The Desperate Diary of a Country Housewife

Fin’s in LA at the moment, of course. I have to admit I toyed with the idea of not mentioning that fact to Hatty. Not sure why. Well. Yes I am. In any case, I did tell her. And she already knew it. She’d just been speaking to him. In fact he’d advised her to check in to the same hotel. ‘If I can’t get Paul Bettany to have dinner with me which I probably can’t…’

‘He’s got a very beautiful wife, by the way,’ I said sourly.

‘Exactly. Which is why Fin and I are almost certainly going to meet up for dinner tomorrow night. He says he’ll take me to the Ivy to cheer me up.’

Tuesday November 20th

Fin’s just called to ask where he should buy a new sofabed. He says the one he has in his office is too lumpy, and given how many nights he’s spending in London at the moment (‘with the trains as they are’) he wants to invest in a new one. He says he won’t be coming down to Paradise before Friday again this week.

I decided not to kick up a fuss, mostly because, as Fin cleverly reminded me only this morning, it was my idea to move out to Paradise in the first place.

Doesn’t matter, anyway. Got loads of telly to watch. Plus at some point I seriously ought to do some work. I’m so behind with the novel now it makes me feel sick whenever I think about it. Plus I’ve got an article to write about white wedding dresses (Yes or No?) and, though I distinctly remember injecting enormous amounts of passion into the discussion when the piece was commissioned, I’ve forgotten whether said passion was in favour or against, and since it’s now almost two weeks overdue I’m hesitant to ring up and check. Also, much more excitingly, I have a cunning plan to write a newspaper column all about my strangely adventureless life out here in the sticks. Why not? I’d enjoy it, even if no one else did. It would almost be like having someone to talk to.

Truth is, though, I’ve slightly lost track of my laptop. This has never happened before. In London I used to write on it every weekday, like a normal person with a job to do. Plus I couldn’t survive twenty minutes without checking my e-mail. In fact I virtually slept with the laptop under my pillow. Now I’m not even sure how many days ago it was that I last saw it. So what the hell’s going on?

Might this be a first indication of a new unhurried, unworried persona emerging from my desiccated urban shell? I sincerely hope not, actually. Apart from the rest of it (and I’ll need to make a real effort with the journalism if I’m to keep myself from being buried alive down here) there’s the next novel to be delivered in three and a half months, and pretty much everything I’ve written so far looked like complete drivel, last time I read back. I think I’m going to have to start again.

Thursday November 22nd

Computer still not turned up. Ditto the nametags. Where did I put them? Ripley tells me he’s lost his blazer, which I bought new for some incredibly stupid reason, also about forty-five sizes too large, so that it was virtually unwearable anyway. I wrote his name in biro on the label while I was waiting for the bloody nametags to arrive, but now he tells me the label was ‘a bit itchy’ and he cut it out.

£60 down the shit-hole, then.

I wonder if there’s an agency somewhere that will sew people’s nametags in for them? There must be. If I could find my wretched laptop I might be able to find out.

Monday November 26th

It occurs to me that I haven’t laid eyes on my computer since that peculiar carpenter came round to measure up for bookcases over a week ago. I think he may have snuck it out with him when he left. Which explains a lot, actually. At the time he certainly had me fooled. I even felt a little sorry for him. Now, of course, I’m beginning to wonder if he was actually a carpenter at all.

He spent hours measuring up; literally hours, and then at the end, while he was still blowing gently over a stonecold cup of tea, I asked him, not unreasonably I thought, how long he thought he might need to build the things. And he looked astonished. He looked quite put out. Five minutes passed with him carefully adjusting the position of his mug on the kitchen table, scratching on his fleabites and so on…

Until finally, very, very slowly, he said: ‘Fact ezzz, Madam [Madam!] I can’t say…Not in so many werrds…I wud if I cud, believe me…Much as I’d love if I cud, see…As the saying goes, How long is a piece of string?’

And that was it. Beyond that, however many times I asked, whichever way I phrased the question, he simply refused to be drawn.

