The Single Mum's Wish List

by Charlene Allcott

  ‘Lucas wouldn’t settle,’ she says. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I say, but I feel really light-headed. In part because of the booze and the lack of food and the underwear cutting off my circulation, but also because of the injustice of it all. ‘How does it work?’ I ask Leanne. ‘How do some people get this?’ Leanne looks confused but before she can speak James pulls me in for a hug.

  As we part he looks at my face and says, ‘Let’s get pissed, eh?’

  James gets us all fresh drinks and we sit together as he tells us stories about his colleagues. Apparently Tom doesn’t have any friends outside work, so almost the entire office is there. ‘That’s Mike,’ says James, pointing to a tall, thin guy with acne scars and a scowl. ‘We call him Crazy Mike because he eats the same lunch every day – one egg sandwich and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. Never plain, God forbid smoky bacon.’ Although there is no way Mike can hear us he looks over and we all giggle. James tells us off. ‘You two are gonna get me in trouble,’ he says. It occurs to me that I’m starting to have fun. I probably shouldn’t have waited this long to go out with Leanne and James. I hope that George and James get on and we can go on double dates and then on holiday together.

  The jazz has been replaced by a DJ playing nineties music and Pulp’s ‘Common People’ comes on.

  ‘Oh my God,’ says Leanne. ‘We have to dance!’

  ‘I can’t dance,’ I say; I literally can’t in this dress.

  James holds out his hand. ‘Can I have this dance?’ he asks his wife. She accepts, and he leads her to a small clearing between the tables. Soon most people are dancing, including Tom and his wife-to-be. Although the song is uptempo they have their arms wrapped round each other and are swaying gently. A small pit of loneliness starts to jostle around in my stomach and I look for someone to distract me from it. A few chairs away I see Crazy Mike sitting alone. Although ale is not being served, he has acquired a pint from somewhere. I admire his resourcefulness and I go and sit next to him.

  ‘You having a good time?’ I ask.

  ‘Does it look like I’m having a good time?’ he asks back. He says this in a friendly way, though. He has a nice Yorkshire accent.

  ‘Not really,’ I say.

  ‘Shit, and I was trying so hard,’ he says.

  ‘Why have you come then?’ I ask him.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to work out,’ he says.

  ‘Well, you’ve met me now,’ I say. He smiles a little. ‘You have no excuse; this is my ex’s party and I’m having a great time.’

  He studies me closely. ‘No, no,’ I say, ‘I’ve found someone else now. He’s perfect, literally perfect. I asked the universe for what I wanted.’ Crazy Mike looks a bit concerned. ‘I know it sounds mad, no offence. You should try it, though, if you want someone who will accept you for you; who won’t ask you to change.’ Mike takes a sip of his pint. I put my hand over his. ‘If you like egg sandwiches you will find someone who appreciates that.’

  Mike removes his hand from mine and says, ‘There’s someone I’ve got to say hello to.’ He gets up and crosses the room and takes a seat next to no one. Whatever, I think.

  Marthashotbod: What’re you doing?

  No response. I head back to the bar and sample the cocktail. It goes down like squash. I tell the bartender to keep them coming and, although he looks at me suspiciously, he obliges. The music stops and Tom’s voice fills the room. I look round and see him standing by the DJ booth.

  ‘Thank you all for being here,’ he says. ‘My wife-to-be and I—’ His words are then drowned out by a drunken cheer from the crowd and he starts again. ‘My wife-to-be and I want to thank you for being a part of today and of our future. I’m so happy I’ve found her.’ He gestures to Rhiannon, who walks over and stands beside him. He wraps an arm round her waist and says, ‘Now that I have her, I’m never letting her go.’ The crowd cheers again. An elderly version of Tom walks over to him and takes the microphone.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ he says into the mic and everyone laughs. ‘For those of you I haven’t met, I’m Thomas’s father. I want to say I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves and I hope Rhiannon and Tom have a long and happy life together. I’m so pleased to have her in my family. She really is the most elegant, beautiful girl I have ever known.’

