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LIBBY’S LIFE #67 – Lights in the rearview mirror

2 Comments Posted by on January 1, 2013

2 a.m., Tuesday, January 1st, 2013. A new day, a New Year, and I’m still awake.

Oliver isn’t. He’s lying beside me in our bed, snoring gently, exhausted from all our hard partying on New Year’s Eve.

I’m exaggerating, naturally. New Year’s Eve consisted of putting the children to bed, opening a bottle of wine, and falling asleep on the sofa in front of Trading Places, waking only when the new year was already fifteen minutes old. After a half-hearted exchange of Happy New Year kisses, we staggered upstairs to bed, where Oliver immediately fell asleep again. I, on the other hand, have tossed and turned this last hour and a half, wishing I hadn’t napped so late in the day, and dreading tomorrow’s combination of energetic children and an acute lack of sleep.

Hard partying on New Year’s Eve doesn’t happen for parents of three children under the age of four. Besides — have you ever tried to find a babysitter for December 31st? Even the stalwart Maggie couldn’t come up with the goods this time.

“I’m so sorry, Libby,” she said, when I asked her about it just before Christmas. “If I were here, I would, of course. But I won’t be. I’m going on holiday.”

The only time Maggie leaves Woodhaven is to go to the mall, two towns away.

“Anywhere nice?” I asked. Boston, maybe…a cabin in Vermont… watching the ball drop in Times Square…

“The Seychelles,” she said.

If I’d had a cup of coffee, I’d have spluttered into it.

“How lovely,” I said, feeling my complexion turn a light shade of avocado. “Get away from winter and stock up on some vitamin D.

Maggie nodded. She didn’t seem very enthusiastic, I thought.

“To be fair, it’s not exactly a holiday,” she said. “Business more than pleasure, you could say.”

I wondered what kind of business could take a sixty-something woman to the Seychelles while removing all pleasure of anticipation of the trip. Knowing Maggie, though, and her (by all accounts) shady past, I didn’t like to ask.

* * *

2:30 a.m., and still sleep evades me. I turn over yet again, bash the pillow into a more comfortable position, and am just drifting off when there’s an explosion of light outside. It shines directly on my side of the bed, through the uncovered skylight in the bedroom’s vaulted ceiling.

I get up and peek through the blinds on the front window. The owners of the house opposite take their Christmas decorations seriously. During the two Decembers we have spent in Juniper Drive, their front lawn has been filled with inflatable snowmen, Disney characters, Santa Clauses, reindeer. Pride of place at the front of the garden this year is a new, five-foot-high Mary, Joseph, and Baby Jesus. I wonder how they find these articles; the acquisition of such tackiness takes considerable determination, not to mention cash.

The inflatable figures always light up in the evening, along with the LED icicles hanging from the house’s eaves, the winking coloured lights on the eight miniature fir trees in the yard, and the dozen giant candy canes lining the path to the front door. Everything appears to be on a timer, because each day these tasteful ornaments illuminate at precisely 4:30pm (causing a slight dimming of lights in our own house) and turn off again five hours later.

Tonight, instead, they have taken a unilateral decision to dejuice the power grid at 2:47am.

The neighbours’ driveway, I notice, is still covered in six inches of untrampled snow, following a storm two days ago. It’s a clue that the owners of the house and tacky inflatables are probably seeing New Year in somewhere other than Woodhaven, and therefore will not be getting up to switch the lights off. The snowstorm, I recall, robbed our street of power for a few hours, which must have reset the neighbours’ timer to this unsociable hour.

I wonder how long they’re on vacation. One thing is certain, though: no way will I get to sleep now.

I might as well get up.

* * *

Downstairs, I take a mug of tea to the den, sit in the squashy armchair that looks across the back yard, and cover myself up with the microfleece blanket that lives permanently on the chair. The house is quiet, apart from the occasional snore upstairs from Oliver and a huffing and smacking of lips from Fergus the dog, lying in his basket in the kitchen.

I haven’t mentioned Fergus for a while, and there’s a reason for that. He has adopted Maggie. On our walks with the children, when we reach Maggie’s driveway, he either sits down and refuses to move, or he howls heartrendingly and embarrassingly. If I start to walk up Maggie’s driveway with him, however, he morphs into the ideal, obedient hound. Over time, it has become easier to leave him for a few hours with Maggie while the children and I do what we need to do. These occasions have gradually lengthened from a few hours into a couple of days; indeed, his last visit stretched into three weeks. With Maggie in the Seychelles, though, he is back living with us, and unfortunately I’m realising how much I enjoy his absence.

It’s January 1st, a time for resolutions. I scrabble around in the side-table’s drawer for my journal, and turn to a new page.

2013, I write. New Year’s Resolutions.

1. Talk to Maggie about her taking permanent custody of Fergus.

That might take some explaining when Sandra comes to visit, but never mind. Talking of Sandra and dogs:

2. Go to England and see what sort of a dog’s dinner Sandra has made of our house.

Sandra has been living in our house in Milton Keynes ever since we moved here. The original idea was that it should be a temporary situation until she found her own place — her previous landlord wouldn’t renew her lease — but so far she’s been content to live in our house, rent-free and lease-free. Whenever I ask Oliver how she’s doing, and what she’s done to the house in our absence, he’s been suspiciously vague. I need to see for myself.

3. Check out the local elementary school and enroll Jack for kindergarten.

I read this sentence again. It looks innocent, innocuous. Behind it, though, lies so much more.

You see — kindergarten starts in September 2013. Oliver’s two-year contract in Massachusetts was supposed to expire in July 2013.

We will not be moving back to England this summer.

It’s because of the promotion that Oliver decided to accept a couple of weeks ago. His new contract — get this — is for another three years, starting in July. We won’t be going home until the summer of 2016.

If I’m honest with myself, it is this knowledge rather than the neighbour’s Blackpool Illuminations that keeps me awake. Staying in America for five years was never part of the deal. Had Oliver said to me, that evening back in March 2011, that we would be living in Massachusetts for five years, I don’t think I would have agreed to the move.

But here we are, and although the future ain’t what it used to be (to quote a song), it’s exhilarating in its uncertainty. You can plan as much as you like, but — to quote another song — Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.

Still, one has to make plans nonetheless. Which brings me on to:

4. Find another house.

After everything that’s happened, neither of us wants to continue living in this house that belongs to Melissa. And much as I will hate to move away from the security of having Maggie as a neighbour, I think it has to be done. Oliver has even hinted that we could buy a house rather than rent. A scary thought, but exciting.

