The Meltdown of a Banker's Wife (2 page)

3

Most of the house and garden was bestrewn with phantom-like clouds of flour and long, twisting white glops of dough and cake mix. Bits of eggshell and animal fur completed what could have easily passed as a viable piece for presentation as art at Tate Modern. Cakes, of a sort, were in the oven. Children and mother really needed a bath. Strings of cake mix dripped through their hair as Amy and Michael licked out the bowl. One of the greatest pleasures Mel recalled from childhood was licking raw cake mix out of the bowl – all this boring ‘nanny state' nonsense about the risk of salmonella in eggs was not going to stop Mel from indulging in it. She watched with satisfaction the happy children creating things and the feeling of success helped her to rise above the bedlam of a kitchen she would need to handle later. She checked the time on the oven clock and took the children upstairs for their bath.

The delicious smell of baking cakes wafted merrily around the house like a warm and benevolent sprite which calmed the mood of all it touched. The children didn't argue while they were in the bathroom. It was like a scene from a fifties advert. Then, from downstairs, came Alan's voice, ‘Honey, I'm home!'

‘Hello! You're back early,' she remarked.

‘Some things going on at work. Talk to you about it later. Want a drink?'

‘Oh … gin and … tea! I'll have tea please!' Mel was getting seriously worried about her preoccupation with gin.

‘Do you want that stuff that tastes like soggy weeds?' enquired Alan.

‘No thanks. Just bog-standard teabag please. Be down in a minute.'

‘Mummy, why've my fingers gone all wrinkly? Look, they've got lines all over them!' Michael asked.

‘The water in the bath makes them go like that,' Mel replied.

‘But why, Mummy? Does the water suck everything out of your skin? Is it vampire water, Mummy?' Amy quizzed in a spooky voice, eyes glinting as she marched her wrinkled fingers up Michael's back.

Michael screeched. ‘I'm getting out of here! I'm never having a bath ever again!' He launched himself out of the bath, trying to dry himself on the floor. ‘Get the water off me! It's trying to eat me!'

‘Calm down, Michael. Water can't eat you, it just dries your skin out after a while. It'll get back to normal in a few minutes!'

‘Don't be silly, Mummy!' chided Amy. ‘How can water dry your skin out? Water's wet!'

Mel tried to remember science lessons about osmosis and diffusion and surface tension, but it was no good.

‘Look, just calm down. The water won't hurt you … Look. I'll put my face in the bath so you can see that it's safe.'

‘No! Don't, Mummy!' pleaded Amy and Michael. But Mel's face was already plunged in the water. When she took her head out, she saw two children aghast and one confused Alan staring at her, as her make-up slowly melted down her face and mascara stung her eyes.

‘Mel, what are you doing? You're frightening the children,' remarked her husband helpfully. She stood up and looked in the bathroom mirror. Yes, she was indeed a scary sight – she looked like the incredible melting woman.

‘Mummy, the water's eating your eyes!' shouted Amy and both children ran to the bedrooms screaming.

‘Great,' said Alan.

‘Yes,' said Mel.

4

Mel squeezed through the door into Amy's room whilst Alan went to comfort Michael. She could feel oozy slime toys bursting under the pile of bears left behind the door earlier. Amy was sniffing and quietly talking to someone or something.

‘Willy … do you like water?'

Amy had infinite faith that Willy could understand her and so he did his very best to send telepathic thoughts to the little girl.

‘I knew you wouldn't like water!' she cried. ‘You are so clever. You are my best friend!'

‘Amy … who are you talking to now?' asked Mel as her feet squelched on the carpet.

‘No one, Mummy.'

‘Oh.' Mel was worried now. Amy obviously had an imaginary friend. She'd have to talk to someone about this. She put her arm around her daughter.

‘Are you all right Amy? You're not still scared of the water are you? You know it doesn't really eat you? Mummy only put her face in it to show you that it was safe.'

‘But why have you got lines running from your eyes, Mummy? Why are you crying?'

‘That's just mascara. It runs when it gets wet.'

‘What's mascara?'

‘It's make-up that ladies put on their eyelashes.'

‘Why?' asked Amy.

‘To make their eyes look pretty.'

‘Oh … But they don't look pretty now, Mummy.'

‘No. Never mind. Let's just have a cuddle. We'll clean this mess up in the morning.'

‘If I'm really good and clean up the mess, can we go to Aphid World tomorrow?' asked Amy, as ever the opportunist.

