by Fiona Gibson
Simone regards me with striking blue eyes. Everything about her – the flawless skin, perfect nails, the fact that she looks around 500 years younger than I do – screams ‘child-free’. ‘You know what I think?’ she says, raising an eyebrow. ‘I reckon they’re just friends and that’s all there is to it. Maybe he’s just enjoying hanging out with a woman. You know – having a female friend instead of just the guys from football and school. Good for the ego and all that.’
‘Yes but—’ I stop myself. Simone’s probably right, and what’s wrong with having a close friend of the opposite sex? I used to, at school and college and in suburban hair salons on the fringes of North London. But they all drifted into relationships, as I did, and since we left London four years ago, we seem to have lost touch. I’ve never made any new male friends to replace them.
‘Know what you and Jed need?’ Simone adds, swilling her cup in the sink. ‘A weekend away, just the two of you. Something to put the spark back.’
‘Impossible,’ I say. ‘Mum’s brilliant with the kids, but having all three for the whole weekend would be too much for her.’
‘What about Jed’s parents? Or your sister?’
I laugh darkly. Pauline and Brian live a five-hour drive away in South London and are, more to the point, beyond clueless. Kate would be willing to come down, but since she’s just set up her B&B in Scotland it seems far too much to ask. ‘I really don’t think—’ I start.
‘Why not?’ she cuts in. ‘A weekend in, I don’t know – Paris or somewhere would do you the world of good. It might even perk up your . . .’ She tails off and grins.
‘Simone,’ I say, sniggering, ‘anyone’s sex life would perk up if their children were in another country.’ She laughs her throaty laugh, and tosses her gleaming chestnut curls, as we go through to attend to our next appointments.
Although I barely come up for air between clients, our conversation niggles at me all morning. A weekend away, I keep thinking as I cut, colour, blow dry and create an up-do for a party. It’s obvious that Jed and I desperately need time together but, even if I could arrange it, would he want to go away with me?
Grace has three friends for tea after school, involving an impromptu cookie-making enterprise. One young visitor decides to liven up the proceedings by taking my dressing gown off the radiator in order to wipe her sticky hands on it, then places it on the hob and inadvertently turns on a gas ring. A sleeve is singed black, the gown is extinguished under the cold tap and the kitchen fills with bitter fumes, cancelling out the delicious biscuit aroma which has been teasing my nostrils. By the time Jed shows up, I’m scraping dough off the kitchen floor, a husk of my former self.
‘Don’t want to put pyjamas on,’ Toby screams, as if they were made not from the softest brushed cotton but laced with barbed wire. His cheeks are flushed, his dark eyes wet with furious tears.
‘You look exhausted,’ Jed points out, taking over with Toby. ‘Here, I’ll sort out the kids.’
‘Thanks,’ I mutter, sinking onto the sofa with a large glass of wine. As a parent, my husband is far more effective than I am. With Jed, the kids snap into action, whereas my voice drifts ineffectually around the house, no more significant than a light breeze.
As I sip my wine, a mobile starts ringing on the coffee table. I pick it up, realising too late that it’s not mine but Jed’s. ‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Oh! Um, is that Laura?’ Celeste asks.
‘Yes, it is,’ I say lightly. Why is she calling him now? Hasn’t she heard of kids’ bedtime?
‘Is Jed there? Don’t worry if he’s busy, it’s nothing urgent . . .’
‘He’s just reading Toby a story upstairs. I’ll ask him to call you back when he’s finished—’
‘No, it’s okay,’ Jed cries, bounding downstairs all bright-eyed and smiley. ‘I’ll take it . . .’ With a ridiculous guffaw, he snatches his mobile from my grasp and marches through to the kitchen. I stare after him. I have never seen Jed move so fast, not even on the football pitch. Anyone would think Nicole Kidman was on the line.
‘Daddy!’ Toby roars from upstairs. ‘What are you doing? Come and finish my story. Come back!’
Chapter Eight
I stand dead still, still clutching my wine glass, fury fizzing through my veins as I try to make out what Jed’s saying. Ooh, yes, ma petite French angel, you can slather me all over in chocolate sauce as soon as I can get away from the dumpy old wife . . . zut alors, I’m sure the old trout’s listening . . . Okay, he doesn’t say that exactly, but he’s chuckling, yacking about God knows what. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he murmurs, adoration spilling from his lips. ‘That sounds fantastic.’ Perhaps we could extend the chocolate-sauce slathering a little lower, Angelcakes . . . ooh yes, just there . . . perfect . . .
