mean, I had gone off-topic. I will admit that. I sometimes do. But couldn’t he see that our holiday plans and the problem with the recycling bins and his mother’s birthday present was all the same issue?
(Also, it wasn’t a dress, it was a nondescript breastfeeding tunic top that I’d worn fifty times before. So how on earth could he say I looked nice in it?)
Probably we should have agendas for our arguments. Probably we should decide to have an argument every Thursday evening and buy in snacks and hire a mediator. We should take ownership of the arguing process. But until we do, we’re stuck with Dan saying ‘nothing’ and me seething and the air all crackly with static resentment.
Anyway, I’m hoping my boudoir pictures will change everything. Or change some things, at least.
Meanwhile, the office is pretty stressful, too. Robert has been hanging around every day, going through figures and files and basically insulting everything we’ve ever done. He isn’t scary, exactly, but he’s businesslike. He asks short, brusque questions. He expects short, brusque answers. Poor Clarissa can’t cope at all, and communicates in whispers. I’m more resilient – but doesn’t he realize? We don’t make the big decisions. It wasn’t our idea to commission a special Willoughby House Christmas Pudding last year as a gift to supporters (total loss: £379), it was Mrs Kendrick’s.
Shamed by Mrs Kendrick’s positive and adaptable attitude, I’ve done some research on websites and online shops and all the things I think we should be doing. I’ve spent every waking moment trying to think of creative ideas other than a ghost story podcast. (The trouble is, once you try to have an idea, they all fly away.) I’ve also been round to see Toby, but he wasn’t in, so I emailed him and haven’t heard back yet.
Meanwhile, Mummy keeps phoning me about the opening ceremony. She’s nearly as bad as Esme, with her endless questions. Today she wanted to know: 1. What colour shoes should she wear? And 2. How will she remember everyone’s name? (Answers: 1. No one will be looking at her shoes and 2. name badges.) Esme, on the other hand, wanted to know: 3. Do I require a radio microphone? And 4. What kind of snacks would I like in the ‘green room area’? (Answers: 3. I’m really not bothered and 4. a bowl of M&M’s with all the blue ones taken out. Joke.)
Just to add to the fraught atmosphere, Tilda and Toby had a massive shouting match last night. I could hear them through the wall and it made me wince. (I also decided it would be tactless for me to pop straight round and say, ‘Oh, Toby, you’re in, did you get my email?’ So I left it half an hour and by then he’d gone out again. Typical.)
I know it’s tough for Toby and that his generation have it hard. I know all that. But I think Tilda’s going to have to be firm. He needs to get a job. A place to live. A life, basically.
I’m actually quite apprehensive as I knock on her door on Thursday evening, in case I come across her and Toby mid-row again. But as she opens the door she looks quite calm – mellow, even, and there’s music playing in the background.
‘He’s out,’ she says succinctly. ‘Staying over with friends. We’re fine. All ready?’
‘I guess!’ I give a nervous laugh. ‘Ready as I ever will be.’
‘And Dan?’ She peers round to next door, as though he might suddenly pop up.
‘He thinks I’m at book group.’ I grin. ‘You might have to bullshit about our interesting discussion on Flaubert.’
‘Flaubert!’ She gives a short laugh. ‘Well come on in, Madame Bovary.’
I’ve been googling ‘boudoir photos’ pretty solidly over the last three days, and as a result, I’m equipped. More than equipped. I have procured: a spray tan, a manicure, a pedicure, blow-dried hair, false eyelashes, a bag of pretty underwear, a bag of racy underwear, a bag of super-racy/trashy-whore underwear and a massive long string of fake pearls from Topshop. I also have a few accessories which arrived in a plainly packaged box – I told Dan they were new ballet shoes for the girls – but I’m not sure about those. (In fact, I’m thinking the ‘vintage fur rabbit mask’ was a definite mistake.)
Every chance I’ve got, I’ve been posing in the mirror, squinting at my bum to see how big it looks and practising an alluring expression. Although I