Bad Mother's Holiday - Hilarious Summer Holiday Reading!

by Suzy K Quinn

  I was left in a tricky moral position.

  I don’t agree with private medicine. Everyone should get decent, free healthcare, and I wholeheartedly support the NHS. However, I really did want another scan, just in case, and wanted to know more about why I had the bleed.

  Decided I couldn’t fix the under-resourced NHS overnight, so accepted Alex’s offer.

  When it comes to your children, morals go out the window.

  Outside the hospital, Alex and I stood for ages by the little duck pond, looking into each other’s eyes.

  ‘I’m so relieved,’ he kept saying. ‘So relieved.’

  It was the first time I realised how much this baby meant to him.

  Friday 9th February

  Shopping with Catrina today.

  We met at Sloane Square tube station.

  Catrina was late, complaining about parking and ‘arseholes’.

  Despite the cold weather, Catrina had no coat. She wore tight white trousers, a black suit jacket with a red carnation in the buttonhole and carried a giant Gucci bucket bag over her arm.

  The plastic surgery bandage was gone, replaced with a sleek, blonde-grey pleat, but Catrina’s skin looked uncomfortably taut. She kissed me elaborately on both cheeks, leaving traces of perfume.

  ‘It’s been so long since I went on a girls’ shopping trip,’ Catrina gushed. Then she linked arms with me and talked about the deterioration of Sloane Square.

  ‘All these tourists, darling. It wasn’t like this before. You must be careful. We should stay close together.’

  The shop assistants all knew Catrina.

  ‘Some of these places would have closed down without me,’ Catrina joked. ‘I tell you, they are happy as a monkey about its tail when I visit.’

  One white-blonde store assistant pulled Catrina into a cheek-kissing hug, declaring: ‘I’m telling you, I love this woman.’

  Catrina gushed, ‘Zank you, zank you.’

  ‘Just don’t slap me today,’ the shop assistant laughed.

  ‘Oh no, darling. Not today.’ Catrina led me to a rail of navy and white stripped dresses. ‘A Breton stripe would be fun. Don’t you think?’

  ‘They’re lovely dresses,’ I said. ‘But they’re too fitted. I’m going to be as big as a cow soon.’

  Catrina blinked. ‘Surely you’re not planning to put on weight?’

  ‘It’s sort of unavoidable,’ I said. ‘Because I’m pregnant.’

  Catrina gave a gay little laugh. ‘Of course you are. I’d forgotten.’ She waved the assistant over. ‘We need maternity clothes. A dreadful time for fashion. I burned all mine once the babies came. You know, when I first came to London, I had no idea how to dress. I used to make my own clothes. Can you imagine?’

  After holding various maternity outfits over my body, Catrina and the assistant shooed me into the dressing room.

  The outfit I liked most was a black-and-white striped top teamed with black suit-jacket and maternity trousers. It was very smart. The sort of thing I’d usually wear to a job interview.

  Catrina and the shop assistant gushed when I came out of the fitting room.

  ‘Beautiful. Beautiful.’

  ‘Those clothes will grow with you,’ said the assistant, tugging at hems. ‘The fabric will last and last – you could wear this outfit after the pregnancy.’

  ‘Trust me, darling,’ Catrina laughed. ‘You will not want to wear any old maternity clothes once the baby comes out.’

  After a few more shops, Catrina suggested a cocktail.

  ‘It’s only eleven o’clock,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Catrina, checking her diamond-encrusted Rolex. ‘We’re late.’

  We drove to the Mayfair Dalton in Catrina’s white Mercedes.

  Catrina ordered us both Martinis (I reinstructed the waiter – asking for a Diet Coke), drank hers within five minutes, then veered wildly from topic to topic, covering restaurants in Paris, the legal profession, Spanish men, house prices in Kensington and Alex’s father.

  Quite a bit of the time, I wasn’t sure what Catrina was talking about. Her slight drunkenness, Hungarian accent and random conversation points made things confusing.

  ‘So Alex will want you in London when the baby comes,’ said Catrina, swerving topics again. ‘Playing the good wife.’

