Homing Instinct Page 3

  Out of the loo, I gave myself a quick once-over in the mirror. Snug was the word which sprang to mind about my suit. Very, very snug. The worst thing about working in television is that it’s full of groovy twenty-year-olds wearing Lycra mini-skirts and huge clumpy platforms at the ends of their skinny legs. I will either have to lose vast amounts of weight and have a serious style up-date (how fashions have moved on while I’ve been in domestic limbo) or accept the fact that I have become my mother.

  2

  FEBRUARY

  Sunday 1 February

  I had forgotten what a bloody nightmare it is trying to cram all domestic activities into the weekend. It was a blur of activity, and tomorrow I shall creep thankfully into work for a rest. Instead of being able to shop during the week, I had to do a full week’s shop in one go. With The Children. No day off for me. I’d asked Mike repeatedly during the week to be around to look after Rebecca and Tom, so I could get to the supermarket, the dry-cleaners, the pet food shop to pick up dog food and the garage to fill up with petrol and hoover out the worst of the debris. Then in the middle of breakfast a terrible hunted look came over his face, and he admitted he’d promised Bill he would have a game of golf. Much recrimination ensued, but he said he just couldn’t let Bill down. What about letting me down?

  It meant I had to force my way round the supermarket with a six-month-old trying desperately to climb out of the trolley and lunge beneath its wheels, and a six-year-old disappearing shrieking down each aisle singing ‘Doh a dear’ at the top of her voice. Then Rebecca insisted on weighing all the fruit carefully by hand, attracting smiling, approving glances from all the old ladies, which meant I couldn’t swipe the bananas from her hands and pull her off by her hair. By the time we reached the till, my head was throbbing and I gave in immediately to sweets.

  We then moved into one of those speeded-up cartoon days as I frantically rushed to get to the dry-cleaners before it closed at lunch-time (why? Do they close early as a ritual form of torture?) and then spent all afternoon buying tiny but apparently essential things from a variety of shops which involved getting Tom and Rebecca in and out of the car what felt like a million times, before returning home to throw huge bundles of washing in the machine. Mike came home at eight, and collapsed on the sofa. ‘God, I’m exhausted,’ he said. ‘Really,’ I said, politely. ‘I feel as fresh as a daisy.’ Then I fell asleep with my mouth open.

  Wednesday 4 February

  Complete disaster at work today. We play the local radio station in the office – basically so we can nick their stories – and one of the features had the sound-effect of a baby crying. Oh dear. Red alert to my chest. Baby crying. Tom crying. Feed Tom. Imperative feed Tom NOW. There I was, harmlessly working away at planning our election coverage, and my tits turned into Vesuvius. The ensuing spurts completely drowned the thin little breast-pads and soaked through my shirt. Bending double, I rushed puce-faced to the loo, clutching my jacket around me. In the safety of its marble confines, my worst fears were confirmed. There were two huge, spreading stains on the front of my shirt – the sort of stains which couldn’t be casually explained away. ‘I tripped and spilt two cups of coffee down myself – simultaneously’? ‘I had a nasty accident with an exploding tap’?

  I then had to spend half an hour in the loo, frantically mopping away at the stains before having to bend over in a most uncomfortable manner in front of the hand-dryer, attempting to dry my shirt, which, predictably enough, dried with two big round marks like polos. My bra was also soaked, but I couldn’t risk taking that off, because then my tits would plummet like a lift. What kind of madness happens to breasts when you have children? For twenty-seven years I had two perfectly normal, firm, not-too-big globes, with nipples which sat in the middle, pointing quite respectably upwards. I have to say I’d never really thought about them much. There they were; they had to be put in a bra every morning, but after that I more or less forgot about them; they were just a part of my body, like knees. My first hint that I was pregnant with Rebecca came when my nipples felt like they were going to burst from my breasts. Gradually, during my pregnancy, they began to swell . . . and swell, like great barrage balloons. At first Mike loved the novelty – at the time he said it was like being married to Dolly Parton – and I had to constantly slap away his fiddling hands. Then, towards the end of my pregnancy, they began to explode on him at unexpected moments – i.e. orgasm. It’s very nice to know your wife is having an orgasm, but vaguely alarming when her chest erupts.

