‘Wonderful service, I thought!’ she whoops afterwards, as we and the rest of the congregation pour out of the church. Her ponytail is so neat and perky today that you’d think she’d been groomed for a gymkhana. ‘I’m so glad you’ve all come. I told you you’d enjoy it, didn’t I? You have, haven’t you?’
‘I thought it was great,’ says Trudie. ‘And not just because the priest looked like Mr August on a
Hollyoaks
calendar either.’
‘Now, my darling,’ Felicity beams, bending down to Tallulah as we hover at the front of the church, ‘straighten your back, like I told you. And let’s fix this hat, shall we?’
She yanks at Tallulah’s beret so that it’s positioned at a jaunty angle. Today Tallulah is wearing white tights, patent-leather shoes and a stiff buttoned-up coat – the sort of ensemble you might expect Little Lord Fauntleroy to turn up in at a royal wedding. Something tells me it wasn’t her mother who dressed her this morning.
‘Oh, Zoe,’ says Felicity, ‘Tallulah and I were wondering if you’re free for another play date this week. She’s keen to perform the new piece I taught her on the piano for Ruby. What do you think?’
‘Tuesday’s good for us,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll check my diary but I don’t think I’ve got any high-powered meetings that day.’
‘Marvellous, darling. We’ll come to you?’
Ruby and Tallulah love their play dates – and I’m quite enjoying them too. Not least because since I’ve been spending so much time with Felicity I’m now able to reel off the correct manner of addressing a baroness at a cocktail reception, and I can tell you the French for ‘Sorry, I’m allergic to caviar – do you have any truffles?’
‘Felicity, Tallulah, how are you?’ asks a soft American voice behind us.
‘Vicar! What a wonderful service,’ exclaims Felicity, gushing like a broken tap. ‘Your sermon was a particular highlight. Tallulah and I were quite moved.’
‘Well, that’s great to hear,’ smiles the priest, as he crosses his arms over his chest – which is so broad that I wonder if he spends every spare minute between prayers doing press-ups. ‘And it’s wonderful to see some newcomers, too. I’m Paul.’
Close up, Paul seems even younger than he did in church – he can’t be any more than two or three years older than we are.
‘Hi!’ we say enthusiastically, and a slightly awkward silence ensues. It’s filled by four-year-old Brett asking Amber if Taco Bells make her fart as much as they do his father.
‘Do you go to church back home in England?’ asks Paul.
‘Oh, yes,’ I fib, landing myself one step closer to eternal damnation. ‘Well, when I can, you know.’
‘Great! And how about you?’ he says to Amber. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Welcome to St Stephen’s – it’s great to have you.’
As Amber looks up, she flushes violently. When she meets his eye, it couldn’t have been more obvious she has the hots for him if little love-hearts were floating round their heads.
‘Um, I’m just here with Brett,’ replies Amber, flicking back a dreadlock and attempting to pull herself together. ‘I thought you had some interesting messages and everything but I’m into Scientology.’
‘Oh, really?’ replies the Reverend Paul, without batting an eyelid. ‘I have a friend who’s a Scientologist. L. Ron Hubbard’s dynamic principle of man’s existence is an interesting theory. We have some real in-depth discussions about it.’
Amber looks momentarily as if she’s lost the use of her vocal cords. ‘Um . . . good,’ she replies.
‘Clearly, I’m not a follower,’ he smiles, ‘but as someone who’s had a lifelong interest in both philosophy and theology I find some of the questions Scientology raises fascinating – about whether the goal of life is simply infinite survival. Then, of course, you get on to Dianetics – the relationship between the spirit, mind and body. What’s your view on that? Do you feel it provides some fundamental answers?’
‘Um, definitely,’ replies Amber. ‘Yup. No doubt.’
‘Well, I’d sure love to spend some time discussing it with you, Amber, but now I gotta go. So nice to have met you all. Come again, won’t you?’
When he’s out of earshot, Trudie turns to the rest of the group looking naughtier than a puppy that has pinched a chocolate éclair. ‘He’s
lovely
!’ she exclaims.
‘He’s a man of God!’ scolds Felicity.
‘Yeah, but is he single?’ Trudie winks.
‘For goodness’ sake, Trudie,’ Felicity says reprovingly. ‘You can’t think in those terms about someone in the Reverend Paul’s position. It’s completely inappropriate.’
‘Why?’ protests Trudie. ‘They’re allowed to get married and everything, aren’t they? Besides, I was just
commenting
, that’s all. I’m already attached, as you know.’
