Love Lessons (16 page)

I must have looked alarmed. She laughed at me. ‘Don't worry, they'll be fine. They'll both sleep like logs now. Harry's putting up a
bit
of a fight about going to bed, but it's not like it's a major strop.'

With perfect timing Harry started screaming upstairs: ‘Mum! You come back now! I need you
now
! I want a story
NOW
!'

Mrs Raxberry raised her eyebrows and sighed. ‘Can't you see to him, Keith?' she called up the stairs. She turned to me. ‘Harry's a bit unsettled because we haven't been out for ages. He'll calm down soon, I promise. Keith will just read him one more story so he doesn't get too worked up, and then I'm sure he'll drop off. If he gets
really
upset, though, you can always ring us at the restaurant, I've left my mobile number by the telephone. I don't really know why we're going out for a meal. I had some fish fingers with Harry at tea time to keep him company even though I'm supposed to be on a diet. Does this dress look much too tight still? It looks really awful, doesn't it?'

‘No, no, it looks lovely on you,' I lied.

I was disarmed by the way she talked to me like a friend she'd known for years. I didn't want to be her friend. I didn't want her to be so nice.

She wasn't so nice to Mr Raxberry though. Harry was still shrieking.

‘For God's
sake
, Keith, can't you read Harry his story?'

‘I'm changing Lily's nappy at this exact moment in time,' he called back.

‘Can't you do both? Haven't you heard of multi-tasking?' She sighed, raising her eyebrows at me. ‘Men! Why do they have to make changing a nappy into such a big deal? It's like he wants a medal pinned to his chest every time he does it.'

I wriggled uncomfortably, not knowing what to say.

‘Oops! I keep forgetting he's your teacher. What's he like at school, eh? Is he pretty hopeless?'

‘He's a brilliant teacher,' I said stiffly. ‘He's taught me so much already.'

‘Yes, I know you like art. Keith's told me all about you.'

I wanted to ask exactly what he'd said, getting her to repeat it word for word, but I was too shy.

‘Art's my favourite subject,' I said. ‘I want to go to art school.'

‘Ah. Well, try not to end up an art teacher, Prudence.'

I made some non-committal noise. She was standing on tiptoe, peering at herself in the mirror above the mantelpiece.

‘This dress
is
too tight, especially if I'm going to be having a big meal. I wanted to go to see a film tonight but there doesn't seem to be much on. I think I'll change into my navy top and my white trousers, yeah?' She looked at me. ‘You're so lucky to be so skinny. Mind you, I wasn't much bigger than you before I had Harry. Dire warning: don't have kids! Come on, you'd better come and meet them. You can get them sorted out while I change. Keith's probably put a nappy on Harry and is reading
The Gruffalo
to Lily.'

I found Mr Raxberry sitting up on Harry's bed, with Lily on his lap and Harry cuddled against his chest. Lily was still nappyless. Harry was muttering in an ungrateful monotone, ‘Don't want you reading, Daddy, I want
Mum
.'

I decided I didn't much care for either child. Harry was one of those bullet-headed little boys, wriggling and squirming and grumbling. Lily seemed sweeter, but her pink prawn limbs and bare bottom made me feel a bit squeamish. I put on a false smile nevertheless.

‘What lovely children,' I said, practically clapping my hands and applauding them.

‘Who's that big girl? I don't like her,' said Harry.

‘That's Prudence. She's going to look after you and Lily tonight,' said Mr Raxberry.

I knew this was a silly thing to say. Harry reacted predictably, insisting he didn't want to be looked after by me, he didn't like me, he didn't like his dad either, he wanted
Mum
. Mrs Raxberry came running, half in, half out of her navy top.

‘I'm here, Harry. It's OK, sweetie.' She took a deep breath. ‘For God's sake, Keith!
I'll
sort the kids. You go and get changed.'

‘Changed?'

‘You're not going to wear those awful jeans to La Terrazza?'

‘OK, OK.'

I couldn't understand her. Mr Raxberry looked wonderful in his jeans. Why did she treat him like an idiot all the time?

