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

“What can we do, Kath?” asked Julie when I came out.

Absolutely nothing. “I’ll try and find out what’s happened.”

The next day, I dropped Em at school, left a delighted Ben with his equally delighted grandmother and got the train down to London. Cab across town to Companies House: it didn’t take long to get the dollhouse people’s accounts for the last five years. You should have seen them. The business was a wreck: disappearing margins, no investment, piles of debt, a complete financial basket case.

On the train back up north, I tried to read the paper, but the type wouldn’t stay still. There were plenty of ethical funds out there under instruction to invest in women-only companies; I knew that better than anyone. Money for the taking, really. But when the train shuddered to a halt at Chesterfield, it shook some sense into me.

Kate Reddy, I can’t believe you are even having this thought. Take on something like that? You’d have to be out of your mind, woman. Out of your bloody mind.

7:37 P.M.Bedtime. Brush teeth, four recitations of Goodnight Moon, three Owl Babies, visits to the bathroom (four), attempts on potty (two), time taken till lights out: forty-eight minutes. Must improve.

8:37 P.M.Call to Candy Stratton in New Jersey to discuss mail-order market and distribution with view to global dollhouse business.

“I knew it,” she hollers.

“I’m making inquiries for a friend.”

“Yeah, right. Tell her to wear that red bra when she goes to get the financing.”

9:11 P.M.Call to Gerry at Dickinson Bishop in New York. Sussing out funds specifically designated to invest in women-only companies. Gerry says it’s a steal. “Ethical’s the new Viagra, Katie.”

10:27 P.M.Ben has accident in bed. Change sheet. Try to find pull-up nappy. Where are nappies?

11:48 P.M.Wake Momo Gumeratne at home to talk about possibility of wooden dollhouse frames being made by workers employed by Sri Lankan aid agency she’s been advising.

“Kate,” she says, “can I do it with you?”

“I’m not doing anything. Go back to sleep.”

MIDNIGHT.Take glass of water up to Emily. The great gray eyes stare up at me in the dark.

“Mummy, you’re thinking,” she says accusingly.

“Yes, love, it’s allowed, you know. How would you like to help Mummy build a palace?”

“Yes, but it’s got to have a tower where Beauty sleeps.”

“It absolutely does.”

1:01 A.M.Still time to go over the figures from the factory — what is required is a proper marketing plan and some diversification. How about a range of buildings instead of the traditional Georgian townhouse? A New York brownstone, maybe, a cottage, offices, castles, ships, Emily’s palace. Richard could design them.

1:37 A.M.“Kate, what do you think you’re doing? It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

My husband Richard is standing in the doorway of the kitchen: Rich, with his acres of English reasonableness and his invincible kindness.

“Darling,” he says, “it’s so late.”

“I’m just coming.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

He squints curiously at me in the light. “What kind of nothing?”

“Oh, I was just thinking about, you know, homemaking.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t worry. Warm my side of the bed, I’m just coming.”

The kiss he plants on my forehead is a question as much as a gift.

Seeing my husband go upstairs, I long to follow him but I can’t leave the kitchen in this state. I just can’t.

The room bears signs of heavy fighting; there is Lego shrapnel over a wide area. In my absence, three apples and four satsumas have been added to the big glass bowl, but no one has thought to discard the old fruit beneath and the pears at the bottom have started weeping a sticky amber resin. As I throw each pear in the bin, I worry about the cost. After washing and drying the bowl, I carefully wipe any stray amber goo off the apples and put them back. All I need to do now is get Emily’s lunch box ready for the morning, check the time for Ben’s appointment at the surgery, see if I can get from there to the bank to talk to my manager, convene a meeting of workers at the factory, call the receivers and still get back in time for school pickup. Chicken out of freezer. Chicken out of PTA meeting. Emily wants horse. Over my dead body; who will end up cleaning out the stable? Rich’s birthday — surprise dinner? Bread. Milk. Honey. And there was something else. I know there was something else.

What else?

This book could not have been written without my beloved friend Miranda Richards, who taught me not to be afraid of the Dow Jones and so much else.

I want to thank Hilary Rosen for her heroic research into the subject of this novel and for the e-mails which make me laugh out loud whenever life got too Kate-like. There are so many Kate Reddys out there who offered up their disasters with incredible good humor; they know who they are and I salute them.

Episodes from I Don’t Know How She Does It first appeared in the Daily Telegraph . I am indebted to Sarah Sands for giving Kate her big break and to Charles Moore for his forbearance and kindness.

Nicola Jeal, at the London Evening Standard, was a constant support, and now that she has a baby herself she can find out if I’m telling the truth.

As a first-time author, I was very fortunate in my agents, Pat Kavanagh in London and Joy Harris in New York. My editors — Jordan Pavlin at Knopf, Alison Samuel at Chatto and Caroline Michel at Vintage — brought the baby into the world with loving care. Norman North at PFD and Miramax’s Lola Bubbosh ensured that one day Kate will have a second life on the big screen, while Nicki Kennedy at ILA sold her around the world with reckless enthusiasm.

Others offered moral support and practical criticism: Adam Gopnik, Martha Parker, Quentin Curtis, Anne McElvoy, Kathryn Lloyd, Claerwen James, Richard Preston, Philippa Lowthorpe, Prue Shaw, Tamsyn Salter, Justine Jarrett, Naomi Benson and Niamh O’Brien.

A book about mothers naturally owes a great deal to the writer’s own. I want to thank my Mum for giving me a love of song lyrics and babies, and for her precious time, the value of which I am somewhat belatedly starting to appreciate.

The character of Ben would not have been created without the lovely hindrance of Thomas Lane. Emily’s observations were inspired by the wit and wisdom of Eveline Lane, Isabelle and Madeleine Urban and Polly, Amelia and Theodora Richards.

Finally, I send all my love and gratitude to Anthony Lane, who can take credit for most of the commas in this book and for all of the semicolons. While the fictional life of a harassed working mother was being created in our house, he loaded the washing machine, cooked dinner, read Owl Babies three hundred times and even found time to write the odd film review. I don’t know how he does it.

Allison Pearson

London, April 2002