Divas Don't Knit Read online

  The boys are showing Ellen how high they can bounce on my bed when I get upstairs.

  ‘Stop jumping, now, or you’ll break the bed.’

  Archie’s bright red and breathless, and still bouncing. ‘You can’t break beds, Mummy. You’re just being stupid.’

  Ellen laughs. ‘Don’t be cheeky, Archie, or I can’t give you your present.’

  He sits down immediately, and crosses his arms and legs like he does at school when they sit on the mat for storytime.

  Ellen’s usually got something highly unsuitable in one of her trendy bags, and today is no exception; she delves into a huge Mulberry leather tote and hands them each a potato gun and a large potato. How perfect. Now we can all dodge potato pellets for the rest of the day.

  Jack flings his arms round her waist.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Aunty Ellen, thank you ever so much, I’ve always wanted a potato gun, for ever actually, but Mummy wouldn’t let me have one.’

  He gives me one of his My Life Is Hopeless because of My Dreadful Mother looks (patent pending), and starts poking at his potato with the end of the gun. If I don’t stop him there’ll be bits of potato all over the upstairs landing carpet, and I’m trying to leave the house as tidy as possible for the new people, because Mrs Tewson in particular strikes me as someone who will be deeply unamused at finding bits of potato all over her new landing; she’s already asked me which cleaner I use on the kitchen tiles, which I’m pretty sure was her idea of a subtle hint.

  ‘Hang on a minute, Jack. Let’s get you dressed and then you can take your guns out into the garden. I wonder if the squirrel will be out?’

  This does the trick, because they’re both desperate to vanquish the naughty squirrel who eats the birdfood we have to put out on a daily basis since Jack overdosed on sodding Bill Oddie’s Bird Watch; I keep meaning to write and ask them how Bill manages to avoid getting tangled up with marauding squirrels every time he tries to hang his nuts up, but I’ve got a feeling my letter might end up in the loony pile.

  ‘The squirrel will be very surprised if we get him with our guns, won’t he, Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, Archie.’

  Ellen snorts. ‘He might just collect the bits of potato and go home and make chips.’

  Archie giggles, but Jack gives her a rather worried look.

  ‘Squirrels don’t eat chips, Aunty Ellen, they haven’t got cookers.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘Yes, they eat nuts and berries. Mostly.’

  He looks at me for a spot of maternal approval. He likes confirmation when he’s got something right.

  ‘That’s right, Jack. Now let’s finish getting dressed, and Archie, please stop doing that, sweetheart.’

  He’s jabbing his gun into a black plastic bin bag full of clothes; I’ve run out of suitcases and they’re mostly I’ll-never-wear-this-again-but-it-was-bloody-expensive things. Suits I used to wear to work, and small summer dresses I can’t get into any more, which I like to think I’ll be wearing again one day, when I wake up miraculously three stone smaller with a proper job which doesn’t involve squirrel hunting with potato guns. And that’s another thing: I thought sudden bereavement was meant to make you go all pale and wan and lose vast amounts of weight, but I seem to have done rather the opposite. Possibly because I’ve spent too many consoling hours with the biscuit tin; but it was either that or vodka and at least you can still do the school run when you’ve been mainlining Jaffa Cakes all day.

  ‘I want to wear my Spiderman outfit.’

  ‘Not today, Archie.’

  I’d quite like to avoid moving house in fancy dress if we can possibly avoid it, but after a fairly concentrated round of stamping and shouting we agree on a compromise; he’ll wear the top and trousers, but not the face mask that he can’t actually breathe in and makes him sound like a mini-Darth Vader. And he’ll wear his wellies to go out in the garden, even though officially Spiderman wouldn’t be seen dead in a pair of wellies. He’s still huffing and tutting as they go downstairs with Ellen for Squirrel Wars: The Final Revenge, while I try to work out what I need in the bags I’m taking with us in the car.