  ‘Why don’t you marry her then,’ I mumble, and a couple of people turn to look at me.

  ‘I don’t know how Tom has done it,’ he says. Everyone laughs, I think in agreement. ‘I hope everybody here can have what they have.’ He raises his glass and everyone copies his action. ‘To Tom and Rhiannon,’ he says, and the crowd parrots it back before giving applause. When the party is quiet again Tom’s father asks if anyone else has any words to say. I have a lot to say. As I approach him I can feel the anticipation of the crowd. I can hear whispering voices questioning who I am as I take the microphone.

  ‘Hello,’ I say to a rapt audience. ‘I just want to say that everyone deserves love, whether they’re young, old, thin or a little bit chubby but more or less in proportion.’ At this point I catch sight of Leanne in the crowd. Obviously, I have no definitive proof of this but I’m pretty sure her eyes are the widest they have ever been. Her face sobers me a little. I glance at Tom and Rhiannon, who are looking at each other with similar expressions. ‘Anyway, to Tom and Rhiannon,’ I say to continued silence. I hand the microphone back to the DJ and he quickly starts playing ‘Build Me Up Buttercup’.

  Leanne rushes over to me.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ she asks.

  ‘My speech,’ I say. I decide I will just brazen it out, I will brazen the whole thing out.

  ‘You need to go home,’ she says. As she says this she links her arm with mine and starts to move towards the door. I wrestle from her grip, causing us both to stumble a little in the process. Leanne looks upset.

  ‘What I need is another drink.’ I march back to the bar, leaving her alone.

  ‘More prosecco,’ I tell the barman.

  He folds his arms. ‘I think you’ve had enough,’ he says.

  ‘I’m so sick of people telling me what to do,’ I spit at him. The barman starts serving someone else; my body feels almost overwhelmed by the shame of his dismissal. I walk away from the bar and I decide to keep walking, to walk away from the whole thing. I leave OhSo, struggle up from the beach on to the road and hail a cab.

  ‘Where you going, love?’ says the driver. And I give him the address. My address with Alexander, the address my bank statements still get sent to.

  27

  AS THE CAB pulls away from the apartment building it seems like an appropriate time for me to work out why I’m there, what it is I hope to gain, and then I see it, crouched underneath a fir tree – Moxie. I walk towards him and he mews softly. I feel a stab of guilt that he may have been missing his mummy. I put my hand out and he licks it but when I try to pick him up he struggles. ‘Shhhhh,’ I say. ‘We need to go home.’

  He does not comprehend my Human and hooks his claws into the front of my dress. I sit down on the damp grass and try to wrap him up in my cardigan. He does not like this. I don’t know if it’s my wailing or the cat’s that wakes them but I suddenly find myself bathed in the glow of the security light, and standing silhouetted in the doorway of the flat entrance are Alexander and Poppy. Poppy is wearing one of Alexander’s T-shirts. I remember he bought it from a market in south London and I laughed at him for paying forty pounds for a crappy T-shirt. I still think it’s crappy but Poppy does not look crap in it; even tousled hair and a scrunched-up sleep face can’t detract from her long tanned legs and flawless complexion. Alexander has on his dressing gown. I know he has nothing underneath it because that’s how he sleeps. When we first got together he would walk round the flat naked in the mornings, making toast and tea and swinging his penis to make me laugh. At the end he was always in that tatty dressing gown and there was no penis swinging of any kind.

  Alexander returns indoors bri
efly and comes back wearing a pair of trainers. He stops at the door and says a few words to Poppy. She looks over at me sadly and nods. Alexander kisses her on the nose and she disappears inside. He then walks over to me. Without helping me up or bending down he says, ‘Martha, what the fuck are you doing? I mean, seriously, what the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘This is my cat,’ I whisper.

  ‘What?’ asks Alexander.

  ‘This is my fucking cat!’ I shout.

  Alexander gives me a lift back to my mother’s, Moxie huddled with me in the passenger seat of the MG. We drive in silence; even the cat seems to understand that now is not the time for conversation.

  After he’s parked Alexander says, ‘What is going on with you?’

