Having It All (25 page)

Suddenly she heard gales of giggles coming from the kitchen and picked her way back across the lawn. Jamie and Daisy were rolling on the rag-rugged floor as Liz clutched a blackened pot, tears
of laughter rolling down her cheeks as she pointed to the charred remains of the Sussex Pond Pudding.

‘Thank God for that!’ grinned Mel, putting her arms round Liz and joining in the helpless laughter. ‘Maybe you’re not cut out to be a bloody Earth Mother after
all!’

Britt ran up the stairs to the flat two at a time, too excited to wait for the lift, imagining David’s smile when she told him about her surprise.

She put her head round the kitchen door but he wasn’t at his usual spot, sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper or doing his crossword. Then she heard the television upstairs in
the sitting room.

David was lying, fast asleep, with his shoes off and his feet up, surrounded by the sports sections of every newspaper on the market, not even considering whether the ink of the newsprint might
be sullying the winter white of her new sofa. Two empty cans of Dos Equis beer lay on the white carpet next to him and the football blared on the television.

Britt looked everywhere for the remote control and in the end leaned down to switch it off by hand. Halfway through the gesture, she stopped. There was something different about the room. On top
of the mantelpiece was a silver photograph frame, David’s first contribution to the decor of the flat. And in it was a snapshot of Jamie and Daisy. Britt sat down holding the photograph and
studied it. They were lovely children. For a moment she felt a pang of guilt, followed swiftly by her usual rationalization. She hadn’t broken their marriage up. Liz had. And as she studied
the photograph for signs of David in his children, she was hit by a truth so blindingly obvious that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it before. Of course! How dumb she’d
been. That was what was wrong with David, the reason why even sex was beginning to pall for him: he was missing his children.

For a few minutes Britt sat silently and wondered what to do about the problem that would soon, she saw very clearly, threaten their relationship and wreck the plans she had made for their
future together. Unaware of even the sudden roar from the crowd as Arsenal scored against Spurs, Britt saw that there was only one solution: if she wanted David to forget the children he’d
had with Liz, she had to give him one of their own.

Quietly, so as not to wake him, she took out her Filofax from her bag and opened it. Britt was a systems lady. She had kept, over the years, an exact record of every penny she’d earned,
every pound of tax she’d paid, and every item of allowable expenditure she could set against that tax since the day she’d started working. She kept the phone number of anyone she had
ever met who could conceivably be of use to her. And, fed up with being asked at every check-up for the date of her last period and never knowing, she had also kept a record, going back five years,
of the exact length of her menstrual cycles.

Getting out her calculator Britt computed that her last ten cycles had lasted exactly twenty-eight days. She smiled in satisfaction. That would make things much easier. Then she carefully marked
Day Fourteen in her diary. It was next week. Tomorrow she would go out and buy champagne and more silk underwear.

On the TV screen Spurs equalized just seconds short of the halftime whistle and their fans went mad. Britt glanced over in annoyance. Bloody football! And at the same time she spotted the remote
control on David’s chest. Pointing it at the screen she had the satisfaction of seeing the Spurs striker disappear right in the middle of his moment of glory. Jolted by the sudden silence,
David woke up. Seeing Britt sitting next to him he forced himself to smile. But he was dimly aware that in the split second before his conscious mind took over, his reaction had been very
different: it had been irritation. Irritation at no longer being in a pleasant dreamworld free from circulation wars and interfering proprietors. Irritation at missing the football. And most of
all, irritation at finding Britt there.

‘Hello darling.’ Britt quickly put away her Filofax and leaned towards him, her smile strange and sphinxlike. ‘I’ve got the most wonderful surprise for you . .
.’

A small crowd of Christmas shoppers gathered round Selfridges to look at their world-famous Christmas window displays. But only one of them was fighting back tears. It had been
more than two months since David had seen the kids, and he’d missed them every single day. It was only his shame and his fear of Liz’s contempt that had stopped him trying to see them
by now. That and the feeling it might be fairer for them if he didn’t see them till things were sorted out.

