by Kiki Archer
The Way You Smile
Kiki Archer
Editors: Jayne Fereday and Diana Simmonds
Cover: Daniela Di-Benedetto @designbydaniela
Smashwords Edition - Copyright 2018 Kiki Archer
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For all of the mothers surviving.
I feel you.
Chapter One
Sitting in the slow-draining shower tray, Camila crossed her legs beneath herself. She’d angled the shower head towards the wall opposite and was watching the steaming water run down the tiles. Admittedly there wasn’t anything fancy about her surroundings: a magnolia bathroom suite bought in a Wickes’ sale over ten years ago, a shower tray with so many layers of sealant you could mistake it for a low-level shelf and a shower head that although clean (the threat of Legionnaires’ disease should never be dismissed) was peeling badly. Still, this was her space where she could just be. Tilting her head backwards, Camila looked up. How chrome could peel was one of the subjects she’d addressed in a previous seated session, along with the debate about whether glass cleaning should be categorised as an actual art, because no matter which product you used and no matter how smooth your swipes your shower door would immediately betray your glass cleaning incompetence the second the steam started to rise. Even the mini window wiper tool she’d bought from the JML stand in Boots couldn’t stop the evidence from appearing. Maybe it was all about the buff? She’d ask the men at the local hand carwash where they purchased their buffing cloths. Their buffing skills were always magnificent.
Camila stopped herself. Her life was more than this now. Or it was about to be. Yes she’d probably still cross her legs underneath herself after her early morning seated leg shave but now she’d have better things to debate. Work things. Career things. Posh friend things. Not that Julie Biggs from next door with her fountain of knowledge about Tesco vouchers should be sniffed at. In fact, Julie was a great source of information. She always knew when Next were doing their VIP sale and she’d alert you when the newspapers contained those half-price theme park entry vouchers. She could also tell you instantly what time and what channel the good programmes were on. But most importantly, Julie knew week on week which supermarket was selling the cheapest prosecco. (Asda at £4.99 a bottle this week.)
Camila focused on the silver razor. She should have used a new head. Today was a day for new heads. Yes, they were incredibly expensive, but if she couldn’t treat herself today when could she? Running her fingers down her legs she nodded. Smooth enough. Maybe she’d change the head tomorrow to celebrate her successful return to the world of work. What was the title they’d given her? A mum returner? Camila laughed. She’d barely been there in the first place, unless she counted part-time jobs and that successful babysitting service she’d run in her teens, plus she was ‘returning’ somewhere she’d never actually been. Art and design was her major at university, not that she’d finished the course, yet here she was fifteen years later ‘returning’ to the world of market research, or market intelligence as it was now called.
Picking up the razor, she shrugged. How hard could it be? Once upon a time, back in the days when she’d stayed standing in the shower whilst shaving her legs, she’d used one of those pink disposable razors designed specifically for women. She thought for a second. When had that actually happened? That first time she decided to angle the shower head away and slide onto her bottom in the tray so she could shave her legs without having hair flopping in her face and blood rushing to her head? Was it before the kids or after? No, she’d definitely become the non-standing-to-shave woman post kids, just as she’d downgraded her hairdresser post kids and started to shop in the clothes section of Sainsbury’s post kids. Either way, one glorious day she’d spotted Mick’s silver razor on the side of the sink through the badly cleaned shower door, grabbed it, lathered up and shaved, and in that moment she’d shaved all her worries away. Smoothly, sleekly, enjoyably. No longer was she worrying about rust poisoning from the sharp piece of metal at the end of the pink plastic handle; now she had blades that were contoured, a head that bounced with some sort of suspension system, and a handle with a soft rubber grip, leading to silky legs that didn’t immediately feel stubbly the second you stepped out of the shower and got goose bumps.
Turning the silver razor over in her hand, Camila nodded. Market research was all about substance over style. That’s what she’d said in the interview and maybe that’s what got her the job. Because while this three-bladed, double-suspensioned, masculine-looking silver razor might not aesthetically appeal to the traditional woman, by god could it shave your legs well, and not once would it give you one of those horrific cuts near your ankle like the pink plastic razor would, shearing off a section of your skin to the extent you believed you’d developed haemophilia because of the amount of blood that wouldn’t stop flowing.
Putting the razor back down, Camila stood up. Focus. She needed to focus. She couldn’t be this woman anymore, this woman who spent fifteen minutes in the shower tray on a daily basis debating life’s big questions, no matter how attached she was to her single place of solace. Waving down at the slow-draining water, she spoke seriously. “It’s been a wonderful fifteen years.” She smiled and raised her voice, moving her gaze forward and trying her best to ignore the cleaning smears on the glass door. “But tomorrow, I’m a woman who stands in the shower to shave.”
“What, Mum?” came the shout.
