DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL

Friday 19 April 2013 (continued)

Five years. Has it really been five years? To start with it was just a question of getting through the day. Thankfully, Mabel was too little to know anything about it, but, oh, the flashbacks to Billy, running all through the house saying, ‘I lost Dada!’ Jeremy and Magda at the door, a policeman behind them, the look on their faces. Running instinctively to the children, holding them both to me in terror: ‘What’s wrong, Mummy? What’s wrong?’ Government people in the living room, someone accidentally turning on the news, Mark’s face on the television with a caption:

Mark Darcy 1956–2008

The memories are a blur. Friends, family, surrounding me like a womb, Mark’s lawyer friends sorting everything, the will, the death duties, unbelievable, like a film that was going to stop. The dreams, with Mark still in them. The mornings, waking at 5 a.m., washed clean by sleep for a split second, thinking everything was the same, then remembering: poleaxed by pain, as though a great stake was ramming me to the bed, straight through the heart, unable to move in case I disturbed the pain and it spread, knowing that in half an hour the children would be awake and I’d be on: nappies, bottles, trying to pretend it was OK, or at least keep things together till help arrived and I could go off and howl in the bathroom, then put some mascara on and brace up again.

But the thing about having kids is: you can’t go to pieces; you just have to keep going. KBO: Keep Buggering On. The army of bereavement counsellors and therapists helped with Billy and later Mabel: ‘manageable versions of the truth’, ‘honesty’, ‘talking’, ‘no secrets’, a ‘secure base’ from which to deal with it. But for the soidisant ‘secure base’ – i.e. (try not to laugh) me – it was different.

The main thing I remember from those sessions was, bottom line: ‘Can you survive?’ There wasn’t any choice. All those thoughts that crowded in – our last moment together, the feel of Mark’s suit against my skin, me in my nightie, the unknowing last kiss goodbye, trying to recapture the look in his eye, the ring at the doorbell, the faces on the doorstep, the thoughts, ‘I never . . .’ ‘If only . . .’, they had to be blocked out. The carefully orchestrated grieving process, watched over by experts with soft voices, and caring upside‑down smiles, was less helpful than figuring out how to change a nappy whilst simultaneously microwaving a fish finger. Just keeping the ship afloat, if not exactly upright, was, I thought, 90 per cent of the battle. Mark had everything arranged: financial details, insurance policies. We got out of the big house full of memories in Holland Park, and into our little house in Chalk Farm. School fees, home, bills, income, all practical matters perfectly taken care of: no need to work now, just Mabel and Billy – my miniature Mark – all I had left of him to keep alive, and to keep me alive. A mother, a widow, putting one foot in front of the other. But inside I was an empty shell, devastated, no longer me.

By the time four years had gone by, however, the friends were not having it.

PART ONE

ONE YEAR AGO . . .

These are the extracts from last year’s diary, starting exactly one year ago, four years after Mark died, which show how I got myself into the current mess.

2012 DIARY

Thursday 19 April 2012

175lb, alcohol units 4 (nice), calories 2822 (but better eating real food in club than bits of old cheese and fish fingers at home), possibility of having or desire to have sex ever again 0.

‘She HAS to get laid,’ said Talitha firmly, sipping a vodka martini and glancing alarmingly around Shoreditch House for candidates.

It was one of our semi‑regular evenings which Talitha, Tom and Jude insist I attend, in an effort to ‘Get Me Out’, rather like taking Granny to the seaside.

‘She does,’ said Tom. ‘Did I tell you, I got a suite at the Chedi in Chiang Mai for only two hundred quid a night on LateRooms.com. There was a Junior Suite for 179 on Expedia but it didn’t have a terrace.’

Tom, in later life, has become increasingly obsessed with boutique‑hotel holidays and trying to make us tailor our lifestyles to fit in with Gwyneth Paltrow’s blog.

‘Tom, shut up,’ murmured Jude, looking up from her iPhone, where she was on DatingSingleDoctors. ‘This is serious. We have to do something. She’s become a Born‑Again Virgin.’

‘You don’t understand,’ I said. ‘It’s a total impossibility. I don’t want anyone else. And anyway, even if I did, which I don’t, I’m non‑viable, completely asexual and no one will ever fancy me again, ever, ever, ever.’

I stared at my stomach, bulging under my black top. It was true. I had become a Born‑Again Virgin. The trouble with the modern world is that you are bombarded with images of sex and sexuality all the time – the hand on the bum on the billboard, the couples smooching on the beach in the Sandals ad, real‑life couples entwined in the park, condoms by the till in the chemist – a whole wonderful magical world of sex, which you no longer belong to and never will again.

