Maggie Gee - The White Family

It was the chambermaid. She was a small, pretty girl, perhaps South American, with golden skin and broad Indian features. She said something in a soft, singsong voice.

‘Speak up,’ said Susie. ‘We can’t hear a word.’

‘Is everything OK with room?’ she asked. ‘OK I turn your bed down now?’

‘You can see we’re half-naked,’ said Darren. ‘Go away.’

The girl flushed, and backed out swiftly. ‘Sorry sir, miss.’

‘Why do they employ idiots?’ he asked the air. Just before the door closed.

‘Shush,’ said Susie. ‘Because they’re cheap. But try to be polite, or she’ll nick our stuff.’

They carried on dressing in grumpy silence. The mock carriage clock on the mantelpiece hummed. The heating laboured. The hotel was loud. Feet came and went, of happy families, hateful imaginary happy families. Somewhere the lift groaned and thudded. Susie started to whistle, then stopped abruptly.

‘Look, let’s not row,’ he managed to say.

‘I’m not rowing,’ she hissed, crossly, then heard her own voice, and suddenly laughed. She came over and kissed him, once, twice, light and cool on his aching brow. ‘All right, I shouldn’t have mentioned your dad. Let’s go. I’ll put my mascara on.’

‘At least we’ve got each other, darling.’ He clung to her hand, so much smaller than his, smooth and brown in its hard bright rings, and one of them was his, the largest, the latest. The last, I hope. Shall we stay together? ‘I couldn’t manage without you, Suze.’

‘I love you too.’

She sounded slightly reserved. Darren pressed her hand to his mouth, wincing slightly as his lips touched the point of her diamond. She was clutching her mascara wand. A small cool hand. ‘Does oo love me, Poopsie?’

‘Yes, Darren.’

‘Does oo? Does oo? ’

She sighed very faintly. ‘Wuv oo, Flops,’ she said in his ear, put down her mascara, clasped her arms around him, and hugged him, firmly. Then patted his shoulders to indicate an ending.

He gazed at her adoringly. ‘You keep me sane, you wonderful woman.’

‘This is sane?’ she laughed, resuming her make-up.

‘Do you ever wonder what the point of life is?’

She stopped poking at her eyelids and focused on him. ‘Um — I used to think I’d be a doctor, in Africa. Don’t laugh. Imagine me, in the jungle … I realized I wasn’t cut out to be noble. I just do the best I can at things. I guess I’m a try-er. I’m not a bad person … You matter to me. My patients matter. What do you think the point of life is?’

‘Shit, I don’t know. Love. Money … Seriously, I’d have to say the kids. And you,’ he said hastily, seeing her lips tighten. ‘Kids are important, though. I’m not a bad father.’ He prided himself on being a good father, though naturally a lot of things got done by e-mail.

‘By the way, did you remember to ring Felicity this morning?’ Susie had a soft spot for Darren’s daughter.

‘Was it important? — Shit. Her concert.’ Women had diaries implanted in their brains, a genetic knack of remembering things — which came in useful, when you had kids. Whereas Darren’s strong point was the bigger picture. ‘I’ll ring tomorrow.’

‘I sent her flowers.’

‘You’re a genius. Did you charge it to the office?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Well done, darling.’ He smiled at his reflection in the mirror, and hers, blond, shiny, attentive, in the background. A man of substance. He suddenly felt happy. ‘I was a bit sharp with the chambermaid, wasn’t I?’

‘Oh leave her a tip, if you feel guilty.’

‘It gives life variety, having kids. My friend Thomas hasn’t got any —’

‘Does he regret it?’

‘Haven’t the faintest. He seems all right. Doesn’t say much.’

‘But isn’t he a bit of a failure?’ Susie asked, as they let themselves quietly out of their suite.

‘What do you mean?’ He felt annoyed. ‘Thomas likes to do his own thing.’

‘Writing one novel doesn’t make you famous. Whereas everyone’s heard of you , darling.’ She cocked her head, and snuggled against him.

‘Do you think so, Poopsie? Do you really?’ Waiting for the cab, they pressed very close.

‘Look maybe I’m wrong,’ she said, suddenly. ‘It’s not for everyone, confronting their fathers.’

He stared at her amazed, then laughed, and kissed the lacquered strength of her hair. ‘I thought you’d never stop banging on about it.’

‘It was for you I wanted it, Flops, not me. In fact, I was kind of charmed by your dad. One day we’ll come and bring the kids —’

‘All five of them,’ he whispered, slyly.

‘Four, darling … Oh.’ She fell silent, realizing.

Darren was blowing in her ear. ‘Let’s say six. We ought to have two. I don’t believe in only children — It isn’t right. Kids need playmates.’ (Some modern parents were incredibly selfish. He was writing a piece about it at the moment.)

‘Would we be good parents?’ Susie mused, staring out of the window of the taxi at blank bright buildings rushing past. ‘By the way, did you remember that tip?’

He didn’t hear her, dreaming of the future. ‘You’d have to stay home a bit more,’ he said. ‘Which I would like. I like you being home. We could get a Filipina nanny. The Websters’ Filipina was brilliant … Couldn’t do enough for them. Sweet little thing. And Poopsie would be a lovely Mummy. Wovely wovely Mummy, Poopsie.’ He looked at her with a rush of love, her narrow shoulders, her teensy hips. ‘I want a little girl just like you.’

‘When I’m sure we’re ready.’ Her lips closed tight.

He smiled, remembering the stain on the coverlet.

Thomas had stayed longer than he meant to with Alfred. He hurried back to the library. It was warm for March; the wind had dropped.

It was quarter to three when he arrived, uncomfortably aware he’d had a very long lunch-break. A little crowd of people was milling about.

Saturday film, he realized. He was surprised to see Suneeta among them, with a tall Indian girl in jeans.

‘Thomas. Are you coming to The Price of the Ticket ?’ (Yes, he remembered. James Baldwin. A biopic about the novelist.) ‘It’s supposed to be excellent,’ she continued.

‘I’m on duty —’

‘So am I. But there’s hardly anyone upstairs. Razia and Ingrid are on Inquiries. And film only lasts hour and a half.’

‘I think it’s a bit specialized for me,’ said Thomas, steering away from her with a smile. ‘What I really need is a large black coffee.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked abruptly. He was suddenly aware of an atmosphere. ‘What does this mean? Specialized?’

She managed to corner him, against the creche, so no one else could hear what they were saying. ‘Baldwin is a wonderful writer. Have you read him?’

‘I didn’t know you had … Years ago.’ He thought about it. Perhaps he hadn’t. Though he’d definitely bought Another Country .

Her large brown eyes did not entirely believe him. ‘You need, what do you call it, a refreshment.’

‘Refresher,’ he said, evading her, sliding around in the direction of the stairs.

‘Thomas!’ You didn’t ignore Suneeta. He had seen her get angry once or twice in the ten years that he had known her. She was looking hard at him, slightly flushed. ‘Come and meet my older daughter, Thomas.’ She indicated the girl in jeans, who he now saw was a taller, thinner version of her mother.

Aisha shook hands; she looked amused, patrician. Thomas began to feel smaller and less solid, just as he did when talking to Alfred. The girl was inspecting the exhibition of Turkish paintings along the walls.