The Little Things (7 page)

‘Oh, God, James – I can’t do this!’ I bluster. ‘I cannot
talk
dirty. I can
be
dirty – well, dirty enough, anyway. I’m no prude is all
I mean. I’m just struggling to do this without sounding like a biology text book.’

His face breaks into a smile. ‘Hannah, don’t
panic
so much about things. Honestly. Let’s forget about it.’

I have never felt so overwhelmed with disappointment in myself. ‘No . . . no, just wait,’ I insist, leaping over to the music system in the corner of my room. There, I scramble
through it and find the sexiest song I can find, ‘S&M’ by Rihanna, which at least has the benefit of zero subtlety. Then I kick off my pompom slippers, position the webcam –
and start dancing.

Now, had I planned to perform my very first striptease
in advance
, I’d have worn something more suitable: at least some nice black underwear, a little lace, perhaps – or at
the very least a few layers that I could peel off with a sultry look in my face. But needs must.

So I attempt to be as sexy as I possibly can, unbuttoning the top of my jersey-mix jimjams and revealing a bare shoulder. As I’m sashaying across the room, seductively undoing one button
after the next, I’m very happy to report that
something
seems to be happening: James is enjoying it – at least he looks like he is.

I decide to step things up a gear. I have my top open just ajar – still covering my unmentionable bits – when I start swinging around my chair, twirling my hair. I recall the trailer
for that hideous nineties film,
Striptease
and decide to drag out the standard lamp from the corner and, being careful not to trip over the plug, use it as an impromptu pole to dance
around.

‘You’re amazing,’ he murmurs.

This is all the encouragement I need: I become a seductress, a siren, I have sex appeal running through my veins. I am gyrating across the floor, the lamp between my legs, and it’s all
going so terribly well that I decide it’s time to reveal a little more flesh. I am just considering whether to edge down my pyjama bottoms when the door BURSTS open.

There is only one way to respond to this.

‘AARRGHHHHH!’

I grab the duvet and clutch it at my chin as I register Noah at the door, terror blazing in his eyes. I rapidly switch off the music.

‘Noah, what is it?’ I ask breathlessly.

His bottom lip wobbles. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘It’s fine!’ I shriek. ‘But you need to knock next time you come in here. Okay?’ He looks at me, bewildered, then I realise this isn’t what he’s
apologising for. ‘What is it?’

‘Max says you’re going to kill me.’

‘I won’t kill you, of course I won’t . . .’ I narrow my eyes. ‘What have you done exactly?’

He hesitates, then slowly lifts something up between his fingers. On closer inspection, it turns out to be Anne Boleyn’s head.

‘They’re doing everything on the cheap these days at work,’ Julia tells me, as I put down the
Potty Training in One Week
book that Suzy has been
failing to persuade Ollie to follow for the last nine months.

‘Even the new staplers are crap. And they’ve got a right muppet that’s just started in the marketing department.’

I sit up on the sofa. ‘They’ve replaced me?’

‘No, no, he’s on a
placement
, that’s all,’ she says. ‘It’s Keith’s nephew. He’s been driving Maria round the bend since she came back
from maternity leave. And don’t even get me started on Gary French. He won’t rest until he’s got your old job.’

‘Oh, great,’ I murmur.

‘Keith was mad to let you go,’ she continues. ‘It makes no sense.’

I’ve thought about this long and hard since my redundancy was announced. About how I’d just got on with my job without making a song and dance about it, without ever making sure
Keith Blanchard knew all about the work I was doing.

When I think about the number of times Gary took the glory for something I’d done, something he’d basically had nothing to do with, it makes my blood boil.

‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘although Keith never says a word about anything – obviously – I know he regrets letting you go.’

‘Ah, diddums,’ I mutter.

She sighs. ‘You and I really need a night out together, you know. It’s been weeks. I know you’re broke, so I’m paying.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. But yes, I agree about the night out. We haven’t been to Camp and Furnace for ages.’

‘Done. Right, I better go. M’Lord’s on his way back from the gym. I’d better make sure I’ve polished his doorknobs properly.’

