All is not well there either. There’s a Mexican stand-off. Nathan is threatening to drop Nelly’s doll in the sink, Nelly is threateningto throw Aimée’s phone out of the window, and Aimée is threatening to put Nathan’s slug in the bin.
‘Stop,’ I say calmly and assertively, as the parenting guides tell you to do. I walk through the chaos, pick the doll out of Nathan’s hand, give it to Nelly, take the phone out of Nelly’s hand and give it to Aimée, pick the slug out of Aimée’s hand, place it in the sink and turn on the hot tap.
‘Now, let’s cook,’ I say.
Aimée slinks away (probably for a quick afternoon absinthe), and I hand Nelly an onion, as she’s deft with a knife, and Nathan a piece of garlic and a garlic crusher, which he adores as the garlic turns into so many wiggly worms.
I take five hundred grams of Waitrose Native Breed minced beef, slice open the packet and find myself wrangling with bloody plastic not for the first time today. Nelly browns the onions, Nathan adds the garlic, and I add the meat as we sing ‘He’s a Funky Kind of Monkey’ which they still love, even though it’s been over a year since we last went to Monkey Music.
I add a generous splash of red wine, and grind in some salt and pepper. Nelly tips in bright red dollops of Duchy Originals organic chopped tomatoes. Nathan throws in bay leaves and scatters a handful of dried oregano all over the hob like confetti. Cooking done, I kiss each child and thank them, then call Aimée to supervise some craft and colouring activities. Arguments about the red felt tip begin almost immediately, and I leave Aimée to utilize a little of her International Relations degree.
Back in the living room, I try dragging the body but I lose my footing after a few earnest tugs. I turn to Google. I refrain from typing ‘how to move a corpse’ as that’s inadvisable when you have an actual corpse in your house. So I type in ‘ancient stone-moving methods’ and become absorbed by the ingenuity of Egyptian engineering. Rolling the body over logs seems plausible, but the ones in the log basket are all cut into angular shapes, and the three-part pulley would work but is beyond my capabilities.
As I’m thinking about this, I remember our gardener’s new wheelbarrow with an enormous orange front wheel in the shapeof a ball – not what you see the gardeners use at Polesden Lacey, but Luca is difficult to refuse.
The ball barrow is stable and light. I roll it from the garden shed into the living room, right through the kitchen (no one bats an eyelid) and once in the living room I tip it on its side, and roll the body into the centre of the barrow. Then I tip the wheelbarrow upright and feel pleased with myself.
I leave him in the living room for later, wash my hands, put on a pan of water, admire my children’s utter concentration, put the pasta on, and then order Aimée to take the children to wash their faces and hands, while texting Stephen who should be home by now.
The children troop off with a barrage of complaints, and in the short window before they reappear, I carry the rug to the garage, lean it against the door to save time, and race the wheelbarrow out into the garden and into the garage. I lock the garage door then hide the key and the spare to avoid Stephen stumbling across the body. I do worry for him since his father passed away, and I don’t want to trigger a Hamlet’s ghost moment – he’s indecisive enough as it is.
I’m feeling super proud of my multitasking when Stephen texts to tell me he won’t make it home for dinner with Nathan. He’s forgotten about it, of course, but I don’t admonish him – minor squabbles can ruin a successful marriage, and I’m actually pleased that he’s forsaken his family to focus on becoming a partner. I send back three little words, three hearts, and three kisses. I really am a perfect wife. I go to my to-do list and add four satisfying ticks. Of course, all incriminating lists are destroyed once complete.
Prepare dinner
Wash charity shop clothes
Secure incriminating knife
Wrap corpse and rug and remove to garage
I can’t abide an empty page, so I sit in my study for a moment, and, in addition to the standing item (make love), I add four items to my list:
Clean living room
Flatter Stephen’s masculinity
Move corpse from garage
Order more Sellotape
Chapter11Fathers
Friday – Evening
Stephen sits opposite me, pushing green beans around his plate under the large brass down-lights in our bespoke German kitchen. He hasn’t thanked me, even though I’ve hosted his son’s birthday party, cooked two meals, and saved his family from a violent intruder. Par for the course for a busy mum, but thanks is appreciated.
‘Do you want to talk? Or we could have an early night,’ I say, looking over the top of my wine glass.
‘I’m not good for anything except sleeping.’ He gives me the woeful look of a dog sitting outside a shop waiting for its owner.
‘You’ll soon be claiming you’ve got a headache.’
He sighs demonstrably. Ever since his father died, Stephen’s behaviour has been depressive and slovenly. Unacceptable is another word for it, but I’ve been cautioned by previous partners against apportioning blame, even when it is entirely someone else’s fault.
‘I’m... just not feeling much about anything. We’ve been through this. I think it’s probably depression.’
‘Well, I’m here for you,’ I say, and pat his arm. What I really want to say is that I don’t feel anything either and my fatherwas a brute, but you won’t find me moping like a love-struck teenager. The problem is, Stephen didn’t ever tell his father what he really felt about him, and if you don’t stand up to your parents, you’ll always live in their shadow.
