Whatever it takes, p.3
Whatever It Takes, page 3
Sara took a deep breath in and then breathed out, slowly. She visualised expelling the negative thought as Dr Alison Glover said she must. Sara thought Dr Glover was the best doctor she’d seen so far and there were many to pick from. Dr Glover exuded calm and patience. Her huge brown eyes were at once reassuringly intelligent and yet eternally sympathetic. She was one of the most earnest and respected professionals in her field but she had a holistic approach to the process that sometimes bordered on the hippy. Dr Glover had said Sara must start thinking more positively because if she were to become pregnant she wouldn’t want the baby bathing in negative thoughts, would she? The image was a seductive one. So, even though Sara’s legs felt as though they were encased in cement boots, she stood up and forced one foot in front of another. Left right, left right. As she pulled on the scarlet dress she tried to offer up a reasonable explanation for her wallowing. Sara hadn’t the energy to consider whether it was truly pathetic that the kindest thing she managed to do for her husband nowadays was lie.
‘I’m going to miss Eloise so much, that’s why I’ve been so funny about going to this party. How can she do this to me?’ She forced some humour into her voice and then added, ‘Will you zip me up?’
‘You mustn’t take Eloise’s decision to move to Dartmouth so personally,’ said Charlie, tactfully choosing to accept that it might be her friend’s move that was leaving Sara so low. ‘You must see that she’s not abandoning or rejecting you.’
‘I know. Obviously, on a rational level, I’m aware that she’s not rejecting me, that we are both grown-ups and we have to make independent decisions.’ Sara grabbed a chunky necklace and popped it round her neck, added several heavy bracelets and slipped her feet into her shoes. She ran her hand through her bobbed, chestnut-brown hair and then undertook her final but signature act of preening; she applied a slash of scarlet lipstick. Sara was never seen without it. She had chubby cheeks, despite being generally slim, and the startling red colour punctuated her face and, she believed, stopped her looking like a hamster. Sara took a cursory glance at her reflection. She looked fine. Charlie beamed, thrilled that she was finally ready and that there was a chance that they might get to the party and actually have a good time. Good times were no longer guaranteed and therefore all the more precious.
‘She has her family to think of. Imagine it. A childhood in Dartmouth. The girls are so lucky.’
He hadn’t meant to but Charlie had just punched his wife in the gut and the pain pin-balled around her head and heart. She would miss Eloise, she wasn’t lying about that, but she’d miss Emily, Erin and Poppy even more. Sara adored the girls. She never arrived at their house without bringing little gifts of sugary sweets, glittery pencils or stickers and she’d happily take them to the park or play games with them, even after Eloise’s deep reserves of energy and patience had been used up. The girls accepted her treats and time willingly enough, but they had doting parents and were used to being the centre of everyone’s attention. Eloise was the most grateful for Sara’s affection and the extra pair of hands she provided. Sara would occasionally be called upon to make tea for two of the girls, while Eloise took the third to the doctor’s or an optician’s appointment. Sara and Charlie occasionally babysat so that Eloise and Mark could have a night out. Few of Eloise’s other friends were ever available to do this sort of favour, as they all had children of their own to manage.
‘It’s really, really kind of you,’ Eloise had always gushed on these occasions.
‘No problem at all,’ Sara had reassured her. ‘Think of me as an auntie. I know it’s sometimes difficult to get sitters and with your parents living abroad and Mark’s parents living in Dartmouth you don’t have much help. You go out and enjoy yourselves.’ Secretly, there was nothing Sara liked more than to be curled up in Eloise’s couch with Charlie and the girls. She considered it practice for when she’d have her own family.
If.
As Charlie and Sara walked towards Eloise’s house it became clear that the party was well and truly underway. The upstairs windows were wide open and jazzy lounge music drifted down the street; bursts of adult laughter and childish screeches of delight (or feigned fear) erupted spasmodically. They had to slam the enormous silver knocker against the glossy black door three times before anyone was aware of their arrival. Eventually, Mark flung open the door and launched a broad, relieved smile their way. As he kissed Sara and gave Charlie a manly but warm back slap, he gushed, ‘Thank God it’s you two. If it had been the Robinsons with their four little buggers I think I might have run away.’ He pointed his thumb behind him and rolled his eyes with good humour. ‘There are more kids in there than adults and, to be honest, it is manic bordering on dangerous.’
