by Suzy K Quinn
THE BAD MOTHER’S DIARY
SUZY K QUINN
Gratitude from Suzy
I still can’t believe so many people read my books.
Each and every day, I am grateful for you, dear readers.
Thank you so much.
If you want to ask me any questions about the books or chat about anything at all, get in touch:
Email: [email protected]
Facebook.com/suzykquinn (You can friend request me. I like friends.)
Twitter: @suzykquinn
Website: suzykquinn.com
Happy reading,
Suzy xxx
Friday, January 1st
New Year’s Day
Back at my parents’ house after HUGE argument with Nick.
Am FURIOUS.
Asked Nick to look after Daisy while I went to the supermarket (I always get distracted if I bring her along, and buy random things like special edition brownie Mars Bars).
Got home to find Nick playing computer games, with TEN empty bottles of original Guinness beside him.
TEN BOTTLES! In TWO hours!
I was furious.
‘I’m not drunk,’ he slurred. ‘If I were drunk, I’d never have cracked this part of Assassin’s Creed.’
I demanded he walk in a straight line, and he fell over.
As I was screaming at him, Nick’s mother let herself into the apartment.
She saw Nick on the floor and said, ‘You look tired, darling.’ Then she asked what all the fuss was about.
I said Nick was getting drunk when he was supposed to be looking after a three-month old baby.
‘Oh Nick,’ said Helen. ‘But Juliette, he has been working all day. He’s obviously stressed.’
Working! All Nick’s done today is read a two-page script for an online poker commercial.
‘If I ever need relationship advice from a divorcee,’ I told Helen, ‘I’ll let you know.’
Then I screamed at Nick at bit more, threw a bag together and said I was taking Daisy to my parent’s house.
I would have made a strong, dignified woman exit, except I had to come back for Daisy’s pink waffle blanket, Teddy Snuggles, blackout curtain with suckers and finally her Lullaby Light Bear.
Saturday, January 2nd
Nick just phoned begging for forgiveness.
‘I need you, Julesy, I need my little girl. I’m lost without you.’
But I’m not going to start feeling sorry for him. He needs to shape up. It’s bad enough all these hangovers. But to be drunk when he’s actually looking after her …
Weighed myself this morning on Dad’s 1970s scales, because they’re usually kinder than the ones at the apartment.
I am 30 POUNDS heavier than before I was pregnant.
And that is standing completely naked on the scales after I’ve been to the toilet.
Blaaaaaah.
Sunday, January 3rd
The trouble with motherhood these days is you’re expected to:
Be slim(ish), well-groomed and fashionably dressed, with a brightly coloured designer baby bag covered in little forest animals.
Have a perfect IKEA home with quirky little child-friendly details, like a colourful chalkboard stuck on the fridge and designer robot toys.
Be an all-natural, organic earth mother and not use any nasty plastic Tupperware with chemicals in it, only buy organic vegetables, breastfeed, have a drug-free birth, etc. BUT at the same time …
Be a super-clean chemical spray freak with hygienic clean surfaces and floors at all times, plus wash your hands ten times a day.
All this AND get out of the house without mysterious white stains all over you.
How do women do it?
Nick’s been calling and texting all day. Promising he’ll never drink again. Begging to see pictures of Daisy.
It’s a start I suppose.
Monday, January 4th
Laura visited today, and suggested we go jogging around Great Oakley together.
Like an idiot, I agreed.
Running beside my beautiful, athletic older sister … so not a good idea. Especially with my big, fat post-baby bottom.
I was a lumbering cow, puffing behind a long-legged, shiny-haired blonde racing horse.
We ended up jogging in the woods by the train track, and predictably I lagged behind.
While I was swearing about ‘fucking jogging’, I saw a shadow that looked like dog poo. Swerved, stumbled and fell.
The next thing I knew, an iPhone light shone in my face.
‘Who are you and why are you blinding me?’ I shouted.
A curt voice replied, ‘Juliette? It’s Alex.’
‘Alex who?’ I asked.
‘Alex Dalton.’
The light went off, and I saw my old friend Alex, wearing the sort of ninja-black running outfit you’d see on a Runner’s World model. Alex was frowning as usual, apparently pondering some terrible injustice.
‘The Alex Dalton?’ I said. ‘Business magnate and rope-swing champion? What are you doing back here on a weekday?’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Alex. ‘By the way, a magnate is by definition a business person.’
Typical Alex. I suppose a sense of humour isn’t necessary on the global business scene.
‘It’s good to see you,’ I said, as he helped me up. ‘I thought you were based in London now.’
‘I am,’ said Alex. ‘Most of the time.’
‘Why are you wearing short-sleeved running gear in winter?’ I asked. ‘Are you parading your toned physique for the squirrels?’
‘Of course not,’ said Alex. ‘I’ve just jogged seven miles. I’m hot. Anyway, this arm never feels the cold.’ He gave the knotty, burned skin on his left bicep a solid slap. ‘Why are you out here alone?’
‘I’m not alone,’ I said. ‘I’m with Laura. What are you doing out here alone? A pretty boy like you should be careful in the woods.’
‘Pretty boy?’
