by Laura Roe Stevens
I don’t know about you, but I’ve come to hate Claudia Schiffer. She is a neighbor of mine . Not that we talk. I once got a half smile from Claudia, but the sun might have been in her eyes.
I occasionally pass Claudia, as we both walk the school run. She is with her nanny who is pushing her double stroller down our street. Her kids go to nursery at the church on the corner, across from my building in Notting Hill. My son goes to an international school at the other end of the block. Our paths cross on the mornings that she accompanies her children.
The supermodel is disgustingly perfect. I’ve never seen a bad hair day. Typically her gorgeous locks are pulled back in a youthful pony tail and even without a bit of makeup, her creamy complexion appears flawless. We both have similar attire on usually: running pants or something sporty, indicating an impending workout once the kids are dropped off. But somehow, her running shoes and running pants look stylish and trend-setting, while mine appear old-ladyish or worse, like a leisure suit or track suit that I actually wear all day.
I commented to my husband that I see Claudia a lot, and guess what he is now considerately doing for me? He’s volunteered to take our five-year-old to school each morning, you know, for “bonding” time. I no longer have to look at Claudia, except when my husband’s out of town and I get the school run duty. How thoughtful of him!
Last summer, as I was rummaging around our garden in Notting Hill, one of my neighbors struck up a conversation. Her children were running around with my son, so we did what most moms in the garden do, we sat down to gossip. She began telling me how her best friend is at her wit’s end. Her tone is quite serious and I immediately suspect that her husband is cheating with a twenty-four-year-old secretary, or some sort of similar mischief. But no, I am completely wrong. The German couple, whose children go to the same nursery as Claudia’s, got invited to stay with the supermodel in Germany for the opening of the World Cup games. How exciting, I think. Then, it dawns on me: “That poor woman.”
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