Turning Turtle

Transcript - Chapter 1

4.00pm. At my desk. A very cluttered desk. So cluttered it is invisible. I hold the receiver to my ear with my DKNY-clad shoulder. My right hand clutches a stapler, my left two sheets of paper. I marry them together and slide the resulting press release into its new home, a brightly coloured press pack already filled with ‘relevant background information’. Only forty more to go.

Technically, I shouldn’t be doing this. Technically, this is the job of a freelancer named Dick. I could have let his typing error go, had I wanted to risk a lifetime of ridicule. Kim Waters, Pubic Relations Director. Some wise-ass reporter would be bound to spot it. My new title would travel fast. Forever more, I’d be open to comments like ‘How’s the public relations going?’ or ‘I’ma bit itchy down there, Kim, I wonder could you have a look.

I’m talking to one now. And he’s getting shirty. I don’t blame him. I’m getting a bit peeved myself. Another call keeps interrupting.

Bleep-bleep.

There it goes again.

‘I was just saying…’

Bleep-bleep.

‘The main speaker will be…’

Bleep-bleep.

Aaargh!

‘You keep breaking up.’ His voice is impatient, angry.

‘I’m really sorry, John,’you mind if I put you on hold for a split second?’

A grunt.

Reaching to pick up line two, my hand bumps against a giant Wonder Mum mug. Cold, untouched coffee splashes out onto a silver-framed photo of my family and begins to ooze towards the press packs. I grab them up just in time and land them on an already overflowing in-tray. I pick up my beloved photo and hold it over the wastepaper basket. Coffee streaks over my children’s cheesy grins, obliterating them. My neck complains that I’m asking too much of it as I continue to hold the phone to my ear with it while reaching for my bag to retrieve a hankie.

‘I’ve got it!’ announces my husband’s voice. What he’s got, I gather, is the new job he’s been after.What I haven’t got is time.

‘Ian, that’s great, I’m thrilled. Knew you’d get it. Can I put you on hold, sorry hon.’ I try to pick up the journalist’s line, but he’s gone. Back to Ian, then.

‘Is this a bad time?’ he asks. ‘’you want me to call back?’

‘No,it’s OK. He hung up. I’ll get back to him in a minute and grovel.’

‘A journalist?’

‘Yeah, just trying to get him all hot about tomorrow’s press conference.’

‘I don’t know how you do it…’

‘You’re not the only one.’

‘…So, how does it feel to be married to a banker?’

‘God, Ian, don’t put it like that – you know how I feel about banks. You said it was corporate finance.’

‘Which is a type of banking.’

‘Yeah,well, let’s just call it corporate finance. Live in denial.’

He laughs.

‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘We’ll have to celebrate. How about Guilbaud’s?’

‘This evening? What about your press conference? Don’t you want an early night?’

‘Actually,I an, I’d love an early night. Would you mind?’

‘Of course not.’

My shoulders relax. A little. ‘It’s just thatI don’t think I’ll be able to get out of here ‘til at least eight. You know the way.’

‘Sure. No problem. We can do it Friday.’

‘That’s what we’ll do. Friday.’

‘Right, better let you get back to it.’

‘Ian?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Congratulations. I’m thrilled, really I am.’

I hear the smile in his voice as he says goodbye.

He deserves success; he’s waited long enough – seven years. That’s when he took up his current well-paid, low-challenge job. He’d just finished an MBA and was suitably impoverished. We were about to get married and, being an Irish male, Ian felt the need to march up the aisle as a provider. When I later learned how frustrated he was, I encouraged him to move. When that didn’t work, I nagged. Neither of us enjoyed that, so I forced myself to leave him to it. Put it out of my mind. It’s called survival. Me, I’m more of a doer. Speaking of which – the amount of things I have to do for this press conference on safety in the sun. Last minute alterations to the press release, produce thirty press packs, ring sixty or so journalists, brief the photographer, models, freelance PR people, hotel. Oh yeah, and ring that journalist back.

