A Surrey State of Affairs (18 page)

11:59 P.M.

Readers, I think I’ve done something silly, or maybe two or three silly things. It’s all Edward’s fault, why did he have to top up my wineglass every two minutes? Why did he have to bring port? It went down too quickly just like wine but stronger especially the third glass. It’s all Hattys’ fault anyway, I never liked her that much funny nose with a bump on the bridge like a man always pursing her lips and how can she be a size 10 and ask for seconds? and why did she have to show me those pictures? The wedding album, laura in a cream strapless dress, fur wrap, hair curling around her face, smiling, there’s harriet in the next one in her mother of the bride suit size 10 from jaeger and her hat and her glass of champagne. There’s me and sophie sophie’s wearing ugly ugg boots and scowling I tried to make her wear pretty cream shoes with a kitten heel I tried. And then the baby photos their son John’s new baby girl, their second grandchild,
pink face, pudgy, perfect, there’s her big brother built like a little rugby player standing next to her and smiling. Why?

So I just called Rupert and sophie I went on facebook and I dont want to think about it anymore now I need two big glasses of water and some leftover chicken and bacon casserole with a fried egg on top and bed. Why didn’t jeffrey stop me? I can here him snoring from here thats why

  
SATURDAY, APRIL 5

It is nearly lunchtime. I have slept late. Jeffrey has left for a game of tennis with Edward. The house is silent except for the dull clatter of Natalia unloading the dishwasher. I have taken two aspirin with a glass of sparkling water and eaten three chocolate Hobnobs. Physically, my condition is stabilizing. If only I could say the same about my state of mind.

I am embarrassed to see from my blog page that I started to inform you about last night’s events at a time when I should not have attempted any form of irreversible electronic communication. Please ignore my observations on my sister-in-law, Harriet. Her nose, in fact, gives her a noble profile.

As you will have gathered, it all got a little much over dinner. Edward was generous with the wine, and Harriet was glowing with excitement because she had finally finished writing the calligraphy captions on the photo album of her daughter, Laura’s, wedding, which took place last December. She also had the first photos of her son’s baby daughter, whose christening we will shortly be attending in the North. Readers, it was an intoxicating combination. The more pictures I saw, the more I felt myself almost mechanically compelled to lift my glass to my lips. Harriet was too absorbed in the pictures to notice; Jeffrey and Edward were having some sort of heated argument on the state of the world economy, which they interrupted only to slosh out large
quantities of wine. I heard incomprehensible snatches of their conversation as the photos started to merge into one multicolor smiling blur in front of my eyes.

After several hours of such activity, I remember hearing the heavy clunk of the front door shutting, then suddenly finding myself sitting in the conservatory with my legs tucked up under my skirt and my mobile in my hand. I called Rupert. I wish I hadn’t; but the call history on my phone confirms that it was so. I first remembered the full details when I woke at six
A.M.
with a tongue that felt like the bit of carpet underneath the sofa. As far as I recall, the conversation went something like this:

“Hello, Rupert, it’s me.”

“Mum! Is everything okay? It’s almost midnight.”

“Yes, I mean no. The casserole was a bit dry around the edges. I told Natalia to use more stock but the stupid girl wouldn’t listen. But, yes, don’t worry, everything’s fine. Except it isn’t.”

“Mum, are you okay? Have you been drinking?”

“Yes, I mean no! Stop changing the subject. I’ve been thinking and looking at lots of pictures and booties. What I mean is, I’ve been thinking about why you don’t want to go on
Telegraph
dating.”

“Mum, I really don’t want to talk about that just now.”

“Don’t interrupt your mother while she’s talking! What I mean is, I’ve been thinking and worrying and worrying and thinking and what I think is this. You’re hiding something. You’re not the person I thought you were.”

“Jesus, Mum, are you sure you want to be having this conversation?”

“Never take the Lord’s name in vain! But you wouldn’t care, would you? You’re probably an atheist. That would fit the picture. You probably donated money to that campaign to put “There is
no God” on the side of a bus and laughed about it afterward with all your friends with their rectangular glasses and Converse trainers. Even David Cameron has Converse trainers now. You can’t trust anyone.”

“Mum, what are you going on about?”

“Rupert, you’re a
Guardian
reader, aren’t you? Just admit it. You want your father to be taxed to death and you wish that you’d been brought up on a wind farm run by asylum seekers. You’ve turned against us. You hate everything we stand for. You’re a
Guardian
reader, aren’t you?”