Turning off the water and stepping into the small en-suite, Camila reached for the pile of towels, grabbing the big one at the bottom and wrapping it around her body. It was one of seven different sizes that Julie had recommended on offer at The Range. “Pardon?” she shouted, now taking the third towel from the top and attempting to fasten it around her head. She cursed; it was too small. She tried the next towel down, lifting it in front of herself to assess its potential before wasting her time on another unsuccessful hair flick and towel swish manoeuvre. Again, too small. Working through the pile, she sighed. Great. There was pretty much one bath towel, one hand towel and five flannels of varying sizes. This was something else she’d have to stop: buying in to all of Julie Biggs’ bargains. She needed to learn that they weren’t, and never would be, either essential purchases or bargains. From now on she was going to be the woman who bought towels from Debenhams, or maybe even John Lewis.
“Mum!”
“What? Stop hollering at me. I’m in the bathroom.” Camila reached for her trusty Kellogg’s Special K towel, quickly wrapping it around her head.
“Straighteners. I need them for school.”
“Wait!” Struggling to keep the big towel in place around her body due to its blanket size and her slight build, Camila opened the door from the en-suite just in time to see her teenage son reaching for her hair straighteners. “No! You can’t take them.”
“PE today.”
“Michael, I need them!” They were the only implement capable of transforming her shoulder-length brown hair into any sort of style.
“Gym before school. Going early.”
“Michael, I really do need them
today.”
“PE.”
“And?”
“Meant to rain. Use Ethan’s.”
“His are always sticky with gel.”
“Good job you love me hey, Mum.” The tall boy grinned as he twisted the power cord around the appliance and backed away across his mother’s small bedroom. He paused in the doorway. “Made you breakfast. Good luck breakfast.”
Camila smiled, everything instantly forgiven. “Oh bless you, my darling.”
“You’ll be great.”
Struggling to keep the towel in place as she moved towards him, Camila lifted a hand to her son’s broad shoulders. “Have you got time to eat with me? I’ll come down now.”
“Already had my protein shake.”
“Let me see you off then.” Camila followed her son as he strode across the short landing and down the stairs. She smiled. The school portrait pictures were rattling on the wall beside her. Ten years of toothy grins moving more and more, year on year, as her sons got bigger and their stair stomps got heavier. “I’ll be back in time to make tea as usual,” she said.
“We’re fine, Mum.”
“If you’re making me breakfast you obviously are. Is your bag in the kitchen?” Camila tiptoed across the hall’s short section of laminate flooring wondering why no one had told her a decade ago when the plastic fake-wood-effect panels became such a craze that laminate flooring was actually a nightmare to clean. Mopping led to buckling, polishing led to broken necks and no implement sold on the JML stand at Boots ever did the job it was meant to do, so down she’d go on her knees, gently spraying and buffing, but still her hot shower footprints showed up, hence why she always danced as quickly as she could into the kitchen. Or wore slippers.
“Have you got my slippers? Are they in your room?” She turned to her son who’d followed her through. “You’ve destroyed so many pairs, crushing down the backs with those huge pontoons of yours.”
“Pontoons?”
“You told me I couldn’t call them barges. What about battleships? Shall we call them battleships, or how about U-boats?” She watched as her eldest child tucked the straighteners into his school bag before she noticed the bowl, spoon and cereal box on the counter.
The boy grinned. “What? That’s what you have for breakfast.”
Camila smiled. “It’s perfect, my darling.” Reaching out she squeezed his arm, wondering at what point the hair ruffle had changed to the bicep squeeze and when exactly her fingers had become unable to reach half way around the huge muscle.
“Thought you had someone in the shower with you this morning. Heard you talking.”
Camila almost spat out her laughter.
“What? We don’t mind. He’s doing it. Why can’t you?”
“Because I have morals.” Camila quickly corrected herself. “Sorry. That was wrong.”
“It’s not. He’s a tosser.”
Camila let the words hang in the air before assessing her son’s face in the silence. “You’re a good man, Michael.”
“Stop going on about me being only fifteen then.”
“I stand by yesterday’s discussion. In my day fifteen-year-olds didn’t have full beards. Apart from Jennifer Langley. Thyroid issues.”
“You’re not funny, Mum.”
“Says you, Mr Bigfoot.” Camila reached out and hugged the muscles once more. “You’re a good man, Michael.”
The shout from the landing was loud. “He’s Cassie Stevens’ good man too!”
The tall boy slung his bag onto his shoulder and hollered. “Do one, Ethan.”
The shouting continued. “Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to do?”
“Boys!” Camila turned to the hall and angled her voice up the stairway. “Ethan, I need to borrow your straighteners.”
“Broken. Got a curling wand if that helps?”