Sara had to remind herself that Mark wasn’t being insensitive. In his boyish way, he was trying to make her feel particularly welcome.
Still, she wanted to claw his eyes out.
He opened the door wide so that Charlie and Sara could shuffle past him into the long thin hall and as they did so he dashed out on to the street, muttering something about nipping to the corner shop to get some Tabasco sauce for the Bloody Marys.
Charlie and Sara loitered in the hallway for a moment. Neither of them was particularly confident in social situations such as this. Charlie didn’t enjoy meeting large groups of Londoners who, within moments of shaking hands, invariably demanded to know what he did for a living. He was a plumber. A good one. Reliable and honest enough. But that didn’t seem to cut it with the people he met at this sort of party. Mark and Eloise were the type of couple who had exciting friends. They knew countless stirring writers, influential politicians, important journos, rich bankers and interesting TV producers, many of whom had been invited to the party. Charlie and Sara were pretty sure Mark and Eloise only knew one plumber.
Eloise used to work in advertising but had given it up when she had Emily. In theory Sara supported a woman’s choice to work in or out of the home after childbirth but in reality she was surprised to find that she was a bit irritated by the fact that Eloise didn’t have to work. Sara had given quite a lot of thought to how much Mark must earn to support them all, and of course his parents had deep pockets; the latest offer to hand over the solicitor’s practice for not much more than pocket money proved as much. Eloise occasionally said she missed the buzz of the trendy Soho office but Sara noted that she obviously didn’t miss it enough to actually go back to grafting. Eloise kept up with her old colleagues by having lunch in expensive, widely reviewed restaurants so Sara fully expected the party to be stuffed full of pushy brand managers and earnest market researchers. The people who worked in advertising were easy to spot as they were the ones speaking a foreign language. A language scattered with phrases such as ‘early adopters’, ‘brand integrity’ and ‘statement platforms’. The women in advertising drank beer and swore like sailors, the men wore purple knitwear and if they talked to Charlie at all it was to ask him to come and look at their leaky tap.
Sara tried to comfort herself with the thought that Charlie numbered amongst the sexiest men at this party. He had the most stunning green eyes that were flecked with gold and sparkled when he laughed; he worked out and so had resisted the cliché of becoming a tubby plumber, too hefty to get into most London en suites. He had dark curly hair and from the moment Sara had seen it, all she’d wanted to do was run her fingers through the said curls. Sara tried to catch Charlie’s eye; she wanted to receive and bestow a look of mutual support. He avoided her glance. He preferred to pretend that there was nothing that could faze them in Eloise’s sitting room.
Eloise suddenly appeared in the hallway; she flung her arms around Sara and yelled, ‘At last! Here you are! Now the party can really begin.’
Eloise was surrounded by little girls with bunches and small boys with bruises, who were mobbing her. All of them were demanding something or other – ice-cream bowls, the TV remote or the loo. Erin and Poppy were among the rabble but they paused in their stream of demands to plonk gratefully received kisses on Sara and Charlie. As always Sara gasped at their beauty and felt a tug of love and longing in her chest as she hugged them to her. Eloise dealt with all the kids’ requests and the baying crowd eventually melted away as she led Charlie and Sara through the sitting room towards the garden.
As expected, the house was full of bright and bubbly people quaffing champagne and nibbling the delicious canapés that were being passed around by Emily and her friends; tempting scallops wrapped in Parma ham, halloumi with chilli and mini goat’s cheese tarts were proffered and accepted. Instantly, Sara knew that Eloise had employed caterers because, despite having many talents, she was a self-professed disaster in the kitchen. Sara had sometimes found herself wondering whether Eloise made such a big deal about just how terrible a chef she was because she relished rejecting an element of the stay-at-home-mum stereotype. Sara was not a good cook either but she rarely drew attention to the fact. She believed there were enough people in the world who were keen to point out others’ faults; why help them along?
