“Ah, now that’s a very perceptive question. One for you, Guy, I think.”
Graciously deferring to my assistant, I take a seat and sit back to watch the little creep try to wriggle his way out of that one. Casually check mobile.
Text Message from Paula Potts to
Kate Reddy
Emly snt hme
frm skool wiv
NITS. Hole famly
mst be treatd.
U 2!
cheers paula
I can hardly believe what I’m reading. Have traveled across the Atlantic importing lice like Colorado beetles. Excuse myself from meeting and hurtle to the loo. In the seasick-green light of the executive washroom, I try to examine hair, pulling strands away from head. What do nits look like? Can see cluster of eggs near parting, but possibly dandruff. Frantically comb hair.
It is impossible to get out of prearranged dinner with Abelhammer. Can hardly use emergency pest control as excuse.
7:30 P.M. BRODY’S SEAFOOD RESTAURANT. Over dinner, sit very upright like Queen Mary and some distance away from table. Vision of busy nits rappelling into client’s clam chowder.
“Can I offer you a lift back to the hotel, Kate?” asks Jack.
“Um, fine, but can we stop at a drugstore? I need to get something.”
His eyebrows rise in expectation.
“I mean shampoo. I have to wash my hair.”
“Now? You want to wash your hair right now?”
“Yes. Get London out of my hair.”
Attagirl. Imaginative, but not too imaginative.
1. Have not had legs waxed since Halloween.
2. Nits could parascend onto immaculate Harvard Business School buzz cut.
3. Major client, ergo unprofessional.
4. Am married.
Shouldn’t these points be in a different order?
10 Birthday
FRIDAY, 6:02 A.M. Today is my son’s first birthday and I am sitting in the sky 3,000 feet above Heathrow. The plane is much delayed: poor visibility, crowded airways. We have been doing this for fifty-three minutes now, the altitude equivalent of treading water, and it’s making me nervous. Can feel my shoeless feet flexing under the blanket to try and keep us aloft. I think of all those jumbos whispering past each other in the fog.
Over the PA comes the voice of the pilot, one of those chummy call-me-Pete types. Heart sinks. At moments like this do not want pilot to be called Pete. Urgently want pilot to be chap named Roger Carter from Weybridge, Wing Commander, Battle of Britain type, mistress in Agadir, good friend of Raymond Baxter from Tomorrow’s World. Sort of cove who could bring us into land with one hand tied to his handlebar mustache, if necessary. You see, I have to stay alive. I am a mother.
Pilot tells us we will have to head for Stansted. We are running low on fuel. No cause for concern. No, none at all. Today is Ben’s birthday. I need to land safely to collect Teletubbies cake from bakery, also to dress my son for his first party in burgundy cords and soft cream shirt before Paula can put him in the Desert Storm khaki grunge she favors. Dying is totally out of the question. For a start, Richard could never bring himself to tell Emily about periods; he would delegate to his mother, and Barbara would give Em a brief talk about personal freshness before producing something called a sanitary napkin. And she would refer to sex as That Department, as in “there’s nothing amiss between Donald and me in That Department, thank you.” (In the great universal stores of life, I believe That Department is to be found on the floor between Ladies’ Separates and Domestic Appliances.) No, no, no. I have to live. I am a mother. Death wasn’t really an issue before; I mean, obviously you wanted to avoid it for as long as possible, but ever since having the children I see the Unsmiling Man with the Scythe everywhere and I jump higher and higher to avoid his swishing blade.
“Everything all right for you, madam?” In this, the dimmest possible cabin light, the flight attendant has become a letterbox of lipstick around an ice-white smile.
I address myself to the teeth. “Actually, it’s my baby’s first birthday today and I was hoping to be home by breakfast.”
“Well, I promise you we’re doing all we can. Can I get you some water?”
“With Scotch. Thanks.”
8:58 A.M., STANSTED AIRPORT. Refueled plane still sitting on the tarmac. Pontius pilot says it’s not his fault; we have to go back to Heathrow. Oh, this is just marvelous. As we gain height, two empty whisky miniatures skitter off my tray, nearly landing in the lap of the woman across the aisle. She bestows a languorous smile on me, readjusts her mint-green pashmina, then opens a Gucci travel bag. Takes out aromatherapy bottle and dots lavender onto pulse points, applies face spritz before taking thoughtful sips from a large bottle of Evian. Lets her lustrous nit-free head sink back onto dinky gray cashmere pillow. I want to reach over, tap her on the arm and ask if I can buy her life.
Once I’m sure the goddess is safely asleep, I furtively open my own bag. Contents:
Two emergency sachets of Calpol
Unwashed white medicine spoon with jammy rim
Spare knickers for Emily (swimming)
Nit comb purchased for self in NYC
Lone grubby Tampax
Hideous puce Pokémon toy from last weekend’s “crisis” McDonald’s visit
Orange felt tip minus top
Pongy Pete the Puppy book
Wad of Kleenex dyed orange by felt tip
Pack of Banoffee-flavor limited-edition Munchies (disgusting, but only three left)
Coco Chanel miniature Eau de Toilette (atomizer broken)
Little Miss Busy book which Emily pressed on me for the journey
Between my wallet and a wad of dried-out Pampers wipes, I find Jack Abelhammer’s card with home number and message scrawled on back: “Any time!”
At the sight of his handwriting, I get a sensation of claws scuttling across the floor of my belly: the sensation of far-off teenage crushes, of sex when it was still as much a puzzle as a thrill. Over dinner in New York, Jack and I talked about everything — music, movies, Tom Hanks (the new Jimmy Stewart?), the poetry of Emily Dickinson, Cate Blanchett’s Elizabeth the First, Apollo 13, jelly beans, Art Tatum, Rome versus Venice, the mysterious allure of Alan Greenspan, even the stocks I am buying for him. Everything except children. Why didn’t you mention your children, Kate?
2:07 P.M. Back from Heathrow, dash into office to show my face. Create impression of intense activity by piling books and financial journals on my desk, then call my land line from my mobile and keep it ringing. Pick it up and have animated can-do conversation with myself about hot new stock before hanging up. Tell Guy I have to pop out and collect some vital research. Hail cab and get driver to take me to Highbury Corner and wait outside bakery while I leap out to pick up Teletubbies cake. Not bad: Po a little po-faced, perhaps, and Laa-Laa more mustard than yellow. Ten minutes later, pulling into our street, can see a blue balloon tied to the front door. As I walk into the house, Ben waddles into the hall, gives a yowl of recognition and starts to cry. Fall to my knees, gather him in and hug him tight.
This time last year, he was minutes old, naked except for a buttery coat of vernix. Today, dressed by Paula, he is in a red-and-white soccer strip with ADAMS emblazoned on the back. I do not let on how much this upsets me. Instead, when she leaves the kitchen, I calmly hand Ben a carton of Toothkind Ribena and watch as he upends it, drizzling purple flood from neck to navel.