  Once Rebecca was born the problem intensified, and often we would both wake up in a big lake. Then, once I stopped breastfeeding her at nine months, my breasts went away too. I mean completely. One moment they were vast melons, the next little limes. And they had moved, too. ‘You look a bit like an African tribeswoman,’ said Mike kindly as I surveyed my much-changed naked body in the mirror. In my normal bras, they were like little lost puppies. I became obsessively interested in the promise of the Wonderbra, which would at least bring them up to somewhere near my armpits.

  Once I got pregnant with Tom, however, miraculously they came back. Where had they been? Round the back somewhere? Mike was happy once more. It doesn’t take much to keep men amused, does it? If men had breasts, they’d never have to go out at all. Anyway, now I’m going to have to start bringing in a change of clothes for work. Here I am, a top-notch television reporter with a mind like a steel trap, lumbered with the body of a wet nurse. Why can’t my breasts leap into the 1990s? How can I be a serious career woman when I’ve got amazing exploding breasts? I should be able to turn breastfeeding on and off, like a tap. The answer of course is not to have breastfed Tom at all in the first place and put him straight on the bottle, but that seems so clinical, doesn’t it? I shall deny you all of those essential antibodies and what-nots because I am shortly to abandon you to a complete stranger. I had to spend the rest of the day crouched over my desk, and, Sod’s Law, the heating was turned right up in the office. Kate wandered by and said, ‘You look a bit hot. Why don’t you take your jacket off?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I said. ‘And one which will put you off motherhood for ever.’

  Friday 6 February

  Our mornings are forming a distinct pattern. At seven, the alarm clock goes off and we all fall out of bed. All: that is Mike, me and Tom. Tom’s siren calls at the moment are waking us at about six, when Mike humorously nudges me with his foot and says, ‘Your baby’s crying.’ I try to restrain myself from falling about laughing, and exact revenge by crawling out of bed, dragging the duvet with me. If I do not do this, then Mike simply swathes himself in it like a maggot and goes back to sleep. I spend a futile five minutes trying to persuade Tom to stay in his cot because it isn’t morning time, but he is not fooled and so I compromise by bringing him up to bed with us. The best thing about this is that a) I get to go back to bed and b) Mike is inconvenienced too.

  At least Tom does sleep in until six. When Rebecca was about two she developed the sadistic routine of waking up at five. This lasted for about a year, until her little body-clock clicked back on to Human Time. She was too young for me to allow her to roam unchecked around the house, so there was a whole ghastly year of having to heave myself out of bed, stumble blearily downstairs to put on a video, and then attempt to doze on the sofa, which of course is quite impossible because once you’re up, you’re up. There’s nothing quite so strange as those twilight mornings, when you are convinced you’re the only person awake in the whole world, and you know there is a normal packed day stretching ahead of you. It seems quite monstrous that you can be expected to get up this early and survive. Thank God she grew out of it, because otherwise I think I would have been forced to kill her.

  For the next half an hour or so we try to sleep while Tom crawls over our heads. Having a morning-nappy bottom stuck in your face is a reasonable incentive to get out of bed. Mike bags the first shower, while Tom and I play. I love having him in bed with me: he’s fat and squashy, and so cuddly –
far more cuddly than Rebecca ever was. Then I try to shower while Tom crawls around the bathroom, selecting a variety of interesting objects to play with: razor blades, Tampax, nail-scissors. I often find it’s easier to have a bath, because then at least he can come in with me and I know where he is.