And finally:

5. Make friends based on their personalities rather than nationalities.

Silly, isn’t it? I have any number of acquaintances here I’d ignore in the street if we were in Milton Keynes, but to whom I’m drawn here simply because they have the same accent as me. That’s no way to make lasting friendships. So the first thing to do is go and see Anna Gianni in the Italian restaurant. With all the trauma of the last few months, I’ve ignored her, and yet she’s the nearest to an American friend that I’ve got. She—

“Libs? Are you OK?” Oliver stands in the doorway, his hair (what’s left of it) tousled, his voice cracked and sleepy.

I stuff my journal down the side of the chair cushion and cover it up with the blanket.

“Couldn’t sleep because of the neighbour’s light display,” I say.

Oliver crosses the room to the chair, takes my hand, and pulls me to my feet.

“You’re freezing,” he says, rubbing my hand. “Come back to bed where it’s warm.”

In bed, I put my cold feet on him, but he doesn’t murmur or wince. Instead he asks, “Was it just the lights keeping you awake? Or are you thinking about the new job?”

I’m not sure what happened to Oliver in 2012, but somewhere, with the year’s rows, bitter silences, tears, and — let’s not forget — elation, he’s learned to read my mind. Occasionally, anyway; for that I’m thankful. It wouldn’t do to have him always know what I’m thinking.

“A bit,” I admit. “I’d got it into my head that we were going home this year, and now…”

Oliver doesn’t answer right away.

“Don’t worry,” he says into my hair, as at last I feel sleep overtaking me. “It doesn’t really matter where we are. If we’re together, we’re home.”

.

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #68 – Puppy fat

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #66 – The ladies in red

A note for Libby addicts: Check out Woodhaven Happenings, where from time to time you will find more posts from other characters. Want to remind yourself of Who’s Who in Woodhaven? Click here for the cast list!

Read Libby’s Life from the first episode.

STAY TUNED for Wednesday’s post!

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The 12 Stodges of Christmas: Global foods to pack on the pounds this December!

2 Comments Posted by on December 18, 2012

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Today, we bring you a helpful list of the most stodgy, calorie-intense dishes that make their way onto holiday dinner tables around the world.

The way we see it, if you’re going to eat celery and spend all January on a treadmill — and it’s pretty much the law that you do — you might as well make December’s crime fit January’s punishment..

On the 1st day of Christmas my true love sent to me…

A Christmas Pudding from England. Also known as Plum Pudding or Plum Duff, although plums do not feature in the  approved list of ingredients, which includes assorted nuts and dried fruits, suet, and a small keg of brandy. The pudding is steam-cooked for approximately four days before being doused in more brandy and set alight at the dinner table. Accompanied by brandy sauce, brandy butter, and the contents of a fire extinguisher.

My True Love only sent one of these because of their extreme density. If Christmas Puddings were chemical elements, they would lie somewhere between osmium and iridium.

On the 2nd day of Christmas…

Two bowls of Kutia from Ukraine. Often the first dish in the traditional 12-dish Christmas Eve supper served in many Eastern European cultures, Kutia is traditionally made from wheatberries, poppy seeds, nuts, raisins, and honey. Apparently,  it should be made about two weeks in advance. Presumably by the time it is ready it has begun the fermentation process and so adds to the seasonal merriment.

On the 3rd day of Christmas…

Three servings of Julgrøt from Norway. Christmas rice pudding, made from rice, sugar, cream, ground almonds, and containing a single whole almond. The person who finds the almond wins a prize…perhaps a crash course in how to perform the Heimlich Maneuver.

On the 4th day of Christmas…

Four pieces of Stollen from Germany. It’s fruit cake, people. Fruit cake gets a bad press, particularly in the USA, as Anthony Windram pointed out on his own blog this week, but if you call it Stollen, it’s all Bavarian and Christmassy and wonderful.

On the 5th day of Christmas…

Five Mince Pies. A Christmas delicacy from Britain: small pies containing dried fruit, sugar, a healthy dose of brandy, and, if you’re going to do it properly, that weird ingredient suet again. Americans find it very difficult to wrap their heads around the idea of fatty bird fodder going into foods for human consumption, so when I offer my American friends my homemade mince pies, filled with made-from-scratch mincemeat, I wait until they’ve eaten a few before enlightening them that they’ve just eaten the contents of their bird feeder.

On the 6th day of Christmas…

Six buckets of KFC from Japan. Orders are placed two months in advance, and people line up outside the Colonel’s place to get their hands on this delicacy, which over the last 40 years has become a Christmas tradition in Japan.

“Our holiday sales are five to ten times higher than other months,” said spokesman Sumeo Yokokawa. “In Japan, Christmas equals KFC.” (ABC News)

A miracle of marketing by KFC, if nothing else.

On the 7th day of Christmas…

Seven Karelian Pasties from Finland. Originally from Russian Karelia, these pasties have a thin crust of rye or rye/wheat and a filling of barley, potato, buckwheat, or rice (the most popular modern filling.) Toppings include cheese, ham, shrimp, and slices of reindeer.

Yes, reindeer. I guess the buck — and Santa Claus — stops in Finland.

On the 8th day of Christmas…

Eight bibingka from the Philippines – a traditional Christmas dessert made from rice flour and coconut milk, baked in banana leaves. A generously-sized bibingka would serve four people. The bibingka made by residents of Mandaue in Cebu, in May 2011, would serve considerably more. It contanined 50 sacks of rice, 50 sacks of sugar, and the milk from 13,500 coconuts.

Now there’s a town that takes its holiday stodge seriously.

On the 9th day of Christmas…

Nine bread puddings from Puerto Rico. Bread Pudding can be found in many variations around the globe; this Puerto Rican version, made with coconut milk and sliced mango, manages to make the ultimate stodgy pudding into something exotic.

Having hankered after a Caribbean Christmas for more years than I can remember, I fear this dessert only serves to strengthen my resolve.

On the 10th day of Christmas…

Ten Bolo Rei from Portugal. Bolo Rei – King Cake. Crown-shaped cakes, encrusted with raisins, nuts, and crystallized fruit. Contains a small metallic toy and a fava bean. Whoever finds the fava bean is supposed to pay for the bolo rei the following year — talk about adding insult to injury.

On the 11th day of Christmas…

Eleven lussekatter from Sweden. These saffron and quark buns are eaten to celebrate Saint Lucy’s Day, the shortest day of the year which, according to the Julian Calendar, was December 13th. When the Gregorian Calendar changed this to December 21st, Saint Lucy’s Day defiantly remained on the 13th. The Swedes’ cavalier attitude to dates and solstices is why I don’t feel too bad about suggesting you eat these delicious morsels on January 4th.

On the 12th day of Christmas…

And finally, if your True Love has really showered you with all these carbs, the only thing he should be giving you on Day 12 is a year’s subscription to Weight Watchers.

.

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LIBBY’S LIFE #66 – The ladies in red

6 Comments Posted by on December 14, 2012

Libby:

“You might want to visit the restroom,” I whisper to Melissa. “You’re losing your dress.”