  I stare out of the passenger window of the car. ‘I’m getting a divorce,’ I say.

  ‘And what about me?’ says Alexander. ‘You act like this is a good time for me.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Shacking up with your child bride. You look like you’re having fun to me.’

  Alexander smacks his hand against the steering wheel. ‘You dumped me!’ he shouts. ‘You decided on a whim you were over being married to me and now what? I’m supposed to support you through it?’ I look at Alexander. He looks hurt and angry.

  ‘We’re supposed to support each other,’ I say. ‘And Moses, what about him? He needs to see more of you.’

  Alexander closes his eyes. ‘Yeah, I want him to stay more often but I don’t want to confuse him. I worry I’m not good to be around him. I’m feeling pretty shaken up.’ I look at Alexander, strong and sober in the driver’s seat, always in the driver’s seat.

  ‘He needs you,’ I say, and then quietly, ‘I need you.’

  Alexander rakes his hand through his hair. ‘Don’t say that,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t help. We both need space.’

  I look at Alexander’s profile as he leans back against the headrest. When Moses was born, I was taken aback by how much he looked like his father. When I was pregnant I would imagine my tiny, new child and in my mind he was a smaller version of me, but from day one I could see Alexander’s big eyes and strong chin. I don’t get to have space; I see Alexander every day. I begin to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Can we just start again?’

  Alexander laughs bitterly. ‘From when? From tonight? Yes, let’s do that and try you not turning up in my garden, mad and drunk.’

  ‘What about from the beginning?’ I ask. ‘If we could start again from the beginning what would you have done differently?’ This is what I would have done differently: I would have told him how I felt about him sooner; we would have gone travelling; I would have worked harder; we would have danced together more often; I would have asked him what he wanted; I would have told him what I needed; I would not have had the calamari that time; I would have told him I loved him every day, even if I didn’t feel it, but I would have loved him every day because love is about actions and not words.

  ‘I wouldn’t have married you,’ says Alexander.

  I get out of the car. It takes some time because I must negotiate keeping hold of Moxie as I do but after I succeed, I slam the door behind me and I don’t look back.

  28

  I OPEN MY eyes and try to put together the pieces of the previous evening but they won’t fit. Mum comes in carrying Moses. ‘Do you plan to lie in bed all day?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ I say. I can’t. In my wisdom I confirmed my gig for today, believing I would be boosted by my triumph at the party.

  ‘Why is there a cat in my kitchen?’ asks Mum.

  ‘I’ll sort it,’ I say. Mum looks like she has more to say but thankfully she leaves and takes Moses with her.

  After I drag myself from the comfort of my bed, I spend the afternoon curled up on the sofa watching cartoons with Moses and drinking Dad’s secret stash of full-fat Coke. I text Leanne an apology and a carefully selected ‘I’m sorry’ GIF but she doesn’t reply; maybe she wishes she didn’t know me too.

  As the evening draws in the last thing I want to do is sing and only the thought of George makes me feel like I can do it. I know you’re not supposed to say that; you’re supposed to pretend that all your strength comes from within, manufactured from a little inner strength factory located in your gut – but that’s bullshit. Everything good I’ve ever done has been with the encouragement or approval of someone else – my mother, my friends or a man. That’s why I achieved so little with Alexander; he never gave me strength. I think he was scared of what I might do with it. Once I told him I was thinking about a career in talent management. I thought I could partner with Cara; we could manage artists and put on events. He didn’t say, ‘That’s great!’ or, ‘Tell me more!’ He said, ‘Why?’ George knows that it doesn’t matter why; what matters is me. I know it is this thought that gives me the motivation to put on my make-up and iron my funeral dress. I even manage to push my anxiety to the edge of my consciousness as I walk to the club, until I see Cara. She is standing with someone who must be Marc in the club’s dressing room and seeing her familiar face makes everything real. She gives me a kiss on each cheek.

  ‘Ready, darling?’

  ‘I think so,’ I say.

  ‘Not quite,’ says Cara. She gets a lip gloss out of her bag and indicates that I should open my mouth. I do so and she carefully applies it to my lips.