I got his name off a card at the launderette, but that’s hardly a solid endorsement, is it? If my laptop doesn’t turn up soon I think I’m going to call the police.

Friday November 30th

Called the police. Funny. Ten years in Shepherds Bush and I never bothered to contact them once. Three months down here in Paradise and I’ve already got the number for the local station on speed dial. What does that say? Not at all sure, yet. But it must say something, mustn’t it?

I had already explained how I wrote novels and magazine articles and so on, and about Ripley and Dora and the new dog called Mabel, and the move down from London. I’d explained that my husband was originally from Quebec but that he didn’t really speak much French any more. I think I told him about my 2.1 in history, my antipathy to the London Olympics, and about my recently deceased great aunt who was allergic to oysters. So I was on the very point of handing over the carpenter’s name and telephone number—when I spotted my precious laptop, nestling happily beneath a large dictionary on my, er, desk.

Luckily, I managed to get the policeman off the telephone without his suspecting anything. He’s suggested I go down to the station to make an official statement. Which obviously I can’t now, can I?

Shame.

Never mind. Tonight I have the mysteriously nonresponsive and familiar-looking babysitter coming round. I’m going to dinner with Rachel White and her husband the accountant and, truth be told, I can’t wait. I’ve not been out for so long now I don’t think I’ve looked forward to an evening so much in years.

Unfortunately Fin’s not going to be able to make it. He just called. One of his financiers pulled out this morning and the film is on the point of total collapse. So. He has meetings to go to. I hope Rachel doesn’t mind. It’s not his fault. There’s really not much he can do about it, anyway. And she seems very nice. I’m sure she’ll understand.

!!!!! She CANCELLED me! She bloody CANCELLED me!

I saw her at the school gate so over I scuttled, all smiley and super. I should have realised that things weren’t going to be simple from the start, because I opened with a friendly-but-casual ‘Hello, Rachel! Still on for tonight?’

And she definitely looked offended. ‘Goodness, I should hope so,’ she said.

I ploughed on in any case, friendly-but-casual as before.

‘…He’s so sorry,’ I said. ‘He was looking forward to this evening so much, but he’s stuck in these awful meetings the whole night, and it was a choice, really: make the dinner party or save the film! So I’m afraid you’re going to have to make do with just me!’

She shook her head, and I could tell before she spoke, by the shape her lips were making, that I’d got it wrong. I’d got everything completely wrong.

‘Oh, what a shame!’ she cried, almost as if I’d told her I had to amputate the leg. ‘Oh, goodness, what a shame. Oh, that’s such a disappointment!’ The skin around her nostrils went red, and I realised with a chill that she wasn’t looking at me any more.

I said, ‘Rachel, he’s so sorry. And so am I. But still I’m so looking forward—’

She said, ‘Don’t be silly. There’s no way we’re dragging you out in the middle of the night on your own. Certainly not.’

‘But—’

‘No. We wouldn’t think of it. We wouldn’t dream of asking such a thing.’

‘But—’

‘No.’

‘But, please—’

But, no.

No.

And that was it. She said she’d make another date ‘when Finley’s schedule is a bit clearer’, and she suggested we meet for ‘a coffee’ one day next week.

December 14th

Fin went to the screening of Hatty and Damian’s short film last night. He said it was very, very good. Dying to see it.

I sent them a bunch of flowers for luck. Wonder if they arrived in time? Any case I’d better take the dog out. She’s making funny coughing noises, and all the chocolate biscuits have gone missing. Got a feeling she’s about to be sick.

December 15th

Half the builders I telephone don’t even bother to return my telephone calls. The rest make appointments, and then never turn up. Can’t quite work out what I’m doing wrong.

Fin, needless to say, has had a little more success. Somebody in London gave him the name of an Irish woman called Megan, who apparently once did some work for one of the Rolling Stones and who consequently (he’d been warned) presented herself very much as a Builder to the Stars.

He contacted her last Friday evening, and she hopped onto her broomstick there and then, arriving at our front door, hunchback and shoulders fully relaxed, dyed black hair perfectly coiffed and stout little body positively dripping in eighties-style jewellery, within an hour of his making the telephone call. How does he do it?