‘Good,’ replies Felicity.
‘Only I did think he had his eye on Amber,’ adds Trudie, clearly unable to stop herself.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Felicity snaps.
‘Why’s it ridiculous? Come on, Amber, what do you think? Gorgeous, isn’t he?’
‘I . . . well . . . I mean . . .’ Amber is flustered. ‘He seems very nice but, fundamentally, he’s a – a— Mainstream religion just isn’t something I could ever—’
‘Amber, Amber,’ interrupts Trudie, putting a comforting hand on her arm, ‘you don’t need to say another word. Just give us the nod when you’ve come round to the idea and I’ll set the two of you up together faster than you can digest a communion wafer.’
Chapter 28
After church, the kids and I head over to Trudie’s for a cup of tea. We always enjoy this routine except that her tea tastes stewed and is sweetened so heavily that the enamel on your teeth erodes just from looking at it.
We pile into her mammoth people-carrier and I attempt to chat in the usual jocular manner, although the journey is death-defying. ‘It can sometimes be tricky remembering to drive on the right, can’t it?’ I say diplomatically, as I cling for dear life to the edge of my seat.
‘They say you’re meant to get used to it, but I’m not sure I ever will, to be honest,’ Trudie tells us, as she narrowly misses a 4x4. The driver winds down his window and throws us a hand signal that I’m confident doesn’t mean ‘have a nice day’.
‘What a cheek!’ she exclaims. ‘ ’Scuse me, kids, close your ears.
JUST BOG OFF, WHY DON’T YA?
’
‘Some people have got no manners, have they?’ I tut, as Trudie clicks on her indicator.
‘Precisely my thoughts, love,’ she tells me, as she checks for smudged lipstick in her rear-view mirror.
I’m coming to the conclusion that hedgehogs are more alert to road safety than Trudie is. As we turn into the next street, she comes perilously close to careering into a pick-up truck. Her window is immediately rolled down in preparation for another tirade. Except what she does next is not what any of us was expecting.
‘Aaah! Bloody ’ell! It’s you!’
She yanks on the handbrake, leaps out of the car and dashes over the road to the driver.
She grabs his shirt collar and begins to kiss him as if she’s attempting to lasso something stuck at the back of his throat. I pretend, for the benefit of passers-by, that I’ve never met her before in my life.
‘It’s Ritchie!’ Eamonn exclaims. ‘Ritchie, Ritchie!’
At that moment Trudie’s lips part from those of her lover. She grabs him by the hand and drags him towards us. ‘You’ve got to meet someone,’ she says, leaning into my window.
Ritchie has skin the colour of a shiny chestnut, curly brown hair lightened by the sun and the biggest biceps I’ve seen outside a Desperate Dan cartoon strip. ‘You must be Zoe.’ He grins as he shakes my hand. ‘I gotta tell you, this girl sure does speak highly of you.’
‘Um, and you,’ I say, which I’m aware is an understatement, given that his name makes an appearance in every other sentence.
‘Really?’ He squeezes her round the waist. ‘Well, that sure is nice to hear.’
‘As if you didn’t know it already,’ interjects Trudie, nudging him in the ribs so hard that anyone marginally less butch would end up in traction.
I spend the rest of the journey to the King household confirming that, yes, Trudie probably is the luckiest person alive to have Ritchie as a boyfriend. We arrive as Barbara is preparing Sunday lunch.
For a high-powered City lawyer with the sort of salary that oil magnates dream of, Barbara King does domesticity pretty well. The tailored trouser suit I last saw her in has been replaced with a chic cotton skirt that falls elegantly below her knee, a fashionable fitted shirt and an apron so pristine I wonder why she’d bothered with it.
Her hair is as styled as it was for work and her makeup just as perfect, although there’s no one to impress except us and a roast chicken the size of a well-built ostrich, which she’s just taken out of the oven.
‘My boys!’ she cries, taking off her oven gloves and flinging her arms wide. ‘Did you enjoy going to church?’
Andrew and Eamonn run into her arms, but remain noncommittal on the church issue. Barbara pulls back and scrutinizes their faces.
‘Trudie.’ She frowns. ‘Have you dressed Eamonn in Andrew’s pure wool sweater? Didn’t I tell you he was allergic?’
‘Oh,’ says Trudie. ‘Sorry.’
‘If you only knew what this could do to him! I can see irritation marks already,’ Barbara mutters. ‘Eamonn, let Mommy remove that thing, will you?’