I’m not a spiteful person — really, I’m not — but it’s very satisfying to have Oliver looking at me as if I’m a present he can’t wait to get home and unwrap, while oblivious to the fact that Melissa’s dress, identical to mine, is doing a pretty good job of unwrapping itself in the presence of 150 co-workers and their partners.

Melissa looks down, sees she is showing more décolletage than is usual or advisable, gives a squawk, and teeters off across the dance floor towards the bathrooms.

Halfway across the polished wooden boards she turns an ankle on her 5-inch heels, staggers, slides a few feet, and sits down heavily in front of one of the DJ’s speakers. Her dress is so tight and her heels are so high that she can’t gain enough balance or traction to get up again, and has to be helped to her feet by a couple of women who are doing their best not to laugh.

On the other side of the room, holding court with the wives of senior executives, Caroline Michaels — she of last year’s nursery school war —  is not so polite. In a lull between songs we can hear her laughing.

“Oh my goodness!” she shrieks, her native Essex showing through the usual, careful, cut-glass-accent veneer. She needs some dim sum to sop up that wine she’s knocking back. “Did you see that? How hilarious. Who is that?”

I turn to Oliver and murmur in his ear, “Shall I tell her about Melissa and Terry, or do you want to?”

Oliver freezes in his listening position. “What?”

I smile at Anita, who is still standing nearby, slightly open-mouthed, no doubt trying to reconcile the lovey-dovey picture of me and a smitten Oliver with the rumours that have been circulating.

You know — the ones about him and Melissa, the rumours that have been such a source of entertainment for the Coffee Morning Posse over the last few months.

Clearly, so that Anita can hear, I say, “Shall I tell Caroline that the trollop on the dance floor has been shagging her husband, or will you?”

Anita’s mouth drops fully open.

Wearing red makes me feel so brave. I must wear it more often.

“How do you know?” Oliver asks after a pause.

OK. The red dress doesn’t make me brave enough to admit to snooping through his phone.

“Woman’s intuition.”

Oliver shakes his head.

I wonder, briefly, if women’s intuition would allow me to know about the promotion and big pay rise that Oliver has turned down, but decide regretfully that would be pushing even his credulity.

Anita at last snaps her jaw shut. “Melissa Connor? Terry Michaels?” she tries to say. It comes out as a kind of croak.

“Yep,” I say.

“Oh, Libby.” She looks as if she’s going to cry. “I’m so sorry. And we all thought—”

I make a cutting gesture across my throat. I don’t really blame Anita in all this. She’s not the gossipy type, and you can’t help what you hear.

Oliver’s been watching me and Anita, back and forth.

“Would either of you like to explain what’s going on?”

Instead of answering, Anita raises a hand in apology and trots off to speak with Julia, another of the English wives. Julia is in the odd position of being a friend of Anita’s and on civil speaking terms with Caroline. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but there’s a lot of whispering on Anita’s part and wide-eyed shock from Julia. Both women keep looking over at Caroline.

“I think the best way to describe it is ‘Putting some affairs in order’,” I tell him, as I watch Julia slowly walk across the room to chat with Caroline.

*  *  *

Melissa:

In the restroom, I finally get this goddamned dress pulled up at the top and down at the bottom instead of the other way round.

It was, like, so embarrassing what happened out there, falling over and all, and I stay in one of the stalls for twenty minutes until someone bangs on the door and asks if I’m OK.

I’m tempted to say I’ve got this novocaine virus that’s going around on some cruise ship in Europe — that would empty the place pretty quick, right? — but I keep quiet and rustle paper around, and whoever it is goes away.

Guess I can’t stay in here all night, anyway. I’ve paid for my ticket, and I intend to get my money’s worth of alcohol.

I figure I’ve been in the restrooms about a half hour, which is enough time for people to forget me falling over on the dance floor. And if they do remember, with a bit of luck they’ll think it was Libby Patrick, since we’re wearing the same dress.

When I get outside and into the crowd, I can’t help but notice some strange looks coming my way — all from the English wives crowd.

Snotty bitches. Geez. You’d think they’d never seen anyone slip on a shiny floor, right?

I look around for Oliver — I don’t know if this red-haddock plan of flirting with him is fooling anyone, but it sure as hell is fun — and see he’s still standing close to Libby, like they’re zipped together down one side, so I go off to find some more wine at the bar.

Except I don’t get that far.

*  *  *

Libby:

I’m so glad I came. This is better than EastEnders, better than Corrie, and more Desperate than Housewives.

“Out!” Caroline screams at Melissa, who stands stock still with a plastic cup of Chardonnay in her hand. Caroline’s accent is now pure TOWIE, with no traces of refinement left. “Out! Go find another stinking job! Go find another stinking man!”

Husband Terry cowers behind her, making little mewling noises of protest. Caroline whips round and snaps at him to shut the f*** up.

My, our true colours really are showing tonight, aren’t they?

The DJ has stopped the music, and the party crowd is silent, watching the drama.

“Who knew about this?” Caroline darts suspicious glances around. “Someone must have. Making me look like a fool.”

You know, I’m so fed up with Caroline’s bullying. Like mother, like son. I walk up to her.

“You were happy enough to make me look like a fool,” I say loudly. “Everyone was talking about Melissa and my husband. Including you. Remember?”

All the wives in the crowd look down and shuffle their feet.

“And it wasn’t true. I’d like everyone to know that. And an apology would be good, too.”

I hold out my hand to Oliver. He takes it. As we make our way to the door, the crowd parts, almost respectfully.

*  *  *

“We might have to find another house to live in, of course,” Oliver says on the way home.

“Charlie’s old house still isn’t rented. We could move there.” I look outside at the Christmas lights in all the Woodhaven gardens. “It’s bigger, of course. Don’t know if we could afford it.”

Oliver drives on for a while, then says, “I’ve been offered a promotion. Didn’t want to tell you, not before I’d decided what to do, but I think I’m going to take it. I made that decision tonight.”

Of course. Oliver doesn’t have to keep his silence about our landlady and his boss any more. His acceptance of the job would be honourable now.

“Tell me all about it,” I say. “Is it more money?”

And as he begins to outline the details I’d already read on his BlackBerry, I smile into the darkness.

*  *  *

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #67 – Lights in the rearview mirror

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #65 – All about a dress

A note for Libby addicts: Check out Woodhaven Happenings, where from time to time you will find more posts from other characters.  Want to remind yourself of Who’s Who in Woodhaven? Click here for the cast list!

Read Libby’s Life from the first episode.

STAY TUNED for Monday’s post!