She picked Lily up. ‘There now, come to Mummy. Who needs a nappy to cover her little pink bot?' she cooed in a silly voice.

Lily kicked her little legs like a frog and then weed all down Mrs Raxberry's white trousers. She squealed, and told Mr Raxberry it was all his fault. She stamped off to get changed again, a wet, squirmy Lily under one arm.

I looked at Mr Raxberry. He looked at me. We were both trying not to burst out laughing. He raised his eyebrows at me and then went off to get changed himself.

‘OK, I'll read you your Gruffalo book, Harry,' I said, in a nice-bright-cheerful-nanny voice.

Harry pushed the book away peevishly and slid down the bed, half-hidden under the sheets. ‘Stupid smelly big girl,' he said, entirely disappearing under the duvet.

I ducked my head under too. ‘Don't mess with me, little boy,' I hissed. ‘You come out and I'll tell you your story and if you're very very good I'll give you some chocolate when your mum and dad have gone out.'

‘A whole big bar?' said Harry.

‘Well, that depends on how good you are.'

He was positively angelic, especially when it mattered, saying goodbye to his mum and dad. I decided childcare was a piece of cake – well, bar of chocolate. If I ever had children they'd be impeccably behaved, though they'd probably be little dumplings with no teeth.

Lily was too little for bribery, but she seemed contented enough. She looked like a very tiny snowman in her small white sleeping suit. I held her on my lap as I sat on Harry's bed and made her wave her little arm to Mr and Mrs Raxberry.

‘You're sure you're going to be all right, Prudence?' said Mrs Raxberry. ‘You look very
young
.'

‘I'm fifteen,' I said. Well, I would be next year.

‘Oh dear, is that all?' she said doubtfully, pulling down her skirt. She was back in her skin-tight dress. ‘You have done lots of babysitting before, haven't you?'

‘I've been babysitting my little sister for years,' I said truthfully. ‘Don't worry, we'll be fine.'

I produced the chocolate as soon as they'd gone out the front door. Harry drooled his way through the entire bar. I had to keep wiping his mouth so he wouldn't get chocolate slurp on his sheets, and when his eyelids started drooping I got his toothbrush and whisked it round his teeth as he sprawled, half asleep. He grumbled at me, but turned over on his side and rubbed his nose into the soft tummy of his teddy bear.

Lily cried a little when I carefully slid her into her wicker cot, but she calmed down when I stroked her feathery curls.

‘There now,' I whispered.

I watched over the two of them for a few minutes. They'd stopped being irritating now they were asleep. They were just two sweet little children. I'd always thought I couldn't stand to have children myself but now I wasn't so sure. I imagined being Mrs Raxberry. This was my house, these were my children, he was my husband.

My heart started thumping at the thought. I tiptoed out of the children's bedroom and hovered on the landing. I peered inside the bathroom, still wet and steamy. I felt the two large, damp, navy towels, wondering which one was his. I looked at the toothbrushes in the jar and thought of his even white teeth, and the way he smiled.

I looked at the razor and imagined it gliding down his soapy cheeks, carefully stopping short of his neat beard. I looked at the hairbrush and thought of it tugging through his dark shiny hair. I looked at the two navy towelling dressing gowns hanging on the peg. They seemed identical in size. I sniffed them cautiously. One smelled faintly of face cream and hairspray.

I held the other one, his one. I fitted my arms into the sleeves and wrapped the gown round me, tying it tightly. It felt as if he was holding me, wrapping his arms round me. I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining it. When I looked in the misty mirror I almost expected him to be looking over my shoulder, smiling at me.

I took his dressing gown off reluctantly and hung it carefully back on the hook, suddenly worried that they'd been arranged in a special way.

My face was flushed, my hands were trembling. I told myself to go downstairs and start reading my book, do my homework.
I could watch television!
I knew Grace – and Mum – would want a second-by-second account of every programme I'd watched, even the adverts.

