chapter thirty-seven
The day of the barbeque
‘Mummy!’ It was only Holly calling for her mother’s attention.
‘Holly!’ sighed Clementine. ‘You gave me a fright! You don’t need to call out as if it’s a matter of life or death each time.’
She stood up and left the table, carefully avoiding Sam’s eyes. She couldn’t wait to be alone with him in the car to go over the night’s events. They’d be dining out on the story of this night forever. It was getting curiouser and curiouser. They’d gone down the rabbit hole. Erika who had never wanted children now wanted babies. Oliver wanted Clementine’s eggs. Their hostess used to be a stripper.
‘Have you ever heard of the boy who called wolf?’ she said to Holly.
‘I don’t know anyone called Wolf. I’ve been calling you a million, trillion times.’ Holly looked up at her accusingly from her spot in the swinging chair next to Dakota.
‘Sorry,’ said Clementine. ‘What is it?’
‘Why is your face all red?’ asked Holly.
‘I don’t know,’ said Clementine. She pressed cold fingertips to her hot face. The air was getting cooler. ‘Are you girls warm enough?’
‘Yes,’ said Holly. ‘Look at this game Dakota showed us! It’s so awesome.’
She pointed at some colourful, animated game on the screen of the iPad in Dakota’s hand.
‘Wow!’ said Clementine, staring at the game without seeing it. ‘Awesome.’
‘Thank you for taking care of them like this,’ said Clementine to Dakota. ‘You let me know when you’ve had enough, okay? When you get bored?’
‘Ruby and I are not boring!’ protested Holly.
Dakota smiled conspiratorially up at Clementine. She seemed like such a serious, good little girl. It was hard to believe she was the daughter of such colourful people as Vid and Tiffany.
‘All okay here? You girls being good?’ Sam stood next to her.
Clementine glanced up and met his eyes. There was a spark there. A spark she hadn’t seen for a while. Maybe they’d have good sex tonight, proper good sex, the kind that used to be a given, not that weirdly uncomfortable let’s-get-this-over-with sex they’d been having for the last couple of years. Something had gone wrong with their sex life after Ruby was born, or it had for Clementine; sometimes she felt a sense of loss, of actual grief over the loss of their sex life, and other times she wondered if it was all in her head, if she was being typically melodramatic about something natural and inevitable. It happened to everyone, it was called getting ‘stale’, it was called marriage.
She sometimes felt a terrible sense of inappropriateness during sex, almost an incestuous feeling. It was like she and Sam were old, beloved friends who for some reason – a religious or legal or medical reason – were obligated to have sex every few weeks in front of a small panel of impartial observers, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant to have sex with an attractive old friend, but it was awkward, and a relief for all concerned when it was done.
She’d never spoken about it to Sam. How could she put that into words? ‘Sometimes our sex life feels incestuous and religious and ever so slightly yucky, Sam, don’t you think? Any suggestions?’
There were no words available to her, and besides, she loathed talking about sex. It made her think of her mother, and strangely enough, of Erika. All that ‘open’ talk in the car about contraception and self-respect.
She knew part of the problem was that the girls were such unsettled sleepers. It meant that both she and Sam were on edge the whole time listening for that inevitable cry that could break the spell at any moment. With limited time you couldn’t linger. They had to get down to business, to the old tried-and-tested moves and positions, because otherwise it would be yet another case of ‘mission abort’. It meant there was always a certain ‘move it along’ tension to the proceedings. (Sometimes she even caught herself thinking, Hurry, hurry!) It also meant they never stopped being ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’ and there was something so frumpy and ordinary and unglamorous about Mummy and Daddy having quick, furtive sex while their children slept. These days, Sam wasn’t suggesting sex that often, which made Clementine feel kind of hurt: She assumed he still found her attractive; it would be all too easy to let herself fall into the body-loathing abyss – the world was so eager to give her a shove – but she was standing firm for now. At the same time she’d often feel relieved when they both rolled over to face different directions, because honestly, who could be bothered? She suspected that he felt exactly the same mixture of hurt and relief, and the thought of him feeling relief about not having to have sex with her hurt her further, even though she felt the same way. And so it went on.
But now there was a spark, and she felt a great sense of exhilaration and relief. So this was all they needed! A barbeque with a friendly ex-stripper and a music-appreciating electrician who looked like Tony Soprano. She’d always fancied Tony Soprano.
‘Why are you laughing, Mummy?’ said Holly.
‘I’m not laughing,’ said Clementine. ‘I’m smiling. I’m just happy.’
She caught Dakota giving her a dubious look and she tried to pull herself together.
‘Daddy is all red too,’ said Holly.
‘Pink.’ Ruby removed her thumb from her mouth to comment. ‘Daddy is pink.’
‘Pink,’ agreed Holly.
‘I expect he’s a bit hot and bothered,’ said Clementine.
‘Why?’ said Holly.
‘Maybe I need a cold shower,’ said Sam, discreetly pinching the flesh of Clementine’s upper arm. ‘I should stand in the fountain, eh?’
‘Silly Daddy,’ said Ruby.