put it, his thing has changed, or he’s being a good host and a good husband. I know which I’m hoping for.
‘How are you coping up here?’ Matt asks Olivia. ‘Do you like Man-chest-ah?’
Matt says this in a mock Burnage scally voice that sets me slightly on edge.
‘I like Harvey Nicks,’ Olivia says, to a titter from Lucy. ‘I do. It’s much more like a little London than I thought it would be.’
This doesn’t sound like a ringing commendation to me. Is it positive to praise something as a miniature version of what you’re used to? Unless it’s a bum, I suppose.
‘You know Ben’s always gone on about how amazing it was to go to university here …’ she continues. Good for Ben.
‘Didsbury is so fab,’ Lucy says.
‘It seems to have everything, yeah. We’re going to need to look into schools,’ Olivia adds, coyly.
‘Oh, do you have some news?’ Lucy trills, grabbing Olivia’s arm.
I chew so hard I bite the insides of my cheeks.
‘No, just planning ahead,’ Olivia says, casting a look at Ben.
‘Awww …’ Lucy coos.
I feel infinitely sad and already slightly tipsy, a combination that foreshadows disaster. However, I notice Ben also looks like he needs the Heimlich manoeuvre.
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ he says to Olivia. ‘A dog will do for now. We’re concentrating on settling in right now, that’s all,’ Ben says, to the table.
‘Don’t put it off when you don’t know how long it will take,’ Lucy says. ‘We were trying for how long, with Miles?’
‘Eighteen months,’ Matt supplies.
‘And that was going at it pretty much every night,’ Lucy adds. I suddenly find the issue of whether this is indeed chicory in my salad absolutely engrossing.
‘I read an article in the Mail the other day by some fertility specialist,’ Lucy continues. ‘He said you should have your family completed by thirty-three. How many do you want, Liv?’
‘Three. Two girls and a boy.’
Ben exhales, heavily. ‘You don’t order them from Grattans …’
‘And you’re what, thirty-one? You have to get started this instant, right now!’ Lucy says, banging the table and giggling.
‘Not right now, one hopes,’ Simon says drily, and I laugh.
‘Stop winding her up, Lucy,’ Ben says, with tension in his voice that apparently goes completely unnoticed by Lucy.
‘Come on, Ben!’ Lucy wheedles. ‘If the lady wants it, the lady should get it. Titchies are the best fun!’
I have to look round the room at this for confirmation. She did say ‘titchies’, right?
‘Unless you think you’re firing blanks?’ Matt adds, quite seriously, to a this-isn’t-happening face from Ben.
Wow. Any Matt and Lucy child, I think, must be quite a formula. Matt and Lucy squared.
‘He’ll come round,’ Olivia says, patting Ben’s arm.
Ben looks hunted and takes a swig of his drink.
‘What about you, Rachel?’ Olivia says, and all eyes swivel towards me. ‘Do you want kids some day?’
‘Uh.’ I have a forkful of green leafy matter stalled halfway to my mouth and I plonk it back down on the edge of my plate, so I don’t look like one of the gorillas in the mist with the vegetation being observed by five Dian Fosseys. ‘It’s not top of my agenda. But, yes. Why not? If I find someone to have them with.’
There’s an uncomfortable silence: uncomfortable largely due to their matchmaking. I rattle on: ‘And I say, don’t worry about fertility specialists. That’s their job, to tell you to get on and have babies. I’m sure a liver specialist would tell us never to binge drink and heart consultants would say don’t cook with butter.’
Another clanging silence, even louder than the first. Ben smiles encouragingly. No wonder: I’ve taken his place in the shit.
‘You binge drink?’ Matt says, flatly, chasing some rocket round his plate.
‘Not – uh. I don’t down bottles of apple Corky’s and urinate on war memorials. I don’t regularly stick to two units at one sitting though. That’s normal, isn’t it?’
‘Not if you have children,’ Lucy says.
‘Of course, sleepless night … and so on,’ I offer.
‘And Miles is nearly four now, I don’t want him to be around us, drunk.’
‘Well, I should think not,’ I say. ‘At the bottle at his age.’
Lucy takes it straight, blinking rapidly. ‘He’s weaned and on solids. He’s three.’
‘Urm, yeah. I meant …’ I trail off.
Lucy turns to Olivia and says: ‘Oh my God, I forgot to tell you – we finally got the keys to the villa!’
She starts rummaging in her bag, producing photographs. Lucy hands them to Olivia and Ben and they make noises of interest and approval. It doesn’t seem as if the photos are going to circulate any further.
‘Wrong crowd for that last gag, I’m afraid,’ Simon mutters, topping up my suddenly-nearly-empty wine glass.
‘Did I say a bad thing?’ I whisper back.
‘Absolutely not. I was waiting for the spotlight to swing round to my sperm motility.’ He looks down. ‘Disaster averted, boys.’
Suddenly I’m back at school, giggling at the back of the classroom. When our laughter subsides, we see the rest of the table are watching us with interest.
28
It’s fair to say that Matt and Lucy win the evening’s competition, hands down. Every subject – work, family, holidays, home – seems to come with right and wrong answers. They quickly realise my answers are duds and lose interest in me. I’ve never been skiing, or fretted about the best miles-per-gallon among station wagons, haven’t eaten at places with a Michelin star, don’t have strong opinions on each party’s tax breaks.
It’s not so much an air of self-congratulation as a thick smog. Being this acquisitive seems so exhausting. I wonder how this game ends, if they’ll finish up in a retirement home competing for who’s got the biggest necklace alarm.
I sincerely hope that Lucy and Matt are among the few people Ben and Olivia know up here, and they are therefore making a special