  Our first night in the new house seems like a fairly crucial moment, and I want to get it right, and we’ll need Archie’s nightlight for definite, or he’ll never get to sleep. And Jack’s favourite dinosaur pillowcase with his name on, and warm pyjamas in case the boiler’s as useless as the survey predicted. God, I’m feeling really nervous about this; they’ve both been quite keen on the idea of moving so far, but I think that’s because we’ll be so near Gran, who they both adore, and not just because she tends to slip them bags of fluorescent sweets when she thinks I’m not looking. I think they know I’m more relaxed when we’re there, which means they can relax, too. Gran’s house has always been my place of safety, with summer picnics, and flannelette sheets in winter with a faint hint of lavender and a hot-water bottle, because Gran thinks electric blankets have a tendency to go berserk in the night and boil you while you’re asleep. But given how much more clingy and prone to tears they’ve both been over the past few months, especially Jack, they might change their minds when we get there. Jack hates change of any kind, and even a new cereal bowl can set him off, so I’m thinking a whole new house might be a bit of a challenge.

  I’ve already put his old baby blanket in the car, because I’m pretty sure he’ll want it tonight; Archie’s never really gone in for special blankets, although he did get very attached to a yellow plastic hammer for a while, mainly because he liked hitting Jack with it. He even used to take it to bed with him until the magic fairies came and cheekily swapped it for a Captain Incredible outfit while he was asleep. But Jack used to carry his blanket everywhere, and it’s resurfaced over the past few months. I’m knitting him a new one, which was meant to be finished in time for the move, but I’m still finishing the border, so that’s another thing I’ve failed to organise properly. But at least knitting it has kept me sane over the past few weeks when everything else has felt so out of control. He chose a seaside theme in honour of his new bedroom, so I’ve done pale-blue cotton squares, with a darker sky-blue border, and all the squares have fish motifs knitted into them, some more fishlike than others, but he loves it already so I’m hoping it’ll help him sleep, because he’s been waking up with bad dreams again recently.

  I’ve just finished putting the bags into the car when George arrives with what appears to be Starbucks’ entire stock of muffins for the day, carrying in the grey cardboard trays and brown paper bags while the boys hop up and down with excitement at the prospect of a Muffin Mountain.

  ‘It’s a feast, Mummy, look. A proper feast. And I can have two, or even more, if I like, Aunty Ellen said I could.’

  ‘Well, let’s have a drink first, and see how you go shall we, Archie?’

  I’m trying to divert his attention long enough to get some juice down him before he starts on the muffins, but I don’t know why I’m bothering, because he can eat incredibly quickly when he wants to; he’s like a hamster, he simply bulges out his cheeks so he can fit more in.

  Jack’s drinking his juice, looking very chirpy.

  ‘The squirrel’s hiding up his tree and he won’t come down, so we’re shooting him up the tree, and it’s great.’

  ‘Well, finish your drink and you can show me, love. Ellen, do you want a muffin? Only I’d get in quick, if I were you.’

  ‘No, thanks, darling. I might just have a small piece of Archie’s, though.’ She looks at Archie, who crams the remainder of his muffin into his mouth as quickly as he can and tries to smile at the same time. ‘Or maybe not.’

  We wander back outside with our coffees, and watch the boys racing around firing at invisible squirrels.

  Ellen sighs. ‘This is the closest I’ve been to a bloody potato for months.’

  ‘Ellen, we had chips last week, on the beach, when we went down to look at the shop.’

  ‘Well I didn’t have many, and I had to do an extra session wit
h Errol to make up. You know I worked it out once, and I’ve spent weeks of my life on that fucking treadmill. Christ, when did we all decide we had to be so bloody perfect?’

  ‘When we decided to become a Media Star?’

  ‘Star, my arse. They’ve taken on another new girl, did I tell you? Alicia something, looks about twelve, legs up to her armpits, and she’s shagging management, I just know she is, only I haven’t worked out who yet. Probably Tim Jensen, but the make-up girls are on the case so we’ll know soon enough.’

