I Don't Know How She Does It

now, my sister and I, in an atmosphere of guilt and blame.

I ask Julie if she thinks Mum should go and see a doctor, and her sigh blows across the Pennines, flattening trees in its path. “Mum won’t listen to me,” she says. “If you’re that bothered, why don’t you get up here and tell her yourself?”

I’m explaining what my schedule has been like when Julie jumps in: “Anyway, it’s not physical. She’s had some bother with men coming round to the flat. Said they were after money Dad owed them.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

From my sister’s living room floats the mournful theme tune of Coronation Street. Julie and I both loved that soap when we were kids; there was a period when we fought furiously over the affections of Ray Langton, a mechanic with dark wavy hair, until he got squashed under one of his own cars. I haven’t seen it in twenty years.

“I’ve left a couple of messages on that machine, Kath,” says my sister, “but you’re never there, are you?”

8:16 P.M. The conference is for dot.com entrepreneurs, or what’s left of them. The guys who persuaded the City that they could read the future turned out to have been talking crystal balls. You wouldn’t believe how much venture capital has been thrown at firms who were going to sell designer clothes on the Net. But guess what? People prefer to go to shops and try stuff on. Women fund managers were a lot less badly burned in the meltdown: as always, we were better at evaluating risk — reward; we spent far less on untried stock than our male colleagues. People said we were lucky; I don’t agree. I think it’s innate. Women like to have some reliable staples in the cupboard, to keep those small mouths fed when the saber-toothed tiger is blocking the entrance to the cave.

Unpacking my suitcase before going down to dinner, I find a large envelope marked DO NOT OPEN TILL SUNDAY! in Richard’s handwriting. I open it: my Mother’s Day cards. One is a print of Ben’s hands in red paint. I half-smile half-grimace at the thought of the mess that must have attended its making. Emily’s has a drawing of me on the front. I am wearing a crown and holding a green cat and I am so tall I dwarf my nearby palace. Inside, she has written: I love my Mummy. Love is speshal it makes my hart sparKle and tresha appea.

I can’t believe it. Have forgotten Mother’s Day. Mum will never forgive me. Dial Reception. “Can you get me a number for Interflora?”

To: Kate Reddy

From: Jack Abelhammer

Will you come to NYC? Or should I. Stop.

Thinking about you. Stop.

To: Jack Abelhammer

From: Kate ReddyDon’t.

Stop.

MUST REMEMBER

Get dishwasher fixed. Stair carpet? Fund transitions to be arranged — no fuck-ups! Call Jill. Application form for nursery for Ben? Emily schools NOW! Remind Rich to get cash out for baby-sitter. Pay JUANITA! Change computer password. Paula’s birthday, damn! George Michael tickets? Book spa treatment. Call Dad and tackle about his debts. Visit Mum! Buy Sinatra CD. Ginseng for better memory or ginko thingy?

20 The Way We Were

3:39 A.M. Woken by the doorbell. It’s Rob, our neighbor from three doors down. Says he heard a noise and saw a group of lads by our car, but he shouted and they ran off. Richard goes out to inspect the damage. Side window completely smashed in, forked-lightning crack across the back one. Of course, the car alarm didn’t go off. The car alarm, usually triggered by a cat’s breath, is hopelessly mute when actual burglary is taking place.

Rich goes out to tape up the windows while I get on the phone to Prontoglass 24-Hour Service.

“Sorry, your call is held in a queue. Due to demand. Please hold while we try to connect you.”

Demand? What demand? It’s four o’clock in the bloody morning.

“If you know the extension you require, please press one. If you wish to speak to an operator, please press two.”

I press 2.

“Please hold while we try to connect you; your call will be answered shortly. Thank you for choosing Prontoglass! If you wish to speak to an operator, please press three.”

I press 3.

“Sorry, your call cannot be taken at the moment. Please try later!”

Think of all the time that must be wasted every day in those echoing antechambers where calls wait. Hell, contrary to what Sartre said, is not other people, hell is trying to get through to other people while listening to seven minutes of Vivaldi played on panpipes. I decide to get dressed and crack in early to some work. This is a good time of day to talk to Tokyo. But as I’m fumbling with my blouse buttons in the still-dark bedroom, there is a yell from above. When I go up, the baby is standing in his cot remonstrating with the monster who has dragged him from sleep. He jabs a debater’s accusing forefinger at his invisible assailant.

“I know, sweetheart, I know. Some bad men have woken us all up.”

Ben is so spooked he won’t go back to sleep. I lift him onto the sofa bed which is just next to the cot and lie down beside him.

“Roo,” he moans. “Roo.” So I get up and fetch the scruffy little kangaroo and tuck it under his arm.

Babies have this magic spot between their brows. If you stroke your finger down over it, and along the ridge of the nose, their eyes close automatically like a human roller blind. My boy hates sleep; it separates him from the life he relishes, but he starts to drift off, the indigo eyes emptying of thought. I lie there contemplating the cracks on the ceiling around the light fitting where bits of plaster are starting to peel off. Even my ceiling has stress eczema. I imagine a finger stroking my own brow and, clothes wrinkling around me, I tumble into a crowded dream.

6:07 A.M. Richard comes into Ben’s room to relieve me. Baby is splayed flat out like a puppy. We talk in whispers.

“I did say buying the Volvo was a bad idea, Kate.”

“Some little bastards break into our car and it’s my fault?”

“No, just that round here it’s clearly a provocation, isn’t it?”

“Come off it, Rich, even Tony Benn doesn’t think property’s theft anymore.”

He laughs. “And who was it who once said crime is the just punishment for an unjust society?”

“I never said that. When did I say that?”

“Shortly before taking possession of your first open-top Golf, Mrs. Engels.”

My turn to laugh. Encouraged, Rich starts kissing my hair and puts an exploratory hand down my front. Even when you’re not in the mood, startling how quickly nipples stiffen to iced gems. Rich is just pulling me down onto the Winnie the Pooh rug when Ben sits bolt upright, gives his parents a how-could-you look and then points to himself. (Did I mention that babies are antisex too? You’d think they’d have some nostalgia for the act that made them; instead they appear to have an alarm to see off the threat of rivals, wailing on cue as though their cry was wired up to your bra clasp.) Rueful Rich sweeps up his son and goes down to an early breakfast.