St Peter’s, she might get to sit behind Max. I’m not sure she’s shown the same devotion to anyone since.’
‘He’s always had that kind of effect on girls – and it’s never stopped surprising him.’
‘So who was the lucky girl who got him in the end?’
‘No one did. He’s never married. Never even lived with anyone.’
‘I’d better not tell Becky that. She might think she’d be in with a chance – not that she’s free, of course.’
‘Well, when I say he’s never lived with anyone, I mean he’s had relationships with women – some pretty long-term – but he’s never lived with any of them in the conventional couple-living-together way. He likes communities. Groups of unrelated people living together.’
‘God! I find living with groups of related people hard enough,’ laughs Angie, nodding at the row of framed school photographs and one large wedding portrait on the mantelpiece. ‘And what about you?’
‘Me?’
‘Husband? Children? In case I never do find that article.’
‘One child. A daughter. Susanna. Pretty grown-up now. She grew up in Africa –’
‘Gosh and there was I thinking Catalonia was exotic.’
‘Yes, well – and then in Dorset. At a Steiner school.’
Angie looks puzzled, as though she had once known what a Steiner school was but couldn’t quite remember what her opinion had been.
‘She studied textiles at Brighton University. It was a toss-up between that or studying music – the flute – at Manchester. And now she lives with her boyfriend in London, not far from me. George. He’s a journalist. They seem very happy.’
‘Lovely! I just can’t imagine getting to that stage – having independent, grown-up children living away from home, earning their own living.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far. The “earning her own living” bit might take a while. Though she’s not been doing badly recently. She’s set up a batik business.’
‘Emily said something about that – and about her and your brother. But I can’t remember the details.’
I can feel myself holding my breath. I exhale as quietly as I can.
‘Are you OK?’ asks Angie. ‘Becky’s been suffering with hot flushes too. What we women have to bear!’
‘Sorry – yes, I’m fine.’
‘And what about your husband?’
‘I never had one of those,’ I say lightly.
Angie frowns very slightly.
‘I live with my partner, Dan,’ I add. ‘We’ve been together for about ten years.’
Angie looks relieved, or perhaps I’m just imagining it.
‘He’s a documentary-maker. I met him when he was going out to make a film in northern Cameroon and wanted some advice. He travels a lot – he’s filming in Mumbai at the moment – and I’m mostly based here now. I lecture in anthropology.’
‘Sounds lovely.’ She smiles. ‘Listen, I have to collect Ben – my youngest – from nursery. It’s literally just down the road – where the little shopping arcade used to be. I’ll probably be about ten minutes by the time I’ve had a full report on who he’s refused to play with today and what food he threw where. Help yourself to more tea and stuff. And there’s a new Hello! magazine somewhere amongst this mess.’
‘Thanks. That’s very kind.’
‘Mum and Dad built the conservatory on the back but, apart from that, nothing much has changed. We’ve been meaning to put in a new kitchen for ages but somehow we just never get around to it,’ she calls as she goes out of the front door. ‘And all that ’70s Formica seems to be back in fashion now.’
My mother would like to know that. She had a theory that, if you kept anything long enough, it would come back into fashion. I don’t think she ever threw any of her clothes away. She would let them out or down, take them up or in, depending on her size and the prevailing style. And that kept her pretty busy. Where other suburban housewives assuaged their boredom and despair with sherry or chocolate cake or trips to the
‘He’s always had that kind of effect on girls – and it’s never stopped surprising him.’
‘So who was the lucky girl who got him in the end?’
‘No one did. He’s never married. Never even lived with anyone.’
‘I’d better not tell Becky that. She might think she’d be in with a chance – not that she’s free, of course.’
‘Well, when I say he’s never lived with anyone, I mean he’s had relationships with women – some pretty long-term – but he’s never lived with any of them in the conventional couple-living-together way. He likes communities. Groups of unrelated people living together.’
‘God! I find living with groups of related people hard enough,’ laughs Angie, nodding at the row of framed school photographs and one large wedding portrait on the mantelpiece. ‘And what about you?’
‘Me?’
‘Husband? Children? In case I never do find that article.’
‘One child. A daughter. Susanna. Pretty grown-up now. She grew up in Africa –’
‘Gosh and there was I thinking Catalonia was exotic.’
‘Yes, well – and then in Dorset. At a Steiner school.’
Angie looks puzzled, as though she had once known what a Steiner school was but couldn’t quite remember what her opinion had been.
‘She studied textiles at Brighton University. It was a toss-up between that or studying music – the flute – at Manchester. And now she lives with her boyfriend in London, not far from me. George. He’s a journalist. They seem very happy.’
‘Lovely! I just can’t imagine getting to that stage – having independent, grown-up children living away from home, earning their own living.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far. The “earning her own living” bit might take a while. Though she’s not been doing badly recently. She’s set up a batik business.’
‘Emily said something about that – and about her and your brother. But I can’t remember the details.’
I can feel myself holding my breath. I exhale as quietly as I can.
‘Are you OK?’ asks Angie. ‘Becky’s been suffering with hot flushes too. What we women have to bear!’
‘Sorry – yes, I’m fine.’
‘And what about your husband?’
‘I never had one of those,’ I say lightly.
Angie frowns very slightly.
‘I live with my partner, Dan,’ I add. ‘We’ve been together for about ten years.’
Angie looks relieved, or perhaps I’m just imagining it.
‘He’s a documentary-maker. I met him when he was going out to make a film in northern Cameroon and wanted some advice. He travels a lot – he’s filming in Mumbai at the moment – and I’m mostly based here now. I lecture in anthropology.’
‘Sounds lovely.’ She smiles. ‘Listen, I have to collect Ben – my youngest – from nursery. It’s literally just down the road – where the little shopping arcade used to be. I’ll probably be about ten minutes by the time I’ve had a full report on who he’s refused to play with today and what food he threw where. Help yourself to more tea and stuff. And there’s a new Hello! magazine somewhere amongst this mess.’
‘Thanks. That’s very kind.’
‘Mum and Dad built the conservatory on the back but, apart from that, nothing much has changed. We’ve been meaning to put in a new kitchen for ages but somehow we just never get around to it,’ she calls as she goes out of the front door. ‘And all that ’70s Formica seems to be back in fashion now.’
My mother would like to know that. She had a theory that, if you kept anything long enough, it would come back into fashion. I don’t think she ever threw any of her clothes away. She would let them out or down, take them up or in, depending on her size and the prevailing style. And that kept her pretty busy. Where other suburban housewives assuaged their boredom and despair with sherry or chocolate cake or trips to the
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