boobs are quite enviable, I guess. My stomach and bum . . . no, let’s gloss over those. As for my legs, they are reasonably shapely, even if things start to go horribly wrong around the thigh region.
I glare down at my pubes. They certainly need a little tidying, but I’m worried I’ll mess this up. At least with head hair, if you’re given a botched cut, you can derive faint pleasure at switching allegiance to a new salon. Thankfully, Simone always cuts mine, always praising its abundance and shine. That’s one part of my anatomy I don’t have to worry about. With this, I’d have no one to blame but myself. ‘Laura, are you okay?’ Jed calls from downstairs. Ah, the beast awakens.
‘I’m in the shower,’ I shout back.
‘Shall I start cooking? I’m starving.’
‘No, I’ll do it, won’t be long.’ The razor hovers at the tops of my thighs. Just do it. You’re a grown woman at the helm of family life. How can you be scared of a little light pruning, for God’s sake? Naomi probably has hers ripped off with hot wax.
As the razor rasps across my skin, I wonder how far to take this. I tinker around gingerly until one side seems done. It certainly looks, whilst not better exactly, decidedly tidier. ‘Laura!’ Jed yells again. He’s upstairs on the landing now. It feels weird, just the two of us here in our echoey house. I turn down the shower to a dribble so I can hear him properly.
‘What is it?’
‘Will you be much longer?’ He raps loudly on the bathroom door. ‘I need the loo.’ He waggles the handle and will be wondering why on earth I’ve locked the door. We usually do all that bathroom stuff in front of each other, which might be another factor in the demise of our sex life.
‘Hang on,’ I call out, still gripping the razor, rapidly losing my nerve. The shaved bit doesn’t look tidier. It looks scalped and chickeny, like something you’d see in the chill cabinet with a barcode slapped on it.
‘Could you let me in?’ he demands.
‘I, um . . .’ I glower down. One side still requires attention, and looks even more au naturelle when compared to the bald region. It’s like when I wallpapered Grace’s bedroom before Christmas. The fresh new spotty design made the rest of the house look condemned.
‘Laura!’ Jed thunders. ‘I’m desperate.’
‘Just a minute—’
‘Let me in!’ He raps on the door.
Jesus, it’s like having a fourth child. Haven’t I been saying, since we had Toby, that we urgently need a second loo? It drives me insane, this constant hammering every time I’m in here for more than a second. Is it any wonder I’m a little unkempt? Naomi has not one but two ensuites, like bloody royalty – one for her, one for buffed-up hubby. Switching off the shower, I wrap myself in a towel and unlock the door.
Although clearly on the point of combustion, Jed still manages to fling me a disdainful look as if I’m something he’s narrowly avoided treading in on the pavement. He strides to the loo and starts to pee, emitting a groan of relief which I find enormously off-putting. I glare at the back of him as he sploshes noisily, deciding that it doesn’t matter if I’m poultry-like down there as I’ll never be intimate with him again. I’ll grow fatter and hairier with many cats.
For one brief moment, I wish I was playing with the children and the train set at Mum’s.
In the sanctuary of our bedroom, I examine my handiwork as Jed pads downstairs. Although I look freakish, I don’t have it in me to jump back into the shower and finish off the job. I pull on my new underwear and survey my reflection in our full-length mirror on which Toby has crayoned a person with stick legs and stick arms and a brick-shaped torso. I assume it’s supposed to be me. My face is pink from the shower, my hair straggly and dripping down my chest. The new bra is a little baggy in the cups. The knickers are cut lower than my preferred style, and lack the reinforcements required to hold in my tummy. I don’t look like a woman who’s on the brink of making her husband faint with desire. I look like a clappedout mother who buys her underwear two aisles along from the gherkins.
Gamely, I pull on the suspender belt – remembering too late that the knickers are supposed to go on top of it – then the stockings. The suspender belt’s clips are a devil to snap on. Every time I manage to get one done up, another pings off. It’s even more fiddly than Finn’s old Meccano set. Why didn’t I buy hold-up stockings? Because I planned to go for full-on foxery, haha.
I dart into Grace’s room, rummage in her craft box for scissors and snip the Hugga Bubba teddies off my underwear. As a joke, I place them on her pillow. I’m overcome by a surge of longing, wishing she were here, wishing all the children were here, and that this was an ordinary family evening with bedtime stories and tucking in and Jed and I watching a movie together. Our normal life isn’t so bad. I want too much, that’s the problem. My expectations have shot off the scale, like would-be Angelina Jolie’s at the salon. I should be content with the way things are. Look at Mum, with her art classes and volunteering, trying to fill the void where Dad used to be.
Why didn’t he tell anyone he was ill? Because he didn’t want to worry us, not even Mum. Then he had to tell her, of course, and then they told Kate because she’s eight years older than me and far more sensible and capable. It was Kate who called, when I was trying to coax Toby onto the potty, and said, ‘Laura, I’m sorry to tell you this, but I think you should know. Dad’s really ill.’
I’d known he’d been for tests, and Mum had implied that it was something to do with cholesterol or blood pressure and that a change of diet would fix everything. She didn’t mention the cancer that had spread to his spine. ‘It’s the shock,’ I told Jed, tears pouring down my cheeks. ‘If they’d warned me, I might have been ready. I might have been prepared.’ He’d kissed and held me and, for a moment, he was my boyfriend again, who always managed, somehow, to make things better. Jed knew how close I’d been to Dad.
In our bedroom, I hold up my new emerald dress. I don’t have the courage to carry it off – not with the shaving disaster lurking beneath. Instead, I pull on a more demure polka-dot sundress which used to be one of Jed’s favourites but is faded and must be at least five years old. It’s an improvement, though. I definitely look better clothed than naked. I dab on my new make-up and try to adopt an expression of hope.
Downstairs, Jed is engrossed in his book. In the kitchen, I set the pasta to boil and follow the recipe with the prawns, rocket and chilli. The chillies look so pretty, flecking the prawns with deep red, that I sling in a few extra. Maybe my culinary gene is reawakening. I’m actually enjoying myself, creating a meal from scratch that doesn’t involve sausages or the potato masher. I might not be able to make felt purses, or be half-French, but I can knock together a delicious supper and make myself look presentable (at least, half-presentable).
I carry our supper, cutlery and glasses of wine from the kitchen to the back garden. Our ancient iron table looks far too rusty and unhygienic to eat off, so I place everything on the garden wall while I hurry back in for a tablecloth. The only one I can find has an indelible orangey stain, but it’ll do. Grabbing a bunch of tea lights, I set the table, placing my plate over the stain. ‘Ready!’ I call from the back door.
Jed appears, still clutching his book. ‘We’re eating outside?’
‘Yes, why not? It’s a lovely evening.’ With a flourish, I light the tea lights and survey the scene.
‘Oh . . . okay. I’ll need a jacket