Sadly, however, we had to reject her. Or maybe she sadly rejected us. It was pretty clear from the beginning that we were singing from different hymn sheets.

‘I can tell you’re a woman with discerning taste,’ she muttered to me, leaning her broomstick against the porch and shimmying into our untouched, half-lit, empty hallway. I felt quite aglow for a moment—until I looked up and down and around and about and realised she had absolutely nothing, at that early stage, upon which to base the observation.

Anyway. She took the briefest of glances round our bomb-site of a house and then, suddenly, looked at her watch and announced she had to leave. She couldn’t possibly discuss budgets or plans with us, she said, until we had inspected the property she and ‘her boys’ were currently working on in a village about twenty miles away.

We went to look at it the next morning. A Saturday. It was a house belonging to a couple of art dealers from Seattle, neither of whom was present. Nevertheless I think she was quite put out that we tipped up with the children. It’s possible she was quite put out that we tipped up at all.

The tour, which was made unnecessarily stressful by her rampant irritation with our fairly well-behaved children, seemed to go on forever. Fin and I were forced to admire every tap, every door handle, every eco-friendly window fastener in the building. And it wasn’t easy. Somehow, and clearly at unimaginable expense, Megan and her team of boys had transformed what was once, presumably, a perfectly pretty village cottage into something that looked more like an industrial greenhouse.

At some point (about an hour in) she was distracted from her boasting by an improperly fitted cupboard latch, and we managed to slip away. She found us a couple of minutes later—Fin, me and the children—sardine-packed into what was meant to be her pièce de résistance: an aluminium, bean-shaped lavatory capsule, cleverly suspended above what would one day be a dining room. We were giggling quite a lot, testing out the motion-sensitive toilet flush. Or the children were. Or, no. We all were, in fact.

I think it dawned on Megan about then that we were completely out of our depth. The art dealers from Seattle were spending on a single, motion-sensitive lavatory pod about three times what we had to spend on our entire house.

Nevertheless, at the end of the tour we hugged each other passionately. We reconfirmed our various e-mails and telephone numbers and swore we’d speak again before the weekend was out, just to confirm budgets and dates and so on. That was over a week ago now. Obviously we’ve made no attempt to contact each other since.

And I never even asked her about Johnny Depp. As the West Country’s designated Builder to the Stars she ought to know if there’s any truth behind the rumours. I wish I could say I forgot to ask her, but the fact is she’s slightly scary, and I didn’t quite dare.

The good news is I now have another builder up my sleeve. He’s called Darrell and he’s coming round this evening. I saw his card pinned up in the village Co-op (as opposed to the launderette, where clearly the calibre of cards isn’t up to scratch) and he sounds lovely. Quite sexy, actually. He says he’s built hundreds of kitchens before. Not only that, he’s available to start on ours immediately.

December 15th again

Bit drunk. Darrell has just left.

Darrell. Darrell. Darrell. Is about 6 foot 3 and outrageously good looking. Also he has amazingly long eyelashes. Also he’s outrageously good looking. He’s unbelievably good looking. Also—very sexy. He has a very sexy laugh. He stayed for two beers. Which he drink from the bottles. I think I knocked back five glass of wine, which I may have glugged a bit too quickly. Anyway, Darrell says he can start the kitchen on Monday. Christ. Things are looking up.

Also Dora says she left her swim kit somewhere. I called up, but nobody knews shag all about anything downethere.

Nametags tomorrow. Nametags nametags nametags nametags nametags namtags namtags namtagnametag-gssnamteags

Goodnight xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

December 17th

The prospect of the children’s Christmas holidays, looming ever closer, has finally spurred me to get down to work. Written and filed the wedding piece, to resounding silence; which, I’ve decided, is a good sign. Also been asked to write a piece about my attitude to Advent calendars. Do I have one? I think not. Never mind. Most importantly, the Novel’s finally moving along OK and I’ve even managed to write the first of my dummy country columns. I’m going to offer it around to newspapers next week. See if anyone bites.