I couldn't help it. My feet were creeping along the carpet to the next door, their bedroom. I pushed the door open, holding my breath. I'm not sure what I'd imagined. It wasn't this ordinary, untidy room with discarded clothes scattered over the daffodil duvet and grubby make-up spilling across the dressing table. I fingered each item curiously, opening her face cream and trying a tiny bit, dabbing her powder on my nose, daubing her pink lipstick on my lips. It tasted sickly sweet. I wondered if he liked the taste when he kissed her.
Did
he still kiss her? Of course he must do. They had children, didn't they?

I looked at their bed, half the poppers missing on their yellow duvet, the machine-embroidered flowers unravelling on their pillows, their padded headboard faded. Mr Raxberry saw everything in such sharp focus. How could he bear to sleep in this messy room?

I went to the white fitted wardrobe and opened it. Her clothes were on one side, a little rumpled, some falling off their hangers, pinks and lilacs and primrose, beige and navy and tan. His clothes were the other side, mostly black, with some blue denim. I stroked them very gently and cautiously, as if they were thoroughbred horses. I even knelt down and examined his shoes, trying them on my hands, making them do a little tap dance. He had small neat feet. I set the shoes back carefully, side by side.

I peeped inside the chest of drawers. I wanted to find special secret things but I just found underwear, socks, her tights in a brown tangle like a nest of soft snakes.

I looked at the books on either side of the bed. Hers were pastel coloured to match her clothes, romantic tales of single women looking for true love. His books were special – a battered Penguin
David Copperfield
, a John Updike, a Hanif Kureishi. I flicked through them, wondering which were his favourite passages. I knew we had
David Copperfield
in the shop and several Updikes, and I could search for the Kureishi paperback in boot fair boxes. I could read them all and then bring them casually into one of our conversations and he'd be amazed at the similarity of our literary taste.

No, he wouldn't be fooled. He'd guess I'd sneaked into his bedroom and fingered the books by his bed. I piled them up again quickly and then backed out of the room. I checked the children again, trying to justify my presence, and then went downstairs.

I made myself a cup of coffee, taking it black and strong because it seemed more sophisticated, though it made me shudder. Then I forgot all about trying to act like an adult, becoming transfixed by the chocolates and sweets in a big earthenware bowl. Mum made toffee and fudge and truffles, but we never had a whole bowlful, not even at Christmas. I didn't imagine Mr Raxberry tucking into all the goodies.
She
was the one who had secret nibbles all day. Maybe she bribed Harry into good behaviour too.

She'd told me to help myself to anything I fancied. My fingers hovered over this and that before I selected one creamy white truffle. I rolled it round and round my mouth while I switched on the television and flicked through all the channels. I couldn't settle to watch anything. It was as if I was acting in my own highly coloured romantic drama. I needed to savour it.

I sat on the sofa, tucking my legs up, imagining what it would be like to sit there every night, the children upstairs in bed and Mr Raxberry beside me. Would we watch television, would we read our books, would we talk? Would we stay at separate ends of the sofa or would we loll against each other, cuddling up together?

I felt something hard and flat under the cushion, some little book. No, it was a sketchpad, a little Rowney one. I had the same size sketchpad at home. I opened it, holding my breath. Mr Raxberry's own private drawing book! I turned each page carefully, terrified of smudging the charcoal and chalk. There were quick sketches of the children: Harry running, riding his toddler bike, watching television with his teddy under his chin. There were sketches of Lily too, lying on her back kicking, propped in her highchair nibbling toast, laughing uproariously, her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth wide open.

There were several sketches of Mrs Raxberry feeding Lily, telling Harry a story, and one of her on her own. She was lying stretched out on the sofa, one arm above her head, the pose smoothing out her thick waist and large stomach so that she just looked lush and womanly.

I frowned at the picture. It was so tender and intimate, even though she was fully dressed. I wanted to rip it out of the book. I forced myself to flip past it. There were plant studies, bowls of fruit, a tree, and several sketches of the school, as seen from the art-room window. There were sketches of some of the pupils – a lovely one of Sarah laughing as she daubed thick paint.

Then I turned the page and saw a portrait of a thin girl with thick curly hair, a girl with big dark eyes gazing intently into space, in her own imaginary world. The girl was wearing a dress, the check pattern lightly suggested.