  ‘He keeps asking me to move to London,’ I said, relieved to participate in the conversation. ‘But it’s not right for Daisy. I like Great Oakley. I like being near my family.’

  Catrina laughed long and loud, showing several gold fillings. ‘How funny! Alex won’t want to be a little country mouse. So you’ll live apart, then? A lot of people do these days, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m hoping Alex will move back to Great Oakley. To the family estate.’

  ‘Don’t count on it, darling,’ said Catrina. ‘I counted on a lot with Alex’s father. You know, he didn’t even share a bedroom with me. Imagine that! He’d visit my bedroom, finish his business, then leave. And you know, I became Catholic for him. My parents were proud Jews. They suffered so much during World War II, but never gave up their way of life. For me to abandon my upbringing, my beliefs … it was a great sacrifice. Harold never understood. Never.’

  After another hour and two more martinis for Catrina, a waiter said, ‘Ms Dalton. We have a car ready to take you home.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Catrina. ‘I have my own car.’

  ‘But Ms Dalton,’ the waiter whispered, ‘If you’re stopped under the influence again, you could face a custodial sentence.

  ‘I wasn’t even drunk that time,’ Catrina shouted. ‘Only one martini and a little champagne. That policeman was making a name for himself.’

  ‘We’ll have a staff member drive your car back,’ said the waiter. Then he took Catrina’s arm and helped her stagger outside.

  I sat for a moment, not quite sure what to do. After a while, I picked up my shopping bags and headed home.

  On the train back, I phoned Alex.

  ‘How was it?’ he asked.

  ‘It was fine. But your mother had three cocktails before lunch.’

  Silence.

  Then Alex said, ‘Where?’

  ‘The Mayfair Dalton.’

  ‘I’ll talk to the staff there. They should know not to give her more than two Martinis.’

  Alex asked if I had time for a quick lunch with him, but I was already on the train home.

  I didn’t say it out loud, but I’d had enough of Daltons for one day.

  Saturday 10th February

  Nick’s visitation day.

  He picked up Daisy at 9am in his Volvo.

  I still find it an odd juxtaposition – a forty-something bearded hipster at the wheel of such a sensible car.

  I was wearing my new, smart maternity outfit, and Nick said, ‘Why are you dressed like the Duchess of Cambridge? You don’t suit all that stuff, Julesy. That life isn’t you.’

  ‘Well you don’t suit that Volvo,’ I fired back. ‘You look like you’ve carjacked an elderly German couple.’

  Nick said that Volvos were ‘ironic cool for dads in the know’.

  He’s such a pretentious dickhead.

  Sunday 11th February

  It rained all day today.

  SOOO bored.

  Daisy and I have been stuck inside watching In the Night Garden.

  Do the Haahoos ever do anything? What is their purpose, except going to sleep?

  Alex rang after lunch. He’s got us an appointment with his private maternity specialist on Wednesday.

  After Alex had given me the date and time, he demanded to know what all the noise was in the background.

  I explained that John Boy and Daisy were pretending to be Formula One cars.

  ‘And you won’t live in London because you say it’s too noisy,’ said Alex.

  I could feel his raised eyebrow 50 miles away.

  Monday 12th February

  Just phoned the bank to find out why my new card hasn’t arrived.
r />   Went through loads of security.

  Tried to give my surname and postcode using the phonetic alphabet (A for Alpha, B for Beta), but don’t really know the phonetic alphabet and inserted random words: ‘Hotel, biscuit three, one, telly, unicorn.’

  The bank told me my new card hadn’t been printed yet.

  ‘But I could have fitted a kitchen by now!’ I exclaimed.

  The call handler asked what kitchens had to do with bankcards.

  Tuesday 13th February

  Althea has blown her pension pot on art.

  She’s just come back from a Buddhist retreat with Wolfgang and is trying to live in the moment.

  I was shocked – not about Althea buying art, but about her having a pension.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘When I was working at the Tate Modern they signed me up for one. Wolfgang’s Dad thinks I should hang onto it, but life is about living, not overthinking the future. I could die tomorrow and Wolfgang would never get to enjoy that graffiti portrait of David Bowie.’

