Ask laura, p.2
Ask Laura, page 2
The second promotion brought a PA into the equation, a young, pretty girl who didn’t smell of baby sick or talk about teething and the rising price of nappies. I should have seen it coming but was too wrapped up in domesticity and had become a drudge – a boring mummy when Paul wanted a cute, sexy wife to keep him interested. And when the cracks widened, we should have talked. Conversation is what I advocate to my readers when they write to me; talk, communicate, and verbalise. It’s so important! But instead, we shouted, sulked and blamed each other. Paul moved out just before the boys’ second birthday. I’m amazed he stayed so long, and with hindsight, I don’t blame him. If I’d had the choice, I wouldn’t have lived with me either.
So, Laura Green, agony aunt, have you learned your lesson? Yes, I think so, but I still struggle to parent my three children alone. Paul sees them regularly; every other weekend, and he picks the boys up one evening a week to take them to one of their endless football practices. His relationship with Lucy these days is mostly through ‘FaceTime’. I know she tells him how awful I’ve been and he sympathises, which is easy for a remote, virtual father to do. But will she tell him about the pills? I think not.
Chapter Three
Sam and Jake are fraternal twins but share many of the same qualities and interests, although not identical in appearance. Football has never interested me, but as it is the single most important thing in my sons’ world, I try to keep up with their favourite teams and how they fare in the league tables. Naturally, I make mistakes and almost as soon as I think I have a grasp on which player plays for which team, they seem to move on elsewhere, and the twins look at me as if I come from another planet. Sam is the taller of the two and although they are equally enthusiastic about football, he’s the one with the more natural talent. As Paul takes them to their mid-week practice, I get to see them play on the weekends they’re with me and stand dutifully in all weathers to cheer on my sons. I’m pretty sure they like me to be there, but my instructions are to remain ‘cool’ and not display any behaviour which would embarrass them in front of their teammates.
My appearance also has to be approved, and they often remark on my attire before we leave the house, with groans and comments such as, ‘You’re not wearing that stupid hat, are you?’ prompting me to change to something more suitable, even if it’s less warm than the one with the fluffy ear flaps. My comments also have to be monitored, ever since I shouted ‘offside’ rather loudly when to anyone more knowledgeable than me, it was clearly not offside at all. Sam and Jake have given up trying to educate me on the finer points of the beautiful game. Lucy has no interest in her brothers’ passion, and on the odd occasion I’ve invited her to a match, she screwed her face into an expression of distaste as if there was a bad smell in the room.
My regularity at matches has afforded me the opportunity to get to know some of the other parents, and I often stand with a group of mothers, who all seem to have a better grasp of the rules than me. There is also a single dad, whom I try hard to avoid – the fly in the ointment. His name is Richard Ward, and he wasted no time in telling me he was also divorced and suggested we might be able to offer comfort to each other. The way he looked me up and down, his suggestion was clearly a euphemism for sex. He’s one of those men who stand far too close, and when I fail to avoid him, I spend my time leaning back to prevent his breath from being in my face. Richard has asked me out occasionally, and my constant refusals don’t seem to have deterred his enthusiasm.
Naturally, I’ve phrased my rebuffs carefully to avoid offending him, but even when these refusals are firm, he doesn’t get the hint! It seems as if Richard Ward does not give in readily. His son, Jon, is on the team with Sam and Jake and appears to be a pleasant child, if somewhat quiet and a bit of a loner. Football practice is about the only time Richard sees his son other than occasional night stop-overs, which to the man’s credit, he seems to genuinely regret. However, the transparent hints that if he were in a settled relationship, he would be in a stronger position to see more of his boy are wasted on me. Yes, I feel sorry for him, but there’s no way anything will happen between us. I find something about Richard creepy, for want of a better word. Fortunately, one or two other mums have picked up on my dilemma and call me over to rescue me when Richard corners me on the sidelines. I feel safe in the middle of their little group and am much happier with their company than his.
I was somewhat cautious when Jake told me Jon had asked him to go for tea to his dad’s house. Perhaps it was a genuine offer of friendship, but I couldn’t help thinking Richard may have contrived the situation to pursue me further.
‘Are you and Jon close friends at school?’ I asked.
‘Not really, he usually hangs out with James and Simon but I don’t think he’s invited them over, just me.’
‘Do you want to go?’ I asked. Jake shrugged; he wasn’t sure himself.
‘I suppose I should. There’s no real reason to say no, is there?’ This was probably as close as my son would get to being kind to a lonely classmate. But, no, that probably does Jake an injustice. He is a kind boy and caring too. He even tries to speak to Lucy despite her moods and sullenness which have caused Sam to give up on his big sister.
‘Well if you want to go, you can, but take your phone so you can ring me to come and get you when you’re ready to leave.’ So it was settled and I was already thinking of an excuse to pick Jake up and hurry straight home.
When the day arrived and Jake went to Jon’s straight from school, I prowled around the house, jittery and unsettled, although I don’t exactly know why. Sam and Lucy were both home and in their respective bedrooms, transfixed to screens of one kind or another. When the phone rang a couple of hours later, I rushed to pick it up, hoping it was Jake wanting to come home. Instead, however, it was Richard’s voice which greeted me.