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe for email delivery of The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of the week’s posts from The Displaced Nation. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

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A trip to light fantastic: 5 places to find brightness in the winter gloom

3 Comments Posted by on December 4, 2012

Last year, I confessed that my ideal Christmas would be spent far away from the snow, ice, and frigid temperatures. If I wanted a white Christmas, I’d be perfectly happy to use foot-searing sand as an alternative to snow, and spend December in the Caribbean.

Twelve months on, and I haven’t changed my mind. I still feel a twinge of envy when I read about Australian friends’ plans for a summer Christmas. No matter how displaced the idea may be to a Northern Hemisphere mind, a Christmas barbecue on Bondi Beach seems very appealing as I look outside into the foggy dusk, the sun already setting at not quite 4 p.m.

Lots of people wouldn’t agree. Below-freezing temperatures and dull skies, for them, are all part of Christmas, or Hanukkah, or whatever form their December holiday takes.

Yet December holidays, at their most fundamental level, are festivals to raise people’s spirits from the gloom that comes with winter solstice light deprivation. Think about it: isn’t there something perverse about refusing a Caribbean Christmas getaway while covering your house with electric lights à la National Lampoons Christmas Vacation? Wouldn’t a beach holiday at this time of the year just be a simple case of cutting out the middle man?

Sigh. As I said — most people don’t seem to agree with me. So for those who would rather have your winter light minus the vitamin D production, here are some places you could consider visiting this month:

1. Longford Road, Melksham, Wiltshire, UK

Electrician Alex Goodhind paid £700 for his local electricity board to dig up the road outside his house and install an industrial strength cable to support his Christmas display of 100,000 lights. Actually, the number of lights varies according to which news report you read, but it’s certainly on a par with Clark Griswold’s efforts: without the special cable, Mr Goodhind was unable even to boil his kettle while the lights were on.

After a two-year absence, during which the neighbors must have been relieved not to wear eye masks at night, the lights are back in full force. Proceeds from the display go to local charities.

2. Paris – The City of Light

OK, so that’s a bit of a cheat, but nevertheless the Christmas lights on the Champs-Elysées are spectacular.

For wackiness and dubious use of performing animals, the prize goes to Galeries Lafayette with its animal-themed Christmas displays, where an elephant dressed in Louis Vuitton switched on the festive lights this year:

3. Umea, Sweden

Although you might be perfectly positioned to see Nature’s own Christmas lights — the Northern Lights — if you live in Umea, you might also be more prone to light-deprivation depression, or Seasonal Affective Disorder. In December, the sun rises around 10 a.m. and sets before 3 p.m.

Acknowledging the problems this causes for residents, Umea’s electric company has installed ultra-violet light in 30 bus shelters around the town, replacing illuminated advertisement boards with the energy-boosting light therapy.

In case any Jersey Shore cast members are thinking this is a great idea — these lights don’t give you a tan.

4. Winter Festival of Lights, Niagara Falls, Ontario

With three million tree lights turning the Falls into a sheet of ‘watercolors’, and 125 animated lighting displays, the Winter Festival of Lights has become “a tradition for over 1 million local residents and visitors from around the world” according to its website.

We’re guessing that the Canadian cold weather distracts you from thinking about global warming and the effect those three million lights might be having on it.

5. And finally…

If going out in the cold to find winter light displays seems like too much trouble, let me point you towards a wonderful site I found while researching this post.

TackyLightTour.com has a comprehensive list of Griswold-like lights at private homes, giving the street address, how many lights/inflatables at said address, and the number of years of tackiness-expertise by the house owner .  The houses are mainly in the USA — of course — but Canada, Australia, and even France get a mention.

Added bonus: Probably a good site to check if you’re house hunting in summer.

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LIBBY’S LIFE #65 – All about a dress (by Melissa)

6 Comments Posted by on November 30, 2012

Scene: A holiday office party at a Golf Club near Woodhaven. Libby and Oliver are already there, and Libby has just seen her nemesis, Melissa, arrive, wearing an identical dress to her own.

Melissa:  This dress is kinda tight and I have to suck in my belly because even two pairs of Spanx aren’t doing it for me. And when you suck in your belly, everything else rises and spills over the top, so I have to keep pushing it back in while no one is looking.

The dress looked awesome when I tried it in Macy’s three weeks ago, but that was before Mom force-fed me pumpkin cheesecake last weekend. I was like, “Mom, you know I don’t eat dairy,” but she got all snotty, asking if I was on another of my fad diets, and wouldn’t it be easier just to cut out the daily pack of Oreos.

Like, that’s so not fair. I don’t eat a pack of Oreos every day. Not usually, anyways. Only when I’m stressed, and I guess I’m kinda stressed right now, what with the divorce and all, so yeah, the Oreo intake has gone up. But I figure if I cut out dairy, that should compensate.

I didn’t want to come to this party tonight. Between you and I, I’d rather chew my own arm off than go to these god-awful office events. Given the choice between socializing with people I work with and spending an evening watching bad TV, I’d rather stay home and zombie out in front of Downtown Abbey or whatever it’s called. You’d need to be out of social options before you watched that, right? But Terry said if I didn’t come tonight, it would look suspicious, that people would think I have something to hide.

Personally, I don’t care much what people think. It’s not my problem now I’m nearly divorced. But I said I’d come, as long as he paid for a new dress.

“You have to come to create a diversion,” he said. “Turn on the charm with Oliver. Make everyone think you’ve only got eyes for him. If he’s not going to play ball, he will have to live with the consequences.”

Terry offered Oliver a promotion a few weeks ago, a kind of bribe to not say anything about me and Terry to Caroline, Terry’s wife. Only Oliver didn’t take the promotion, and now Terry’s afraid Oliver might rat him out to Caroline, so if I pay a lot of attention to Oliver, Terry thinks I will create a — what did he call it? — a smokestack.

Or something like that. Whatever.

Actually, it should be a lot of fun, flirting with Oliver under Libby’s nose. Irregardless of my dress being a little tight, I’m looking hot tonight. Not bad for forty-,  I mean, thirty-two. Better than Libby, who’s had three kids and, judging by the last time I saw her, has let herself go.

Except Libby doesn’t seem to be here, which is a shame because if she’s not here, making eyes at Oliver isn’t as much fun.

I can see Oliver over on the other side of the room, near the fireplace with the stuffed moose’s head, talking with Sam’s wife Anita, and a pretty blonde woman in a red dress a bit like mine.

Identical to mine, in fact.

I can only see the back of her, but she’s thinner than me. She mustn’t have had kids. You’re only that skinny when you’ve not had kids.

I wonder who she is? And — ha! — more to the point, I wonder if Libby Patrick knows who she is?

I push my way sideways across the room, trying not to spill my Chardonnay everywhere.

Oliver’s still talking to the blonde and Anita, and from my position behind them, I can see his hand go round the blonde’s waist. Then he moves his hand down and squeezes her butt.