  ‘Now you’re ready,’ she says.

  Marc pats me on the bum. ‘Looking good, darlin’, I hope you sound as good as you look.’ Marc is at least three inches shorter than me and from my vantage point I can see the light bouncing off his head through his thinning hair. Despite our obvious incompatibility he is looking at me like I’m a plate of baby-back ribs. I guess having the power to offer people what they want gives a man a decent dose of self-confidence.

  ‘What have you got?’ he asks.

  I give him my sheet music and he looks over it.

  ‘It’ll do – a little vanilla but we can work on that. As soon as you’re settled can you come and sound check?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, and he leaves. ‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ I say to Cara.

  ‘How could you think I wouldn’t come?’ she asks.

  ‘I guess I just thought you might have something better to do.’

  ‘Something better than this? You’re ridiculous.’ She turns to face the mirror and pushes her fingers into her hair, wiggling her hands around to lift her roots. ‘Besides, have you seen Curtis on the drums? Hands off.’

  I laugh and say, ‘Don’t worry.’ I take off my coat and as I slip it on to a coat hook I say, ‘Actually, I’m seeing someone.’ I try to say this casually. I hope my tone makes clear that this is just an aside, nothing to dwell on. Even though I want to tell her about George, I instinctively know I don’t want Cara to ask any questions. Cara, however, is very skilled at doing the exact opposite of whatever someone wants her to do.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ she says. ‘So what’s really going on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  Cara straightens out the hem of my dress before saying, ‘You’re not seeing anyone because if you were you would have told me already. You wouldn’t have been able to resist reliving the romance and regurgitating all the tawdry details. So what are you really telling me? Are you back with A-hole?’

  ‘No, God no. I actually have a boyfriend.’ We haven’t confirmed this officially but it’s one of those unspoken things we both know.

  ‘How did you meet him?’ asks Cara. She does not sound happy; she does not sound like a friend eager to share in her buddy’s joy. She sounds dubious.

  ‘I met him on the app. On Linger.’

  ‘Right, so you met him on the app and now … he’s your boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. I say it with a finality that Cara ignores.

  ‘Has he met Moses?’ she asks.

  ‘No, not yet,’ I say.

  Cara’s face relaxes. ‘Is he good in the sack?’ she asks.

&nb
sp; ‘I … er … I don’t actually know yet.’

  ‘Ooh,’ says Cara, ‘playing coy.’ She shrugs as she says this and then leans in towards the mirror to check her eye make-up. ‘Good kisser, though?’ she asks.

  I watch her for a few seconds before saying, ‘I don’t know that either.’ Cara stops preening and looks at me via my reflection in the mirror. ‘We haven’t met yet.’ Cara stands up straight and turns around so she is facing me.

  ‘So you don’t have a boyfriend,’ she says.

  I shake my head. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I say.

  ‘Mate, you’re the one with the make-believe boyfriend.’

  I feel my arms get tense. ‘Can’t you just be supportive or pretend to be supportive or does that go against your moral code or something?’

  Cara presses each thumb and forefinger together and moves them up and down to emphasize each word, as if she is conducting a tiny orchestra. ‘You. Have. An. Imaginary. Boyfriend,’ she says.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask. ‘It’s like if you’re not being a bitch you don’t have a reason to exist.’

  Cara narrows her eyes. ‘You’re right, babe, I don’t have time for this.’ She gives me a kiss on the cheek and leaves the dressing room, but just before she closes the door she says, ‘Break a leg.’

  Having Cara go like that is something of a relief. I’m tired of having to hold on to things. In truth I think I prefer doing things on my own – being with other people, even people you like, requires constant assessment of their wants. It’s not possible to keep doing that without damaging yourself in the process. I don’t have the energy any more. I have a little cry and then I redo my make-up. It’s time to accept that I need to start doing stuff without anyone to support me.

  Marthashotbod: I have a gig tonight, wish me luck.

  Undeterred83: That’s hot. What sort of gig?

  Marthashotbod: A little jazz club.

  Undeterred83: Wow, you have so many talents, I’m feeling inadequate.