by Fiona Gibson
FIONA GIBSON
The Mum Who’d Had Enough
Copyright
Published by Avon, an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street,
London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Fiona Gibson 2018
Cover images © Shutterstock
Cover design © Emma Rogers 2018
Fiona Gibson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008157043
Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780008157050
Version 2018-06-21
Dedication
To the wonderful carers at McClymont House
‘Your partner may not be the best person to teach you how to drive. It can be hard to take criticism from someone you love’
From How to be a Confident Driver by Dawn Campion, Motoring Books
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One: Nate
Chapter Two
Chapter Three: Sinead
Chapter Four: Nate
Chapter Five
Chapter Six: Sinead
Chapter Seven: Nate
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten: Sinead
Chapter Eleven: Nate
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen: Sinead
Chapter Fourteen: Nate
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen: Tanzie
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty: Sinead
Chapter Twenty-One: Nate
Chapter Twenty-Two: Sinead
Chapter Twenty-Three: Nate
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six: Sinead
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Nate
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty: Tanzie
Chapter Thirty-One: Sinead
Chapter Thirty-Two: Nate
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five: Tanzie
Chapter Thirty-Six: Nate
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Tanzie
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Sinead
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Flynn
Chapter Forty: Nate
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Nate
It’s Scout who wakes me by licking my face. Scout, the fox terrier we would only adopt as long as he wasn’t allowed on the furniture, and who is now luxuriating, sultan-like, on the king-sized bed.
‘Christ, boy, get off me …’ I flip over to joke with Sinead about waking up being snogged.
The joke will have to wait. Sinead isn’t lying beside me.
Strange; it’s unusual for me to not hear my wife getting up, and these days she’s been getting up all times of the night. She is easily disturbed by nocturnal noises – I really should have set those mousetraps last night – and has been suffering from, I don’t know … anxiety, I guess. Often, I wake up at some ungodly hour and she’s lying there with her eyes wide open, looking tense and afraid. Perhaps it’s hormonal? At forty-three, I think she’s a bit young for the menopause – not that I’m any kind of expert.
I just try to help. Really, I do. I gently suggested she might try herbal supplements – I’d heard Liv at work enthusing about the soothing properties of sage – but Sinead just snapped, ‘I appreciate your handy hints, Nate, but I’m fine, thank-you-very-much!’ Even so, it had been pretty shocking when she announced, a few weeks ago, that she was planning to see a therapist. All I could think of were Woody Allen films and everyone talking about their emotionally abusive mothers, and by all accounts Sinead’s childhood was extremely happy.
Did that mean she wanted to see a therapist because of me?
Having manoeuvred Scout to one side, I check the time on my phone: 6.43 a.m. I climb out of bed and pad quietly out of our bedroom and across the landing, past Flynn’s room.
No need to wake him yet. Our son’s school is on the other side of town and most days Sinead drives him there, even though he can manage the bus no problem and thinks it’s ludicrous that we want to ferry him anywhere at sixteen years old. Flynn has cerebral palsy. While most kids think nothing of it, you get the odd little arsehole who wants to start something, and there were a few bullying incidents on the bus when he was younger. Understandably, his mum still likes to deliver him safely to the door (or at least, around the corner from school, which is the closest he’ll allow). He comes home with his mate Max, who lives two streets away, so that’s fine.
Of course it’s fine. Flynn is virtually an adult. I need to stop thinking of him as our little boy.
More urgently right now, I have a strong desire to find out where my wife is. I check the bathroom – no Sinead – and head downstairs with Scout trotting along at my side.
In the living room, last weekend’s newspapers are still strewn messily across the coffee table. ‘Honey?’ I call out. ‘Where are you?’
No reply. I go through to the kitchen, expecting to find her there, sipping coffee and explaining that she just woke up stupidly early and couldn’t get back to sleep. But there’s only Bella, my mother’s sleek and regal collie, whom we are dog-sitting while Mum scales some Cumbrian mountains with her new bloke. Still dozing in her own basket, Bella wouldn’t dream of jumping onto anyone’s bed. Mum thinks it’s appalling that Scout is allowed onto ours. Judging by her reaction, you’d think we allowed him to sit on the table and lap at our soup.
‘Sinead?’ I call her more loudly this time, then place a hand on the kettle. It’s cold. Detective Nate Turner surmises that his wife has not yet made coffee. I fill it and, as I switch it on, I spot a sheet of lined A4 paper lying on the worktop.