At eight-thirty, I pull up outside our house, a 1950’s redbrick semi in Dublin’s celebrity-stocked suburb of Dalkey. Before turning off the headlamps, I check the upstairs windows only to find the Thomas the Tank Engine and Barbie curtains closed. Ian’s Audi is parked where Sally, our childminder, usually leaves her car. I sigh. Another bedtime missed.

I wobble towards the house, the gravel playing tricks with my two-inch heels. I’m tempted to whip them off but decide against it, thinking of the stones against my Calvin Klein stockings. The outside light is on, though not needed, as coloured beams burst from the stained glass windows framing our door, making the tiled porch warm and friendly. Water runs from under the tub plants on either side of the door and the brass knocker and letterbox shine, proud of their important household role. I stand on the mat with its jumping frogs and wipe my feet three times for luck – my daughter’s insistence has become a habit.

I push the door in. All is quiet and tidy. The original wooden floors, stained dark, smell faintly of Pledge. I kick off my shoes and sink my feet into the large rug that stretches from inside the front door to the foot of the stairs. Its red, yellow and blue abstract shapes add colour to our simply decorated hallway with white walls and modern art – unframed oils. The only evidence of children are Chloe’s Barbie bicycle helmet in the umbrella stand and two tiny pairs of wellies by the door – bumble bees and frogs. It’s late spring, but it is Ireland.

Ian appears at the top of the stairs, smiles and starts to run down. Crisp blue shirt, freshly ironed (by Sally) chinos, bare feet and gleaming wet hair. Looking good.

‘Hi hon.’ He kisses me and pulls me into a hug.

I close my eyes, drop my bag and inhale the uplifting scent of lilies on the Victorian washstand beside us – flowers are the only indulgence Sally insists on.

‘You OK?’ he asks.

‘Yeah, just a bit tired,’ I smile.

‘Just as well we didn’t go out then.’

I pull back and smile. ‘Which reminds me, where’s the bubbly?’

He’s grimacing. ‘I didn’t get any. Thought it’d be overdoing it.’

‘Just as well I got some then. Damn, I left it in the car. You wouldn’t pop out and get it while I go up to the kids?’

‘They’re asleep.’ He looks apologetic. ‘I tried keeping them up ‘til you got home but they were wrecked. After three pages of Rapunzel, Sam was out for the count. I just about made it to the end for Chloe.’

‘Don’tworry. It was good you were here…Were they asking for me.’

‘Of course.’ He gives me a peck. ‘I told them you’d a press conference.’

But all they’ll understand is that I wasn’t here. ‘I’ll just go up for a sec,’ I say, putting my hand heavily on the sturdy, original 1950s’ banister. Won’t be long now before the pension, I’m thinking – or at least my legs are. Snap out of it, I tell them, you’re only thirty-three. Focusing on the row of paintings that lines the stairs helps get me to the top. Always works.

Chloe’s room is cosy, pink and dimly lit by a side lamp. I smile when I see her, sprawled like a teenager, little skinny legs thrown out over the quilt, the trousers of her ladybird pyjamas riding up. Her foot twitches. The light catches her hair, spread out over the pillow like honey. Sleep has relaxed her features, making her look younger than her four-and-a-half years, small and dainty, almost swamped by her new pyjamas. Finger curled over nose, her thumb is hidden in her mouth. Sparkly pink nail varnish has begun to chip. I lean forward, brush a strand of hair back from her face, kiss her soft warm cheek and cover her up, knowing it’s a waste of time. Her legs will be back out before I leave the room.

I love to watch Sam sleep – it’s the one time he stays still long enough to be observed. He is lying flat on is back, arms by his side, like a toy soldier that needs winding. Dark curly hair and eye lashes against his fair skin. His little cupid lips are open, white innocent milk teeth partially visible as he breathes in and out. Suddenly he giggles but doesn’t wake. I smile, wondering what he’s dreaming about. The Rugrats? Someone tickling him? Who? Sally probably. I’m so tempted to wake him and ask. Instead I make a mental note to do so in the morning. Can two-and-a-half-year-olds remember dreams? Must ask Sal.

