“Your mother is a wise woman. But you are missing the point. No-one wants the threat of being abandoned because they are barren. Getting married just to have babies is nuts. But thirdly, and this is the most important point, I don’t want to marry anyone.”
Anders's eyelids flicker like he can’t quite believe my words. “But Cora, I really think you should consider this. Look at what I can give you. Financial security. A lovely home, the finest schools for Effie, the best holidays. All this and more. I would settle some assets on you upfront so you would never have to worry if anything happened. But I don’t expect you will because I’d always be there for you. Whatever you need, whenever you need it. That’s got to be better than what you have at the moment?”
Itwasbetter than what I had at the moment, but I am not about to admit that. “No price on freedom,” I say instead, but my glib reply doesn’t sway him.
“Take some time to think about it. We don’t have to rush. But it makes perfect sense. Do you know the single biggest factor in a successful marriage? It’s that both partners want to make it work. It explains why arranged marriages function. Both sides enter the marriage wanting it to succeed.”
My own opinion is that Stockholm syndrome probably has more to do with arranged marriages, but I don’t say anything. It is clear Anders is taken with his new idea, although I am confident he won’t kidnap me or try to coerce me. For all his ability to railroad people, he is a decent person. And I have had three years' experience of not being railroaded. I can bide my time and sooner or later, some pretty young daughter of nobility called Rose or Poppy or Peony, working in marketing or PR, will stray across his path and be happy to become Mrs Anders Anderson III, together with all it entails.
I had said ‘No’ and I meant it, but as I retreat to my desk, one teeny tiny treacherous corner of my mind is building a picture.
The wisteria-scented air stirs on a lazy Sunday afternoon. French doors to the kitchen open behind me as I sit in the sunshine, watching my daughter, Effie, try to teach her younger brother the rudiments of football. Except he keeps picking up the ball and running away, forcing her to chase after him. Anders appears on the terrace, carrying our baby in one arm and a Pimms overflowing with fruit in his other hand. “For you,” he says as he kisses my forehead. He takes a seat beside me on the outdoor sofa (grey rattan, the type that features in celebrity home magazines and costs more than my car). Our little Naomi settles in his lap as he looks at me and says, “Have I told you today how much I love you?”
Back at my desk, I shake my head. I am being stupid and sentimental. In Anders’s entire proposal, there had not been one word about love.
TGIF
It is with relief I pack up my belongings in the afternoon and head out of the office for the weekend. Normally, I would call into Anders’s office before I leave to give him last-minute reminders and to bid him a cheery farewell, although all I usually get in return is a grunt. Today, an email will do because there is no way I am re-entering that particular arena after our earlier conversation. Being around Anders this afternoon without others present would not be wise.
Hopefully, by the time Monday rolls around, we will both have moved on. After all, a lot can happen in sixty-four and a half hours. Imogen could return, all trembly bottom lip and repentant. Or another woman of impeccable pedigree and immaculate looks could slide into the gap left by her absence.
After all, Anders is a rarity. In my experience, it takes time to accumulate wealth, and wealth encourages over-indulgence. So, most rich men are old and overweight. Although the tech industry has seen the rise of a younger breed of wealthy men,some of them have failed to evolve emotionally as well as financially. Nerds who look as good as Anders, who pack a healthy investment portfolio, and who shower daily, are thin on the ground. If a Rose/Poppy/Peony can develop a very thick skin, tolerate some coldness, and a fair amount of neglect, she could well find herself a winner.
As I let the door fall shut behind me, I shove Anders and his astonishing proposal to the back of my mind. I’ve a school to get to. Checking the time on my phone, I pick up my pace. More than once, I’ve been subjected to the ‘disappointed’ face the after-school workers reserve for tardy parents, and it always gives me a gut punch of shame.
Happily, my traffic karma today is good, and I hit the roadworks – they’ve popped up along the route like mushrooms after rain – with their lights on green. I huff out my relief as I turn into the entrance a few minutes before closing.
