Her by Lane Harriet

Author:Lane, Harriet [Lane, Harriet]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General
ISBN: 9780297865070
Google: hnPOnQEACAAJ
Amazon: 031636987X
Barnesnoble: 031636987X
Goodreads: 21423336
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2014-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

Emma

Now our evenings are a little more structured, now Cecily’s going down pretty heavily at seven, there’s absolutely no reason why we shouldn’t have some people over for dinner. Who would go with Nina and Charles? I spend a few days agonising over this, and then Ben gets tired of my indecision and says, ‘They’re not upholstery. They’re not curtains, for God’s sake,’ and I’m glad he’s making jokes, I’m glad he’s forgiven me for the shoes, so I invite Fran and Luke, and Patience (an ex-colleague, I haven’t seen her for ages) and her partner Rob. Everyone’s up for it, though I know they’ll all be doing the mental maths: please let this be worth the expense of the babysitter. No pressure, then.

‘Do you want to do your beef thing?’ I ask Ben one evening during the commercial break.

‘What beef thing?’

‘You know, the beef thing. Everyone likes that. I’m pretty sure Fran and Luke haven’t had it.’

He says OK, he’ll do the beef thing.

When Christopher is at playgroup and Cecily is napping or chewing toys, I hurriedly go through cookbooks and google recipes. I compile shopping lists, thinking about salads and soups and puddings. I ring the window cleaner. I iron the wedding-list tablecloth and napkins. I buy some Silvo and tear up an old shirt of Ben’s for rags. Eat your heart out Mrs Dalloway, I think, as I polish the candlesticks, rubbing and rubbing as the shine is revealed, as the tarnish transfers to the cloth.

Last Christmas, as part of our economy drive (the end of the Royal Academy membership and the organic veg-box scheme; the beginning of my obsession with BOGOFs and discount codes and ebay and ‘reduced’ stickers) we told our cleaner Magda that we had to let her go. Though Ben never quite articulated it, I know he expected me to take over on that front – after all, I’m at home all day, aren’t I? With nothing much to do? – but what with one thing and another, things have gone to pot. So now I attempt to be systematic about it, moving furniture and rugs around to reveal drifts of dust, running a cloth along the window sills, taking up the sofa cushions and shoving the Hoover nozzle deep into its recesses, listening to the subsequent rattles and clatters with a mixture of satisfaction and dread.

It’s a fairly superficial transformation, and it only lasts until Christopher gets home and upends his crate of cars – which also contains lolly sticks, crumbs and hard nuggets of Play-Doh – on the rug. I stand over him, my arms crossed, and I don’t say any of the things I want to say. I just say, ‘Time to wash your hands for tea.’

On the Saturday morning I leave the house quite early, just before nine, and I drive to the supermarket ahead of the rush, cutting down the bright empty aisles with my trolley and my list, scoring things off, efficiently charting my progress. Afterwards, when I’ve stashed the groceries in the boot, I dart through to the high street in search of a florist.

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