The Only Boy For Me Page 15

  We arrive and round up the party guests and receive their presents, which we have to grab off the boys to stop them opening them in the car park. The party helper turns out to be a small teenage girl who looks about twelve, which does not bode well. But she does a very impressive line in yelling, and soon has them standing in two straight lines, telling her what they want to eat for tea. She marches them off to the changing rooms, and before we know it we’re all in the pool jumping off the slide on the special inflatable island. Mum and Dad sit in the visitors’ gallery and take loads of pictures. There are four lifeguards, and they stand at each corner of the pool watching very closely to make sure that the children who shoot down the slide at the end of the island come back up again. They all have long poles to poke at anyone who appears to be drowning, and I’m generally very impressed by how attentive they are. Kate is too, and we are just congratulating ourselves on how well everything is going, when we see a small red-faced boy being pulled out of the pool clinging on to a pole and coughing and spluttering, looking like he’s swallowed ten gallons of water.

  We rush over to see if he’s alright, but he seems perfectly happy once he’s got his breath back. The lifeguard looks very pale, though, and says that there’s always one at every party, and at least this one wasn’t sick. Quite. The pool staff have obviously had lots of experience of getting overexcited children out of the water, because they simply deflate the inflatables and shout, ‘Time to get out.’ The children all groan but do as they’re told, and then the helper reappears and marches them off to get changed. This proves as tricky as we thought it would be, but finally all the children are reunited with their clothes and are sitting upstairs eating chips and wearing party hats. The cake is a big success, and both Charlie and James go very pink while ‘Happy Birthday’ is sung.

  Phil appears halfway through tea, carrying baby Saffron. He’s late and Kate is furious. Saffron starts to cry and Phil tries to hand her to somebody else to hold, but no one is daft enough to fall for this so in the end he says he’d better go, but will come round later tonight to see James properly. James seems fine about this but Kate’s upset and says she doesn’t know why he bothered to turn up at all, but then she calms down and says well at least he did turn up, which is what really matters as far as James is concerned. I suppose it is really, but it does seem just a tiny bit thoughtless. Especially as Kate has organised the whole thing and all he needed to do was get here on time.

  Parents start arriving to collect their slightly damp, overexcited children, who all say they have had a lovely afternoon. I drive home feeling totally exhausted but relieved that it’s all gone so well, and there were no tantrums. Kate is taking James and Phoebe straight home; James has already opened a couple of presents by the time she gets him into the car. Charlie opens all of his as soon as we get home, and is delighted with each and every one. I can’t help noticing that in most cases the poorest parents have provided the most expensive gifts. I’ve noticed this before, and always find it strangely moving. Mum says it was the same when I was little, and one very rich mother dispatched her daughter to one of my parties with a packet of Smarties and a balloon wrapped up in posh paper. Whereas Ivy, who had no money at all and did three cleaning jobs to try to make ends meet, sent her little girl along with a brand-new Cindy doll and an outfit she had made for it out of sparkly chiffon. I remember the chiffon outfit, and we go off into a reverie about long-lost dolls and their clothes until Dad says, ‘For God’s sake, what does a man have to do round here to get a cup of tea?’ Am tempted to answer, ‘Put the kettle on,’ but resist.

  I spend the rest of the weekend helping Charlie recover from the excitement of the party. Mack rings and is regaled with how brilliant it was by Charlie. Then he talks to me, and says his friend Graham is having a dinner party next Friday and would like to meet me. Which is nice, but it’s the night of the school barbecue.

  ‘You’re not seriously trying to tell me that you would rather go to a school barbecue than come to an extremely smart dinner party with me, are you?’

  ‘Well, yes, actually.’

  ‘Darling, I really want you to come.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but Charlie really wants to go to the school thing. There’s going to be a tug-of-war and we’ve been practising. Last year the men won the Men versus Women competition, so it’s vital we win this year.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s different. If there’s a tug-of-war I can quite see the attraction. How exactly do you practise for a tug-of-war, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Oh, Kate has tied a rope to an old tree stump in her garden, and we’ve been trying to pull it out. I just keep falling over, but I think I’ve got a bit stronger.’

