The Dilemmas of Harriet Carew

CRISTINA ODONE

To Edward Lucas

1

Driving a Merc is like wearing a push-up bra. Suddenly everyone notices you, and makes comments like ‘You look great, Harriet …’ As I park the hired S320L outside the dry cleaner’s, the Polish woman behind the counter gives me a thumbs-up sign; I only go there a few times a year but I’m suddenly worthy of the smile reserved for bankers who bring in their shirts and boxers every day. At the greengrocer’s, the doltish assistant, who usually slouches against the counter, rushes to carry my bags to the car. The rhubarb and pears which I was expected to carry easily when I was on foot are deemed too heavy for the driver of a high-performance sports car.

I turn out of the Tesco car park. Janet Miller, patroness of the charity I work for (HAC – Holidays Association for Children), stops her Range Rover Sport, rolls down the window and for the first time ever chats about children, schools and the holidays. Hers: a month in a villa, with pool, in San Gimignano; ours: a fortnight at my in-laws’ cottage, with coin-operated electricity meter, at Lyme Regis.

I’m in a rush but everything seems bearable as Guy has decided to use our upgrade vouchers, obtained after I complained when our last hired car broke down, to get this Mercedes rather than the usual Renault Scenic.

‘Your carriage awaits …’ Guy, with mock ceremony, hands me the keys after lunch. I feel like Cinderella – an impostor stealing away in a swanky set of wheels. But this way, I can run my errands in style:

Mario’s to get my hair cut and set up an appointment for my roots, which haven’t been seen to since May. Charlotte’s to return the drill, Foot Locker to buy Alex’s trainers, the greengrocer’s and Tesco’s for tonight’s dinner party.

It still strikes me as pure madness to have people for dinner tonight of all nights, but Guy insists that it’s the only date Oliver Mallard can do. Guy is convinced he will be the man to pull us out of penury. So I give in, thinking that at least I can use the car to lug around some heavy carrier bags. There are seven, to be precise, adding up to a whopping £93 – but that includes three bottles of quite decent Merlot.

Normally, I do the shopping on foot: a nightmare where Maisie’s pushchair doubles up as a pack-mule; I give my biceps and triceps a thorough work-out (who needs a gym when you can go to Tesco’s?); and progress is slow, with me constantly checking and repositioning the more precious items – handbag, wine, eggs, jars – lest they spill on to the pavement.

The Merc, instead, makes everything easy. I smile to myself in the rear-view mirror; as they say, I could get used to this. I’ve never thought of myself as materialistic. At home we always had enough, and if Dad’s car was no Merc (he drove a Rover which later gave way to a Peugeot), we never felt we were missing out on anything.

Mum had a wish-list of holiday destinations, but ‘next summer in the South of France’ became a family joke rather than a bitter disappointment. We had a comfortable bungalow in Kent, Dad’s dental practice flourished and Mum pottered about the house while Mel and I did our homework: I felt that I had the best possible start in life.

The rest, I would go out and get for myself – and if I really did want a Mercedes, by the time I’d grown up, I’d be able to afford it. Or my husband would.

Now, purchasing an S320L is absolutely unthinkable. As are foreign holidays, a home north of the river, taxi rides, restaurant meals, and regular sessions with Mario. It’s been years since I bought an item of clothing that was not second-hand or on sale; years since we decorated a room or bought theatre tickets.

Guy and I consider ourselves middle class. We earn better, travel more, and live longer than our parents and ancestors could ever dream of. And yet, throw into this happy mix two little words, and the result is an avalanche of debts, doubts and despair. ‘School fees’: the two scariest words in the English language. Our parents took it for granted that they would offer their children a better deal than the one they’d had, but we can’t do the same for our brood. Behind those crocodile rows of matching jackets and trousers or skirts lurks a sweaty-palmed, terrifying vision of huge bills and sniffy bursar’s letters. For what should be the best years of your life you can talk and breathe nothing but entrance and scholarship exams, gift tax, league tables, advance-fee schemes, instalments, catchment areas, fee-protection insurance in case you die, and a blizzard of acronyms and codewords: GCSE, AEAs, A-levels, the IB. Everything else must take second place.

I check my watch: half past two. I catch Mario and his minions watching me through the window. Mario usually has time only for the regulars who can afford to see him weekly: but, eyes on the silver Mercedes, he smiles. I step into the chrome-and-mirrors salon and immediately am welcomed with offers of Vogue and a cappuccino while I wait, Silvia doing my nails while Mario cuts my hair, and a menu card from which to choose any other treatment I might fancy. Given that usually I’m lucky if I get a worn copy of last month’s