Confessions of a Demented Housewife Page 3

  PS Joe brought home a bumper box of Cadbury’s Roses choccies from work. Once the kids were in bed, we snuggled up on the couch together watching Prison Break, separating the strawberry creams from the orange slices and feeling really smug about our blissfully happy life. We’ve become so much more in tune since our recent blip. Which just goes to show that the ups and downs of a marriage only make you stronger as a couple. Maybe I should write to console Madonna – there have been lots of nasty rumours in the press that things are sometimes a bit rocky between her and Guy. I could give her a few tips. On second thoughts, when Angelica and I become bosom buddies and I gain entry to the élite golden circle, I can probably just have a tête-à-tête with Madge over tea and cupcakes.

  14 September

  Joe discovered that all there was for breakfast was out-of-date Coco Pops and a mouldy loaf of wholegrain bread that the kids refused to touch. (Even the dog turned it down.) For some reason he got quite upset about it. I tried to persuade him that the stale Coco Pops would be fine if he mashed them up with lots of milk, but he just stared at me sadly as if I was letting him and the children down with my lack of culinary skills. ‘Did you not go shopping this week, Susie?’ he said, shaking the Coco Pops packet and looking desperate.

  ‘I’m trying to budget,’ I said, not meeting his eye. ‘I’ve been using the ends of everything in the cupboards to see how long we can last.’ I obviously couldn’t admit that I’m avoiding Tesco because of the irrational fear of bumping into Lone Father.

  ‘Well, we may be at the end of the line,’ he said, surveying the empty fridge. ‘There’s absolutely nothing left to eat.’

  Was tempted to tell him that if we suddenly found ourselves under nuclear attack, we would have to live on tinned soup and stale crackers for weeks, but decided against it. Joe can be quite unreasonable when he’s hungry.

  Then, in a bolt from the blue, he went on to suggest that life coaching is overrated psychobabble rubbish and that it would be crazy to pay €799 for the correspondence course. (Luckily he didn’t realize that the €799 was only for the first term.)

  I immediately entered into an argument about him daring to stunt my emotional growth, etc., but privately I feel he may have had a point – the course does look like an awful lot of work, and I don’t want to spread myself too thin. Also, I missed the EastEnders repeat yesterday because I was flicking through the brochure. Anyway, I almost feel as if I’m over the empty-nest thing now. I’ll probably soon be too busy socializing with Angelica to have much time for anything else.

  Just to make him feel guilty, I did a late-night run to Tesco after he got home from work. Twenty-four-hour opening is really very handy – especially as on-line shopping is out of the question: the computer is on the blink since Jack tried to feed the cordless mouse a jar of peanut butter. I pulled on a hat and dark glasses before I left, just in case Lone Father happened to be in the store by some freakish act of destiny.

  ‘What are you wearing, Susie?’ Joe called, as I crept out, trying to look inconspicuous.

  ‘I’m just trying to keep warm,’ I whispered. ‘I think I have a bit of a cold – probably a lack of Vitamin C.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, seeming confused. ‘Maybe you should buy some oranges – they’re packed full of it.’

  Spent ages wandering around the supermarket, reliving my clandestine meetings with Lone Father in the frozen-foods aisle. Then I loaded up with lots of special-offer mandarin oranges, in case Joe inspected the shopping-bags. Just as I was shoving some instant-cookie mixes underneath them, I spotted Eco-mother, my arch enemy from last year, striding purposefully towards me, wearing what resembled a hemp sack.

  ‘Susie!’ she called, as I tried to pretend I couldn’t see her behind my dark glasses. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ I mumbled. The last time we’d met we had engaged in harsh words about caring for the elderly in the community. And I may have fabricated some awful lie about Mum and Dad being disabled so I wouldn’t have to volunteer for one of her hare-brained schemes to give something back to society.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I said. ‘I didn’t think Tesco would be up your street.’

  ‘Actually, Tesco does quite a good selection of organic produce,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder in an oddly nervous way. ‘How’s Katie settling into formal education?’

  ‘Great!’ I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask about Jack. ‘And Zoë?’

  ‘I’m home-schooling her,’ she said. ‘It’s going brilliantly. We’re on to next year’s curriculum already. Children are like sponges – nurture them properly and they soak up so much.’

