The Meltdown of a Banker's Wife (13 page)

39

‘Alan! Good news! Poppy and I have arranged for the kids to stay at theirs over the weekend, so I can come with you on your jolly!' Mel enthused that evening.

‘OK. OK,' replied Alan, downloading something onto some sort of new gadget.

Mel decided that this trip would be the perfect opportunity to reignite their love. She was going to have to pack some rather luscious little numbers for the evenings. Maybe some furry handcuffs?? She felt very nervous, as if she was going on a first date or something. She hardly knew Alan these days, so it would be a bit of a challenge, especially in the presence of all those high-flyers! Private jet? Monaco? Big Swinging Dick … oops … must stop calling him that … she'd have to repeat ‘Brent Scheissgesicht' to herself like a mantra to ensure that she didn't make that particular booboo on the trip. When she was little and in the Brownies, she'd been given the part of Grandmother in The Brownie Story play. When she'd first learnt the script, the 1930s wording was thus, ‘Oh Tommy! Your knickers!' This she had faithfully memorised and since it sounded a bit naughty and therefore funny to a girl of nine, she had adopted that line as her favourite. But then, Brown Owl had changed those words to, ‘Oh Tommy! Your trousers!' in order to prevent outrage amongst the parents who had come to see their little cherubs on the stage of the Scout hut. Mel had tried very hard to relearn this line so that she could put on a politically-correct performance her parents and Brown Owl could be proud of. But when the time came, she couldn't help it …
‘Oh Tommy! Your knickers!!' was reverberating around the hall's wonderful acoustics before she could stop herself. She was treated like a social pariah and handled as though she had Tourette's syndrome by the Brownie pack. She was doomed always to be the Seconder and never the Sixer of the Imp Six. It was the beginning of the end of her potentially glittering career in the Guiding movement. When she left Brownies and started at Guides she felt that she was already a marked person. She was blackballed and as such was never to rise to the dizzying social stratosphere of Seconder again. And as the Guide leader was obsessed with sewing and embroidery badges Mel realised that she was, alas, beaten. No … she must never make such a huge social error again. She had learnt her lesson. Big Swinging Dick! … His name is Brent Scheissgesicht!!

And those were the first words she mumbled as she woke up alone in the king-sized bed the next morning. She went downstairs and found Alan with his face on the table, white powder in lines all over a mirror and a mound of milky cornflakes hanging from his nose and ear. She had now found a good use for another of her Tupperware boxes. She already had cannabis in one and now she would have to use the bigger size for Alan's mirror and … dare she think it? … Alan's cocaine. Thank goodness the children hadn't witnessed this. She set to mopping up the mess and cleaning illicit drugs and breakfast cereal from Alan's face. Mel shook the feeling of impending doom from her shoulders. Plenty of people live like this, she thought, probably everyone in finance, maybe even the next-door neighbours. That's all it is … I'm just too naive and boring, Mel soothed herself. Alan needed to do this for the family and she needed to support him one hundred per cent. It would all settle down in the end.

‘Can I take my big rubber caterpillar to Algy's, please Mummy?' begged Amy that Friday after school.

‘And can I bring my Sylvanian Families tree house? Please, Mummy!' piped up Michael.

‘Well of course,' said Mel. That's proof that Michael isn't being bullied by Algy any more. He trusts him with his most precious toy! She finally laid her misgivings to rest. Mel had turned her heart off and was finding this rational, logical, approach easier by the minute.

With a deadened heart but logic-satisfied mind, Mel set off to pack for her weekend of passion with the ‘beautiful people'. She would just have to make sure she followed all the ‘What Not To Wear' rules for her rather pear-shaped figure. Bit of lace here and there at strategic points where the cellulite was most obvious and ‘Bob's your uncle.'

Big … No! Brent was really quite a small, baldy little man. Either he was deluded about the size of his appendages, or his entire post-pubescent growth spurt had been invested heavily into the development of his dangly bits. Mel could see no obvious evidence. She could not spy any telltale bulge in his impeccable suit trousers and one leg did not appear wider down the length of his thigh than the other. Never mind, just have another drink, Mel, stop being so sceptical! He probably has his special supportive foundation gear on, made only for millionaires who possess huge ‘members'. Yep, that's what it was! She threw herself into being Poppy's best friend and Poppy returned the favour. Mel felt very suave and sophisticated as she fell out of the club at four in the morning with all the other ‘beautiful people'. Yes, she was definitely fitting in and having fun now!

All the way to Monaco in the private jet, Mel tried to anaesthetise herself further so that she didn't have to listen to the posturing and boasting going on all around her. Poppy was lapping it up as usual. She was in her element in this scorching atmosphere full of stimulant drugs and pulsating male hormones. Even Tarkers looked vaguely manly for a change. She hadn't communicated with Alan at all really since
the weekend had begun, but she observed that he was right in there, buzzing with Brent. Obviously, Alan's balls weren't allowed to be as big as the boss's. There was a definite wolfish hierarchy which was adhered to despite the influence of mind-blowing concoctions, but Alan obviously believed that his genitalia had grown massively in size over the past few weeks since his epiphany in banking.

