Losing Me (17 page)

After an early lunch she went for her induction session at the “nonjudgmental gym.” She had joined after Christmas in a fit of post-Christmas-gluttony angst but had found endless excuses not to go. Only recently had it occurred to her that since swimming was having such a calming effect on her mind, the treadmill and stepper might do the same. So she arranged to have her induction. Ten minutes in, she walked out—on the grounds that the nonjudgmental gym was too judgmental. She was surprised she’d lasted as long as she did. She should have realized from the beginning that things weren’t going to end well.

“Sorry,” Barbara had said to the skinny orange girl in a Juicy Couture tracksuit. “But I’m not having you grasp my spare tire with those calipers. You can see I’m overweight. Can’t we just leave it at that?”

Barbara had been expecting a chilled dude with dreadlocks, not Paris Hilton.

Apparently they couldn’t leave it at that. Orange Girl, whose name was Chanel, had boxes to tick. The calipers were applied. A sharp intake of breath from Chanel. Barbara had a body mass index of thirty.

“So, Barbara, have you considered cutting out carbs?”

“I watch my carbs, but why would I want to cut out an entire food group?”

“OK, if you’re not keen on doing that, people do say vinegar shots are good appetite suppressants.”

“Lovely. I’ll bear that in mind.”

“But personally,” Chanel said with a flick of her hair extensions, “I’m into the Facial Analysis Diet. If you don’t mind me saying, your face is looking a little red and puffy. That could indicate you have a dairy intolerance.”

Barbara leaned forward in her seat. “Chanel, tell me something. Have you been through menopause?”

“You trying to be funny? I’m twenty-two.”

“Then let me explain something to you. When your ovaries shrivel and die, as yours surely will one day, your estrogen levels will fall, giving you hot flashes, wrinkles, a dry vagina—oh, and excess fat around your middle. For some women this weight is very hard to lose.”

“I’d have it all lipoed.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second. But as we get older, some of us try to accept ourselves as we are and recognize that we bring more to the party than a size-eight figure.”

“What party?”

It was then that Barbara made her excuses and left.

•   •   •

The Fergussons’ cream stucco Victorian villa formed part of a grand Islington square that overlooked a pretty communal garden. Ornate railings protected the lawn and flower beds from incursions by undesirables. Each resident would have a key, though. Barbara imagined the summer drinks parties: women in floaty pastels, men in linen suits and Panama hats—all knocking back Sea Breezes.

You couldn’t get farther from the Orchard Farm Estate than this. The irony was that most of the people who lived in this part of town thought of themselves as liberals. They voted Labour. They read the right newspapers, held politically correct views. But they preferred to hold them from behind their original Victorian shutters. Not that the area didn’t have its underprivileged multiethnic bits. The rich liberals liked this, too. They were virtually rubbing shoulders with the needy. How intrepid was that?

Sally Fergusson opened the front door accompanied by an ochre Labrador who immediately launched itself at Barbara, depositing muddy paw prints on her silk scarf.

“Gosh. I am so sorry. Bertie—naughty boy. Down.” Sally grabbed the dog’s collar and did her best to pull him off, but he was too busy licking Barbara’s face. “You must be Barbara. . . . How do you do? I’m Sally. Bertie! No! . . . He does get rather excited when we have visitors.” She gave one final tug on the animal’s collar. “That’s better. Good boy.” She shooed him down the basement stairs.

“No harm done,” Barbara said, looking at the marks Bertie had left on her hundred-quid scarf.

Sally was exactly as Barbara had imagined—shoulder-length blond hair, the color accentuated by subtle tones of honey and corn—at more than three hundred quid a pop. She was wearing it in the standard posh-mummy half updo. The top and sides had been pulled back and were held in place with a barrette. It was a look that Barbara didn’t much care for. She thought it made women look like little girls. All Sally needed was a school blazer, a violin case and a patch over her lazy eye. Not that she had a lazy eye. Both of Sally Fergusson’s gray eyes darted with nervous energy.

Barbara followed Sally and Bertie downstairs into the vast basement kitchen. Barbara took in the built-in deep-fat fryer and indoor barbecue, the fancy Italian coffeemaker that clearly never got used, since there was a jar of instant sitting on the countertop. Unless, of course, that was for the help, which, thinking about it, it probably was.

