Page 6 of Ex in the City
Interestingly, even though I don’t have to go to school any more, I get that feeling on a Sunday again, now that I’m the school-run chauffeur to Archie and Ned.
Obviously I don’t have to go to school but my mornings are a chaotic whirlwind of getting the kids ready, making surethey have everything, and making sure they get there on time – because it’s me who gets it in the neck if they don’t.
The school run is always chaotic. The boys scamper around the house, searching for misplaced shoes, backpacks and homework – and I help them as my much-needed cup of coffee grows cold. I feel like my own mum, as I shout out half-hearted empty threats about what will happen if they’re late, but they always seems to fall on deaf ears.
But while I’m usually delighted that I never have to go to school again, I would probably happily swap where I’m heading right now for PE and double science – I’ve been called for a meeting with some of the other mums.
I was accosted at the school gates by Rafe’s au pair, telling me that Rebecca, his mum, would like to see me at Lily’s café for a meeting about the kids. Knowing that my days in this village are numbered, I’ve been doing a great job of winding down my strictly social obligations, but when it’s about the kids, I show up, so that’s where I am now, at Lily’s, to find out what fresh hell today has in store.
I park outside the café and practically scowl atthecar – which I don’t really want to refer to as my car – as I lock it. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, really I don’t, and an I’m-sorry Porsche is definitely leagues above an I’m-sorry bunch of flowers, but somehow that just makes me even angrier, because it implies that if the sorry is expensive enough, it can cancel out even the most despicable of betrayals. Spilled a cup of coffee on the carpet? That’s a box of chocolates, at least. Forgot an anniversary? Breakfast in bed will do it. Kissed the au pair behind your back? Oof, that’s big no-no, that’s got to be a trip to Italy, at least. All I’m saying is, it’s interesting that what Rowan did to me is something that he thinks a Porsche can cancel out. It doesn’t even come close.
Lily’s is a quaint little café, the kind of place that is always warm and welcoming. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the comforting scent of baked pastries wafts through the air – it’s hard not to follow the scent, heading for the counter, where the urge to order everything is overwhelming. Sunlight streams in through the large windows – even on cold days like today – casting a golden glow over the cosy, mismatched furniture.
But then my eyes land on their table, the mums, all waiting patiently for me so that the meeting can start. I swear it’s darker over there, where they’re sitting, because even the sun finds them a bit much. It’s almost as though they’ve drawn an invisible circle around themselves, creating an impenetrable bubble of hostility and drama. I can see them talking between themselves, in hushed tones, their body language intense as I approach them. Of course, as I rock up at the table, it’s fake smiles as far as the eye can see. I suppose it’s easy to be two-faced, when you have Botox and fillers and a face full of make-up. Everyone looks perfect, always, like the scene at the end ofThe Stepford Wives– but these women are the baddies, in my universe.
Rebecca Rollins – Rafe’s mum – has assigned herself the role as queen bee, and as such has positioned herself in the centre of the table. To her left there is Carolyn and Teresa, and on her right Deanna. Their kids are in Archie’s main friendship group, so not only do I see a lot of them, but it’s often about dumb, unimportant shit – even completely made-up things like setting boundaries over what levels of pollution the kids will be exposed to at different people’s housesin the same village.
Rebecca, Carolyn, Teresa and Deanna are the busiest, nosiest and most involved mums in the village, but with Rebecca presenting herself as some sort of boss-level mum, the others have always sort of blurred into one for me. They’re like her henchmen, and willingly so – the kind of extras you see killed off in movies because they do nothing for the plot. To be honest,I think that only makes them more dangerous, they’re like Rebecca’s spies, all reporting back to her. They are always in the know – and even if they’re not, they believe they are, which is often worse – deeply entangled in the school activities, village events and the lives of other families. And while Archie is friends with their kids, and they involve me in all of their never-ending lists of things, I don’t feel like they’ve ever really accepted me as one of them – one of the mums. I often wonder if it is because they don’t see me as a real mum, given that I’m not Archie and Ned’s birth mum (which would be silly and infuriating), but then other times I wonder if it’s a class thing, because for some reason, to them, being a northerner is regarded as some kind of social disadvantage. Whatever it was, it always made sense to keep my past life a big secret from them, because imagine if they knew I used to run around with rock stars.
Why should any of it matter, in the grand scheme of things? I would never judge anyone for their past, or their accent – but I guess a floozy of a northerner like me would say that, wouldn’t I?
I take a deep breath and force a smile on my face as I join them.
‘Hello, ladies,’ I say brightly – even I’m impressed by how genuine that sounded.
‘You’re late, Nicole,’ Rebecca remarks with an obnoxious hint of self-satisfaction.
I look at my watch. I’m not late, I’m just not early.
‘I’m here,’ I say simply, in no mood for additional drama. Rebecca might have nothing better to do today but I need to get home and get some work done.
Rebecca, ever the centre of gravity, clears her throat before she gets started.
‘Well, you’re here now, and we have something very important to discuss,’ she begins. ‘It has come to my attention that our children have learned a swear word – the W word.’
The other women gasp. I, on the other hand…
‘Which one?’ I ask curiously.
Rebecca’s eyes widen.
‘Some of us only know the one,’ she points out. ‘It rhymes with anchor, and I certainly don’t use it. We need to work out which child learned it and where they learned it from.’
Oh my God, this is some sort of witch hunt. That’s why we’re here, to try to work out which child learned a bad word, and where they picked it up. I cannot believe I’m taking time from my work to do this. And surely it’s impossible to work out where it came from, right?
As Rebecca turns to Teresa, with a serious look on her face, I guess not.
‘Teresa, you recently took Art to that grotesque indoor playground, in the city, didn’t you?’ she says accusingly.
Ahh, yes, because any child who visits London is automatically enrolled in Fagin’s gang.
‘It was his cousin’s birthday party,’ Teresa says in her own defence.
‘Perhaps he picked it up there,’ Rebecca suggests.
I frown at the suggestion that Art must have picked up the swear word from an inner-city kid – what a snobby, gross insinuation.
‘Absolutely not,’ Teresa insists.