‘Laura, I was just telling Jake I’ll bring him home. So there’s no need for you to come out.’
I tried to process this quickly and mentally pictured a scenario where Richard was angling for an invitation inside, denial of which would be somewhat rude.
‘Thank you, Richard, but I’ve got to come out to pick up some milk, so it’s no trouble. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
Richard tried to insist, but I didn’t want him to know where we lived, although I bet he’d been pumping Jake for such information. Winning the pseudo-argument, I set off to pick up my son. Richard asked me in as I anticipated, but the milk excuse came in handy again as I told him I wanted to catch the shop before it closed. Surely this man could see I wasn’t interested in him, but he appeared to have very thick skin. My firmness eventually paid off and we managed to leave relatively quickly.
‘Did you have a good time?’ I inquired.
‘Suppose so. We played on Jon’s Xbox most of the time. It was a bit boring.’
‘Never mind, Jon probably enjoyed your company,’ I consoled my son.
‘He’d rather be with his mother. He has to stay at his dad’s two nights a month but he doesn’t like being there and there’s not much to do.’
I nodded, concentrating on driving, and the conversation seemed over.
‘His dad asks a lot of questions,’ Jake volunteered.
‘Really, what kind of questions?’
‘Well, he wanted to know where we lived and our phone number, and he asked what you did for a living.’
I groaned audibly and felt Jake’s eyes turn on me. ‘What’s wrong? Shouldn’t I have told him?’
‘No, it’s fine, I just think Richard would like us to become friends, but I don’t think it’s such a good idea.’
‘Gross, do you mean he fancies you?’
‘No, yes, well... I don’t know, but I don’t particularly want to see him.’
Jake was silent for the rest of the journey, no doubt concentrating on the fact his mother was a single woman, and it was not entirely out of the question that she could, one day, find a man she could like. Once home, Jake disappeared into his room and I flopped down on the sofa, a mental image of Richard in my mind. It isn’t that he is not attractive (although he isn’t), but I didn’t have time to embark on a relationship, nor the inclination to see Richard any more than was necessary. Finally, the telephone broke my reverie, and on answering, Madeline’s honeyed voice greeted me. It surprised me she was ringing on an evening – we usually only spoke during office hours. She asked if we could meet the following day, another surprise as it wasn’t our usual time for a get-together.
‘We’ve got some letters in the office for you, and there’s something I’d like to discuss too,’ my editor said.
‘Is everything okay, Madeline?’
‘Yes, yes, everything’s fine, but I’ll have to dash, I’m afraid. See you in the lobby at ten?’
‘I’ll be there,’ I answered, then replaced the phone. It was puzzling; Madeline hardly ever rang me in between our meetings unless it was for a specific query, something she was unsure of in an answer to one of the letters I’d returned to her. To request a meeting was rather worrying, and all sorts of scenarios raced through my mind. Was my job on the line? I was aware the magazine had recently cut down on staff to streamline the company, but it had been mainly office staff. Surely my page and articles would be safe? Finally, I concluded I’d have to wait and see, but in the meantime, I’d try to work on my upcoming feature. ‘Battling the Bulge’ was an article on the psychology of eating, why we comfort eat and how to remain in control of our diet. It was an article I should read myself, but while working on it, I gave in to the urge to open the packet of chocolate biscuits which I’d hidden away from the children. Shame on me!
Chapter Four
Prior warning of this latest trip to the city would have given me a chance to dash to the hairdressers in a bid to boost my confidence. Meeting Madeline always makes me long to look as glamorous as she does. Still, getting up early gave me enough time for a long, hot shower. After the children left for school, I dressed in my favourite outfit, a black-and-white check woollen suit (Chanel style, although not the real thing) which fitted me perfectly and made me feel reasonably well prepared for this unscheduled meeting.
Madeline was already waiting in the lobby and greeted me with her usual effusiveness, not giving anything away by her expression.
‘Shall we go to my office?’ she suggested. ‘Carol’s brewing coffee.’
Carol was her assistant, a mouse of a girl who jumped and blushed if anyone spoke to her. I liked her and wished Paul’s PA had been more like Carol. We rode in the lift to her comfy little glass-walled eyrie on the seventh floor, where the River Thames could be seen from the window, and city life was enacted in real time below us.
When seated, with our coffee before us, Madeline handed over a small pile of letters. The way we work is that she or Carol sorts all the ‘Ask Laura’ mail and weeds out the ridiculous and prank letters. Then they shortlist them to about a dozen, which are passed on to me. I then select which ones I’d like to feature, usually between four and six each week, depending on the word count of the question and my reply. Most letters arrive as emails, but a few paper ones arrive by post. I like to see the original as so much can be learned from the reader’s handwriting, stationery, and how they express themselves. I tucked the letters into my bag to read later, willing Madeline to get to the point of why we were in her office for an unprecedented, extra meeting.
‘There have been some other letters for you, only a couple, which we didn’t want to pass on, but our legal team insist we tell you about them for your protection and our own.’