Eloise slipped through the guests, asking everyone whether they had enough to eat or whether they needed their glass refilled. She introduced Sara and Charlie to a number of people and, with helpful tact, reminded both parties if they’d met before.
‘You remember Sara and Charlie Woddell, don’t you, Josh? You last met at Mark’s birthday party.’ Eloise bestowed a smile on everyone, like a film star walking the red carpet; she didn’t appear to be in the least bit concerned about leaving London. Sara thought El was probably counting off the moments until she had a place for her solid oak, wall-mounted wellington rack. The women had hunted high and low for a rack that had enough spikes to accommodate five sets of boots.
As Sara had expected (and dreaded), there were children everywhere. Some were sprawled in front of the TV, others were huddled around a Wii or iPod, there were a few eavesdroppers dotted between adults, keen to glean something useful from an inappropriate conversation and those with a sweet tooth were hovering near the enormous five-tier cake stand that was crammed with brightly decorated cupcakes. Sara was not so desperate for a child that she was incapable of distinguishing between good kids and the ones that would end up resting at Her Majesty’s pleasure. She noticed the kids who were sulking, sniping and nipping, but it didn’t diminish her appreciation of the ones with the cute smiles and adorable chubby legs, which of course was the type she was planning on producing if the IVF worked this time. When Sara saw a dimpled knee it took all her self-control not to swoop down and kiss it. She realised that kissing the legs of strangers’ kids would be deemed as inappropriate so, on the whole, she played safe and kept her distance.
Sadly, most people interpreted Sara’s self-restraint as a sure sign that she was not very maternal and generally quite standoffish. She knew lots of people thought she and Charlie didn’t have kids because she had prioritised her career above and beyond raising a family. Eloise had never assumed as much and had always been sympathetic to Sara’s situation. It was one of the reasons Sara had become so close to El. Sara didn’t have any other friends who were quite so sympathetic and supportive.
Charlie noticed his wife’s gaze lingering on a cheeky-looking red-haired boy and he quickly suggested he’d go and find some alcohol. Eloise had struck up a conversation with some guy who could do with a shave, although Sara instantly forgave him his slovenly appearance when she clocked the plump baby he was bouncing on his knee. A lump of longing, as indigestible as coal, sat in her throat. Worried she might not be able to control her ever-threatening tears, Sara turned away and headed out into the garden on her own.
Sara soon found herself jammed between two practically indistinguishable women, wearing Boden, blond bobs and benign smiles. One introduced herself as mumble mumble, Lucy’s mummy, and the other woman said she was called something ending in the letter ‘a’ and was the mum of Dana and Harry. Sara quickly gathered that Lucy and Harry were in Poppy’s school class. Eloise had been a school rep for Poppy’s class for the last two years and, according to the blonde ladies, she’d been a marvel.
‘We’re going to miss her so much, aren’t we?’ said Lucy’s mother, sadly shaking her head with regret.
‘Absolutely, I was hoping she’d stand as Secretary next year, or even Chair,’ added Harry’s mum.
‘Oh yes, she would have made a marvellous Chair.’
Sara didn’t tell them of the times Eloise had occasionally commented that her role as class rep was a thankless, endless task. Sara wondered whether El considered leaving the role behind as one of the advantages of leaving London; maybe even a deciding factor. She didn’t have a chance to say as much because suddenly the conversation moved on and, before she knew it, Sara was fielding the inevitable question of how she’d met Eloise and Mark.
‘Through my husband’s work,’ she said vaguely.
‘Is your husband a solicitor too?’ asked Harry’s mum. Sara could see how this conclusion had been drawn. She considered whether she should explain that Mark and Charlie met when the Hamilton boiler blew up. Like most Londoners the Hamiltons had endured mice, spasmodic patches of damp and, for a brief period, living next to noisy, argumentative neighbours. They had not been too worried about any of that but Mark and Eloise did see hot water as an essential. In desperation Mark had turned to the Yellow Pages and Charlie had responded swiftly to the call-out. Mark had been so grateful for Charlie’s efficiency that he’d suggested, while the central heating was beefing back up to full capacity, that he should take Charlie for a thank-you drink. Sara had since learnt that Mark and Eloise often invited people for drinks or to dinner or out for a coffee. They were both confident that their invites would always be accepted and they always were.