It is entirely covered with my wife’s rather charming, elegant handwriting – albeit a little scrawlier than usual – and looks like some sort of list. A to-do list, I assume, giving it a cursory glance. Sinead is fanatical about writing things down; she reckons it’s the only way she can ‘keep on top of this family’.
I look at the list again, properly this time. At the top of the sheet, she’s written a heading and underlined it several times:
Everything That’s Wrong With You
I frown and stare at it. She can’t mean me. As far as I know, she sat up pretty late last night, probably working her way through that second bottle of Blossom Hill, judging by the empty sitting by the bin. It must be some kind of st
ream-of-consciousness thing, maybe triggered by yesterday’s session with Rachel, her therapist. Although Sinead is loath to tell me what goes on between them, I’d imagine Rachel gives her various mental exercises to do. She probably told Sinead to list all the things she thinks are wrong with herself.
I look down at Scout, who is staring up at me with unblinking brown eyes. ‘Is that what she pays all that money for?’ I ask him, at which he tilts his head. As far as I’m concerned, Sinead is pretty much all-round-brilliant just as she is. I have always believed this, from the night I first spotted her at the All Saints gig in Leeds (we often joke that we wish we could say it was Oasis or Blur) and she was dancing in her vest top and combats, long blonde hair swooshing around her finely boned face. My belief in her wondrousness has only increased over the years.
I look back at the list, suspecting now that I probably shouldn’t even read it, if it’s meant to be part of her therapy …
Unable to resist, I start to read:
You don’t listen to me.
You take me for granted.
You don’t consider my needs …
I frown. Who is this ‘you’ she’s talking about? Surely, it’s not me. Could it be Flynn? No, of course not. The most she ever complains about is the state of his room and his lackadaisical attitude towards homework. So who else could she mean?
I continue to read:
No effort made re us as a couple …
Christ, so it is me! I glance around, half-expecting her to be standing there in the doorway with her arms folded and a bemused look on her face. It’s just a joke, Nate! Can’t you take a joke? Of course she’s not there. I can’t even start to wonder where she is right now. On a walk, probably, although that would be weird at this time in the morning – and doubly weird that she hasn’t taken the dogs with her. She probably just needed to clear her head, I decide. Maybe she had a restless night.
Okay, so this is far from ideal, this list of my apparent shortcomings – but perhaps there’s a positive side to it. At least now I can start to understand why she’s been unhappy lately, and what made her start seeing that Rachel woman in the first place. If it’s about me making more of an effort – well, that’s something I can easily put right.
Trying to ignore the tight ball of anxiety that’s growing inside me, I read on:
You leave too much to me.
You belittle my job and show no interest in it.
No spontaneity in our lives …
Well, this seems a pretty spontaneous gesture, this summary of my crapness, but perhaps she’s been planning to write it for weeks?
Your bloody record collection …
What the hell!? Okay, I have a lot, probably something like a thousand or more, I don’t know – I haven’t counted them since about 1992 – with a definite bias towards Bruce Springsteen, his influencers and contemporaries. However, they are neatly stored in alphabetical order. Is that it? Is she sick of being married to ‘the kind of man who alphabetises his albums’ (as I once heard her remark to her friend Michelle in a somewhat scathing tone, followed by gales of derisive laughter)? No – it can’t be that. No one could object to a superb collection housed on custom-built shelves …
Your terrible attempts at DIY …
… If I say so myself, I’m pretty handy with my Black and Decker Combi cordless drill!
… and your blank refusal to get the professionals in.
Yes, to save us a fortune!
Handing me a wodge of tenners to buy my own Christmas present …
… I had no idea she was mad about that. I’d just assumed it was the most practical solution, given that I’d apparently ballsed it up on her last birthday with what she termed ‘that terrible skirt’ (i.e., the leopard print one I’d thought she’d look wonderful in).
Woolly boundaries re Flynn …
Ah, so now we’re getting to the nub of things: my ineffectiveness as a father. Clearly, I am a disaster as a human being—
‘Dad.’
I mean, what kind of boundaries is she talking about?
‘DAD!’
My head flicks round. ‘Flynn! Hi.’ I scrunch the note in my fist, like a teenager caught in class with an obscene drawing of his naked French teacher.
‘What’s that?’ Flynn peers at me through uncombed, wavy light brown hair. He is wearing the baggy grey T-shirt and black tracksuit bottoms he insists on for bed (proper PJs having long been deemed unacceptable).
‘What’s what?’ I ask in a weirdly high voice.
‘That thing there.’
‘Oh, just a bit of scrap paper …’ I sense myself sweating and tighten my grip.