  She grinned primly and I repressed the urge to hit her with my bag of cut-price mandarins.

  Suddenly she gasped. ‘Susie, I do hope you’re not planning to feed that rubbish to the children. Those cookie mixes are packed with colouring and preservatives. Goodness knows what the long-term effects could be on their health.’ She clutched my sleeve.

  ‘What? These?’ I said, fingering a packet. ‘No, they’re for the – er – dog.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s rather cruel to feed an innocent creature such processed junk?’ she asked, even more appalled.

  Thankfully, at that moment the store alarm went off and she reacted with such fright that I managed to slink away unnoticed.

  PS Feel a lot more confident now I’ve braved that expedition. It’s ridiculous to expect I’ll run into Lone Father every time I go to Tesco. Anyway, he’s probably way too busy having tantric sex with his muse Marita to be doing grocery shopping at night.

  15 September

  Worked up the courage to call Louise and discuss childbirth classes.

  ‘I’m glad to hear from you, Susie,’ she said, in an accusatory way. ‘I was beginning to think you’d gone off the idea of being my birth partner.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said, feeling guilty that I’d put off calling her for so long. ‘It’s just that I’ve been really busy, what with Katie starting school and Jack starting playschool. It’s been non-stop.’

  I didn’t mention Angelica – I felt it might intimidate her to know I was hobnobbing with a very glamorous celebrity mom – one who had done a naked cover shoot for Elle when she was pregnant. Especially because poor Louise’s bump is now so massive that a photographer would have to use a wide-angle lens to capture even half of it.

  ‘OK.’ She didn’t seem happy. ‘Anyway, the classes start soon. They cover all the basics – deep breathing, holistic massage and alternative pain-relief methods.’

  ‘Great,’ I answered, feeling a bit sick.

  Hung up vowing to work on getting through to Louise that deep breathing and visualization will be useless when she’s in the agonizing throes of labour. Unless you’re deep-breathing in a tank of happy gas or visualizing a handsome ob-gyn injecting you with double-strength pain relief.

  PS Maybe I should order a birthing tape to show her how horrific and excruciatingly painful the whole process is actually going to be.

  PPS Wonder what the alternative to an epidural could be. Maybe some over-the-counter painkillers would work. There was a really interesting exposé on TV recently about how they stuff innocent-sounding painkillers with extra-strength narcotics so they’re even more addictive than heroin. Sounds ideal.

  16 September

  Mrs H called at eight a.m. ‘Susie, I’m suffering with my gout again. I need a lift to the supermarket,’ she announced.

  ‘Right now?’ I asked, digging Joe in the ribs to alert him that his mother needed his assistance. It was his duty, not mine, to tolerate a morning’s shopping with her.

  ‘Well, they don’t open until nine, but I like to be there early. That way you can make sure the staff don’t urinate over the lettuce.’

  ‘What?’ I said, sure I must have misheard her.

  ‘Oh, yes, dear, it’s a known fact that supermarket staff regularly wee all over the fresh produce. They get some kind of sick kick out of it. Apparently, it’
s even better than snorting that Charlie stuff.’

  ‘OK. Well, Joe will be over in a bit to pick you up,’ I mumbled, giving Joe another dig and making a mental note to get him to talk to his mother about her unhealthy addiction to Horrors Caught on Camera.

  ‘Oh, no, dear, it has to be you,’ she whispered. ‘I need to get a few feminine-hygiene products and I couldn’t possibly do that if Joe was with me. Now, if you can’t make it I’m sure that nice Angelica Law could come and get me – she gave me her mobile number and told me I could call any time if I needed anything. Such a kind girl.’

  Couldn’t be sure, but felt an implied threat in the air.

  I told her I’d be there in ten minutes and hung up. Was absolutely determined to get more information on Angelica Law. Was also intrigued – what feminine-hygiene products could she have been talking about? She’d had the menopause at least ten years ago. I knew that because she’d used excessive amounts of Yardley talcum powder to disguise every hot flush.