‘Protection?’ I frowned; whatever was in them? Of course, we get a few rude ones, in every sense of the word, which are generally not passed on, but what was this all about?
‘This arrived a couple of weeks ago and then another last Wednesday.’ Madeline passed over two letters in plain white envelopes addressed to ‘Ask Laura’ at the magazine address. The word ‘personal’ had been handwritten at the top of each envelope. Opening the first letter, I was glad to be sitting down. It wasn’t a lengthy missive, typed and printed on A4 paper, but it was full of hate. It called me all kinds of disgusting names and accused me of pandering to the whim of ‘stupid women who should know their place and stop whining about their men’. It was sexist, offensive and couched in very angry language. Drawing a deep breath, I opened the second letter and read it. This one was clearly written by the same man, for indeed it must be a man, and if the first had been rude and offensive, then this one was equally as bad and more. The term which came to mind was ‘chilling’. Reading it left me feeling nauseous, not for the general accusations similar to the first letter but for the specific references to me. It was more personal, and the writer, as well as accusing me of encouraging women to disobey their men, told me to stop writing my letters page or ‘you will regret it!’ It was a threat, a demand that had consequences, although they were unspecified.
‘Are you okay, Laura? You’ve gone very pale.’ Madeline was full of concern. I grabbed a biscuit from the plate Carol had left us and ate it in two bites.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, reaching for another biscuit and eating it just as quickly before gulping down the scalding coffee. I needed time to process this unexpected development, but Madeline anxiously awaited my comments.
‘I don’t know what to say.’ My brain suddenly fogged, and I couldn’t grasp the right words to express myself.
‘Don’t worry, Laura, drink your coffee. Would you like some more biscuits?’ she asked kindly. I was suddenly embarrassed to see I’d almost finished off the whole plate. I shook my head.
‘Brian Clark from our legal team said he’d be happy to come and talk to you about this. Would you like me to give him a ring?’
Legal team? Did this mean they were taking the letters seriously? Surely they were from some misogynistic maniac with nothing better to do?
‘If you think it’s necessary, Madeline,’ I agreed, and she went to the phone on her desk to make the call.
‘He’ll be here in a couple of minutes.’ She smiled at me but I had never seen my editor look so serious before.
Brian Clark was a man of slight build. Narrow shoulders and neck supported an over-large head, with a few tufts of hair plastered onto his balding pate. He was about my height, five foot six, and probably weighed considerably less than me. However, he had a kind face and a voice that would be soothing in any other circumstance.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Green.’ He smiled.
‘Laura, please,’ I replied.
‘And I’m Brian.’ He sat beside Madeline. ‘I see you’ve read the letters.’
I hadn’t a clue what to say, so I waited for him to take the lead.
‘I’m sure they’re distressing for you; we were quite shocked when they arrived. But, unfortunately, because there is a threat, even such a veiled threat, we would advise you to go to the police.’
I could barely speak and was still trying to process the anger and hate directed at me in the letters. I was at a loss to think of anyone who would write such things or why. Would someone really be stirred to such action simply by the answers I gave my readers?
‘Do you think that’s necessary?’
‘I do, and it’s not just to cover us. Of course, we hope there’ll be no more of this hate mail, but naturally, if there is, then we’ll pass them on to you, and you in turn could pass them on to the police.’
I nodded; perhaps he was right.
‘If you’d like me to come with you, I can do?’ Madeline’s face showed such concern, I was touched. ‘This afternoon’s schedule can easily be rearranged, and we can get it over with today?’
‘Thank you, but it’s fine. I’m happy to go myself although as you say there may not be any more and the police probably won’t be interested.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they will.’ Brian Clark sounded convinced. ‘The letters imply there’ll be consequences if you don’t stop writing your column; we have to take this seriously, which means bringing in the police.’
Chapter Five
Dear Laura,
I am forty years old and single. Both my parents died in the last two years after I had cared for them for most of my adult life. I now feel my life is over, and I have no job and no qualifications to get one. Friends are almost non-existent as there was never time to develop friendships, and I’ve never had a relationship with a man either. Being an only child means there are no family members to turn to either and I’m so lonely. The only thing I have is the house in which I’ve always lived, but at times it feels like a prison. Sometimes I’d just like to curl up and die as any kind of life seems out of reach for me now.
Angela
* * *
Dear Angela,
You’ve certainly had a difficult time and I can understand how circumstances lead you to feel this way. From what you tell me, it’s clear you are a caring person, having looked after both of your parents for so many years. But forty is not old, and you still have plenty of time to make a new life for yourself.
My initial advice would be to go and see your GP as I sense you may be clinically depressed. There’s no shame in this, we all need a little help during difficult times, and you’ve seen more than your share of problems.
If you are actively looking for a job, don’t be despondent, you have talents and experience as a carer which could open up opportunities for you. Perhaps while you are looking you could try some kind of voluntary work. There are dozens of charities crying out for volunteers, in shops, the WRVS, hospitals... the list is endless, and it may help you to find out what you want to do and possibly lead to new friendships, as would taking a course at your local college. There are many courses suitable for mature students, academic or creative, and you could try to find something which interests you and may prove helpful in seeking paid employment.