When Barbara has tugged the jumper over his head and satisfied herself that he’s out of immediate danger, she returns to the lunch. ‘Did you learn anything new at church today?’ she asks, over her shoulder.
‘Bog off!’ giggles Andrew. ‘Bog off! Bog off! Bog off!’
From the look on Barbara King’s face, I’m guessing she’s not impressed.
Chapter 29
It’s ten twenty-four, my favourite time of night. The children are in bed so I can send emails, have my daily conference call with Trudie and attempt to take my mind off Jason by snuggling up in bed to find out who Lucky Santangelo is shagging in the next chapter of Jackie Collins’s
Chances
.
But not tonight. Oh, no, sirree. Because while I have come to love looking after Ruby and Samuel, something still happens every so often at bedtime. Something that makes those otherwise adorable human beings turn into mini pit-bulls, determined not to be forced upstairs.
In tonight’s case, this has included the usual protestations, excuses and elaborate lies, but for Ruby it has involved such a larger-than-average helping of hysteria I’m starting to wonder whether she really
has
got a bloodsucking monster in her wardrobe.
‘Nooooooo!
I won’t go to bed,
nooooooo
!’ she yells, pounding her fists on the banister.
‘Ruby, listen to me, sweetheart,’ I say, in desperation. ‘This isn’t doing you any good, it really isn’t – you’re exhausted.’
‘Nooooo, I’m noooot!’
she wails, sprinting into the living room.
I take another deep breath – my fourteenth of the evening. This is worse than usual. I have no idea why, but it is. I’m starting to despair about the apparent uselessness of my tried and tested techniques, involving calm voices, sticker charts and time out, and tears are pricking the backs of my eyes.
I find Ruby lying on the couch with her head buried in a cushion, sobbing relentlessly. I put my hand on her arm but she shakes it off.
‘Nooooooooo!’
I take my fifteenth deep breath, put my head into my hands and force myself to think.
But I can’t focus on practical solutions, just a succession of thoughts that prove I’m totally crap at this job.
What the hell if I’ve spent a few years looking after kids in a nice, well-organized nursery where I got to hand them back at the end of every day? That’s hardly a challenge, is it?
And who gives a toss if I’m managing to maintain a calm tone and a composed manner when Ruby looks as if she wants to throw herself off a cliff and my own insides feel as if they’re being torn apart?
There’s no other explanation, Zoe Moore. You’re a bloody failure.
Ruby sits up and scowls at me. ‘Why are
you
upset?’ she says accusingly, her bottom lip trembling.
‘I’m not upset, sweetheart,’ I tell her, hoping I sound convincing.
‘Why are you crying then?’
I touch my cheek. It’s damp.
‘You’ve got no right to cry,’ Ruby shouts. ‘
You
’ve got a mommy. I haven’t.’
I’m so taken aback by this that I don’t know how to respond. Then I say, ‘Is that what this is about, Ruby? Is it because of your mommy?’
Ruby sniffs and wipes her cheeks. Then she nods.
‘Oh, sweetheart.’ I pull her towards me and wrap my arms round her.
At first, her tense little shoulders refuse to submit to my hug. But as I stroke her hair they relax, and she buries her face in my neck.
‘M-Mommy used to put me to bed every night,’ she tells me, her little voice wobbling. ‘She – she used to read me a story and kiss my head and she’d be right next door if I needed her.’ She stops and takes a breath. ‘If I ever got scared, all I had to do was to go into her room and she’d be right there.’ She looks up at me. ‘But . . . she’s not here any more. She’s in heaven instead.’
Tears spill on to her nightdress. I feel a lump in my throat that makes it difficult to speak. ‘I know, but when mommies are in heaven they are still there for their little girls,’ I tell her, improvising as best I can.
She stares at me quizzically. ‘They’re looking down at you and making sure everything’s all right,’ I continue, through a blur of tears. ‘And if you get scared, all you have to do is to close your eyes and picture your mommy and tell her what’s wrong.’
‘And she’ll hear me?’ asks Ruby.
‘Of course.’
We sit for a minute, both silent, both thinking – I suspect – about the same thing. Ruby’s mommy, up in heaven, no longer there to kiss her goodnight.
‘It’s hard sometimes, though,’ says Ruby, her tears subsiding.
‘I know, Ruby . . .’
‘I mean picturing her. That’s what’s hard.’
‘I suppose it’s been a long time since you saw her, hasn’t it?’ I say. ‘You know what? You should put a picture of her next to your bed. That way, whenever you want to talk to her, or even just think about her, you can.’