  ‘I’ve never met a woman who tries to pull out tree stumps before. It’s a whole new world for me. What a busy life you lead.’

  ‘Shut up. Anyway, I hate dinner parties. There’s only so much fennel coulis a girl can take, you know. And this thing is an official PTA event, so if I don’t turn up they’ll put me on the Absent Without Leave list and I’ll be on the lost-property rota for months. I’ll have to spend hours sorting through dirty socks.’

  ‘Alright, alright. You do the barbecue and I’ll do the fennel thing.’

  But I can tell he’s not happy, and is not used to having his plans altered. Still, he’ll have to get used to it because I really do hate dinner parties. I redeem myself by saying that Charlie has got all his Pokémon cards sorted out, and has kept all his spares for Alfie. Mack is very pleased, and says he’s already spent a small fortune on cards and any new supplies which don’t involve him shelling out hard cash are extremely welcome.

  On the last day of term I turn up in the afternoon to collect a huge array of PE kit, painting shirts and piles of drawings and paintings. Also Charlie’s school report, which turns out to be hilarious. Good old Miss Pike obviously has a bit of a soft spot for him and has tried to be as positive as she can. Apparently he’s a lovely reader, is in the top group for maths, tries hard but is easily distracted, and never really got the hang of knitting but made a lovely clay boat. Mrs Taylor has written ‘Keep up the good work’ at the bottom, but it turns out she’s put this on nearly every single report so maybe she was just trying to keep a positive theme flowing and cut down on her workload at the same time, which seems entirely sensible to me.

  I arrange with Kate that she’ll pick us up in her car later, and we’ll all go back to school for the barbecue. Thankfully it’s not raining, and the weather has been hot and sunny all day so we won’t need wet-weather gear like we did last year. I give Charlie a normal tea, because he’s starving and he’ll be far too busy running around with his friends to eat later. I’ve managed to avoid having to make any food this year, by a nifty bit of manoeuvring at the school gates, but have promised to bring some wine and sausages as our contribution to the evening. We arrive and I deposit the food, and then we spread out the picnic blankets on the playing field while the children eat crisps. Sally and Roger turn up, with William and Rosie, and we settle down with bottles of wine and Coke. The barbecue is lit, and the playground fills with smoke. Music blares out from two loudspeakers, and the teachers try to organise the children into teams for races. The school abandoned sports day some time ago in favour of a combined evening event with the PTA, and everyone agrees this is much better than sitting in the boiling sun watching small children get very hot in their PE kits.

  The races start, and Charlie comes last in nearly every single one. He’s standing chatting to James for at least a minute before they even realise the egg-and-spoon race has actually started, and Miss Pike has to rush up and urge them both on. But they don’t seem to care. William is more successful, winning one race and coming second in another. Charlie and James turn out to be rather good at the three-legged race, partly because they don’t even attempt to run, but simply saunter up the course and thereby beat nearly all the others who shoot off at a tremendous pace and promptly fall over. The teachers manage to contriv
e things so that each child wins something, which is very clever of them really as most of the reception class run in completely the wrong direction in their race, or refuse to run at all.

  Once the medals have been doled out, the tug-of-war is announced, and the first competition is the Men versus Women, like last year. It turns out we have a secret weapon in a new mother of three, who’s built like a small tank and is brilliant at hanging on and not moving an inch. We all take our shoes off, and roll up our trousers or tuck skirt hems into our knickers, to show we mean business, and try to grip the rope as hard as we can. The other women cheer us on, and shout abuse at the men. I feel positively gladiatorial. Kate is behind me and Sally is in front. Roger risks a little shout of encouragement, and is glared at by all the men.