‘Daaaad!’ Toby screams. ‘I want my story!’ I scamper upstairs to find him sitting up in bed, gripping his battered copy of Dirty Bertie and glaring at me. ‘Daddy was reading it,’ he says, jutting out his bottom lip.
‘I know, sweetheart, but Dad’s busy with a terribly important phonecall right now. I’ll read the rest, okay?’ I squeeze onto the bed beside him and pop Ted on my knee.
‘Don’t want you to do it.’ He shuts the book and tosses it onto the floor.
‘Tobes, don’t be like that. Don’t be so sulky. I told you Dad’s—’
‘I want DAD!’ he snaps, exhausted tears springing from his eyes.
‘Okay, okay.’ With a sigh, I climb out of bed and tuck in Ted next to Toby. ‘I’m going to say goodnight and put your light off now, okay? And if you’re still awake when Daddy gets off the phone, maybe then he’ll come up and finish your story . . .’
‘Why are you cross, Mummy?’ Grace calls from her room.
‘I’m not cross, love. I’m fine . . .’
‘You are. You’ve got a cross voice on.’
‘Well, that’s probably just because I’m a bit tired,’ I call back, trying to sound light and perky and distinctly un-cross. I prick up my ears.
‘Yeah, that’d be great, I’d love that,’ Jed warbles downstairs. Anyone would think he’d called one of those pervo sex lines.
‘Night, honey,’ I murmur. Toby flicks his head away as I try to kiss him, as if I’m the one who’s abandoned him in favour of a natter with Fancy Pants.
‘Want Daddy,’ he bleats as I click off his light.
‘So do I,’ I murmur, stomping downstairs.
Jed is standing in the kitchen, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. Almost post-orgasmic, in fact. ‘What’s up?’ he asks brightly.
‘It’s just . . . Toby was upset that you didn’t finish the story.’
‘Oh, God, was he? I’ll pop up right now.’
‘I mean he was really upset.’ I fix him with a fierce stare. ‘Did you have to do that? Rush down like your life depended on it, to speak to . . . her?’
Jed stares at me. ‘Laura . . .’ He pauses. ‘What is this about exactly?’
‘Dirty Bertie. You were halfway through reading—’
‘But it’s not, is it? It’s about me, taking a call from a friend, which you suddenly seem to have some kind of issue with . . .’
‘I don’t have an issue!’ I protest. ‘You seem obsessed, that’s all. Celeste this, Celeste that . . . oh, we had a picnic and a little craft session and look! Here she is in her lemon cardi at our kids’ sports day for a supposed meeting . . .’
‘A supposed meeting?’ Jed repeats, blinking at me.
‘Yes. Why did she have to be there?’
Jed shakes his head despairingly. ‘Do you have a problem with Celeste?’
‘Yes. No,’ I bark, feeling my entire chest area glowing hotly.
‘Are you saying I shouldn’t have friends at work? Is that what you want?’
‘No, of course not . . .’
‘Or that they shouldn’t phone me? Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?’
‘All I’m saying is, one minute you were reading Dirty-bloody-Bertie . . .’
‘Mummy,’ comes Toby’s voice behind me. ‘It’s Dirty Bertie. Not Dirty-bloody-Bertie.’ I turn around to see our youngest standing there, with his pale curls sticking up in matted tufts, clutching the book to his chest.
‘I’m sorry, Toby,’ I mutter. ‘It just sort of slipped out.’
‘That’s a swearing word, Mummy. Cara said it’s naughty to say that bad word.’
‘Yes, I know, and I shouldn’t have said it. It was . . .’ My mouth seems to shrivel. ‘A . . . mistake.’
‘Will you finish it now, Daddy?’ Toby asks levelly.
‘Yes, of course I will, Tobes,’ Jed mutters.
‘You got to the bit about bogies.’
‘Yes, I remember.’ He rakes a hand through his hair, as if trying to brush off the bad feelings that have been flying around our kitchen. Throwing me a stony look, he takes Toby by the hand and the two of them head upstairs.
