Allison Pearson - I Don't Know How She Does It

Can’t seem to stop scratching. Washed my hair last night with new shampoo: allergic reaction maybe? Or perhaps I’ve picked up some lower life-form in the back of Pegasus. Like a swamp, the prehistoric cab could easily be breeding ground for any number of invertebrates.

On the other hand, the music swirling round it hails from the opposite end of human development. The hot blare of trumpets and the syncopated snap of the percussion remind me of Rhapsody in Blue.

“Is that Gershwin, Winston?”

He shakes his head. “Ravel.” My cab driver listens to Ravel?

We are passing the Hoover factory when the slow movement starts. It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Halfway through, a flute comes in and just sort of breathes over the piano; when I close my eyes I see a bird hovering over the sea.

3:00 P.M. EAST COAST TIME, OFFICE OF SALINGER FOUNDATION.Arrive with a spinning head at the office of the appalling Abelhammer just round the corner from the World Financial Center. Accompanied by my assistant, Guy, who shows no sign of jet lag. On the contrary, Guy is hideously up to speed and knows the Nasdaq fluctuations better than his own pulse.

Have picked out suitably offputting outfit for presentation to Abelhammer: chaste, charcoal, below the knee; Sicilian widow’s shoes. The look is Maria von Trapp before she cut up those bedroom curtains.

My resolve to keep tone of meeting a couple of degrees below zero melts when Jack Abelhammer walks in. Instead of the gray-haired Brooks Brothers patrician I had imagined, here is a languid close-cut jock, around the same age as me, with a slow-release George Clooney smile that reaches his eyes before the mouth is fully engaged. Damn. Damn.

“Well, Kate Reddy,” says the appalling Abelhammer, “it’s a real pleasure to put a face to all those figures you’ve been sending me.”

Huh. I update Salinger on performance of the fund over the past six months. Everything easy-peasy until one of Jack’s junior consultants — a scowling Agent Scully redhead — pushes wire specs up bridge of nose and says, “Can I ask, if your forecast returns for Japan are so low, why are you overweight in Japan?”

“Ah, now that’s a very perceptive question. One for you, Guy, I think.”

Graciously deferring to my assistant, I take a seat and sit back to watch the little creep try to wriggle his way out of that one. Casually check mobile.

Text Message from Paula Potts to

Kate Reddy

Emly snt hme

frm skool wiv

NITS. Hole famly

mst be treatd.

U 2!

cheers paula

I can hardly believe what I’m reading. Have traveled across the Atlantic importing lice like Colorado beetles. Excuse myself from meeting and hurtle to the loo. In the seasick-green light of the executive washroom, I try to examine hair, pulling strands away from head. What do nits look like? Can see cluster of eggs near parting, but possibly dandruff. Frantically comb hair.

It is impossible to get out of prearranged dinner with Abelhammer. Can hardly use emergency pest control as excuse.

7:30 P.M.BRODY’S SEAFOOD RESTAURANT. Over dinner, sit very upright like Queen Mary and some distance away from table. Vision of busy nits rappelling into client’s clam chowder.

“Can I offer you a lift back to the hotel, Kate?” asks Jack.

“Um, fine, but can we stop at a drugstore? I need to get something.”

His eyebrows rise in expectation.

“I mean shampoo. I have to wash my hair.”

“Now? You want to wash your hair right now?”

“Yes. Get London out of my hair.”

Attagirl. Imaginative, but not too imaginative.

1. Have not had legs waxed since Halloween.

2. Nits could parascend onto immaculate Harvard Business School buzz cut.

3. Major client, ergo unprofessional.

4. Am married.

Shouldn’t these points be in a different order?

FRIDAY, 6:02 A.M.Today is my son’s first birthday and I am sitting in the sky 3,000 feet above Heathrow. The plane is much delayed: poor visibility, crowded airways. We have been doing this for fifty-three minutes now, the altitude equivalent of treading water, and it’s making me nervous. Can feel my shoeless feet flexing under the blanket to try and keep us aloft. I think of all those jumbos whispering past each other in the fog.

Over the PA comes the voice of the pilot, one of those chummy call-me-Pete types. Heart sinks. At moments like this do not want pilot to be called Pete. Urgently want pilot to be chap named Roger Carter from Weybridge, Wing Commander, Battle of Britain type, mistress in Agadir, good friend of Raymond Baxter from Tomorrow’s World. Sort of cove who could bring us into land with one hand tied to his handlebar mustache, if necessary. You see, I have to stay alive. I am a mother.

Pilot tells us we will have to head for Stansted. We are running low on fuel. No cause for concern. No, none at all. Today is Ben’s birthday. I need to land safely to collect Teletubbies cake from bakery, also to dress my son for his first party in burgundy cords and soft cream shirt before Paula can put him in the Desert Storm khaki grunge she favors. Dying is totally out of the question. For a start, Richard could never bring himself to tell Emily about periods; he would delegate to his mother, and Barbara would give Em a brief talk about personal freshness before producing something called a sanitary napkin. And she would refer to sex as That Department, as in “there’s nothing amiss between Donald and me in That Department, thank you.” (In the great universal stores of life, I believe That Department is to be found on the floor between Ladies’ Separates and Domestic Appliances.) No, no, no. I have to live. I am a mother. Death wasn’t really an issue before; I mean, obviously you wanted to avoid it for as long as possible, but ever since having the children I see the Unsmiling Man with the Scythe everywhere and I jump higher and higher to avoid his swishing blade.

“Everything all right for you, madam?” In this, the dimmest possible cabin light, the flight attendant has become a letterbox of lipstick around an ice-white smile.

I address myself to the teeth. “Actually, it’s my baby’s first birthday today and I was hoping to be home by breakfast.”

“Well, I promise you we’re doing all we can. Can I get you some water?”

“With Scotch. Thanks.”

8:58 A.M., STANSTED AIRPORT.Refueled plane still sitting on the tarmac. Pontius pilot says it’s not his fault; we have to go back to Heathrow. Oh, this is just marvelous. As we gain height, two empty whisky miniatures skitter off my tray, nearly landing in the lap of the woman across the aisle. She bestows a languorous smile on me, readjusts her mint-green pashmina, then opens a Gucci travel bag. Takes out aromatherapy bottle and dots lavender onto pulse points, applies face spritz before taking thoughtful sips from a large bottle of Evian. Lets her lustrous nit-free head sink back onto dinky gray cashmere pillow. I want to reach over, tap her on the arm and ask if I can buy her life.

Once I’m sure the goddess is safely asleep, I furtively open my own bag. Contents:

Two emergency sachets of Calpol

Unwashed white medicine spoon with jammy rim

Spare knickers for Emily (swimming)

Nit comb purchased for self in NYC

Lone grubby Tampax

Hideous puce Pokémon toy from last weekend’s “crisis” McDonald’s visit

Orange felt tip minus top

Pongy Pete the Puppy book

Wad of Kleenex dyed orange by felt tip

Pack of Banoffee-flavor limited-edition Munchies (disgusting, but only three left)