So this is how the other half lives?

December 2006

I draw up in front of the mansion...or residence...or estate. What else can I call this white facade, curving sinuously into the (landscaped) trees? It's so big you're instinctively stuck between feeling it's somehow obscene, suffering from crippling envy, and holding down the excitement of a child discovering Hamley's for the first time. Surrounded by high walls with a tall wrought iron gate, a modern portcullis. The vast expanse of glass on the upper levels gleams darkly in the winter half-light. I can't help thinking 'Grand Designs' - but on a grander scale. On the right's a smaller green entrance with more shadowy buildings beyond: gym, swimming pool,multi-garages? Security cameras are dotted round the place left and right. My nerve fails and I quickly accelerate to park down the road. This isn’t my usual stomping ground, my dusty car's dwarfed by the competing line-up of shiny SUV’s, sleek Mercedes 200s. No need to fret over parking restrictions here, there’s enough space on this tree-lined estate for fifteen tanks. Hubby Martin's saliva would be oozing by now. You could get used to this very quickly I suspect (and never be the same again). Meanwhile, my son Kal's fiddling with a plastic spider-man in the back seat, twiddling the limbs back and forth, lost in his own little four year-old universe, blissfully free of real-estate voyeurism - thank God.

The air's damp as I press the intercom button firmly, round black smartie, passport to another world. Callum's little chilly hand's in mine, the other clumsily hooking our hastily-wrapped gift: a superhero book, curiously appropriate (his own plastic hero's been ditched into my handbag). My boy's small frame's huddled inside his coat escaping the chill, his hat flopping over his forehead. I pull it off, ruffle hair, push it back, bend down, brush a quick cold soft kiss. In return a childish sunbeam. I can't bear to imagine our precious mother-son love affair could one day mutate into a teenage (or pre-teenage) stone wall of silence, and swallow the thought and the wince inside me. ‘OK darling? Looking forward to your party?’ Before I catch an answer, a whirr and metallic click, the gate's ajar. Discreetly, no surname on the plaque below the intercom, just “Junipers”. Each mansion on this hyper-exclusive estate's hidden behind its own curve in a crescendo of imposing and unique: one a replica of the White House, another mock Moorish style. I like this name, though. Somehow down to earth, like its owners.

My new fellow Mum Natalia and her husband Gregory live here. Gregory Surbiten’s a “hedgie” - hedge fund manager. I’ve only met him once: outside school after the nativity play,last day of last term. Slim, piercingly confident manner, large serious dark eyes, slightly hooked nose, not handsome but striking. I scrutinised his face carefully when no-one was looking, as if the magic formula to turn a man younger than me into an entry in the Sunday Times Rich List might be stamped on his forehead. Thank God for kids, who see everyone as equals. Their son Mark and Callum (‘Kal’) both joined reception class in September and say they're 'best friends' (if you can call a shared obsession with spiderman friendship). Natalia's tall, long blond hair drifting down in loose curls, big blue eyes, high cheekbones. And the artificial bloom of Botox. Her elegance and lifestyle are obvious the minute you set eyes on her, but her generosity with wealth and time, working tirelessly to improve the lot of those less fortunate, is a better kept secret. In short, she's one of those perfect people you'd love to hate, if only you didn't like her so much! This is the first time I’ve visited their home: chatting at the school gates I'd only ever imagined her world. And you'd need vivid imagination, as it turns out.

The front door's wide, shiny, black and recessed: no brass 10 Downing Street-style knocker - all that security means if you’ve got this far they already know you’re coming. Surprisingly enough, it’s Natalia herself who answers the door and envelopes me in a very theatrical hug, bending down to scoop up Callum: ‘Come on Callum, love, you come with me! Helen, you follow on, Paloma will show you the way.’ She breezes off with my son, who like everyone, loves her. In the excitement, Mummy's forgotten. I'm left standing in her faint waft of perfume and a vision of designer white jeans, Swarovski-studded belt, thick weave cream jumper with asymmetrical neck, and some sort of expensive flats. Natalia looks stunning, no high heels or jewellery, wispy loose ponytail, light, natural make-up: understated elegance. My heart sinks and I immediately feel rather crap in my plain blue jeans with tweed jacket. Are they too scuffed on the knees from kneeling on the floor with Angel before I left? And what about that dark patch on my suede boots? Angel tipping up her sippy cup as I hugged goodbye at the door? ‘Oh Screw it! What to do!' No point wasting time on what can't be changed. Instead, I take a better look around me, up at the chandeliers hung with crystal butterflies radiating a serene glow into the entrance hall. At the huge silver-gilt mirror, ornate rococo frame, imposing from floor to ceiling. At the ottoman sofa bench, covered in white fur, gold-footed, long enough to seat six adjusting their Italian leather brogues. I think I've got the message that Natalia loves white, at risk of being vulgar, but unsurprisingly done with immaculate taste here.I step past the mirror quickly to avoid looking at (and depressing) myself. Raw cream marble down the whole hall - how many feet? - four large doorways off to the right, staircase at the far end with art-deco iron/mahogany banister curving up to the left. Beyond, wall-to-ceiling glass behind which presumably are the gardens to the left-hand side of the house. The ceiling's spot-lit with a myriad of jewel-like lights, a starry effect. And art. An antique slash valuable looking stone lion's head in a glass case, a modern cubist sculpture in dark metal on a marble pedestal further down. I stand and stare, and a stout lady of indeterminate age in starched white apron appears out of nowhere. I’m dangling Callum’s coat and she reaches out for it, hanging it in one smooth movement over her arm and brushing it down absent-mindedly. 'I am Paloma, Housekeeper' she announces. 'They are all in the marquee’ (heavily accented) ‘this way please’. Oh God I'm late too.