‘Okay, fine. Healthy good looks, then. The product of a gymkhana upbringing and excellent diet.’
‘I always thought of myself as rugged.’
‘If you want to look rugged, you should shave less.’
‘And I was never interested in gymkhana,’ said Alex, finally managing a smile. ‘I always preferred skiing. Where’s your sister?’
I said Laura was up ahead somewhere.
‘I’ll take you to her,’ said Alex. ‘It’s treacherous out here.’
He offered me his arm, and I held the scarred part.
‘You don’t have to touch that if you don’t want to,’ said Alex. ‘I know it’s fairly repellent.’
‘No it isn’t,’ I said. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
Then I asked if Alex enjoyed running. He said yes, adding, ‘It’s one of the few times I can be anonymous. I’m totally inconsequential when I run.’
‘If you like being anonymous,’ I said, ‘why do you drive that flashy ‘I’ve-made-a-load-of-money’ Rolls Royce?’
‘To show I’m my own man.’
‘I don’t think people would confuse you with anyone else,’ I said. ‘You’re Great Oakley’s big success story.’
‘Some people do,’ said Alex. ‘They confuse me with my father.’
‘If you don’t want to be confused with your father, why drive a Mr Monopoly old-man car?’ I asked. ‘You’re in your thirties. Next, you’ll be wearing a top hat.’
Alex gave his quirky half-smile and said, ‘I like my car. I’ve never s
een you running before.’
Admitted I’d been stupid enough to sign up for the Winter Marathon.
More specifically, Sadie had pressured me into signing up while I was pregnant and sitting around eating cake.
‘You’re training early, aren’t you?’ said Alex. ‘It’s eleven-months away.’
I said I needed all the practise I could get.
Conversationally, Alex told me he’d probably run the Winter Marathon this year – and also the London, Tokyo and Berlin marathons. He said this as if marathons were a perfectly normal activity, not gruelling physical challenges.
I told him I didn’t think I’d finish.
‘That’s a terrific attitude, Juliette,’ said Alex. ‘Forecasting failure before you even start.’
I said I was being realistic, and that Nick had bet I wouldn’t finish.
‘Don’t listen to Nick Spencer,’ said Alex. ‘Anyone can run a marathon, as long as they train. It’s more mental than physical.’
I told Alex I hardly ever listened to Nick. But on this rare occasion, the father of my child could be right.
‘Rubbish,’ said Alex. ‘I’ll train you, and we’ll prove him wrong.’
I told him there was no point wasting his time. Then we saw Laura up ahead, and Alex said, ‘I’ll see you at my mother’s ball this weekend.’
The Dalton Ball is usually on New Year’s Eve, but it’s late this year because Catrina Dalton is still in Italy, sourcing a special type of marble.
‘I don’t know about that,’ I said. ‘I’ve just had a baby.’
‘Oh come on,’ said Alex. ‘You and your sisters were there at beginning. You can’t miss one now.’
Said I’d come, as long as Mum could take care of Daisy.
Alex said, ‘See you Saturday then’. And off he went, tall, dark and handsome, jogging into the woods.
‘Was that Alex Dalton?’ Laura asked, as I limped up to her. ‘Did he mention Zach?’
Teased Laura all the way home about liking Alex’s brother. She took it quite well. Maybe there’s something going on there.
I always suspected Zach Dalton had a thing for Laura.
Tuesday, January 5th
Have decided to give Nick another chance.
Got the train home this morning, and Nick met me at the station – just like the old days.
We had a long heart-to-heart, and Nick told me how down he felt.
‘But it’s no excuse for my behaviour,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to do better. I WILL do better.’
And then he asked me to marry him.
Cried happy tears, tainted somewhat with annoyance.
All these years together, and he FINALLY proposes after a big row, when I’m carrying 30 pounds of baby weight and have a car-crash vagina.
Wednesday, January 6th
Back in London.
It’s nice to be able to buy a fresh croissant 24-hours a day. It’s not nice seeing Helen.
The apartment is small enough with me, Nick and Daisy in it, plus all the baby paraphernalia that’s slowly drowning us. With Helen always ‘dropping by’, perching at the breakfast bar, sipping an espresso through pursed lips, I can barely breathe.
Thursday, January 7th
Nick can’t make the Dalton Ball. He’s got a part up north, playing a cleaner in a soap opera.
He only has one line: ‘That can happen if you eat too much chicken pie.’
I’m happy that he’s got a part, but Nick always seems to go away when I need him. Which, when you have a three-month-old baby, is every day.
I can guarantee that if Daisy has a temperature or woken up five times in the night, Nick will be in Manchester.
Spent the afternoon making Christmas thank you letters, supposedly from Daisy. I got a bit ambitious and decided to photograph Daisy with each and every present. Then she fell asleep, and it all looked a bit weird.
Nick’s mum turned up and asked me what the hell I was doing arranging a set of bath products around a sleeping baby.
‘Helen,’ I said, ‘for once could you knock?’
But I don’t think she heard me properly, because she said, ‘Yes alright then, I’ll have a decaf.’
Friday, January 8th
Tried to de-clutter the bathroom today, in preparation for Dalton Ball preening tomorrow.