  We win the first round, the men win the second, and then things get very tense for the third and final round. We all cling on desperately and then Tank Woman gives an almighty pull and all the men fall over. We do too, but only after we have yanked the rope far enough to be declared the winners. Marvellous. We run about yelling and congratulating ourselves, saving all the special praise for our new team mate who goes bright pink at all the compliments. The children look very embarrassed, and turn away from the spectacle of their mothers making total fools of themselves. Some of the men are sulking and demanding a rematch, but we are jubilant and will have none of it. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a familiar car, parked at the edge of the field, a huge BMW which I’m sure is the same as Mack’s. Walk over to take a closer look and, sure enough, the door opens and Mack gets out.

  He gives me a blistering kiss hello, which causes ripples of comment to spread round the entire playing field. I can see I’ll have some explaining to do in the village shop next time I pop in for a pint of milk.

  ‘I couldn’t resist – the tug-of-war, it just sounded so enticing. I’ve been sitting here watching you and the girls and I must say it was most diverting. Are you going to leave your skirt tucked up like that? It’s very fetching, but you might get cold.’

  ‘Shut up. You’re just in time for the Villagers and Newcomers contest. Anyone who hasn’t lived in the village for more than five years gets dragged round the field by the locals. Come on, you’ll love it.’

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly. I’m trained to kill, you know, Moneypenny, and things might get ugly. Look, there’s another woman with her skirt tucked into her knickers – she seems to know you.’

  ‘Yes, that’s Kate.’ Kate comes over and looks at Mack and I introduce them. I notice she smoothes out her skirt while she’s saying hello, and I do the same because, apart from anything else, it is getting a bit chilly. We invite Mack to come and sit on our blanket and join in the fun.

  He’s brought a very stylish wicker picnic hamper, packed by someone with far better taste than us, full of gorgeous little pies and cakes and a bottle of champagne, with real glasses and a posh waterproof blanket.

  ‘I didn’t know if this was a bring-your-own sort of thing, I hope it’s alright.’

  ‘Alright? It’s fantastic. But I must go and buy some stuff from the PTA stall or people will sulk.’

  I leave Kate chatting to Mack and go up to the salad stall to be confronted by a row of very tense women, standing behind their bowls of salad. I do the right thing and ask each of them for a portion, and compliment them on how delicious it all looks. If the local WI did a course on competitive salad making, this lot would sign up tomorrow. Mrs Harrison-Black is overseeing the barbecue, by occasionally shouting at the two men who are doing a perfectly good job without her. I buy some sausages and then, duty done, I go back to our picnic spot, to find Mack is now sharing out extremely expensive-looking cakes between Charlie, James and William, who are chomping away as if their lives depended on it. Charlie doesn’t seem at all surprised to see Mack, and shows him his newly acquired medal before running off to play. Kate gives me the thumbs-up sign while Mack is putting the hamper back into the car.

  ‘You didn’t tell me he was so gorgeous.’

  ‘Well, you know, a girl doesn’t like to boast.’

  ‘Well, I bloody would. The entire field is lusting after him. Well done you.’

  Sally joins in, ‘Oh yes, he’s lovely,’ and Roger says, ‘He seems a decent-enough chap,’ which makes us all laugh, and then Kate says, ‘Oh, watch out, he’s coming back.’

  Music starts blaring out from the loudspeakers again and people start dancing. There are strings of fairy lights strung all over the playground, and people drink far too much wine and think they can Twist Again, Like They Did Last Summer. It turns out they can’t, but they don’t seem to mind. Children start falling asleep as the sun goes down, and are tucked into the backs of cars by parents who want one more dance before they go home. Miss Pike has drunk quite a lot of wine, and is doing a version of the hokey-cokey all by herself, but she seems happy enough so we don’t like to interrupt her. Some of the dads organise a twilight game of football, which turns out to be hilarious because most of them are a bit tipsy and keep falling over. The children who are still awake, including Charlie and James, have a lovely time scoring countless goals against Roger, who only agreed to be in goal because he thought he might be able to sit down for a bit. Mack says he is crap at football, and anyway he isn’t wearing the right trousers. This makes me laugh so much I have to apologise and say I’m a bit drunk, and he says he noticed, and pretends to sulk and then suddenly kisses me, which is very nice but does not go unnoticed by Mrs Harrison-Black.