  The women who do the make-up are a top source of gossip; they winkle out everyone’s secrets while they’re slapping on the foundation, and if you don’t spill the beans they make you look like a drag queen. Whenever you see someone reading the news with a particularly orange face, or pantomime eye shadow, you can be sure they’ve been holding back top nuggets.

  ‘So that’ll be another bloody nymphet after my job. Christ.’

  There’s been a rash of nymphets recently, parachuted in by management without any proper training, and they usually crash through a couple of bulletins before they get sent off to the regions to try and pull themselves together.

  ‘What happened to that other one? The dark-haired one Brian Winters brought in, who kept going on about what people were wearing on serious stories? The one who said Well, I can tell they’re very upset, Ellen when you were on a live link to Scotland Yard and you asked her how they were reacting to yet another enquiry saying they’d totally screwed up.’

  We both laugh.

  ‘I rather liked the sound of her.’

  ‘So did Brian Winters, until his wife found out. They didn’t renew her contract, so she wrote Wanker on the bonnet of his car, with bright red nail varnish, Dior Rouge, I think. It was fabulous. Security must have seen her, but they pretended they hadn’t.’

  ‘How brilliant.’

  ‘I know. She went right up in my estimation, I can tell you. But no wonder everyone keeps moaning on about young women today drinking themselves into stupors and taking their tops off in pubs. What the fuck’s the point of being all ladylike and refined when you’re up against lying bastards like that? Or saddled with some bloody new man, pretending he doesn’t mind if you earn more than him while secretly he’s fuming? New man my arse. You know Zara’s husband, Adam, who works in the City, thinks he’s God’s gift?’

  ‘The one with the hair?’

  ‘Yes. Well she just got promoted to the top job in the last shuffle at LTV, and do you know what? She’s told him she’s been downgraded to executive assistant and she says he’s loving it. She’s earning a bloody fortune, but instead of smuggling in shopping bags because she’s spent too much of his money, she’s smuggling them in because she’s spent too much of her own. Can you believe it? She says he’d have a breakdown if he knew. Honestly, I’d bloody take my top off in pubs if it wouldn’t end up in the fucking papers.’

  ‘Yes, but at least we’re allowed to earn more than the boys now, even if they do hate it.’

  ‘Yes, technically, but not if you still want them to speak to you. God, I hate New Men. It was better when they were honest; you could be a typist or nurse or a waitress, and if you made it through in anything else you were a nutter and they left you alone. But now you get all this ball-breaker crap, while they sponge off you and moan about their masculinity being threatened.’

  ‘Bring back the good old days? When all you had to do was find a nice boy, marry him and stop at home and polish things?’

  ‘Exactly. Until you finally snapped and woke him up one night by stabbing him in the neck with your nailfile.’

  ‘I don’t think that happened very much, did it?’

  ‘It happened to my Aunty Fiona; she got Uncle Brian right under his ear. He was always telling her she was stupid at family lunches, stuff like that. But the worm eventually turned.’

  ‘Was he all right?’

  ‘Yes, just a couple of stitches, but I don’t think he slept very well after that.

  We’re both cackling as the doorbell rings.

  ‘Sod it, I bet that’s Mrs Parrish. You know how she kept coming round with food parcels before the funeral. Well, she’s at it again, only now it’s sorry-you’re-moving snacks. She likes to chat and it all takes ages.’

  ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please, that’d be great.’

  Ellen comes back clutching a tin-foil tray of brownies.

  ‘She just wanted to say she hopes you’re very happy in your new home and you’re to ring her, if you want that telephone number. What’s that all about, then? Fixing you up with a hot date?’

  ‘Hardly. Her husband died a few years ago and she joined some widows’ group, and she keeps trying to recruit me. She’s brought me all the leaflets and everything, and apparently you’re meant to go through stages: acceptance, denial, and anger. Or it might be the other way round.’

