Chapter 2 Monsters
The doorbell rings persistently. I rush downstairs with Nathan struggling in my arms, holding his ears dramatically. If it’s the Metropolitan Police, I’ll take back everything I’ve ever said about their capabilities.
I’ve managed a quick shower, and changed into a silk cream blouse with dark wide-legged trousers.
Not a party outfit, but sometimes corners have to be cut.
I even tried some new facial expressions in the mirror as I reapplied my make-up.
Looking delighted when your child receives another plastic monstrosity is a challenge, but YouTube helps enormously.
I find Sophie jiggling on our stone steps wearing a slightly stained puffer jacket, a tired pink roll-neck, faded blue jeans, and scuffed Chelsea boots. On the positive side, she has beautiful long hair, and eyes that make you feel like she adores you.
She’s holding Jethro up to the bell with one arm, while carrying a Sainsbury’s bag full of gifts in the other.
She pulls a face that I don’t immediately understand.
There are sixteen major facial expressions in the human repertoire, and I’ve learned to read them all when used individually, but even now I struggle when people use several at once.
While it’s acceptable to ask people to repeat words, asking them to repeat facial expressions is considered odd.
‘Sorry, Lalla darling, I desperately need the loo.’
‘Who doesn’t love an insistently pressed doorbell?’ I reply and remove Jethro’s grubby finger from the bell. Just seeing Sophie floods me with calm. Although she says I’m on the spectrum a little too often, I do like her. I think it might be because she’s so unsuccessful.
‘If I did that at Tor’s, she’d have me arrested for damaging the ears of her musically gifted children.’ Sophie mimics Tor’s vowels to a T.
‘You’re welcome to press my bell anytime.’ I wink at her. ‘Anyway, Tor’s still recovering from her “spa break” in Switzerland.’
‘I’m running a book on what she’s had done,’ says Sophie, kissing my cheek. I smell eau-de-motherhood – coffee, crayons, wet wipes and white wine.
‘I’ll put twenty pounds on Botox. She’s been bemoaning her neck bands for weeks,’ I say.
‘Not being rude, darling, but Nathan’s left half his lunch in your ear,’ Sophie laughs, pointing at my head.
‘Nathan loves spitting his tom-toms all over the place,’ I say, hastily picking off a crusty flake of what I presume is dried blood.
I jiggle Nathan in a gesture I hope conveys motherly affection.
He squeezes my cheek in return but I feel only mild irritation.
In truth, I’m still trying to bond with him, and it’s infernally difficult.
Sophie loves easily and undiscerningly. She’s even bonded with her partner’s annoyingly perfect child.
My children and I get by through familiarity and routine.
But if love is the irrational continuation of affection in the face of continual disappointment, then I do love my children. And perhaps even Stephen too.
Loving anything as demanding, noisy and erratic as a child seems quite heroic to me. Mothers are expected to react with joy and delight from the moment a child is born. All I felt was a vague resentment that this parasite had lived inside me for so long without paying a penny in rent.
‘Happy Birthday, little Nate, you’re so adorably cute.’ Sophie squeezes his fat cheek and Nathan buries his head in my chest.
‘Sorry – he’s no good for anything till he’s had his first shot of organic almond milk.’
‘Oh, I’m exactly the same,’ says Sophie. ‘Now while I’m in the loo, open a bottle, and we can get one in before Aisha arrives and starts guilt-tripping me.’
‘Everyone has a cross to bear. You have wine, Cait has Owen, Aisha has yoga, and I have astonishing beauty,’ I say, and Sophie laughs even though I’m quite serious, then thrusts the bag of poorly wrapped presents into my free hand and darts into the loo.
I put Nathan down and pat his head as kindly as I can.
He runs off to the kitchen with his presents.
I expect Jethro to follow. Instead, he smears snot across his cheek, and yanks on the handle to the toilet door (mothers are not permitted loo-breaks).
He then spots Purdy, my blue-eyed Turkish Angora, slinking down the stairs like a debutante arriving at a ball.
‘Cat!’ shouts Jethro and runs towards her. Purdy is unamused, increases her gait elegantly, and pushes open the living room door. Her fluffy tail disappears through the gap as she heads to her favourite sunspot. Jethro bolts after her and shoulder-barges the door.
Unless I stop him, he’s about to face his first significant trauma.
‘No!’ I bellow. He stops dead, turns and stares at me, his face a cubist miasma of fear and shame.
‘There’s a monster asleep in there,’ I whisper, pulling the door closed. ‘If you wake him, he’ll be extremely hungry. Do you know what he likes to eat?’
Jethro’s eyes widen as he shakes his head.
‘Little boys,’ I say, with a cold blank expression.
Jethro shivers, his eyes glued to the door, when we hear a faint scratching sound from the other side.
‘You’ve woken the monster,’ I say, my face exaggerated with mock fear.
Jethro’s eyes crease, and he runs down the hall screaming. I open the door, and Purdy walks out imperiously, leaving a trail of little red paw prints across the shiny tiles.