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‘Why don’t they just go on MarriedAffair.co.uk?’ sniffed Jude.
Wednesday 3 July 2013
8.30 a.m. Billy’s football comic just dropped through the letter box and I took it downstairs saying, ‘Billy! Your Match.com’s arrived!’
KBO
Wednesday 3 July 2013 (continued)
133lb, negative thoughts 5 million, positive thoughts 0, bottles of Fairy Liquid drunk 0 (you see? Could be worse).
9.15 p.m. Right. Super! Is school concert tomorrow and is going to be perfectly fine. Mabel is staying at Rebecca’s so I don’t have to worry about keeping tabs on both of them at the same time. Of course, many, many of the fathers will be away on business, or perhaps busy tapping away on MarriedAffair.co.uk! And even if Roxster was still around, he wouldn’t have come to the school concert, would he? He’d have felt ridiculous with all those people who have children and are so much older than him.
9.30 p.m. Just looked at news online. Whole royal baby frenzy is not helping: perfect young couple of Roxster’s age, starting life, doing everything perfectly, in the perfect way and at the perfect time.
9.45 p.m. Went up to check on Billy and Mabel.
‘Mummy,’ said Billy, ‘will Daddy know I’m doing the concert?’
‘I think so,’ I whispered.
‘Will I do it all right?’
‘Yes.’
I held his hand till he was asleep. There was a full moon again and I watched it over the rooftops. What would it be like now if I was going to the Summer Concert with Mark? He would have leaned over my shoulder the way he used to, whizzed through the mass picnic emails, deleted them and simply replied: ‘I will bring the hummus and the black bin liners.’
I would be one hundred per cent looking forward to it. It would be a one hundred per cent lovely thing. Oh, come on. Brace up. Keep Buggering On.
THE SUMMER CONCERT
Thursday 4 July 2013
We roared up through the landscaped parkland. We were late, because Billy was trying to map the route on the iPhone and we came off at the wrong junction. Clambered out to the smell of cut grass, the chestnut leaves hanging heavy and green, the light turning golden.
Staggering under the weight of the bassoon case, the rug, my handbag, the picnic basket and a second basket with Diet Cokes and oatmeal cookies that wouldn’t fit in the first basket, Billy and I headed towards the path marked: ‘CONCERT THIS WAY’.
We came out into the open and gasped. It looked like a painting: a gracious, wisteria-clad house, with an old stone terrace and lawns leading down to a lake. The terrace was laid out like a stage, with music stands and a grand piano, and rows of chairs below. Billy held my hand tightly as we stood wondering where to go.
Boys were running around setting up the instruments and music stands, all excited. Then Jeremiah and Bikram shouted, ‘Billy!’ and he looked up hopefully at me. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I’ll bring the stuff.’
As I watched him go, I saw the parents laying out their picnics on the lawn next to the lake. No one was alone. They were all in lovely couples which had presumably not been formed on Match.com or PlentyofFish or Twitter, but in the days when people still did meet each other in real life. Started disastrously imagining being there with Mark again, on time because he’d driven the car and operated the satnav, carrying a modest amount of stuff which Mark would have edited before departure, all holding hands, Billy and Mabel between us. And we’d be together, the four of us, on the rug instead of—
‘Did you bring the kitchen table?’
I turned. Mr Wallaker looked unexpectedly glamorous in black suit trousers and a white shirt, slightly unbuttoned. He was looking towards the house, adjusting his cufflinks. ‘Want a hand with all that?’
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I said as a Tupperware box fell out of the basket, spilling egg sandwiches onto the grass.
‘Leave it,’ he ordered. ‘Give me the bassoon. I’ll get someone to bring the rest down. Got anyone to sit with?’
‘Please don’t speak to me like I’m one of your schoolboys,’ I said. ‘I’m not Bridget No-Mates Darcy and I’m not helpless and I can carry a picnic basket and just because you’ve got everything under control, and all lakes and orchestras, it doesn’t mean—’
There was a crash on the terrace. An entire section of music stands fell over, sending a cello bouncing off the terrace and down the hill, followed by a shrieking bunch of boys.
‘Totally under control,’ he said, giving a little snort of amusement as a double bass and a tuba crashed over next, bringing more music stands with them. ‘Better go. Give me that.’ He took the bassoon and set off towards the house. ‘Oh, and by the way, your dress,’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Yes?’
