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Three days later, we got out of bed.
BABY’S PUDDINGS
I went to see Sophie in Notting Hill. Sophie was getting married and was stuffing her wedding invitations in envelopes. “I’m with a man in Chelsea,” I said. “I’ve been with him for five days. We take baths together and sing.”
She sighed. “It’s always like that with Englishmen in the beginning. How is he in bed?”
“Great,” I said.
“Well, they can be great at the beginning. That’s what they do to woo you. But then they just stop caring. One of my girlfriends says her husband goes in, out, in, out, and then he comes.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
“Maybe you’ll get lucky,” she said. “But in general, men in London are not a good bet. I’m only getting married because I’ve known my fiancé for ten years. But other than that, the men want to get married and career women don’t. It’s a much better deal for the man than it is for the woman.”
Sophie made us vodka tonics. “Englishmen just don’t do anything. They’re lazy. They make absolutely no effort. The woman has to do everything. And she has to pay for half of everything. The house, the car, the food. . . . All the man wants to do is hang around.”
“Do they, uh, watch Kung Fu videos?”
“Oh God no. They’re not that stupid. But they do want you to make them baby’s puddings all the time.”
“Baby’s puddings? You mean . . . baby food?”
”No. You know. Dessert. Apple crisp.”
Oh.
I went back to his house. “Do you want me to make you baby’s puddings?” I asked.
“Oh Minky,” he said. “What’s a baby’s pudding?”
“You know. Apple crisp,” I said.
“Well, yes, actually. I like apple crisp. Do you want to make me apple crisp?”
“No,” I said.
“Okay, well, how about an egg?”
We spent two weeks together. We rode around London on his Vespa and tried to go to bed early every night, but then we’d lie there from one to four in the morning, talking. He told stories about how he’d been caned at Eton and how he once tried to stuff his nanny in the toy closet.
“I’m confused,” he said. “I have all these ‘L’ words swirling around in my head. ‘U-S-T’ and ‘O-V-E.’”
I wanted to say, Well, hurry up and make up your mind, but I wasn’t in New York.
“Do you want to meet my friends?” he asked.
His friends were Mary and Harold Winters, and they lived in a big house in the country. It was, I suppose, the sort of life that every single woman who’s spent too many nights alone in a tiny apartment in New York City dreams of your own house with space, dogs, children, a Mercedes, and a jolly, adorable teddy-bear husband. When we walked in, two tow-headed children were helping Mary shell peas in the kitchen. “I’m so pleased you could come,” Mary said. “You’ve arrived at just the right time. We’re having a moment of calm.”
All hell broke loose after that.
The rest of the children (there were four of them altogether) came galloping in, screaming. The dog pooped on the carpet. The nanny cut her finger and had to go to the clinic.
“Do you mind giving Lucretia her bath?” Mary asked.
“Which one is that?” I asked. All the children had names like Tyrolean and Philomena, and it was hard to tell which one was which.
“The little one,” she said. “With the dirty face.”
