Mum On The Run

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘New dress?’ Jed asks, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Yeah, Mummy bought it for me,’ Grace says, twirling in her red-and-black stripy T-shirt dress, a dead ringer for Minnie the Minx. She even allowed me to secure her hair in cheeky bunches to complete the Minx-like effect.

  ‘I meant Mum actually,’ Jed says quickly, ‘though yours is lovely too.’

  ‘Oh, I bought it in York,’ I tell him. ‘Like it?’

  ‘It’s lovely. Really suits you. You look great, Laura. Very sexy.’ On hearing the ‘s’ word, Finn shudders.

  Grinning, I kiss Jed lightly on the lips. Finn turns away, as if the sight of his parents expressing the merest smidge of affection might cause him to hurl all over the floor. God knows how he’d react if Jed and I kissed properly – really snogged, I mean, with tongues. We should try it sometime, shock the hell out of him. ‘You look good too,’ I tell him, appraising the dark jeans and cream linen shirt. ‘You’re still handsome, you know. For an old duffer.’ He laughs and playfully slaps my hip. ‘Come on,’ I add. ‘Let’s go. I’ll drive if you like.’

  ‘Seriously? You don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I reply truthfully. What I don’t mention is that, in being designated driver, there’s no chance of me drinking too much to quell my nerves and making a twit of myself. ‘I bought some exciting sparkling grape juice,’ I add.

  ‘Great,’ he says, clearly delighted as we usher the children out to the car. ‘Stop at the florist’s in the high street, would you? We should get Celeste some flowers.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say graciously, glancing at Jed. His dark eyes are gleaming, and he’s flushed with excitement at the prospect of a proper adult party, in a garden, with alcohol. Pity my Tesco underwear didn’t have the same effect.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The blurb on the packet didn’t say, ‘WARNING: driving whilst wearing anti-cellulite tights feels disgusting.’ But it’s horrible – clammy and sweaty. In fact, if it wouldn’t freak out the children, I’d pull over right now, stagger out of the car and rip the things off at the roadside. Where does the cellulite go anyway? Will it bubble up over the waistband, or liquefy and ooze through the tights and onto the floor of the car? ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ Toby demands from the back seat.

  ‘Yep, nearly,’ Jed murmurs, studying the slip of paper bearing Celeste’s directions. I peeked at it earlier, wincing at her curly-wurly writing with little circles for the dots on her i’s.

  ‘Are we nearly there now?’ Toby pipes up three seconds later.

  ‘It’s round the next corner,’ I mutter, wishing we were heading off on a family day out to somewhere like Whitby or Scarborough with a picnic in the boot. Even a trip to B&Q would be more enticing than this. The outlandish bouquet of red and yellow roses, plus salmon-coloured carnations (chosen and assembled, rather bossily, by Grace) lies across Jed’s lap.

  ‘Looks like this is it,’ he announces, virtually panting, for God’s sake.

  ‘Hurrah!’ Grace exclaims. ‘Celeste’s house!’ I pull off the narrow country lane and into a gravelled parking area, wishing my family would dampen their enthusiasm a little. Everyone bounds eagerly out of the car.

  ‘Wow,’ Finn declares, gazing at the building. ‘This is so posh.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agrees Grace. ‘Why don’t we live somewhere like this?’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I murmur, choosing to ignore her question and surveying the converted mill surrounded by beautifully landscaped gardens. The stout, creamy-toned building sits proudly on a vast, clipped lawn, and the row of cherry trees is heavily laden with pale pink blossom. Party guests have already gathered in clusters. My gaze skims the well-stocked borders bursting with lilac, lemon and blue. It’s so similar to Dad’s garden, exploding with colour in the soft early May sunshine, that for a moment it dampens my nervousness. Bunting has been strung between trees, and an oval-shaped table set out with a dazzling array of goodies. Grace and Toby scamper across the grass towards it. ‘She must be loaded,’ Finn murmurs.

  ‘It’s divided into flats,’ Jed explains. ‘Celeste doesn’t live in the whole building.’

  ‘A flat? Cool.’ He grins, flips back his fringe and makes for the table.

  ‘Hi, guys.’ Celeste strides towards us, pecking first Jed, then me, on the cheek. I fix a determined smile on my face.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ Jed says, handing her the bouquet.