Then he’d come down Oxford Street for a meeting and he’d seen it. A giant Ghostbusters tableau. And he’d pictured Jamie’s face lighting up with excitement. And although
it was three p.m. on a bright sunny December afternoon he’d had to look away in case he cried.

Britt watched David with annoyance. It was Day Fourteen, and she’d rushed home early to cook a special dinner and put the champagne on ice. She’d put on the new
silk lingerie under his favourite dress and even slipped into the video shop to get a sexy film, just in case.

But looking at him now she realized a crate of champagne and a dozen blue films wouldn’t help. He kept glancing at the photograph and he wasn’t listening to a word she said.
She’d even noticed him look away during Help A London Child’s Christmas appeal.

It was time she did something. But what? This longing to see the kids was getting out of hand. She had guessed he’d wanted to phone dozens of times, but was afraid Liz wouldn’t let
him speak to them. Well, maybe it was time he tried. At least then he might feel more like what she had in mind later on. And it couldn’t do too much harm. After all, if everything went
right, he’d soon have a new baby to worry about.

‘David, darling’ – Britt came round and stroked his neck – ‘why don’t you ring Liz and ask to see the children? Isn’t it about time you saw them
again?’

She felt a flash of guilt when she saw how his face lit up with gratitude and relief.

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes I do. I really do.’

‘And you wouldn’t mind?’

‘Of course not, darling.’ Like hell she wouldn’t. But it was the only solution she could think of. Hoping she wouldn’t live to regret it, she handed him the phone.

Liz was making Christmas decorations with Jamie when the phone went. For years she’d bought
Good Housekeeping
and
Homes and Gardens
and cut out the
articles with titles like ‘Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly’ and ‘How To Make Your Own WelcomeWreath’. Of course she’d never done any of it. It had all been a
deluded fantasy since the most preparation she’d ever had time to do was to rush to Harrods Food Hall, late night, and fill her trolley with shop-bought Christmas cake and Christmas pudding.
She knew Elizabeth David would have had a heart attack but her best Christmas present for years had been when Marks & Spencer brought out a turkey, ready-stuffed with Sausagemeat & Herb one
end and Chestnut & Orange the other and de luxe mince pies so delicious that they made home cooking seem like an unnecessary indulgence.

But this year it was going to be different. This year, for Jamie and Daisy’s sake, she was going to make Christmas extra special. All morning they’d been out in the woods looking for
holly, pine cones and Norwegian fir, which the article promised could easily be wrapped round wire, twisted into garlands and decorated with red satin bows to make a glorious festive splash.
She’d often watched Ginny effortlessly plaiting ears of wheat into corn dollies and drying flowers for pot-pourri. Surely she could manage a simple welcome wreath.

Sitting at the kitchen table she’d found that simple was one thing it wasn’t. After an hour of pricking herself with holly leaves and mangling pine cones she’d produced a
sorry-looking object which was just about identifiable as the lush and glossy garland in the photograph.

‘Never mind,’ Jamie consoled, ‘not all mums can be good at making things.’

She was about to biff his ears for him when the phone rang. They all looked at it in surprise. Then Jamie jumped on it. ‘Hello. Who’s speaking please?’ he enquired in his best
posh receptionist voice till he abandoned all attempts at politeness and screeched ‘Daddeeee! It’s Daddeeee!’ and tried to fight Daisy off as she too realized who it was on the
other end of the phone and tried to grab it.

Liz watched torn by contradictory emotions as nearly three months of jumbled news tripped off Jamie’s excited tongue. She was glad that he’d rung but furious he’d left it till
now, pleased that Jamie was getting the chance to chat to him for so long, but angry that he didn’t ask to speak to
her
, the coward.

Jamie turned to her, his face glowing with excitement. ‘Mum. Mum. Can Dad take us to see Father Christmas?

Pleeeeease!’ For a moment Liz felt furious. How could she possibly say no? If David had asked her first she would at least have had the option, but she’d been set up so any refusal
was out of the question. But why should she refuse? Wouldn’t that just be using the children as a weapon because she felt angry and rejected?

Finally Jamie turned to her, a hint of apprehension in his voice. ‘Mum. Dad says can he have a word?’