My bottom lip trembles as I stand in the kitchen doorway. So he took a phonecall. Anyone would think I’d walked in and found him and Celeste having wild sex on the table. I perch on a chair, listening to Jed upstairs, chatting jovially in Toby’s room. Our children love their dad. I do too, yet I’m making myself completely unlovable. The thought of losing him tears at my insides.
The house phone rings. I answer it; it’s Kate, my sister, sounding distant and crackly even though she’s only calling from Scotland. ‘How’s it going?’ she asks.
‘Good,’ I say. ‘Everyone’s fine. How about you?’
‘Oh, the usual chaos. Untrainable dog, terrorising sheep, lost a couple of chickens to a fox last night . . .’
‘Oh, God.’ Kate had her kids young – my two nephews are in their early twenties – and she and Will, her childhood sweetheart, have moved neatly from domestic mayhem to running a smallholding and B&B in the Scottish Borders. Which sounds like another kind of chaos entirely.
‘When are you coming up?’ she’s asking me. ‘The kids would love it. We’ve just got a couple of pigs. You’d better get yourselves up here soon if you want to see them before they’re bacon and sausages.’
‘You’re right,’ I say, smiling. ‘Toby and Grace would love that. Finn would too – although these days, he reckons he’s far too cool to like animals.’
‘Oh, he’s still your baby really,’ Kate says. ‘Anyway, stranger, I just thought I’d catch up. You never call me these days . . .’
‘It’s just hectic. You know what it’s like . . .’
‘What are you up to tonight?’
‘Um, nothing much. Grace and I made some cookies and I’m kind of tempted to curl up with a plateful and a DVD.’
‘Domestic goddess,’ she laughs, before ringing off.
Feeling boosted – Kate’s motherly tone always lifts me somehow – I eye our freshly-baked offerings. If you were being unkind you’d say they looked like chunks of moon rock but we decided they were ‘rustic’. I nibble one, relishing its comforting sweetness. Another won’t hurt. I nibble and nibble, soothed by Jed’s distant murmurs as he reads not just Dirty Bertie but a whole bunch of other stories too, judging by the time he’s been up there. He’s probably putting off having to come downstairs.
I blink down at the plate. How did I manage to plough through so many cookies? I must stop doing this – cramming my face when I’m not even hungry. Emotional eating, I think you call it. All that’s happening is that my clothes are getting tighter and I know that Jed must look at me and think . . . ew. Kate would say not to worry; she’s always telling me I’m the ‘gorgeous curvaceous one’.
But I don’t feel gorgeous and I don’t think Jed shares her view of me.
Desperate measures are called for, I decide, putting away the flour and eggs and wiping jammy smears from the worktop. I’ll start a diet tomorrow and get into shape – make myself minxy again like in the old days. I’ll show Jed that the woman he fell in love with – whom he could barely keep his hands off, if I remember rightly – is still here, right under his nose. I refuse to allow size-eight Fancy Pants to lure my beloved away from me.
In the meantime, though, there’s one cookie left. Where diets are concerned, there’s no time like tomorrow.
Chapter Nine
By Saturday afternoon I’m quivering with anticipation. This is combined with mild dizziness, due to substituting lunch with a glass of hot water with a dusting of cinnamon in it. I read somewhere that this combination helps to melt away wrinkles as well as being a miracle fat cure. I know it’s ridiculous, but with my Big Surprise looming, these are desperate times.
‘I’ve arranged a special treat,’ I blurt out as Jed, the children and I head home from the park.
‘What is it?’ Grace demands, gripping her ice cream which I have been eyeing ravenously. ‘What kind of treat?’
‘I’m taking you, Toby and Finn to Granny Heather’s. You’re staying over tonight, and me and Daddy will come and collect you in the morning.’
‘Yeah!’ she cries, delighted.
‘Today?’ Toby asks eagerly.
‘Yes, honey, a bit later today.’ I glance at Finn. ‘You okay with that, darling?’
He shrugs. ‘Yeah. What are you and Dad going to do?’
‘It’s up to Dad,’ I say, my stomach whirling with anticipation. ‘What would you like to do, Jed?’
‘Don’t know,’ he says, guiding Toby away from a ferocious-looking dog he wants to pat. ‘It’s all a bit sudden, Laura . . .’
‘How much notice do you need?’ I ask, teasing him.
‘None, I just . . .’
‘Did you have any other plans for tonight?’
