I tell Rich, and I’m only partly joking, that he would have been better off marrying some nice Sloane with a super line in mince pies.
“Well, I didn’t, because I would have died of boredom. Anyway,” he says, stroking my cheek and tucking a stray tendril of hair behind my ear, “if we need mince pies I know this incredible woman who can fake them.”
12:03 P.M. Barbara has put me on nuts duty — cashews, pistachios, peanuts for the older kids. As I fill the little glass bowls, I think how grateful I am to be useful, while a more complicated feeling brings a pain to my chest. Like heartburn, only I haven’t eaten yet. Christmas at the Shattocks is hard for me. Here I am in the bosom of a relatively functional family, and every cruel Yule from my childhood reverberates in my bones. I only have to hear Harry Belafonte singing “Mary’s Boy Child” on Radio 2 and I’m there, with Dad lurching into the kitchen, back from the pub, bearing some peace offering for my mother — a frothy lace nightie in the wrong size, a gold watch he’s had off a mate on the market. My father always made an entrance like a star, sucking up all the available air in the room. Julie and I were left breathing shallowly behind the settee, praying that she’d forgive him again, that she’d have him back so we could have the kind of Christmas that families were meant to have, the kind Richard’s family has.
I take some nuts through to the big L-shaped sitting room with the French windows onto the garden. Today is the Shattocks’ annual drinks party. A beaming Donald takes my arm and presents me to one of his golf chums. Somewhere in his sixties, the man is wearing a sports jacket and red shirt with a tie only marginally less busy than the Test Card.
“Jerry, can I introduce my daughter-in-law Katharine. Katharine’s a career lady, you know. Kept her own name. Very modern.”
Jerry perks up. “Do you travel with your work, then, Katharine?”
“Yes, I go to the States a lot and—”
“So who looks after Richard when you’re away?”
“Richard. I mean, Richard looks after Richard. And the children. And we have a nanny who looks after the children, and. . well, it all works somehow.”
Jerry nods distractedly as though I’m bringing him news of some Minoan aqueduct. “Oh, that’s marvelous. Do you know Anita Roddick, love?”
“No, I—”
“You’ve got to hand it to her, haven’t you? All that hair. Very striking for her age. And not a spare ounce on her. They often let themselves go at that time of life, don’t they?”
“Who?”
“Italians.”
“I didn’t know Anita Roddick was Italian—”
“Oh, aye. There’s a woman up our road, spit of the young Claudia Cardinale before the macaroni cheese had her. What line did Donald say you were in?”
“I’m a fund manager, sort of investing money on behalf of pension funds and companies in—”
“Can’t go far wrong with the Bradford and Bingley, I always say. Thirty-day deposit account, instant access.”
“That sounds good.”
“I suppose it’s your lot want us in the ruddy Euro, is it?”
“No—”
“Before you know it, Katharine, Gordon Brown’ll have us going down the Feathers with a pocket of Krautmarks. What did we win the war for, answer me that.”
There is a point during these Yuletide conversations when the person you are for the rest of the year, struggling to come up for air through the layers of wrapping paper and saturated fats, finally bursts out like the alien from John Hurt’s chest.
“Actually, Jerry,” I say more loudly than I intend, “entry to the Euro will depend on the level of fiscal imbalances, progress in supply-side reform, and the state of the Capital account. Anyway, the global economy is run by Alan Greenspan and the Federal Reserve, so really our focus should be on the US rather than Europe.”
Jerry rears up and backs into a china cabinet which tinkles like sleigh bells. “Well, it’s been lovely talking to you, love. Richard’s a lucky lad, isn’t he? I say, Barbara, your Richard’s done well for himself. Your Katharine could go on Countdown, she’s got that good a head on her shoulders — and a lovely little face with it.”
Clutching a tumbler of medium sherry, I let myself out through the French windows and fall gratefully into the garden’s biting air. Lower myself onto the rockery. Come on, Kate, why did you put down that good-hearted old boy in there just now? Showing off. Showing him I wasn’t just another blonde in a twinset. He didn’t mean any harm. How’s poor Jerry supposed to know what manner of woman I am, what strange new species? Back in London, at Edwin Morgan Forster, they think I’m deviant for having a life outside the office. Up here, people think I’m a freak for having a job instead of a life.
Yesterday, I told Barbara that Emily loved broccoli. I’ve no idea if that’s true. At EMF, on the other hand, I pretend I read the FT’s Lex column every day before work, although if I actually did I wouldn’t sometimes snatch those thirteen minutes on the bus with Emily, testing her spellings, chatting, holding hands. Double agents lie for a living.
3:12 P.M. The entire family — Donald, Barbara, the rest of the grown-ups and assorted grandchildren — is crunching across a field, picking our way between Friesians. A heavy frost has turned the cow pats into doilies; the children jump on them, liberating the evil green liquid beneath. Sky like a Brillo pad — scouring clouds suddenly pierced by implausible am-dram spotlight of sunshine. Am just admiring the warmth it casts on the facing hills when my mobile rings. Cows and Barbara simultaneously open long-lashed eyes wide like Elizabeth Taylor told to play shocked.
“What is that dreadful noise, Katharine?”
“Sorry, Barbara, it’s my phone. Hello? Yes, hello?”
A man’s voice bounces off a satellite into the Dales. It’s Jack Abelhammer, the American client Rod gave me as a consolation prize for not getting a pay rise. The voice is full of WASPish scorn (Yanks can’t believe our lazy Brit habit of taking the entire week off between Christmas and New Year’s). I have yet to meet Mr. Abelhammer, but he sounds like he’s capable of living up to his name and I’m the one about to get nailed.
“For Chrissake, Katharine Reddy, there’s no one in your office. I’ve been trying for two hours. Have you seen what’s happened to Toki Rubber Company?”
“I think I must have missed that, Mr. Abelhammer. Just remind me.” Play for time, Kate. Play for time.
EMF recently bought a big slug of shares for Abelhammer’s fund in Toki Rubber of Japan. Now it turns out that the genius who struck the deal failed to spot that Toki Rubber owns a small US company which manufactures cot mattresses. The same mattresses which have been withdrawn in the States after scientists established a possible link to cot death. Sod. Sod. Sod.
Abelhammer says that when the market opened in Tokyo yesterday, the price collapsed by 15 percent. Cratered. Can feel my stomach plunge now by equal percentage.
“That stock came highly recommended by you,” snaps Abelhammer. I picture him, a scowling silver tycoon in some New York tower. “What exactly are you going to do about it? Miss Reddy, can you hear me?”
Spooked from their daydreams, a couple of Friesians have wandered over for an exploratory nuzzle of my borrowed Barbour. Whatever happens, I must not let most important client know I am being licked by a cow.
“Well, Mr. Abelhammer, sir, what we must avoid here at all costs is a knee-jerk reaction. Clearly, I need a few days for further analysis. And obviously, l’ll be talking to our Japanese analyst. As you’re probably aware, Roy is the best in the business. (A lie: analyst is Romford cokehead currently on shag’n’vac in Dubai with pole dancer he picked up in Faringdon Road. Chances of getting appalling little runt out of bed: nil.) “And I will be calling you with a considered plan of action.”