Читать книгу If You're Not The One - Jemma Forte - Страница 11

While Max went to collect the children from his parents, Jennifer raced round the house trying to get it into a vaguely fit state. Friends were coming for lunch and she was running behind. If she was honest she wasn’t feeling a huge amount of joy about the fact they were coming. Lately they’d had a lot of people over and while it was nice to socialise, Saturdays were starting to feel as structured and routined as the rest of the week. What with the cooking, cleaning and never-ending washing up and putting away. Still, in reality, if it was Karen and Pete who were coming over, she’d be looking forward to it a whole lot more. Apart from anything else, Karen wouldn’t care if the house was a tip, or if she served up a bit of old spaghetti for lunch.

Whereas with Judith and Henry Gallagher, she felt obliged to achieve that ‘I’ve thrown this magnificent feast together effortlessly, à la Nigella, wearing an unstained silk dressing gown while simultaneously raising two angelic children in a house liberally festooned with fairy lights’ look, that actually requires tons of effort, perspiration, lots of shouting at the children and some swearing. But then, when it came to Judith and Henry, ‘friends’ was probably rather a loose term and therein lay the problem.

Judith was a work colleague of Max’s who was alright…ish, only she talked about work incessantly, in a way that tended to make Jennifer feel totally excluded from proceedings. With Judith always hogging Max, Jennifer was usually left feeling obliged to entertain Henry, who frankly was hard work. A quiet, uninspiring, humourless bloke, Henry was one of those people who liked to exist under an umbrella of shyness, as if by labelling himself thus, he was excused from having to make any effort on the conversation front. As far as Jennifer was concerned though, once past the age of twenty-one, no matter how bloody ‘shy’ anyone was, she felt they should at least pepper a chat with the odd question, thus making it a two-way thing. As it was, whenever Jennifer was doing her bit by talking to Henry she felt like she was interviewing him.

To add to the already non-enticing prospect of lunch with the Gallaghers, this was the third time in two years she and Max had invited them over for a meal and they’d never returned the invitation. Max insisted it was a good idea for him to ‘keep in’ with Judith, for work reasons. But Jennifer was starting to think it was probably Judith’s turn to spend hundreds of pounds in the supermarket on feeding their faces, and that furthermore, perhaps she didn’t give a shit if they ‘kept in’ with her or not.

Having finally finished tidying downstairs, even going so far as to squirt a bit of polish on the coffee table so at least the room smelled clean, she started on the children’s bedrooms. By the time she’d got to her and Max’s room though she’d lost the will, and was suddenly overwhelmed by the prospect of still having to produce a meal for four adults, three children and a baby. So, after she’d stuffed everything that was on the floor into the laundry basket, she stopped for a second and sunk onto the bed, taking advantage of the unusual silence. For a few minutes she reflected on how easily she’d given up on her mission to seduce Max. As she did, the disappointment from the previous evening washed over her once more, and she found herself wondering idly when and indeed if she should try donning her new underwear again. After all, Max wasn’t psychic, so to be fair to him how could he have known what she’d had in mind? If she’d been really serious about having her wicked way with him she probably should have gone downstairs and shown him what she was wearing because if he’d had the visual stimulation she suspected he definitely would have gone for it. So why hadn’t she done that?

She sighed. Marriage. It was such bloody hard work sometimes. Make an effort was all anybody said and it was an effort. That was the problem. She missed the days when being with each other wasn’t any effort at all. The days when not being together were the ones which felt like the effort.

Jennifer willed herself to get up and continue her attack on the house but it wasn’t happening, mainly because her thoughts had turned to a subject which had been occupying her mind a lot lately. Sex. Or rather, her lack of it. As soon as she allowed the thought in, she felt a lurch of possibility in her nether regions.