After I’ve finished the call, I’m about to leave for the school run when the phone rings again. It’s one of those litigation firms specialising in accident claims – who
phone everyone in the world and say, ‘There’s compensation waiting for you following your recent car crash,’ even if you’ve never been in a car in your life. It takes me ten
minutes to get rid of them, before I strap Ollie in and drive to pick up the twins. Then it’s off to Max’s school in time for his art competition tonight.

Max emerges from his classroom and launches himself at me. ‘Auntie Hannah,’ he says excitedly. ‘
Everyone’s
saying my picture’s the best.
I think I might win.’

I have to work quite hard to keep a lid on the fact that I’d quite like to jump up and down on the spot and pump my fist triumphantly. ‘Well, it’s a very good picture, Max, but
don’t get your hopes up.’

There is an exhibition that precedes the big announcement, which takes place in the big, draughty school hall to the side of the entrance. It is packed full of pupils and their parents –
and not just from the junior school, either. The occasion is so momentous that the infants are there too, along with teachers and governors.

It is obvious as we tour the hall that one hell of a lot of work has gone into some of these entries: there are stop-motion animations on mounted iPads; life-size models of suits of armour; and
even a crumbly papier-mâché head of Prince William that it’s probably a good thing our future monarch will ever set eyes on. I walk round smiling modestly and making suitably
humble noises, even if inside I’m shouting, OURS KICKS ASS!

When I reach our masterpiece, I pause to earwig as a group of kids huddle around discussing it. ‘My mum says it’s a disgrace when a parent has so obviously done ALL the work,’
says one girl, who’s about ten.

‘It shouldn’t be allowed to enter,’ agrees an older boy. ‘There’s absolutely NO WAY a Year Five kid would be able to do it.’

‘If that wins, my mum said she’s going to complain.’

I slink away sheepishly, panic shuttling through me as I glance around at some of the other entries. I realise then that, although lots of them have clearly been helped along by parents, none of
them looks more obvious that it’s been
made
by a grown-up than Max’s.

I feel a slump of despair as I clutch his hand and look across at him as hope shimmers in his eyes. I have let him down, I know I have.

‘Don’t be disappointed if you don’t win, Max,’ I tell him and he squeezes my hand and nods. ‘I won’t, Auntie Hannah. Well, maybe just a little bit.’

The announcements could not be more long and drawn out if I were at the Oscars, awaiting news of who’s scooped Best Sound Mixing for a Vietnamese Short Film with Subtitles.

They start with the Year One’s entries, listing five highly commended students, then another who’s come third, then second, then first. It strikes me that it’s actually quite a
challenge to
not
win something.

By the time the Year Five entries are announced, I realise I may have been holding my breath for nearly nine minutes.

‘The entry we chose stood out, not just because of his artwork, but because of the superb, original idea at the heart of it. And the winner is . . . Max Tunstall with
Off with Her
Head
.’

‘YEEEEEESSSSSSS!’ I shriek spontaneously, before realising that my jubilation is on the overenthusiastic side and slumping back into the crowd. But by now the whole room has turned
to look at us and there is not a great deal of goodwill heading in our direction.

Someone starts clapping, a lone individual in a sea of resentment. I look up and realise it is Michael, who is so insistent that the rest of the room can only join in as Max goes up to the stage
to collect his trophy. ‘Well done, Max,’ I whisper when he returns, deciding that now is a good time to leave. Immediately.

‘You were obviously busy last weekend.’ I look up and see Gill nodding at our picture.

‘Oh, Max did most of it,’ I say, flushing red.

‘If you say so.’ She winks at me. ‘Just watch out for some of the more competitive mums. The sharks are circling.’

It’s only as we’re leaving that what she means becomes apparent. There are three mums at the head teacher’s door and, to Gill’s credit, couldn’t look more sharklike
if they each had fifteen rows of teeth. ‘My Anthony spent hours putting together his painting. The one that won was obviously done by a parent.’

I huddle down and try to leave without anyone seeing me, when I realise Michael has been swept up in the group. My first reaction is to feel a swoop of betrayal. Then he speaks.

‘Look, I happen to know that Max Tunstall came up with that idea himself. And are you all honestly saying you didn’t help your kids put their pictures together? Not even a little
bit?’