‘All right. But promise me you'll try and be kinder to Michael, won't you? Otherwise it won't be happening. Go in and see your brother and tell him that there's no such thing as vampire water!'

‘OK …' Amy said, uncertainly; for the vibes she was picking up from Willy told her otherwise.

Mel carried Amy over the pile in the bedroom doorway and through to Michael's room, where a scene of sedate domestic bliss awaited her. Already, Michael had cleaned his teeth, changed and got into bed. Alan had just got his Dr Seuss book out for a bedtime story.

‘Can we join you?' asked Mel.

‘Yes of course. Bunch up in the bed.'

And so it was that the family ended their day more like the Waltons than the Addams Family.

5

Children asleep upstairs, Alan and Mel sipped their tea. Mel was too tired for a gin and tonic, which was a relief because at least it meant that she didn't need to address her drink problems just yet.

Alan spoke. ‘So, what have you been doing today?'

Mel just gave him a look that even the most insensitive, testosterone-loaded caveman could interpret. The impression was made all the more powerful by the fact that her hair was standing mainly at a 90-degree angle from her scalp … not easy when one's hair is shoulder length … and there were thick twists matted very fetchingly in clumps of mucus and make-up residue on her cheeks and forehead.

‘Point taken,' he nodded in sympathy. ‘Would you like to know what I've been doing today?'

‘Yep. Something going on, you said?' Mel thought it only polite to make some effort to look interested and keep her eyes open. I need to go back to work, she thought. My brain is turning into mush.

‘Yeah, well Mel … it's weird. Tim was suspended from work suddenly today. They just removed him from the office, security people and everything. The police have taken his computer for investigations and people keep talking about Wall Street in hushed voices. Martin's been sweating like a pig all day and I'm really not sure what's going on. Last time there was this sort of atmosphere it was Black Monday but I see no signs of things going tits-up in the markets.'

‘Oh,' said Mel. Well, what could she say? The world of work, of finance, of grown-ups was so far outside her remit
now that she shivered at the thought of entering it again, much as she wanted to.

‘“Oh” indeed,' agreed Alan with a faraway expression in his eyes.

‘You're trying to look all sage and wise again, Alan,' she observed.

‘Mmm,' he murmured. ‘Fancy a G and T? I'm having a whisky.'

Alan never drank … well … not never but it was a high-days-and-holidays sort of thing. Things must be bad.

‘OK.' So that's how Mel fell asleep on the sofa with a half-drunk glass of G and T on the table.

In the morning, she found herself in bed, still with the make-up disaster on her face. Alan must have carried her up! He was already dressed and set to go when he woke her.

‘All right, love. See you tonight.' Was that a portentous note in his voice? He did seem a bit worried. He normally had to be kicked out of bed.

‘Have a good day!' she offered, feeling bad that she'd been too tired to listen to him last night.

He kissed her on the nose just as the children leapt on the bed, looking full of life and not at all emotionally disturbed this morning … Thank goodness!

Alan poked his head back around the door. ‘Oh … by the way, the kitchen's still a bit smoky so I've left the windows open and put the burnt cake tins in the sink. Bye!'

Smoke? Mel realised with horror that the cakes had had hours rather than the required twenty minutes.

6

Mel looked in the mirror. It wasn't pretty. Not at all. She looked liked the hag of the night! Something horrible from ancient Celtic legend seemed to have possessed her face and hair. The Celts invented the Wicker Man and had a penchant for severed heads on sticks. In fact, her head looked very much like something that has been put on a spike and nibbled at by numerous verminous creatures. Yes, she had suddenly remembered the probable state of the kitchen, but there was no way she was going to go down and face that little beauty until she'd made an effort to restore her appearance. She retired to the bathroom, followed by her two prodigies.

She could barely open her eyes, they were sort of glued shut by unspeakable polymer-like substances which could only have been rivalled in viscosity and tensile strength by something produced in the cracking process of an oil refinery. The children were pulling at her sleeves, bounding up and down.

‘Mummy! Mummy! What shall we do today!?'

It was only eight-thirty in the morning. She could barely get her brain past getting into the shower, let alone plan a whole
curriculum diem
, honed in such a way as to keep both children happy and entertained. Her children were so diverse in their interests that she would need an awful lot of sustenance, grit, water to wash with and possibly advice from Kofi Annan. A tall order … Very, very tall indeed.

‘We'll ring Kelly and see if she wants to go on a picnic or something?' she suggested.

