I Don't Know How She Does It

“Actually, Jerry,” I say more loudly than I intend, “entry to the Euro will depend on the level of fiscal imbalances, progress in supply-side reform, and the state of the Capital account. Anyway, the global economy is run by Alan Greenspan and the Federal Reserve, so really our focus should be on the US rather than Europe.”

Jerry rears up and backs into a china cabinet which tinkles like sleigh bells. “Well, it’s been lovely talking to you, love. Richard’s a lucky lad, isn’t he? I say, Barbara, your Richard’s done well for himself. Your Katharine could go on Countdown, she’s got that good a head on her shoulders — and a lovely little face with it.”

Clutching a tumbler of medium sherry, I let myself out through the French windows and fall gratefully into the garden’s biting air. Lower myself onto the rockery. Come on, Kate, why did you put down that good-hearted old boy in there just now? Showing off. Showing him I wasn’t just another blonde in a twinset. He didn’t mean any harm. How’s poor Jerry supposed to know what manner of woman I am, what strange new species? Back in London, at Edwin Morgan Forster, they think I’m deviant for having a life outside the office. Up here, people think I’m a freak for having a job instead of a life.

Yesterday, I told Barbara that Emily loved broccoli. I’ve no idea if that’s true. At EMF, on the other hand, I pretend I read the FT’s Lex column every day before work, although if I actually did I wouldn’t sometimes snatch those thirteen minutes on the bus with Emily, testing her spellings, chatting, holding hands. Double agents lie for a living.

3:12 P.M. The entire family — Donald, Barbara, the rest of the grown-ups and assorted grandchildren — is crunching across a field, picking our way between Friesians. A heavy frost has turned the cow pats into doilies; the children jump on them, liberating the evil green liquid beneath. Sky like a Brillo pad — scouring clouds suddenly pierced by implausible am-dram spotlight of sunshine. Am just admiring the warmth it casts on the facing hills when my mobile rings. Cows and Barbara simultaneously open long-lashed eyes wide like Elizabeth Taylor told to play shocked.

“What is that dreadful noise, Katharine?”

“Sorry, Barbara, it’s my phone. Hello? Yes, hello?”

A man’s voice bounces off a satellite into the Dales. It’s Jack Abelhammer, the American client Rod gave me as a consolation prize for not getting a pay rise. The voice is full of WASPish scorn (Yanks can’t believe our lazy Brit habit of taking the entire week off between Christmas and New Year’s). I have yet to meet Mr. Abelhammer, but he sounds like he’s capable of living up to his name and I’m the one about to get nailed.

“For Chrissake, Katharine Reddy, there’s no one in your office. I’ve been trying for two hours. Have you seen what’s happened to Toki Rubber Company?”

“I think I must have missed that, Mr. Abelhammer. Just remind me.” Play for time, Kate. Play for time.

EMF recently bought a big slug of shares for Abelhammer’s fund in Toki Rubber of Japan. Now it turns out that the genius who struck the deal failed to spot that Toki Rubber owns a small US company which manufactures cot mattresses. The same mattresses which have been withdrawn in the States after scientists established a possible link to cot death. Sod. Sod. Sod.

Abelhammer says that when the market opened in Tokyo yesterday, the price collapsed by 15 percent. Cratered. Can feel my stomach plunge now by equal percentage.

“That stock came highly recommended by you,” snaps Abelhammer. I picture him, a scowling silver tycoon in some New York tower. “What exactly are you going to do about it? Miss Reddy, can you hear me?”

Spooked from their daydreams, a couple of Friesians have wandered over for an exploratory nuzzle of my borrowed Barbour. Whatever happens, I must not let most important client know I am being licked by a cow.

“Well, Mr. Abelhammer, sir, what we must avoid here at all costs is a knee-jerk reaction. Clearly, I need a few days for further analysis. And obviously, l’ll be talking to our Japanese analyst. As you’re probably aware, Roy is the best in the business. (A lie: analyst is Romford cokehead currently on shag’n’vac in Dubai with pole dancer he picked up in Faringdon Road. Chances of getting appalling little runt out of bed: nil.) “And I will be calling you with a considered plan of action.”

Across the field into Abelhammer’s chilly transatlantic silence floats my motherin-law’s voice, clear as a cathedral bell: “Really, these Americans, absolutely no sense of tradition.”

7:35 P.M. Back at the house am swabbing dung off Emily’s Mini Boden trousers. Lilac needle cord. (Paula seems to have packed for a week in Florida, not Yorkshire. Should have done the suitcase myself.) Cheryl comes into the utility room and pulls a face. Her kids were wearing brown drip-dry polyester. “I find it terribly practical.”

2:35 A.M. A figure is stooping over our bed. Sit up, reach blindly for light switch. It’s my father-in-law.

“Katharine, there’s a Mr. Hokusai on the telephone, calling from Tokyo. Seems very anxious to talk to you. Could you kindly take it in the study?”

Donald’s voice is frighteningly calm, as if withholding all the things he could possibly say. As I stumble past him in my nightie, he raises a silvery eyebrow. Catch sight of myself in the hall mirror. Realize am not wearing nightie. Am wearing Agent Provocateur bra.

5 Boxing Day

WELL, WE MADE IT through the season of goodwill, all right. Except for Boxing Day lunch. I forget the derivation of Boxing Day, but the feeling of wanting to invite your loved ones outside one at a time and punch them in the face, does that come into it somewhere?

Anyway, it was all my fault, Richard said, and he wasn’t wrong exactly, but I plead gross provocation. Whenever we’re at my in-laws’ house, I feel as though the children have turned into hand grenades. Any second the pin may work loose and they’ll explode all over the eau-de-nil chaise longue or take out an entire cabinet of Royal Worcester egg coddlers. Rich and I scurry after them, lunging at falling ornaments, fielders in the dying light of a doomed cricket match.

I am longing to drown my sorrows with Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic on the TV, instead of shadowing Ben around the sitting room as he hauls himself up onto spindly occasional tables, chewing on lamp wires or snatching fistfuls of slivered almonds. Weigh up danger of denying baby slivered almonds, thereby risking embarrassing tantrum (“Can’t she even control her own child?”) or allowing him to go ahead and choke, thereby endangering his life and Barbara and Donald’s prairie-lush Wilton carpet.

In the afternoon, while Ben is having his nap, I lie on the bed with my laptop and compose an e-mail to another world.

To: Debra Richardson

From: Kate Reddy, Wrothly, Yorkshire

Dearest debs, how was it 4 U?

All the elements of the traditional English Xmas here: sausage rolls, carols, subtle recriminations. Motherin- law busy preparing emergency food parcel for son neglected by callous City bitch (me).

You know that I always say I want to be with my children. Well, I really want to be with my children. Some nights, if I get home too late for Emily’s bedtime, I go to the laundry basket and I Smell Their Clothes, I miss them so much. Never told anyone that before. And then when I’m with them, like I am now, their need is just so needy. It’s like having a whole love affair crammed into a long weekend — passion, kisses, bitter tears, I love you, don’t leave me, get me a drink, you like him more than me, take me to bed, you’ve got lovely hair, cuddle me, I hate you.

Drained & freaked out & need to go back to work soonest for a rest. What kind of mother is afraid of her own children?