Sitting on the sofa, staring into his Xbox, his thumbs going like pistons, was a handsome, fair-haired boy, his arms still tanned from the family’s winter break. His long legs were tucked underneath him. Barbara was in no doubt that this child was a full head taller than the average ten-year-old at Jubilee. “Stunted urchins,” Sandra called them.

“Freddie, this is Barbara. Do you remember me saying that she’d be popping in?”

Freddie looked up. “I don’t want another tutor. I’ve already told you.” He went back to his Xbox.

“He’s just a bit shy, that’s all,” Sally said.

Barbara wasn’t sure that shyness was his issue.

“Freddie, while Barbara and I have a chat, would you like a snack?”

“What is there?”

His mother ran through a list of options.

“Cheese and onion crisps and a Snickers,” he said. There was no “please.” Nor did Sally demand one.

She went to fetch her son’s snacks. When she returned, she put them on the coffee table next to him. He didn’t look up, let alone offer her a thank-you.

Sally made tea, and the two women sat at the island at the other end of the kitchen, out of Freddie’s hearing. Sally explained that she and her husband, Jeremy, were both bankers. He was working in Hong Kong for the next month or so. She was off to Washington the next morning for a meeting with representatives from the IMF. That was why she’d been able to finish work early today—to prepare and pack.

“We’re always flying from hither to yon,” she said with an eye roll. “It’s so hard on poor Freddie. I’m sure he feels we neglect him.”

“It can’t be easy,” Barbara said. So that was why Sally didn’t discipline her son. She felt guilty about being away so much.

Sally explained that, for the most part, Freddie was looked after by au pairs. “They’ve all been useless, though. In fact, I had to let another one go this morning. The moment Freddie has a tantrum, they can’t handle him. I need somebody with a sense of humor who doesn’t make a drama out of everything.”

Until Sally found a new, undramatic au pair, Freddie’s granddad would be coming down from Gloucestershire to look after him.

Barbara asked Sally why she thought Freddie had tantrums.

“Simple. As I said on the phone, he’s not being sufficiently challenged at school. The upshot is, he’s become unmotivated. He’s either having tantrums or daydreaming and not getting on with his schoolwork. That’s why we’re frantic with worry that he won’t get into a good school.”

“I see. And what does his teacher say?”

“She wants him to see a child psychologist.”

“And you don’t think he needs to?”

“No, I don’t.” She clearly found the suggestion outrageous, bordering on offensive. “Freddie behaves like he does because he isn’t getting what he needs. Of course he’s lagging behind. The poor child is bored. That said, Jeremy and I should take our share of responsibility. We were the ones who decided to send him to a state school. We wanted to do the right thing—you know, let him mix with children from different backgrounds and ethnic groups for a few years—but it was clearly the wrong decision. There are thirty-odd kids in a class. Some of them don’t speak English, and if you ask me, Freddie is being ignored.”

Barbara asked if she could have a chat with him.

“By all means.”

She went over to the sofa. “Hey, Freddie, mind if I sit down?”

A shrug. She took this as an invitation to sit.

“So what are you playing?”

“
Lego Movie
.”

His mother, who was hovering nearby, was quick to point out that the game was purely cartoon knockabout violence and had absolutely no blood or gore. “Jeremy and I are pretty fanatical on that score.”

“Is it good?” Barbara asked Freddie.

“It’s a bit tame.” His eyes were glued to the screen. Those thumbs were still going.

“And we’re very strict about limiting his screen time to an hour a day.”

“So what else do you like doing, apart from playing computer games?”

“Dunno.”

“Oh, come on, Freddie. You go to football club twice a week. You love that.”

“I don’t. I hate it. I’m hopeless at all sports. Everybody laughs at me.” He paused. “I like drama though. I played Bono in the school nativity play, and I got to sing in front of everybody.”

“Freddie’s school takes a peculiarly secular approach to Christmas,” Sally said. “I’m not sure I approve, but Freddie was magnificent.”

“I bet he was,” Barbara said. She turned back to Freddie. “So . . . you don’t want another tutor.”

“No. I hate tutors. They suck.”

“What makes you say that?”

“They make me do fractions and decimals.”

