GOT BACK from New York at 6pm UK time completely shattered, but kept energy levels up by imagining happy von Trapp-style scene waiting at home. Think of laughing, trilling children in midst of fascinating homework projects in freshly painted house; something aromatic and organic in the oven and James exuding newfound confidence in his Project. Younger colleagues may not suffer from plane bloat but they have lonely, empty lives.
Arrive home after detour to cashpoint to pay taxi to find house in semi-darkness and Katarzyna slumped over half-bottle of pink vodka and my favourite Jo Malone candle. “I’m back,” I announce in my best Julie Andrews voice. Have decided that the best way to deal with what the au pair agency calls Katarzyna’s occasional introverted tendencies is to ignore them.
Katarzyna lifts her tear-streaked face and mouths something soundlessly. “Got a pressie for you,” I continue blithely. “Perfume and slap.” I brandish some CK1 and a Bobbi Brown eye compact — courtesy of the Matthew Williamson show — but her eyes, which, now I look at them, certainly don’t need any more shadow, even though half of it is working its way down her cheeks, are dead. Things must be bad. Normally she is very appreciative of freebies.
“Is it Piotr?” I kick myself even before the question is out. It doesn’t matter how many traumatic hours Katarzyna and I spend discussing Piotr’s mood swings, she never does anything affirmative about it. It’s a waste of breath and valuable unpacking time. “Where are the children?” I try to sound casual but my heart sinks as I survey the half-eaten remains of a pizza scattered round my Jo Malone like sharks circling a lighthouse. I could just see Katarzyna summoning up her last reserve of energy for one of her almighty shrugs. Also noted same old bloody flaking paint everywhere.
8pm. Even though Florence has flounced off to one of her friends’ in disgust at the “prison-like” conditions at home, Freddie is at a sleepover and James is playing squash, am determined not to succumb to post-trip blues. I know I should be filled with overflowing sense of completion to be back in heaving family bosom, but can’t help missing hotel bathroom and extravagant bouquets therein. Must rise above yawning chasm between the glamour of my professional life and the shabby reality of home.
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Call Florence’s mobile to have modern-day von Trapp moment but it’s switched off. Call friends where Freddie is staying but the phone is engaged. Decide to watch something deep and meaningful on TV.
There is nothing deep and meaningful on, so watch EastEnders as I work out my plan of attack for unpacking and draw up a list of clothes I need for London. Surely my winter orders should have come by now. Can’t believe I am expected to be at fashion shows tomorrow, with jet lag and severe altitude swelling. EastEnders having required effect of making me feel better about life.
The thing about pre-ordering clothes is that you get huge discounts and end up wearing ridiculously unseasonal clothes and looking like a mad Halle Berry bikini-clad figure who has accidentally wandered on to the set of The Day After Tomorrow. Last week I counted ten senior New York editors perspiring in tweeds. “Why?” I asked my friend Jen on Harper’s Bazaar. “It’s not as if they’re young or have had to pack their wardrobes in advance. Why have they got it so wrong?” “They haven’t got it wrong,” snapped Jen. “They’re debuting.” “Debuting?” “It’s not about pre-ordering the right outfits any more,” said Jen, eyeing my summer dress pityingly. “It’s about wearing them before anyone else does.”
I doubt that debuting will translate to the UK market. It is no way for intelligent, mature women to behave. Still, I make a note to call Roland Mouret in the morning and tell him to hurry up with my tweed suit. Have to be at ghastly show at 9.30am. It’s so cold outside the light has gone blue.
Am jolted awake at 11pm by the phone. It’s James. “Thank God,” he says. “What’s the matter?” I snuffle.
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“Sodding Piotr has threatened to kill Katarzyna again. This time the police are taking it seriously. They’ve circled the house. Haven’t you noticed the blue flashing lights?” I peer blearily into the street. Two police cars have blocked off the road. Walkie-talkies crackle ominously. James’s voice floats irascibly from the receiver. “First thing in the morning, you’ve got to speak to that agency.”
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