‘I’m not going to fight it, it’s just part of being a widow and the process of turning into a little old lady,’ I said melodramatically, hoping they would all immediately insist I was Penelope Cruz or Scarlett Johansson.

‘Oh, darling, don’t be so bloody ridiculous,’ said Talitha, summoning the waiter for another cocktail. ‘You probably do need to lose a bit of weight, and get some Botox and do something with your hair, but–’

‘Botox?’ I said indignantly.

‘Oh God,’ Jude suddenly burst out. ‘This guy isn’t a doctor. He was on DanceLoverDating. It’s the same photo!’

‘Maybe he’s a doctor who’s also a dance lover and just covering all the bases?’ I encouraged.

‘Jude, shut up,’ said Tom. ‘You are lost in a morass of nebulous cyber presences, most of whom don’t exist and who simply turn each other on and off randomly at will.’

‘Botox can kill you,’ I said darkly. ‘It’s botulism. It comes from cows.’

‘So what? Better to die of Botox than die of loneliness because you’re so wrinkly.’

‘For God’s sake, shut up, Talitha,’ said Tom.

Suddenly found self missing Shazzer again and wishing she was here to say, ‘Will everyone fucking stop the fuck telling everyone else to shut the fuck up.’

‘Yes, shut up, Talitha,’ said Jude. ‘Not everyone wants to look like a freak show.’

‘Darling,’ said Talitha, putting her hand to her brow, ‘I am NOT a “freak show”. Grieving apart, Bridget has lost, or shall we say, mislaid, her sense of sexual self. And it’s our duty to help her relocate it.’

And with a toss of her lush, shining locks Talitha settled back into her chair while the three of us stared at her silently, sucking our cocktails through our straws like five‑year‑olds.

Talitha burst out again, ‘The thing about not looking your age is, it’s all about altering the “signposts”. The body must be forced to reject the fat‑positioning of middle age, wrinkles are completely unnecessary and a fine head of swingy shiny healthy hair–’

‘Purchased for a pittance from impoverished Indian virgins,’ interjected Tom.

‘–however obtained and attached, is all one needs to turn back the clock.’

‘Talitha,’ said Jude, ‘did I actually just hear you articulate the words “Middle” and “Age”?’

‘Anyway, I can’t,’ I said.

‘Look. This really makes me very sad,’ said Talitha. ‘Women of our age–’

‘Your age,’ muttered Jude.

‘–have only got themselves to blame if they brand themselves as unviable by going on and on about how they haven’t had a date for four years. Germaine Greer’s “Disappearing Woman” must be brutally murdered and buried. One needs, for the sake of oneself and one’s peers, to create an air of mysterious confidence and allure, rebranding oneself–’

‘Like Gwyneth Paltrow,’ said Tom brightly.

‘Gwyneth Paltrow is not “our age” and she’s married,’ said Jude.

‘No, I mean I can’t shag anyone,’ I elucidated. ‘It wouldn’t be fair on the kids. There’s too much to do, and men are very high‑maintenance matters.’

Talitha surveyed me sorrowfully, my customary black loose‑waisted trousers and long top swathing the ruins of what was once my figure. I mean, Talitha does have some authority to speak, having been married three times and, ever since I first met her, never without some completely besotted man in tow.

‘A woman has her needs,’ Talitha growled dramatically. ‘What good is a mother to her poor children if she’s suffering from low self‑esteem and sexual frustration? If you don’t get laid soon, you will literally close up. More importantly, you will shrivel. And you will become bitter.’

‘Anyway,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘It wouldn’t be fair to Mark.’

There was silence for a moment. It was as if a huge wet fish had been thrown into the high‑spirited mood of the evening.

Later, though, Tom drunkenly followed me into the Ladies’, leaning against the wall for support as I flapped my hands around the designer tap trying to get it to turn on.

‘Bridget,’ said Tom, as I started groping under the washbasin for pedals.

I looked up from under the sink. ‘What?’

Tom had gone into professional mode again.

‘Mark. He would want you to find someone. He wouldn’t want you to stop–’

‘I haven’t stopped,’ I said, straightening up with some difficulty.

‘You need to work,’ he said. ‘You need to get a life. And you need someone to be with you and love you.’

‘I do have a life,’ I said gruffly. ‘And I don’t need a man, I have the children.’

‘Well, if nothing else, you need someone to show you how to turn taps on.’ He reached over to the square tap column and turned a bit of the base, at which water started gushing out. ‘Have a look on Goop,’ he said, suddenly changing back into funny, flippant Tom. ‘See what Gwyneth has to say about sex and French‑style parenting!’