I’m kinda shocked, you know? All this time I’ve been throwing myself at him at the office, and he never takes the bait, but here he is in full view of everyone at the party, groping a woman who clearly isn’t his wife.

It’s almost enough to make me drive back to Woodhaven and tattle to Libby. Almost, but not quite. Not after she changed the locks and accused me of stalking her husband.

No. This is — what’s it called? — pathetic justice.

“Oliver!” I say, and bat my eyelashes at him, which turns out to be a mistake because I overdid it on the lash-building mascara earlier and now my left eyelids are stuck together.

He turns. “Melissa,” he says, and nods, then bends down and murmurs something in the blonde’s ear.

Kinda rude, I think, but these Brits have no manners.

The blonde turns round, resting her head on Oliver’s shoulder, and I feel my mouth droop open a little.

“Melissa,” she says, looking me up and down as if I’m something her goddamned dog walked into the house. “Long time no see.”

Holy shit. When did Libby Patrick turn into Drew Barrymore?

She smirks a little, and leans over to say something to me.

“You might want to visit the restroom,” she whispers. “You’re losing your dress.”

.

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #66 – The ladies in red

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #64 – Shades of red (2, not 50)

A note for Libby addicts: Check out Woodhaven Happenings, where from time to time you will find more posts from other characters.  Want to remind yourself of Who’s Who in Woodhaven? Click here for the cast list!

Read Libby’s Life from the first episode.

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LIBBY’S LIFE #64 – Shades of red (2, not 50)

4 Comments Posted by on November 16, 2012

“Do I look OK?” I ask, fastening the clasp on my necklace, and turning to face Oliver.

After a desperate couple of hours yesterday in Macy’s, I’d bought a lipstick red, off-the-shoulder dress to wear to tonight’s torturous party. Now I’m zipped into it, I’m pleasantly surprised at how I look. You know, considering I’ve had twins and everything this year.

And while red isn’t normally my colour, I’m damned if I’m going to a party where Melissa will be acting like a tramp and flirting with Oliver while her real clandestine lover makes speeches about “proactively engaging interdependent results” or some such corporate-speak nonsense, and the other wives whisper and point and stock up on gossip for their next coffee morning.

No. If anyone’s going to play the tramp around Oliver, it’s me.

Oliver looks me up and down, apparently agreeing that this dress is an improvement on my usual uniform of jeans and T-shirt, and gives me a leer that suggests our evening won’t be over when the party finishes.

“You look fabulous,” he says. “You never get any older, did you know that?”

No, I didn’t. Inside, I feel ancient; withered beyond my years after the ups and downs of the last eighteen months, and the last six in particular, but nevertheless, it’s good to hear that I carry Life’s burden well on the outside. Even if it means a heart attack from built-up stress farther down the road, at least I will die looking good.

Downstairs, I hand a fussy, teething George to Maggie, who is babysitting tonight.

“You go off and have fun, both of you,” she says. “It’s pleasure and not business, isn’t it?”

Oliver pulls a face.

“Depends how you look at it. I’d rather go and see the new Bond film, to be honest.”

You and me both, Oliver. In fact, I’d rather lie down in the road and be run over by a slow-moving truck.

“We know everyone there, though,” Oliver goes on. “That makes it less of an ordeal. And it’s at the Golf Club, so the food should be good.”

Yes, I know everyone. Let’s see…Anita, Julia. Caroline. Caroline’s husband Terry, the boss, who’s offered Oliver a job (the one I’m not supposed to know about) as a bribe because, if my womanly intuition is correct, Oliver knows something about Terry’s antics with Melissa, who is also coming to the party.

No, Oliver’s right. It won’t be an ordeal. It will be a minefield. No matter how good the food is, I’d better not drink too much and tread on any mines.

“Take no notice of him,” I say to Maggie. “We’ll have a lot of fun.”

She looks at me, a little frown on her face.

Maggie always knows when I’m lying.

*  *  *

“You stayed near Bath, right?” Anita asks me. “How was it?”

We’re at the Golf Club just outside Woodhaven, the posh one where Oliver takes his customers when they visit. This function room is trying to be Upper Class Olde English and failing miserably.They’ve got the horse prints right, but the carpet would look more at home in a cinema foyer. Also, Upper Class Olde English would never, ever fix fake beams on a popcorn ceiling.

I hold a glass of Pinot Grigio in one hand and a paper plate of appetizers in the other, feeling light-headed already, despite my earlier vow not to drink too much. It’s so much easier to take a sip of wine than it is to gracefully negotiate dim sum towards my mouth.

There’s definitely a gap in the market for quality liquidized hors d’oeuvres. Baby food shots for adults. Pureed Peas and Sun-Dried Tomatoes with Pernod.  Avocado and Duck Coulis with Cointreau. That kind of thing. Come on — it’s no worse than pineapple and cheese on a stick, is it?

“Oh, you know.” I shrug. “English. Cold, wet. Full of people with fixed opinions of life in the USA because they once spent a week in Florida.”

After a few days of our English vacation, I realised I was no longer quite one of “them”. “Home” wasn’t where I used to think it was. I’m not sure when it happened, exactly. Perhaps it was the evening when I had to concentrate on the accents on TV, used as I was to a nasal New England voice reading the news. Or perhaps it was when someone in the pub started to criticise “the bloody Yanks” and I couldn’t stop my rage rising, or myself from rushing to America’s defence. It’s the nearest I’ve ever got to being in a bar fight.

But, somewhere, I’d changed. That much I knew.

“And how about–” Anita moves in closer so that our plates of dim sum overlap. “How about you and Oliver?”

I deliberately misunderstand her.

“Oh, Oliver had a great time in England. We’ve never been to that part of the world before. It was spoilt a bit because his mother turned up early, but then mine couldn’t make it because she and my dad caught flu, and –”

I look around the room. Where is Oliver? He’d been nearby when Anita first started talking to me.

Anita leans in even closer.

“Don’t look now,” she whispers. “But Melissa Harvey Connor just arrived. She’s wearing a dress exactly like yours.”

*  *  *

Due to various factors involving turkeys and pumpkins, this post is shorter than usual. Kate apologizes for this, and hopes to get an extra episode onto TDN before the next scheduled Libby’s Life, which is on November 29.

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #65 – All about a dress (by Melissa)

Previous post: A post from Melissa – LIBBY’S LIFE #63

A note for Libby addicts: Check out Woodhaven Happenings, where from time to time you will find more posts from other characters.  Want to remind yourself of Who’s Who in Woodhaven? Click here for the cast list!

Read Libby’s Life from the first episode.

STAY TUNED for Monday’s post!

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Calling expats from all countries — it’s not too late to vote!

