LITMIR.BIZ

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full complement of regulation grey flannel shirts:

      ‘Why don’t you order another from the school outfitters?’

      It doesn’t occur to her that this would cost us twice as much as anywhere else.

      Argh … I step on it, and am pleasantly surprised by the instant response of the Merc.

      I’m cross with Alex for this needless trip and expense: only last week I got him the pair of black trainers that are part of his school’s absurdly elaborate sports kit, but somehow he managed to lose one.

      (Me, voice rising in irritation: ‘Where could you possibly have lost one shoe, Alex?’ Him, ‘I dunno …’ Me, openly cross: ‘I’m going to deduct it from your pocket money.’ Him, shrugging with nonchalance: ‘You never pay me my pocket money anyway.’)

      The shop is packed. I try desperately to catch the eye of now one assistant, now the other. Nothing. A host of harassed mums and gum-chewing pre-teens are ahead of me in the queue. Finally, I thrust the lone black trainer at a young assistant called Pawel, and ask for the matching pair at £18.99. Ten to five.

      I rush back to the car, calculating: if I’m lucky the guests will arrive at closer to eight thirty than eight, so we won’t have too long to sit around trying to make polite conversation while waiting for alcohol or the discovery of a mutual acquaintance to loosen our tongues. If I work quickly without the usual interruptions (can I find Guy’s notepad, have I got Tom’s book, have I seen Alex’s fleece), I should be able to stuff the belly’s flap of fat with the herbs and stick everything in the oven by … say, quarter to six.

      I pull up in front of the house and make out three figures in the kitchen. My heart sinks: the children will be demanding tea of Ilona. But our au pair can no more make a toasted cheese sandwich than wear a modestly cut dress. Slowly I start taking the carrier bags out of the Merc. I feel loath to trade this quiet interior, with its polished wood and ivory leather, for the chaotic yellow kitchen, with its peeling linoleum floor and scrambling family scene. I look up at the house. It’s never been a beauty, but when we first bought it I had visions of investing in a few well-chosen improvements that would work a magical transformation. We could rebuild the wooden door frame at the entrance, paint the grey brick white, maybe even consider a loft extension. All we needed was to wait until Guy had secured a good contract for his next book. That was twelve years ago, and nothing’s been done – and we have only forty years left on the lease.

      ‘Mummy!’ Maisie interrupts her drawing to stretch out her arms to me.

      ‘Mummy, can we have pizza?’ Tom peers into the carrier bags as I walk in.

      ‘Can’t we have spag bol, Mummy?’ Alex stands by the open refrigerator.

      ‘Darling,’ Guy wanders in, Rufus in his wake, ‘I can’t find chapter one.’ He scratches his head, peering hopelessly around the kitchen: he wears that expression of total absorption that takes over as he nears completion of a book. And God knows, Rajput, Guy’s on-going magnum opus about the warrior kings of Rajasthan, has been nearing completion for almost a year now. ‘I’m sure I left it here somewhere.’ Anything is possible: various parts of Guy’s books have routinely surfaced next to the toaster, in Maisie’s buggy, in my sewing basket.

      ‘Don’t keep the door open, the fridge is playing up. Sausages for your supper, but first I need to prepare pork belly for dinner. Check for Rajput by the radio, Guy; you had it in your hands when you were listening to Any Questions?’ I start unpacking the carrier bags, trying not to kick Rufus as he weaves in and out of my legs. ‘There’s still shopping in the car, please.’ A burst of feverish activity follows the chorus of protests.

      ‘Eureka! I knew it was here somewhere.’ Guy lifts the radio from a wad of typed pages and hugs his manuscript to his chest.

      I preheat the oven. ‘Did you have a chance to look at the microwave?’

      Our microwave door has refused to shut since before Lyme Regis, but Guy fancies his DIY skills and won’t let me replace it. Which is also his attitude to the kitchen-unit door (off its hinges) and the shower head (still drip-drip-dripping).

      ‘Not yet, but I have fixed the broken tap.’ He proudly points out a wodgy lump of brown masking tape around the cold tap, whose cracked plastic knob split in half last week. I know how it felt.

      ‘Mummy, look!’ Maisie holds up her drawing for me to admire. Then, as I haven’t jumped to her side in record time, she repeats in a reproachful tone: ‘Look, Mummy!’

      I bend over her notebook. ‘Beautiful, darling – is that our house?’ I point to the large square with misshapen roof that sits in the centre of the page.

      ‘No, that’s Lily’s house. This is ours –’ Maisie points to the teeny-weeny box beside it. Oh gawd: even my three-year-old suffers from property envy.

      ‘That S320L is really cool!’ Alex is staring out of the window. ‘Can’t we keep it until Monday? You could drop me off.’

      ‘Afraid not: has to be back tomorrow night.’ Guy is tapping his fingers on his manuscript.

      ‘Da-ad …’ Alex wails, ‘you’ve got to make up for the time you came to the school gates in that Skoda.’

      ‘We’ve never hired a Skoda!’ Guy protests indignantly.

      ‘I was teased for a month. I’m the only boy at school whose parents don’t own a car.’

      ‘What the Griffin should be teaching you is that there are more important things in life than a set of wheels.’ Guy thumps the table decisively. His sons roll their eyes.

      ‘I’m off.’ Guy retreats to the downstairs loo. It’s his favourite room in the house, lined with framed photos of him in the Wolsingham boater and jacket; punting on the Cam; and the cover of the first edition of Lonely Hunter. These are the bits of the past that Guy seeks when he wants a haven from a hostile world of luxury cars, Poggenpohl kitchens and expensive holidays.

      While Guy communes with his past, Ilona arrives. As she discards her tight-fitting leopardskin jacket, our au pair casts an approving smile in my direction.

      ‘Mrs Caroo, you have new car?’

      The last time Ilona addressed me by my surname was when I interviewed her for the job. I can see now how to earn her respect. ‘Mehrtsedez –’ she points at the window with her thumb. ‘Booteeful.’ Without my having to ask her, she lays the table. Perhaps if I bought myself a pair of Jimmy Choos she might start cleaning Maisie behind the ears, and if I wore a Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress she might finally do the boys’ laundry.

      ‘Only a hired car, Ilona.’

      ‘Ah …’ Ilona’s sighs are always eloquent.

      I rub salt into the pork and then put it in the oven. I turn my attention to the children’s supper.

      ‘Pete, he have Corvette.’ Her boyfriend of the moment, a tattooed butcher’s assistant from Essex, has a ten-year-old red Corvette that Guy calls the pimpmobile. They met through Blinddate.com – which has Ilona pinned to the computer for hours on end. ‘He coming for me now. We go to Empire Leicester Square.’ The charming thing about Ilona is she never asks anything of us but simply informs us of her plans.

      Guy surfaces once more.

      ‘Is the Mercedes the most expensive car of all, Daddy?’ Tom’s face is still glued to the window.

      Guy does mental arithmetic: ‘A car like this would be … more than two years’ school fees.’

      The mere prospect is enough to crumple Guy, and he sits down with a sigh. Shirt collar frayed, shoes scuffed, he looks worn out by the effort to live up to his forebears, do the best for his offspring and keep up with his peers.

      ‘If only …’ he begins. The boys and I ignore him. We’ve already heard every possible dream that Guy could unfurl before us, and know that he will

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