‘And not in a good way.’
‘And afterwards we could go to the Turd – that’s the bar, you know . . .’ Ellie continued.
‘Yes, I know,’ Isabel interjected, keen to dispel the impression she knew absolutely nothing about anything.
‘And then we come back here and watch a film on my laptop. I’ve got loads of romcoms.’
Ellie had it all mapped out, Isabel thought, happy to be bowled along in her slipstream. Bars and romcoms. It wasn’t the life she was used to, not at all.
Outside, in the garden, Diana was getting tired. Gardening was so exhausting when you did it all day. You ached all over, your extremities numbed. Hopefully she would get used to it; she would have to.
Perhaps she was overdoing it, working on Sunday when, officially, her first day was tomorrow, Monday. But the thought of sitting at home when there was so much to be done was impossible. There were issues with her new home that she chose not to face just yet: the neighbours, mainly.
Diana hastily reminded herself that, even in the wealthy part of London she had lived in, there had been neighbour problems. Different ones, perhaps. Her old neighbour, Sara Oopvard, she of the Queen’s gardeners, had been particularly ghastly. It seemed almost incredible, now that money was so tight, to recall how freely Sara had spent it – and no doubt still did – on services of such marginal necessity as the professional from the London Zoo aquarium who came to clean out the fish tank. Or the fashionable interior designer who, each December, came to ‘theme’ the Oopvard Christmas tree.
Sara, English wife of a rich Dutch banker, had been the first to drop her like a hot brick once divorce loomed, Diana remembered. But that had actually been a relief. Rosie need not, any longer, go for playdates with Milo, the Oopvards’ spoilt son.
Flashing now into Diana’s mind came the memory of Milo at his last birthday party. ‘Mu-um! Cassius and Ludo’ve dressed as Buzz Lightyear as well. They’ve copied me! You got me the same costume as everybody else. I hate it!’ He had ripped savagely at the Velcro on his spacesuit front. Diana felt a warm sense of relief that she never had to see the Oopvards again. However bad the new neighbours, they could not be as bad as the old.
Gathering her gardening tools, she pictured Sara in the gym, or on Twitter, or donning paper pants for a spray tan. Or competing away – and definitely not eating – in some fashionable organic café against other aimless and wealthy wives in the same boat – or yacht. Or perhaps having the muslin-covered fingers of a Hungarian facial specialist rubbing creams into her Botoxed forehead. Or as one of a privileged coven complaining around skinny lattes about Svetlana’s calling Moscow whenever she felt like it, or Imelda’s inability to manage the six-ring burner. Rosie’s own nanny, Hannah, had been a large, slow-witted creature employed solely because everyone they knew had such ‘help’. Diana, who had long wanted to look after Rosie herself, had been secretly glad to see the broad back of her.
Divorce had given her this opportunity. At first, accustomed to leaving the details to someone else, Diana had constantly found herself in sudden rain without a coat for her daughter, in a muddy park without a change of clothes. She had never had a bottle of water when Rosie was thirsty. She had not understood the importance of frequent loo breaks. Or how dips in sugar levels triggered mood swings.
Gradually, she had broken through. Among the things Diana now knew was that Rosie preferred crisps to chocolate and, while hating broccoli, would eat carrots. Rosie liked to draw and loved to swim. So far as books were concerned, she preferred Malory Towers to St Clare’s, Just William to Horrid Henry and, while she liked Harry Potter, she preferred Lemony Snicket’s ill-starred Baudelaire family, especially the baby, Sunny. She also loved Sherlock Holmes. Each new insight was a source
‘And afterwards we could go to the Turd – that’s the bar, you know . . .’ Ellie continued.
‘Yes, I know,’ Isabel interjected, keen to dispel the impression she knew absolutely nothing about anything.
‘And then we come back here and watch a film on my laptop. I’ve got loads of romcoms.’
Ellie had it all mapped out, Isabel thought, happy to be bowled along in her slipstream. Bars and romcoms. It wasn’t the life she was used to, not at all.
Outside, in the garden, Diana was getting tired. Gardening was so exhausting when you did it all day. You ached all over, your extremities numbed. Hopefully she would get used to it; she would have to.
Perhaps she was overdoing it, working on Sunday when, officially, her first day was tomorrow, Monday. But the thought of sitting at home when there was so much to be done was impossible. There were issues with her new home that she chose not to face just yet: the neighbours, mainly.
Diana hastily reminded herself that, even in the wealthy part of London she had lived in, there had been neighbour problems. Different ones, perhaps. Her old neighbour, Sara Oopvard, she of the Queen’s gardeners, had been particularly ghastly. It seemed almost incredible, now that money was so tight, to recall how freely Sara had spent it – and no doubt still did – on services of such marginal necessity as the professional from the London Zoo aquarium who came to clean out the fish tank. Or the fashionable interior designer who, each December, came to ‘theme’ the Oopvard Christmas tree.
Sara, English wife of a rich Dutch banker, had been the first to drop her like a hot brick once divorce loomed, Diana remembered. But that had actually been a relief. Rosie need not, any longer, go for playdates with Milo, the Oopvards’ spoilt son.
Flashing now into Diana’s mind came the memory of Milo at his last birthday party. ‘Mu-um! Cassius and Ludo’ve dressed as Buzz Lightyear as well. They’ve copied me! You got me the same costume as everybody else. I hate it!’ He had ripped savagely at the Velcro on his spacesuit front. Diana felt a warm sense of relief that she never had to see the Oopvards again. However bad the new neighbours, they could not be as bad as the old.
Gathering her gardening tools, she pictured Sara in the gym, or on Twitter, or donning paper pants for a spray tan. Or competing away – and definitely not eating – in some fashionable organic café against other aimless and wealthy wives in the same boat – or yacht. Or perhaps having the muslin-covered fingers of a Hungarian facial specialist rubbing creams into her Botoxed forehead. Or as one of a privileged coven complaining around skinny lattes about Svetlana’s calling Moscow whenever she felt like it, or Imelda’s inability to manage the six-ring burner. Rosie’s own nanny, Hannah, had been a large, slow-witted creature employed solely because everyone they knew had such ‘help’. Diana, who had long wanted to look after Rosie herself, had been secretly glad to see the broad back of her.
Divorce had given her this opportunity. At first, accustomed to leaving the details to someone else, Diana had constantly found herself in sudden rain without a coat for her daughter, in a muddy park without a change of clothes. She had never had a bottle of water when Rosie was thirsty. She had not understood the importance of frequent loo breaks. Or how dips in sugar levels triggered mood swings.
Gradually, she had broken through. Among the things Diana now knew was that Rosie preferred crisps to chocolate and, while hating broccoli, would eat carrots. Rosie liked to draw and loved to swim. So far as books were concerned, she preferred Malory Towers to St Clare’s, Just William to Horrid Henry and, while she liked Harry Potter, she preferred Lemony Snicket’s ill-starred Baudelaire family, especially the baby, Sunny. She also loved Sherlock Holmes. Each new insight was a source
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