  The next task is getting Rebecca out of bed. At the tender age of six, she has already achieved all the qualities of teenage angst and regards her bed as her sanctuary. So I begin my gentle entreaties to the mound under the duvet with, ‘I think it’s time to get up now, Rebecca.’ ‘Rebecca, it’s half past seven now, you’re going to be late for school.’ ‘REBECCA, IF YOU DON’T GET UP NOW I AM CALLING THE POLICE.’ Eventually a skinny white leg will appear and she slinks off to spend half an hour sitting on the toilet, gazing aimlessly into space, before getting off and forgetting to flush it. Half an hour later I will find her happily humming to herself wearing just her vest and knickers, carefully pressing Spice Girls stickers into an album, without a care in the world. Then I go back to my room to survey the joys of my wardrobe. I either chance on what I want to wear immediately, or clothes begin to fly out of my cupboard as if by invisible force. I put on mascara, while Tom sits heavily on my foot, or tries to climb up my legs, seriously endangering my tights. I have still not changed his nappy. I think perhaps that joy should be left for Claire. All the time I am waiting for the sound of her key in the door, when I can be absolved of all parental responsibilities. Mike meanwhile has got himself out of the shower, dressed, and made himself a cup of coffee. I mean, give this man a medal. He’s done all that all on his own, with no mummy to help him. ‘You know your problem,’ he says, bobbing his head round the bedroom door to say goodbye, immaculately shaved and laundered in his suit and stripy shirt. ‘Lack of organization.’ Then he is gone, before I can throw either Tom or my make-up bag at him.

  Rebecca hears him heading for the door and is out of her room like a shot, yelling ‘Daddy!’ He turns to pick her up and swing her round, before he leaves, whistling, quite unstressed and ready to face the day. When Claire arrives Tom squeals with joy at the sound of her voice and I shoot down to hand him over. Our mornings are all about timing. If Claire is ten minutes late, I’m ten minutes late, which means I have to crash into the morning meeting with a red face and unzipped skirt, while all the men smile at each other and think, Women! I can imagine myself standing with a stopwatch by the door some days, so obsessed am I at Claire getting here on time. When she does arrive she gives me that little forgiving smile which says, quite clearly, that I am the most incompetent mother in the world.

  ‘Poor Tom!’ she says. ‘We’d better get that nappy off you right now, hadn’t we, little man?’

  Wednesday 11 February

  There are rumours in the office that a new job is in the offing. It is Assistant Editor (Planning). I love the BBC. When the head of regional broadcasting gets bored with playing with the model aeroplanes on his desk, he decides to entirely reshuffle the regional management structure, so that everyone is permanently paranoid and no-one ever has a real job. One minute you’re sitting there all secure, with Editor (News) on your door, the next you’re being booted out to set up a news web-site in the Department of Twenty-four-hour On-line Broadcasting in some dim and distant corner of the labyrinthian Hell that is Television Centre. These crab-like sideways movements are called attachments, but basically they exist so people the current HOB (Head of Broadcasting) is fed up with can be shunted off and never seen again to do a job that no-one gives a monkey’s about. That’s what’s so great about the BBC – it’s so big you can just lose staff. For ever. Eventually someone will remember they’re there, stick their head round the office door, say, ‘How’s it going? Marvellous? Very challenging? Good man,’ and then leave them to gather dust for another year. The backwaters of the BBC are full of middle-aged men playing cricket down the corridor with rolled-up bits of newspaper.

  They’ve been shunted aside to make way for twenty-five-year-old women with Ally McBeal haircuts, mini-skirts, fierce expressions and degrees in Communication and Media Studies. There’s never been a better time to be a woman – but perhaps on balance I think I’m probably much safer staying here as a reporter. Foot-soldiers are far less likely to be sacked or shunted about unless they actually want to move. But part of me is thinking, Hmmm, it would be quite nice to move into management. After all, Mike is now Executive-Whatnot at Midlands TV down the road, and I don’t like him getting too far ahead of me in the career stakes. It gives me marginally less ammunition in the I-do-the-most-work-so-I’m-the-most-tired round of arguments as we compete for the sofa once the children are in bed. I don’t know what Mike would think about it. It would mean more money, but it would also mean more responsibility and – eek – more time in the office. I’m already working four ten-hour days (thank God for having Fridays off), but this would be five ten-hour days, with the possibility of evening meetings. But I know they are looking to persuade more women into senior management, and, well, I am a woman so I’m halfway there. We could certainly do with the money (crafty farmhouse-plot begins to boil and bubble in my mind) and I know Nick rates me, which is why I’ve been put in charge of co-ordinating our election coverage, even though he is slightly wary because I am also a Mother. Poor old Nick. He’s such a dinosaur. Women to him are only women until they have children, and then they become Mothers. He can’t cope with the idea of working women at all.

