The Undomestic Goddess
Page 14
“No,” I say, a bit rankled at her expression. “But it’s no problem. I’ll send it back to the dry cleaners.”
Mrs. Farley is appalled. “You can’t sew a button on? Your mother never taught you?”
I stifle a laugh at the thought of my mother sewing on a button. “Er … no. She didn’t.”
“In my day,” says Mrs. Farley, shaking her head, “all well-educated girls were taught how to sew on a button, darn a sock, and turn a collar.”
None of this means anything to me. Turn a collar. It’s gibberish.
“Well, in my day … we weren’t,” I reply politely. “We were taught to study for our exams and get a career worth having. We were taught to have opinions. We were taught to use our brains,” I can’t resist adding.
Mrs. Farley doesn’t seem impressed. “It’s a shame,” she says at last, and pats me sympathetically.
I’m trying to keep my temper, but I’ve worked for hours, I’ve had a nonexistent birthday, I feel bone-tired and hungry, Ketterman is living two floors above me—and now this old woman’s telling me to sew on a button?
“It’s not a shame,” I say tightly.
“All right, dear,” says Mrs. Farley in pacifying tones, and heads across the hallway to her flat.
Somehow this goads me even more.
“How is it a shame?” I demand, stepping out of my doorway. “How? OK, maybe I can’t sew on a button. But I can restructure a corporate finance agreement and save my client thirty million pounds. That’s what I can do.”
Mrs. Farley regards me from her doorway. “It’s a shame,” she repeats, as though she didn’t even hear me. “Good night, dear.” She closes the door and I emit a squeal of exasperation.
“Did you never hear of feminism?” I cry at her door.
But there’s no answer.
Crossly, I retreat into my own flat, close the door, and pick up the phone. I speed-dial the local wood-fired pizza company and order my usual: a capricciosa and a bag of Kettle Chips. I pour myself a glass of wine out of the fridge, then head back into the sitting room and flick on the telly.
A workbox. What else does she think I should have? A pair of knitting needles? A loom?
I sink down onto the sofa with the remote and flick through the TV channels, peering vaguely at the images. News … a French film … some animal documentary …
Hang on. I stop flicking, drop the remote onto the sofa, and settle back on the cushions.
The Waltons. On some obscure syndicated channel. I have not seen The Waltons for years.
Ultimate comfort viewing. Just what I need.
On the screen the whole family’s gathered round the table; Grandma’s saying grace.
I take a swig of wine and feel myself start to unwind. I’ve always secretly loved The Waltons, ever since I was a kid. I used to sit in the darkness when everyone else was out and pretend I lived on Walton’s Mountain too.
And now it’s the last scene of all, the one I always waited for: the Walton house in darkness. Lights twinkling; crickets chirping. John Boy talking in voice-over. A whole huge houseful of people who love one another. I hug my knees and look wistfully at the screen as the familiar music tinkles to its close.
“Good night, Elizabeth!”
“Good night, Grandma,” I reply aloud. It’s not like there’s anyone to hear.
“Night, Mary Ellen!”
“Good night, John Boy,” I say in unison with Mary Ellen.
“Good night.”
“Night.”
“Night.”
Four
I wake at six a.m. with my heart pounding, half on my feet, scrabbling for a pen, and saying out loud, “What? What?”
Which is pretty much how I always wake up. I think nervy sleep runs in the family or something. Last Christmas at Mum’s house I crept into the kitchen at about three a.m. for a drink of water—to find Mum in her dressing gown reading a court report, and Daniel swigging a Xanax as he checked the Hang Seng Index on TV.
I totter into the bathroom and stare at my pale reflection. This is it. All the work, all the studying, all the late nights … it’s all been for this day.
Partner. Or not Partner.
Oh, God. Stop it. Don’t think about it. I head into the kitchen and open the fridge. Dammit. I’m out of milk.
And coffee.
I must find myself a food-delivery company. And a milkman. I reach for a Biro and scrawl 47. Food delivery/milkman? at the bottom of my TO DO list.
My TO DO list is written on a piece of paper pinned up on the wall and is a useful reminder of things I’m intending to do. It’s yellowing a bit now, actually—and the ink at the top of the list has become so faint I can barely read it. But it’s a good way to keep myself organized.