The next thing she knew, despite the fact the potatoes desperately needed peeling if lunch had any hope at all of being served for one o’clock, her hand had slid into her knickers. Right, she needed to be quick so who should she think about? Aware that time wasn’t on her side she turned to an old favourite, if you like, a golden oldie, though part of her detested the fact she was still dining out on sex she’d had nearly twenty years ago. However, when it came to fantasy, Aidan was still guaranteed to get her going. And fast.

Once again Jennifer returned to a hot, airless room, which had a bed with a squeaky mattress and a ceiling fan, and replayed the best sex she’d ever had in her entire life. Images of brown limbs entwined and his strong hard body pressing into hers, manoeuvring her into positions she hadn’t even known existed, swam into her head. An enjoyable three minutes later, and her very old flame was just on the brink of giving her an almighty orgasm when she became dimly aware of the key turning in the door downstairs. She couldn’t believe it…

‘We’re back,’ called Max up the stairs.

‘Muuuuummy,’ two little voices yelled in unison, feet charging up the stairs.

‘Shit,’ gasped Jennifer, withdrawing her hand, and springing into an upright position, feeling utterly frustrated. Thirty seconds more and she’d definitely have been there. ‘Hello-ooo,’ she called back, slightly screechily. ‘Have you had a lovely lovely time, kids?’

As she leapt up from the bed she experienced a bit of a head rush. Quickly she patted her hair down and did her jeans up, legs feeling slightly wobbly.

The children barrelled in. ‘Mummy.’

‘Hello my little loves, how are you?’ she warbled ‘I’ve missed you. Were you good for Grandma?’

‘Yes,’ said Eadie.

‘What about you, Pol?’

‘Yes,’ her youngest agreed, though she seemed more interested in trying to get her T-shirt off.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I need a wee.’

‘OK, well you don’t need to take your top off to have a wee do you? Come here.’

Just then Max called up the stairs. ‘Jen, what the hell have you been doing? You haven’t peeled the bloody potatoes. They’re going to be here soon and nothing’s ready. You haven’t even laid the table.’

Jennifer rolled her eyes so vigorously they actually hurt a little bit. ‘Well…feel free to go for it.’

‘All right, there’s no need to be sarcastic about it, it’s just you said you’d get things under control while I got the girls and nothing’s done.’

‘All right,’ said Jennifer testily, stomping onto the landing and into the bathroom so she could plonk Polly on the toilet before heading downstairs.

She found Max in the kitchen, peeling potatoes angrily. Whole chunks were coming out.

‘I’ll do that,’ she said, trying to grab the peeler off him.

‘No, it’s fine, I’m doing it.’

‘What are you so grumpy about anyway? Is it that much of a big deal that little wifey hasn’t done everything by the time you’ve got back?’

‘Little wifey hasn’t done anything, let alone everything,’ muttered Max.

‘Oh rubbish,’ disagreed Jennifer. ‘The house was a complete state if you must know, and besides, I’m getting a bit sick of having people over every single weekend when we don’t even enjoy it.’

‘Yes we do,’ said Max, shooting her a look of real disdain.

‘No we don’t,’ she replied petulantly, simultaneously acknowledging that now they were sounding like their children.

‘We do,’ said Max, oblivious.

‘Oh yeah, we’re having a great time preparing for the arrival of smug-arse, “high powered” Judith and dullard Henry. And it goes without saying I can’t wait to spend the rest of the day washing up after them while you bum lick her,’ huffed Jennifer.

Max wrinkled up his nose at her choice of words, which actually made Jennifer giggle for a second and broke the tension a little.

‘Muuuuuuuuuuuum,’ yelled Polly from upstairs. ‘I’ve got wee wee on my sock.’

‘Yours,’ said Max.

Jennifer tutted before turning on her heel, faintly wondering if she’d get away with quickly locking herself in the spare room, so she could finish what she’d started earlier. Hmm…probably not.

Half an hour later the doorbell rang meaning the people she couldn’t be bothered to see, let alone entertain, had arrived.

Taking a deep breath and summoning up a smile she opened the door.