Leave a comment Posted by on November 6, 2012

Unless you’ve gone into early hibernation for the winter, you’re probably aware that there’s a presidential election going on today in the United States. If you’re not an American citizen, of course, this election is merely a spectator sport for you, as Americans exercise their hard-fought right to vote by passing out in 2-hour queues in West Palm Beach, or stabbing ineffectually at a voting machine with a political mind of its own.

Given the difficulties of voting within the country, you’d think the ease of voting from abroad — via mail, fax, or even email — would ensure full electoral participation from expats. Statistics from the 2008 election, however, suggest otherwise.

Election apathy?

According to the Overseas Vote Foundation, a mere 7% of overseas voters took part in the election four years ago. In other words, a teenager or high school dropout is more likely to cast a vote than an expat is.

“Why?” is an interesting question, and one that doesn’t seem to have been investigated.

At a guess, your average expat is already staggering under the weight of red tape and bureaucracy, and a voting form is that piece of paper that breaks the expat’s in-tray. It’s the piece of paper that turns up four months later during a home office blitz, under a pile of credit card offers, with a Post-It attached saying “Don’t Forget!”

Or perhaps, living outside the home country for a length of time has initiated a feeling of detachment. A feeling that it doesn’t really matter what you think because you’re not there.

Or a misguided conscience kicks in, whispering that you, living abroad, are making a decision that affects others more than it affects you.

Expats: The other “swing state”

Although the exact number of Americans abroad is a little hazy — the State Department estimates just over 6 million, whereas the non-profit American Citizens Abroad puts the figure at 5.2 million — US expats equal the population of Missouri or Colorado, depending on which figure you believe.

Either way, it’s enough to make a significant difference in the outcome of an election, if they all voted.

Take our poll!

So, to all expats of all nationalities: how do you feel about voting in your home- and adopted countries’ elections? Are just overseas Americans lethargic about their civic duties, or do all expats feel the same?

Take our poll!

Our voting booths are open 24/7 for the next 30 days!

Stay tuned for Wednesday’s post, in which American repats Sezin Koehler and Anastasia Ashman reflect upon their first stateside election in quite a while.

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LIBBY’S LIFE #63: A post from Melissa

6 Comments Posted by on November 2, 2012

Kate:  We’ve heard a lot about Libby and Oliver’s landlady, but only from Libby’s biased point of view. In today’s episode, the woman herself, Melissa Harvey Connor, takes the stage. 

Can she redeem her reputation after everything Libby’s told us about her? 

Melissa:  Life has a way of sorting itself out. It doesn’t matter what happens, or what kind of bad shit goes down, it’ll all work out in the end. If it’s not worked out, it’s not the end, and the fat lady hasn’t done her number yet.

I read that somewhere on Pinterest, but it’s a good philosophy, right? I’ve always thought so, anyway. Even now, at the age of 44 — I mean 32 — whenever things aren’t going to plan, I try to hang on to the idea that good things happen to those who wait.

Like, within reason. I can’t stay 32 forever, irregardless* of what that doctor who shoots me up with Botox says. A girl can wait only so long for the good times to roll around, especially if she’s being driven insane by her husband Jeffrey.

Jeffrey Connor. How in God’s name did someone like me wind up with someone like him, you ask?

I’ll tell you how. It was his cute British accent. Like Sean Connery’s James Bond. Very English. I’m a sucker for guys with British accents. They’re so much classier than your average Joe’s accent round here.

Jeffrey and his wife at the time, Shelley, ended up renting my house after I moved to a new condo. One thing led to another — I’d collect the rent check from Jeffrey on evenings when Shelley was out at book group, and pretty soon we were making jokes about me being the highest paid call girl in Woodhaven. Or rather, he’d be making jokes about call girls in that classy accent of his — he said it was an Essex accent, but whatever, he sounded like Sean Connery to me — and I’d be all, “Say something else! Talk to me some more!”

After four years of it, though, I had to call timeout.  By that stage I’d realized his accent was more like Russell Brand’s than Sean Connery’s, and the jokes about call girls were so not funny any more.  Four years is a long time  for anyone — Patsy Traynor said I deserved a medal — though I guess it was less if you don’t count the year he was still living with that boring wife of his.

The weird thing is, I hated Shelley at the time, but now I just think, you poor woman. I’d had Jeffrey for four years, but she’d had him for ten, and he’s gone back for more. Jeffrey, I discovered, is boring, and boring is contagious, so no wonder Shelley bored the pants off of everyone she met. I might have found out Jeffrey was boring too, if I’d listened to what he was saying instead of drooling over the accent he was saying it in.

I found out soon enough when we were married, though.Twenty-four hours after we stood in front of the minister in that Vegas chapel — getting a five-minute wedding in Vegas was probably the most exciting thing Jeffrey had ever done — he suggested that we drive to see the Grand Canyon.

What the hell? Drive 300 miles to see a big ditch, when we could have been playing blackjack in the Bellagio? Or even, dare I suggest it, having sex in our hotel room? This weekend away had turned into a honeymoon, after all, and that’s what you’re supposed to do on honeymoon. What you’re not supposed to do is drive 300 miles in a beige Ford Taurus to see a hole in the ground. It wouldn’t have been so bad if we’d rented the Porsche or the Corvette at the airport’s Avis place, or hell, even the Mustang, and we could have driven those 300 miles in a little style. But no, Jeffrey was all “Oh no, honey, I can’t afford that. Not with maintenance payments for the kids as well.” And I was like, “Well, Jeffrey, you should have thought of that yesterday before you got yourself a trophy wife!”

I know. Trophy wives are usually younger than the husbands, and  technically Jeffrey is nine years younger than me. But at the time I said I was 28, so that makes me a trophy in my book. Plus I was a successful realtor with two houses and no kids — well, I have two of those as well, actually, but they’re with their father in North Dakota. They never come here, and obviously I never go there, because who in their right mind visits North Dakota?

Anyway, as I stood on the south rim of this big ditch in the middle of Noplace, Arizona, while Jeffrey took gazillions of photos of sky and rocks and things, I thought, Oh. My. God. What have I done?

Then I thought, Come on Melissa. You know things usually turn out good in the end. This happened for a reason.

So I waited for the reason and for things to turn out good, but you know what? They kept on getting worse. I was just dying of boredom, and I got to thinking that if it didn’t kill me soon, I’d help it along some with some Prozac and a few Jack Daniels chasers.

But then, this time last year, everything changed.

We’d had a big winter storm that cut the power to all the houses in town, and I was worried about my tenants, Libby and Oliver, so I went to see if they were all right. There was no reply when I rang the doorbell, so I let myself in with the spare key. You hear bad stuff about people dying of carbon dioxide poisoning** and landlords getting sued, and I thought I’d better check no one was lying dead in the bath tub or anything.

