By the time Joe arrived home I was feeling rather frazzled, and the risotto had stuck to the bottom of the pan. I started to tell him about Mum and the emergency trip to the sexual health clinic, but he wasn’t really listening. Probably just as well.
‘Layla was busy,’ I said as I pushed a forkful of risotto around my plate. ‘This evening. I messaged her earlier, but she had a late lecture.’
‘Hmm?’ He was staring down at his empty plate. ‘Any more of this in the oven?’
‘Uhm. No. I only made enough for two. There’ve been so many times in the past few weeks that I’ve had to throw out leftovers, forgetting there are no longer three of us to share it. I’ve finally got the hang of reducing quantities.’
‘Just in time for having to upscale again when she comes home.’
‘I know.’ I consulted my list – addendum 25a) normal day-to-day food. ‘I’ve got so much to sort out before then in terms of meals and making sure we’ve got all her favourite stuff in. I’m just not sure when I’m going to be able to cook. Maybe Thursday night when I’m back from work, but that’ll mean I probably can’t sort dinner for us at the same time. If I’m making lasagne for her first evening at home and also baking a batch of gingerbread, and then Mum was going to come over on the Sunday for a roast, so I’ve got to make sure that’s covered too, with a pudding. I’ll probably make that chocolate mousse… Thing is,’ I sighed, ‘I’m working every day this week so that I’ve got some days to take in lieu while Layla’s home and –’ I looked at the list again, whichjust seemed to grow exponentially every time I glanced at it – ‘I don’t know how I’m going to do it.’
My voice had evidently become a bit tremulous because Joe finally looked up from his plate and paid me some attention. ‘You alright, love?’ he said, with the air of a man who has not been listening and is now worried he might be asked to recall with some precision exactly what his wife was wanging on about.
‘I’m just feeling a bit – overwhelmed,’ I said, moving plates to the dishwasher with unnecessary speed and brutality. A hot flush was prickling up my neck, and I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to bawl my eyes out or smash something. Or both.
‘Why’s that then?’ he asked mildly. ‘What have you got to feel overwhelmed about?’
(Oh, the touching naiveté of a man asking that question of his highly stressed and perimenopausal wife.)
‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said, my voice now very shrill. ‘Maybe about the fact that Christmas is almost here and I haven’t got anything sorted yet and Layla is coming home and I want everything to be just right because it’s her first Christmas back from university but I’m starting to worry that I haven’t bought her any presents yet and maybe that’s because I don’t really know what she might want, and this is the first time in her entire life that I haven’t had a reasonably good idea of what she might like, what kinds of clothes she’d choose to wear or books she’d want to read, and to think that my daughter is maybe becoming a bit of a stranger to me now is disconcerting to say the least and makes me feel constantly on the verge of tears.’
I paused for breath just long enough for Joe to look like he was going to say something before I continued. ‘And also it’s really important that she has a nice time this holiday because some people’s kids just don’t really want to come home for the holidays and maybe they just want to visit friends and go and stay with other people’s families and I want to make sure she’snot one of those kids and that shealwayswants to come home and so we need to make sure everything is exactly as she wants it and that’s going to be difficult when I’m working and also when I’m feeling a bit hormonal generally and worrying about Mum because we fell out today and I was a bit brusque with her and you know me and how I’m not really like that with Mum – ever – and also I was a bit freaked out by seeing all those middle-aged businessmen at the clinic and thinking maybe they’re all having affairs and so perhaps you’re having an affair too and how would I know given that you spend so much timeplaying golfwhen really I have no way of checking that you’re actually playing golf and you could easily be saying you are when you’re not and isn’t a golf club actually a perfect foil for an affair because you can pretty much guarantee that I wouldn’t follow you there or be interested in joining you so you’ve got free rein to do as you please.’
And with that I burst into tears leaving my husband cowering in his chair, completely baffled and unable to make sense of anything I’d said.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Having flounced off in a huff with Joe, I did what any self-respecting wife with an overwhelming domestic burden of festive tasks would do – called my best friend to arrange an emergency meeting in the pub.
‘He just doesn’t get it!’ I said shrilly as Farah handed me a glass of what the landlady was optimistically billing as mulled wine even though it essentially looked like bin-juice. ‘He seems to think that Layla being away at university means I no longer have any domestic concerns to worry about, like we’re a childless couple in our twenties who only have to buy presents for each other and can just decide at the last minute to get Nando’s for Christmas dinner.’
‘Oh, those were the days, weren’t they?’ Farah stretched her legs out under the table. ‘Parents who looked after themselves and didn’t need constant trips to the hospital, no kids to worry about, manageable rent and the rest of your salary could go on beer and skittles.’ She took a sip of her mulled wine and grimaced. ‘Fuck me, that is rank!’
‘Yes, well that sort of dreamworld is the one that Joe clearly thinks we’ve returned to. He doesn’t see that the wholeextended family needing appropriately thoughtful gifts in addition to having to feed and entertain what feels like an army cadet force over a prolonged periodscenario is at all stressful or migraine inducing.’
‘And I’m assuming it’s a bit more pressurised because it’s Layla’s first Christmas back home?’
‘Exactly! He doesn’t get that either! Thinks it’s just the same as any old year! I’m like, Joe, it’s areallybig deal, your first Christmas back home – those are the kind of memories that willstick with Layla forever. I remember every moment of coming back for Christmas after that first term of university, how lovely it was to see Mum and Dad, and my friends, and even Rich. I want it to be like that for her. Particularly at the moment.’
‘She still having a hard time?’
‘Yeah, it’s those bloody girls in her flat,’ I said, taking another sip of my mulled wine and wincing.
‘Marianne,’ said Farah. ‘And Lavinia. And Bunty?’
‘Betsy,’ I said. ‘Apparently one of them has been stealing Layla’s food.’
Farah’s lips pursed together like she’d have expected no less – she’s been fully briefed on my feelings regarding this particular group of girls, as you’d imagine.
‘Not anything major,’ I said. ‘Just the rest of a pizza she’d been saving. Layla put it in the fridge and the next day when she went to have it for lunch it had gone. And, of course, you know, these things happen. People come back from the pub, middle of the night, they’ve got the munchies. I get it. But then last week half a block of cheese goes missing. Crumbs of it on the counter. And her mugs and plates are used and not washed up, just left on the side all scummy. It’s all the usual perils of sharing a kitchen with strangers – but I think it’s starting to grind her down.’
‘Has she spoken to them about it?’ Farah’s lips were pursed even tighter.
‘Well, whenever she has mentioned it, they just make out that she’s whinging for no reason. They say, “Oh sorry, I was starving, didn’t realise it was yours, didn’t realise it would be such ahugeproblem,” – making her feel as though she’s making a fuss about nothing. One of them, Marianne I think, said, “Oh my god Layla, it’s just cheese. Chill out. I’ll pay you back. Just borrow some of my food next time,” and of course she never did pay her back, even though she’s loaded, because to Marianne, acouple of quid, half a block of cheese, it’s nothing – but to Layla, it’s got to last her the rest of the week.’
‘Fuck. So annoying. Poor Layla.’ Farah was visibly squirming on her bar stool, although that may have been due to gastritis from the wine. ‘I bet you just want to stomp in there and say, “Hey, cheese-thieving bitches! Leave my daughter alone!”’
I laughed. ‘Exactly. I mean, don’t get me wrong – I don’t think she’s being bullied or that they’re making her life a nightmare – she only mentioned it in passing. But it’s just another little fly in the ointment. Another example of a situation where I want to be there to sort it out, have a few choice words with them all – and I can’t.’