  Wednesday 14th February

  Valentine’s Day

  Saw Alex’s maternity specialist today.

  Can’t stop crying.

  Dr Snape couldn’t find a heartbeat.

  Alex and I walked into the consultation a happy couple, excited (if a little nervous) about the future, just ‘playing it safe’ and ‘checking up’ on things.

  We walked out like zombies.

  Alex raged about the NHS scan not picking it up, but Dr Rupert Snape said the baby must have been fine during the previous scan, because heart-rate monitors don’t lie. He couldn’t tell me why the baby had ‘failed to thrive’ since then, but assured us that the previous midwife did all the right things.

  ‘Many women do bleed in early pregnancy,’ he confirmed. ‘It needn’t be a cause for alarm.’

  Dr Snape says I’ll have a period in the next few days or weeks and ‘pass’ the baby.

  If I don’t, I should come back in for a forced evacuation.

  It was hard to take anything in.

  I’m still in shock.

  Outside the clinic, Alex held me for the longest time.

  I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t.

  Alex convinced me that Daisy should stay with Mum and Dad for the rest of the day – just while I get my head around the news. Then he drove me home, led me up to my bedroom and suggested a little rest.

  Feel numb and weird.

  Part of me thinks the maternity specialist could be wrong.

  I still feel pregnant.

  Had missed calls from Althea, Laura and Brandi, all wanting to know how the consultation went.

  Mum and Dad haven’t called – I suppose Alex must have told them what happened.

  Alex stayed the whole afternoon, right by my side, frowning and staring out the window.

  When the light began to fade, neither of us turned on the light.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked him, at one point.

  ‘Devastated,’ said Alex.

  ‘Well, there’s no reason to marry me now,’ I said. ‘You got off scot-free.’

  ‘Juliette, that’s not funny,’ said Alex.

  And I shut up, because he was right.

  John Boy came back just before tea and shouted up the stairs, ‘Julesy? Do you and Daisy want half a doner kebab? I couldn’t finish it.’

  Alex cantered downstairs and said, ‘John. If you wouldn’t mind keeping your voice down. Juliette isn’t feeling well.’

  ‘Has she got diarrhoea?’ I heard John Boy ask.

  ‘No,’ Alex snapped. ‘She hasn’t got diarrhoea.’

  ‘If she ate the frankfurters I left in the fridge … Jules, DID YOU EAT ONE OF THOSE FRANKFURTERS?’

  ‘She doesn’t have diarrhoea,’ Alex barked. Then he jogged back upstairs and informed me he was going to the village deli to buy nourishing foods.

  When Alex left, John Boy knocked softly on my door.

  ‘Julesy?’ he asked. ‘Everything alright?’

  I shook my head and started crying.

  John Boy sat on the bed. ‘Is it something to do with the baby?’ He acts stupid sometimes, but John Boy can be very perceptive.

  I nodded.

  John Boy gave me a nice, brotherly hug, then fetched a stack of Walking Dead comics and a cup of sugary tea.

  After John Boy had closed the curtains, he phoned Mum and Dad.

  ‘Jules has had a bit of an upset,’ he whispered. ‘She needs peace and quiet. It might be best if Daisy stays with you for the night.’

  I heard Mum screech something down the phone, and then John Boy reply that people in shock needed quiet voices and no bright colours.

  When Alex came back, John Boy was attempting to soothe me by playing lullabies through his tinny phone speaker.

  Alex snapped, ‘Turn that noise off. Juliette needs to rest.’

  ‘Shush,’ said John Boy. ‘When someone is in shock, you mustn’t startle them.’

  ‘Please leave Juliette’s bedroom,’ Alex demanded. ‘I’m looking after her. This is nothing to do with you.’

  At that point, I lost my temper.

  ‘Alex, don’t start bossing him around. He’s trying to help.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Alex. ‘I’ll go then, shall I? If you have all the help you need.’

  ‘Yes. Fine. Go. You always do.’

  ‘You really want me to go?’

  ‘Yes. Actually I do.’

  And he went.