“And you don’t like that?”

“It’s boring. It’s what I do all day at school. I don’t want to come home and do more.”

Barbara said she understood. “Tell you what, if I made a really big effort to make the time we spend together as unboring as possible, would you give me a chance?”

“You can’t. It’s always boring.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Why don’t you give me a try? Just once.”

“Just once?”

“Yep, and if I don’t measure up, you can sack me.”

Another shrug. “Fine, whatever.”

•   •   •

Barbara and Sally agreed—assuming Freddie didn’t give her the sack—that he would have two one-hour sessions a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

“Freddie, Barbara’s going now. Come and say good-bye.”

A grunt from the sofa.

“He’s still a bit wary of you,” Sally said. “But I’m sure he’ll come round.

“Freddie,” his mother called out again. “I need you to take a bath now. We’re going to Aunty Pru’s tonight, and there won’t be time when we get back.”

“Later.”

“I think now would be better.”

“I said
later
.”

“OK, if you think you won’t be too tired.”

The two women said their good-byes. Barbara’s polite smile disappeared the instant the front door closed behind her.

The kid was a rude, truculent little despot. Not that it was his fault. It didn’t take an expert to see that he’d got like this because his parents neglected him and then tried to compensate by spoiling him and refusing to discipline him. His teacher was right. The child did need to see a shrink. Barbara was used to dealing with problem kids—kids who lashed out, spat and called her a cunt and a slag. But they were poor and deprived. This kid was rich and, God forgive her, she held it against him. But at fifty quid an hour she wasn’t about to walk away. She could do it, she reasoned, so long as she kept on reminding herself that rich nutty kids were just as deserving as poor ones.

Frank was delighted that Barbara had found some work. “Even a bit of money coming in makes a difference.” But as usual the conversation soon got around to him. He was convinced that he and his crew were being tailed by Mexican government heavies.

“Fabulous,” Barbara said. “Something else for me to worry about.”

“I’m used to it. They’re only trying to frighten us. If they try anything, I’ll pay them off. These goons can always be bribed. I keep a wad of cash on me for that very purpose.”

“I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

Ben congratulated Barbara in his usual Ben way: “Well done, Mum. Now go and put the kettle on. I could murder a cuppa.”

When Barbara called to tell Jess her news, her daughter couldn’t have been more pleased, but it wasn’t long before she was quizzing her mother about the natural antianxiety remedies she’d recommended.

“So have you tried any of them?”

“Not exactly,” Barbara said.

“What does that mean? Please tell me you’re not taking pharmaceuticals.”

“Actually, I am.”

“But, Mum! How could you? These companies are all corrupt. They make money from filling people with poisons.”

Vulnerable as she felt, Barbara wasn’t about to be browbeaten. “Listen to me . . . The next time you’re having a panic attack and you think you’re about to die, feel free to trot off and make yourself a lettuce and valerian sandwich or rub your kidneys in a clockwork direction. I have decided that, flawed as the pharmaceutical industry undoubtedly is, I intend to put my trust in chemicals—at least for the time being. And I would really appreciate it if you accepted and respected my decision.”

“But what if you become addicted? Or you get terrible side effects?”

“That’s my problem, not yours. If any of that happens, I will take full responsibility and deal with it. Now, please stop trying to tell me what to do.”

“Well, at least now you know how it feels when you boss us around.”

“Fine. Point taken,” Barbara said. “I’ll try to do better.”

“Mum,” Jess said. Her voice had become meek and childlike. “Are you OK? ’Cos I’m really worried about you—particularly as Dad’s not around. I’ve had so much on my mind that I haven’t thought about it until now, but he really shouldn’t have left you when you weren’t well. I should have said something to him.”

“Of course you shouldn’t. That’s not your job. Thank you for worrying, though. I do appreciate it. But once the meds start working I’m going to be fine. And your dad had signed a contract. He had to go to Mexico.”

She was determined not to involve Jess in her marriage or turn her against her Frank.

“He does love you, you know,” Jess said.

“What on earth made you say that?”

“I dunno. It just occurred to me that you might be sitting on your own thinking he doesn’t care about you. But he does. He’s just so self-absorbed and taken up with saving the world. That’s who he is. I love him to bits, but I know he’s not easy.”