Bad Mother's Holiday - Hilarious Summer Holiday Reading!

by Suzy K Quinn

  On the shuttle ferry to shore, Alex and I still weren’t talking. Then Alex spoke fluent French to the gangway attendant, and I momentarily forgot I was angry with him.

  ‘You speak French?’ I asked.

  ‘Oui,’ Alex replied, with a wry smile. Then he told me that, as a boy, he’d briefly attended a French prep school on St Barts – the island he’d recently been stranded on.

  ‘I learned to speak French quickly there,’ Alex explained. ‘Because the boys beat the living daylights out of anyone who didn’t.’

  ‘You were always such clever boys,’ said Catrina, with a fond smile.

  Sunday 18th March

  Final port today.

  Rome.

  Can’t believe time has passed so quickly.

  Am taking Mum’s advice and trying to appreciate this trip and have a nice time.

  Life is too short to be grumpy with Alex, so have softened a little. I’m sure he had good, if misguided, reasons for booking his suite so far away.

  We dock in Rome at midday, and I’ve accepted Alex’s kind offer to take me for an Italian lunch.

  Catrina isn’t doing so well, so will probably stay on board. She had a panic attack this morning when the breakfast buffet ran out of smoked salmon and was taken to the luxurious medical bay to calm down.

  I think the staff there are quite used to glamorous, elderly attention seekers. They knew just what to do, wrapping Catrina in a blue cashmere blanket and offering a small Italian sherry in a crystal glass ‘for the stress’. Then they popped Catrina in a wheelchair and rolled her out on deck to watch Rome appearing on the horizon.

  Catrina seemed happy enough when Alex and I came to check on her. The staff had left the sherry bottle on a little fold-out table by her wheelchair.

  ‘I should rest here,’ Catrina told us, refilling her sherry glass. ‘I’ve seen Rome a hundred times. There’s nothing new for me. All the olive oil and tiny little glasses of wine. It’s as exciting as a kiss to a dead person. I’ll let the medical staff take care of me.’

  Personally, I’m looking forward to Rome. I’ve never been there before, and am expecting sun-baked streets, pinky-yellow buildings and endless flavours of whipped gelato.

  Alex wants to take me for a ‘real’ Italian pizza when we dock. He patronisingly asked if I’d ever had pizza from a wood-burning oven before. Explained, in stern tones, that of course I had.

  At Pizza Express.

  Afternoon

  Lovely day.

  Rome was beautiful, and Alex was the perfect gentleman – protecting me from the mopeds that routinely shot out of alleyways.

  We both threw coins in the Trevi Fountain, so tradition says we’ll be back again one day.

  Then we had lunch.

  Had to concede Alex was right about the pizza – it was ‘vastly superior’ to my numerous Pizza Express experiences.

  Ate chocolate gelato for dessert. Then pistachio gelato, as we passed the Vatican. Tried strawberry gelato by the Colosseum, and finally Ferrero Rocher flavour by the Trevi Fountain.

  All very good.

  On the way back to the ship, we passed a beautiful Italian boutique.

  Alex asked if I wanted to choose a dress for dinner. Got embarrassed and mumbled no thank you, I’m fine.

  Alex cut through this with a curt, ‘Stop being so British.’

  Relented, and tried on a stunning silver dress that flowed like water. Alex said he’d buy it for me, but I refused when I saw the price tag.

  Five hundred and fifty euros!

  You could buy twenty dresses for that at Top Shop.

  Evening

  Alex bought me the dress.

  I think he must have sent Emmanuelle out for it while we were having afternoon cocktails.

  I wondered why Alex was so insistent I go back to my room and ‘change for dinner’. In fact, it almost started an argument, because I thought my white summer dress and wedge shoes were perfectly fine.

  Eventually, Alex persuaded me to ‘at least get some warm clothing’. So I went back to the cabin, and there on the bed was the silver dress and a dripping real-diamond necklace.

  Felt very taken care of and special.

  While I was in the suite, I phoned home to check on Daisy.

  Mum answered.

  ‘Can I talk to Daisy?’ I asked.

  ‘Not right now,’ said Mum. ‘She’s downstairs working in the pub.’

