The Little Things Page 2

  A text beeps on my phone. ‘Ready for you now, gorgeous. Is your computer on? xxxxxx’

  ‘One minute! xxxxxx’ I reply, before dashing back for a quick tidy-up – which involves kicking my mags, scratch cards and hard-skin remover out of shot. James appears on screen almost as soon as I’ve fired up the computer.

  It’s early evening in Dubai and he’s outside on his balcony, in front of the swimming pool that came as standard in his five-star apartment.

  He’s in a soft, cream, linen shirt and his tan makes him look like an Instagrammed version of James Bond – younger, fitter, altogether more gorgeous. I decide not to let him into the fact that the only productive thing I’ve done in twenty-four hours is sign up for a website called Wacky-Bingo.com.

  ‘Hello there.’ He smiles, making my insides swirl.

  ‘Hi, James,’ I reply, shuffling into a more seductive position. ‘Wow, it looks roasting out there.’ There is a faint glisten of sweat on his brow.

  ‘Oh, it’s way too hot. Too hot for me, anyway. I’m in the office all day, though, so I suppose I don’t have a chance to notice it, anyway.’

  ‘You don’t have to say this sort of thing for my benefit,’ I tell him.

  He holds my gaze momentarily and realises he’s convincing no one. ‘Well, okay. It’s great here. But it’d be a hell of a lot better if you were out here.’

  I had to spend a long time persuading James to go out to Dubai while I stayed behind looking for work there. I considered going over to do my job hunting there, but it felt like too much of a risk – and I was (stupidly) certain an employment offer would appear in no time. So, after Keith Blanchard identified him as the guy for the job I’d assumed (to my abject embarrassment) had my name on it, this was the only sensible option. I miss him like mad, that goes without saying, but I know I did the right thing. There was no way I would have put him in the horrendous position of feeling duty-bound to stay out of some sense of loyalty to me. He felt awful enough about the whole thing as it was.

  ‘I’ll be honest, Hannah,’ he says, running his hand through his hair. ‘I feel a little . . . out of my depth.’

  I shake my head. ‘That’s silly, James. You’re more than capable.’

  ‘You should’ve had this job. I still think that.’

  I swallow, grateful for the reassurance. ‘Have a bit of self-belief, James. You’re doing brilliantly out there. Besides, I know this set-up – with you there and me here – isn’t ideal, but we’re making it work, aren’t we?’

  He doesn’t answer at first. ‘Have you had any luck job hunting?’

  ‘Yeah, a couple of leads.’

  His face brightens. ‘That’s great. Any of them out here?’

  I hesitate. ‘Not sure yet.’

  Fortunately, his doorbell rings. ‘Listen, I need to run, sweetheart. I’ve got a cocktail party this evening.’ I try not to visibly react to this news, but clearly fail. ‘It’ll be as dull as ditchwater, I just know it.’

  ‘Yeah. Sounds like hell,’ I tease. He laughs as the doorbell rings again. He hesitates in his chair momentarily.

  ‘You look so beautiful, Hannah,’ he tells me. I feel tears prick in my eyes. ‘We’ll do this again tomorrow, shall we?’ I nod. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too,’ I manage.

  Then he blows me a kiss and is gone, to sip cocktails with the glitterati. But, hey, at least Doctors is starting and I’ve got half a Galaxy left in the fridge.

  I manage to keep myself busy for the rest of the day, even if I’d struggle to pinpoint exactly how. It involves going to the shops to stock up on provisions, a bit of light dusting, then a chat with my mum, then Julia, and various people on Twitter I feel as if I’ve known for years, even though we’ve never addressed each other using more than 140 characters.

  Aware that it’s important not to let myself go completely, I also do my Davina DVD, which I enjoyed the first fourteen or so times, before I could recite the entire thing more accurately than the Lord’s Prayer.

  If I’m honest, I miss the gym, but I had to give up my membership three months ago, along with any general belief in my own self-worth. Not that I’m wallowing.

  At 3 p.m., I resolve to read a little – a proper book, not just one of my copious mags with Kim and Kanye on the front – when the doorbell rings. I respond to this by dropping my bag of Doritos and glaring at it with the same shifty-eyed suspicion with which an armed fugitive might contemplate whether there’s an FBI SWAT team behind the door.

