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

“Rich, what’s a relict? I saw it on a tomb in the cathedral today: AND HIS RELICT ANGHARAD.”

“Widow. It means literally what is left behind.”

“So the wife was the remains of the husband?”

“Exactly, Kate.” He laughs. “Of course, in our marriage, I’d be what was left of you.”

It’s said with enough love to sting. Do I really make him feel that way? That small? Over the miles to come, I embroider any number of plans, strategies to make things better between us. Put things right. But three hours later, as we pass Reading, I start to feel the gravitational pull of London, and the resolve to change my life burns up on re-entry.

1. Better quality of life.

2. Can buy mansion with en-suite minstrels’ gallery for cost of Hackney heap.

3. Chance to be real mother who has time to love husband, learn secret of children’s hearts and discover how bloody buggy rain cover works.

1. Would go mad.

2. See above.

3. See above.

WHERE IS A BIRD OF PREY when you need one? Since early this morning, two pigeons have been sitting on the ledge outside my office window: on their first date, apparently. For an hour or so, the male seemed to be bowing to the female, making polite little waiterly dips in front of her. Well, I assume that’s the male, because the other one is the color of dishwater and lowers her head in a coy Princess Di way, while he has this magnificent ruff of feathers round his neck, emerald and purple with a petroleum sheen.

It wasn’t so bad when the male was whispering sweet nothings, but now he’s strutting about with his tail spread out in a fan, hissing and whistling to attract the female’s attention. The noise is unbelievable. Like having the entire percussion section of the LSO inside my ear. I give several sharp raps on the window to scare the birds away, but the courting couple only have eyes for each other.

I call over to Guy and tell him to get the Corporation on the phone right away and ask for some guidance on pigeons.

Guy puts on his Jeeves face. “Do you want me to arrange to have them shot, Kate?”

“No, Guy, they’ve got a hawk to take them out. Can you ask them when he’s making his next visit?”

It’s a little-known fact that the City of London employs a falconer who brings his sparrowhawk along every month to control the pigeon population. Last time he was here, Candy and I were on our way to lunch and my unshockable American friend was astonished to see a large countryman with a single leather gauntlet launching a feathered missile into the air above our heads.

“If you’ve ever wondered why the City has such clean pavements compared to the rest of London, there’s your answer,” I said.

“Oh, I get it.” Candy grinned. “That way they keep all the shit on the inside.”

To: Kate Reddy

From: Debra Richardson

How ARE YOU? Me so stressed after 3 days of half term wanted to check into the Priory. Do they do a work-withdrawal program for sad junkies like us? We went to a “child-friendly” hotel in Somerset. Felix got us banned after fusing electrics in the breakfast room. Plugged his Thunderbirds fork into the communal toaster and the whole place went dark. Ruby says she hates me.

Are we just causing our children short-term damage, do you think, or will there be major lawsuits later on?

Lunch on wednesday, right? Yrs in D-nial xxx

To: Kate Reddy

From: Jack Abelhammer

Subject: Japanese Banking Crisis

It is with some concern that your client notes the continuing upheaval in the Far Eastern sector. I understand Origami Bank has folded, Sumo Bank has gone belly up and Bonsai Bank has plans to cut back several smaller branches.

Can I get some direction on this, ma’am? xxxxx

To: Jack Abelhammer

From: Kate Reddy

Subject: Japanese Banking Crisis

Don’t you have a business empire to run, sir? Jokes about the plight of our oriental friends are in v. poor taste, although I did hear shares in Kamikaze Bank have nose-dived and 500 back-office staff at Karate Bank got the chop.

Katharine xx

To: Kate Reddy

From: Jack Abelhammer

Hey, I missed you. I’ve grown accustomed to your pace. How was the vacation? Hot and relaxing, I hope.

Saw this great movie the other night about a guy who lost his memory, so he has to write all the stuff he needs to remember on his body. I thought of you — you said you always had so much stuff to remember, right?

Jack xx

To: Jack Abelhammer

From: Kate Reddy

Not hot and not relaxing exactly. Still cold here — passed a guy on the ice rink outside the office this morning; he was doing these cool loops and swivels, as though he was writing his name on the ice. Or even someone else’s — how romantic is that?

Correct about the movie, though. Most of my body is covered in detailed notes already, but I have a spot left for you behind my left knee.

To: Kate Reddy

From: Jack Abelhammer

I skate a little — do you? We could try a few moves on thin ice one day.

As for the left knee, be right there. Just feathering my quill.

10:23 A.M.Now the damned pigeon has started clapping his wings together. Like he’s giving himself this big round of applause for being such a great lover. The female, meanwhile, is doing the birdy equivalent of lying on her back and waving her legs in the air. Completely intolerable. I manage to open the window and try to shoo them away. But love, it turns out, is deaf as well as blind.

So much to do am surprised that my head is not lolling to one side with the weight of activity in there. In two days, I will be attending a final in the US for a three-hundred-million-dollar ethical pension fund which I will be presenting with a twentysomething graduate trainee who has all the qualifications for the job — not white, not male — except being able to do the job. Between us, Momo Gumeratne and I will signal EMF’s passionate commitment to diversity, a commitment whose finest hour till now has been the inclusion of tacos on the cafeteria menu. Also, I have still not secured the services of an entertainer for Emily’s birthday party. Also, I must pick up clothes for the final from the cleaners. Also — there was definitely another also.

Damn. That’s all I need. A memo on my desk from Robin Cooper-Clark says there’s an internal investigation into some stock EMF sold that we didn’t actually have. I push the memo across the desk to Momo and tell her to go and put it on Chris Bunce’s desk. “But make sure he doesn’t see you, OK?”

The leaf-shaped eyes curl up at the corners as she scans the paper. “We sold stock we didn’t have and now there’s a claim against us and Robin wants to know who is responsible?”

“Correct.”

“So, we find out whose fault it is?”

“No, Momo. The aim is to keep passing the buck until you wear the others down. Are you familiar with the game Musical Chairs? Yes? Well, this is Musical Memos. The last person left holding the paper is in deep shit. So, if you could just deliver that to Bunce’s desk. Now ?”

I am beginning to recognize the expression on my new assistant’s face — a sort of tremulous frown where high principle struggles with a fervent desire to please. “Sorry, Kate, but how do we know Chris Bunce is to blame?”

I swivel my chair away from her to stop me losing my cool. Outside on the ledge, the pigeon family tableau is framed by a crane like a giant set square. How to account for a man who in conversation unconsciously grabs at his crotch, as if to check his manhood is still there, or rubs it in excitement when he thinks he’s about to get the better of someone? Particularly me.