So there I am, walking around upstairs with a flashlight, and I trip over a sweater on the floor and nearly fall over the railings to the floor below. At this point, Mrs Libby High-Horse Patrick walks in the house as if she owns the place — which she doesn’t, because I do — and orders me out of my house because, she says, I’m invading her privacy and sniffing her husband’s sweatshirt.

Sniffing her husband’s sweatshirt? Puh-leese! Oliver’s cute and all, and I don’t mind admitting I used to have a little crush on him when he and Libby first moved in, but she made me sound like I was a bunny-boiling stalker. Which I’m not. But I was prepared to forget what she said, so I went round a few days later, and you know what? The bitch had gotten the locks changed so my key didn’t work.

Of course, I went to complain to the HR department where Oliver and Jeffrey work, because they’re the people who pay me Oliver’s rent. I told them I wanted the Patricks out of my house because they’d changed the locks and brought a dog to live in the place without permission. And the snotty guy in HR read over the lease and said they were perfectly within their rights to do both those things, and maybe I should have a proper lawyer draw up a lease next time if I didn’t like it, because as long as I was getting my rent on time, I didn’t have a leg to stand on.

So we had a yelling match right there in the office, and I guess I must have been too loud, because another guy walks in and wants to know what it’s all about. I tell him, at length and in detail, and halfway through, the guy from the HR department rolls his eyes and leaves the room. These Brits are so rude. But I keep on ranting at the second guy, because he seems to be listening carefully, and I think I may get somewhere. Besides, he’s kinda cute.

“And let me tell you,” I say at the end, when I’ve run out of things to say, “no one messes with Melissa Harvey Connor in this town!”

“You’re Jeffrey Connor’s wife?” he says. He’s got this awesome accent. Hugh Grant! I think. Older than Hugh Grant, though. Think George Clooney before he went gray.

I nod. “Technically,” I say, as he takes me by the elbow and leads me into a very classy office with a window and a view over the River.  He closes the door behind him, pulls out a chair at his desk for me to sit on.

On his desk there’s a brass nameplate. Terry Michaels, President, American Operations.

I’ve heard Jeffrey talk about him. The boss of the company on this side of the Atlantic, no less. And let’s face it, who cares about the other side anyway?

“Why don’t we talk about it some more?” he asks. “Are you free for lunch? I’m sure we can sort things out to everyone’s satisfaction.”

*  *  *

And that was how I met the real love of my life, Terry. His wife Caroline is a nut job and he’s thinking of divorcing her, so no one must know about us, he told me. If she knew about us, she could get very nasty, and Terry has no intention of living in poverty so that Caroline can max out her cards at Tiffany.

So we were careful, and for a long time, no one suspected a thing. Then the housing market plummeted, Jeffrey finally got the message that I wasn’t that into him so he went back to his ex-wife, but not before he got me a job in his office, working for Oliver of all people. It was a great cover story — I flirted nonstop with Oliver, and let the rumors fly. Terry said he’d heard from Caroline that the gossip among the English wives was that Oliver and I were having a passionate fling. Too funny, right? I hoped it would get back to Libby. Serve her right for changing my goddamn locks.

Then in August, Oliver queried some overtime I’d done. Nine hours in one week. “Of course I did it,” I said. “Ask Mr. Michaels. He asked me to stay behind to help him.” And so he did, although of course it wasn’t filing he’d had in mind.

Oliver stared at me for a long time. “I’m sure he did,” he said, and walked away.

“He knows,” I told Terry later.

Terry told me not to worry, that he could sort Oliver out. “He’s due for a pay rise,” he said. “Now that Jeffrey’s left, we could do some restructuring. I’ll have a chat, man to man. If the job offer is good enough, he’ll see sense.”

But that was nearly a month ago, and Oliver still hasn’t taken any promotion.

*  *  *

 * Kate (and everyone else) knows ‘irregardless’ is not a word. Melissa, however, back in the day, paid less attention to her high school English teacher than was advisable, and doesn’t take kindly to helpful editing suggestions. Sorry.

** She didn’t pay much attention in Chemistry, either.

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Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #64 – Shades of red (2, not 50)

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #62 – Private investigations

A note for Libby addicts: Check out Woodhaven Happenings, where from time to time you will find more posts from other characters.  Want to remind yourself of Who’s Who in Woodhaven? Click here for the cast list!

Read Libby’s Life from the first episode.

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Stay tuned for our next post!

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Grim Reapers around the globe: 7 creatures that say “Time’s up!”

1 Comment Posted by on October 23, 2012

Before we had civil lawsuits, and lawyers wanting to find someone to take the fall for all Life’s misfortunes, we had mythological creatures to take the blame and who couldn’t be subpoenaed.

This Halloween, in the interests of banishing our modern litigious society, perhaps we should consider reintroducing some of these ancient ghouls to replace the ambulance-chasing variety.

1) Banshee (Ireland)

A fairy woman — omens of death are nearly always women — who weeps and wails when someone is about to die. Usually appears as an old hag, but can be a beautiful woman of any age. Or a hooded crow or hare. Or a stoat. Or a weasel.

Evidently a creature that hedges its bets.

The ever-practical Scots have a version called the bean sìth, who makes herself useful by washing the blood-stained clothes or armour of the nearly dead.

2) Aswang (Philippines)

A generic term for witch/vampire/shapeshifter, etc, responsible for various human misfortunes, including but not limited to:

  • Grave robberies
  • Miscarriages
  • Kidnappings
  • Any mildly strange incidents reported in the local tabloids that would benefit from supernatural sensationalism.

Certain areas of the Philippines have a high prevalence of the neurological disorder dystonia; one theory is that this disease, with its characteristic involuntary muscle contractions, gave rise to the belief in the aswang.

3) Rusalka (Slavic mythology)

Another mythological, wily, conniving female; the unquiet spirit of, say, a jilted woman or unmarried mother who has committed suicide, or a drowned, unbaptized baby.

The rusalka lives at the bottom of a river, emerging in the middle of the night to dance and sing and thus lure unsuspecting males back to the river for a watery death.

Nothing to do with the unsuspecting males having one pint too many at the local hostelry and falling in the river on the way home, then.

4) Sihuanaba (Central America)

Seen from the back, she’s an attractive woman with long hair; from the front, it’s a horse. (No jokes about Sex and the City, please.) Another female creature that lures innocent men astray, this time to lose them in deep canyons.

All very Freudian.

5) Bäckahästen, or Brook Horse (Scandinavia)

A white horse, appearing near rivers. Not a good idea to catch a ride on this creature, because once you’re aboard, you can’t get off. The horse will jump in the river and you’ll drown.

But hey. At least this one isn’t a woman.

