She threw away the sausages and chips and made more. I counted what, of the second batch, was eaten: four small cylinders of sausage, eight chips. Between two of them. If those two dignified Rwandan boys had been presented with the exact same spread, they would have cleared their plates and then offered to load the dishwasher-no question about it.
Later, while Cordy was upstairs trying to introduce the concept of sharing into a squabble over dressing-up clothes and Oonagh’s reluctance to let Lucy wear any of her pink frilly dresses, I decided a punishment was necessary. No child should get away with calling her mother stupid. I crept into the lounge and took Oonagh’s Annie DVD out of its case. Love of Annie has spread like a forest fire through the girls in Lucy’s class. It makes me sick they way they’ve all latched on to it, as if there’s cause for any of them to identify with children who have a genuinely hard time rotting in an orphanage. The craze started with Lucy, I’m ashamed to say. It’s Mum’s fault. She’s the one who bought Lucy the DVD. I thought it would be appropriate for me to confiscate Oonagh’s copy, then quickly decided that removing it wasn’t enough: I wanted to destroy it.
(In the end I brought it back home, locked myself in the bathroom and attacked it with the small knife I use to chop garlic. I suffered a mild pang of guilt when it occurred to me that I was destroying Miss Hannigan-the only character in the film that I like and admire-and I sang her song under my breath as a tribute, the one about how much she hates little girls. The lyrics are the work of a genius, especially the rhyme of “little” with “acquittal”. I’m sure I’m not typical or representative, but I would certainly acquit Miss Hannigan if she wrang those orphans’ necks. Every time I sit through the film with Lucy, I pray that this time the orphanage will catch fire and all those whiny-voiced brats will be burned to a crisp.
I nearly stole Cordy’s Seinfeld DVD collection and destroyed that too when she told me she was pregnant. ‘It was a total accident, but we’re really pleased,’ she said. She’s only had this new boyfriend for a few weeks. She and Dermot are still living in the same house, though in separate beds. Last I heard they were trying to work things out.
I smiled furiously. ‘We?’ I said. ‘You mean you and Dermot, or you and your new man? Or all three of you?’
Her face crumpled. ‘It was an accident,’ she said in a forlorn tone.
Accident! How was it an accident, exactly? I felt like asking. Did a member of a local archery society fire an arrow that travelled from a distance to pierce New Boyfriend’s condom? Did a bird of prey swoop down and use its sharp beak to extract Cordy’s diaphragm when she wasn’t looking? Of course not. If you choose to use no contraception and you get pregnant, that’s not an accident: it’s trying very hard to get pregnant in a way that you hope will ‘out-casual’ the enormity of pregnancy and the possibility of failure.
Let me tell you, I nearly said, what not wanting to have another child means: it means using extra-safe Durex every single time, no exceptions, and still, in spite of the condoms, sneaking to the chemist after each fuck to buy the morning-after pill-at twenty-five pounds a time, I might add-as an extra insurance policy. I’ve never told anyone and I probably never will (unless one day I feel like worrying Mum a bit more than usual) but I think I’m hooked on Levonelle the way some people are hooked on painkillers. My hormones must be well and truly frazzled, but I don’t care; call it my sacrifice for the greater good that is childlessness.
It isn’t only about avoiding pregnancy, since Gart knows I subject each condom to a rigorous examination before I allow it anywhere near me. I know I don’t need the Levonelle. I also know I could go on the pill for free and save a fortune, but that wouldn’t be as satisfying, wouldn’t scratch the right psychological itch. The paying of the twenty-five pounds is important to me, as is the ritual of lying to pharmacist after pharmacist about when I last took Levonelle, nodding solemnly through their earnest speeches about nausea and other possible side-effects. Every time I hand over the money, I feel as if I’m paying my subscription to the only club in the world that I’m interested in belonging to.
I’ve often thought I ought to volunteer (not that I’ve got the time) to counsel infertile women. Their misery, from what I’ve seen, certainly seems genuine, and it occurs to no one to give them anything but sympathy by way of emotional support. Give me an hour or two and I could persuade them of how lucky they are. Has anyone ever told them, for example, that for a mother to be with her child or children in the company of child-free women is the worst kind of torture? It’s like being at the best party in the world, but being forced to stand on a chair in the middle of the room with a noose round your neck and your hands tied behind your back. Around you everyone is sipping champagne and having a raucous (wild?) old time. You can see their fun, smell it, taste it, and you can even try to have a bit of fun yourself as long as you make sure not to lose your balance. As long as no one knocks your chair.
8
8/8/07
Simon was halfway up a narrow winding staircase, wondering how it could have been designed for use by human beings, when he found himself face to face with Professor Keith Harbard.
‘Simon Waterhouse!’ Harbard beamed. ‘Don’t tell me you’re Jon’s dinner date. He kept that quiet.’ In the dim, stone-walled stairwell, the professor’s breath filled the air with the thick, tight smell of red wine.
There wasn’t a lot Simon could say. The munchkin staircase led nowhere apart from to Professor Jonathan Hey’s rooms.
Harbard’s mouth made a chomping motion as he considered the implications. ‘You’re consulting Jonathan?’
‘There’s a couple of things I want to ask him.’ ‘I’, not ‘we’; Simon avoided a direct lie. He couldn’t ask Harbard not to mention his presence here to Kombothekra or Proust. Shit. At least he hadn’t phoned in sick. Charlie’s response to his marriage proposal had cut through his illusions about what he could get away with. If she’d said yes, he would be feeling as invincible today as he had yesterday. As it was, he’d woken up this morning in a chastened frame of mind, determined to take no chances. He’d phoned Professor Hey and asked if he could come to Cambridge later than planned, after the end of his shift. Hey had said, ‘Call me Jonathan,’ then added, after a small cough, ‘Sorry. You don’t have to. You might rather call me Professor Hey. I mean, you can call me Jonathan if you want to.’ This was too confusing for Simon, who had resolved on the spot to avoid saying the man’s name at all.
Hey had invited Simon to stay for dinner at Whewell College after their meeting. For some reason, Simon had felt unable to decline. He was dreading it; his mother had done him no favours, he knew, by insisting for years that mealtimes should be private, family only. That Hey knew nothing of Simon’s hang-up would make it easier, he hoped.
‘Funny little college, this.’ Harbard put out his hands to touch the stone walls on either side of him. He looked as if he was getting into position to kick Simon down the steps. ‘It’s like the land that time forgot compared to UCL. Still, Jon seems to like it. It wouldn’t suit me. I’m a London boy through and through. And the sort of work Jon and I do… well, I wouldn’t want to be tucked away in an enclave of privilege. That’s the trouble with Cambridge -’
‘I’d better get on,’ Simon interrupted him. ‘I don’t want to be late.’
Harbard made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Sure thing,’ he said. ‘Well, I guess I’ll see you around.’ Simon didn’t like the professor’s transatlantic accent any more than he liked his way of ordering a drink: ‘Can I get a glass of Australian red? And, actually, can I also get a glass of sparkling mineral water? With ice?’ If Simon had been the barmaid at the Brown Cow, he’d have taken Harbard at his word and pointed him in the direction of the freezer.