The Desperate Diary of a Country Housewife

Shame.

Never mind. Tonight I have the mysteriously nonresponsive and familiar-looking babysitter coming round. I’m going to dinner with Rachel White and her husband the accountant and, truth be told, I can’t wait. I’ve not been out for so long now I don’t think I’ve looked forward to an evening so much in years.

Unfortunately Fin’s not going to be able to make it. He just called. One of his financiers pulled out this morning and the film is on the point of total collapse. So. He has meetings to go to. I hope Rachel doesn’t mind. It’s not his fault. There’s really not much he can do about it, anyway. And she seems very nice. I’m sure she’ll understand.

!!!!! She CANCELLED me! She bloody CANCELLED me!

I saw her at the school gate so over I scuttled, all smiley and super. I should have realised that things weren’t going to be simple from the start, because I opened with a friendly-but-casual ‘Hello, Rachel! Still on for tonight?’

And she definitely looked offended. ‘Goodness, I should hope so,’ she said.

I ploughed on in any case, friendly-but-casual as before.

‘…He’s so sorry,’ I said. ‘He was looking forward to this evening so much, but he’s stuck in these awful meetings the whole night, and it was a choice, really: make the dinner party or save the film! So I’m afraid you’re going to have to make do with just me!’

She shook her head, and I could tell before she spoke, by the shape her lips were making, that I’d got it wrong. I’d got everything completely wrong.

‘Oh, what a shame!’ she cried, almost as if I’d told her I had to amputate the leg. ‘Oh, goodness, what a shame. Oh, that’s such a disappointment!’ The skin around her nostrils went red, and I realised with a chill that she wasn’t looking at me any more.

I said, ‘Rachel, he’s so sorry. And so am I. But still I’m so looking forward—’

She said, ‘Don’t be silly. There’s no way we’re dragging you out in the middle of the night on your own. Certainly not.’

‘But—’

‘No. We wouldn’t think of it. We wouldn’t dream of asking such a thing.’

‘But—’

‘No.’

‘But, please—’

But, no.

No.

And that was it. She said she’d make another date ‘when Finley’s schedule is a bit clearer’, and she suggested we meet for ‘a coffee’ one day next week.

December 14th (#ulink_c738e3a0-0c17-597e-b3e8-f7881dd908c8)

Fin went to the screening of Hatty and Damian’s short film last night. He said it was very, very good. Dying to see it.

I sent them a bunch of flowers for luck. Wonder if they arrived in time? Any case I’d better take the dog out. She’s making funny coughing noises, and all the chocolate biscuits have gone missing. Got a feeling she’s about to be sick.

December 15th (#ulink_7255adc9-dfdd-5649-9612-9c658b27757a)

Half the builders I telephone don’t even bother to return my telephone calls. The rest make appointments, and then never turn up. Can’t quite work out what I’m doing wrong.

Fin, needless to say, has had a little more success. Somebody in London gave him the name of an Irish woman called Megan, who apparently once did some work for one of the Rolling Stones and who consequently (he’d been warned) presented herself very much as a Builder to the Stars.

He contacted her last Friday evening, and she hopped onto her broomstick there and then, arriving at our front door, hunchback and shoulders fully relaxed, dyed black hair perfectly coiffed and stout little body positively dripping in eighties-style jewellery, within an hour of his making the telephone call. How does he do it?

Sadly, however, we had to reject her. Or maybe she sadly rejected us. It was pretty clear from the beginning that we were singing from different hymn sheets.

‘I can tell you’re a woman with discerning taste,’ she muttered to me, leaning her broomstick against the porch and shimmying into our untouched, half-lit, empty hallway. I felt quite aglow for a moment—until I looked up and down and around and about and realised she had absolutely nothing, at that early stage, upon which to base the observation.

Anyway. She took the briefest of glances round our bomb-site of a house and then, suddenly, looked at her watch and announced she had to leave. She couldn’t possibly discuss budgets or plans with us, she said, until we had inspected the property she and ‘her boys’ were currently working on in a village about twenty miles away.

