The Playdate (3 page)
Suzy took paper and felt-tip pens out of the drawer of the kitchen table, and placed them with a cookie and a drink each on top, kissing each boy as she helped him up. She turned on the oven, pulled a tray of meatballs that she’d made earlier from the fridge, and turned to wash her hands.
It was then that she saw it.
He had done it again.
A newspaper was spread out on the quartz countertop beside a white mug whose sparkling interior was violated by a muddy tide line of coffee. Crumbs lay beside it. The remnants of a sandwich eaten without a plate or thought for who would clean it up.
Discarded shoes, jackets, cups, and crumbs. Shaving foam left out. Undrained baths. Uncapped olive oil. A house full of Jez’s semaphores for things he wouldn’t say.
Clamping her jaw, Suzy folded the newspaper and put it in the recycling box. She and the boys looked up as heavy footsteps came down the stairs and toward the kitchen. Jez filled the doorway like a dark cloud about to rain.
“Hi . . . good day, boys?” he muttered gruffly. Peter smiled shyly, Otto began to grizzle again. Jez glanced at his wife briefly, then looked around the kitchen.
“Can’t find the phone charger.”
“I put it back on your desk,” she said flatly, picking up Otto for another hug. “I needed to use the kettle.”
He raised his eyebrows and began to walk back out of the room. She couldn’t help herself.
“Would you like me to put this away, too?” she said, nodding at his dirty mug.
He paused, then shrugged. “Or leave it there.”
She held Otto closer, like a shield.
“All right, little man?” Jez said, ruffling his hair as he walked back out the door.
She put Otto down again and began to cut up an organic cucumber, focusing on its uneven ridged bumps to distract herself from the urge to follow Jez. With a start, she realized Peter was watching her silently, his gentle face fixed in a frown. Of the three, Peter was her sensitive one. The one who stood back and let Otto and Henry grab their favorite toys first, who gently stroked Suzy’s arm when his brothers bit and kicked each other. She blew him a kiss to show him everything was all right, and began laying the table with plates, trying to concentrate on the polka-dot blue plastic.
Three plates for her three boys, then one for Rae just in case. Now, did Rae like meatballs? Yes, she did, it was sausages she’d gone off . . .
How could Jez say that?
Putting down the jug, she pointed the remote control at the widescreen TV on the wall. Cursing under her breath that she was breaking her own rules of no kids’ telly during the week, she flicked through till she found
Postman Pat
. The boys’ faces turned to the wall, amazed.
“Mommy go pee-pee,” she said, beaming. “Back in a minute.”
Checking that they weren’t following behind her, she tiptoed up the stairs past the first floor to the office Jez had converted out of the loft. The door was firmly shut.
She nudged it.
It swung open to reveal Jez at the computer, in front of a wall covered with charts and projections that had no meaning for her apart from when money appeared in her bank account. She had given up trying to make him explain what he was working on. “I just want to understand, hon, so I can be there for you if you need support.” But he had said there was no point. He’d let her know if there were any problems.
Jez was still wearing his gray Paul Smith suit trousers with a charcoal shirt from his earlier meeting in town. Even on days when he didn’t have a client to meet, he dressed impeccably. He turned to look at her, his six-foot-three, 210-pound frame forcing a squeak out of the leather swivel chair. Jez looked big in any setting you put him in. Even among the midwestern men of her hometown with their cowboy-sized hands, who spent their weeks in office suites downtown and weekends hunting in the mountains, Jez had held his own, standing shoulder to shoulder with them in the local bar, meeting well-meant jibes about his English accent with a dry humor that quickly earned him a slap on the shoulder and a shot of bourbon.
At the time, his strength had made her feel safe. She hadn’t imagined what it might be like to be on the wrong side of it.
“What?” he said, turning to meet her with eyes that said nothing.
What? What do you think? she wanted to say. But right now they were past words.
So on an impulse she did something else.
She reached behind her back and undid her bikini top through her dress.
Jez watched. It took him a second to realize.
“Oh . . . no,” he said firmly, shaking his head and turning back to the screen with a half smile to show how ridiculous he found the idea.