  I scuttle to the intercom and press the button. ‘Hannah? Hannah are you there?’

  It’s my sister, Suzy.

  She’s eight years older than I am, and is basically Superwoman, except for the tights, which she avoids in order to keep yeast infections at bay.

  She has, however, juggled a career as a GP with having four children, all boys.

  I sometimes try to remember back to the time when we all thought Suzy wasn’t the having-children kind. Then, before we knew it, along came four lovely little things: Max, who’s nine; the twins, Leo and Noah, who are six; and, just when we were all convinced that she and Justin – her husband – couldn’t possibly have time for any between-sheets action, she became pregnant with Ollie. She’s since confided that he was an accident (‘A happy one, I swear!’), one that occurred after they let their guard down on holiday in Spain when the boys were at the Teeny Boppers’ disco party, learning how to do the Macarena.

  I don’t think she’d claim any of it has been easy: if you’re ever invited over to her house for Sunday lunch, you’ll notice that the place is so noisy and chaotic that it takes several days for the ringing in your ears to stop. But she’s stopped noticing that other people don’t live with the permanent tinnitus of bickering over the Xbox or tuneless piano practising; to her, the chaos is normal.

  ‘I’ll let you up,’ I reply, glad I made the effort to get out of my dressing gown earlier.

  Suzy steps into the room, layered in Zara and Boden, before looking at me in the way you’d examine a corpse dredged from a canal. ‘Oh, Hannah,’ she sighs. ‘You look awful.’

  ‘Thank you for that vote of confidence.’

  ‘Somebody needs to tell you the truth,’ she mutters, in this awful, sympathetic voice that doesn’t suit her in the slightest. ‘I bet James keeps insisting you look like Scarlett Johansson.’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact,’ I say defiantly.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you this. But he’s lying.’

  I tut. ‘Talk about kicking a woman when she’s down. Have you forgotten I’ve just lost my job?’

  ‘I think you’re stretching the definition of “just” a little, aren’t you? Look I’m not trying to get at you, I promise,’ she says, rubbing my arm. ‘Can I make a cup of tea? It’s a flying visit before I get back to surgery, but I’ve got time for a quick one.’

  She heads into the open-plan kitchen as I realise I’ve failed to hide my Doritos in the living area and shove them under a cushion.

  ‘The thing is, Hannah, I’ve tried the softly-softly approach. So have Mum and Dad.’

  My parents have been ceaselessly supportive. On the first day of my redundancy, Mum sent Dad round with a cooked dinner on a plate – some smoked haddock, baked beans and potato – covered with tin foil, which he handed to me as if I were some sort of meals-on-wheels case.

  ‘We’ve all tried reassuring you that something will come along soon,’ she continues. ‘And where it’s got you is . . . precisely nowhere.’

  ‘It’s not as if I’m not trying,’ I argue, though, if I’m entirely honest, my efforts have started to dwindle as time has gone on.

  In the first few weeks after I was laid off, I leaped out of bed every morning so hungry for employment I was virtually dribbling. Then it became apparent that the jobs suited to my experience and hard-won qualifications seemed to be nonexistent. Problem is, we’re reaching a critical point.

  ‘How can you possibly still be affording this flat? James
can’t still be paying for this and his new place in Dubai?’ she asks.

  ‘No. I insisted he stopped because I thought I could cover it with redundancy money. Which runs out in about . . .’ I pause to work it out. ‘Three weeks ago. He doesn’t know that, by the way.’

  She frowns. ‘Still no sign of any employment, then?’

  I consider lying to her, but there’s absolutely no point. Since she had kids, Suzy is like a ninja version of Miss Marple: she works out the truth in a nanosecond.

  ‘I’ve become unemployable,’ I whimper.

  She purses her lips, not approving of self-indulgence, either. ‘That can’t be true.’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ I mutter. ‘There’s absolutely nothing out there, Suzy. I’ve looked into tons of jobs in Dubai, mountains of them, but none of them are what I’m looking for. And there’s very little closer to home, either.’

  ‘You need a stopgap,’ she says, bringing over a mug of tea. ‘Something to tide you over until a more suitable job comes up.’

