Read Online Under Your Skin by Sabine Durrant - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sabine Durrant
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movie-trailer voice. Later, of course, he will be the model of anguished sympathy.
Alice suggests we get Adam Phillips in regardless—cue him up for psychological insights into obesity—and Terri, panic suppressed, seems at least placated. I’ve got away with it for today, and with any luck, tomorrow my story will be stale.
I have five missed calls after the meeting, and a heap of texts, including one from Jude Morris. “You dark horse! Why didn’t you say? You must think Margot, Suzanne, and I are idiots!” Clara has phoned twice, and Margaret, Philip’s mother, once. Our dearly beloved, dearly departed ex-nanny, Robin, has left a voicemail: “Hi, hon. Blimey, what’s going on? Can’t leave you guys alone for a minute!”
I ring Clara on the way to makeup, but she must be teaching because it goes to voicemail. So then I try Jude instead. “Do you hate me for not telling you?” I say when she answers. “It’s complicated. I will explain.”
She says of course she doesn’t hate me. I tell her I’m sorry, that Iam the sorriest of sorry things—a construction Millie and her contemporaries use all the time—and she laughs. “But no more lying.”
I’m just about to put the phone back in my pocket when Stan catches me. “Yeah,” he says. “Well done. Right decision, bro, I think.” His breath is an unpleasant cocktail of garlic and mints.
“Thanks, bro,” I say.
“But you’re mad not to take a couple of days off to recover. Don’t feel you can’t, or that you would be letting the side down. It might go against the grain. I know you soldiered on when your mother . . . whatever . . . and only took two weeks off when you had your kid all those years ago.”
“Back in the distant mists of time,” I say.
“But we would all entirely understand. I was saying to Terri, India’s desperate for the experience on the main sofa. Be interesting to see what kind of chemistry we whip up. I know you’re an old pro, but you’d be doing her a favor.”
“That is so kind, Stan,” I say, saving the “old pro” up for later. “I really appreciate it.”
• • •
I ring Robin from the car on the way home. She wants to know what’s happened—Ian’s mum brought the Mail up this morning “and we were all, like, what ?” But a day is a long time in the life of a new mother. My shenanigans have been swept off the agenda by the bewildering complexities of a four-month-old body clock. Robin is trying to get the baby’s nap “home and hosed” before Ian’s “rellies” arrive for supper.
“Sometimes,” I tell her, “I can’t believe you’ve lived here eight years. You sound like you’ve just lugged your backpack off the Tube from Heathrow.”
“I lucked out, didn’t I, finding you waiting for me at the top of the escalator.”
“Robin, we’re the ones who lucked out.”
I can hear Charlie fussing, hiccup-worrying in the way babies do when they want to go to sleep and don’t know how.
“Come on, hop to it,” Robin says. The cries become more insistent. “Oh, come on. I need you to sleep. I’ve got to get blimmin’ cooking.”
“Do you remember that brilliant advice you gave me—that you should rock a baby really quite forcefully? It’s counterintuitive, but it works. Eventually you reach that moment when the crying becomes rhythmic and then their eyes slowly close.”
“You should have more,” she says.
I almost sing my answer. “Too late now.”
We talk a bit longer—about the baby and his erratic sleeping patterns, how Ian’s mum thinks a bottle would help. I keep talking, telling her what a great job she is doing, what a wonderful mother she is, because I can tell Robin needs the cheering and the distraction, but after a few minutes, her voice gets quieter. “So, are you all right?” she whispers.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Robin yawns. “I might grab forty winks.”
“That’s my girl,” I say.
• • •
A man is sitting in a
Alice suggests we get Adam Phillips in regardless—cue him up for psychological insights into obesity—and Terri, panic suppressed, seems at least placated. I’ve got away with it for today, and with any luck, tomorrow my story will be stale.
I have five missed calls after the meeting, and a heap of texts, including one from Jude Morris. “You dark horse! Why didn’t you say? You must think Margot, Suzanne, and I are idiots!” Clara has phoned twice, and Margaret, Philip’s mother, once. Our dearly beloved, dearly departed ex-nanny, Robin, has left a voicemail: “Hi, hon. Blimey, what’s going on? Can’t leave you guys alone for a minute!”
I ring Clara on the way to makeup, but she must be teaching because it goes to voicemail. So then I try Jude instead. “Do you hate me for not telling you?” I say when she answers. “It’s complicated. I will explain.”
She says of course she doesn’t hate me. I tell her I’m sorry, that Iam the sorriest of sorry things—a construction Millie and her contemporaries use all the time—and she laughs. “But no more lying.”
I’m just about to put the phone back in my pocket when Stan catches me. “Yeah,” he says. “Well done. Right decision, bro, I think.” His breath is an unpleasant cocktail of garlic and mints.
“Thanks, bro,” I say.
“But you’re mad not to take a couple of days off to recover. Don’t feel you can’t, or that you would be letting the side down. It might go against the grain. I know you soldiered on when your mother . . . whatever . . . and only took two weeks off when you had your kid all those years ago.”
“Back in the distant mists of time,” I say.
“But we would all entirely understand. I was saying to Terri, India’s desperate for the experience on the main sofa. Be interesting to see what kind of chemistry we whip up. I know you’re an old pro, but you’d be doing her a favor.”
“That is so kind, Stan,” I say, saving the “old pro” up for later. “I really appreciate it.”
• • •
I ring Robin from the car on the way home. She wants to know what’s happened—Ian’s mum brought the Mail up this morning “and we were all, like, what ?” But a day is a long time in the life of a new mother. My shenanigans have been swept off the agenda by the bewildering complexities of a four-month-old body clock. Robin is trying to get the baby’s nap “home and hosed” before Ian’s “rellies” arrive for supper.
“Sometimes,” I tell her, “I can’t believe you’ve lived here eight years. You sound like you’ve just lugged your backpack off the Tube from Heathrow.”
“I lucked out, didn’t I, finding you waiting for me at the top of the escalator.”
“Robin, we’re the ones who lucked out.”
I can hear Charlie fussing, hiccup-worrying in the way babies do when they want to go to sleep and don’t know how.
“Come on, hop to it,” Robin says. The cries become more insistent. “Oh, come on. I need you to sleep. I’ve got to get blimmin’ cooking.”
“Do you remember that brilliant advice you gave me—that you should rock a baby really quite forcefully? It’s counterintuitive, but it works. Eventually you reach that moment when the crying becomes rhythmic and then their eyes slowly close.”
“You should have more,” she says.
I almost sing my answer. “Too late now.”
We talk a bit longer—about the baby and his erratic sleeping patterns, how Ian’s mum thinks a bottle would help. I keep talking, telling her what a great job she is doing, what a wonderful mother she is, because I can tell Robin needs the cheering and the distraction, but after a few minutes, her voice gets quieter. “So, are you all right?” she whispers.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Robin yawns. “I might grab forty winks.”
“That’s my girl,” I say.
• • •
A man is sitting in a
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