Mrs. Farley is appalled. “You can’t sew a button on? Your mother never taught you?”
I stifle a laugh at the thought of my mother sewing on a button. “Er … no. She didn’t.”
“In my day,” says Mrs. Farley, shaking her head, “all well-educated girls were taught how to sew on a button, darn a sock, and turn a collar.”
None of this means anything to me. Turn a collar. It’s gibberish.
“Well, in my day … we weren’t,” I reply politely. “We were taught to study for our exams and get a career worth having. We were taught to have opinions. We were taught to use our brains,” I can’t resist adding.
Mrs. Farley doesn’t seem impressed. “It’s a shame,” she says at last, and pats me sympathetically.
I’m trying to keep my temper, but I’ve worked for hours, I’ve had a nonexistent birthday, I feel bone-tired and hungry, Ketterman is living two floors above me—and now this old woman’s telling me to sew on a button?
“It’s not a shame,” I say tightly.
“All right, dear,” says Mrs. Farley in pacifying tones, and heads across the hallway to her flat.
Somehow this goads me even more.
“How is it a shame?” I demand, stepping out of my doorway. “How? OK, maybe I can’t sew on a button. But I can restructure a corporate finance agreement and save my client thirty million pounds. That’s what I can do.”
Mrs. Farley regards me from her doorway. “It’s a shame,” she repeats, as though she didn’t even hear me. “Good night, dear.” She closes the door and I emit a squeal of exasperation.
“Did you never hear of feminism?” I cry at her door.
But there’s no answer.
Crossly, I retreat into my own flat, close the door, and pick up the phone. I speed-dial the local wood-fired pizza company and order my usual: a capricciosa and a bag of Kettle Chips. I pour myself a glass of wine out of the fridge, then head back into the sitting room and flick on the telly.
A workbox. What else does she think I should have? A pair of knitting needles? A loom?
I sink down onto the sofa with the remote and flick through the TV channels, peering vaguely at the images. News … a French film … some animal documentary …
Hang on. I stop flicking, drop the remote onto the sofa, and settle back on the cushions.
The Waltons. On some obscure syndicated channel. I have not seen The Waltons for years.
Ultimate comfort viewing. Just what I need.
On the screen the whole family’s gathered round the table; Grandma’s saying grace.
I take a swig of wine and feel myself start to unwind. I’ve always secretly loved The Waltons, ever since I was a kid. I used to sit in the darkness when everyone else was out and pretend I lived on Walton’s Mountain too.
And now it’s the last scene of all, the one I always waited for: the Walton house in darkness. Lights twinkling; crickets chirping. John Boy talking in voice-over. A whole huge houseful of people who love one another. I hug my knees and look wistfully at the screen as the familiar music tinkles to its close.
“Good night, Elizabeth!”
“Good night, Grandma,” I reply aloud. It’s not like there’s anyone to hear.
“Night, Mary Ellen!”
“Good night, John Boy,” I say in unison with Mary Ellen.
“Good night.”
“Night.”
“Night.”
Four
I wake at six a.m. with my heart pounding, half on my feet, scrabbling for a pen, and saying out loud, “What? What?”
Which is pretty much how I always wake up. I think nervy sleep runs in the family or something. Last Christmas at Mum’s house I crept into the kitchen at about three a.m. for a drink of water—to find Mum in her dressing gown reading a court report, and Daniel swigging a Xanax as he checked the Hang Seng Index on TV.
I totter into the bathroom and stare at my pale reflection. This is it. All the work, all the studying, all the late nights … it’s all been for this day.
Partner. Or not Partner.
Oh, God. Stop it. Don’t think about it. I head into the kitchen and open the fridge. Dammit. I’m out of milk.
And coffee.
I must find myself a food-delivery company. And a milkman. I reach for a Biro and scrawl 47. Food delivery/milkman? at the bottom of my TO DO list.
My TO DO list is written on a piece of paper pinned up on the wall and is a useful reminder of things I’m intending to do. It’s yellowing a bit now, actually—and the ink at the top of the list has become so faint I can barely read it. But it’s a good way to keep myself organized.