  ‘Working in the pub?’ I said. ‘How is she working in the pub?’

  ‘Oh, just wiping a few tables and putting the snacks out,’ said Mum. ‘Many hands make light work.’

  Mum pushed aside my complaints of child exploitation, saying that Daisy was well paid.

  ‘How is she being paid?’ I demanded.

  ‘She can have any flavour of crisps she wants,’ said Mum.

  Eventually persuaded Mum to go downstairs and get Daisy.

  After much complaining, and huffing and puffing down the stairs, Mum put Daisy on.

  ‘Mummy shit!’ said Daisy.

  Was momentarily confused. Then realised she meant, ‘ship’.

  ‘Yes, Mummy on ship,’ I said. ‘Home tomorrow.’

  ‘Good Mummy. Miss Mummy.’

  ‘I miss you too!’ I said, delighted by the unprompted show of sentiment.

  ‘And I miss Callum,’ Daisy continued. ‘He at school now. And I miss red rabbit shoes.’

  Late evening

  Lovely night.

  Catrina went to bed early with a migraine and a bottle of Dom Perignon, so Alex and I had dinner alone.

  It was magical.

  I wore the silver dress, and Alex said I looked, ‘Unbelievably beautiful’. He suggested a seafood restaurant for our final night, so we had lobster and champagne and watched the sun set over Rome.

  An orchestra played while we ate (it made me think a little of the Titanic sinking, but I tried to put that out of my mind), so Alex and I listened to beautiful music and talked about nothing in particular.

  The VERY best part of the evening was the late-night bridge game.

  I thrashed every elderly person on the ship AND ultra-competitive Alex.

  Glad I had those sessions with Nana Joan. Her memory palace technique really paid off.

  Alex didn’t come back to the suite with me. I suppose it would have been a bit strange, with his mother snoring next door. Or possibly he was bitter about being thrashed at cards. But it was our last night. Was sort of hoping for some kind of romantic action.

  I guess, after all that miscarriage stuff, there’s no hurry.

  Monday 19th March

  Flight home today.

  Travelled first class, which was an experience.

  I wish someone had told me everyone dresses up to travel first class. It was like a private members’ club, with everyone in suits and other modes of formal dress.

  My comfy travel sweats were very out of place.

  Alex suggested ‘the ladies’ (Catrina and I) sit together, while he caught up on business. Was annoyed about that, but couldn’t very well say so with Catrina right behind me.

  Luckily, Catrina took a sleeping pill, pulled on a Burberry eye-mask and conked out in the seat beside me, so I got to enjoy the luxurious first-class experience without her paranoid ramblings about plane crashes.

  I’ve become rather fond of Catrina on this trip. Yes, she’s a little crazy, but so are my family. And she actually complimented my curly hair today, saying I looked like ‘a young Jane Fonda, from when perms were popular’.

  Afternoon

  Home!

  Ran into Mum and Dad’s living room, arms outstretched for Daisy to run into.

  Daisy eyed me warily. Then she said, ‘Messy hair, Mummy. I get brush.’

  It’s true what Dad says. Kids live in the moment.

  Evening

  Just rang Alex to reminisce about the cruise.

  He said, ‘I don’t want to speak to you.’ Then he hung up.

  Phoned him back, but he d
idn’t answer.

  Have sent texts, asking what’s wrong, but he hasn’t replied.

  What on earth is going on?

  Have a sickly feeling in my stomach.

  Tuesday 20th March

  Have texted and called Alex so many times now.

  He won’t answer.

  Even rang Catrina Dalton, but she didn’t answer.

  Phoned Laura to ask if Zach knows anything, but he doesn’t. Laura said she’d find out what she could, but advised me to keep busy in the meantime.

  ‘Don’t drive yourself crazy asking questions only Alex can answer,’ Laura advised. ‘I’m sure he’ll be in touch soon. Just be patient. It’s probably a simple misunderstanding.’

  Decided to spring clean the cottage to take my mind off things, but it turned out to be impossible with Daisy trailing behind me, messing everything up.

  In the end, I cracked and asked John Boy the questions only Alex can answer.

  ‘What’s going on? Why is Alex doing this? Why isn’t he taking my calls? What could I have done?’