‘Hello everybody, come in, come in,’ said Jennifer, ushering them all into the house and down the hallway. ‘It’s so lovely to see you all. Oh my look at James, hasn’t he grown and doesn’t he look so like you, Henry?’

‘He’s a chip off the old block all right,’ agreed Judith, immaculate as ever in tasteful navy, which she’d offset with funky ‘weekend’ jewellery and ballet pumps. ‘No questioning who his dad is.’

Jennifer agreed totally, because actually James really did look exactly like Henry, only given that he was only ten years old, looking like a gone-to-seed, middle-aged man wasn’t necessarily a good thing. ‘So how was your journey?’ Jennifer enquired brightly, snapping out of her reverie before anyone noticed her staring.

‘Fine,’ said Judith, kissing her on both cheeks and handing her a bottle of wine. ‘Sorry we’re a bit late. Work’s been sooooo manic this week I simply had to have a bit of a chill out this morning. I bet Max did too, we’ve literally been working like Trojans this week.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Jennifer, quite wanting to punch her.

An hour and a half later than planned, lunch was finally on the verge of being served up.

The children were all starving despite having been fed various ‘just to keep you going’ snacks and were getting fractious. Judith and Henry had polished off two entire bags of Kettle Chips and had already had an argument about who was driving home. Oscar, their eighteen-month-old baby, was having a sleep upstairs and they were well into a third bottle of wine. Meanwhile, Max was sucking up to Judith so much it was making Jennifer’s skin crawl. She herself was worryingly pissed given that she still had to get lunch on the table.

As Judith roared with laughter at yet another dull work anecdote of Max’s, Jennifer flinched. The way Max was giving her his undivided attention was grounds for jealousy quite frankly, only she couldn’t be bothered to make a fuss. Instead she just felt saddened that every time she tried to join in with a vaguely witty remark he barely looked in her direction. Perhaps she should get her tits out she thought wryly. Run round the kitchen with them jiggling about.

With little enthusiasm Jennifer replenished the crisp bowl (this time with Frazzles and Pom Bears instead of posh Kettle Chips—it was all she had left). As she did so she smiled weakly at dull Henry who was sat on a stool by the island like a fat useless turd. She was just about to ask him yet another question about how his work was going when she realised she didn’t care and couldn’t be bothered. So instead she turned her back on him, and bent down to open the oven to investigate what might be happening in there. As boiling hot air blasted her in the face, she realised she was one hundred percent, definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, drunk.

She was also glad, and a little bit smug, that for once she’d cut corners by picking up (on Karen’s recommendation) some small stuffed chickens from the local deli. Not having to cook a meat dish of some description meant all she’d had to do in theory was make the roast potatoes and cobble together a salad. So why did it all feel as stressful as though she’d been preparing a banquet for eighty under the same conditions as the Masterchef final?

Seconds later she emerged from the oven once more, red in the face, sweating, and clutching the ludicrously heavy tray in an oven glove only to realise that the island needed clearing before she could put it down.

‘Max,’ she called over, to where he was deep in conversation with Judith about something tedious.

‘Max!’

‘Hey, there’s no need to yell. What is it?’ he said, trying to sound like he wasn’t snapping when in fact that was exactly what he was doing.

‘Sorry,’ she said, not sorry at all. Her hands were practically on fire. ‘I was just wondering if you could clear a space for this. It’s very heavy,’ she grimaced.

‘Oh right,’ he said, finally realising her plight.

Once dumped on the side, one by one, Jennifer lifted the little chickens out of the roasting tray and onto the chopping board. They were less chickens really, more parcels of poussin, tied up with string and stuffed with pork and herbs. Jennifer immediately decided that she wouldn’t bother fobbing the meaty creations off as her own. After all, she’d never boned a piece of meat (fnar fnar) in her life and had certainly never been arsed to tie up anything you could eat with string.

