•   •   •

L
ate on Friday, just as I was getting ready to leave for the day, my phone rang. It was Huck.

“I have news,” he said, sounding very excited indeed.

“Go on.”

“Your friend Judy has come through big-time. I tell you, she doesn’t hang about. She didn’t even wait for me to call her. The moment she got your e-mail, she was straight on the phone to say the project sounded right up her street and to ask if she could visit the youth club. She came the next day, met the staff and some of the kids, and the bottom line is, she’s going to start work on a PR campaign.”

“Oh, Huck, that’s amazing. I’m so pleased.”

“And it’s all down to you. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am. So how’s about I take you out to dinner to say thank you? What about tomorrow?”

I said that would work. It was the weekend, so Greg was due to have the kids again.

“Great. So where do you fancy going to eat?”

“Indian would be good. I know this great place in Tooting.”

He said he would pick me up at eight.

No sooner had I put down the office phone than my cell started ringing.

“Sophie. You have to help me. I don’t know what to do.”

It was my mother, sounding utterly terrified.

“What’s happened? Is it Dad? Is he ill?”

“No. Nothing like that. There’s a man.”

“A man? What man? Where?”

“Outside. He’s been peering in at the living room window. Sophie, I’m really, really scared.”

“Where’s Dad?”

“He’s gone for a walk. Phil and Betsy are at the supermarket and the boys are at soccer practice. I’m completely alone. Please help me.”

“Mum, try to calm down. You have to call the police. Can you see his face? Can you describe him?”

“No. I think he must be crouching down. All I can see is the top of his baseball cap. But I just get this sense that he’s evil.”

“OK, dial nine-one-one. Now.”

“Nine-one-one?”

“Yes, it’s the American emergency services number.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize it was different from the one back home. I’ve been dialing nine-nine-nine. I couldn’t work out why the phone wasn’t ringing.”

“Mum, the number to dial is nine-one-one. Hasn’t anybody told you that?”

“No, and please don’t shout. I’m scared enough as it is.”

“OK, I’m sorry. You have to dial nine-one-one. Have you got that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Right, I’m going to put the phone down now. You call the police and I’ll call Phil.”

“I’ve already tried, but it keeps going to voice mail.”

“He’s probably on another call. Leave it with me. Now just hang in there and try not to panic.”

“OK. Bye.”

I spooled through my contacts list and hit Phil’s number. He picked up on the first ring.

“Hello?” Phil’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Phil, it’s me. Why are you whispering?”

“I’m on a mission.”

“What? What sort of a mission? I thought you were at the supermarket. Listen, Mum’s been trying to get you.”

“I had my phone on vibrate. What’s going on? Why did she call you?”

“She’s in trouble. Drop whatever you’re doing. She’s seen a Peeping Tom hanging around outside the house.”

“What? Oh God. She’s seen me.”

“You? How can she possibly have seen you? You’re at the supermarket.”

“No, I’m not. I’m outside her window.”

“What? It’s you? You’re the Peeping Tom?”

“No, of course I’m not the Peeping Tom. I thought I’d let myself into the house and take a look around, but I wanted to be certain nobody was home. That’s why I’ve been hovering.”

“But why on earth didn’t you just knock on the door?”

“I didn’t think of that. I got a bit carried away, I guess.”

“And why do you want to search the house?”

“I thought I might find some evidence that Dad’s got Alzheimer’s. You know, piles of unpaid bills, his keys in the fridge. It would be so much easier to confront him if I thought there was something wrong with him.”