11.15 p.m. Just said goodnight to Chloe, trying to conceal slight squiffiness.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ I mumbled sheepishly.

‘Five minutes?’ she said, wrinkling her nose, kindly. ‘Glad you had a bit of fun!’

11.45 p.m. In bed now. Tellingly, am wearing, instead of usual pyjamas with dogs on, which match the children’s, the only vaguely sexual nightie I can still get into. Suddenly have surge of hopeful feeling. Maybe Talitha is right! If I shrivel and become bitter, then what use will that be to the children? They will become child‑centric, demanding King Babies: and I a negative, rasping old fool, lunging at sherry, roaring, ‘WHY DON’T YOU DO ANYTHING FOR MEEEEEEEEE?’

11.50 p.m. Maybe have been going through long dark tunnel, which there is light at the end of. Maybe someone could love me? Is no reason why could not bring a man back here. I could put a hook inside bedroom door, so the children wouldn’t walk in on ‘us’, creating an adult, sensual world of . . . gaaah! Cry from Mabel.

11.52 p.m. Rushed into kids’ room to see fluffy‑headed figure in bottom bunk, sitting up, then quickly bending over, flat‑pack style, which is what she always does as she is not supposed to wake up in the night. Mabel then sat straight up again, looked down at her pyjamas, which belched diarrhoea, opened her mouth and was sick.

11.53 p.m. Lifted Mabel into the bath and removed PJs, trying not to retch.

11.54 p.m. Washed and dried Mabel, sat her on floor, then went to find new PJs, remove sheets and attempt to locate clean sheets.

Midnight. Crying from kids’ room. Still carrying diarrhoea sheets, diverted to room, only to hear rival crying emerging from bathroom. Considered wine. Reminded self am responsible mother, not slapper in All Bar One.

12.01 a.m. Flapped in fugue‑like state between kids’ room and bathroom. Level of bathroom‑crying notched up. Rushed in, assuming Mabel consuming Bic razor, poison or similar, to find her pooing on the floor with expression both guilty and startled.

Overwhelmed by love for Mabel. Picked her up. Diarrhoea and sick now not only on sheets, bathmat, Mabel, etc., but also on vaguely sexual nightie.

12.07 a.m. Went to kids’ room, still holding Mabel, plus diarrhoea ensemble, to find Billy out of bed, hair all hot and messy, looking up as if I was benign God with answer to all things. Billy held my gaze, whilst belching sick in manner of Exorcist except head remained in forward stationary position instead of spinning round and round.

12.08 a.m. Diarrhoea erupted onto Billy’s PJs. Billy’s bewildered expression overwhelmed self with love for Billy. Ended up in diarrhoea/vomit‑filled California‑style ‘group hug’ embracing Billy, Mabel and diarrhoea sheets, bathmat, PJs and vaguely sexual nightie.

12.10 a.m. Wished Mark was here. Had sudden flashback to Mark in his lawyerly dressing gown at night, the glimpse of hairy chest, the sudden flashes of humour at baby chaos, getting all military trying to organize us all, as if it was some sort of cross‑border situation, then realizing the absurdity of it all, and both of us ending up giggling.

He’s missing all the little moments, I thought. Missing his own children growing up. Even this would have been funny instead of confusing and scary. One of us could have stayed with them and the other done the sheets, then we could have got into bunk beds again and giggled about it and . . . how could anyone else ever delight in them and love them as he would have, even when they are pooing everywhere and . . .?

12.15 a.m. ‘Mummy!’ Billy jerked self back to reality. Was difficult situation, undeniably: everyone poo‑ and sick‑smeared, alarmed and retching. Ideal would be to separate children and fabrics/fluids and put both children in warm bath and find sheets. But what if pooing/vomiting continued? What then? Water could become toxic, and possibly cholera‑filled, like open sewer in refugee camp.

12.16 a.m. Arrived at makeshift solution: placing plastic mat on bathroom floor with pillows, towels, etc. generally around.

12.20 a.m. Resolved to go down to washing machine (i.e. fridge to get wine).

12.24 a.m. Closed door and ran down.

12.27 a.m. Having cleared head with swig of wine, realized was immaterial washing sheets, etc. Only essential objective, surely, was to keep children alive until morning, ideally simultaneously avoiding nervous breakdown.

12.45 a.m. Realized wine, though fortifying head, had done opposite to stomach.

12.50 a.m. Threw up.

2 a.m. Billy and Mabel both now asleep on bathroom floor on and under towels, cleaned to a degree. Resolve simply to sleep next to them in poo‑ and sick‑covered vaguely sexual nightie.

