Cristina Odone - The Dilemmas of Harriet Carew

Yes, Lisa has the luxury of thinking about grown-up issues. But motherhood is like a washing machine that only has one setting – the hottest – and shrinks your interests from reading Italian art critics to getting the Stain Devil on your skirt before the jam from Maisie’s toast sets in; from analysing the pre-Raphaelites’ technique to checking that the stench emanating from Tom’s book-bag is not last week’s packed lunch rotting away. Motherhood means the almost total suspension of big thoughts and big books, exhibits, theatre outings, even reading the newspaper from start to finish. You promise yourself every day for fifteen years that, next year, it will be different; you’ll finally be free of bedtime schedules, school runs, homework, and Yoga for Twos. But every year you also acknowledge that Maisie wants more attention than you give her; that Tom is shy and needs you to bring him out; that Alex doesn’t take his work seriously enough and needs constant monitoring; and that your place is unquestionably with them.

‘It’s harder than it looks,’ Charlotte sulks as Lisa strikes a pose against our refrigerator.

She looks slim even in a baggy white tracksuit. Charlotte sets down the biscuit she was nibbling.

‘Such a blessing,’ I tell Lisa, ‘to be free of the school schedule.’

‘You’d better believe it.’ Lisa tosses her glossy highlights. ‘I wouldn’t be caught dead in a hotel with kids around. They make a racket and pee in the pool. Gross.’

‘Tea?’ I offer, but Lisa shakes her head. Of course: she only does H20 and Dom Pérignon. ‘Doesn’t your mother live there now?’

‘Barbados? No, Bahamas. Down, dog, down!’ Lisa pushes Rufus’s snout away from her all-white outfit. ‘Lives with her analyst. I hope he gives her a discount!’ Lisa laughs. ‘Anyway, it lets me off the hook!’

‘Oh, hullo!’ Guy’s radar for Lisa’s infrequent visits is foolproof; the hermit who can’t be prised from his refuge when Charlotte, Ilona’s boyfriends, the gas man or the postman are at the door, pops out the moment our leggy neighbour drops by.

‘Hi there!’ Lisa automatically shifts into testosterone response: her eyelids flutter, mouth puckers in a pout, and her breasts lift as if suddenly fitted into a balcony bra. No male is exempt from her full blast. I’ve even caught Lisa fluttering her lids at Alex and Tom.

Guy’s eyes are on Lisa. ‘Are you off then?’

‘Yup. Can’t wait. Need my sun.’

‘Some people have all the luck.’ Guy flicks the switch on the kettle. ‘If you’re ever in need of a chaperone, I’m willing. I mean, lying in the sun sipping daiquiris next to half-naked women will be burdensome and unpleasant, but someone’s got to do it.’

‘I thought you were a hard-working writer, tied to his desk?’ Lisa teases with a flick of her hair. So did I, I think sourly.

‘For that kind of assignment, I think I could put Rajput on hold.’

But Lisa is checking her BlackBerry. ‘Hey, it’s eleven o’clock! I’ve got to go to my threading. Listen, I really appreciate it. I’ll get the kids a T-shirt.’

I see her off, then slump in the kitchen chair.

‘Please don’t tell me what threading is.’ Guy shakes his head as he takes his mug and retreats to his study.

‘God, I would NOT like her next door. She’s a living reproach, isn’t she?’ Charlotte shoves the rest of the biscuit in her mouth.

‘I know. And all three males in this house hyperventilate in her presence.’

Rain spots the window pane, it’s chilly despite my cardy, and before me stretches a decade of noisy kids, peed-in pools, and humdrum holiday destinations. Even Charlotte and Jack, who can afford it, can’t go away during term time, and in the holidays they have to bear in mind Charlotte’s father, a widower in Staffordshire, who complains of dizzy spells.

‘Typical no-com,’ Charlotte mutters.

Charlotte’s theory is that the world is divided between the no-commitments like Lisa, and the over-committeds like us. No-coms can spend hours on threading, St Tropez tans and Brazilians, without worrying about robbing children or elderly parents of quality time. Over-coms can’t. No-coms can spend their holidays without the in-laws and Christmas without some batty aunt, and they can stay late at dinner parties without fearing the au pair’s sulk the next day. Overcoms can’t. No-coms can be spontaneous about cinema and sex. Over-coms can’t see the latest George Clooney or lock the bedroom door without first ensuring that the kids, Ilona and Rufus are safely occupied. In fact, over-coms cannot move for fear of failing someone in our lives.

I pour another cup of tea. Charlotte looks positively depressed.

‘Cheer up!’ I smile reassuringly. ‘Once Lily and Maisie are about … oh, sixteen, I reckon we can be more like no-coms. Only thirteen more years to go.’

‘There’s something I haven’t told you.’ Charlotte has turned puce. ‘I’m pregnant.’

‘But she’s the same age as you!’ When I ring my mum with Charlotte’s news, she sounds genuinely, and rather insultingly, shocked. ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’

‘Well, maybe … But that’s not the point!’ I cry. Though I am not sure what is the point. Is it that it’s proof that Jack and Charlotte really do have a very active sex life, as opposed to my dormant one? Or is it that I’m feeling broody but know that there is no way Guy and I could afford to add to our present financial woes? Or am I worried about growing older? My mother’s shock at the prospect of Charlotte being pregnant makes me think that I’ve reached an age already when people think I’d be better off taking up bridge rather than being with child. Charlotte’s pregnancy proclaims to the world that she is still fertile, fecund, womanly; while I am just beginning to feel … well, almost middle-aged.

‘What a thing to do!’ my mum continues. ‘Though I suppose Jack can afford to have a big family. Have they moved to the house in Chelsea yet?’

‘Oh, Mum, it’s not always about money,’ I remonstrate. But I know it is. When I discovered that I was pregnant with Maisie almost four years ago now, Guy’s reaction struck me like a slap:

‘My God , Harriet, we can’t afford another £120,000 in school fees! And that’s without counting the rest – food, clothes, bigger house, all those soft toys, train sets, let alone the computers they demand.’ While I sat mute on a kitchen stool, stroking my stomach and its gentle swelling, my husband pulled at his hair. ‘Where will we put him? There’s no room as it is. We’d have to give up on the au pair’s room, and then it’s just when you were thinking of going back to work and …’

I just listened, frozen with shock, and suddenly Guy must have seen my expression, because he rushed over to me guiltily, and pulled me into his arms.

‘Oh, Harry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, darling, of course we’ll find a way, of course we’ll make room. And you know how I adore the boys, another one will be fab!’

In the end, it was not a baby boy but a girl, and Guy truly was adoring, walking with Maisie stretched, tummy down, on his forearm, showing her off to anyone who dropped in. ‘My little girl, just look at her!’

But his reaction had been a warning: our finances cannot cover surprises. So that even last winter, when I was giving away all the baby paraphernalia we’ve had about the house since Alex’s birth – the high chair, the crib, the pastel Beatrix Potter mobile, the baby steamer and plasticated bibs – I felt

only a little twinge of regret. A fourth child is not an option.

‘Harriet? Harriet, are you still there?’

‘Yes, yes, I am.’ I’m staring at the ominous damp patch on our bedroom ceiling. Only a week ago, it looked like a cricket ball; after five days of wet weather it has swollen to the size of a pumpkin. Please, please don’t let this mean we need to have the roof seen to. The most recent estimate would have covered two terms’ tuition at the Griffin. Where would we get the money from?