  Kate immediately messaged me saying: Go for it! You’d be great! If you don’t Miss Perfect-Knickers Georgia will and she’d be your boss. Hmm. Good point. That really would be unbearable, especially as she’s ten years younger than me and has never even heard of a parish council meeting or magistrates court, leaping as she did in one graceful and seamless bound from media studies course to BBC TV without having to soil her hands in the grind that is local newspapers. How would I cope with the interview? What questions would they ask me? Of course what I am really thinking is, what shall I wear?

  Saturday 14 February

  I am going to have to be much more firm about the Division of Labour. After last week, I felt completely stressed out and would ideally have spent the entire weekend lying in an aromatherapy bath listening to calming whale music whilst sipping chilled Sauvignon Blanc, with no children within a hundred-mile radius – especially children carrying small squeaking penguins who want to get in with me. Today Mike magnanimously said he would get the children up and give them breakfast. All on his own. Hurrah! I thought. I shall have another hour’s sleep. Did I? I did not. I lay there, tossing and turning, looking at the patch on the ceiling Mike missed with the paint-brush when we did the cottage up, thinking about how big our overdraft is, how much I want the farmhouse (I still haven’t dared mention it to Mike), and how we could possibly pay for that and still employ Claire.

  What can we sell? Who can we sell? I found myself eyeing up poor old Turtle the other day – he is after all a fully trained gundog and the most under-used dog in the world – but I doubt he’d fetch much more than six hundred quid. And then he put his head on one side and pricked his ears forward. You can’t sell a dog with such an appealing face. How much would we get for this house? There is a big demand for old houses in our village and boy, is our house old. If you slam a door particularly hard bits of it drop off on your head. It was ideal for just Mike and me and Rebecca; we still had a spare room and, with Rebecca going to nursery, it didn’t feel like the house was ever uncomfortably full. But now with Tom, and Claire here most of the time, I feel that we’re all falling over each other like a Tom and Jerry cartoon. And there’s nowhere to put the pushchair, except the hall, so every time you try to squeeze past it, it bites you.

  I want more space outside too and the garden is tiny. We’d need practically to double our mortgage even to attempt to put a bid in on the farmhouse. Not sleep-inducing thoughts, as you can imagine. So I lay there in a cold sweat for about an hour, before an eerie silence from downstairs propelled me out of bed. I love it when
Mike takes the children, but then I can never resist popping in to see what they’re doing – just to make sure they’re making clay models or playing chess, rather than lying on the sofa in a big heap watching The Little Mermaid. It’s OK when I let the children watch videos, because it’s only temporary before we skip on to another brain-enhancing activity, but when Mike does it it’s child-care avoidance.

  Sure enough, what they were actually doing was lying in a big heap on the sofa with the curtains closed, watching football on the satellite channel. What can those men with horrible cornish-pasty hair say about football at nine o’clock in the morning? Isn’t there a danger they might even bore themselves? I think sports programmes were invented to give all men the length and breadth of the country the excuse to absolve themselves completely of any family responsibilities and pretend they are watching something frightfully significant when really they are just asleep.

  Rebecca was thoughtfully painting her toenails bright blue with some nail varnish Jill gave her (I’m working out my revenge – her daughters are ten and five so I may well buy them a make-up set each) and Tom was lying flat on his back on Mike’s chest, in the process of taking his socks off and throwing them at Angus the retriever, who was snoring in front of the telly. ‘Is that it?’ I said. ‘Child-care of the nineties?’

  ‘It’s the Carling-premiership-first-round-knockout-tie,’ (or something) said Mike.

  ‘Well, as long as you’re going to be gainfully occupied,’ I said, and swept up Tom and Rebecca to get dressed. Mike then firmly closed the door of the TV room, and went back to lying on the sofa. So far as I could tell, he’d only managed to stuff them full of cereal before collapsing, exhausted.