Mel recalled waking up on a deluxe yacht full of staff in full gilded uniform on some stretch of water off Monaco. She didn't remember much about Monaco itself or her short stay there but was now alert. She noticed that the staff had done nothing as far as actually sailing the yacht was concerned, despite being dressed up in uniforms which rivalled those worn by the top brass of the world's navies. Their main function appeared to be to attend to every little whim of their boss and his guests. If that meant holding Saskia Borowiski's toy poodle over the side of the boat every ten minutes so that it could relieve itself, then so be it. Some staff even appeared to have the sole purpose of accompanying the boss into the loo … sorry … restroom. Mel could only imagine why. The whole experience of sitting on the yacht was completely surreal. People that didn't look quite like people moved around in her vicinity. The women had faces like Barbie dolls and it was very difficult – actually impossible – to read the expressions of any of them. They may as well have been wearing burkhas for all the non-verbal communication they could manage. Their facial muscles were so paralysed with botulism that the women could hardly open their mouths and skin was so stretched from south to north on their bodies that if they smiled it pulled their big toes up. The men were covered in what appeared to be leather hide, so much had their skin been roasted under tropical sun rays. Huge troves of expensive jewellery weighed the guests of the boat down to such an extent, Mel was surprised that the coastguard hadn't noticed how low the plimsoll line was. But
then, the coastguards were probably in the pay of these people too and would happily leave the crowd to their own devices.

There were at least twenty-five luxury cabins on this ‘yacht'. Mel and Alan had been allocated one but Mel didn't remember much about being in it. She certainly couldn't remember Alan sleeping in the huge tacky waterbed at all. He seemed to spend most of his time either with Brent, or in the midst of the band of Russian ‘models' who decorated the boat.

Flying home, she was glad that she had been too drunk to think about what had been going on around her, although she had the unshakeable sinking feeling that the party had not been very wholesome. Alan was asleep, his mouth hanging open with drool dripping out and his nose constantly running, but he appeared no different to the other party animals on the plane. Ah well, they were with friends, weren't they?

Poppy and Tarkers seemed particularly pleased with themselves and they were sickeningly snogging away in front of Mel at every opportunity.

Mel felt very sad. Everyone else seemed ecstatic with the proceedings, but she couldn't wait to get home, have a very long shower, pick up her babies and do innocent things again. She longed to snuggle her children and read them a story. Preferably a fairy story with no witches or trolls or ogres, because that would have been too representative of the company she had kept all weekend. The most interesting conversation she had had with anyone was about this one guest's tourist trip to orbit the moon, but even this was related in such a bored fashion that it felt almost mundane and tedious. What was painfully obvious to Mel was that these people had everything anyone could possibly wish for but it was so easily available that they were unsatisfied and bored. She supposed this was why they turned to other thrills. They didn't have to strive for anything.

Luckily, a limousine took them back to Poppy's place to pick up the children, as neither Mel nor Alan, Poppy nor
Tarkers, were in any fit state to drive, despite avoiding the intake of any mood-altering substances for six hours. Alan, Poppy and Tarkers were apparently bosom friends by now, making vague plans about future outings and sophisticated soirées, but Mel walked on ahead to see her children.

They were all playing happily in the garden, she was relieved to witness. At least their weekend seemed to have been pleasant and innocent. The limousine waited while she readied the children and then they were thankfully delivered to their own door. Mel would have been quite content never to mix with such people ever again and marvelled at how her hippy, socialist husband had managed to metamorphosise into this oaf. When she had first met him in Covent Garden, Alan had been a City trader, but he was tongue-in-cheek. He could see the wood for the trees. He would take the piss out of the mad environment in which he worked. That was one of the things that made him so attractive. Now though, since the arrival of the ‘American Dream', Alan was talking bigger and louder but the vessel emitting the noise appeared empty. Mel shook her head in order to knock that thought out of her mind. After all, the whole reason she had gone with him was to try to save their relationship. She owed it to her children. She owed it to herself. Alan was probably acting out of character just to get on, she decided … he'd return to normal as soon as Brent flew back across the ‘Pond'.

‘How were the animals? Did they behave?' Kelly had been babysitting Ozzie and Iggy while they'd been away.

‘Ozzie brought something unspeakable into your house the other day. He'd only left the feet and one kidney and I'll swear that the mauled beast's feet were at least adult size five with huge claws. Does he always bring in things like that? He doesn't seem big enough to hunt down big game, let alone dissect and eat most of it! He isn't even covered in blood!'

‘Yep … he does it all the time! Don't let the cute little pink nose and innocent eyes fool you. I think he tries to make up for his small size and silly meow with his prowess as a maniacal killer. How was Iggy?'

‘Oh, Iggy was lovely. Very licky. He's been for loads of walkies, haven't you sweetie? The kids have loved having him. Maybe we should have a doggy?' Kelly looked for affirmation from Matilda and Ivan.