Then I recall that there was a pause before he said:

“Yes, Mum, yes, I am. I do read the
Guardian,
mostly online. Sometimes the BBC Web site too. But every Sunday I buy the
Sunday Times
because I like the supplements. I don’t hate you and Dad. I think wind power should only ever make up part of a mixed-energy portfolio and, while I believe we have a moral duty to provide asylum to political refugees, I wouldn’t swap you and Dad for the world, as hard as that is to believe right now. Now will you go to bed?”

“Good night, sleep tight, hope the bed bugs don’t bite.”

And that, I believe, was the end of the conversation. I must comfort myself where I may. He reads a newspaper that encourages him to think like a decent human being once a week. I can only hope that he doesn’t skip Jeremy Clarkson’s column.

After talking to Rupert, I remember trying to call Sophie. She didn’t answer, but I vaguely recall leaving her a long message on the aesthetic horrors of Ugg boots. After that I went on Facebook and sent a beseeching message to my friend Bridget, asking if I could come and stay. She’s childless and divorced, and so the only person in the world who can make me feel better about myself at the moment. The only problem is that it appears I
phrased my message along those lines. I also sent a cocktail to all my friends and “poked” J Hardon. I have just changed my status to
is hungover and remorsefu
l,
so hopefully Bridget will forgive me.

My phone has just bleeped. A text message from Sophie, reading:
momma k, was u pissd last night? largin it?? lol!!! xxx.

I am going to lie down again.

  
SUNDAY, APRIL 6

Today I have been a model mother, daughter, and wife. I went to church, I brought Mother a bunch of flowers (the pollen made her sneeze, but the thought was there), I called both my children and left normal, sober messages on their answerphones, I cooked Jeffrey steak with homemade Diane sauce. I drank water with dinner. I shall make amends, I shall.

10 P.M.

Good Lord, my domesticity has been shaken by a message from J Hardon on Facebook. The good news is that it cannot possibly be Jeffrey. The bad news is that I have this scrawled on my “wall” like public graffiti for everybody to see:
u hot horny lookin for sexy time’s?

Jeffrey would never misuse an apostrophe.

  
MONDAY, APRIL 7

Thank heavens for that: Bridget has written back to me on Facebook, undeterred by J Hardon or my rudeness. Luckily, she is the tough, plucky type who is not easily offended. She wrote:
Dear me Constance, if life in the suburbs is getting you down there’s only one solution: London! Come stay this weekend. Fun, frivolity, and fine food await. Bridge x.

I’m slightly worried about what “fun and frivolity” might entail, but it can’t be worse than reading 276 handwritten wedding photo captions. I replied that I would love to and booked my train ticket.

I thought Jeffrey would be bemused by my rash display of independence, but when he got home I took his briefcase out of his hand, hung up his coat, and told him about my plans, and he simply smiled broadly and said, “You have a ball.” He really is most supportive at times. I will tell Natalia to make sure she looks after him properly this weekend.

  
TUESDAY, APRIL 8

Dear readers, dreadful news. Poor Tanya. I popped around to her house this morning to bring her a coffee and walnut cake and a copy of
You and Your Baby
magazine, which had a special feature on nursery decor, including the most gorgeous hand-carved white crib. As I approached the house, I noticed a few weeds poking up through the yellow paving stones of the drive—they must have laid off the gardener as well as the cleaner. I really should lend her Randolph, I thought to myself. When I got to the front door, it was ajar. I knocked but there was no answer. I pushed it open another few inches and shouted her name; it would be a shame to let the cake go completely cold. It was then that I heard a muffled sob emanating from the direction of the kitchen. I forgot all my scruples about intruding and went straight in, nearly dropping the cake as I kicked off my shoes. I found her sitting at her stripped-pine table, her hands knitted into her hair just at the point where the lengthening brown roots turned honey-blond, weeping. I ran over and put my arm around her. Whatever was the matter? Was it the hormones, or was something wrong?

“Something’s wrong,” she said, looking up at me with muddy
trails of mascara dripping down across her white cheeks. “It’s Mark. He’s lost his job.”

Horrible as this news was, I have to say that my first feeling was relief: Mark had not been beaten about the head by a bloodthirsty asylum seeker or a resentful taxpayer and left to perish in a gutter; both Tanya and her baby were well. I put the kettle on, took two of Tanya’s funny square plates out of the cupboard, and served the cake. By the time the tea was ready she was only sniffing intermittently, stroking her hands up and down over her bump. After half a piece of cake, she felt up to telling me what had happened.