Sooperdooper.

Wonder if Darrell and Co. want a cup of tea?

We’ve decided we’re going to spend Christmas in Andalusia after all. Dad’s still a bit ropey, but Sarah’s pretty much adamant she wants us to come out and try to cheer him up a bit. I’ve told her we’ll stay at the B&B in the village and she put on a very good show of saying no, but I think she was relieved when I insisted.

It means the great Christmas tree tradition (planting/replanting, etc.) will have to be postponed until next year. I’ve slightly gone off the idea anyway. Too many slugs. In any case, truth be told, I’m looking forward to a bit of sun.

Fin’s in London again. Has been all week. I don’t think I’ll bother to mention my anonymous column to him, even if I sell it. It may inhibit what I want to write about him at a later date.

COUNTRY MOLE

Sunday Times

January

We did it. We made the break. We sold the place in Shepherds Bush and left the Big Smoke behind us. It took us years to make the decision, months to organise the move, but we escaped, finally, on July 4th 2005.

Seventeen days later one Hussein Osman (a.k.a. the Shepherds Bush Bomber) used our ex-neighbour’s garden to hide out from the police, and our street was evacuated for three days. So, you see, while our children were gambolling among the daisies, befriending wild hedgehogs, filling their rosy cheeks with organic vegetables and so on, their old London muckers were camping out in a community hall somewhere in Acton, waiting for the bomb detectors to allow them back into their homes. It is impossible to communicate how smug that made us feel. How smug it continues to make us feel. And I need to hold on to that.

Because here we are, now, in our West Country idyll. Or here am I, to be more precise. The children are at school, the husband’s in Soho, working. My friends and colleagues are all in London, chatting away. And here I am in my West Country idyll, lungs bursting with fresh air and good will—and nobody to share it with. Except you. Reality is beginning to bite.

It’s mid-morning. I’ve done the school run. I’ve admired the view from the sitting-room window; I’ve taken a turn around the utility room, and felt the usual little surge of pride. I’ve even ventured into the garden, albeit briefly. (It was a bit cold. Plus there was a slug.) I’ve checked the answer machine for messages. None. And the e-mail. None. I’ve taken another turn round the utility room, which, after nearly twenty years of hanging clothes on the banisters, never fails to soothe. And I’ve looked at my watch. Many times.

But heck, it’s awful quiet around here.

And it will be, I suppose, until around lunch time, when the builders come. One of whom, by the way, is truly exorbitantly good looking. They—the handsome one and another one—are building us a kitchen in what used to be the second sitting room, and I keep popping in there in case the handsome one needs biscuits. Which he might, one time. He’s always saying no. Yesterday morning I was sitting at my desk pretending to write, ears on stalks, biscuits at the ready, but he must have tiptoed into work extra quietly. The bastard. I never heard him come in.

Anyway, the point is, just because the handsome builder—and the other one—are more or less my only contact with the adult world these days, it doesn’t mean I have nothing better to talk about. I do. I certainly do. Slug repellant, for example. According to my handsome builder, this little corner of the West Country is a national slug hotspot, with approximately 300 slugs for every square metre of earth. I’ve told him I have grand plans to make our own garden a one hundred per cent slug-free zone; I hinted I might even get Mr Osman and his bombs down here, if that’s what it needed. I don’t think he knew what I was talking about.

The truth is we’ve plopped ourselves in this beautiful corner of the world for all the right reasons; clean air/great schools/green fields/utility rooms. But—handsome builders aside—we don’t know a soul. Our only hope of contact with the local world is at the school gate—the very place, for lots of meanspirited reasons, I have always taken great care to avoid.

But beggars can’t be choosers, can they? And there’s a limit to how many nights a person can spend watching DVDs of The West Wing. I’m assuming. So come three o’clock (which, incidentally, is exactly three hours and twenty-one minutes away) I’ll be slapping on my Stepford Grimace and standing at that school gate just like the rest of them: Desperately Pretending to be nicer than I am. Desperately Seeking a Social Life.

