Her phone rang – Number Withheld – but she knew who it was.
‘God damn you people, can’t you leave a message?’
Leaning closer to the mirror, she plucked a single black hair that persistently re-appeared on her cheek. It was thicker than any hair she’d ever seen and reappeared overnight every two weeks. She was certain that each time it surfaced, it was a little stiffer, a little broader. Like her. It used to be funny, but Jake didn’t laugh much any more. Neither of them did. A ping from her phone told her there was another voicemail. How could this Barclaycard problem be connected to Jake’s extended absences, sullenness and quick temper? Or his unwillingness to discuss a vacation and his insistence that she didn’t need a nanny anymore? He was a partner in a law firm, not a very big one, but a partner, and their mortgage was big, but not unmanageable. She wanted a nanny. A nanny like Coco, who could mesmerise her volatile little terror, who had hair that shone like a gemstone, and skin that smelled of the tropics. A nanny who could fold herself in half without slipping a disc. She deserved it, didn’t she?
‘Do I?’ she asked the mirror. ‘Am I worth it?’
She doubted herself.
The phone rang again.
‘What?’ she spat. It was Jake.
‘Love you too, babe.’
‘Sorry. I’m having an existential crisis. Listen, Barclaycard keep calling. Do you know—’
‘Barclaycard. Oh that. Yes, of course. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.’
‘Good, but I can—’
‘Don’t… I’ll call them, OK? But, yes, the reason I called. New client. Late night. Etc etc. I’m sorry, babe. Not my call. Got it?’
‘You utter shit. Again? Didn’t we agree to have Jenny and Tim around for a drink? Actually, not we, didn’t you? When you spent the whole of Sunday afternoon cleaning the useless motorbike you never ride?’
‘I know. I’m sorry. There’s how I wish things were and how they are, and I have to be here. I’ll make it up to you. We can watch The X Factor together on Friday night. The whole show. Without interruption, mockery or general disparagement.’
‘Not possible. You hate The X Factor.’
‘I promise. Not a bad word. Concentrated silence and focused attention.’
‘You’ll control the kids?’
‘I’ll even control the kids.’
‘OK. But I might cancel Jenny and Tim. They’re our neighbours not our friends. I’ve enough friends.’ Stuck into the side of the mirror she had a framed photo of Dixie and Ana posing ridiculously as if applying make-up. Now that had been a fun night. ‘I don’t want any more, especially hangers-on. All that Jenny wants to do is social climb. She’s convinced I’m some kind of conduit to celebrities. I was a fashion journalist, not a society hostess. I was—’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I’ll be home late. And I’ll call Barclaycard. I’ll deal with it.’ And he was gone.
A spiralling conviction grew within her that something wasn’t right. Jake hated The X Factor. He hated all reality TV. He called it a virus. Whatever she tried to watch, he wrecked with smart-arse comments and satirical impersonations. It was impossible to enjoy TV with him around. She regretted being bought off with the offer to share something Jake could only destroy. Marriage was a mystery, she thought. You fall in love with someone for all their differences and then you come to despise those same idiosyncrasies. It was a freaking paradox.
She was worried. The Barclaycard was the housekeeping card, with which they collected points towards a holiday whose date still remained unfixed. The balance was paid off in full from the joint account. It must be a mistake, she thought. Jake’s salary went into the joint account. The mortgage payments came out of the joint account. There was plenty of money in the joint account. Of course there was. Jake would deal with it. She deleted the voicemail without listening to it.
Rory was staring at her from the bottom of the empty bath, soundless, and wearing a worried frown.
‘Oh baby, don’t stress. The world is full of automated fools. Daddy will sort it out.’
There was a pop like something had burst and then Rory’s mouth opened and she saw the trail of chocolate poo streaming between his chubby legs. He let out of howl of protest.
Half an hour later, she’d been forced to replace the irredeemably soiled Pineapple Studios sweatshirt with a totally inappropriate, but fortunately, clean blouse from Stella McCartney. It was a few years old and the pussy bow gave it a retro Charlie’s Angels look. It had once been her go-to work/drinks blouse. It had witnessed many forgotten but unforgettable Friday nights in Soho House. Back then she’d been flexing the magazine’s Gold Amex card and thought she ruled the world. The short-sighted arrogance of youth. She sighed. She missed the Nineties. She missed Friday nights.
She was determined not to be late to pick up Tom from school. The headmistress was losing her patience. That hideously judgemental look, the long nose, the glasses on a chain.
The truth was that since Jake had insisted she cut back on the nanny, Betty, a Belgian student built like a rugby player, whose mere physical presence induced in both Rory and Tom a kind of hypnotised lethargy that made them completely biddable, Stella had been struggling. It was not that she couldn’t get through the thousand and one tediously repetitive tasks, it was that they bored her into a kind of imbecilic incompetence. Every single mind-destroying chore served only to remind Stella of the woman she used to be: feared and respected for her concise insight and forensic ability to deconstruct fashion and outline trends, she was now wearing fashion from ten years ago (high fashion, but still) while serving as a scullery-maid-cum-Uber-driver to two ungrateful savages and an absent husband.
Applying a fresh coat of gloss to her chapped lips and reassessing her decaying epidermis – just in case she was forced to confront Olivia or one of her army of clones, or, heaven forbid, one of those hot single dads who sometimes appeared awkwardly trying to pick out their progeny from the streaming mass of uniformed delinquents who attended the local pre-school – she was reminded of her rash statement to Olivia that she was considering a return to work. It had of course been on her mind for months. She tried to ignore it because Rory was still young enough that his mother should be around. It would be too easy for the sneering Olivia and her frenemies to blame his behavioural difficulties on an awol mother, but he was two now and there was a vague and uncomfortable thought at the back of her mind that they might be better off with Bulky Betty or the mesmerising Coco even. They’d be clean. They’d be on time to arrive at and leave school.
She was a good mother. She knew that because she loved her children, but maybe someone else could be a better waitress and Uber driver. These were not her skills. She was a professional, a journalist, an acerbic and admired judge and commentator in a fast-moving industry. When she thought of Coco, she couldn’t help recall that smell, my god, it was angelic, and those arms. Perhaps, she thought, Coco might be at the school gates – one of the Van Nesses’ smug little prigs was in Tom’s class. Perhaps she could ask if she’d be able to help out? Rory was obviously smitten, which could only ease the transition. Everyone’s lives would be improved, she thought, as she bundled Rory into his pyjamas for the school run, if she got back to what she was good at, and left parenting to those with the skill set. Jake could hardly object if that was how she chose to spend her money. She pinioned Rory into his car seat, and emerged to a spring afternoon lit up by the sun and felt happier than she had for weeks.