I haven’t done any preening since Daisy was born, and I’m a little worried about what I might find when I get started. But hey ho.
I divided the bathroom into pre and post-pregnancy.
Pre-pregnancy
Va-va-voom! mascara, neon eyeshadow, glittery nail varnish, fruit face mask, waxing strips, tampons and general pampering stuff.
Post-pregnancy
Sanitary towels big enough to absorb a bath-load of water, a vaginal toning weight kit, stretch mark cream, suppositories, a big Velcro belt to help my stomach muscles knit together and surgical underwear made of stretchy netting.
How can something as natural as pregnancy and childbirth mess your body up so badly?
Saturday, January 9th
Too tired to preen. Daisy slept a grand total of three hours last night. Barely have the energy to shower.
Sunday, January 10th
Dalton Ball was awful. Just awful.
New mothers shouldn’t be required to go out in public, especially not to fancy places requiring unstained clothes and plucked eyebrows.
Kept glimpsing my tired face in the ballroom mirrors and wishing I’d worn more makeup.
I have an English-rose complexion (pale skin, instant sunburn) that usually looks okay natural, but right now a bit of colour is sorely needed.
My hair (which my hairdresser politely calls ‘not quite blonde, not quite brown’) could do with some attention too. It’s been ages since I had highlights, and my curls are past my shoulder blades and need a trim.
None of my old party dresses fit, so I wore a maternity summer dress with tights and a sort of shawl thing.
I ended up two seats away from Alex, who looked like he’d just finished a Gucci photoshoot – sharp, cleanly-shaven jaw, fitted black suit and tastefully dishevelled black hair.
I asked him how the hotel empire was coming along, and he asked me how the running was going.
‘Crap,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how anyone can run twenty-six miles.’
‘A marathon is twenty-seven miles,’ he said.
I suggested that maybe he could give me a piggyback.
‘Listen, Juliette,’ said Alex. ‘Don’t pay any attention to Nicholas Spencer. I’m serious about training you. I’m in London this week – are you still in London?’
I had to admit that yes, Nick and I are still living in his mother’s apartment. A glossy bachelor pad in London’s financial district, designed for weekday executive sleepovers and microwave meals, not a couple and their new baby.
I mean, we don’t live with Helen. Obviously. That would just be unbearable. We just pay her rent because she owns the flat. But she comes over pretty often because she works five minutes away at Canary Wharf.
A little later in the evening, when I was coming back from the loo, Catrina Dalton was leaning over Alex’s shoulder, all rock-hard white French pleat and fingers loaded with diamond rings.
She was whispering about ‘Shirley Duffy’s girls’, and saying, ‘Steer clear if I were you.’
Hopefully, Zach and Laura will get married, and Catrina Dalton will have us all as in-laws.
Including Mum and Brandi.
Ha ha ha!
While I was at the bar, the horrible charity auction began.
Doug Cockett (local businessman and red-nosed drunk) did the hosting.
He owns Cockett Fitness but is fatter than most darts players.
Doug boomed about what an honour it was to be at yet another Dalton charity event, and asked Alex and Zach if they’d be bidding on any ‘lovely ladies’.
Zach said he ‘certainly would be’, and looked at Laura.
Alex slid his hands into his pocke
ts and said, ‘No thank you, Doug. Paying for women isn’t really my scene.’
When Alex stood up to leave, Catrina clutched his suit sleeve and said, ‘Oh Alex, it’s only a little fun.’
Alex said, ‘Somehow, I don’t see it.’ And strode out.
A few giggling girls were volunteered by their dates, and Zach walked Laura right up to the stage.
Laura looked absolutely beautiful. Shiny, long blonde hair. Pink, fitted silk dress that stopped mid-calf. It’s amazing she comes from a mother who thinks black lycra is formal dress.
Brandi, of course, shot up on stage without anyone having to ask. Her dress looked like it had been shrunk in the wash, then glitter bombed.
My little sister is a natural blonde, but that isn’t blonde enough for her, so she adds platinum streaks and backcombs it to look three times the size.
She is SO much like Mum. Loud. Likes a drink or three. Has been known to fight men and win.
I tried to sneak off, but Doug was too quick for me.
‘JULIETTE DUFFY! WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?’
I said I didn’t want to do the auction this year because Nick couldn’t make it, but Doug wouldn’t take pity on me. Instead, he got the whole room to chant ‘Juliette! Juliette!’
So up I went.
I was wearing my big blue maternity dress, and my feet were too swollen for high heels, so I’d settled on brown boots that were a tiny bit muddy.
My cheeks were bright red; my curly hair was frizzy with brown roots – all in all, I felt like I was worth less than five pounds. Quite a bit less.
I ended up standing between Kate Thompson, who plays professional tennis, and Laura whose nickname at school was ‘Princess Beautiful’.
Brandi was at the end of the line, back-combing her hair with her fingers.
As usual, loads of men bid on Laura. And as usual, she looked genuinely surprised.
Zach cut out the competition by bidding four-hundred pounds. He said, ‘But she’s worth a lot more!’ And got a round of applause.