The rejection stung. But it was too late. She walked over and put her hand on his shoulder, pulling him round with the momentum of the swivel chair.
“No. Really—get off,” he said, the humor disappearing rapidly from his tone, the hard muscles in his shoulder twisting easily away from her fingers.
But she was only five inches shorter, and before Jez could stop her, she had straddled him with one long leg and pushed her chest toward his face to stop him propelling her away.
“Suzy!” he growled. “I said STOP. I don’t want to. Leave it.”
How could she stop? Fighting back the humiliation, she pulled his hand and tried to put it inside the top of her dress, needing some kind of connection with her husband, even for him just to laugh at her desperation. Then she could join in and they would hug and joke about her wanting more babies. Anything that broke the silence.
“Oh, will you fucking stop it!” he shouted suddenly, grabbing that wrist and the other one, and holding them high beside her shoulders. “You are not listening. I don’t want to.” Their eyes met inches apart. She could see the blackness in his now.
Looking down at her bare legs that smelled faintly of pond water, and the bulk of loosened straps underneath her dress, she felt shame. Blood ran into her cheeks.
“OK, then. Let me go,” she whispered.
The doorbell rang downstairs. Callie with the kids.
Jez held her wrists for a second more. Then she felt his grip loosen.
“OK, then,” he said, lowering his voice. His expression softened for a moment.
God, she saw it now. He felt sorry for her.
There was a knocking downstairs.
She dropped her gaze.
“I am your wife,” she whispered, so quietly she was not sure he even heard. And with that she walked out of the room.
By the time we have wandered through the park back to Churchill Road, Rae and Henry are holding hands. We walk along our quiet street of Victorian terraces, looking at neighbors’ window boxes. I say “neighbors,” but the truth is, apart from Suzy, the people on Churchill Road are just people with whom I happen to share a postcode. There was a nice woman my age at No. 25 when I first arrived. I asked her once where she got her wrought-iron window boxes. She was friendly, and I thought I’d ask her in for a cup of tea soon. Then two days later I saw a moving van outside her house and she was gone. I didn’t even catch her name.
We turn in to Suzy’s gate at No. 13. Empty boxes sit outside No. 15, next door. A little surge of hope rises in me. Perhaps the new people will be nice.
I ring Suzy’s doorbell, and wait. No answer.
I knock.
Nothing.
That’s weird. I open the letterbox and hear the murmur of telly. They must be in the garden. I search my bag and find the spare set of keys Suzy and I swapped long ago, and put them in the lock, praying we don’t walk in on Jez wandering around jet-lagged and naked like that first time, after which I couldn’t look him in the eye for a month.
There is a pounding of feet down the stairs as I start to open the door.
“Sorry—in the loo. Hi, sweetie!” Suzy squeals at Henry, sweeping him up high into a hug and covering his face with kisses. “How was your day? I missed you.” Henry struggles, trying to contain his grin.
“Stay for tea?” she says. “We’re having meatballs!”
“Sure?” I say.
“Absolutely.”
I can never resist going into Suzy’s when I am asked. I should try sometimes, but I don’t. It is the choice between her house, or going home and hearing that jailer’s click of our flat door that says I am not going to see another adult till tomorrow.
Suzy lifts Rae up and kisses her, too. “You look so pretty today, sweetie.”
“Thank you, Aunty Suzy.”
“Good girl,” says Suzy, and kisses her again before putting her down. Rae always looks so safe in Suzy’s arms, and I am always grateful when Rae looks safe.
In the kitchen, I put the pens and paper back in the drawer, and help Suzy prepare tea for the kids.
“Jez here?” I say, slicing a pepper.
“Uh-huh,” she says, motioning upstairs. “He’s got the pitch for that big Canadian contract coming up next month. After that, though, he’s talking about taking us to some hotel in
Devon where they have kids’ clubs and nannies so he and I can have some mommy-daddy time. You know it?”
“Er . . . no,” I sigh.
She sees my face.
“Oh, hon—sorry.”
“No, it’s OK. Tom’ll be back soon. Then I’ll get a break.”
She makes a face. “A break?” she says sarcastically.
I shrug.
“Cal, this thing about him ringing you every ten minutes has got to stop,” Suzy says, lowering her voice, as Rae looks over.