  I let out a breath. ‘I’ll go to the jobcentre this afternoon and try again,’ I promise. The thought makes my stomach twist.

  ‘Well, don’t do that just yet. I might have a solution for you.’

  ‘Is it a great marketing job for another luxury-car manufacturer, paying similar salary and just designed for my set of skills?’

  ‘Hmm. One of those descriptions could apply.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘That it’s a job.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Working for me. Our childminder, Monique, has handed in her notice. And I need a replacement.’

  Chapter 3

  To say the first morning of my new job catapults me out of my comfort zone barely covers it.

  It isn’t just that I spent last night on a lumpy sofa bed in my sister’s attic room, which I’ve moved into, feeling like a new staff member arriving at Downton Abbey.

  It isn’t just that I’ve had two hours of broken sleep, after Ollie’s reaction to something called the ‘controlled-crying technique’ was so loud and angry it’s a wonder his cot didn’t burst into flames.

  It isn’t even that I’m still reeling from the chaos I witnessed last night: Justin bathing the three youngest children as if it was a human sheep dip as Suzy ran round the house like a sweating madwoman – ironing uniforms, sewing on karate badges, finishing maths homework, signing permission slips.

  It’s that, after I woke this morning and hobbled out of the sofa bed like a geriatric penguin with a slipped disc, I started for the first time to wonder whether I can actually do what Suzy’s asking me to do.

  I’d flattered myself that, because the kids like me, looking after them would be well within my limits. But now it strikes me that maybe they call me ‘Cool Auntie Hannah’ because their only other point of reference is Aunt Joanna – Justin’s sister – a stout-faced, humourless biology teacher with a mono-brow that could scrub a doorstep.

  This unease is not helped by the scene that greets me when I step downstairs and almost collide with Justin.

  When Suzy met and married her husband twelve years ago, while he was still training to be a barrister, it was universally agreed that he was a catch: sweet, ‘dishy’ (my mum’s words) and solvent, the kind of bloke you could take home to your parents and be confident he wouldn’t choose that exact moment to reveal a repertoire of dirty jokes. They were almost embarrassingly loved up for an unduly extended period and I’m sure they still are, even if they do less snogging on public transport these days. But they both turned out to be amazing parents, if a little – understandably – exasperated at times.

  ‘Leo, please, I’ve asked you seven times now. GET YOUR SHOES ON!’ Justin pleads, a crimson patch blooms on his neck.

  ‘O-KAAAY!’ Leo replies defiantly, flinging down the Xbox remote.

  ‘You’re not even meant to be on the Xbox in the mornings,’ Justin sighs wearily. ‘I thought we’d banned that. Didn’t we ban that, Suze?’

  Suzy is attempting to wrestle a tub of Sudocrem from Ollie while simultaneously trying to get Noah’s tie on him. If you look at her briefly enough she appears to have eight arms. ‘I don’t know. I can’t keep up on what’s banned and what’s not these days,’ she mutters.

  Max walks into the living room, dressed and ready, before tapping his mum on the shoulder. ‘What is it, sweetheart?’ she pants.

  ‘I wondered if we could have a chat,’ he says matter-of-factly.

  ‘What about?’ Suzy asks.

  ‘Deforestation. We’re learning about it in geography.’

  ‘Now’s not really a good time, Max,’ Suzy replies.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, disappointed. ‘How about Ebola? Or human rights in China?’

  ‘Auntie Hannah will chat to your heart’s content about current affairs in the car,’ Suzy replies, to my alarm.

  ‘So you know what you’re doing?’ she asks me, swilling black coffee down her throat as she grabs her bag. ‘I told you about the twins’ karate class tonight, didn’t I? Will you make sure you give them a snack and drink beforehand, otherwise they’ll keel over.’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ I reassure her, almost convincingly.

  She then says her goodbyes to the children, which all goes well until it’s Ollie’s turn for a kiss, when he looks up from his Peppa Pig book and does not take kindly to the turn of events. ‘MUUUUUUMMMYYYYYYY!’

  Suzy winces as her brow pricks with a guilty sweat. ‘Oh darling, it’ll be okay – Mummy will be back later.’ He wails even louder. ‘And Auntie Hannah’s going to have lots of fun with you today, isn’t she?’

