‘Get one of . . . what?’ I ask, feeling as if this conversation has taken an ominous turn.
‘A parrot.’
‘What?!’ I exclaim. ‘No, Jacob. No, no, no. Absolutely not.’
His brow furrows. ‘But youwillthink about it?’
‘No,’ I say, firmly. ‘It’s out of the question. Why would you want a parrot when you’ve already got a hamster?’
‘Youcanhave more than one pet. Bella’s got three cocker spaniels.’
‘The answer’sno, Jacob.’ I peer at the clock. It’s 5.38am. ‘Why are you up so early?’
‘I had a funny dream,’ he tells me.
‘Me too.’
‘Was yours about a giant frog as well?’
‘Something like that. Anyway, off you go and jump back into bed.’
‘Can I get in with you?’
‘Oh, go on then,’ I say, lifting up the duvet. He curls into my arms and I kiss his head. The best feeling in the world.
‘How’s your nose, by the way?’ I ask.
‘All right now,’ he says. ‘It’s stopped tingling.’
‘Why on earth did you do that, anyway?’
‘It was a dare.’
‘Of course it was,’ I sigh. ‘Promiseme you won’t do it again.’
‘I promise.’ He snuggles into my arm and looks up at me with those big eyes and their long lashes. ‘I love you, Mum.’
‘I love you too,’ I whisper.
‘Are you sure about the parrot?’
‘Absolutely. And don’t even think about asking your dad.’
Chapter 11
I give up on the idea of returning to sleep at six, largely because Jacob’s favoured position is horizontal and with a toe up my nose. I flick around on my phone for a while, googling, ‘Is it possible for perimenopause to actually increase sex drive?’ The answer is that – despite its libido-dampening reputation – it’s very possible, if an Australian women’s health website is to be believed. The lengthy explanation can be summed up in one word. Hormones.
I might have known. To read the internet you’d think hormones are responsible for everything from mood swings and blackheads to soil erosion in sub-Saharan Africa. In this case, it’s something to do with the relative rate of testosterone decline versus oestrogen. If the former is going down slower, it ends up being dominant. Hence you feel friskier than you have for years. At least that explains one thing. The fact that Zach Russo – of all people – is the object of my temporary lust remains a complete mystery. No wonder I’ve made so many terrible decisions in my life.
Jacob stirs and pushes me further to one edge of the bed, so I decide to make the best of the situation and start on some of my weekend jobs. Sunday will be devoted to starting my new presentation for Krishna, but I don’t want to work both days if I can help it and I vowed I’d start panelling this living room today if it killed me.
I’d planned to begin weeks ago and have all the gear from B&Q ready and waiting. Only, the dozens of mundane day-to-day tasks I end up doing most weekends – not to mention driving the kids to various sporting venues – suck up time. Housework and laundry are of course necessary evils, but I do hate getting to Sunday evening without anything toshowfor my efforts. At least with DIY you have something concrete.
Plus, I’m relatively handy around the house these days, on the rare occasions when I get the time. When I bought my first flat in my twenties – back in the day when you could get on the housing ladder at that age – I basically renovated it myself. The work required was more aesthetic than structural, admittedly – mainly stripping the maximalist maroon walls so it felt less like I was living inside a womb. But with a lot of help from Dad (who, despite being an ex-mortgage adviser in his seventies can rewire a semi and plumb in bathrooms), we got the whole thing looking great in no time. Same thing happened when I moved into the house we’re in now.
During my marriage to Brendan, though, we somehow ended up with a very unoriginal division of labour. Despite being aGuardian-reading liberal who liked Suzanne Vega and had a man-crush on Stanley Tucci, he still colonised the garage and considered certain jobs to be his domain. Anything with a drill, basically. He never attempted anything too ambitious, but still liked nothing more than to flex his macho neurological pathways by putting together an IKEA flatpack, after which he’d expect the sort of praise that I’d give the children during an egg-and-spoon race. The thought makes me smile. He wasn’t perfect, but nobody is – and he definitely wasn’t as bad as Rose and my mum would have you believe. But then I suppose they don’t know the sorry story behind our break-up – not the whole of it anyway.
I pick up my measuring tape when I hear a WhatsApp ping, followed by another. I try to ignore it, but their arrival is like the two black crows inThe Omenwhich denote the imminent arrival of the anti-Christ. I glance at the clock and realise it’s 7am andthe ‘Do Not Disturb’ setting has been lifted, just as another ping arrives.