And it’s going to be fine. In fact it’s going to be better than fine. It’s going to be thrilling. It’s a whole new adventure.

Next Friday night, for example, the husband and I are booking a babysitter. We’re getting ourselves all togged up in black tie and ball dresses, and heading off to our son and daughter’s annual Parents’ School Dance. Imagine the fun. If you will.

And I’m seriously looking forward to it.

January 15th

The tickets cost £50 each, including dinner, and the party took place in a room that looked and smelled a bit like my old school houseroom: the same mismatched, pastelcoloured walls, scuffed around the edges, and a pervasive stench of stale air, instant coffee and saliva. Actually it was the old town hall. One of the mothers, kind and welcoming as ever, had made enormous efforts to squeeze us onto her table and so I sat, adding to the festive odour, I suspect, with my very own hint of mothballs. I was underdressed in a strange pink rayon skirt and shirt ensemble, which has languished at the back of numerous wardrobes and storage boxes since I got it nearly twelve years ago. I have often wondered what possessed me to buy it in the first place—or why I ever insisted on keeping it. At least now I know that I’ll never wear it again.

Fin and I set off for the party full of hope and good will. Fin caught an early train down and we arrived in perfect time. There was no milling about before dinner, which was good, really, since we neither of us had anyone to mill with. We were led straight away to our designated table. And things went pretty much downhill from there.

On either side of me sat a couple of men whose faces began to merge as the evening wore on. Both had moved with their families down from London (Chiswick) within the last ten years.

One worked in the City. He spent the week in a small flat in Hammersmith, and the weekend at home, catching up on some ‘much-needed kip’, and—presumably—having his shirts laundered for him by his wife.

‘We find it works very well,’ he said to me. ‘It suits us. The kids are settled. We love the school. We love the lifestyle…I can really get my head down during the week. Which is super. And of course Katie’s got her hands full with the kids!’

He asked me what my husband did for a living.

He had sandy-coloured hair and sandy eyelashes, a heavy metallic watch with sandy hairs encroaching, and an unyielding, incurious, slightly pudgy face. As, I’m pretty sure, did the man on the other side. But memory can play funny tricks. It’s been a couple of days since I wrenched myself from their company, and I must admit I’m having some difficulty now distinguishing between the two.

The other man (I think) did not spend all week in London. On the contrary, he came down from his City job on Thursday nights, and spent Fridays working from home.

‘We find it works very well,’ he said to me. ‘It suits us. The kids are settled. We love the school. We love the lifestyle…I can really get my head down during the week. Which is super. And of course Sarah’s got her hands full with the kids!’

He asked me what my husband did for a living, and his goldfish eyes glazed over before I had time to reply.

I’ve never been very good at small talk. The truth is by the middle of the main course I had pretty much given up trying. One or other of the Sandy Men, in flirtatious mode, uttered a sentence which ended with the words ‘ladies and all things technical!’ and that was when I officially retired. The supreme pointlessness of our attempting to communicate any further became altogether overwhelming. My cheeks had lapsed into paralysis. My tongue had turned to lead. My heart was filled with resentment and boredom and I was thoroughly depressed. I had almost forgotten—if I’d ever even been aware—that men so unreconstructed actually existed. So I sat back and let them burble across me until coffee was served. They talked about Mercedes cars—their own and other people’s—for the rest of the night.

At some point I looked across the table at Finley. He was faring better than I was, which wasn’t really saying much. Some jolly old bird, squeezed into a strapless ball dress she should have chucked out back in 1983, was leaning across the table towards him, pressing her discodusted boobs together while he held out a light for her cigarette. She was having the time of her life, poor girl, oblivious to the scatter-gun approach of Fin’s delightfulness, and glowing beneath his fantastic care. As he held out the flame she rested one of her hands on his arm. Her nails were freshly painted for the ball, I noted: dark plum, just like Uma Thurman’s in Pulp Fiction, all those years ago. I caught F’s eye. Noticed, beneath all the layers of delightfulness, an inescapable gleam of desperation there. It cheered me up enormously.