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Chapter 22
December
“What are you doing on Saturday?” Toby asks me when I drop him at his studio. We’ve just finished our final trip of the year, a marathon eight days in Cape Town. It was my first time in the city, and we’ve worked hard to take in all the places recommended in the famil packs, including Table Mountain, the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, Camps Bay, as well as the various bars and restaurants along Long Street. We’ve toured the winelands, done a day safari to the Aquila Reserve (where my telephoto lens came into its own) and visited the Cape of Good Hope. On top of all of that we’ve stayed in four different hotels. It’s been exhausting and exhilarating at the same time, but now I’m just feeling tired and grimy from the eleven-hour overnight flight home.
“I don’t think I’m doing anything, why?”
“I’ve got a free day. I thought we could celebrate our first year of collaboration by doing something that’s neither travel nor photography related.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I don’t know yet. Why don’t I surprise you?”
“I’m not a great fan of surprises.”
“Trust me, it’s not going to be anything bad.”
“If it’s sky-diving you may not survive the day.”
“OK, no sky-diving, I promise. Anything else?”
I think for a while. “I don’t want to be cold, wet or dirty. So, no assault courses or anything silly like that.”
“No assault courses, got it. Shame, because an assault course is exactly what I thought you’d love most,” he says, with a wink. “Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of,” I reply.
“Good. I’ll collect you from your flat at nine in the morning. I’ll text you the day before to give you an idea of the dress code. OK?”
When I get home, I take a long, hot shower and wash my hair to get rid of the weird smell that seems to cling to me after long-haul flights. It’s a mixture of the overall smell of the plane and the leftover aroma of the breakfast they served us before we landed. I don’t sleep well on planes, so my bed looks particularly inviting, but I resolve to keep going rather than risk messing up my body clock. I can have an early night tonight if necessary.
Once I’ve re-stocked the fridge and put a load of washing on, I ring Charley.
“Oh, hi Mads,” she answers, sounding slightly breathless. “Can you hang on a minute?”
“I can call back if I’m interrupting,” I tell her.
“No, it’s fine. I’ve just got to corral Amelia. Hang on.”
I hear the sound of doors being closed, followed by a few whimpers from Amelia, who is obviously cross at having her freedom curtailed.
“Sorry about that. Since she started crawling, she’s become a complete liability. She’s into everything! We’ve had to buy covers for all the plug sockets, and we’ve got baby gates across all the doorways. It’s like living in Fort Knox, but she still finds ways to put herself in danger. She’s trying to walk, so she’ll grab at anything to pull herself up. God knows what it’ll be like when she actually starts walking. I think I might have to buy a lead. Anyway, how was your trip?”
I fill her in on the details, although she has to stop me regularly to go and intervene to prevent Amelia from hurting herself. I can sense her exasperation mounting, and I’m just about to suggest I call back when things come to a head.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” she exclaims, “sit there and I’ll put the bloody Teletubbies on for you.”
“I try to limit her screen time,” she explains to me as the theme tune plays in the background, “but sometimes putting her in front of the TV is the only way I can get anything done. Thank goodness I’m back at work three days a week now. I need adult contact to keep me sane. Does that make me a bad mother? I look at the other mothers at nursery, and they all seem much more together than me, somehow.”
“Of course you’re not a bad mother! Amelia’s thriving, isn’t she? I bet those other mothers either have nannies, or they’re so full of Xanax they don’t even know what day of the week it is. If you went to the nursery at drop-off time on a Saturday or Sunday you’d probably find them all there, wandering round in a daze and wondering why the door won’t open.”
Charley laughs softly. “Thanks, Mads. I can always rely on you to lift my spirits. So, how’s the GBF?”
“He’s fine,” I tell her. “He’s planning a surprise for me on Saturday, to celebrate our first year of working together.”
“But you hate surprises! What on earth is he thinking?”
“I know, but I was tired, and he promised it would be something nice. Maybe I should ring and cancel, though. I don’t know. I’ll think about it. How’s Ed?”