  Braved Tesco with Mrs H, even though I was nervous about bumping into Lone Father in broad daylight and him creating some sort of dramatic scene beside the broccoli. Was quite glad I did, though, as I discovered that Mrs H classes hair-removal strips and deodorant as illicit feminine-hygiene products.

  ‘I like to keep myself neat and tidy,’ she said, as she whipped a packet of waxing strips and a bottle of Tropical Mist spray off the shelf and into her basket, then covered them with a large cauliflower.

  ‘I have to hand it to you, Mrs H,’ I said, in admiration. ‘Even I don’t bother with my legs or bikini line much these days.’

  ‘Oh, no, dear, no one has seen my legs in decades,’ she replied. ‘And Mr H, God rest him, never saw down there. No, these are for my upper lip. That busybody Mary Murphy has been making snide remarks about someone looking like Adolf Hitler all week at bingo. This’ll shut her up. And just wait till I tell her that David’s bringing a real-life celebrity home for a long weekend. She’ll be sick so she will.’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, he’ll be here before we know it, so we’ll have to get cracking soon,’ she said, as she stopped to look at the hair-highlighting kits.

  I didn’t get a chance to ask her what she meant – was sidetracked by a charming lady in a white hat and coat handing out delicious free mini-sausages on sticks.

  17 September

  Second Son David called from London. ‘Susie, what has Mum told you about Max?’ he asked abruptly, not even saying hello.

  ‘Em, that he’s a friend?’ I said. ‘Are you OK? You sound a bit out of breath.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he gasped. ‘I’ve just been warming up to my Abba CD. I’m trying out for a West End production this afternoon and it’s crucial to limber up first.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, deciding not to ask any more. David had auditioned for a million West End productions and never been offered a part – mostly because he hadn’t a musical bone in his podgy body.

  ‘So, you don’t think she knows about me, then?’ he huffed.

  ‘That you’re gay?’ I laughed. ‘She’ll never figure that out – not unless you wear your leotard and leg-warmers next time. Mind you, you’d probably have to add a tutu – just to drive it home for her.’

  ‘Very funny.’ David sounded glum. ‘This is serious, Susie. Max is really important to me, really important. I think he might be The One.’

  ‘Wow!’ I was impressed. David had never been serious about anyone before.

  ‘Yes – so I’d appreciate it if you’d take care of him when we come home to visit.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘But, David, don’t you think it’s time to tell your mother you’re gay? I mean, you are thirty-five.’

  ‘I just keep hoping she’ll work it out for herself.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t want a big scene. You know me – I can’t handle drama.’

  He hung up before I had the chance to ask him if he was going to bring back the Disney DVDs he’d borrowed last year. Can’t say I’m hopeful of a happy outcome. Mrs H wouldn’t believe David was gay if the Pope put in a special appearance and broke the news to her himself.

  18 September

  Katie brought home Brandon Law’s birthday invitation. According to a handwritten note on the embossed cream card, he’s having a clambake fiesta at his house. Not sure what that is exactly, but it sounds exotic and, even more important, very exclusive.

  ‘That’s great, Katie,’ I said, when she reluctantly fished the invitation out from the bottom of her schoolbag, stuck to a half-eaten peanut-butter sandwich. ‘You’ll have such fun at the party.’

  ‘It’s a stupid party,’ she sulked, ‘I don’t want to go.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked, scanning the card to see if parents were invited too.

  ‘Because Brandon was born in America and his dad is famous. He’s always talking about it. And he’s been to Disneyland a million times. We haven’t even been once.’ She glared at me.

  ‘Well, we have a holiday home in the country,’ I countered, wanting to boost her self-confidence and give her something interesting to talk about in the playground.

  ‘The country is stupid,’ she replied, throwing me a withering look. ‘Brandon has a holiday home in Hollywood – he even knows Hannah Montana.’

  Spent the rest of the afternoon trying to convince Katie that going to the party was a fantastic idea – I absolutely cannot miss the opportunity to mingle with Angelica, her famous-actor hubby and their coterie of celebrity friends. It’s vital to impress them all. If I do, we may well be invited to LA for half-term. Which would show Mum and Dad that Portugal isn’t all that special and that when they get round to inviting us to stay we may be otherwise occupied.