  ‘WAHHHHHHHHH!’ wails Ollie, launching himself onto the floor head first. I’ve seen this sort of thing before and know it is attributed to ‘the terrible twos’. Previously any mention of those words would have me running for cover. But now there’s nowhere to run.

  ‘He does this at playgroup but they assure me that it stops literally THE SECOND I leave,’ she says, biting her lip as she looks at him uneasily. ‘So you should be fine. I think. Oh God, I hope. But text me if there are any problems. I’m in surgery all morning but will come out if there are any emergencies whatsoever.’

  ‘There won’t be. Just go,’ I urge her under my breath, as if I were aiding a fugitive. ‘Go while you can. We’ll be fine.’ At which point Ollie starts banging his head against the floor.

  My frantic, pathetic attempts to divert Ollie’s attention and stop him inflicting grievous bodily harm on himself continue for twenty minutes; I am virtually on the verge of tap-dancing for him when he finally falls silent.

  Unfortunately, this is when my back is turned to retrieve a lost sock, which means I don’t spot him pouring an entire cup of warm tea into Max’s lunchbox until it’s too late.

  I attempt to remake the lunch, while simultaneously overseeing the swapping of Leo’s and Noah’s shoes (the former had two left feet; the latter two right), before deciding it’s easier to just hand over £2.45 for a hot dinner.

  By the time we’ve piled the mountain of sports bags into the boot and the kids have scrambled into the car, we are devastatingly late. In addition, Ollie decides he does not want to be strapped into his car seat under any circumstances, a position he makes clear by screaming, ‘HELLLPPPP!’ which must give passers-by the strong impression that he’s being kidnapped.

  I finally race to the driver’s seat, snap on my seatbelt and take a deep breath.

  ‘All ready, kids?’ I smile through gritted teeth, turning the ignition with a sense that we’re at least getting somewhere now.

  ‘What’s that horrible smell?’ asks Noah.

  I sniff. Max does the same. Soon everyone in the car is twitching their nasal passages like a pack of demented bloodhounds, until Ollie laughs and announces, ‘Poo!’ – which at least sheds immediate light on the situation.

  ‘Pwhaarrrrr! Ol, that’s a stinky one!’ Max says. ‘You’ll have to change his nappy before we go. He can’t
sit in that.’

  ‘I know,’ I say indignantly. ‘Right. You lot wait here,’ I add, pulling on the handbrake, turning off the ignition, then racing round to unstrap Ollie and carry him into the house leaving the trail of an odour comparable to that given off by a nuclear waste plant.

  Now, I’ve changed nappies in my time – at least two or three. But never when the child in question decides now is a good time to start practising the cancan. Ollie kicks, wriggles and generally contorts himself into every conceivable position except the one he’s meant to be in, while I hysterically squeak the words to ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ and attempt to persuade him to lie still.

  This would be bad enough without the issue of the nappy’s contents, of which I will spare you a full description except to say that if I’d known how bad it was going to be I’d have been less enthusiastic about his cabbage intake during Sunday dinner.

  It is Max who rescues me in the end: having unstrapped himself from the car and plodded in to charge up his iPod (the one he’s not meant to have on him) and pinch a bag of Haribos (also prohibited), he sees my predicament and steps in by entertaining Ollie via the medium of song, while I get down to nauseating business.

  Max’s version of Katy Perry’s ‘Roar’ might be about as in tune as a flushing toilet, but it leaves Ollie entranced and still enough for me to finally get him into a clean nappy.

  By the time we’re back in the car, we are twenty minutes behind schedule and all I can do is hurtle to school, intervene ineffectively in a row between the twins about Doctor Who, fail to answer Max’s questions about Henry VIII’s Dissolution of the Monasteries and bite hard into my lip every time I encounter (or indeed cause) a road-rage incident. Which is on average every forty seconds.

  I screech into the road in front of Max’s school and pull up outside the door. ‘YOU’RE ON THE ZIGZAGS!’ he squeals.

  ‘But it’s an emergency,’ I argue. A man in a tweed suit emerges from the school gates and starts walking towards us. ‘It’s Mr Brown! I’ll get detention! GO! GO!’ Max shrieks, and I slam on the accelerator as if trying to flee an armed robbery.