Chapter Two
Closing the driver’s door of her old-style Citroen Picasso, Camila adjusted her handbag and turned to walk across the H.I.P building’s car park. Today she planned on keeping her head held high. Today she wouldn’t worry about the absence of another Citroen Picasso in the car park. Who cared that it wasn’t the row upon row of Renault Grand Scenics and Vauxhall Zafiras that greeted her at the supermarket? Did it really matter that most of these cars were hatchbacks or fashion 4x4s? She kept walking. It obviously didn’t as she’d secured the job last week. Was that down to her outfit? Having tried on her university admissions suit, bought seventeen years ago, she’d quickly realised the boot-cut trousers and shapeless jacket wouldn’t quite cut it; and why she’d kept them in her wardrobe for so long was an inexplicable mystery. Was it the nostalgia of a fond memory: university suit shopping with her mother? Or the pride it evoked when remembering she’d received the six unconditional offers whilst wearing it? Her and her boot-cut trousers had been wanted back then.
Well her and her new ankle-grazing capris and slim-fit blazer were wanted right now. Camila nodded. A brand new purchase from Next. Off the shelf and onto the counter, no VIP sale slots or end of season lines, simply supply and demand. They had it, she needed it, so she bought it. Camila laughed. Would this new job make that a regular occurrence? She laughed again. Julie, she’d say, put those coupons away. Walking across the tarmac to the beat she privately chanted the musing again. Julie, she’d say, put those coupons away. Again. Julie, she’d say, put those coupons away. Oh gosh, what was she doing? She was nervous. She needed to focus.
Lifting a hand to her hair, Camila checked the wand-curled strands she’d left deliberately loose from her bun. She nodded, they felt stylish; everything was on track. PICASSO, she screeched, internally, but loud. A Citroen Picasso! Camila waved at the slow-moving people carrier that had more windows than bodywork – essential for those inquisitive children who needed to be told ‘horse’ every time a horse was visible and ‘train’ every time a train could be seen. She waved again at the car. Why was she waving? She was almost at the building’s entrance, the door to another world, another life, not her old life where it was essential you found a fellow frazzled mother and instantly made friends.
The woman in the Picasso buzzed down her window. “You can see I’m lost, can’t you?”
Camila scuttled over as quickly as her new heels would allow. “Are you a mum returner?”
“I’m not dropping them off. Can you drop them off?”
Noticing the two children in car seats at the back, Camila frowned. “Here? They have a crèche?”
“Cheeky Monkeys.”
“Oh, you’re looking for the playcentre? You’ve come too far. It’s first right on the roundabout back there. It’s not one of the best though. The Funhouse in town’s better.”
“Yes, I’ve done that one to death.”
“They let you drop off in Ikea.”
“Really?”
“It’s only a small play area but you can sign them in and sit in the café for a couple of hours.”
“Oh, how wonderful. How old are yours?”
“Fourteen and fifteen, but I had five solid years of playcentre exploration.”
“Fourteen and fifteen?”
“I’ve looked after my brother and sister’s children on and off since then. Thirteen towns, three counties, I’ve covered it all.”
“I meant your age.”
Camila flushed. “Garden centres are good too; they often have little playpens. Then you’ve got the indoor parks at some of the big shopping centres. You’ll know all this though.”
The woman blew out a large puff of air. “Swap?”
“Nope, I’ve done my time and now I need to go.” Standing up straight, Camila glanced at her watch. “Gosh, I really do need to go. Try KidzPlay, next motorway junction down. It has a proper coffee machine.”
“You work here? At H.I.P Marketing? What’s she like?”
“I’ve not met her yet.” Camila stopped herself from getting drawn back to the open window. “I do need to go.” It was going to be so hard to snap out of the �
�I need to chat to everyone’ mentality that had developed over years of child-only interaction. In the beginning when the boys were young there were times she’d only ever talk to the till lady at Tesco. That was until she’d discovered Sure Start centres and a whole breed of women just like her, desperate to talk without rhyming or singing or infantile explanations that were always followed by ‘whys’ and more ‘but whys’. The fact most of the Sure Start activities, for example Rhyme Time, involved both singing and rhyming was by the by; other adults were in the mix and that was all that mattered. Obviously she’d make new friends here and hopefully they’d have better things to discuss than whether or not you should give your child the flu vaccine – which had in actual fact turned out to be one of the more interesting debates they’d had over the years, even though Patricia Goodyear – supermother of triplets – acted like a dictator, demanding they all sign up.
“Did you see her on TV last night?”
Pausing her walk, Camila glanced back. “Harriet?”
“Such an influential woman and so young. Thirty-two with nearly the same number of businesses.”
“What channel?” Maybe she’d have time to watch it on her phone at lunch. Just as it had been essential to keep on top of the dates of the Argos 3-4-2 on toys, and the gossip about teachers from the school PTFA, now it would be essential to know exactly what was what in the world of Harriet Imogen Pearson, entrepreneur. If she was being honest, she’d had no clue the young businesswoman actually owned the posh H.I.P building she passed on the back route to Ikea. Yes, she’d seen Harriet on various business programmes, as instructed by Julie, but she’d not realised the woman actually owned bricks-and-mortar buildings like this one on the industrial estate just outside town, assuming instead that Harriet was simply the reality TV type. “Worth watching?” she asked.
