Read The Pile of Stuff at the Bottom of the Stairs for Free Online Page B

these days,” I tell her.
    “Yeah, you should. There are loads of old people on it these days.”
    “Yes, I believe that Saga has even set up a social networking site for us.”
    She gives me the “whatevs” face and we settle down to work. A new production starts in a few weeks and I busy myself with color-coded schedules and timetables, trying to slot together the incoming hordes and marshal the troops, much as I do at home for the three males. Time flies by in a way that it didn’t when I was ensconced in the bosom of my family for that eternal Christmas break, and before long it is midday.
    It’s traditional to dread Mondays. I yearn for them. Especially every other one, when I get to have lunch with my friend Becky. A proper lunch break out of the office was one of the things (along with status, salary and prospects) that got reduced once I went part-time. Workload wasn’t.
    Our lunch venue is not exactly The Ivy; we’re balanced on uncomfortable stools eating sandwiches at a bar, looking out on the street through a fogged-up window. We swap Christmases, hers an enviable-sounding one of much “mooching around” London interspersed with occasional bouts of family. For the childless, family is something you get to dip in and out of.
    “Seeing you twice in one week,” says Becky. “That’s a rare treat.”
    “Oh, yes, Friday,” I say as if I’ve only just remembered theinvitation to Cara’s party, the date of which is inscribed in both my diary and my head. As if I’d forget, as if I get invited to lots of smart parties in flats that look like they belong on the set of a film about glamorous women. “What’s it in aid of?”
    “It’s not for charity,” she says.
    “No, I mean, is it someone’s birthday? Your anniversary? Ooh, are you making an announcement? Is there a civil partnership looming?”
    “Jeez, why is everyone on at us about that? Bloody civil partnerships. Do you know what nobody seems to have twigged about them? In terms of acrimonious splits and their financial repercussions, they’re just as bad as any marriage. I don’t know why everyone’s so celebratory about them, the only people who should really be celebrating are us lawyers. Ya-hey.” She makes a champagne toast with an imaginary glass. Becky is a family lawyer, which is more commonly and less euphemistically known as a divorce lawyer. The word “family” is often used as a euphemism, I find—family fun, family film, family day out. Just an adjective meaning “crap,” usually—though that’s certainly not the case with Becky, whom I’m told is quietly brilliant at her job.
    “Still, it’s great for me,” I say, “since now you can be as bugged by annoying questions as Joel and I were before we finally caved in and got married. I wonder if you’ll get spared the ones about children along with crude remarks about your ovaries.”
    Becky looks terse at this point and I wonder if I have said something wrong. “It’s just a party, Mary. If anything it’s a professional thing for Cara’s clients, drum up some business. Not the best time to be in financial PR.”
    “It probably is quite literally easier to sell snow to Eskimos than to get good press for bankers. Still, if anyone can do it, Cara can. I expect she can persuade anybody of anything.” I use thepause that follows to dive into what’s been preoccupying me all the while. “In your professional opinion…” I begin to ask.
    She sighs. “A lot of my friends’ sentences begin that way these days. Something to do with forty a-beckoning.”
    “Sorry,” I continue. “In your experience, what’s the most common reason people give for wanting to get a divorce?”
    “Obviously, there’s the usual—infidelity, money problems, domestic and verbal abuse. Often, it’s not so much what someone has done as what they’ve failed to do. Neglect, lack of respect, nothing in common. You can’t really generalize.”
    “What about housework?” I ask,