My last responsibility of the day taken care of, I come back down, circling my shoulders in an effort to remove the remaining tension. I crane my neck back to do the same with it. Almost human. Almost relaxed. Just at the wrong moment, I catch my reflection in the gilt-edged mirror that hangs opposite the foot of the stairs. It might be antique but it still works. Are those worry lines? I close my eyes and walk past. Rest, all I need is rest.

I find Ian lying back on one of the two three-seater couches that flank our large fireplace. How Sally manages to keep them unstained and plumped up amazes – beige is a really stupid colour with children. We really must make this house more child-friendly.

‘Have you eaten?’ I ask Ian, who is busy tapping his foot to REM.

‘No. I was waiting for you.’

‘Where’s the champers?’

‘In the fridge, chilling.’

Shiny, happy people holding hands…bounces from the speakers.

I sit on the mahogany chest that separates the couches and smile. He looks like one of those people in the song. Even his eyelashes are shining. Dark curly lashes – first thing I noticed – darker even than his hair, which is black. It’d be curly if he didn’t get it cut so tightly. Which isn’t a complaint, it actually suits him in that you can get a good look at that sculped forehead I love so much and he doesn’t even notice. I’m also pretty fond of a new departure – greying temples– even if he isn’t. And his perfect little ears that hug his head. Love them.

‘Shiny happy people…’

Holding hands doesn’t seem like enough. ‘ Gimme a hug.’

‘DoI have to?’ he jokes, easing himself up from the couch as if it’s taking every ounce of energy he has.

Once he’s up, I wrap myself around him.

‘What kind of hug is that?’ he asks.

‘A body hug. You just force your body into the other person’s. See?’

‘Boy. When you say force you really mean it.’

‘You try.’

He starts off doing the usual hug thing but then, instead of ‘forcing’ his tummy forward, as per instructions, he pushes out his upper legs and I lose balance and fall on him.

‘I’ll kill you,’ I laugh as we hit the couch. I’m on top of him now and it’s either beat him up or kiss him. Tough choice but I opt for the latter. He reacts enthusiastically – must be my Karen Millen shirt with hooks instead of buttons. It doesn’t stay on long. Nothing does. In the interest of balance, I feel the need to get him naked too. Mmm. Love the smell of soap behind his ears, on his neck, chest and…I get no further because Husband decides to show me who’s boss. Why argue? Ah, so this is what I needed to completely unwind. Post-coital champagne is definitely the best. Except, perhaps, mid-coital, but we don’t’ think of that tillit’s too late. There’s always tomorrow, I suppose. Or later.

Our stomachs remind us to eat.

‘Sally really is a great cook,’ says Ian, digging in.

*

The press conference is going well. Good turnout. Even Mr Don’t-Like-To-Hold is here, stooped over and scribbling away. The media-savvy speakers are holding their audience’s attention with regular newsworthy sound bites and up-to-the-minute statistics. A gaggle of photographers has gathered outside for the photo shoot and the models are turning blue while they wait. Any minute now the questions will be over the shoot can go ahead. That’s it. Last one. The photographers take their places. But, hang on. What’s that? A sudden burst of computerised music. And another. And another. The photographers grapple to find their mobile phones. The owner of the Mission Impossible ring tone looks like Tom Cruise, or at least he’s trying, very hard, to. I expect him to snap out words like ‘affirmative’ and ‘on the double’ but no, he talks like the rest of them, simply uttering quick monosyllables like, ‘yeah’, ‘right’ and ‘fine’. This is followed by speedy synchronisation of watches and then, before I know what’s happening, they vamoose.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask a departing back, panic setting in.

‘A body’s been found in Blackrock. Have to go, sorry. Much bigger story.’

Damn. Can’t argue with that. At least I’ve hired my own backup photographer. Better keep an eye on him though – make sure he circulates a different shot to each paper. But it’s not the same. They like to print pics taken by their staff photographers. This really is a disaster.

One miserable hour later we’ve all but finished clearing up. My own mobile goes off. It’s Ian.

‘So, how did it go?’

‘A disaster.’

‘What happened?’

‘The body of a woman in her sixties was found in Blackrock.’

Silence.

‘So they all fecked off without taking a single shot.’

‘Is that all?’

