Page 4 of Ex in the City
‘Do you like it?’ Archie asks me, probably puzzled by my seemingly muted – but actually stunned – reaction.
‘I love it,’ I tell them, turning on my smile, running over to give them both a big hug.
Rowan takes another photo.
‘Sorry, I’m just in shock,’ I tell them. ‘I really do love it. It’s gorgeous, it’s just such a surprise.’
‘We just wanted to show you how much we love and appreciate you,’ Rowan says as he crashes our hug, wrapping us all up in his big arms.
‘Let’s get in,’ Archie says.
‘Yeah,’ Ned says, hot on his heels.
Rowan keeps his arm around me for a moment and lowers his voice.
‘Iwant to show you how much I love you,’ he adds, keeping the smile firmly fixed on his face for the boys’ benefit.
I smile, ever so slightly, keeping up the act for the boys, but with no idea what else to say or do.
A car. A fucking car. He knows we’re over, he knows I’m moving out just as soon as I can, and yet he’s buying me a car? Like a car can fix what he’s done. Ha. Not even a Porsche, buddy. I’m not accepting it – in fact, I’m not even going to drive it, not even once.
Except…
‘Where is my car?’ I ask, rather naively, because I’ve no sooner asked the question than the answer has occurred to me.
‘This is your car,’ Rowan insists.
I stare at him expectantly, not saying another word until he gives me a real answer.
‘I got rid of it, obviously,’ Rowan replies. ‘Well, you don’t need it now, you have a Porsche! The other mums are going to be so jealous!’
‘And where is your car?’ I ask, realising his Jag is nowhere to be seen.
‘I’m picking it up tomorrow morning,’ he tells me. ‘While I was getting the, you know, paintwork cleaned, I thought I might as well get a valet and a service. Don’t worry, I know you’ll be taking the kids to school, so I’ll get a taxi.’
Okay, so maybe I am going to have to drive it. For fuck’s sake. Why on earth would he think that, with the way things are between us, swapping my car for this new one would be something I would respond well to? And that comment about making the other mums jealous – I hate being lumped in with the mums. Why can’t I make the men jealous? Why do I need to make anyone jealous? Why can’t we all just have what we have, what we’ve worked hard for, and enjoy it? Why does life in this stupid village have to be a competition? And, of course, I moved in with the most competitive man here.
I know what you’re thinking, I sound like an ungrateful cow, because someone just bought me a Porsche and I’m whining, but you don’t know what I’ve been through. Yes, okay, he’s trying tomake things right, I suppose, and that’s something, but it’s just not going to work, unfortunately. The damage is already done.
4
Do you ever have one of those days where you think, I know, I’ll do some sorting out, but then you totally pull everything out of place in the room you plan to sort, only to find yourself amongst the mess, sitting in the middle of the floor, thinking to yourself: why did I do this? When will I learn that, when I think the mood is striking where I want to have a big clear-out and clean-out, I don’t actually want that at all, and I would do well to just wait for the feeling to pass? It’s never worth opening up a messy box, because you’re only going to have to sort it out to get it all back inside.
I’m sitting in my bedroom, surrounded by a sea of things that I know I’ll have to pack when the time comes for me to move out. It’s a strange sensation, knowing that I’m basically living here on borrowed time now, and naturally knowing this means that my patience for all the silly village formalities isn’t what it used to be. The endless brunch meetings and coffee mornings with the yummy mummies no longer feel all that important to endure. After all, they won’t be my problem for much longer (it’s an unstated but widely known fact that only families fit their wanky social aesthetic), so if pretty soon I’m going to be alone, just me,no Rowan, no kids – none of them are going to have time for me anyway. So I’m pretty much checked out, unless it’s something for the boys, of course, and then I’ll be there with bells on.
One thing I’m certain of in all of this mess is that I want to make sure the boys will be okay when I’m not around any more. I may have only been their mother-type figure for a couple of years or so, but I love them.
As I sort through my belongings, I spot one of the boxes that I pulled out of the cupboard. I say ‘spot’, but, if I’m being honest, I know deep down that the only reason I’m even sorting my things to begin with is because I want to open this particular box.
Ever since Lisa potentially recognised me at the school gates, my old life has been on my mind – and deep-diving into this box of memories has been all I could think about. But opening this box is about more than simply opening a box because it opens up so much more than the cardboard. It’s about unlocking a compartment in my mind that I usually keep tightly locked, but every now and then, something small wiggles its way in, prying open the door, and I allow myself a moment to gaze into my old life, and think about what could have been, before slamming the box shut and returning to reality.
And just like that, it’s in front of me, and I’m opening it up, and taking out the first item: a copy of a magazine.Mymagazine.
I was fresh out of uni when I startedStarstruck, a music magazine – one that I wanted to be different from all the other music mags out at the time. Back then, when I was in my early twenties, I had lots of friends who were in bands and so I wanted the magazine to be something more personal than the gossipy pieces I was used to reading. I wanted it to feel like it was made by the fans, for the fans, with a dose of insider info you just didn’t get anywhere else. Yes, I was a journalist, but that almost felt like it came second to what I really was, I was practically oneof the band when I was on tour, part of the family even, with the bands that I was especially close with. I loved nothing more than disappearing on tour for days at a time, getting to live that rock-star life, but not actually needing to have any music talent (that said, that never seems to hold most gigging musicians back). Often I would be there under the guise of writing a review, or doing an interview, but the reality is that those things rarely took more than an hour, and the truth is that I was there because I wanted to be, and because people wanted me there too. God, I loved it. I lived for it, just counting down the days until the next time I could jump on that tour bus and head off with my friends.
It’s funny, I think everyone thought I was some kind of groupie given that there were a handful of bands I was on touring terms with, but we really were a family, everyone had their roles, and I loved being the (usually only) steady female influence on board. If the tour manager was the daddy – the one in charge, telling everyone what to do, keeping everyone in check – then I was the mummy, the soft touch, the one who cared for the guys when they were drunk rather than yelling at them. I like to think that’s why I know what I’m doing with Archie and Ned, despite not being their mum, because I had a lot of practice with much bigger kids. Rock stars made kids seem quite easy to take care of.
The next thing I pull out is another magazine, this one from a later date, when my little magazine was taken under the wing of a tabloid newspaper, theDaily Scoop, after I made the move from Leeds to London and I started writing it for them to give away as a supplement with their paper. I have every copy at my parents’ house in Leeds, but in this box of memories, I keep two magazines, one from our humble beginnings, and one from when we hit the big time. I wish I’d known, when I made the change, that it would be the beginning of the end.
