Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?. Claudia CarrollЧитать онлайн книгу.
not bloody well feel at all.
My head is starting to thump with worry now, as I pull on a pyjama top and slip quietly into the comforting, dull warmth of the bed beside him. Because whether I like it or not, no amount of sugar glazing can disguise the fact that our marriage is on dangerously shaky ground and has been for a long, long time.
And now, here I am.
Potentially about to throw a hand grenade into it.
How Dan and I first met
Everyone I knew envied me growing up. Everyone. But I spent my entire youth shooting down the myth and telling anyone who’d listen that all resentment of my childhood was completely and utterly uncalled for. Thing is, my mother was, and still is, a diplomat, working for the Department of Foreign Affairs. Posted to Washington DC at the moment, as it happens, which is a massive promotion for her. For me though, it means I get to see and spend time with her an average of about once every twelve months if I’m lucky…but that’s a whole other story, ho hum.
Anyway, the thing about me was that I pretty much spent my formative years being brought up single-handedly by Mum as a lone-parent family. She and I, contra mundum.
My mother, by the way, embodies all the best qualities of Churchill, Henry V, Joan of Arc and Joanna Lumley. An incredible woman, your mother, is what everyone says about her and they’re dead right too.
My father, who I often think was intimidated by such a high-octane success story as Mum, had walked out on us when I was very small and now lives in Moscow with his new wife and my two little half-brothers who I’ve never met and most likely never will. I harbour him no ill-will though; it can’t have been easy for him, forever playing Bill Clinton to her globetrotting, ladder-climbing, hard-working, ambitious and ultimately far more successful Hillary. And believe me, my father ain’t no Bubba.
So I grew up with Mum and spent my childhood being shunted abroad from one overseas posting to another, trailing around country after country in her wake. Funny, but I often think that one of the first things that attracted me to Dan was his background; so completely normal and ordinary, with parents who were still very much a couple, an adorable kid sister and everyone happily living together under the one, permanent roof.
The perfect nuclear family.
By contrast, people constantly used to tell me how exotic my upbringing was. How glamorous. Jammy cow. You’re so lucky. Talk about living the high life and pass me the Ferrero Rocher while you’re at it, Madame Ambassador.
OK, time to dispel the myth. You see, back then Mum was never posted to any of the glitzy or cosmopolitan capitals like say, Paris, Buenos Aires or even Monaco. No, not a bleeding snowball’s chance. In fact, by the time I hit secondary school, I’d already lived in Lagos, Nigeria, East Timor and not forgetting all the bright lights, excitement and glamour of Karachi, Pakistan. So in other words, we were a bit like gypsies, only legit.
It was a nomadic, rootless upbringing, one which left me with a deep, lifelong yearning to lead some kind of settled, normal, family life. Preferably in a place where you could actually drink the tap water and leave the house without a police escort.
Plus, by the tender age of fourteen, I’d already been to no fewer than five different international schools; an experience which left me shy, a bit introverted and with a lifelong terror of change. Always the new girl, always the outsider and it was always the same old pattern: no sooner was I slowly beginning to be accepted among my peers and gradually starting to forge new friendships, than it was time for me to be uprooted and shunted off to yet another school, in yet another far-flung country with yet another set of language barriers, thrown headfirst into a group of yet more strangers.
Anyway, by the time I turned fifteen, my mother was allocated to a new posting, this time to Georgetown, Guyana, South America – a city noted for many things but sadly, not for its wealth of half decent schools. Trouble was that by then I was at the ‘exam age’ with the Leaving Certificate hovering scarily on the horizon and of course, Mum was desperately anxious that I get the best education going.
Which as far as she was concerned, could only mean one thing: boarding school. Back home in Ireland. Anyway, aided by my grandmother in Dublin, who was only dying to get her sole grandchild back on home turf, they finally hit on a suitable school: a co-ed by the name of Allenwood Abbey in County Westmeath. Not too far from Dublin airport, so I could still get away to visit Mum on the long holidays, and yet close enough to where my granny lived, so I could visit her on the weekend exeats.
To this day, I can still vividly remember the sheer terror of arriving at Allenwood for the first time, a full week after term proper had started on account of a delay in leaving Pakistan. I remember driving up the miles-long, tree-lined driveway from the school gates all the way up to the main building, flanked by my mother and grandmother, both of whom kept trying to sell the school’s strong points to me, like a pair of estate agents high on speed. Mum in Hermès and pearls, Gran in tartan and support tights. Me in the back seat, crouching down as low as I could, silently praying that no one out on the playing fields would notice the new girl arriving, then write me off as some attention-seeking git with a bizarre ‘make-an-entrance’ fixation. Not only conspicuous for being the new girl but feeling like I might as well have a neon sign over my head screaming, ‘look at me! Step right up and get a load of the freak arriving. Oh what a circus, oh what a show!’
No question about it; I felt shitty in about ten different ways.
Anyway, the three of us were ushered through an entrance hall that could almost have doubled up as a cathedral and down a vast stone corridor into the headmaster’s office – one Professor Proudfoot. I’d never in all my years seen anything like him. He actually wore a proper black, swishy cape and looked a bit like a medieval king, with snow white eyebrows overhanging his wrinkled face, like guttering on a huge building.
Professor Proudfoot then insisted that as I was a late arrival, it would be best by far if he brought me straight down to my new classroom right away. Plenty of time for me to meet my dorm-mate, Yolanda, and to do all my unpacking later on.
Vivid memory to this day: hugging Mum goodbye, the smell of her Bulgari perfume. Me looking into her face, trying to gauge whether she was as upset as I was, but her make-up was so thick, I couldn’t get a read. Then squeezing Gran and getting the same smell you somehow always got from her – strong peppermints mixed with weedkiller. (Gardening is her God and Alan Titchmarsh is her Jesus Christ.) Trying to smile brightly and fight back tears as we said curt goodbyes and I was led down the vaulted, freezing stone passageway, all the way to adulthood.
I felt like a dead girl walking all the way to my first classroom, which was in a newer extension to the school, down yet more endless corridors, one leading off another, with fluorescent lights overhead that were bright enough to interrogate crime lords.
‘Just relax, you’ll be fine,’ smiled the professor, pausing to knock on a random classroom door. So, as always, when told to relax, my shoulders seized and right on cue, my heart started to palpitate.
Next thing, we were standing at the top of the fifth-year classroom in Senior House, with thirty pairs of eyes focused on me and me alone, all staring at me with the same unnerving calm as the Children of the Corn. I was introduced blushing like a forest fire and Professor Proudfoot gave them a bit of background on me; told them I was newly arrived from Karachi, that I’d lived all over the southern hemisphere, that I hadn’t been educated in Ireland since kindergarten and that they were all to make me feel very welcome. My entire life’s CV to date, in other words.
I was aware of a couple of things happening simultaneously as the teacher waved me towards a vacant seat in the third row: all eyes following me with keen interest as a polite round of applause broke out and a pretty blonde girl grabbing my arm and whispering to me that she was my dorm-mate and that she really, really liked my suntan.
I’d later find out that this was Yolanda Jones and in time, we’d grow to become great pals. In fact by midnight that night, she and I would have bonded as soon as she discovered that she fitted into an awful lot of my summer clothes from Pakistan.
Yolanda