Cristina Odone - The Dilemmas of Harriet Carew

‘How’s Guy? Has he finished the Indian book?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Now there’s a surprise,’ my mother says drily. ‘I love Guy dearly, but you both would be a lot happier if he’d settled down in a proper profession a long time ago.’ My mother pauses, then, at my silence, changes tack: ‘How’re the children?’

‘Brilliant. Alex got into the First XV, did I tell you?’

‘That boy would do well anywhere,’ my mother points out. ‘He doesn’t have to go to a prep school that costs fifteen grand a year.’

‘We can’t skimp on the children’s education. You and Dad were always saying how important good schooling was.’ I look at the photo of my dad: small and wiry, he grins at the camera with total confidence. Yet only a few weeks later he was dead of a sudden stroke – leaving Mum broken-hearted and me floundering, in my second year at Bristol. Brief, sleepless nights gave way to interminable days punctuated by weeping fits and long calls home to Mum and Mel. After all this time, my eyes still fill when I look at his photograph, though now my tears are accompanied by the warm realization that Tom resembles him like a son.

‘Those were different times. Sending a child to prep school did not mean you had to take out a second mortgage.’

‘They were different times,’ I say patiently, ‘because sending your children to state schools didn’t mean they’d end up in gangland, or dealing with teachers who won’t tell off a student because they might get beaten up by his parents after school. There are schools in London where half the kids can’t speak English. And the other half, you wish they couldn’t,’ I sigh. ‘And house prices near the decent schools are way beyond us.’

‘Then the obvious solution is for you to move. We have excellent schools here. And I’ll baby-sit every night for free if you move down here.’ My mum’s words rush out of her, and I feel a wrench. She lives alone, my sister is far away, and she dotes on my children. Would moving out of London be so bad? Guy was talking about it again last night. It’s not just the bill for the Griffin’s second term looming; we’re £1,200 over our overdraft limit.

‘It’s a lot greener and quieter than London,’ my mother continues.

‘I know, Mum. I am tempted. Even though I’d have to give up HAC.’

‘You wouldn’t need to give up working, though. We’d find something else for you here.’ My mum, who has never done a day’s work in her life, is proud of my job, even if it is only part-time. ‘Buys your independence,’ she always says, ‘builds your self-confidence, keeps your wits sharp. I only wish I’d had the courage to do something myself.’

‘But it would be hard on Guy. He has his heart set on the boys following in his footsteps, and about a hundred other Carews before him, and going to Wolsingham.’

‘Oh, those Carews! They have all the wrong priorities,’ my mother sniffs. ‘Army families always spend their lives looking backwards and then are surprised when they fall flat on their face.’

‘I think if we threatened not to send the boys to Wolsingham, Archie and Cecily would sell their house and the cottage in Lyme Regis to cover the fees.’

‘Then they’re truly mad. Penury for posh classmates – it’s nonsense.’ My mother sighs. ‘I know I’m wasting my breath. Mel rang …’ My older sister, who married an Australian architect, lives in Sydney. ‘Did I tell you Kim’s firm has been commissioned to do Sydney’s new library?’

‘Yes, I think you mentioned it last time you rang.’ You bet she did. I was the youngest, my father’s favourite, and the one who got the better marks. But Mel always had twice the self-confidence and ambition. She ended up moving to Australia and starting up a business in gourmet baby food, which she sold three years ago for a tidy profit. Her husband Kim is a highly sought-after architect, who according to my mum designs half of Sydney these days.

My mother may be saintly, but she cannot resist stirring up a bit of sibling rivalry.

‘Mel’s done very well for herself.’

‘Yes,’ I agree meekly. ‘Better go, Mum – the kids will be home from school soon.’

I get off the phone and vow that I will not lose sleep over my pregnant BF or my wealthier and more successful sister.

But it is neither Charlotte or Mel who keep me awake that night. Footsteps resound on our stairs, then someone stumbles and cries out ‘ Kurva !’ I look at the clock on my bedside table: three a.m. What on earth!? I get up, still half-asleep, and tiptoe, so as not to wake Guy, to open the door. It isn’t one of the boys, as I had feared, but Ilona who is weaving up the stairs, certainly not stone-cold sober, followed by a thick-set man with a ponytail. I withdraw into our bedroom, shut the door and slip back into bed beside Guy. That’s it. This is worse than her ruining Guy’s best shirt, worse than her handing out Rufus’s dog biscuits with cheese to the children, worse than her looking me up and down when I wear one of my charity-shop finds, worse even than the day she clogged up the sink with red hair dye.

But how on earth can I get rid of Ilona and still go out to work? It’s Ilona who takes Maisie to nursery, then fetches her again at one. On the days when I’m at HAC, it’s Ilona who gives Maisie, and sometimes Guy, lunch; she who plays with my three-year-old or takes her to her playgroup. And it’s Ilona who picks up Tom from St Christopher’s when Guy or I can’t, and Ilona who watches over the boys when they have their tea, and stops them from downing entire jars of Nutella, reading at the table and leaving their chocolatey prints on every surface.

I feel depressed at the thought of what the ponytailed visitor dooms me to. Hours on Mumsnet and Gumtree.com, placing ads and answering them; endless chats with the lonely Pakistani newsagent who posts Polish and Latvian girls’ ads in his windows; and possibly a long, horrific drive in yet another hired car to Stansted, Heathrow, Gatwick or Luton, hoping against hope that this one, finally, is a good one.

Next morning, I have resolved nothing except that I must have a good night’s sleep soon or lose my mind completely. At breakfast Ilona surfaces in one of her more clingy tops, and I snap at her to put something warmer on. Is Ponytail upstairs, under the duvet, waiting for last night’s date to sneak him toast and tea? Or did he manage to tiptoe down the stairs and out the front door at the crack of dawn?

Maisie spills cereal on the table and I scold her, setting off a tantrum. Tom has lost his maths notebook, Alex is running late, and Guy can’t find some crucial book on some sixteenth-century maharajah of Jodphur. I feel as if I want to crawl back to bed. Ilona gives me a long, cold look which manages to tell me simultaneously that she thinks I’m pre-menopausal, jealous of her pert figure, wearing the wrong clothes, and a nag.

For once, HAC seems a refuge. Mary Jane is locked in Fortress Thompson all morning, and Anjie is surreptitiously reading Heat from cover to cover. ‘Poor Ulrika, she just can’t get it right, can she?’ And ‘Robbie needs a nice girl to just come and save him, doesn’t he?’

By lunch time, when Mary Jane surfaces, I’m up to speed with the love-lives of half of Hollywood and most of the EastEnders ’ cast.

‘I’ve been trying to get a few dates out of you …’ My boss stands in front of my desk. ‘Can you check your diary now, please?’ She is wearing a pretty cherry-red, light wool suit that I’ve never seen before and her trademark red-rimmed spectacles are nowhere to be seen. Mary Jane’s in a good mood, and tapping her fingers on my desk to hurry me through my diary. ‘That property developer – he could be very important. What can you do? Eleventh, twelfth, say? Morning?’