‘Ooh, those look wonderful, Jennifer,’ said Judith, gliding over to have a look at what she was about to stuff her self-satisfied face with. ‘Aren’t you lucky, Max? That’s what comes of having a wife at home who’s got time to actually create things like this. Poor Henry is lucky if I remember to buy him a ready meal aren’t you?’

‘I do work,’ said Jennifer, probably a bit defensively.

‘Do you?’ said Judith, looking first surprised and then apologetic, as if she’d just realised her error. ‘Oh god of course you do, and it goes without saying that looking after children is probably the hardest job of all. I certainly wouldn’t have had another if I’d had to stay at home and look after them,’ she honked, loudly enough for her offspring to hear and therefore quite possibly need therapy in the future.

‘No, I mean, I do work. I have a job,’ explained Jennifer ‘And I look after the kids. I work at an estate agent’s on the high street three days a week.’

‘Oh god brilliant,’ said Judith lamely, ‘that must be really fun.’

Jennifer picked up the carvers and tried not to look menacing. She really needed to eat.

‘Those look good,’ said Henry, ambling over.

‘Right, well, why don’t you all sit down?’ ordered Jennifer with meaning, wanting them all just to get out of her face while she plated up. ‘Judith, get the kids sat down. We’ll do their plates first.’

‘Oh right,’ she said, looking startled at having been asked to do anything.

Jennifer didn’t care though. She was too busy trying to figure out if the chickens were definitely cooked through. To her alarm they looked a bit pinky inside and a bit…well…unappetising really.

‘So, what’s that then?’ Max asked, also looking mildly alarmed by the colour of the meat.

‘Oh, that’s just the pork they’re stuffed with. Don’t worry, it’s supposed to look like that,’ Jennifer assured him, secretly wondering if a night on the toilet lay ahead for them all.

‘They don’t carve very well do they?’ Max added, in a muted whisper.

Jennifer gazed hopelessly at the chickens which had sort of collapsed in on themselves and were looking less and less appealing by the second. Sort of like grey and pink mush.

‘Just get it on the plates,’ she muttered, feeling deeply stressed now and too pissed and hot to handle the situation. She was pretty certain it was just the pork stuffing that was lending them that strange hue so they were just going to have to go with it. Frankly she was past caring, though she did add as an aside, ‘But make sure you give the kids the bits from around the outside.’

Once the children had all been given their plates of food (which they unanimously declared they didn’t like before having even tried it) and their drinks (one beaker of juice being knocked over immediately as tradition required), the adults got on with helping themselves to lots of salad and potatoes.

‘You didn’t make these yourself did you?’ Judith asked Jennifer, looking slightly worried as she surveyed her plate of unidentifiable meat.

And here it was, crunch time, time for Jennifer to explain that no, of course she hadn’t made them and that yes, they did look a bit weird didn’t they? And this answer was on the tip of her tongue, and yet for some reason known only to the inner machinations of her befuddled brain, that isn’t what came out.

Instead, what she experienced in that moment might well be what happens to mass murderers when they hear voices in their heads telling them to do things. Or, to put it another way, the normal Jen, the one who was usually pretty down to earth about stuff, and who ordinarily felt strongly that not making other women feel less able was hugely important, was punched in the head, literally knocked out flat by the other part of her. That is to say, the part that felt belittled by Judith and who had been battling for hours with the desire to yell very loudly and directly into her smug face that actually she’d got a 2:1 in her degree and that giving up her career in order to play an active part in her children’s upbringing had been a choice (albeit one she struggled with sometimes) so shouldn’t be sneered at. The part of her who was exhausted by the daily grind, that was strung out, in need of a long holiday and some rampant sex, and who was also suffering from a monumental mid-life crisis and had been prescribed anti-depressants only a few weeks earlier. That Jennifer took over and said, after an unnaturally long pause ‘Yes I did…I did make them.’

At the other end of the table Max looked baffled and just stared at his plate.

