screaming like a banshee.
But "Aunty Jess" is the next best thing to Mum and Dad--in fact, sometimes she's even better because she indulges them that little bit more. Tonight, the night I have my future to think of, is no exception.
"Aunty Jess, can I watch my
Spiderman
DVD?" pleads Matthew, as soon as his parents are out of earshot. He grabs hold of my forearm and squeezes it. "Pleeeeeeeaaaase!"
"Me want to see
Anstay,
" says Emily, referring to the Disney cartoon
Anastasia
that she's seen at least twenty times already.
Luckily, thanks to Michael's sizable salary as a heart consultant at Great Ormond Street Hospital for Sick Children, theirs is a two-DVD-player household. So after their bath, I plonk them down with a mug of cocoa each, watching the film of their choice in separate rooms.
Once I know they're engrossed, I sneak upstairs to Michael's study and settle myself down in front of his computer.
Waiting for it to load, then make that torturous, squealy noise as it dials up AOL, I sit and gaze around the small room that would normally accommodate a single bed. The desk is old-fashioned mahogany with a red leather top and brass drop handles on the drawers.
The computer and its accessories take up most of the available space, but there's a little corner left for a framed picture of Michael and Olivia on their wedding day.
I remember it well. I was twenty-seven and maid of honor, a title that only served to hammer home that I had no proper relationship of my own to speak of.
It was pre-Nathan, and I was having a rather patchy fling with Greg, an Australian surfer dude who floated in and out on the tide of life. He was gorgeous and said very little, which I initially took to mean he was from the "less is more"school of thought. Then I realized it was simply because he had absolutely nothing to say. In fact, he was so unutterably thick that light bent round him.
I didn't invite him to my sister's wedding, mainly because I couldn't rely on him to turn up, but also because I knew he'd be way out of his depth with the other guests. And that included the four-year-old twin bridesmaids who were Michael's nieces.
So I went on my own and endured an entire day of looking a fright in tartan (Michael's Scottish) and being asked by just about every other guest if I was going to be next up the aisle. By the end of the day, I was thinking of wordlessly handing everyone a press release that read: "No, I haven't got a rewarding, fulfilling relationship like my sister Olivia. I am the emotional runt of the family, the lost cause."
"You've got mail." The computerized female voice stirs me from my trance and I stare at the screen. The thirty-seven e-mails have now mushroomed to forty-eight. I double click on the first one.
Hi, I'm Simon . . .
I magnify his picture to discover he's very handsome with dark blond hair and a tanned face. It's clearly been taken on a beach somewhere, in that dusk sunshine that's always so flattering. It's the first one, and it looks promising. Not a bad start.
"Shit!" I glance at my watch and leap up. It's 10 p.m. and I've forgotten all about Matthew and Emily watching their films.
I creep into Michael and Olivia's room and Emily is fast asleep in the middle of the bed, her empty mug still clasped in her chubby little hand. The television has clicked off DVD onto ITV, and
News at Ten
is just starting. I switch it off and pull the covers over Emily's bare legs. I'll sneak in next to her later.
Downstairs, Matthew is still watching
Spiderman
, obviously second time around.
"Come on, you. Bed." I flick off the machine and ruffle his hair. "Don't you dare tell Mum and Dad I let you stay up this late. It's our little secret."
"OK." He smiles, a mischievous glint in his dark blue eyes. "But only if you read me a bedtime story."
"Oooh, you're ruthless. You're going to go far, you are." I tuck him into bed and grab a Spiderman comic from his bookshelf. I start to read, an Oscar-winning performance even
But "Aunty Jess" is the next best thing to Mum and Dad--in fact, sometimes she's even better because she indulges them that little bit more. Tonight, the night I have my future to think of, is no exception.
"Aunty Jess, can I watch my
Spiderman
DVD?" pleads Matthew, as soon as his parents are out of earshot. He grabs hold of my forearm and squeezes it. "Pleeeeeeeaaaase!"
"Me want to see
Anstay,
" says Emily, referring to the Disney cartoon
Anastasia
that she's seen at least twenty times already.
Luckily, thanks to Michael's sizable salary as a heart consultant at Great Ormond Street Hospital for Sick Children, theirs is a two-DVD-player household. So after their bath, I plonk them down with a mug of cocoa each, watching the film of their choice in separate rooms.
Once I know they're engrossed, I sneak upstairs to Michael's study and settle myself down in front of his computer.
Waiting for it to load, then make that torturous, squealy noise as it dials up AOL, I sit and gaze around the small room that would normally accommodate a single bed. The desk is old-fashioned mahogany with a red leather top and brass drop handles on the drawers.
The computer and its accessories take up most of the available space, but there's a little corner left for a framed picture of Michael and Olivia on their wedding day.
I remember it well. I was twenty-seven and maid of honor, a title that only served to hammer home that I had no proper relationship of my own to speak of.
It was pre-Nathan, and I was having a rather patchy fling with Greg, an Australian surfer dude who floated in and out on the tide of life. He was gorgeous and said very little, which I initially took to mean he was from the "less is more"school of thought. Then I realized it was simply because he had absolutely nothing to say. In fact, he was so unutterably thick that light bent round him.
I didn't invite him to my sister's wedding, mainly because I couldn't rely on him to turn up, but also because I knew he'd be way out of his depth with the other guests. And that included the four-year-old twin bridesmaids who were Michael's nieces.
So I went on my own and endured an entire day of looking a fright in tartan (Michael's Scottish) and being asked by just about every other guest if I was going to be next up the aisle. By the end of the day, I was thinking of wordlessly handing everyone a press release that read: "No, I haven't got a rewarding, fulfilling relationship like my sister Olivia. I am the emotional runt of the family, the lost cause."
"You've got mail." The computerized female voice stirs me from my trance and I stare at the screen. The thirty-seven e-mails have now mushroomed to forty-eight. I double click on the first one.
Hi, I'm Simon . . .
I magnify his picture to discover he's very handsome with dark blond hair and a tanned face. It's clearly been taken on a beach somewhere, in that dusk sunshine that's always so flattering. It's the first one, and it looks promising. Not a bad start.
"Shit!" I glance at my watch and leap up. It's 10 p.m. and I've forgotten all about Matthew and Emily watching their films.
I creep into Michael and Olivia's room and Emily is fast asleep in the middle of the bed, her empty mug still clasped in her chubby little hand. The television has clicked off DVD onto ITV, and
News at Ten
is just starting. I switch it off and pull the covers over Emily's bare legs. I'll sneak in next to her later.
Downstairs, Matthew is still watching
Spiderman
, obviously second time around.
"Come on, you. Bed." I flick off the machine and ruffle his hair. "Don't you dare tell Mum and Dad I let you stay up this late. It's our little secret."
"OK." He smiles, a mischievous glint in his dark blue eyes. "But only if you read me a bedtime story."
"Oooh, you're ruthless. You're going to go far, you are." I tuck him into bed and grab a Spiderman comic from his bookshelf. I start to read, an Oscar-winning performance even
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