The woman slinks back. ‘Not
that
much.’

‘I think we all need to not take this all so seriously. Don’t you?’ Then I realise the way she’s looking at him. She smiles, with a reluctant shrug. ‘I suppose
you’re right.’

I grab the kids and shuffle them out of the door before I can hear any more.

When I reach the car, I pile the kids in and am battling with the pushchair, when I hear a voice. ‘Well done, Max.’

I slam shut the boot and turn round to see Michael. ‘Thanks for . . . Well, I heard what you said there to that mum.’ I look down awkwardly. ‘It was much appreciated. I
don’t think I’ll be interfering in any art projects again.’

‘No problem. Besides, it
was
Max’s idea.’

‘True,’ I reply, not that it makes me feel much better about it.

‘Well, we’d better run. See you around,’ he says. And as he walks away I feel my insides collapse slightly at the sight of his back.

Nearly a week and a half later, something disturbing happens. I have an
inappropriate
dream. I don’t mean it’s sexy, by the way – I could live with
that, given that I’m living the life of a puritan at the moment.

It’s a dream about my wedding day, in which I’m at the top table during the reception, my new husband by my side as he makes a rapturous speech about how we met. But the star of this
show is not James.

It’s Michael.

‘. . . so I looked up, trying to work out
who
exactly had flung the sausage roll.’ He smiles as the audience roars with laughter. ‘And there she was, the best
sausage-roll thrower in the West. My beautiful wife: Hannah.’

I wake up fairly sharpish after that, remembering that I have a job interview today and deciding this dream definitely falls into the category of things best kept to myself.

By the time I’ve had a cold shower, tugged on my dressing gown and skipped downstairs to make some tea, Justin is getting the kids ready, while Suzy finishes dressing. There are beads of
sweat on his brow and a pulsating vein on his temples.

‘Dad, can we have a talk?’ Max pipes up.

‘What about, Max?’ Justin asks breathlessly.

‘How about Stone Age weaponry?’

‘Not at the moment – Hannah will have a good chat with you in the car about it. Where’s your water bottle, Noah? Max, have you brushed your teeth? LEO, GET YOUR SOCKS
ON!’

‘Morning,’ I say, helping Leo with his socks as Justin starts tying Noah’s tie.

‘Oh, morning, Han,’ he replies. ‘What time’s your interview?’

‘Not till nine fifteen a.m. Thanks for taking over while I go.’

‘The office don’t mind if I need to go in a bit late every so often,’ he replies. ‘So are you feeling confident?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ I reply, flicking on the kettle.

In truth my feelings about the job are mixed.

It’s for a wine club called Grape, which has grown exponentially in the last twenty-four months and now has ambitions for significant overseas expansion. In other circumstances I’d
be chomping at the bit: my experience with Panther more than qualifies me and I’d relish working for a small, independent company that’s really going places.

There’s only one problem: it’s in Liverpool. Not Dubai. So, while I obviously
want
gainful employment that doesn’t involve wiping babies’ bums and ferrying kids
to drama lessons, I feel slightly disingenuous. If I do get the job, it’ll only ever be a stopgap, to tide me over until I find something amazing in Dubai with James.

By the time I’ve gone back up and dressed, everyone has piled out of the house and I’m left to just grab my keys and dash to the station to catch my train.

I sit at the window, watching the world pass in a blur as I make the rash decision to log on to Facebook. There is a picture at the top of my timeline, showing James on his
balcony, surrounded by beautiful women as if he were the owner-in-waiting of the Playboy Mansion, and the tagline, ‘This is the life!’

An ugly resentment simmers up in me.

Then I remind myself that this is
not
who I am. I’m
not
the jealous kind. I’m the cool, confident kind who is totally at ease with her wobbly bits and blackhead
breakouts and absolutely certain that it’s never occurred to James that his fiancée might be punching above her weight.

I peer at the girl to the right of him, with her low-cut gold top and endless legs. Then the one to the left, with the long dark hair and sultry smile.

And, just to stop myself from writing, ‘GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY BLOODY BOYFRIEND!’ under the one who has her elbow draped on his shoulder, I force myself to press ‘LIKE’
and sit back, congratulating myself on my open-mindedness.