  Thursday 15th February

  The tears came today.

  I should have rested more. I drank too much at Christmas. I ate all that yellow food.

  What if Dr Rupert Snape got it wrong?

  Googled variants of ‘wrong diagnosis miscarriage’. But when I went to the toilet, more blood came out.

  Came downstairs to find John Boy and Brandi talking in hushed voices at the breakfast bar.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked Brandi. ‘Where’s Callum?’

  ‘He’s with Mum and Dad,’ said Brandi. ‘I came over to see how you’re doing. I’m so sorry Jules.’

  Brandi had a miscarriage four years ago – a few years after Callum was born. It sort of worked out for the best, because her boyfriend went to prison soon afterwards.

  ‘I just feel so guilty,’ I said. ‘I drank all that prosecco on Christmas day.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself,’ said Brandi. ‘Miscarriages are really common.’

  But I do blame myself.

  Who else am I going to blame?

  Afternoon

  Just picked Daisy up from the pub.

  Mum and Dad offered to drop her off, but I needed to get some fresh air.

  ‘The lord giveth and the lord taketh away,’ said Dad.

  ‘I’ve put two tequila bottles in the shopping basket under Daisy’s pram,’ Mum whispered. ‘Get drunk and have a good cry.’ Then she told me about her own miscarriage – the one she had before Brandi was born.

  ‘They’re very common, love,’ she said. ‘One in four pregnancies.’

  On the way home, Daisy started chattering about her new brother or sister.

  How do you explain miscarriage to a two-year-old?

  I said there had been a problem and the baby wouldn’t be coming after all.

  Daisy asked if it was because of ‘sodding Royal Mail’.

  I wish Mum wouldn’t swear so much – two-year-olds pick up everything.

  Friday 16th February

  More bleeding today – the last of everything, I think.

  Apologised to the toilet, like a lunatic.

  So, so sad.

  Daisy seems oblivious. She’s her usual, happy two-year old self, chattering away, asking why I’m spending so long in the toilet, and if I’m doing ‘a big poo’.

  Laura came for an unexpected visit after lunch, which was nice.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Laura, giving me a lovely big sister hug. Then she told me that she’d had a miscarriage before she met Zach.


  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I asked.

  ‘I felt okay about it,’ said Laura. ‘I wasn’t ready to have a baby. The timing was wrong.’

  Wondered if there is anyone I know who hasn’t had a miscarriage.

  Phoned Althea. She said yes – she’d had a miscarriage at university. She and her boyfriend had a spiritual ceremony in the park and buried the little Ewok Babygro she’d bought.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I asked.

  ‘It wasn’t a big deal,’ said Althea. ‘It’s nature, isn’t it? I don’t tell you every time I do a shit. Anyway, people get really awkward when you talk about miscarriage. It’s the last taboo. Maybe you should post something on Facebook. Shake up the establishment a bit.’

  Meant to have an early night, but ended up lying awake in bed, googling ‘reasons for miscarriage.’

  Just before I fell asleep, John Boy knocked on the door. He held a snarling, scratching Sambuca in his arms.

  ‘I found him meowing at the back door,’ said John Boy, swerving to avoid claws. ‘What should I do with him? Carry him back to the pub?’

  Sambuca leapt out of John Boy’s arms and jumped onto my bed. Then he curled up and fell asleep on my lap.

  He’s still sleeping there now.

  It’s annoying, because I really need the toilet.

  Writing my diary is difficult too. Any sudden movements cause Sambuca to scratch and spit.

  It’s like holding a pan of sausages in your lap.

  Have three missed calls from Alex.

  Haven’t phoned him back.

  Saturday 17th February

  Agreed that Nick could have Daisy this weekend, due to my highly emotional state.

  Nick has just left, promising Daisy all sorts of crafts and baking.

  I hope Daisy doesn’t become used to Nick’s try-hard parenting and expect me to lay on activities.

  Very hormonal today.

  I think it’s something to do with my body readjusting – that’s what all the websites say.

  All I know is I feel fat, needy and a bit depressed.

  Cracked and phoned Alex, because I needed to share the sadness in my soul.