‘Yes! Mummy! Yes, let's get a doggy!' they both yelled. Mel thought back to the yacht in Monaco. She was very glad she had a proper soppy, licky dog that got so excited he peed himself rather than that poor pink-dyed toy poodle with a bow on it's head. That poor little thing wasn't allowed to walk anywhere but was carried in a special deisgner carry case and held over the side of the yacht to wee. This excuse for a mini wolf didn't even smell of dog. It was bathed at least twice a day in fragrant potions and even had its own dog psychiatrist. The poodle didn't have its own animal psychiatrist, no, this supposed doctor specialised in dog psychiatry … poodle psychiatry in particular! There had been other animals on the yacht; iguanas, pandas, cougars, and each one appeared to have a flotilla of specialist overpaid attendants attached to it!

‘What was it like on your trip to Monaco then, Mel? Did you have a good time?' asked Kelly.

‘Depends what you mean by a “good time” really! It's all relative, isn't it?' Mel attempted to avoid giving a straight answer. It seemed rather petulant of her, rather ungrateful, to admit that the entire ü
ber
-luxury weekend had been a very disturbing experience. ‘Well!? Did you have a laugh or not? It's quite simple! How were Poppy and Tarkers?' demanded Kelly.

‘I can look back and see the funny side now … sort of.' Mel shivered but tried to smile. ‘I mean … I was pretty drunk for most of the time, I think. I'll probably remember some fun bits later when I've had a bit of sleep.'

‘Did it help with you and Alan though? Did it bring you closer as you planned?'

‘Sadly no.' Mel couldn't keep the pretence up any longer. She felt like crying as she unburdened herself. ‘It was a total disaster. He spent his entire time snorting illicit drugs literally comparing the size of his willy with those of all the other male and sometimes possibly female morons on the boat. These people are seriously defective, Kelly.' Mel was sobbing now. ‘We need to get away! Somewhere very different. Very basic, maybe?'

‘Have you thought any more about booking our group holiday?'

Mel had forgotten about that. What a good idea. It might help heal her marriage more than counselling. It might help Rob as well. ‘We have to get this thing arranged – tomorrow!'

‘Yeah!' agreed Kelly.

40

‘So when are you coming up to stay with us, Melly love?' asked her mum on the phone later. ‘Your father will be back from his birdwatching trip to Algeria on Saturday and Briony and Zeus are staying in their teepee in the back garden next week. Briony's due in a month's time, so it would be divine if we could all meet up next week. What do you think?'

‘Actually, that sounds like a bloody good idea!' agreed Mel. There was only one more week of the school term and she desperately needed to get away and think.

‘OK. We'll be with you next week!' she enthused.

‘Great, darling. I'll tell the neighbours! We can have a party!'

Kelly, Imogen and Mel met up after dropping the kids off at school next morning and set off to the travel agents to get some ideas. Money was no object as far as Mel was concerned at the moment. It was the only positive outcome from Alan's new devotion to the god of Ponsonby and Tosser Bank. She had tried to discuss the proposed holiday with Alan the night before, but hadn't got much sense out of him. Alan could hardly sit still and didn't seem bothered one way or the other about going away, so Mel thought she may as well go ahead and give Alan a
fait accompli
.

After a coffee, the girls walked into the travel shop and sat down to try and get more of a coherent idea as to where they should go and what they really wanted.

‘What are we trying to achieve out of this holiday, Mel?' asked Imogen.

‘Well, shall we list our desires and see which destination fits?' suggested Mel.

They took some paper and pens from the agent and started to list their ideas, ambitions, wishes.

‘Sun, sea, sand … is that it?' laughed Kelly. ‘I thought we were seeking something deeper than that!'

‘Well, I also have a huge ambition to drink a lot of alcohol.'

‘That goes without saying, Immy, of course. But we could stay here for that. We need to go somewhere more exotic than Skegness or Southend-on-Sea. Why did we first decide on this expedition?' asked Kelly. ‘The plan appealed to me because Rob has been throwing empty beer cans at television commercials and singing scary and disturbing parodies of advertising jingles. I'm also finding it more difficult to make sense of my life and need more of a challenge than cleaning, cooking and opening a bottle of wine at four o'clock every day.'

‘Yes! I first thought of this when Alan reached his crossroads at Ponsonby and Tosser. It was just about the time when he decided to actively switch his brain and morals off. This planned adventure started with the arrival of Big Swinging Dick.'

‘So what have these triggers got in common?' asked Imogen.

‘I felt that we needed to do something and go somewhere more real. Somewhere with no computers and gadgets!' started Mel.

‘Yes! Somewhere with nothing to buy and nothing to sell. Where all that matters is cooperation and survival,' continued Kelly.

‘Somewhere we could all be ourselves and maybe then find what makes us happy,' concluded Imogen.

So they wrote Basic; Real; Cooperation; Happiness; Being; No Gadgets on their piece of paper and looked at it for a moment before going to look at brochures.

‘Can I help you at all, ladies?' asked a travel agent.

They could see nothing to fit the bill in the glossy brochures on the shelves. Stunning photos and five-star-rated hotels did not fit in with ‘basic' or ‘real'.

‘Maybe you can,' said Mel.