Mad About You (16 page)

By the end of the week, I was exhausted. I’d been putting the kids to bed on my own every night and trying to tiptoe around Babs at work. I was thrilled when Karen said on Thursday evening that we were done for the week and could take Friday off.

I gave Claire the day off and brought the kids to school. It was lovely to see them running in the gate. Well, Lara ran and Yuri walked, still a little tentative, but definitely happier. They were settling in so well and I was really proud of them. I decided to use my time wisely and organize a play-date for Yuri. He seemed very keen on this boy called Jackson. I glanced around and spotted a stick-thin woman in Lycra: Jackson’s mum. She was standing with a group of other gym bunnies.

They stopped talking as I approached them. I went up to Jackson’s mum and proffered a hand. ‘Hi there, sorry to interrupt. I’m Emma, Yuri’s mum.’

She looked me up and down. ‘Who?’

‘Yuri – he’s new to the class this term.’

She stared blankly at me. Clearly she was not one of those warm, fuzzy earth-mothers. All of the Lycra gang were staring at me. I could feel perspiration on my back. ‘Right, well, Yuri was saying that he’d like to have Jackson over for a play some day, so I wondered if this afternoon suited.’

‘This afternoon?’ She looked as if I’d just asked her to eat a cream pie. The others tittered.

I willed myself to stay calm. ‘Yes, this afternoon.’

‘I’m sorry, what’s your name?’

‘Emma.’

‘You’re not from here, are you, sweetie?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Well, Emma, Jackson has a very full after-school schedule. Yurgi will need to book him a couple of weeks in advance at least.’ Then, adding to my humiliation, she placed a manicured hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it soon.’

Fearing that I might rip her manicured hand off her toned arm, I turned on my heel and walked briskly away from the school gate and my public mortification. I was furious. How dare she be so rude and condescending? How dare she mispronounce my son’s name and pretend she hadn’t heard of him? Her snot-nosed kid would be lucky to have a friend like Yuri. I felt so alone. I fought back tears. Why was it so difficult to make friends? Why were the mothers so unfriendly? Was I a freak? Did I stand out as weird? All I wanted to do was fit in.

As I turned the corner to walk up my road, muttering to myself like a mad woman, I bumped into Poppy. She was wearing a fuchsia pink Juicy Couture tracksuit and was carrying a large box from Chez Florence, the patisserie at the end of our road.

‘Hello, Emma – on the way to work?’

I was very glad to see her friendly face. ‘Actually, no, I’ve got the day off.’

‘But that’s marvellous! Now you can come to my coffee morning.’

I was in no mood for small-talk with Poppy and her
über
-glamorous friends. I wanted to go home and punch a cushion. ‘Thanks, Poppy, but I’m not sure I’m up for meeting a whole
new bunch of people today. I’m finding it hard to fit in, to be honest.’

Poppy linked my arm. ‘It took me ages to make friends when I moved to Putney. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Now, the only way you’re going to make friends is to say yes to everything. Accept every invitation and soon you’ll have a few ladies you can talk to and trust. Staying at home feeling homesick will do you no good. I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ll see you at ten thirty, sharp. Carol’s coming, so you’ll know at least one person.’ Poppy went up her driveway, waving at me over her shoulder.

I smiled. Poppy was a tonic. And she was right, I did need to get out and about. Maybe her friends could help me work out how to fit in at the school gate.

I decided to check if Carol had been to a coffee morning at Poppy’s before and therefore could tell me if it would be casual or dressy, and whether I should bring something. I didn’t want to make any more social
faux-pas
this morning.

I went into the garden and looked over the fence to where Carol was, as always, working on her vegetable patch.

‘Hi, Carol, sorry to interrupt. It’s just about Poppy’s coffee morning later. Should I go in jeans, or will everyone be dressed up?’

Carol pulled a stray hair out of her face. ‘You know Poppy. She’ll be dressed to the nines. The last time I went to one of her coffees, the women all looked as if they were off to Ascot.’

‘Oh, God!’ I groaned. ‘I’m not sure I can fit into any of my nice clothes.’

‘I’ll be casual. I don’t own a dress.’

‘Yes, but you do the whole casual thing really well,’ I lied.