Mark and Charlie got on like a house on fire (which in boy terms meant they supported the same football team and both enjoyed a curry). On hearing Charlie was new to the area Mark had insisted that Charlie call his wife to ask her to join them in the pub. After they’d had a couple of pints Mark suggested they all go back to theirs so that Sara could meet Eloise and their girls.
‘You’ll love her. Everyone does,’ he’d said with a confident beam. Then, almost as an afterthought, he’d added, ‘And she’ll love you. She loves everyone.’
Sara hadn’t expected to love Eloise. On the short walk from the pub to the Hamilton home she’d imagined that Mark’s wife would be one of those over-confident, overwhelming types because her husband’s introduction was nauseating. However, Sara found that after just fifteen minutes in Eloise’s company she was indeed intoxicated.
Eloise, a warm, generous and spontaneous hostess, didn’t resent her husband getting tipsy with the plumber and his wife while she made tea for three young girls. She’d called Charlie her knight in shining armour, she’d insisted on giving him a sizable cash tip, and then she’d practically demanded that they stay for supper. Eloise filled the kitchen with compliments and (despite her claims that she was an appalling cook) she produced big batches of pasta and an irresistibly wholesome and simple tomato sauce. They’d quickly drunk a bottle of Merlot and then Mark had nipped to the local off-licence to get a second bottle. The evening had passed in a haze of excited chatter and loud laughter. When finally they’d left, Sara had a list of useful contacts that Eloise insisted would be invaluable (including the number for the most wonderful chap who framed pictures at very reasonable costs and the best fishmonger for miles). They had also received an invite to return on Sunday for lunch. Eloise had said she’d invite a bunch of neighbours, a spontaneous welcome party for Charlie and Sara.
Sara had thought Eloise was too good to be true. Her perfect figure, manners and family must be faulty on some level, she reasoned. How was it possible that Eloise had managed to reach her mid-thirties and yet be so full of excitement, optimism and bonhomie? But as one invite led to the next and then to the next, as the weeks rolled into months and then, finally, years, Sara had found nothing in Eloise’s character or actions to suggest that the petite, blonde, friendly woman was less than perfect. Eloise was generous, patient, pretty and bright. She darted around like a small fairy sprinkling magic dust on everyone she met. Sara noticed that people clustered around Eloise as though she carried an invisible, enchanted umbrella that might protect them from the big bad world. Sara had huddled under that charmed brolly for four wonderful years and she didn’t know how she’d cope without it.
Sara didn’t rush to clear up the blonde ladies’ assumption that Charlie was a solicitor. As it happened, Lucy’s mother lost interest in the conversation before Sara had to explicitly state that Charlie was a plumber. Sara had noticed that people did that a lot nowadays; questions were asked without an answer being genuinely demanded or expected and, even if one was delivered, it was rarely listened to.
Lucy’s mother started to talk about a nasty rash on Lucy’s front bottom. Sara was aware that it was not this woman’s fault that, after approximately 130,000 years of the existence of Homo sapiens, humankind had failed to come up with a dignified name for female genitalia, but she really couldn’t help but roll her eyes when Blondie repeatedly uttered the words ‘front bottom’.
Harry’s mother clocked Sara’s expression and chuckled unconvincingly. ‘Are you one of those mums who find the slightly twee nomenclature tedious? Do you call your little girl’s parts her vagina?’ she asked without any sign of irony, embarrassment or hesitation.
‘I don’t have a little girl,’ Sara replied.
‘Penis, then?’
‘I don’t have a penis.’
The blonde women giggled; they carried on laughing a little longer than necessary and they tried to catch one another’s eye without meeting Sara’s. No doubt they had her down as a ‘character’. People expected to meet ‘characters’ at Eloise and Mark’s parties; characters of varying degrees of amusement and acceptability. Sara wondered whether the blondes had categorised her as mad or eccentric; she knew it all depended on how wealthy they’d decided she was. Lucy’s mum had checked out Sara’s Chloé handbag. A Chloé handbag might earn her the privilege of being classed as an eccentric; if she shopped at Primark they’d feel more comfortable dismissing her as bonkers.