6) Hellhound (Europe)

Fierce black dog of super strength and speed, who often has the job of guarding entrances to the underworld, such as graveyards. Why this is mystical, I don’t know. There’s nothing mystical about a dog hanging around a place full of buried bones.

Its howl is an omen, or even cause, of death. Stare into its glowing red/yellow eyes three times or more and you will die, for sure. The mythology books don’t specify what you will die of, though.

Rabies, is my guess.

7) La Sayona (Venezuela)

A beautiful woman from the jungle, appearing to guys who are indulging in extra-curricular love activities, or even just idly contemplating having a bit on the side.

Depending on which story you believe, she either takes the errant man into the jungle to eat or mangle him, or she covers his nether regions with an eruption of boils that he has to explain away later to his wife.

“Look, I’d run out of toilet paper, OK? The only thing handy was poison ivy.”

At this point, the errant husband is probably wishing he’d met the kind of sayona that eats and mangles.

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STAY TUNED for Wednesday’s Random Nomad, another crime writer!

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LIBBY’S LIFE #62 – Private investigations

3 Comments Posted by on October 19, 2012

It looks much easier in movies. Being a private detective, I mean.

If this were a movie, for example. I’d have taken Oliver’s phone with us to the park and, while Jack played nicely on the slide, I’d have scrolled through a couple of texts and emails until — ta-da! — I discovered irrefutable evidence that proved Oliver wasn’t getting any extra-curricular entertainment from our landlady. Then next week I could have returned in triumph to the Coffee Morning Posse, demanding an apology for them spreading untrue rumours.

This isn’t a movie, however, so what happens instead is this:

While Oliver trundles his mother off to see the sights of Bath, the children and I walk to the park. Jack insists on jumping on every fallen leaf he sees, so a ten-minute walk becomes a thirty-minute loiter. When we arrive at the park, he leaps into a big pile of leaves, twisting his ankle on a tree root beneath, and falls over and skins his hands. This makes not only him cry but George and Beth cry too, and while I’m all for sibling bonding, I wish they’d find another way to do it. Fortunately, no one else is at the park that early, so I’m spared the disapproving stares and visits from social services. Hugs, cuddles, pats on the back and “there-there”s have no effect, and all three kids bellow in unison until an ice cream van comes along, tinkling “Greensleeves”.

Motherly love is all very well, but it’s no match for a Flake wedged in an ice cream cornet.

So what with adorning Jack’s hands with Spiderman plasters, decorating the twins’ faces with ice cream, and discovering, too late, that the baby wipes are back at the house, it’s no wonder that playing Nancy Drew falls down the pecking order of my to-do list.

When I do get round to perusing the contents of Oliver’s phone, I’m first nervous about what I might see, then disappointed at the dull reality.

Oliver’s inbox consists of emails from customers complaining about this, that, and the other; automated reminders for finance meetings and business development brainstorming sessions; an email in September from Terry Michaels, Caroline’s husband, asking Oliver out for a drink after work (I didn’t know Oliver was that pally with the boss); and a bunch of joke emails from Oliver’s colleagues that probably wouldn’t pass any political correctness tests. The only messages from Melissa were a couple in which Oliver had queried the overtime she’d claimed in August, and she was fighting back, saying she had indeed been in the office until 8pm on August 21, 23, and 24.

There was nothing interesting in his inbox, in fact, until I got to one from HR, dated three weeks ago. It certainly made up for the rest of the inbox contents.

Oliver, it seems, has been offered a new job.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but life partners normally share this kind of information, don’t they? It’s the first I’ve heard about this job, though.

It would still be in Massachusetts so we wouldn’t have to move, so that’s good. But get this: the letter states that the position would come with a company car up to the value of $35,000, first class travel while on company business, and two weeks extra paid vacation. The salary, the email says, would be commensurate with the grade, plus a bonus percentage based on past performance, to be evaluated by Assistant Head Honcho Terry Michaels. (A-ha! Hence the invitation of a drink after work, a few days later.)

I’m not familiar with the ins and outs of the grading system in Oliver’s company, but I do know that at present there is no company car, he gets four weeks holiday like everyone else in Milton Keynes, and if he wants to travel even business class he has to be flying long-haul, like to Australia. This job would be a big career leap for him.

Why wouldn’t Oliver want to share the possibility of good news with me? I suppose he could argue that he didn’t want to get my hopes up in case nothing came of it.

Or maybe he turned it down.

But why would he do that?

Having raised more questions than I’ve answered, I take the children home, and carefully replace the phone on the window seat in our bedroom.

*  *  *

“How did you like Bath?” I ask Sandra later, when she and Oliver return to our little cottage. Oliver, I sense, has run out of patience already — not a good thing when Sandra is here for another five days.

She wrinkles her nose.  “Those Georgian houses all look the same. I can’t see the difference between them and  the new Barratt estate in Milton Keynes.”

“Philistinism” doesn’t begin to describe the attitude of my mother-in-law towards architectural aesthetics.

“A bit more expensive than your average Barratt house,” I say. “We could never afford to live there, anyway.”

“Not even with what Oliver makes in America?”

“Nope,” Oliver says.

“I thought that was the whole point of you going out there, to get a promotion,” Sandra says, pouting.

We didn’t tell her that. She assumed it. Heaven forbid that we should leave Milton Keynes to expand our horizons and get away from family irritants.

“Yes. Well. Sometimes these things don’t happen as planned. There’s no promotion in the immediate future, I assure you, and we won’t be buying a house in the Royal Crescent anytime soon.”

I bet we could afford it if he took that job in the email. I’m dying to say this, but of course that would mean admitting I’d been snooping through his phone.

“You should try sleeping with your boss!” Sandra laughs, and splutters all over Jack who has come to her for a hug. He steps away quickly.

“Not my style, Mum,” Oliver says. “I leave that sort of thing to other people. Me, I’ve got principles.”

He walks into the living room, where I can hear him talking softly to the twins, who gurgle back.

“What’s his problem?” Sandra asks, jerking her head in Oliver’s direction.

I shrug. “Hormones?”

But not his.  Someone else’s hormones are causing him trouble.

I leave that sort of thing to other people, he said.

His query about Melissa’s overtime. His boss’s request for a man-to-man chat over a beer, and an offer of  a job he could have only dreamed about six months ago.

Me, I’ve got principles, he said.

Like everyone, Oliver has his faults.

But I know that taking bribes isn’t one of them.

*  *  *

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #63 – A post from Melissa

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #61 – A voice in the dark

A note for Libby addicts: Check out Woodhaven Happenings, where from time to time you will find more posts from other characters.  Want to remind yourself of Who’s Who in Woodhaven? Click here for the cast list!

Read Libby’s Life from the first episode.

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Image: Travel – Map of the World by Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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