Ooh, this stuff is good. I should be writing it down for my blog.
No, I can’t do that. When I married Jack I promised I wouldn’t be one of those wives who tried to change him into something he wasn’t. I fell in love with him as is, off-the-rack, straight out of the box, no customizing necessary. I am happy with my choices and refuse to waste time contemplating alternate lives.
Our marriage isn’t so bad. It’s a partnership, a meeting of minds and kindred spirits. Only up close do the flaws become apparent, like a delicate vase that has been dropped and pasted back together. Nobody else seems to notice, but I nurse that vase in my mind, hoping it still holds water, telling myself that midlife humps are like speed bumps that make us slow down and smell the roses.
Jack and I didn’t plan to have another child. This one is our “oops” baby, accidental, unscripted, but not unwanted—not by me, anyway. We took a rare weekend away for a friend’s fortieth birthday party. My mother offered to look after Lucy and Lachlan. Jack and I drank too much. Danced. Fell into bed. Made love in the morning. Jack had forgotten the condoms. We took a chance. Why wouldn’t we, when you consider the number of times we had risked a quick shag only to be interrupted midcoitus by “Mummy, I’m thirsty,” or “Mummy, I can’t find Bunny,” or “Mummy, I’ve wet the bed.”
My other pregnancies were arranged like military campaigns, but this one was literally a shot in the dark.
“If it’s a girl, we should call her Roulette,” Jack said, when the shock wore off.
“We’re not calling her Roulette.”
“OK.”
These jokes came after the arguments and the recriminations, which have stopped now but are likely to surface when Jack is angry or stressed.
He’s a sports reporter for one of the cable channels, doing live football feeds from Premier League games and a full-time wrap-up of the goals and scorers. During the summer he covers a mixture of sports including the Tour de France, but never Wimbledon or the Open. His star is on the rise, meaning bigger games, more airtime, and a higher profile.
Jack loves being recognized. Normally it’s by people who have some vague notion they’ve met him before. “Aren’t you someone?” they ask when they interrupt our conversation, gushing over Jack and ignoring me. I look at the backs of their heads and want to say, “Hello, I’m chopped liver.” Instead I smile and let them have their moment.
Jack apologizes afterwards. I love that he’s ambitious and successful, but sometimes wish he’d give me and the kids more of the public “Jack the Lad” rather than the stressed version who comes home late or leaves early.
“Maybe if you went back to work,” he said last night, which is another sore point. Jack resents me “not having a job.” His words, not mine.
“Who would look after the children?” I asked.
“Other women go to work.”
“They have nannies or au pairs.”
“Lucy is at school and Lachlan is in child care.”
“Half days.”
“And now you’re pregnant again.”
These arguments cover the same old ground as we lob grenades from opposite trenches.
“I have my blog,” I say.
“What good is that?”
“It earned two hundred pounds last month.”
“One hundred and sixty-eight,” he replied. “I do the accounts.”
“Look at all the free stuff I get sent. Clothes. Baby food. Nappies. That new pram is top of the line.”
“We wouldn’t need a new pram if you weren’t pregnant.”
I rolled my eyes and tried a different tack. “If I went back to work, we’d spend my entire wage on child care. And unlike you, Jack, I don’t clock in and clock out. When was the last time you woke up for a nightmare or to fetch a glass of water?”
“You’re right,” he said sarcastically. “That’s because I get up and go to work so I pay for this lovely house and our two cars and those clothes in your wardrobe . . . and the holidays, school fees, gym membership . . .”
I should have kept my mouth shut.
Jack belittles my blog, but I have over six thousand followers and last month Mucky Kids was named by a parenting magazine as one of the five best mummy blogs in Britain. I should have hit Jack with that fact, but by then he’d gone to have a shower. He came downstairs wearing nothing but his short dressing gown, which always makes me laugh. After apologizing, he offered to rub my feet. I arched an eyebrow. “What are you going to rub them on?”
We settled for a cup of tea in the kitchen and began discussing getting a nanny, trotting out the same cases for and against. I love the idea in theory—the me time, added sleep, and extra energy for sex—but then I picture a tight-bodied Polish girl bending over to fill the dishwasher or wrapped in a loosely tied towel as she leaves the bathroom. Am I paranoid? Maybe. Sensible? Absolutely.
I met Jack at the Beijing Olympics. I had a job in the media center looking after the accredited journalists. Jack was working for Eurosport. He was still quite junior, learning the ropes, watching how it was done.
Both of us were too busy in Beijing to notice each other, but when it was over the host broadcaster threw a party for all the affiliated media. By then I knew a lot of the journalists, some of whom were quite famous, but most were boring, always talking shop. Jack seemed different. He was funny. Cool. Sexy. I liked everything about him, including the name Jack, which made him seem like a regular Tom, Dick, or Harry. He also had a great smile and film-star hair. I watched him from across the room and made the mistake of plotting our entire relationship in the course of sixty seconds. I had us marrying in London, honeymooning in Barbados, and having at least four children, a dog, a cat, and a big house in Richmond.
The party was winding down. I thought of something clever to say and made my way through the crowd. But before I could reach Jack he was waylaid by a female reporter from Sky Italia. Big hair. Voluptuous. Faces close. Shouting to be heard. Twenty minutes later I watched him walk off with the Italian job and I immediately felt cheated upon. I found a dozen reasons why I didn’t like Jack. He was cocky. He put highlights in his hair. He whitened his teeth. I told myself that he wasn’t my type because I didn’t go for pretty men. This might not have been a conscious choice. Pretty men didn’t usually go for me.
It was two years before we met again. The International Olympic Committee held a reception for delegates who were in London to inspect venues for the 2012 Games. I saw Jack arguing with a woman in the hotel foyer. He was animated and adamant about something. She was crying. Later I saw him alone at the bar, drinking the free booze and hijacking plates of canapés from passing waiters.
I pushed my way between bodies and said hello. Smiled. Was it wrong to catch him on the rebound?
We chatted. Laughed. Drank. I tried hard not to try too hard.
“I need some fresh air,” Jack said, almost falling off the stool. “Fancy a walk?”