‘What do you mean is that all? It’s a nightmare. We’ll probably get hopeless coverage now. I’m sick.’

‘Kim, when you said a disaster in the same breath as a woman in her sixties found in Blackrock, I thought you were talking about your mother.’

‘Mum? Gawd, no. What made you think that?’

‘Probably your level of drama,’ he laughs. ‘Kim, it’s one press conference, they can’t all be a roaring success.’

Even I begin to see the perspective. What if it really was Mum? Now, that would be something worth worrying about.

‘I suppose you’re right. Things could be worse. God, I’m glad you rang,’ I say.

‘Me too – what a laugh.’

‘AnythingI can do to brighten your day.’

Two things combine to make me head for home early. Firstly, the realisation that my job isn’t exactly changing the world and may even be silly and pointless. Secondly, despite my best noisy intentions, Sam and Chloe didn’t wake before I left this morning.

I make it by five. They’re finishing dinner, so well-behaved they remind me of the Kennedys: picture perfect. Why aren’t they that good for me?

‘Mum!’

‘Mum!’

They spring from the table, hurry over and hug, no squeeze, my legs. A lump of mashed potato from Sam’s face smears across my dry-clean-only suit.

‘Hi, guys.’ I bend down and cuddle them.

‘But it’s only dinner time,’ says Chloe.

‘I know. I decided to come home early today.’

‘Yea,’they shout.

‘Mind your suit,’ Sally warns.

‘It’s OK, Sal, it’ll come off. I’ll leave it out tomorrow and you might drop it into the dry cleaners for me? Great thanks.’

‘Sam and Chloe, back to the table and finish up.’ Firm but fair, that’s Sally. They toddle back obediently. I help Same up and sit at the table with them.

‘Do you want yours now, Kim?’ asks Sally.

‘No thanks, Sal. You head off.’ I don’t mind someone doing everything in my home as long as I don’t have to witness it. The thought of Sally serving me makes me cringe. ‘I’ll wait for Ian. You go. Please. Grab the chance while you can.’

‘If you’re sure you don’t mind.’

‘Of course I don’t mind. Wish I could do it more often.’

‘They haven’t had their bath yet.’

‘You’d better stay and give it to them then,’ I joke. &# 8216;Go, go quick before I change my mind.’

She practically runs out of the place.

‘So, guys.’ I clap my hands. ‘What will we do now?’

They look at each other before shouting, ‘ Rugrats movie!’

‘How about a book?’ I suggest.

‘ Naaw.’

‘Lego?’

‘No way,’ says Chloe, adding with the timing of a seasoned poker player, her trump card, ‘Sally always lets us watch a video after our bath.’

I fall for it.

With Sam sitting on my lap and Chloe curled up beside me, we sit through seventy-seven minutes of what turns out to be great entertainment. I love these little all-American animated toddlers, even naughty Angelica, especially Angelica, who is funny and bright. And how about Rex Pester, the tabloid hack who asks the mother of missing children, ‘So tell me, how does it feel, that you may never see your children again?’

‘That was great,’ I say. ‘Now, time for bed.’

‘Aw.’

‘Come on. It’s late.’

‘Can we just see da end of da moosic?’

‘OK. But then straight up.’ That sounds fair but firm, doesn’t it?

At tucking-in time, Chloe has something to share.

‘You’re like Angelica’s mum.’

‘Why’s that?’ I ask, thinking that she’s definitely the most glamorous parent.

‘ Cos she’s never there. The kids never see her.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah,’ says Sam. ‘She’s always at wok.’

‘Or on her mobile,’ adds Chloe helpfully.

I’m about to say, ‘I’m not like that,’ but think the better of it. Don’t want them calling me a liar on top of everything else. ‘Well, I’m here now. OK, straight to sleep.’ I kiss them on their foreheads.

‘How about a story?’ asks Chloe.

‘Didn’t I offer a video instead of a story?’

‘ Pleeeease.’

‘ Pleeeease.’

‘OK, OK, a quick one.’

They do eventually sleep, which when it happens, surprises me – I’d begun to believe they never would. When Ian gets in he suggests we ring the babysitter and head out. I take him up on the offer immediately.