Chapter 10
‘So, I have found a Canadian family,’ Jo told Jeff several hours later. ‘Full chat, and they’re going to email us over a happy family pic and, you know what? The Canadian child, Casey, his dad is a nurse. So, a bit of medical establishment credibility for you.’
‘That’s good, Jo,’ Jeff said and she paused for just a moment to enjoy the compliment.
Much deserved after the frantically busy two hours she’d spent phoning, chasing and interviewing.
‘And now for the bad news,’ she carried on quickly.
‘I can’t stay and write this stuff up now.
I’ve got to get to my daughter’s birthday party, or else,’ she appealed to Jeff especially.
He had teenage boys and as he was always in the office, he had probably missed birthdays, Christmases, school plays, almost all the important milestones in their lives, and Jo was determined not to do the same.
Anyway, it was different: if Daddy couldn’t be there, that was one thing, but if Mummy couldn’t, that was childhood trauma.
Punishable with months of guilt, angry recriminations and the constant worry that you were screwing up your children.
‘By the way, I’ve asked the techies to come and take a look at my office computer, it’s on a permanent go-slow these days, so just get them to give me a call if they need to access any password areas,’ Jo remembered to tell him.
Bloody office computer must be about fifteen years old.
What it really needed was to be launched out of the window and urgently replaced.
‘When are you going to file your copy? Tonight?’ Jeff asked, hand hovering over a ringing phone, wanting to catch her answer before he picked up.
‘I’ll try. Otherwise, I’ll be in early tomorrow morning.’
‘Simon coming to the birthday party?’ he asked.
‘Yeah.’ Slight grimace at the thought of the evening ahead of her.
‘Have fun.’ Jeff answered the phone now, telling the voice at the other end: ‘News desk, one second,’ then turning back to Jo with the words: ‘Stay off the sauce. It just makes things worse. And anyway, I want you in fresh as a daisy tomorrow. You’ve got a lot on.’
She smiled sweetly at his concern, then went to gather her belongings and have one final supervisory chat with her team.
When Jo got into her car it was with the customary glance of annoyance and resignation at the state of chaos in here.
Child debris, newspaper debris, every single one of the side door pockets stuffed with six different types of snack remnants.
The ashtray had been hastily emptied after a particularly stressful day on the road several weeks ago, so her girls wouldn’t spot butts, but it was still grotty with ash.
The car needed all sorts of basic maintenance: the window washing stuff had to be topped up, the oil light was flashing intermittently at her, which couldn’t be good.
She never checked the tyres. The thing was running on fumes alone because she still hadn’t been to the petrol station and yet again had no time to go this evening because already it was 5. 15 p.m.
Simon used to deal with the car stuff, and Jo hadn’t got into the habit of doing it herself yet.
Oh, bollocks to that, she could just find a helpful car valeting service, couldn’t she?
But she hadn’t found time to do that either.
She threw her stuff onto the passenger seat and got in behind the wheel, then took a deep breath, mentally tried to leave the office behind and psych herself up for Simon. And Gwen.
Her eye fixed on the car’s badge in the centre of the steering wheel. Funny to think it was right here, in this driving seat, five months ago now, that she had made the decision to tell him their marriage was over.
They’d been coming home from Christmas at his parents’ house and she’d insisted on driving because she’d needed the distraction.
If she hadn’t driven, she was certain she’d have spent the entire journey screaming at him to relieve the tension that had built up in his family home over their four-day visit.
Yes, it had probably been a mistake to raise her alternative-ish health views at the Christmas dinner table in the presence of two GPs, a consultant and a psychiatrist. But on the other hand, the conversation had needed a bit of a jog along – or maybe that had been her seventh glass of champagne talking.
Added to the powder keg of the day was the fact that her children hadn’t liked any gift their grandparents had given them, sending grandmother, Margie, into a huff – but really, bath salts and tea towels for a three and a six-year-old?
Because of this, Jo had ignored all blatant hints from Margie to come and help in the kitchen with the preparation of the Christmas dinner.
Instead, she’d hung out with the men in the front room, getting lashed.
It was entirely Margie’s fault that her husband and two sons were such unhelpful chauvinist pigs, Jo had reasoned, she was damned if she was going to suffer the consequences.
