My Life on a Plate - Softcover

India Knight is a British journalist and a contributor to a number of magazines and newspapers, as well as a former columnist for the Observer Life section.

One

What should happen is, I should somehow catch my reflection in a
mirror, or a shop window, fifty or so pages in, and describe myself
to you that way. Seems a bit contrived to me, that method, besides
which, if I catch my reflection in shop windows, I tend to scream
with horror, rather than tip my head to one side and make measured,
composed obser-vations. Also, I always want to know what people look
like right at the start, don"t you? You"d feel pretty peeved if you
discovered, much later on, that I was a psychopathic two- ton Tessie
with flat feet and a moustache, or -- worse -- some hateful, eating-
disordery twig that wafts around in Prada smelling of sick.
So let"s get things straight. I don"t smell of sick. (That"s my
friend Amber, whom you"ll meet later. Her hobbies are bu-limia and
self-help books. My hobby is being compassionate.) And I don"t weigh
two tons, although, as a ripe size 16, I"m hardly what you"d call
frail and reedy either. What else? Five nine, dark hair, green eyes --
oh look, I"m sounding all sexy, which isn"t quite right. Let"s see.
If you asked Kate, my mother, she would shake her head very sadly, as
if I were an especially precious kitten that had died in tragic
circumstances, and tell you I"ve "let myself go disgustingly". And I
suppose she would be right. I mean, I"ve got the man, the house, the
children: why not celebrate by tucking into a doughnut or two of a
morning? Or an apricot Danish, or indeed a whole tube of
Pringles . . . As a consequence, I favour elasticated waists and
loose tops, although I have a sneaky liking for vulgar shoes and
organza (which I try to curb, as nobody wants to look like White
Trash Slut Mum at the PTA meetings). The best way I can think of
describing my-self is: we"re not talking control pants yet, but we"re
not go-ing to pretend that they haven"t struck us as being a pretty
damned handy kind of a garment either.
My name is Clara, which is quite pretty, and my surname is Hutt,
which isn"t, although it enables me to think of myself as Jabba the
Hutt in my more self-loathing moments. This is useful. I have two
children, Charlie, who is six, and Jack, who is three. I have a
husband, Robert, who is a mystery (does anybody actually know what
goes on in their husband"s head, or is it just me?) but quite
attractive. I have a part-time job as a magazine writer, a big house
and nice clothes, and friends that don"t smell of sick as well as
some that do. I am thirty-three. And some days I wake up with the
sneaky feeling that my life isn"t all it should be.

In the current climate, you probably want to know how I Got My Man. I
do feel quite pleased with myself, sometimes, actually. I look at my
friend Tamsin, thirty-four, single and desperate, and feel a warm
glow of intense smuggery. Sometimes, though, I am so overwhelmed with
jealousy -- I can"t remember the last time I was out all night,
drinking martinis and flirting with strangers -- that I feel
compelled to initiate lectures, masquerading as conversations, about
all the things that might go wrong if one were -- perfectly
hypothetically, of course -- trying to have a child past the age of
thirty-five. This is because, despite external appearances, I am a)
on the childish side and b) not very nice.
Getting my man: why, the trick is to be young and attractive. No, not
really. The trick is not to look. Robert and I were twenty-five when
we got married, which is comparatively young these days, and I
weighed three stone less and was a bit of a minx, which helped. I can
say it, now that I am an Old Married Lady, with my minxdom very much
behind me -- rather like my cellulite. I don"t know quite what
happened. We met, we fell in love, we got married. It helps not to be
desperate, as I"m so fond of telling Tamsin in my meaner moments.
Anyway, eight years! Isn"t that amazing? And I haven"t strayed. Well,
I haven"t got naked. I kissed someone I used to go out with, at a
party, two years ago, but I don"t think that counts. Does it? It was
only a peck, though it was pecking with intent. I try not to think
about it too often. Married women pecking exes with intent is like
opening a tiny win-dow and letting in a shaft of light. People in my
position really oughtn"t to do it. Or think about why they might have
wanted to.

My mother is on the phone. It"s Robert"s birthday next week and, she
says, we "need" to make a plan. What I would like to do is have
dinner, in a restaurant, alone with my husband. Life is, sadly, not
quite that simple. Mine is the kind of family that likes to involve
itself intimately in all aspects of each other"s lives. So on
Robert"s birthday we"ll all be having din-ner together: me, Robert,
my mother, Kate, my half-sisters, Evie and Flo, their boyfriends and
my stepbrother, Tom. We don"t actually get on with each other
terribly well -- my sisters excepted -- but, coming from the kind of
family we do -- "fragmented" is an adjective that springs to mind, as
does "dysfunctional" -- we like the idea of these get-togethers, in
theory if not in practice, and no one more so than my mother, the
über-matriarch. The dinners often end in screaming rows, and someone
always weeps. One of the things I like about Robert is his composure
in these situations, which he seems to find amusing rather than
exhausting.
Anyway, heeeeeeere"s Mummy:
"Clara?"
"Yes, Kate."
"Don"t sound so resigned, Clara. I am your mother."
"I know, Kate. You are. Isn"t it bliss?" I can"t help myself with my
mother. I just can"t help it.
"It"s bloody discourteous to put on that bored voice and be
sarcastic." Kate is getting agitated now. Kate is revving up.
"I"m not putting on any voice, Kate. Anyway, you are bliss." And it"s
true. She is, sometimes. But not today.
"Christ, Clara. You"re so sly and rude. Just like That Bloody Man.
Your genes are coming out." This is a reference to my father. Kate
and he were married for six months. He was followed by two more
husbands, and we"re bracing ourselves for number four, who"s bound to
occur sometime soon. My genes are always coming out, apparently.
Peepo!
"Kate. Robert"s birthday. Dinner. Where shall we go? Have you spoken
to Evie? Flo?"
There is a pause, during which Kate splutters.
"Do you think I have nothing better to do with my time than chase all
of you all over London? Do you think? I have a very busy life. Very
busy. The busiest, Clara. I can"t be expected to be your social
secretary."
"I know, Kate. I am busy too -- the boys. . ."
"The boys! Those poor children. Don"t drag them into it." My children
are always "poor" when Kate mentions them, presumably because they
have me as a mother and not Kate. Many men Kate knows are "poor"
also, because they have the misfortune not to be married to her.
"Kate, it was your idea, the dinner. But fine. I"ll round everyone
up. Since you are so very busy, and since my life is one enormous
vacuum."
"Hola!" Kate suddenly shouts in my ear. "Hola! Up here! In the
drawing room! Did you bring the Chanel pale pink? El pinky? Para los
fingers? Clara, darling, Conchita"s here for my manicure. Which
reminds me. Your fingernails are a disgrace. I shudder to think of
them. I practically retch. Call me later." And she hangs up.
Copyright © 2000 by India Knight. Reprinted by permission of Houghton
Mifflin Company.