Do I?

∗

Before picking up the children I sneak into the chemist, not the one I use in the main street, where the market is (too embarrassing – ‘Face it, Mum,’ as Mirabel said when she got her period for the first time, ‘you’re now officially old enough to have grandchildren’). I pay cash for a First Response economy pack of two.

Belt home. Ana is there, as I had warned the children.

She smiles really sweetly at them when they all pop in like Champagne corks. Mirabel has her iPod on, and is clearly listening to one of her old favourites, by the laureates of lyrics called the Black-Eyed Peas.

‘Mirabel,’ I call, in a loud but pleasant voice. ‘Can you turn that off and say hello to Ana, darling! She’s our new au pair girl.’

‘Hello, I am Ana,’ Ana says, coming forward to kiss them on both cheeks in a formal, somewhat East European way, making me think it’s lucky they’ve all seen Borat and do not recoil in horror.

‘Wow! Are you really, like, Ana?’ says Mirabel, who has removed one earphone from her Nano as a concession. She sounds impressed, and looks Ana up and down.

There is something not quite right about this exchange, but then, I am so used to not understanding what Mirabel says or is cross about, I tend to let most of it pass. Mirabel sinks down at the kitchen table, and replaces her earphone. ‘In the back and in the front! Check it out!’

Rush upstairs, rip open package with teeth, almost losing incisor in process, then read leaflet saying it can detect something called hCG in my urine up to four days before my period is due. At this point I pause.

I never know when it’s due.

Does anyone who isn’t trying to get pregnant as a vocation ever, actually, bother to keep track? It’s been at least eight years since I even thought about all this.

In London, I was kept so busy monitoring Clare’s ovulation schedule, I completely ignored mine.

The only way I can tell my period is due is because I start muttering out loud and flinging pans into the sink, while Ralph carries on reading Country Life. Then Ralph says something out loud to no one in particular about ‘that time of the month’, before remarking that the Girl in Pearls in this week’s edition is doing a thesis on renewable energy solutions including bioenergy yet again, and what on earth was wrong with a nice degree in Art History at Bristol, or working in the watercolour department at Sotheby’s, he wants to know.

Then he says, ‘It’s global warming,’ all of which cumulatively makes me scream, ‘Of course it’s not that time of the month, I am merely sick to death of ALWAYS clearing up EVERY MEAL on MY OWN and why shouldn’t a SLOANE have a WORTHWHILE career in environmental technology if THAT’S WHAT SHE WANTS???’

Then, sure as night follows day, I have my period the next day.