‘Aphid World!' demanded Amy.

‘We could maybe build that into our picnic day,' Mel reasoned.

‘You promised! I've tidied my room!'

‘Really?!' Mel was shocked. Was it possible that Amy had achieved this huge feat already today? The full horror of Amy's room had passed her by last night, so guilty had she felt about scaring the poor little mites with her portrayal of a monster emerging from the bubble bath.

‘I'll have a look when I've had a shower,' she concluded decidedly. ‘Let me have a shower in peace. Go and watch CBeebies for a bit.'

It would be all her fault when her illiterate children grew up on a diet of virtual reality games, only to become sociopathic, homicidal maniacs as teenagers. But somehow Mel just didn't have the energy to commit to beating herself up about it this morning. She was sure that
Teletubbies
hadn't caused psychosis in any children yet … Although she wasn't so certain that it hadn't had an adverse effect on her own beleaguered mind.

‘Yes. Go and watch CBeebies,' she confirmed and then dived behind the shower door, putting the water on full in an effort to knock some sense into her mind and soul.

Upon descending the stairs, Mel heard Amy and Michael bickering over which Teletubby was carrying the handbag and whether it was a boy or a girl. She thought it wise not to get into that particular conversation at the moment and walked on to the kitchen.

Smoky!!? It was more like a scene from the pit of Hell itself. There was an evil-smelling haze hanging in the air like a brick. The windows were open full but very little fresh air had managed to battle through. There were blackened strings of dried … what? She snapped a piece off. Oh yes … it was desiccated sooty cake mix. Of course. The cat sat in the basket staring scarily ahead of him. He had a cat flap but it appeared that the fumes may have overcome Ozzie's small brain. Admittedly this didn't take much as Ozzie was a
particularly thick cat who was frightened of slippers and had a very weird meow, as if he had permanent laryngitis. ‘E … eiooo!' said Ozzie, finally noticing his surroundings and the lack of food in his bowl in particular. The dog's bowl was also empty. Iggy Pop was hiding under the table, ears down, eyes looking up in a ‘Please don't beat me again' sort of a way as the very end of his tail flicked and twitched quiveringly. As usual, Iggy had decided that this disaster was all his fault. He would be minding his own business and suddenly some terrible disaster would befall his pack and his den and he could never work out why. Ozzie had no such qualms. He knew whose fault it was. Disdainfully, he watched Mel, switching his tail and ‘Ee … eeiooing'. OK. Mel knew when she was beaten. She fed the two of them although Iggy refused to touch anything until he had been outside to do a poo, just in case that was what had caused this misery in the first place. It was perfectly possible as far as Iggy was concerned, that he had pooed all over the house and had totally forgotten about it.

The baking tins in the sink swam in nasty, black, sooty water. Mel chucked them in the bin as she didn't think even the most dedicated of recycling people would be able to suss from which material these objects had been derived.

One hour later and she had destringed the kitchen. The walls and windows were slightly less lustrous than they usually were, but it looked less like Hades and more like a fifties pea-souper. She made herself a coffee and went into the sitting room. Amy and Michael were staring fixedly at the television as if mesmerised by
Bob The Builder
. Perhaps television wasn't so bad after all. Karl Marx might have compared it to the ‘opium of the people', as he had thought religion to be. Thinking about it, a TV is a bit like the graven image of a god, sitting in the corner being worshipped. She sat there dunking biscuits in her coffee, thoroughly enjoying what seemed to be the first peace and quiet in aeons. She was just
beginning to think that it wouldn't be so terrible if she just left her children there for another half an hour or so but just as she reached the door there was a squeal. ‘Michael pinched me, Mummy!'

‘No I did not!' shouted Michael and then they were rolling around the floor trying to pinch each other. Mel pulled them apart, sat them down to reason with them and ended her lecture with the threat that they would have to stay in their rooms all morning if they couldn't act like civilised human beings. She gave them breakfast and got them dressed and ready for the day.

‘Kelly!!' she cried over the phone. ‘Do you fancy taking the kids somewhere for a picnic? Maybe Aphid World?' She cringed, quite sure Kelly would give her a withering ‘No, not likely' for an answer.

‘Yes!' Kelly jumped at the suggestion immediately.

Good grief, thought Mel. ‘Oh! Well, shall I pick you up later then?'

‘When?' asked Kelly, in what sounded like a desperate tone.

‘How about eleven o'clock?' ‘Right … See you … Ow!' squeaked Kelly as she put the phone down.