It was what she’d wanted but now she wanted to shout No! Tell him to get lost! Tell him to go back to Britt and leave us alone! But that was before she saw the pleading look on
Jamie’s face and she took the phone.

Acutely aware that this was the first time she’d spoken to him since that day in the restaurant, she tried to keep the anger and the bitterness out of her voice. ‘Hello, David. Jamie
says you want to see them?’

‘Hello, Liz.’ His tone was as empty and guarded as her own, but in her hurt it didn’t occur to Liz that David might be fighting with emotions he didn’t know how to deal
with either. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine.’ The silence that followed acknowledged that both knew this to be a lie. ‘When do you want them to come?’

‘Would next Saturday be too soon?’

Liz had been planning a visit to the garish Santa’s Grotto in Lewes that day but it could hardly measure up to Harrods or Selfridge’s where David would take them. And for a moment
Liz felt the anger of every woman left holding the babies. She gets the slog and the supermarket. He gets the glamour and the big day out.

‘OK.’ Liz realized she wanted to get off the phone as soon as possible. ‘There’s a train at ten-thirty. We’ll see you at Victoria.’

‘Fine. I’ll bring them home by car.’

‘David . . .’

‘Yes?’

Liz realized that no matter how much she wanted to know she couldn’t, in front of Jamie, ask the question that was obsessing her.

‘Nothing. See you on Saturday.’ And she put the phone down. She knew between now and Saturday she’d be wondering one thing, and one thing only. Would Britt be there? Would
bloody Britt be taking her kids to see Father Christmas? For a moment she thought of ringing him and cancelling the whole thing, but Jamie and Daisy would be too disappointed. And anyway she needed
to talk to him about money. So far he’d paid the mortgage on Holland Park and she’d managed to live without using too much of her savings but pretty soon she’d have to. Unless
they faced up to the reality of their position and decided to sell the London house.

Britt watched David put the phone down and turn away for a moment. She hadn’t been fooled by that neutral tone, she knew perfectly well it was just a front. He was still
guilty as hell. What was surprising was that Liz didn’t see it and put the screws on.

Watching his face and listening to their conversation Britt had understood a brutal truth: that if Liz wanted David back and went about it the right way, she would get him. Even now. Even on
Saturday. So she’d better make sure she was bloody well there to prevent it.

But thankfully she knew Liz too. And Liz wouldn’t go about it the right way. She would be too proud. And too uncertain she even wanted him back. And soon it really would be too late.

‘How were the kids?’

David’s face lost its hunted look and lit up with love and anticipation.

‘They were great! They sounded really pleased to hear from me. Jamie told me everything he’s done these last months!’ For the first time in days the tension seemed to leave him
and she saw the familiar boyish grin. Thank God. Now at least he might be more in the mood. She’d taken a calculated risk and it seemed to have paid off, maybe they wouldn’t even need
the champagne.

Looking him directly in the eyes, she began undoing the tiny buttons of her silk blouse.

Liz stood in the hall holding a train timetable, wearing her new overcoat with the frogging and wondering whether she dared put on the stylish Russian shako that went with it.
She’d spent half an hour deciding what to wear and though she kept telling herself it was the children he wanted to see, not her, she knew she wanted to look stunning all the same.

She wanted to show him that she hadn’t let herself go, that their marriage might be over, but she was still blooming. She’d noticed that women often looked better when their
marriages broke up. Six months later their husbands often didn’t recognize them. Men, on the other hand, went to the dogs and drank too much lager and started picking up Kentucky Fried
Chicken on the way home from the pub. But women lost the few pounds they’d been meaning to shed for years and started taking more trouble with their appearance. Maybe it was true that
marriage made you stop bothering, safe that you’d caught your man and could afford a bit of cellulite on the thighs.

She ran upstairs to capture Jamie and Daisy and force them into their coats. As she did up their buttons against the freezing winter she realized she’d dressed them up too. For a moment
she felt sad that seeing their father should be an occasion for Sunday best instead of the trainers-and-tracksuit event it ought to be.

By the front door she hesitated for a moment then reached for the shako. If it was over the top, too bad. It would make her feel more confident. And today she needed all the nerve she could
muster.