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Authors: Fiona Neill
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extrapolated from even the briefest glance. You can gauge tone, texture, length of limbs, how much time he spends in the gym, whether he has been abroad recently. Sexy Domesticated Dad has a near-perfect forearm, medium range, strong without being chunky, enough hair to seem manly, but light enough and thin enough to pretty much guarantee no back hair. I smile at him.
‘What do you think?’ he says.
‘Promising,’ I say emphatically. ‘I love Sergio Leone.’
‘Good,’ he says, pushing the sleeve of his jacket back down, ‘except that is not what I was asking. I changed tack when I could see your eyes glazing over. Doesn’t matter. It happens all the time, unless I start talking about Benicio Del Toro, then women generally pay attention. I was asking whether you aregoing to put yourself up as class rep. I’ll help you, but I can’t run it myself because of deadlines. I want to do my bit to help the school.’ He pauses. ‘You look surprised.’
I couldn’t be more astonished if he had asked me to lick his forearm.
‘Well, of course I’m considering it, my youngest one has just started nursery and it would be a good time to do something like that. But I don’t want to look too pushy.’ It sounds so credible I almost believe myself.
‘I’ll vote for you,’ he says good-naturedly. ‘So will Isobel. She was saying that it would be really entertaining if you won.’
‘Oh, did she?’ I say, entirely mistrustful of Yummy Mummy No. 1’s motives.
‘I told my wife what happened yesterday. You know, the, er, imbroglio with the underwear. She thought it was very funny. Simpatico. So did I.’
I wonder in what context it was discussed, what adjectives he used, whether he told her that we were sitting so close together I could feel the heat from his thigh. After he had cooked dinner, or when they were in bed? What were they wearing in bed?
‘Pyjamas,’ he says. ‘I told her about the pyjamas too.’ I know that I should feel gratified that he has shared this with his wife, because it hints at the promise of friendship. I imagine cosy foursomes sharing dinner, family picnics on Hampstead Heath, even holidays abroad. But I realise that I don’t want anyone extraneous intruding on my fantasy because they could dilute its escapist potential.
In the evening I lie at one end of the sofa, watching Tom at the other end reading last week’s copy of the
Architects’ Journal
.After almost a year’s delay, building work is finally to begin on his library in Milan, and his mood is buoyant. Our feet are touching. The witching hour is over. The children are in bed and a bottle of wine has been consumed in lieu of dinner.
He will be travelling to Milan in the next couple of weeks. He tells me this apologetically, at pains to demonstrate awareness of the burden this will place on me. But I know he is excited because tonight there have been no searches in the fridge for food that has exceeded its sell-by date. No forensic examination of bank statements, looking for evidence of parking fines and other misdemeanours. No questions about new scratches on the side of the car.
‘I’ll leave an alarm clock, so that you aren’t late in the morning. I’ll put one hundred pounds in cash in the chest of drawers, in case you lose your credit card. I’ll babysit for you when I come back. I’ll buy my own socks at the airport.’
The less I say, the more extravagant his offers, so I keep quiet.
‘We won’t ever go camping again. Next time, we’ll rent a house. We’ll never have such an awful holiday again. And we might even be able to afford to have a cleaning lady twice a week.’
I make all sorts of rash promises in return. ‘I won’t lie about little things. I’ll put out the school uniforms the night before. I’ll look in the fridge before I go shopping.’
Then the phone starts to ring. After swift negotiations Tom answers on the fifth ring, as a quid pro quo for my opening another bottle of
‘What do you think?’ he says.
‘Promising,’ I say emphatically. ‘I love Sergio Leone.’
‘Good,’ he says, pushing the sleeve of his jacket back down, ‘except that is not what I was asking. I changed tack when I could see your eyes glazing over. Doesn’t matter. It happens all the time, unless I start talking about Benicio Del Toro, then women generally pay attention. I was asking whether you aregoing to put yourself up as class rep. I’ll help you, but I can’t run it myself because of deadlines. I want to do my bit to help the school.’ He pauses. ‘You look surprised.’
I couldn’t be more astonished if he had asked me to lick his forearm.
‘Well, of course I’m considering it, my youngest one has just started nursery and it would be a good time to do something like that. But I don’t want to look too pushy.’ It sounds so credible I almost believe myself.
‘I’ll vote for you,’ he says good-naturedly. ‘So will Isobel. She was saying that it would be really entertaining if you won.’
‘Oh, did she?’ I say, entirely mistrustful of Yummy Mummy No. 1’s motives.
‘I told my wife what happened yesterday. You know, the, er, imbroglio with the underwear. She thought it was very funny. Simpatico. So did I.’
I wonder in what context it was discussed, what adjectives he used, whether he told her that we were sitting so close together I could feel the heat from his thigh. After he had cooked dinner, or when they were in bed? What were they wearing in bed?
‘Pyjamas,’ he says. ‘I told her about the pyjamas too.’ I know that I should feel gratified that he has shared this with his wife, because it hints at the promise of friendship. I imagine cosy foursomes sharing dinner, family picnics on Hampstead Heath, even holidays abroad. But I realise that I don’t want anyone extraneous intruding on my fantasy because they could dilute its escapist potential.
In the evening I lie at one end of the sofa, watching Tom at the other end reading last week’s copy of the
Architects’ Journal
.After almost a year’s delay, building work is finally to begin on his library in Milan, and his mood is buoyant. Our feet are touching. The witching hour is over. The children are in bed and a bottle of wine has been consumed in lieu of dinner.
He will be travelling to Milan in the next couple of weeks. He tells me this apologetically, at pains to demonstrate awareness of the burden this will place on me. But I know he is excited because tonight there have been no searches in the fridge for food that has exceeded its sell-by date. No forensic examination of bank statements, looking for evidence of parking fines and other misdemeanours. No questions about new scratches on the side of the car.
‘I’ll leave an alarm clock, so that you aren’t late in the morning. I’ll put one hundred pounds in cash in the chest of drawers, in case you lose your credit card. I’ll babysit for you when I come back. I’ll buy my own socks at the airport.’
The less I say, the more extravagant his offers, so I keep quiet.
‘We won’t ever go camping again. Next time, we’ll rent a house. We’ll never have such an awful holiday again. And we might even be able to afford to have a cleaning lady twice a week.’
I make all sorts of rash promises in return. ‘I won’t lie about little things. I’ll put out the school uniforms the night before. I’ll look in the fridge before I go shopping.’
Then the phone starts to ring. After swift negotiations Tom answers on the fifth ring, as a quid pro quo for my opening another bottle of
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