‘Wow,’ said Judith tentatively. ‘They look really…complicated. How did you go about it?’

‘Well…’ Jennifer said gingerly, feeling suddenly drowned by her own lie. ‘I…er…bought them, boned them…and then stuffed them with pork and herbs before…kind of, tying them up.’

‘Right,’ said Judith and in that moment Jennifer knew that Judith knew that she was talking absolute bollocks.

‘Mum,’ piped up Eadie, looking miserable.

‘Yes, darling,’ said Jennifer, teeth gritted. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t like my beef. It tastes like cat poo. Can I have some toast?’

‘It’s chicken not beef and it’s please may I have some toast?’ replied Jennifer.

‘Please may I have some toast?’

‘Yes,’ sighed Jennifer faintly. ‘Anyone else?’

For a second Max looked sorely tempted but soon readjusted his expression when Jennifer glowered at him on her way to the toaster.

The rest of the meal was pretty torturous. Only Henry seemed blissfully unaware that he was eating something which resembled road-kill. Everyone else performed a sort of cutlery ballet-dance around their plate, consuming lots of potatoes and salad, and expertly leaving a pile of pinky grey mush to one side, with either their knife and fork, or a napkin, placed cunningly over the top.

After the meal Jennifer cleared away, scraping tons of discarded meat into the food recycling bin. As she did so, she wondered at what point she’d become so sad and pathetic that she couldn’t have admitted that she hadn’t made the disgusting food herself and that probably none of them should have touched it, in case they all got the chronic shits. When had she become the sort of person who cared what people like Judith and Henry thought anyway? When had she transformed into such a middle-class stereotype, desperately trying to impress? When had she turned into Max’s mother?

Much later that night as she climbed gratefully between the sheets, head thumping with a same-day hangover, she said to Max who was already half asleep, ‘The chicken was a bit weird wasn’t it?’

‘It was all right,’ he said, his eyes shut and his body turned away from her. ‘It just looked a bit like cat food. Why did you say you’d made it?’

‘Don’t know,’ she replied truthfully, staring at the ceiling, hot with embarrassment just thinking about it.

‘You did yourself a disservice anyway,’ he added. ‘Your cooking’s far nicer and I think Judith doesn’t cook much so it’s not like you needed to compete. She works too hard to ever get round to doing any domestic stuff.’

‘Oh, so now you’re having a go at me for not making something are you?’ she retorted defensively, because in truth she was feeling gradually more and more embarrassed that she’d passed off the stupid, dodgy looking ruddy chickens as her own creations. Her tone wasn’t helped by the fact that the mere mention of Judith’s name was starting to send shivers up her spine.

‘No,’ he sighed, now clearly wishing she’d shut up and go to sleep. ‘I’m giving you a compliment on your cooking really but I’m also saying I think they knew you hadn’t made it anyway.’

‘Really?’ she said, despite the fact she’d figured this out on her own, having it confirmed was mortifying, to the point where another bad night’s sleep was probably on the cards. ‘Why?’

‘Because you went weird and replied really slowly, so it was obvious.’

‘Oh god I’m so strange,’ she whimpered. ‘The thing is I’m very tired you know.’

‘I know,’ he said, and with that he fell fast asleep, as he had an annoying habit of doing when he was tired, leaving his wife to ponder in the darkness the fact that lying hadn’t really achieved anything. In fact, it was clear to her that the only thing she’d stuffed by doing so (and it certainly wasn’t the chickens) was herself.

Perhaps the whole debacle was a sign that she needed to be more honest about a whole load of things.

Two hours later, bored of her insomnia, head whirring, Jennifer slipped out of bed and crept into the spare room. Able to spread out she tried to relax, and then decided to finish what she’d started much earlier in the day in the hope that a good healthy orgasm might help her get to sleep. And so it was that she returned to that hot summer back in 1994 when, unlike now, food was of little or no consequence to her or her friends because they’d had far more interesting things to worry about.