  Told Joe I was a bit concerned about Katie’s unnerving antisocial behaviour. He thinks there’s nothing to worry about. ‘She’s adjusting to the new routine, Susie,’ he said, from behind the Irish Times. ‘I’m sure you’re finding it hard to adjust yourself.’

  Not sure what he meant. Suspect he may have been referring to the fact that he has had to iron his own shirts for weeks now. Decided not to ask just in case.

  19 September

  Went to the first Lamaze class with Louise. I was a little bit nervous that everyone would think we were a lesbian couple who had used a turkey-baster to get Louise up the duff, but no one batted an eyelid, which goes to show how cosmopolitan Dublin is, these days. It’s probably quite trendy to take your VBF to birthing classes when her partner has absconded without leaving so much as a forwarding address or other contact details. (Or a DNA profile.)

  Gave Louise a comforting pep talk about not being self-conscious just because she’s unmarried and a single-parent-to-be, etc., etc. If Ginger Spice Geri can do it, so can Louise. (Although I will advise her not to choose a really outlandish baby name – unless it’s guaranteed to snag her an at-home photo spread of the newborn, of course.)

  Louise didn’t seem impressed with the pep talk so I cut it short. She was definitely nervous even though she was pretending to be tough and fierce.

  The Lamaze instructor was calm and spoke in a breathy, gentle voice, obviously to offset any tendency towards hysteria among the expectant mothers. It was a bit disconcerting, though, the way she kept swooping round the room waving her hands and looking meaningful.

  ‘Did you know that a woman’s inner wisdom can guide her through birth?’ she asked, gazing at me in a really intense (and unnerving) way.

  ‘Em, no, I didn’t,’ I mumbled, trying to hide behind Louise – which was quite easy because she’s so excessively large now.

  ‘Oh, yes, it can,’ she went on, in a hypnotic sing-song voice. ‘Women are controllers of their own destiny.’

  I wasn’t too sure about that – what about corporate glass ceilings and centuries of oppression at the hands of men? Didn’t say anything, though, as Louise was nodding vigorously.

  ‘First, we will practise taking deep, cleansing breaths,’ the instructor went on. ‘Then we’ll t
ry rhythmic breathing, which maintains the kind of relaxation introduced centuries ago in eastern cultures.’

  Was pretty sceptical. Modern medicine has advanced so much, why bother with all this centuries-old stuff? But I gave it a go and it was actually quite comforting, with the heavy-duty breathing and whatnot. In fact, I almost dropped off at one stage, until Louise suffered a panic-attack half-way through and had to sit with her head between her legs, puffing into a brown-paper bag.

  ‘It’s all right, Louise,’ I crooned, trying to sound comforting and calming. ‘Everything will be fine.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Susie,’ she hissed, in a sudden fit of uncontrollable rage. ‘Everything will not be all right. I’m pregnant, Steve doesn’t want to know, and I have to raise this baby by myself. You have no idea how I feel.’

  Caught the Lamaze instructor giving me a sympathetic look. She must be used to emotional outbursts.

  PS Feel that if Louise cannot get through one simple Lamaze class without losing the plot, she has no hope of coping with a natural birth. Didn’t tell her that, obviously. However, am very proud of my unruffled composure during the entire episode. Maybe I could retrain to be a professional birthing instructor instead of a life coach. After all, I’ve given birth twice already. It probably doesn’t matter that I used excessive amounts of gas and air and had epidurals each time.

  PPS Must ask Lamaze teacher more about that mystical inner wisdom next week. Think I could do with some of that to stop Jack throwing his toothbrush down the toilet every day.

  20 September: Brandon’s birthday

  Dropped Katie at the birthday party/clam bake. Was a bit overawed when we pulled up outside a proper mansion-type establishment, with an immaculately groomed lawn and two perfectly pruned spruce trees on either side of the gate, but tried not to let it show. It is a well-known fact that young children are like dogs – they can sense fear at a hundred paces – and Katie was still reluctant to go. (In fact, I think the government should consider allowing young children to sniff for drugs and terrorist devices at the airport and other high-risk areas. Katie and Jack can locate a tube of sour-cream-and-chive Pringles in a heartbeat – I’m sure they could make a massive contribution to homeland security.)