So, she’d almost quite enjoyed the first part of the day: tipsy on the fizz, she’d briefly managed to forget the insult of her Christmas gifts from Simon.
She’d given him a black cashmere coat. His favourite label, his size, a thoughtful replacement for the one he’d worn for years.
Just to be generous, she’d bought him a luxurious scarf to go with it.
And what had she unwrapped from him? Oh, and in department store wrapping paper, by the way, he’d not done any of that himself: a stainless-steel vegetable steamer.
‘You kept saying you wanted something for the kitchen.’ He’d shrugged, when she’d found it hard to feign delight.
Indeed, she had been heavily hinting: state-of-the-art cappuccino machine, retro-chic coffee grinder, a Kitchen Aid mixer in a witty pastel colour.
A vegetable steamer was not the same. And the second parcel was worse: a black and pink babydoll negligee thing about three sizes too big and, frankly, just a disastrous cut for someone with hips and no tits.
Words had failed her. She had gawped. Not least because they hadn’t had sex for almost three months now and if he thought this was going to solve the problem…
‘Do you like it?’ he’d asked. Always slow with the signals, Simon.
‘No,’ she’d said, ‘I bloody hate it,’ and then, ‘Right now, I bloody hate you too.’
‘Merry bloody Christmas then,’ he’d said, slumping back onto the sagging, insomnia-inducing, pocket-sized double bed in his old childhood bedroom. They’d retreated there to unwrap their gifts to each other in peace after the mayhem of the early morning Santa-fest.
But by the time the Christmas meal was on the table, Jo had been in a booze-induced good mood again, until the alternative health debate had cracked out over the plum pudding.
Then, closely following that row, came the killer Margie remarks.
Maybe Margie had been at the sherry, maybe she wanted to get back at Jo for not helping, or for bringing up such ungrateful children.
For whatever reason, committed doctor’s wife, housewife and mother Margie had launched into a full-on rant about the children of today: all they ever watched was telly, all they cared about was computer games and pop music, all they ate was junk, their dreadful parents neglected them and left them stuck in nurseries all day long.
This clearly wasn’t aimed at Simon’s new sister-in-law, who was heavily pregnant and had just finished telling the table that she planned to take two years’ leave ‘because it’s so crucial for their development, the first two years’.
No, the tirade was obviously aimed at Jo.
At the start, she let it ride, sank her glass of wine, nudged Simon’s dad for a refill and exchanged looks with him, seeing some sympathy in his glance.
But as the words flowed on, she locked eyes with her husband, urging him to tell his mother to stop, interrupt the flow…
at least put up some sort of defence against this.
Simon had held the look but had then calmly picked up his own wine glass and drained it.
How had this man, so outwardly handsome, so superficially charming, who had once meant so much to her, become so hardened and cold?
In that moment it had occurred to Jo that maybe whatever they’d had before wasn’t coming back.
Maybe this wasn’t a phase. Maybe their marriage was over.
‘Margie—’ she’d decided to interrupt the diatribe, feeling angry heat rise in her cheeks.
‘Could you please stop now, because you’re really upsetting me?
’ She could have left it there, then she would have remained in the right at the dinner table, could maybe still have elicited a little sympathy from her husband and others, but no, she had to continue, go in for the kill and add totally gratuitously: ‘What you’re saying is complete rubbish.
Maybe if you just put down the Daily Mail and looked around you once in a while you’d work that out, you silly woman. ’
‘Jo, that’s enough,’ Simon had snapped and her disappointment with him had crystallised.
He’d waited until night-time, back in the saggy spare bed, to argue with her in fierce whispers. She’d argued just as fiercely back.
‘How dare you tell me off?’ she’d whispered in fury. ‘Why didn’t you say one word to defend me? Your mother can be a complete cow. I don’t think she’s ever liked me, she’s always disapproved of me, and you know what? I’m beginning to think you’re on her bloody side.’
‘Have some respect, Jo. She’s my mother.’
‘Have some respect yourself. I’m your wife. I’m the mother of our children. How dare you let her belittle us like that.’
‘She’s having a hard time at the moment. Her sister isn’t well, she’s worn out, she can’t look after this big house by herself—’ Simon had begun in her defence.