This vision of efficiency bustles off, I’m in hot pursuit. I'm now wanting a housekeeper too. An obscenely wide plate glass door swings open on immaculately engineered hinges: no relation to my doorway at home, months of tipping up the double buggy's back wheel to squeeze through, baby wet in the rain. Clammy air hits our faces, we step out into thickening dusk, lights click on. A patio of finely-hewn light grey stone, super-smooth, lights set into the flowerbeds glowing coolly as the surroundings lose their definition in the dusk. To the left behind a brick wall, the tall dark deep shapes of trees. Asymmetrical trellises, Chelsea Flower Show style. Beds with small shrubs in maze-like patterns, carefully-planned plant-life, minimalist vegetation,oriental style. Something in leaf at every time of year I bet. The gentle lull of singing water over Japanese stone and bamboo fountains. And water brooding round the contours of the house, a modern moat, shimmering heavy-duty engineering. The glass-walled lounge at the rear of the house, a strip of dark decking, abstract stepping stones over the water, a wide terrace, and thence into the grounds, immense lawn, marquee. Magical, lounge lights bouncing off the glass, glimmering onto the water, escaping gossamer-light curtains punched with delicate designs. Inside, glimpses of undulating sofas piled high with silk cushions, spidery framed tables, a glowing floor lamp with branches, a crystal set of lights like planets. And outside, the marquee, a Disney-eske turreted castle amid strings of candle-shaped fairy lights. The trees around it shrouded in fibre-optics, choked by necklace after necklace of tiny silver,azure, purple and emerald icicles. Everywhere, lights glimmering and glittering and winking off trees, water, glass.
‘Mrs Romeo?’ I nearly stumble, shaking myself from my reverie, a quick nod to Paloma, politely waiting a few steps ahead, I hurry along.

Father Christmas has arrived specially, ‘ho ho ho’ and children’s laughter from the depths of the tent. Kal must be in there, having a bunch of fun no doubt. There's a full-size snow-machine tucked to the side, exactly like the ones on the ski slopes. I wonder if it's the winter equivalent of Callum's sandpit. I’m glad it hasn’t been put to use considering my suede boots. Inside, the children are in full hysterics over Santa as he sprays them with little sweets, one lands at my feet. Tables are dotted with coloured compartmentalised plastic plates littered with the remnants of goodies (such waste, they leave half of it!), and two snowmen are discreetly clearing the tables. I spot my son clutching a packet of hula-hoop crisps as I stand aside from the huddle of women - many expensively-turned out (for Christ's sake, it's only a kids' party!) I'm still a near stranger to most of them, cliqued through now for years through nursery and kindergarten. I catch the strains of Christmas in Mauritius and the tribulations of finding a good live-in Nanny: not topics for me to chip into. The entertainer-slash-Santa figure picks up the ‘mike’ and announces it’s time to ride on Santa's sleigh. To the right of the marquee, in front of the children’s adventure playground, stands a brightly painted wooden sleigh decorated with bells and lit with lights like some stage prop. Two deer, in full harnass, are contentedly munching on bales of hay. Mums (ever competitive) hurl themselves to grab their kids and be first to the fun.

After the reindeer ride, acrobats, dancing and musical chairs Callum, hyped on organic party food, chattered excitedly all the way back to the car. Home through the private park and out, humming quietly down wooded roads, onto the dual carriageway with its blurred lines of lamps, off onto darkened streets - normal streets, now, with, stray plastic supermarket bags hugging corners and grubby kerbs -until finally home. Back to my husband baby-sitting our two year old daughter, Angel. Predictably after an afternoon of tantrums Martin was in a sour mood. That night I got to bed with a grumpy unshaven husband, the washing un-done, dishwasher still full. But Kallum went to bed ecstatic with the Spiderman walkie-talkies from his ‘goody bag’. I had to wrestle them away to stop him from still trying to send crackling "coded messages to Mark" from his bed, at nine o’clock at night.