2.05 a.m. Experiencing pleasing sense of triumph, like general who has brought massacre, bloodbath, etc. back from brink, engineering peaceful solution: even starting to hear theme tune from Gladiator , seeing self as Russell Crowe, partially obscured by caption: ‘A Hero Will Rise’.

At same time, however, am unable to avoid sense that attempting any sort of erotic scenario with this sort of thing going on might not be a particularly good idea.

A NEW START – A NEW ME

Friday 20 April 2012

173lb, minutes set aside for meditation 20, minutes spent meditating 0.

2 p.m. Right. Have made a decision. Am going to completely change. Am going to return to Zen/New Age/self‑help‑book study and yoga, etc., starting from the inside not the outside, meditate regularly, and lose weight. Have got all set up with candle and yoga mat in bathroom and am going to quietly meditate and settle mind before taking kids to doctors, remembering to allow time to a) get snacks and b) locate missing car keys.

Also the other things am going to do are as follows:

I WILL

*Lose 30lb.

*Get on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and WhatsApp instead of feeling old and out of it because everyone except self is on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and WhatsApp.

*Stop being scared of turning on the television but instead simply locate and read instruction manuals for TV, Virgin box DVD remotes and buttons, so that TV becomes source of entertainment and pleasure rather than meltdown.

*Do regular Life Laundry, cleansing house of all unnecessary possessions, esp. cupboard under stairs, so is a place for everything and everything in its place in manner of Buddhist Zendo/Martha Stewart’s house.

*With above in mind, ask Mum to stop sending me unused handbags, ‘stoles’, Wedgwood ‘tureens’, etc., reminding her that age of rationing ended some time ago and is now space rather than possessions which is in short supply (at least in Western urban world).

*Start writing my

Hedda Gabbler

adaptation in order to have professional adult life again.

*Actually write said screenplay instead of spending half day setting off to look for something then wandering vaguely from room to room worrying about unanswered emails, texts, bills, play dates, go‑kart parties, leg waxes, doctors’ appointments, parents’ evenings, babysitting schedules, strange noise from fridge, cupboard under stairs, reason why telly won’t work, then sitting down again realizing have forgotten what was looking for in the first place.

*Not wear same three things all the time, but instead go through wardrobe and put together fashionable ‘looks’ based on celebrities at airports.

*Clear cupboard under stairs.

*Find out why fridge is making that noise.

*Go on email for one hour only per day instead of spending entire day in helpless cyber‑circle of email, news stories, Calendar, Google and shopping and holiday websites whilst texting, then not answering any of emails anyway.

*Not add Twitter, Facebook, WhatsApp and whatever to cyber‑circle when have got on them.

*Deal with emails immediately and so that email becomes effective means of communication instead of terrifying Unexploded Email Inbox full of guilt trips and undetonated time‑vampire bombs.

*Be better at looking after the children than Chloe the nanny.

*Establish regular routine with children so everyone knows where they are and what supposed to be doing, esp. self.

*Read parenting self‑help books, including

One, Two, Three . . . Better, Easier Parenting

and

French Children Don’t Throw Food

in order to be better at looking after the children than Chloe.

*Be kinder to Talitha, Jude, Tom and Magda in return for their kindness to me.

*Go to Pilates once a week, Zumba twice a week, gym three times a week and yoga four times a week.

I WILL NOT

*Drink so much Diet Coke before yoga that entire yoga session becomes exercise in trying not to fart.

*Ever be late for school run.

*Do V‑signs at people during school run.

*Get annoyed by dishwasher, tumble dryer and microwave beeping in attention‑seeking manner to tell you they have finished, wasting time crossly imitating dishwasher by dancing round saying, ‘Oh, oh, look at me, I’m a dishwasher, I’ve washed the dishes.’

*Get annoyed with Mum, Una or Perfect Nicolette.

*Call Nicolette ‘Nicorette’.

*Chew more than ten pieces of Nicorette per day.

*Hide empty wine bottles from Chloe.

*Eat grated cheese straight out of the fridge, dropping it all over the floor.

*Be shouty or snarly with the children but talk in calm, even, electronic‑person‑on‑voicemail‑type voice at all times.

*Drink more than one can (each) of Red Bull and Diet Coke a day.

*Drink more than two non‑decaf cappuccinos a day. Or three.

*Eat more than three Big Macs or Starbucks ham‑and‑cheese paninis per week.

*Keep saying, ‘One . . . two . . .’ in warning voice to children before have decided what to do when get to ‘three’.

*Lie in bed in the morning thinking morbid or erotic thoughts, but get straight up at six o’clock and do self up for school run in manner of Stella McCartney, Claudia Schiffer or similar.

