The photographer, who is definitely shorter than me and several decades younger, appears to be thinking of arguing.
‘I wouldn’t,’ I say and stalk back to the kitchen.
Nobody comes near me for ten minutes and then Lorraine bounces in. ‘Shots are in the can. You need to come and look. I’ll take over here. Are you OK, boss?’
‘What?’ I ask, carefully spooning risotto into a bowl the watercolour blue of a Turner sky.
‘You’re not yourself today, Freya, not that he didn’t need telling off but you’re never like that ...’
‘I’m fine!’ I say, so loudly that Maxwell, who is coming in to oversee the risotto, backs out again.
‘Fine,’ I hiss at Lorraine.
‘OK,’ she says, unperturbed. ‘Just saying ...’
8
When the going gets tough, the tough put on more lipstick
By the time we’ve finished enough winter warming soup to feed a small army, I never want to sweat another onion ever again. It’s after five before we finish up the shoot and I know I’m going to be hitting all the traffic and going to be late home for Angela, who picks up the older two from school, having previously picked up Teddy from Montessori, and heats or cooks whatever I have already prepared for the children’s early dinner. I phone her on her mobile but she doesn’t answer, and I immediately panic, thinking all sorts of different things have happened.
This is my fault – my fault for summoning the Gods of the universe by being irritable and angry andlosing my temper. I never lose my temper. What happened to me?
I drive home quite probably dangerously because I arrive at the house almost without knowing how I got there. That’s got to be unsafe. All I can think of is that I let all this anger come out and it wasn’t the photographer’s fault. He’s just young and silly. There are so many other ways I could have handled it, such as ...?
I slump as I think of all the ways that I could have handled it and how I did handle it. And how Maxwell and Lorraine won’t mind, because they love me, but,butthere is a photographer out there now who hates me and will tell everyone that Freya Abalone is abad-tempered bitch. All it takes in this business is for you to be mean, horrible or bitchy, justonceand you get a reputation. I have seen it happen. Perfectly nice people who have thrown their toys out of the pram once and thereafter, everyone thinks they’re either a mentaller or too big for their boots, which is a charge worse than murder.
Oh yes, this only happens to women. Men who throw their toys out of the pram are strong upstanding citizens who don’t take any crap, but women who do it are either hormonal or cold, ambitious bitches.
I drive in, park the car and don’t even bother getting my saucepans and kitchen equipment out. It’s all I can do to haul myself into the house. And it’s such a relief to have Teddy run and throw herself at me, like a little gymnast bouncing off a trampoline.
‘Mummy,’ she roars, landing against me with such force that I feel almost winded.
I hug her tightly. Smelling the beautifullittle-girl smell of her, nuzzling her neck, tickling her, kissing her, feeling her jammy fingers all over me. Oh, she’s bliss. Bliss. I hope Teddy grows up in a world where women can say what they think without being labelled negatively. Because, wow, Teddy says what she likes.
Liam comes next, showing me a drawing he did at school for geography. It’s a map and I’d be hard pressed to say where it was a map of, but it’s coloured exquisitely in rainbow tones that all merge into one another. Liam loves drawing and colouring in, even if cartography isn’t his strong point. He didn’t get this artistry from me or Dan, neither of whom can draw so much as a smiley face.
‘Liam, it’s lovely. You worked so hard on it,’ I say, remembering to praise the work rather than tell him he is one of the most wonderful human beings on the planet, which is what I want to do. Psychologists keep telling modern parents that praising kids to the skies merely makes them think they are celestially brilliant beings and they don’t know how to be normal or actually get a job later, so you have to say: you worked so hard, darling.
The rules about being a parent and raising normal kids are worse than the rules of the road and it took me two goes to pass my driving test.
I hug him, because well, heisfabulous and then Angela appears.
‘Hello, Freya,’ she says in a perfectly normal voice and I sigh that sigh of instinctively knowing everything is all right.
‘Everyone’s fed,’ she goes on. The kitchen looks tidy and there’s a pot of tea waiting on top of the stove. ‘Sorry I missed your call. I texted you back,’ she said. ‘But I knew you wouldn’t pick it up in the car.’
‘The traffic was mental,’ I say, delirious to be home.
I think I’m going to cry again, seeing the children, and lovely Angela with her warm open face, dark hair tied back loosely. Angela has reared her own children already, although, as she says herself, she did have her first ones when she was very young.
‘Married at eighteen,’ she says wryly. ‘It was either that or a shotgun. My father was old school and determined I was going to be married since I had a baby on the way.’
For a brief minute, I think of Dan and Elisa, stupidly married for the same reason. How had he even liked her, never mind fancied her ...?
I realise that Angela’s talking to me.
‘... and Dan rang to say he’s going to be a little bit late and I know you had some fish in the fridge, but I went ahead and gave the children shepherd’s pie for dinner because they’re tricky with fish.’