  Suddenly the music changes to slow smoochy numbers and Mack asks me if I want to dance. Actually I’d prefer to lie on the blanket and have a nice little sleep but since he’s come all this way I feel I should at least agree to dance with him. We walk over to the playground and the fairy lights, and begin to dance. I’m just getting into the swing of things, and enjoying myself immensely, when Mrs Harrison-Black barges over, taps Mack firmly on the shoulder and says, ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’ Mack looks at her with utter contempt, says, ‘No, that’s right. We haven’t,’ and then does a sharp twirl and leads us off to the other side of the playground. I’m so delighted I can hardly speak, and give him a kiss which turns out to be rather more passionate than I’d intended, and then the music stops. We walk back across to our blanket, and find Kate cuddling both James and Charlie who are almost asleep. Mack puts Charlie into the back of his car, while I tell everyone about his marvellous first encounter with Mrs Harrison-Black. We decide to leave before she comes over for Round Two. Mack drives us home and I stick Charlie straight into bed, and then Mack challenges me to another tug-of-war contest, this time with the duvet. I win again. The perfect end to a perfect day.

  Chapter Eight

  Yes, We Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside

  The weather has turned extraordinarily hot, and the combination of heat and trying to keep Charlie amused is totally exhausting. I decide, not for the first time, that I simply do not have what it takes to cope with the school holidays. I’m already totally fed up with spending ages filling up the paddling pool and arranging a selection of toys in the back garden, only for Charlie to chuck mud and grass in the pool and then announce he wants to watch a video. We try some painting outdoors with poster paints and sponges. The paint goes everywhere, and Buzz and Woody end up multicoloured. I can’t even justify going into the office to get a bit of peace and quiet because Barney has gone off to his villa in France.

  Lawrence is taking the opportunity to change the filing system in the office so nobody will be able to find anything in September, and will have to ask him where things are, which he will adore. He’s also moving all the desks around and trying out new combinations of furniture. Whatever he finally comes up with, I’m sure I will still have the collapsing chair. I’ve taken the precaution of removing all my files and notebooks and bringing them home, so he can’t lose them during the move. He’s still very annoyed about this.

  I decide to renovate our garden pond, and spend hours and a small fortun
e at the garden centre buying a pump and cable. Vital bits of the pump keep falling off and disappearing into the mud at the bottom of the pond. Charlie thinks the whole project is enormous fun and helps out by filling buckets with pond water and sloshing them over the entire garden. I balance on the edge of the pond trying to sort out the waterfall, which is made up of boulders and small pebbles. I fall in twice and get totally soaked. Switch on the power via a socket in the garage and rush out to see the full effect. Unfortunately the pump is more powerful than I thought and the waterfall dislodges all the boulders and plants, and the fountain’s about thirty foot high. After hours of trotting backwards and forwards, I finally get it right, and I sit with Charlie watching the fish enjoying the unusually clean water, and listening to the gentle sound of the splashing fountain.

  I’m just starting to relax when the pump reasserts itself and goes into overdrive. Charlie and I get soaked, and the waterfall dislodges all the plants again. Charlie runs around screaming with delight while I lose my temper and remove the pump and bash it against the garden wall for a bit. This seems to do the trick and it functions perfectly from then on, with no more Niagara impressions. I invite Kate round to applaud my handiwork and she’s suitably impressed. She’s off on holiday tomorrow, to stay in her Aunt Stella’s cottage in Dorset. We’re going down to join her for a long weekend. We’ve had trips to the cottage before, and the children are very excited about revisiting old haunts. I just hope I manage to get there without my usual three-hour detour getting lost. Kate has written out very detailed directions.

  ‘I still can’t work out how you ended up in Portsmouth. Anyway, here’s the route door to door, you really can’t go wrong. Do you think you might arrive before dark this time?’