Carol made her own clothes, and I had no doubt she’d be wearing one of her home-made shirts to Poppy’s house.
They were made up of scraps of material she found in haberdasheries. She’d sew the scraps together, regardless of colour or pattern, and create a shirt out of them. Her outfits were completely bonkers, but she got away with it because she wore them with confidence. Carol felt fantastic in her clothes because she had created something from recycled goods and was doing her bit to save the planet. I, on the other hand, would have looked like a homeless person in her stuff.

‘Will you call in for me on your way?’ I asked her.

‘Sure. See you at ten thirty.’

I went into the house and tried on everything I owned. I eventually opted for a white shirt and a high-waisted black pencil skirt, which was made with some kind of reinforced elastic that sucked in my stomach. I paired it with black, wedge-heeled, strappy sandals. When I looked in the mirror, I was pleased with the result.

I spent ages on my makeup, trying to camouflage my tired eyes and dehydrated skin, the result of all the wine I’d drunk last night. James had promised to be home for dinner, but as usual had called to say he was stuck in work, so I had finished an entire bottle on my own. At this rate, I’d be a lush in no time. Maybe that was why Jackson’s mother hadn’t given me the time of day: she’d smelt alcohol on my breath. I gave my teeth a good scrub. I didn’t want Poppy’s friends getting the wrong idea – the boozy Irish neighbour was such a cliché.

An hour later, Carol picked me up to walk next door to Poppy’s. She was wearing a shirt that had blue pin-stripe sleeves, a red paisley front, a flowery purple back and a white collar. She had combined it with khaki combats, open-toed sandals … and looked radiant. She beamed from ear to ear. In her hand she had a basket of vegetables, freshly picked
from the garden. I knew Poppy would just throw them into the bin. I reckoned anything with mud on it was a no-no to Poppy. I’d have said the only vegetables she allowed into her house were in Marks & Spencer’s packaging.

I had a box of chocolates I’d found in the cupboard. I knew Poppy wouldn’t eat them, but at least I wasn’t arriving empty-handed. I was sure she hadn’t eaten anything since the nineties.

Carol pointed to the three large SUVs parked on the road outside Poppy’s house. ‘It’s a bloody disgrace,’ she fumed. ‘Why can’t those women cycle, use public transport or at least buy hybrid cars? Don’t they care about global warming?’

I said nothing, but somehow I doubted that Poppy and her friends cared about anything but the latest Prada handbag or Victoria Beckham dress. Carol was wasting her breath. She rang the doorbell. Sophie answered it, wearing her perfect Parisian pout and little else.

‘’Ello, come in,’ the au pair mumbled, strutting ahead of us in her micro mini skirt. ‘Ze ladies are in zere in zeir ridiculous shoes zat zey cannot walk in.’

We followed her into the lounge where Poppy jumped up to greet us. She was dressed to the nines in a tight Roland Mouret ice-blue dress and nude, sky-high Louboutin heels.

‘You look fantastic,’ I said, as Poppy air-kissed me. She did look fantastic for a woman going to a wedding or a very posh lunch. It was all a bit much for not-even-eleven-a.m., but maybe that was how they did it in London. If so, I’d have to take out a bank loan for my next coffee morning.

‘All these clothes are remnants of the good old days when I had a black American Express card,’ Poppy said, with an exaggerated sigh.

I’d never heard of a black credit card. Obviously it was the really fancy kind. This was a whole new world. I decided to concentrate, try to understand these women and fit in. I needed friends.

Carol sat down on the chair nearest the door and I sat opposite her, on the couch, where I took up about three times as much space as the model-thin women who were already perched there.

Poppy introduced us. ‘Girls, these are my neighbours. Carol, the eco-warrior, and Emma, who’s just moved over from Ireland. And these are my friends, Holly, Jo and Sasha.’

I smiled and nodded at them. Each one was wearing a figure-hugging dress and stiletto heels. They all had coiffed blonde hair and Botoxed faces. Sasha and Jo also had collagen lips and put-your-eye-out boob jobs, as Mum called them. None of them ate any of the dainty food. I sucked my stomach in and sipped my coffee.

‘Emma’s a makeup artist,’ Poppy told them.

‘Really?’ Sasha looked surprised.

‘Any tips?’ Jo asked.

‘Don’t drink too much wine at night because you’ll wake up with dehydrated skin,’ I said, pointing to my own face and smiling.

‘Oh, that explains it,’ Poppy said. ‘I thought you were a bit pale.’

‘Sweetie, you should only ever drink vodka and soda water. It’s very low in calories, and the soda hydrates you,’ Sasha informed me, as if she were passing on the meaning of life.

