Instead of chatting I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy the sensation of slowly roasting alive. I’ve never been one of those people who truly relaxes in this sort of setting. I’m always worrying about whether I’ve still got my plastic security bracelet, and whether I’ll remember where my locker is, and how long we’ve got left before our designated lunch slot and is it worth drying off before lunch or sitting in an upholstered chair in a damp swimsuit and feeling like I’ve wet myself for the duration of the meal. Equally, the times I’ve been to a spa (admittedly not often) and brought a book I’ve had nowhere to put it and it always ends up in a puddle by the side of the steam room, but when I purposefully don’t bring one, I feel like I’m missing out on an ideal quiet reading opportunity. It’s a first world problem minefield.
Still, it was extremely nice of my mother to have railroaded me into coming today and at least I didn’t have to worry about the cost. In fact, from tomorrow our money troubles will be over (not really, but at least I’ll be earning again). I’ve been keeping things ticking along over the past couple of weeks with freelance editing work – my turnaround on those projects had tripled in the absence of the pharmaceutical contract – but there is no stability in these kinds of jobs, and I need a regular wage, if only to keep my daughter in Pot Noodles and vodka. As of tomorrow, I’m going to have a proper salary. I’ll have annual leave, and the right to sick pay, and an allocated day off every week where I can concentrate on editing. I think I might even have a pension. These are heady times indeed. I am, of course, terrified by the notion of embarking on on-site employment again. It’s a long time since work meant an actual place rather than an activity.
Over lunch Mum and I chatted about my new job. I say chatted – Mum talked at me while I fidgeted in my damp waffle robe (we hadn’t had time to dry off) and pushed some kale and quinoa around my plate.
‘I’m glad you’ve got this little library job, Hattie,’ she said, pouring us both a glass of lemon-infused water to go with our smoothies, just in case there was any danger of either of us not taking on sufficient liquid. ‘It’ll do you good to get out of the house. Earn a bit of money for yourself.’
‘Uhm – Ihavebeen earning money,’ I said. ‘For the past seventeen years. I’ve been copy-editing and proofreading ever since Layla was tiny, if you recall.’
She wrinkled up her nose. ‘Yes of course, but doing little projects on websites and what have you, working from home, it was never really a career, was it.’
I exhaled slowly into my chia seed and papaya smoothie, which I now realised smelled a bit like vomit. I wanted to say,It was a career, Mum. It wasn’t hugely life-affirming or world-changing, but it paid pretty well considering. A lot of people have careers that involve working from home. And a lot of people work flexible hours. It doesn’t make their job any less valid. And my main reason for working from home was so I could be around for Layla, because we both know you’d have given me an absolute earful if you thought I’d been neglecting my daughter, or she’d become some sort of latch-key kid.
But of course, I didn’t say this. Instead going for a far gloomier option: ‘Well, I’m not going to be earning much more doing this job. It’s barely minimum wage and when you factor in the travel and parking, I’m probably going to lose money compared to what I was doing before.’ (Just in case there was any doubt in anyone’s mind about how much I valued myself and my employment potential.)
‘Hmm,’ she continued, brushing this aside. ‘It’s like I was saying before – it’s good for you to have something of your own. Even if it is just, I don’t know, “stamping books”.’ (She did the inverted commas in the air). ‘You need to be defined by something other than Layla, because she won’t thank you if you keep yourself in suspended animation, only jumping back into life as soon as she comes home for a week.’
‘I know that,’ I said. ‘But it is hard.’ I was determined to winkle some sympathy out of her. ‘Partly because I’m not sure that she is very happy at the moment. I know you and Joe and even bloody Jaqueline all think this is about me being self-absorbed and wallowing about in my own sadness, but actually I’m a bit worried about Layla. I think if she seemed more upbeat about university, I’d feel happier.’
‘But you see, that’s part of the problem. It’s too much pressure to put on Layla’s shoulders if she feels that your happiness is too intrinsically linked to her own.’
‘Well, I can’t win then,’ I said, dropping my fork onto my plate. ‘I can’tnot worryabout my only child just because you tell me to. And I can’t simply forge on with a new independent spirit as if there isn’t a significant piece of me unhappily missing in action.’
‘Oh darling,’ she said, pushing a napkin my way. ‘Dry your eyes. There, there. Nobody said it would be easy. It’s early days and you’re managing in the best way that you can.’
This was hardly a ringing endorsement but it wasn’t really a criticism either, so I decided to take the proffered olive branch.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘I wouldn’t set much store by Jaqueline’s opinion either. Your sister-in-law hasn’t got to the same point yet with the boys. It will beinterestingto see how she copes when the time comes for Hugo and Lawrence to leave home.’
‘I suspect she’ll barely notice,’ I said and we both tittered together, united in our mutual distrust of Jaqueline’s chilly parenting style. ‘I’m having the boys to stay at the end of the month actually.’
‘How’s that going to work with the new job?’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘I’m not really sure. I’d already told her and Rich I could have the boys you see, so I didn’t want to let them down. They popped in last week to see Layla, which was very sweet of them.’ It hadn’t been terribly sweet, it had all been a little forced, with my brother constantly questioning Layla about what an amazing time she must be having, how many trillions of friends she must have made, and exactly how many nights she was out getting wasted – so keen to vicariously relive his student days through his niece that he couldn’t pick up on the cues of her lacklustre responses and cease the interrogation.
‘When I mentioned the library job potentially clashing with the childcare, Rich looked really annoyed.’
‘Oh, I’d be surprised at that,’ Mum scoffed, never one to hear a bad word about her darling boy. ‘He’s always been very reasonable about that sort of thing, your brother. And no surprise with a wife who prioritises work as much as his does.’ Her mouth formed a little moue of disapproval.
‘Anyway, Jaqueline said it was absolutely fine and she had no intention of disrupting my career, so she’d go back to the agency they’d used last time.’
‘The agency?’ The moue became tighter.
‘Yes, they used a…’ I trailed off. There was always a huge temptation to slag off my sister-in-law to my mother, but it was a potential minefield. If she thought I was criticising Richard, then I’d get very short shrift. ‘I think they’ve previously used agency nannies,’ I said, thinking this sounded better than the house-sitter Jaqueline had threated. ‘Anyway, I don’t really want mynephews being looked after by a stranger, not when I’d promised to have them, so I said, no, I’d find a way of making it work.’
‘Well, that’s very good of you, Harriet,’ she said, taking a sip from her smoothie with a small grimace. ‘And I’m sure I can help out too. Just remind me of the dates when we get back to the changing room and I’ll check my diary – make sure there aren’t any clashes.’
‘That would be great, Mum,’ I said. ‘If you’re sure. I don’t want to take you away from anything else you might have planned.’ I left a pause, but she didn’t fill it. ‘Doyou have any holidays or trips scheduled in the next few weeks? Are you being whisked off anywhere nice?’
‘Well, Marrakesh is off the agenda,’ she said. ‘Maurice is still keen to go but I don’t think his travel insurance will cover him at the moment – and to be honest,’ she lowered her voice, ‘I don’t think he’d be up to much in terms ofactivities.’
‘Eeew. Okay,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to hear about what Maurice can or cannot stretch to with bedroom athletics.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Bedroom athletics,’ she scoffed. ‘You’re so coy, Harriet. No, I meant activities of a cultural nature, visits to the kasbah, camel rides across the Sahara, etcetera. I wasn’t talking about sex – that really might finish the poor chap off altogether.’
I spluttered into my smoothie, which I still hadn’t finished despite my best efforts to overlook its vomitty smell.