The school car park is mostly empty. Teachers don’t hang around on Friday afternoons. They are gone as soon as the last child has been handed over. A couple of groups of parents linger, chatting as their children tear around the playground. I nod to them as I pass in case any of them are in Effie’s class, but I get nothing in return. Playground politics are a nightmare. One good thing about being a working mother is not having to care about petty parents who hyper-fixate on the tiny dramas of their children’s lives. If they blank me, I shrug.
The After-School Club is housed in a bland municipal building that long ago had any character value-engineered out. I stand back for a moment, letting a little boy, front teeth missing and clutching a misshapen piece of cardboard, pass by. His father, laden with bags, coats and lunchboxes, follows behind with a rueful smile, his apology for his dented manhood.
A member of staff is standing by the door, filling out the register. I ignore her for the moment and look for my daughter.She’s not hard to find. Effie is where she normally is. On the floor, building an enormous wooden railway, ignoring the designated activity of the day and the other children. We have the same train set at home, but that only seems to enhance its attraction, not reduce it. I turn back to the play worker, who has a welcoming smile on her face. I don’t know how they do it, how they have the energy to be bright and breezy all day, every day. Her cheek muscles must ache each night.
“Ms Mills,” she greets me chirpily, her head on one side. “Effie didn’t want to make a dreamcatcher today.” She waves a cardboard ring criss-crossed with gaudy threads in front of me, entirely unaware of her cultural misappropriation. “She said she wanted to play with the train set.” Her head flips to the other side, her sunshiny smile still in place. I nod.
Every time, it is much the same. The craft activities vary according to the season, but Effie’s lack of interest doesn’t. I sometimes wonder if the play workers see her as a challenge or if they have long since given up. But as Effie is quiet and self-contained, they pretty much let her choose. “Free play is important, Ms Mills,” is the proffered explanation, as if I am likely to object. Fortunately, I’m no keener on acquiring painted pebbles or tissue box guitars than Effie is on making them. Before you castigate me for my lack of appropriate motherly pride, remember Effie has been in childcare since she could walk. If I kept everything she made, we would be living on the street while our home would be full of poorly made craft objects.
I cross the room to where my little person is sitting. She knows I’m here, but she ignores me until I say, “Hello, sweetheart. It’s time to go.” My voice climbs in pitch and enthusiasm. “We’re due at Max and Dana’s.” This isn’t news. We see them every Friday.
Effie heaves a big sigh, even though she loves visiting Max, her oldest friend. “Thomas has to go back into the engine shed first.”She pushes a little blue train along the track she has built, over a bridge, through a tunnel, past a station, and finally into the shed. Then she stands and rubs her dusty hands on her navy uniform trousers.
I suppress a sigh of my own. Every morning Effie leaves home immaculate, and within five minutes she looks like a waif. By the end of the day, she’s graduated to full-on ragamuffin. There’s not a chance any item of her clothing will be re-useable the following day. I glance across at a couple of girls sitting at the craft table, their hair in neat ponytails, fingers clean even as they happily stick and glue.
When I turn back, Effie looks at the floor and says, “Thomas was very naughty today.”
I have learned this usually means,I was very naughty today.
“Oh? What did Thomas do?”
“Engines drink oil. But Thomas spilled his oil over the engine shed.”
“And what did Mrs Smith do then?”
“The Fat Controller, Mummy,” Effie corrects. “The Fat Controller said it was very messy and Thomas had to clear it up.”
I wonder if Mrs Smith would be happy with being described as the Fat Controller. Maybe? The woman is a saint after all. Every year she takes thirty embodiments of Brownian motion and slowly but surely teaches them to co-operate with each other, to manage their emotions and to listen.
Sending Effie off to fetch her coat and lunchbox, I sign her out. As she returns, she passes the two girls at the craft table. Their hair is neat and tidy in matching plaits, and I wonder briefly if they are sisters, even though one is a brunette and the other blonde. The blonde looks up and calls, “Effie, look at this.” She holds up her creation for Effie’s admiration, waggling it so the pink sequins and beads catch the light.