‘Excellent. Thanks.’

‘We were just talking about Annabelle’s birthday,’ Poppy explained. ‘She’ll be eight next week and Jo is throwing the most incredible party for her. Tell them, Jo.’

Jo smiled widely, revealing a perfect set of dazzling white veneers. ‘Well, Annabelle loves Nobu.’

‘Who doesn’t?’ Holly chuckled.

Hang on, wasn’t Nobu the restaurant all the celebrities went to?

‘So she asked if she could have her party there. Well, what could I say?’

‘How about “no”?’ The words were out of my big mouth before I realized it. Oops.

Silence. They all stared at me, except Carol, who looked at the floor.

‘Just kidding,’ I lied. I mean, Nobu, really? One of the top restaurants in the world and they think it’s perfect for a kid’s birthday party? I could have done with one of those vodka-and-sodas right then and there.

‘The Irish sense of humour always gets me,’ Jo said. ‘Anyway, I called Christophe, the manager – he knows me well because we eat there at least once a week. He said it was an unusual request, but that of course he’d arrange it.’

‘It’s so exciting. My Diana can’t wait,’ Sasha said, through her puffed-up lips.

‘How many girls have you invited?’ Poppy asked.

‘Fourteen. We’re having dinner at Nobu and then a sleepover at our house. I’ve hired a magician, a fire-eater and a juggler, and then we’re having a disco. I’ve converted the playroom into a nightclub, with mirror balls and a dance-floor, and we’ve hired a DJ and some professional dancers to teach the girls some new moves.’

The urge to laugh vanished and I felt acutely lonely. I’d never fit in. These women were on a different planet from me. Nobu? Fire-eaters? It was nonsense. I wished Lucy was there, so I could catch her eye and giggle. This was insane. The woman was talking about having a party for an eight-
year-old that was going to cost thousands of pounds. Was I the only one who thought it was ridiculous? I glanced at Carol, who was listening intently, blank-faced. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking.

‘I wish I’d had girls.’ Poppy groaned. ‘Boys are so boisterous and energetic. I find them exhausting. All they want to do is fight and eat and talk about poo. I should have had two girls I could dress up and take shopping with me.’

‘There’s no guarantee that a girl will love shopping, though,’ I said, deciding to be honest and not try to fit in. It was pointless anyway: I never would. ‘My friend Jess’s daughter refuses to wear anything but the Manchester United football kit.’

The women looked shocked – or as shocked as their Botox would allow.

‘But that’s crazy! The mother needs to put her foot down,’ Holly exclaimed.

‘She’s tried, but every time she hides the jersey, Sally has a nervous breakdown and refuses to leave the house. Her life isn’t worth living when Sally doesn’t have the jersey on. She’s got two younger children, so she can’t spend all day fighting with her daughter.’

‘A bit more discipline is required,’ Holly said. ‘Your friend is the one in control.’

‘She tried that. She told Sally if she didn’t take the jersey off, she’d have to go and live somewhere else.’

‘And?’ Poppy asked.

‘Sally packed her bags and left. So Jess followed her. Sally went into the local police station and told them her mother was abusing her mentally and she wanted to be adopted by a new family, but they had to be Manchester United fans.’

While the other women stared at me in horror, Carol laughed.

‘What did your friend do?’ Poppy asked.

I grinned at the memory. ‘She had to explain to the police what had happened and drag Sally home. Since then, she lets her wear what she wants.’

‘That girl needs to go to boarding school,’ Jo said.

I gave in to my rumbling stomach and tucked into one of the cup cakes. ‘It’s not that serious. It’s just a phase.’

Sasha put her coffee cup on the table. ‘Diana is going through a ballet phase. She can’t stop dancing. Her teacher says she’s very talented. She’s started extra classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s a nightmare to juggle because she has music appreciation on Tuesdays and tennis on Thursdays as well.’

So now we all know your daughter is amazing at ballet! Didn’t Sasha know how transparent she was?

‘Tell me about it!’ Jo exclaimed. ‘Annabelle has Pony Club on Mondays, straight after her deportment class.’

I almost choked on my cup cake –
deportment class
? What could that possibly entail? Walking around with books on your head to improve your posture? Learning to drink from a teacup with your little finger sticking up in the air? Come on! Was this for real?

I had a feeling I’d regret it, but I had to ask: ‘What exactly happens during a deportment class?’