He stops and frowns at me. Grace pauses mid-lick, her tongue thickly coated in strawberry ice. ‘No, of course not. Are you sure it’s all right, though? It’s a lot to ask of your mum. And Finn has football in the morning, and I’m meant to be taking the junior team . . .’ My heart slumps. Oh no, he’s thinking. A whole night alone with Laura and her hideous au naturelle do . . .
‘Actually,’ I say, more subdued now, ‘she was delighted. She hasn’t seen the children for ages. And I’ve spoken to Calum’s dad, and he’s happy to stand in for you at football this week. You don’t mind missing footie just this once, do you, Finn?’
‘Nah,’ he says with a shrug.
‘Please, Dad,’ Grace blurts out. ‘Let us have a sleepover at Granny Heather’s.’
‘We’ll be fine, Dad,’ Finn says airily.
‘Um . . . okay then,’ Jed murmurs.
‘So tonight,’ I add cheerfully, ‘we can do whatever we like.’
‘Great,’ Jed says flatly. I grin broadly at him. He grimaces back, looking for all the world as if he’s about to have a bunion removed. Still, I won’t let him dampen my mood. The problem is, Jed won’t realise how much we needed this night by ourselves until we’re actually having it. I don’t mean having sex necessarily – although that would be pleasing – but time together without the children. Is it any wonder, I reflect later as I drive us all to Mum’s, that our sex life has withered up? If I so much as try to cuddle Jed, Finn looks as if he might vomit and Toby starts shouting for a biscuit. They are allergic to adults showing each other affection. It’s a miracle anyone manages to produce more than one child.
‘Come here, my darlings,’ Mum says, emerging from her red-brick cottage as we all tumble out of the car. She hugs me and the children in turn – even Finn, who reserves a soft spot for his granny, allows it – while I unload the kids’ overnight bag. ‘Hi, Heather,’ Jed says, kissing her cheek. He hovers uncertainly as if about to deliver a particularly stressful public speech.
‘We’re so grateful for this,’ I tell Mum, trying to blot him out of my vision.
‘Yes, er, thanks, a lot,’ Jed adds feebly.
‘My pleasure,’ she says as we follow her inside. ‘You know I’m happy to have them any time.’ Since Dad died nearly four years ago – just after Toby was born – Mum has lived here alone in the smart, touristy town of Kittering. I know she
still misses Dad terribly, despite filling her days with art classes and volunteering for every community group in the area. There are no tears as we prepare to leave. ‘Say bye to Mum and Dad,’ she prompts the children, but all three – even Finn – are engrossed in Dad’s old Hornby train set which still works, amazingly, and which Mum has painstakingly laid out on her living room floor.
‘So what d’you want to do?’ I ask Jed we drive away.
‘I don’t really mind,’ he says vaguely, gazing out of the passenger window. I wonder now if he’d have preferred this not to have been a surprise, and to have had some input into the planning. Maybe then he’d be quivering with excitement.
‘Well,’ I say lightly, ‘we could go to York, have dinner . . .’ My mouth waters at the thought of tucking into a meal I haven’t cooked. Stuff the calories. I’ll even have dessert. Something chocolatey with a molten interior. Gooey cheese. Lashings of wine. Sod the water-and-cinnamon regime. It was starting to make me feel ill anyway and I don’t even like cinnamon. ‘We could even stay at a hotel,’ I add, munching some Quavers from an open packet I found in the car. ‘Fancy breakfast in bed? That would be lovely, wouldn’t it, having it brought up to our room with the papers and . . .’
‘A hotel?’ Jed repeats. ‘Why would we do that?’
‘God, Jed! You don’t have to sound so horrified. You’d think I’d suggested booking us into an abattoir.’
‘It just seems, I don’t know . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘Unnecessary.’
‘Of course it’s unnecessary,’ I exclaim. ‘That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To do something exciting and different and a little bit decadent. I thought it’d be fun, Jed. Anyway, I packed your overnight bag in case you fancied it.’
‘Did you? You packed my pyjamas?’
‘Yes, Jed. They’re in the boot, travelling in this very car with us.’ And I stuffed in your cast-iron chastity pants too, I want to add.
‘It just seems extravagant,’ Jed murmurs.
‘It wouldn’t have to be, would it? I don’t care about posh. We could find a tawdry little place, somewhere nice and sleazy . . .’ I grin at him, and try for a saucy eyebrow wiggle, but the joke falls flat.
