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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!

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!

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

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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!

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

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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.

.

Stay tuned for our next 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!

Img: Map of the World – Salvatore Vuono/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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