  John Boy wasn’t much help, saying Alex was beyond his male understanding.

  ‘Usually blokes say what they mean,’ he reasoned. ‘But this is what girls do – go off in huffs and expect you to figure it out. And I don’t understand girls.’

  Wednesday 21st March

  Shift at the pub last night.

  Asked anyone who would listen about Alex, but the regulars soon got sick of me painting a hundred different scenarios.

  In the end, I got so desperate that I talked to Yorkie. This was a silly thing to do, because everyone knows Yorkie stops making sense at eight o’clock.

  Yorkie asked if I wanted Alex’s kneecaps broken.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I just want answers.’

  ‘If I break his knee caps, he’ll give me answers,’ Yorkie reasoned.

  It was the most sense he’d made all evening.

  Thursday 22nd March

  Still nothing from Alex.

  Quite angry now. He could at least have the decency to tell me what’s going on. It’s torturous, being shut out like this.

  Am trying to take my mind off things by enjoying time with Daisy. She’s such a funny little thing. Callum has taught her a new song:

  Old Macdonald had a bum, ee ai ee ai ooh.

  And from that bum he did a poo, ee ai ee ai ooh.

  To be fair, it’s a fairly sophisticated lyrical construction for Callum, who usually sticks to straightforward swearing in his songs – the Callum classic ‘bugger bugger poo poo’ being one such example.

  Friday 23rd March

  Tried to talk to John Boy about Alex today.

  John Boy refused at first, saying he was fed up of me ‘banging on about that posh twat’. But he reluctantly agreed when I offered him chocolate marshmallow biscuits and a four-sugar cup of tea.

  By John Boy’s third chocolate marshmallow biscuit, he had an idea: ‘Why don’t you turn up somewhere you know Alex will be? Then he’ll have to give you answers.’

  ‘We move in pretty different social circles,’ I said. ‘We’re not likely to bump into each other.’

  ‘So how did you meet in the first place?’ John Boy asked.

  ‘In the woods as kids,’ I said. ‘But I doubt Alex hangs out in the woods any more. Unless he’s weirder than I thought.’

  Then I remembered something.

  ‘Alex goes to Westminster Cathedral with his mother,’ I said. ‘Quite often, I think. Certainly for major services.’

  ‘There you go then,’ said John Boy. ‘Just hang around outside one Sunday and wait to bump into him.’

  ‘I’d feel like I was stalking him,’ I said. ‘There’s no excuse for me hanging around Westminster Cathedral. I’ve got atheist written all over me.’

  ‘What else can you do, if he’s not returning your calls?’ said John Boy. ‘If heaven is worth fighting for, you’ve got to fight, fight, fight for this love.’

  Have decided to follow John Boy and Cheryl Cole’s advice and become a psycho stalker.

  But not this Sunday.

  Need to work up the courage, which could take a few weeks. And maybe Alex will have phoned by then.

  Afternoon

  Visited Althea in London this afternoon.

  Wolfgang was having a full-on tantrum when we arrived. The tantrum was so bad that Althea had shut Wolfgang in his bedroom – something she rarely does, because it often means replacing the bedroom door.

  Asked what the tantrum was about.

  ‘He’s upset because I recycled the horrible sexist Action Man his dad gave him,’ said Althea. ‘But attachment is the root of all suffering. Life is change. I told him to meditate and get over it.’

  From upstairs I heard an ungodly howl, followed by a thump, ring! Thump ring!

  Althea said Wolfgang was pounding his Buddhist prayer bowl against the wall.

  We talked about Alex, but Althea was dismissive, telling me to let go and move on.

  ‘You don’t need that hot and cold shit,’ she said. ‘Kick him to the curb and find a nice, vegan man.’

  But I really do want to find out what’s going on.

  Surely this is all some simple misunderstanding.

  Saturday 24th March

  Dropped Daisy off at Nick’s house today for his visitation.

  ‘You will make sure she gets a healthy lunch, won’t you?’ I asked. ‘She’s been at Mum and Dad’s house a lot, so she’s eaten loads of crap.’

  Nick said he had a homemade asparagus quiche in the oven.