“I know. I sigh. “It’s because he doesn’t see her regularly—he thinks every little cold means something. He’s worse than me . . .”
Suzy puts an arm around my shoulder. “Well, he needs to learn to deal with it—you are burning out. Anyway, you know, you can always leave her here if you want to get away.”
Get away? I almost snort. Get away where? And paid for by what? But I don’t, because I know she means well. So I smile. “You have enough on your plate, but thanks for offering.”
Suzy kisses me on the cheek and starts to clear the kids’ plates.
“Anyway, guess who I spoke to today?” I say, grinning as she spins round.
“No? You bugger!”
Suzy makes me laugh when she uses English swear words. They lose their power and become funny, like the queen calling someone a motherfucker.
“I bumped into him when he was talking to Maddy’s mum.”
“Nooooo!” Suzy protests again, with huge comedy eyes. “Right, that’s it. Rae and Henry have to invite his kid, what’s-her-name, round for tea.”
“They don’t even know her!”
There is a creak of stairs. We stop talking instantly. Jez wanders into the kitchen.
“Hi, how are you?” he says, leaning down to give me a token kiss on the cheek.
“Good, thanks,” I say. “How was Vancouver?”
“Cold,” he replies. He takes a beer out of the fridge, picks up some cheese from the pile Suzy has grated, and chucks it into his mouth. She smiles up at him and strokes his back lightly.
“You want to eat, hon?” Suzy asks as he opens the beer.
“No. Remember, I’m out tonight. Don’s over from the States.”
“Oh—yeah.”
“So. I’m going for a shower. How was the pool?” he asks me.
“Good, thanks,” I say. “Cold.”
He half-smiles, then heads back out the door, his duty done. The boundaries are very clear. I am Suzy’s friend.
Suzy never complains, and is always telling me about all the sweet things Jez does for her, but it’s amazing how often I see him need to make an important phone call just as she’s about to bathe the boys or a nappy needs changing. So today, after the kids have eaten and she pours us both a glass of wine, it’s me who changes Otto, with Rae pulling funny faces at him behind my shoulder to make him laugh, while Suzy encourages a reluctant Peter to use the potty. While she runs the bath for the boys, I put the dishes in the dishwasher and turn it on.
“Right, we’re off,” I say, gathering up Rae and her stuff, and heading out the front door. “Thanks for tea.”
“You’re welcome—and come over this weekend. We haven’t got anything planned.”
Outside, the empty boxes on the pavement remind me. I nod my head next door at No. 15 and mouth, “Have you met them yet?”
“Seem OK.” Suzy shrugs. “Oh, hon, let me get us that spa day next week,” she calls, lifting up the twins. “Call it an early birthday present.”
My birthday is not for three months. I look back at her, a boy under each arm. Her dress is stained with tomato sauce. Suzy. Always doing so much for her kids. And Rae. And me.
For so little in return.
This is wrong, I think. This has to stop.
“I’ll call you in the morning.” I wave. Saturday evening, I promise myself. When the kids are asleep. I’ll tell her tomorrow night.
Debs sized up the women through the gap in the voile curtains that the previous owners had left for them till they put their own blinds up. The women were younger than her, early thirties perhaps, and had that confidence a lot of women seemed to have round here. She could see it in the languid, sure way they carried their bodies. The loud voices that called their children’s bold, individual names across roads and from one end of the shops to the other without self-consciousness. What did these women, or their husbands, do to afford property so young and in this part of North London? Here Debs was, nearly forty-eight, buying her very first house.
She had seen the American woman before. She had been entering No. 13 next door when they arrived with the removal van yesterday. Debs had been so exhausted, she hadn’t listened properly when the woman said her name. Sue? Susan?
Debs pushed her eye closer into the curtain to see what was happening, inadvertently making a voile tent with her nose. The
American woman was standing by the gate, waving to the other woman, who crossed the road with a child and went into No. 14. Debs counted the children left playing in the front garden. One . . . two . . . three . . . three boys? Three? Oh Lord. She’d already heard one having a tantrum in the garden yesterday evening, screeching repetitively like a high-pitched parrot till she thought she would get a migraine.