‘Can I see it?’ His gaze seems to bore into my skull.
‘No!’ I shout, cheeks blazing.
‘All right! God, Dad …’ He blows out air and shakes his head in bafflement.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter. ‘Sorry, Flynn. I’m just a bit, um …’ I tail off as he opens the fridge.
‘Something smells bad in here,’ he observes, taking out the orange juice carton and swigging from it.
I clear my throat, deciding I must dispose of Sinead’s note while our son’s back is turned, which probably gives me about three seconds. My immediate options appear to be a) eat it or b) conceal it. I opt for stuffing it into my pyjama pocket.
‘Dad, I said something smells.’ He bangs the fridge door shut and glowers at me, as if I might be the source.
‘I think it’s Scout,’ I say quickly. ‘If that’s the smell you mean, it’s been happening more often since we bought the liver-flavoured food. I think we should go back to chicken …’
Flynn nods, and for a brief moment I think, well, I can’t be a complete disaster as, somehow, I have managed to resume an air of relative normality despite Sinead’s note and apparent disappearance.
‘Where’s Mum?’ he asks, pulling the lid off the cookie jar and grabbing a fistful of biscuits.
‘Er …’ I look around, as if it has only just occurred to me to ponder her whereabouts. ‘She must’ve popped out.’
‘Popped out? Popped out where?’
‘Er, to the shop, probably. Maybe for bread.’
Flynn eyes me suspiciously. I have always been a terribly unconvincing liar. ‘So, is she taking me to school?’
‘Erm, I’m not sure, but don’t worry. If she’s not back in time, I’ll do it.’
He frowns. ‘Aren’t you going to work?’
‘It doesn’t matter if I’m a bit late,’ I fib. In fact, I’m due to start at 8.30 a.m., and my timekeeping is normally impeccable – because no one wants to be kept waiting for their driving test. That’s my job. I am a driving examiner, possibly one of the most derided professions on earth, which requires me to be on high alert for the minor and major faults of the general public. Right now, my alleged faults are causing a curious bulge in the breast pocket of my pyjamas.
‘I’ll just get the bus,’ Flynn remarks, posting an entire Oreo into his mouth.
‘No, no, I’ll drive you.’
He munches his substandard breakfast, his attention caught by my lumpy pocket. I clamp a hand over it. ‘Dad … are you … all right?’
‘Of course I am. Why?’
‘Have you got, like, a pain or something?’
‘No …’
‘It’s just, you’re clutching at your heart like that …’
I whip my hand away. ‘I’m fine. Absolutely fine. Anyway, we’d better get ready,’ I add briskly, establishing a firm boundary right there, ‘or we’re going to be late. You have a shower first …’
‘Yeah, okay, Dad,’ Flynn says carefully, addressing me now as if I am a confused and vulnerable adult he’s found wandering about in his nightwear.
With Sinead missing, and her bizarre note stuffed in my pocket, it feels like a pretty accurate description right now.
Chapter Two
The trouble with being left a note like that is that you need time to figure out what the hell’s going on. Ideally, you al
so want access to the person who wrote it to see if they really meant it, or just lost their mind temporarily.
I mean, my record collection! Is it Springsteen that’s tipped her over the edge? One too many playings of Born to Run? I need to know as a matter of urgency, but it seems that Sinead’s phone is turned off.
The other trouble with this whole list business is that real life must continue, which means putting on a great show of everything being normal. It’s 7.46 on a bleary Thursday morning, and our son must still go to school, even if he does have a selfish incompetent father, and I need to go to work – plus, obviously, track down my wife.
While Flynn showers, I try to keep calm and not overreact, and only call her mobile eleven times.
Hi, you’ve reached Sinead. Please leave your number and I’ll call you right back …
Such a warm, cheery voice, husky with a soft Yorkshire lilt; the voice of a woman who has always embraced life, who has reams of friends – from childhood and her art school days, and even more through being Flynn’s mum. Everyone knows her as being supremely capable, great fun, delightful company and, of course, a fantastic mother. We’d have had more babies – a whole gang – if we’d managed to conceive after having Flynn, but it only happened once. Sinead miscarried at ten weeks, when Flynn was three, and after that it just didn’t happen at all. We’re not really into ‘signs’, the two of us, but we consoled ourselves that this was probably nature’s way of urging us to count our blessings and focus fully on our son. So we didn’t go down the IVF route. Our friend Abby did, and she reckons the stress and disappointment killed off her marriage. Plus, with Flynn’s condition, Sinead and I spent enough time in clinics and hospitals as it was.