  Backtracked then, knowing Daisy doesn’t eat stuff like that. ‘I mean, you can bend the healthy eating rule a bit,’ I said. ‘If she’s really hungry. Don’t let her get really hungry.’

  Nick told me to stop being ‘so controlling’.

  I tentatively asked if Sadie had moved back in since the Tiny Tumbles episode. Nick said no – he doesn’t know where she is but suspects she’s staying with her mother in Southampton.

  That’s around 200 miles away.

  Which is excellent.

  Sunday 25th March

  Horrible day.

  SADIE was at Nick’s house when I picked up Daisy.

  I could hear her banshee screeching, ‘WHERE THE FUCK IS MY VIVIEN WESTWOOD FEDORA!’ as I walked up the garden path.

  Felt sick to my stomach.

  Pounded on the stained-glass door and banshee screeched back, ‘DAISY! DAISY! MUMMY’S HERE! NICK, BRING ME MY DAUGHTER THIS INSTANT!’

  Nick opened the door, looking flustered.

  ‘Sadie came back last night,’ he said, in a terse whisper. ‘Don’t blame me. I’m a victim in all this.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I shouted. ‘I would have come and picked up Daisy.’

  ‘I didn’t want to wake Daisy up,’ Nick wheedled. ‘And we’ve had fun this morning, the dynamic duo. We made pancakes. Sadie only got up half an hour ago.’

  ‘I don’t want Sadie’s craziness around Daisy,’ I bellowed, storming into the house and lifting a bewildered Daisy from the breakfast bar. ‘Where’s her coat? And why is she only wearing one shoe?’

  Spent an awkward five minutes waiting, while Nick hunted for Daisy’s other red rabbit shoe. He finally found it, soaking wet, under a flowerpot in the garden.

  ‘Think about Daisy,’ I said. ‘She shouldn’t be around this craziness.’

  ‘You can talk,’ said Nick. ‘Have you been round your parents’ house lately?’

  ‘My parents love Daisy,’ I said. ‘Sadie doesn’t love anyone but herself.’

  Nick got all puffed up then. ‘Legally, I can have anyone I want here. So don’t make a big fuss, yeah? We don’t want to end up back in court.’

  Monday 26th March

  Spoke to Laura, re: Sadie being at Nick’s house and the legal side of things.

  It’s true.

  Nick can have over whoever he wants while Daisy is there, as long as they haven’t been convicted of a sexual or violent offen
ce.

  Laura hadn’t heard anything about Alex. Zach was ‘completely in the dark’, and Catrina Dalton doesn’t know anything either.

  Phoned Mum on the way home and told her how upset I felt – both about the Sadie situation and the continued radio silence from Alex.

  Mum asked if I wanted to come round for a glass of wine.

  Thought this was an odd comment, because Mum usually offers me Guinness, or a shot of whatever random liquor isn’t selling well at the pub.

  It turns out Mum has joined a wine club. She’s bought herself a huge balloon glass that fits a whole bottle of wine and is having twelve ‘carefully selected vintages’ delivered to the pub every month.

  Warned Mum about diabetes and excessive alcohol, but she’s convinced red wine is some sort of health drink – citing Dr Slaughter as a reference.

  It is typical of Mum to pick and choose Dr Slaughter’s words of wisdom. He’s told her to reduce salt and sugar, eat more vegetables and switch to decaffeinated coffee – none of which she’s done. But the dubious alcohol advice she chooses to take on board.

  I’ve never met a doctor who doesn’t drink, yet they’re the ones who commission all the ‘a glass of wine is good’ studies.

  Tuesday 27th March

  Daisy had a nightmare last night and came into my room. She was a ghostly, shadowy figure at the end of my bed, breathing like Darth Vader.

  Nearly screamed the house down, but managed to hold it together and only shrieked: ‘Jesus fucking Christ, what is THAT!’

  John Boy came hopping into the room with no shirt on, wielding his metal leg as a weapon.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I told him. ‘It’s just Daisy.’

  John Boy hopped back to his room. Ten seconds later I heard snoring.

  Quite impressive how John Boy can go from ‘ready to fight’ to ‘fast asleep’ within ten seconds. I suppose it’s all his army experiences.