The Motherhood Walk of Fame. Shari LowЧитать онлайн книгу.
fit and I had to whip him out, calm him down and make him sip water.
When was the last time I’d done that? Laughed uncontrollably, I mean, not farted in the bath–I gave that up when I got married.
God, I couldn’t remember. I now spent my life cooking, cleaning, working, smoking, sleeping and trying in vain to resuscitate a sex life that was in second-stage rigor mortis. Where was the fun? This wasn’t life, it was monotony.
And of all places, LA would be such an adrenalin rush. Running in slow motion across Baywatch beach. Skipping down Hollywood Boulevard. Going around on the big wheel on Santa Monica pier. Stalking Liam Neeson. Catching up with my best pal Kate Winslet.
How amazing would all of that be?
As for the boys, let’s see: they could spend a whole month freezing their bums off here, staying indoors because the rain was pelting down, painting with potato shapes for the four hundred and tenth time already this year, or they could have a blast surfing in the sun, playing baseball in the park and going to Disneyland.
And I hadn’t started on the fundamental reason for going. What if…Oh, I could hardly even think about it without wanting to shriek and dream about what I’d do with my first million. (Botox, incidentally, followed by lots of Prada, first-class flights and generally swanning around acting starry.) But what if some big-time, legendary, iconic studio actually bought the film rights to one of my books? That’s like winning the lottery. It’s like discovering an elderly relative you never knew has died and left you a fortune. It’s like robbing a bank. It could be the start of a brand-new life, not just for me, but for all of us.
I read the boys their stories, tucked them in and kissed them goodnight. No sign of husband. He’d obviously done what he always does when there’s a conflict in sight–decided to avoid it altogether. If Mark Barwick were alive in Wild West times he’d have chosen the day of the Alamo to nip to the nearest IKEA and stock up on soft furnishings for his cabin.
Mac yawned as I ruffled his hair. ‘Love you, Mummy.’
I kissed his cheeks, then his forehead, then his chin, then blew a raspberry on his chest. ‘I love you too, gorgeous.’
‘Mummy…’
‘Yes?’
I stood by and mentally prepared myself for one or more of his standard 443 stalling gestures. Can I have an apple? I want another story. Sing me a song. There’s a ghost under my bed. Is it Christmas tomorrow? I need a pee. Can I have a drink? What age am I? How many sleeps until I’m ten? Why is there no ice in ice cream? When I grow up can I be the Pink Panther? Where did I come from? So how did they get me out of there? Yuk, I’m never doing that. What goes faster, Batman or a jumbo jet? Why is Shrek green?
‘Mummy,’ he murmured again, his eyes already closing. ‘Are we really going to Disneyland?’
I kissed his forehead. ‘Yes, we are, baby. We definitely are.’
‘And Mummy…’
‘Yes, babe…?’
‘Why is Shrek green?’
I lay in bed that night with Mark lying next to me, pretending he was asleep. Or actually, maybe he was. It was amazing how many things I could think of that irritated me about my husband when I really tried, and the fact that he didn’t in any way hold with the old saying that you should never go to sleep angry was one of them. He could. Easily. We could have an argument that was verging on volcanic and he would still have no problem whatsoever rolling over and grabbing forty winks right in the middle of it.
My brain, however, was racing.
Whichever way I analysed it, there was no justifiable reason not to go to LA. Mark would come round. I had four days until the flight and if those days went the way of our normal major disputes (of which, I had to admit, there had only ever been five or six in the twenty-odd years we’d known each other), then he’d avoid me for about a day, spend the next day acting as if nothing had happened, finally get around to looking at things from my point of view on day three, and on day four either compromise or capitulate. Capitulation would be good, but I figured I could handle compromise. We could cancel the business-class flights and go standby. Or perhaps wait until the following week at the very latest. Or change airlines and save money by flying via Bangladesh.
One way or another, we’d get there.
There was no way that Mark would make me pass up this chance when he realised how much it meant to me. It might be a gamble, it might be reckless, it might be completely misguided–but it just might be fabulous. And there was only one way to find out. I knew Mark would come round. There was absolutely, definitely no way he’d make me do this on my own.
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this on your own,’ said Kate as she steered her perfectly clean, perfectly green, hybrid car around the big Concorde statue at Heathrow airport.
‘Me neither,’ concurred Carol.
I sighed. ‘Don’t get me started.’
I couldn’t quite believe it myself. The usual post-meltdown reaction had gone right to schedule. For a whole day.
On Tuesday evening (Day One: Avoidance) Mark had come home from work around eight. The boys were already down for the night and I was at the kitchen table pretending to create a literary work of genius on my laptop. He said hi in a flat, dismissive tone. I didn’t respond. He looked in the oven for his supper. I let him discover for himself that the oven was bare. He flicked on the kettle and pulled one cordon bleu, exquisitely prepared Pot Noodle from the cupboard. I continued to type. By this time my fingers were rattling across the keyboard, forming perpetual repetitions of Mark is a Tosser, Mark is a Tosser, Mark is a Tosser. He made his Pot Noodle, grabbed the paper and went into the living room. About an hour later I heard him moving around upstairs, going in and out of the boys’ room. He always kissed them goodnight before he went to…bed! He couldn’t be going to bed! Didn’t he want to talk about this at all? Aaargh! Well, bugger him.
And anyway, we were still on Aftermath, Day One of Operation Big Sulk. He was bound to have changed his tune by Wednesday.
He had, but only in a musical way.
Come Wednesday (Day Two: Pretend nothing has happened) he was whistling ‘Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love’ as he came in the door. Bloody whistling! My life was in turmoil, my heart was breaking, my soul was scarred…Okay, so I’m exaggerating a wee bit, but I was mightily pissed off. And he was whistling.
Tap, tap, oven bare, another Pot Noodle, bed.
Finally, Day Three, he spoke.
‘Carly, we have to talk about this.’
Ah, I knew he’d come around and I was delighted that he was actually doing it a day ahead of my estimation.
‘You’re right,’ I said softly, putting on my very best humble face and trying my hardest not to gloat.
‘Did the airline give you a refund or do we need to ask them in writing and provide some kind of official explanation as to why we cancelled the trip?’
I was astonished. This was when he should be packing his suitcase, ordering his dollars and launching a search party for his Speedos–last seen in 1989.
‘Mark, we’re going. I won’t miss this. I’d regret it forever.’
He looked more irritated than angry. ‘Come on, Carly, be reasonable. It’s crazy.’
‘I know! That’s one of the main reasons I want to do it. When was the last time you did something really, really crazy, Mark? So crazy that you wanted to scream with the sheer giddiness of it.’
‘The day I married you,’ he said calmly.
Oh. Sails now wind-free. And his facial expression hadn’t changed so I couldn’t tell if that had been a good comment, as in crazy-great, or a bad comment, as in crazy-should’ve-been-locked-up, so I just ignored it.