*Wang around hysterically when things go wrong but instead achieve acceptance and calm – and stand like a great tree in the midst of it all.

But how can I accept what happened?. . . Look, I mustn’t . . . Gaah! Is time for doctor’s appointment and have not got snack ready, written, meditated or located whereabouts of EFFING CAR KEYS! FUCK!

SOCIAL MEDIA VIRGIN

Saturday 21 April 2012

172lb, minutes spent on exercise bike 0, minutes spent cleaning out cupboard 0, minutes spent working out how to use remotes 0, resolutions kept 0.

9.15 p.m. Children are asleep and house is all dark and quiet. Oh God, I’M SO LONELY. Everyone else in London is out laughing uproariously with their friends in restaurants and then having sex.

9.25 p.m. Look. Is absolutely fine being in on own on Saturday nights. Will simply clear out cupboard under stairs then get on exercise bike.

9.30 p.m. Just looked in cupboard. Maybe not.

9.32 p.m. Just looked in fridge. Maybe will have glass of wine and bag of grated cheese.

9.35 p.m. That’s better. Am going to get on Twitter! With the advent of social media is no need for anyone to feel isolated and alone ever again.

9.45 p.m. Have got onto Twitter site but do not understand. Is just incomprehensible streams of gibberish half‑conversations with @this and @that. How is anybody supposed to know what is going on?

Sunday 22 April 2012

9.15 p.m. OK. Have got self set up on Twitter now. Need to find name. Something young‑sounding: TotesAmazogBridget?

9.46 p.m. Maybe not.

10.15 p.m. JoneseyBJ!

10.16 p.m. But why does it call it @JoneseyBJ? @? At? At what?

Monday 23 April 2012

176lb (oh God), Twitter followers 0.

9.15 p.m. Cannot figure out how to put up photo. Is just empty egg‑shaped graphic. Is fine! Can be photo of self before was conceived.

9.45 p.m. Right. Will wait for followers.

9.47 p.m. No followers.

9.50 p.m. Actually will not wait for followers. A watched pot never boils.

10 p.m. Wonder if I’ve got any followers yet.

10.02 p.m. No followers.

10.12 p.m. Still no followers. Humph. Whole point of Twitter is you are supposed to talk to people but there isn’t anyone to talk to.

10.15 p.m. Followers 0. Feel lurching sense of shame and fear: maybe they are all Twittering to each other, and ignoring me because I’m unpopular.

10.16 p.m. Maybe even Twittering to each other about how unpopular I am, behind my back.

10.30 p.m. Great. Not only am I isolated and alone but also, now clearly, unpopular.

Tuesday 24 April 2012

175lb, calories 4827, number of minutes spent fiddling furiously with technological devices 127, number of technological devices managed to get to do anything they were supposed to 0, number of minutes spent doing anything nice apart from eating 4827 calories and fiddling with technological devices 0, number of Twitter followers 0.

7.06 a.m. Just remembered am on Twitter. Feel wildly puffed up! Part of huge social revolution and young. Last night I just didn’t give it enough time! Maybe thousands of followers will have appeared overnight! Millions! I will have gone viral. Cannot wait to see how many followers have come!!

7.10 a.m. Oh.

7.11 a.m. Still no followers.

Wednesday 25 April 2012

178lb, number of times checked for Twitter followers 87, Twitter followers 0, calories 4832 (bad but fault of non‑existent Twitter followers).

9.15 p.m. Still no followers. Have eaten the following things:

* 2 chocolate croissants

* 7 Babybel cheeses (but one was half eaten)

* ½ bag of grated mozzarella

* 2 Diet Cokes

* 1.5 leftover sausages from kids’ breakfast

* ½ a McDonald’s cheeseburger from fridge

* 3 Tunnock’s Tea Cakes

* 1 bar Cadbury’s Dairy Milk (large)

Tuesday 1 May 2012

11.45 p.m. Have just been whitelisted by Twitter for checking my followers 150 times in one hour.

Wednesday 2 May 2012

174lb, Twitter followers 0.

9.15 p.m. Am not going to do Twitter any more or check followers any more. Maybe will go on Facebook.

9.20 p.m. Just called Jude to ask how to get on Facebook. ‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘It’s a good way of keeping in touch but you’ll end up looking at endless pictures of exes embracing their new girlfriends, then finding they’ve de‑friended you.’

Humph. Not very likely to happen to me. Am going to try Facebook.

9.30 p.m. Maybe will wait a bit before attempting Facebook.

Jude just called me back, laughing. ‘Really don’t do Facebook yet. I just got a thing saying Tom is checking out dating profiles. He must have ticked a box by accident. Everyone can see, including his parents and former psychology professors.’

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 745