Never Tell

I sat in the car for a long time, thinking.

‘Oxford 15 m, London 53m’ read the quaint white fingerpost. Wearily I rested my head on the steering wheel as Mick Jagger bemoaned ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’. I felt utterly confused and suddenly torn. London and Xavier lay in one direction; my family and my home were in the other. And somewhere suddenly in the middle were these memories, the cold clamp of the past pressing around me, the hideous misadventure James and I had fought to leave behind.

I restarted the car, startling a lugubrious cow peering over the hedge, and I saw it was already time to collect the twins. They were so pleased to see me, running into my knees with euphoric cries of ‘Mummy!’ like I was the best thing since ice cream or Father Christmas, that the guilt I felt was savage. I shouldn’t write about anything other than giant marrows: that much I owed my children. But my soul was aching for the thrill of the hunt. I took them home and kissed and hugged them until they told me to go away, and eventually deposited them in the garden sandpit with sandwiches and juice whilst I sat on the stone bench and watched them.

After a while I went inside and unearthed my notebook from the tidy pile, peeling an ancient half-eaten Twix from the front, and took it outside. Sitting on the bench in the spring sunshine, watching Effie’s sand-cakes grow ever wetter, and Fred sampling some tasty mud, I scribbled for a while. When I’d finished, I closed the book and fished my phone out.

‘So’, I said carefully when he answered, ‘if I do it, can I have carte blanche?’

‘Don’t be silly. You’re not Kate bloody Adie, darling.’

‘Not quite, no,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit Northern but not nearly as posh.’

‘And you’re prettier. Well, marginally.’

‘Yeah, OK, Xav. Don’t go overboard.’

‘Listen, something else has just come through on the wire from Qatar about Kattan. It might be nothing. But I wanna be first if it’s there. Specially after the fucking Telegraph stealing our ten-p tax thunder. I’ll send everything over.’

‘OK.’

‘And, Rose, one thing. Be careful of interesting angles.’

‘Funny,’ I said shortly. I’d nearly been sued by the South African government the last time I’d written for Xav. Thankfully my instinct had been right, but it had been scary there for a while; the court costs mounting into six figures, me envisaging utter ruin.

‘You’ve got a week.’

‘OK.’ I hung up. Effie looked up at me and then carefully poured some sand into her red plastic cup.

‘Cup of tea, Mummy?’ she asked earnestly, holding it out to me.

‘Do you know what, my angel,’ I lowered myself into the sandpit between them, ‘I don’t mind if I do.’

I had meant to discuss my plans with James that evening, though secretly I was dreading it. He was happy with me doing one day at the local paper: returning to a national would be entirely different.

But by the time the children were fed and bathed and I’d thought of all the right things to appease him with, James’s partner in crime, Liam, had arrived for the night. Unsurprisingly, he had a new girlfriend in tow, a tiny jolly redhead with see-through skin and an over-inflated bosom.

Lord Higham was being interviewed on Radio Four when they arrived. I was desperate to listen but turned it down hurriedly as James walked into the kitchen. I knew he’d freak if he so much as heard the name.

‘Hey, babe,’ Liam kissed me. ‘This is Star.’

‘Wow.’ I suppressed a smile. ‘Hi, Star.’

‘That’s a funny name,’ Alicia said. ‘It’s like being called Moon.’

‘Or Bum-bum,’ said Freddie with a joyful snigger.

‘No it’s not, silly,’ said Alicia. ‘It’s not like Bum-bum is it, Mum?’

‘No it’s not,’ I said, trying to keep a straight face. ‘It’s very silly, Freddie.’

‘Bum-bum,’ Freddie repeated, his eyes round at his own daring.

‘Anyway you shouldn’t say that, should he, Mum? It’s rude.’

‘No, he shouldn’t,’ I agreed solemnly. ‘It is very silly, Freddie.’

‘Bum-bum!’

‘That’s enough, Fred,’ his father warned.

‘It’s not my real name actually – Star,’ Star offered in rather vacant Northern tones. ‘I wish it were, but it’s not.’

‘Oh.’ Alicia, disappointed, took a moment to absorb this. ‘What is it then?’

‘Sarah. But you don’t meet many film stars called Sarah, do you? It’s dead dull.’

‘Are you a film star then?’ Alicia’s eyes widened. ‘A real live one?’

‘No.’ Star shook her head sadly. ‘Not yet. I’m a podium dancer. But I will be one day.’

‘What’s a – a podion dancer?’

‘Well, my darling,’ Liam’s eyes lit up, ‘it’s a lady who—’

‘Alicia, have you finished your homework?’ I cut across James’s friend and partner, throwing him a warning glare. ‘We should do your reading, shouldn’t we? Do you need a hand?’

Liam was now swinging Effie wildly over his shoulder to screams of huge delight.

‘My turn, my turn …’ Freddie hopped up and down like a small jumping bean. ‘My turn, Uncle Liam!’

James pulled a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and three glasses out of the cupboard. ‘We’re going through to the studio.’ He winked at me. ‘All right, petal?’

It wasn’t a question.

‘Come on, Liam, put her down. You’ve got to listen to this new mix. And Don’s sent the new plans through. They’re fucking wicked.’

‘James!’ I admonished, but he just gave me a look.

‘Why don’t you all have some dinner first?’ I offered hopefully. I could do with the company. I wanted to hear Liam’s news and Star’s views on podium fashion and world politics – anything, really, rather than be stranded high and dry with my own thoughts. The radio stared at me malevolently.

‘You must be hungry. Did you eat on the way? I could knock up some pasta, if you like.’

‘That’d be grand,’ Liam began, but James glowered at him.

‘No time to eat, mate,’ he said. ‘No rest for the wicked!’

Liam shot me a look that said he wasn’t arguing. My heart sank. I knew this was the last I’d see of James till at least midday tomorrow. I made a final attempt.