We went to look at it the next morning. A Saturday. It was a house belonging to a couple of art dealers from Seattle, neither of whom was present. Nevertheless I think she was quite put out that we tipped up with the children. It’s possible she was quite put out that we tipped up at all.

The tour, which was made unnecessarily stressful by her rampant irritation with our fairly well-behaved children, seemed to go on forever. Fin and I were forced to admire every tap, every door handle, every eco-friendly window fastener in the building. And it wasn’t easy. Somehow, and clearly at unimaginable expense, Megan and her team of boys had transformed what was once, presumably, a perfectly pretty village cottage into something that looked more like an industrial greenhouse.

At some point (about an hour in) she was distracted from her boasting by an improperly fitted cupboard latch, and we managed to slip away. She found us a couple of minutes later—Fin, me and the children—sardine-packed into what was meant to be her pièce de résistance: an aluminium, bean-shaped lavatory capsule, cleverly suspended above what would one day be a dining room. We were giggling quite a lot, testing out the motion-sensitive toilet flush. Or the children were. Or, no. We all were, in fact.

I think it dawned on Megan about then that we were completely out of our depth. The art dealers from Seattle were spending on a single, motion-sensitive lavatory pod about three times what we had to spend on our entire house.

Nevertheless, at the end of the tour we hugged each other passionately. We reconfirmed our various e-mails and telephone numbers and swore we’d speak again before the weekend was out, just to confirm budgets and dates and so on. That was over a week ago now. Obviously we’ve made no attempt to contact each other since.

And I never even asked her about Johnny Depp. As the West Country’s designated Builder to the Stars she ought to know if there’s any truth behind the rumours. I wish I could say I forgot to ask her, but the fact is she’s slightly scary, and I didn’t quite dare.

The good news is I now have another builder up my sleeve. He’s called Darrell and he’s coming round this evening. I saw his card pinned up in the village Co-op (as opposed to the launderette, where clearly the calibre of cards isn’t up to scratch) and he sounds lovely. Quite sexy, actually. He says he’s built hundreds of kitchens before. Not only that, he’s available to start on ours immediately.

December 15th again (#ulink_5e2d7ecc-6f76-5b54-87ee-7ddb52688abb)

Bit drunk. Darrell has just left.

Darrell. Darrell. Darrell. Is about 6 foot 3 and outrageously good looking. Also he has amazingly long eyelashes. Also he’s outrageously good looking. He’s unbelievably good looking. Also—very sexy. He has a very sexy laugh. He stayed for two beers. Which he drink from the bottles. I think I knocked back five glass of wine, which I may have glugged a bit too quickly. Anyway, Darrell says he can start the kitchen on Monday. Christ. Things are looking up.

Also Dora says she left her swim kit somewhere. I called up, but nobody knews shag all about anything downethere.

Nametags tomorrow. Nametags nametags nametags nametags nametags namtags namtags namtagnametag-gssnamteags

Goodnight xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

December 17th (#ulink_5afedeaa-3529-5388-bd7b-2f644217be2f)

The prospect of the children’s Christmas holidays, looming ever closer, has finally spurred me to get down to work. Written and filed the wedding piece, to resounding silence; which, I’ve decided, is a good sign. Also been asked to write a piece about my attitude to Advent calendars. Do I have one? I think not. Never mind. Most importantly, the Novel’s finally moving along OK and I’ve even managed to write the first of my dummy country columns. I’m going to offer it around to newspapers next week. See if anyone bites.

Sooperdooper.

Wonder if Darrell and Co. want a cup of tea?

We’ve decided we’re going to spend Christmas in Andalusia after all. Dad’s still a bit ropey, but Sarah’s pretty much adamant she wants us to come out and try to cheer him up a bit. I’ve told her we’ll stay at the B&B in the village and she put on a very good show of saying no, but I think she was relieved when I insisted.

It means the great Christmas tree tradition (planting/replanting, etc.) will have to be postponed until next year. I’ve slightly gone off the idea anyway. Too many slugs. In any case, truth be told, I’m looking forward to a bit of sun.

Fin’s in London again. Has been all week. I don’t think I’ll bother to mention my anonymous column to him, even if I sell it. It may inhibit what I want to write about him at a later date.