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

My beloved Momo stayed on at EMF, where she flew up the ladder, barely touching the rungs. That touch of steel in her nature I had noticed at our first meeting proved invaluable, as did her ability to listen and absorb what clients wanted. Occasionally, she would call me for advice in the middle of the day from the ladies’ washroom, her whispers half drowned by flushing. In the summer, she snatched a couple of days off and came up to stay with us. For the first time in her life, Emily was impressed with me. At long last, her mother had produced a real princess. “Are you Princess Jasmine from Aladdin ?” Em asked.

“Actually, more Sleeping Beauty,” Momo said. “I was sort of asleep and then your mummy woke me up.”

Debra discovered that Jim was having an affair with a woman in Hong Kong. They got divorced and Deb arranged to work a four-day week at her law firm. Soon, she found some of her biggest clients were taken away from her, but she let it pass. The time for fighting back, she told herself, would come when Felix and Ruby were older. Deb and I are planning a weekend break together at a spa and so far we have canceled only four times.

Winston went on to take his degree in philosophy at the University of East London, and his ethics dissertation “How Do We Know What Is Right?” achieved the highest mark in the year. To pay his final-year fees, he sold Pegasus, which seamlessly entered a new career in stock-car racing.

Flourishing a guilty and therefore glowing reference from me, Paula landed a job as nanny to the B-movie action star Adolf Brock and his wife, a former Miss Bulgaria. The family lived for a while at the Plaza in New York, until Paula, whose room overlooked Central Park, announced that she was feeling cramped, whereupon the Brocks moved obediently to Maine.

After that morning on the ice rink, I never saw Jack Abelhammer again. I changed my e-mail address because I knew that my willpower was not strong enough to stop me returning a message from him. I also knew that my marriage would only have a fighting chance if I let go of my fantasy lover: if Jack was the place I went to play, what did that make Richard? Even so, every time I log on, part of me still expects to see his name in the Inbox. People say that time is a great healer. Which people? What are they talking about? I think some feelings you experience in your life are written in indelible ink and the best you can hope for is that they fade a little over the years.

I never went to bed with Jack — a regret the size of a continent — but the bad food and the great songs in the Sinatra Inn were the best sex I never had. When you’ve felt that much about a man and he disappears from your life, after a while you start to think it was just some foolish illusion on your part and that the other person walked clean away, no scar tissue. But maybe the other person felt the same. I still have the last message he sent me.

To: Kate Reddy

From: Jack Abelhammer

Kate,I didn’t hear from you in quite a while, so I’m working on the theory that you took up conkers and motherhood full-time. But I know you’ll be back. Hail the conkering heroine….

Rod said you left London. Remember what your dad called Sinatra? The Patron Saint of Unrequited Love.

The great thing about unrequited love is it’s the only kind that lasts.

Yours forever, Jack

Richard and I sold the Hackney Heap, moved up to Derbyshire near my family, and bought a place on the edge of a market town with a view and a paddock. (I’d always wanted a paddock and now I had one I had no idea what to do with it.) The house needs loads of work, but there are a couple of good rooms and the rest can wait. The kids love having the space to run around in and Richard is in his element. When he’s not working on the arts center, he’s building a dry-stone wall, and every five minutes he asks me to come and look at it.

Not long after I resigned, I got a call from Robin Cooper-Clark asking if I’d come in with him on a hedge fund. Part-time work, minimal foreign travel, all promises that I knew would be scorched away in the heat of the chase. It was tempting: with the money he was offering I could have bought half the village and things are pretty tight for us with just the one income, but when Emily heard me say Robin’s name, she stiffened and said, “Please don’t talk to him.” Cooper-Clark is a name she associates with the years Mummy went missing.

I know my daughter a little better these days. A couple of months after leaving work, I realized that all those carefully timetabled bedtime chats had told me nothing about what was really going on in Em’s head. That stuff comes out spontaneously; you can’t force it. You just have to be around when it happens. As for her brother, his sweetness grows in direct proportion to his capacity for mischief. Recently, he discovered Lego, with which he builds a wall, and every five minutes he asks me to come and look at it.

Richard and I took both kids down to meet Sally Cooper-Clark. She was as kind and warm as Robin had described and I could see how she gave him back his ease and elasticity, not to mention his immaculate shirts. On the drive back, I left Rich and the kids in a pub garden for ten minutes and I walked across to the church and down the hill to Jill Cooper-Clark’s grave.

Weird, isn’t it, how you want to seek out the physical place where someone is buried? If Jill is anywhere, now, she’s everywhere. But I stood there anyway, in front of the neat white headstone with the soft gray lettering. At the bottom it says: SHE WAS WELL LOVED.

I didn’t actually speak aloud — this was Sussex, for heaven’s sake — but I thought all the things that I wanted Jill to know about. They say that women need role models and I suppose we do, but high achievement is not confined to high flyers. There is a currency we were never called upon to trade in at EMF, and in that Jill was the richest person I’ve ever met.

And me? Whatever happened to me? Well, I spent some time with myself, a pretty unsatisfactory companion. I loved walking Emily to the local school and standing at the gate to collect her; the puddles are iced over this time of year and we love to stand on them and wait for the creak before the crack. During schooltime, Ben and I pottered around the house and hung out at coffee mornings with other mums with small kids. I was bored to the point of manslaughter. My eczema cleared up but my cheeks ached from trying to keep my face looking friendly and interested. Queuing in the local bank, I would find myself sneaking looks at the foreign exchange rates. I have an awful feeling they thought I was planning a robbery.

Then, a couple of Fridays ago, I got a call from Julie. It was a crackly mobile, but I could tell she was in tears. For a second I thought Mum! and my stomach went down a mine shaft, but it wasn’t that; the factory where Jules does piecework had gone bust. Manager done a bunk, receivers called in. They were putting padlocks on the doors. All the women who had still been at their machines were now shivering out in the yard. Could I come down?

No, I said. Ben needed his lunch and, besides, I really didn’t know what use I could be. When Julie answered, it was in a voice I recognized from childhood, the one my little sister had when she asked if she could get into bed with me as the raging voices of our mother and father came through the floorboards. “But I’ve told everyone you’re a businesswoman, Kath, and you’ll be able to tell us what’s what.”

Combed my hair, put some lipstick on and dug out Armani jacket from the wardrobe in the spare room. I wanted to look like the woman Julie had described to her colleagues. When I slipped the jacket on, it was like being back in uniform: the gray wool impregnated with the smell of power, of money being made and things getting done. I wrestled Ben into the baby seat and drove down to the industrial estate. It wasn’t hard to find Julie’s place. The notice on the fence said TRADITIONAL ENGLISH DOLLS’ HOUSES and over that was a sticker: Liquidation Sale — Everything Must Go! In the yard, there were about forty seamstresses, many wearing the most amazing saris. They parted as I arrived, and it was like walking through a flock of tropical birds. I waved my old Platinum Amex at the guy standing by a side door, told him I’d come up from London and was looking to buy some stuff. Inside, the dollhouses were abandoned in mid-decoration: tiny sofas, footstools, velvet pelmets, porcelain toilets awaiting their wooden seats, grand pianos the size of a powder compact.