  ‘Well, a group might be good, you know, meeting new people and all that.’

  ‘Yes. New tragic people.’

  ‘True. Actually a shag would be much better.’

  ‘Please, that’s the last thing I need, and anyway I wouldn’t know what to talk about; unless they were into Spiderman I’d be in serious trouble.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry, darling, they prefer it if you just listen. And nod admiringly – that always goes down well. It’s when you start talking that it tends to get complicated.’

  ‘It would feel like I was cheating on Nick.’

  She gives me a Look.

  ‘I know, but it would. I can’t explain it. If there was a group for Widows Who Were Just About to Get Divorced I’d bloody join it, I definitely would. It’s absolutely crap; I can’t be a poor widow, mourning the loss of the love of my life, and I can’t be a Just Divorced and Still Fuming, either, so it’s hopeless. You really know you’re in trouble when there isn’t even a support group you can join.’

  ‘Well never mind, they’re all full of moaners, in England anyway. I bet there’d be one in New York.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s quite a long way to go on a Tuesday night, isn’t it?’

  ‘I know, I’ve just had one of my brilliant ideas. I’ll be your group. It’ll be great. I’ll call you up once a week and do my special therapy voice, and you can tell me how you’re feeling and I’ll tell you that you need to get laid and it’s all your mother’s fault. Which is the truth, and it’ll save you a fucking fortune. It’ll be perfect. God, these brownies are great.’

  ‘She’s such a nice woman, but I do get fed up of talking to people who use that special tone of voice, like you’re some victim of a disaster who might start screaming at any moment.’

  ‘Well, you are.’

  ‘Thanks very much, that’s very supportive. I think I may be getting a glimmer of how your new therapist role might work, and I wouldn’t give up the day job yet if I was you.’

  ‘Well it is a bit tragic, you’ve got to admit; your husband drives his car into a tree just when he’s got a big new job and you’ll finally start having some proper money to play with, and then you find out the bastard’s taken out a second mortgage without telling you, and you’ve got to sell up and go and live in the middle of nowhere and work in your gran’s bloody wool shop. How much more fucking tragic can you get?’

  She’s smiling, but I know she’s half serious.

  ‘Yes, but I keep telling you, it’s my shop now – we’ve signed the papers and everything – and it’s not the middle of nowhere, it’s only half an hour from Whitstable, and you can hardly move there for Londoners in stripy jumpers. It’s always heaving with them being all nautical and trotting round the fish market every weekend. And anyway you know how trendy knitting’s getting; it’ll be a new start, which is what we need, and I can make enough money to feed us all at the same time. At least, I hope I can.’

  ‘Yes, in Notting Hill maybe, but not Nowhere-by-the-Sea.’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t afford Notting Hill. I can’t afford anywhere Hill, no
t in London, and there’ll be no rent on the shop, so with the money from selling this place and Nick’s work policy I can pay off the mortgage here and get the new house and still have a bit left over to get the shop sorted. I’ve told you, it’s the only thing that makes sense.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not a bloody career, darling, twiddling bits of wool about all day. You were a great news producer, and you should come back to work. I could get you back in with us, you know I could.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Tom Partridge called me a few days ago. Was that down to you by any chance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ellen.’

  ‘Well, I might have mentioned something, possibly. So what did he say?’

  ‘Oh, the usual: how sorry he was about Nick, and how he always needed good freelance producers, and how family-friendly they were now, so if I was interested we should meet for a drink.’

  ‘Family-friendly my arse. He sent Kay Mallow off to do that earthquake story when she was only just back from maternity leave, deliberately, just to make a point. She was stuck there for nearly two weeks, frantically texting lists to her husband, who’s still guilt-tripping her about it. Anyway, Tom’s a serial shagger, everybody knows that. His wife’s on Prozac. I saw her at a drinks thing last week and she’s got the thinnest legs you’ve ever seen, she looks like a really pissed-off whippet. And she never took her eyes off him, all night.’