  ‘Wow, thanks! These are gorgeous.’

  ‘Grace chose them,’ I explain. ‘She has a very unusual colour sense.’

  Celeste laughs. ‘What a sweetie. But you needn’t have bothered, you know . . .’

  ‘Well, it is your birthday,’ Jed says with a smirk.

  ‘Yes. God. Don’t remind me! I feel so old . . .’

  ‘Can we have some cake?’ Grace yells from the table.

  ‘Of course you can,’ Celeste calls back. ‘Help yourselves to anything you like. That’s what it’s there for.’ She fixes her blue-eyed gaze on me. ‘You look fantastic, Laura. That green really suits you. Really brings out your, er . . .’ She trails off and beams adoringly at Jed.

  ‘Um, thanks,’ I manage. ‘You look great too.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been running around, baking and getting everything ready all morning. Must be mad, right?’ She throws back her head and guffaws.

  ‘You made all that yourself?’ I say, gesturing towards the table.

  ‘Yeah. It was nothing really. Anyway, how rude am I? Come over and I’ll get you some drinks.’

  Jed and I trail after her across the lawn. Her short blue dress swishes fluidly around her slender thighs, and her wavy hair ripples in the light breeze. It’s a sunny, golden shade, reminiscent of Sugar Puffs. No wonder my family is enchanted by her. I fear now that the greenness of my dress is making me look rather queasy around the gills, and realise that all of the female guests are lusciously tanned, as if moulded from toffee. A kernel of shyness fizzles in my stomach.

  Still, at least she’s being friendly and welcoming. I try to pitch myself back into my pre-mummy days, when our weekends in London would involve at least one gathering, and Jed and I would head out with our bottle of cheap wine, fizzling with anticipation.

  ‘Did you bring the wine, Laura?’ Jed asks.

  ‘Of course, hon,’ I say, whipping the tissue-wrapped bottle from my bag. Still nestling in there is my pretend wine.

  At the table, Grace and Toby and Finn are already filling their faces with pastel-iced cupcakes and sugared cookies in a myriad of intricate shapes. ‘Let me pour you kids some lemonade,’ Celeste says, filling three polka-dot cups from a jug. ‘It’s home made,’ she adds.

  ‘Wow,’ murmurs Jed.

  ‘Oh, it’s easy. Anyway, what would you like? Wine or champagne?’

  ‘Champagne please,’ Jed says eagerly.

  ‘I’ll have some of this, thanks,’ I say, extracting my lukewarm bottle and pouring myself a glass of grape juice. I sip it with mock enthusiasm.

  ‘That’s such a fantastic project you started last week,’ Celeste enthuses, turning to cut me from her line of vision.

  ‘Well, let’s see if we can pull it off,’ Jed says.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask lightly. He hasn’t mentioned a fantastic new project.

  ‘Oh, it’s amazing,’ Celeste enthuses. ‘Didn’t Jed tell you about the lottery grant he managed to get for the school? It’s enough to turn a whole wall of the playground into an amazing mosaic, and pay for a specialist art tutor to visit all the primaries in the region. It’s going to be brilliant, isn’t it, Jed?’ He nods, and I detect a faint glow of pride.

  ‘That’s great,’ I manage. ‘Will all the kids be involved?’

  ‘Of course,’ Celeste explains. ‘It’s all about releasing their creative energy.’

  ‘Oh,’ I murmur. There’s a pause, and they both glance at me as if I’m some irksome stranger who’s burst into Celeste’s garden to snaffle her cakes. Although I’m clutching one – chocolate
with raspberry icing – I am no longer confident about eating it tidily in such a public setting. ‘Come and meet the others,’ Celeste announces, clearly addressing Jed and not his socially inept wife.

  It’s not that they hurry away from me exactly, but I feel so awkward – so out of place among these golden strangers – that I remain frozen at the table. My skin prickles uncomfortably, constricted by my tights. I wonder how much cellulite has melted away, and when I’ll start to see a difference.

  Chatting and laughing, Jed and Celeste glide towards a group which has formed a loose circle beneath a cherry tree. Elsewhere in the garden, people are locked in conversation and sprawled on blankets. They are relaxed. They are normal. Even my children, who are now investigating a hammock at the bottom of the garden, seem perfectly happy. What should I do now? Surely there’s someone I know here. I glance around in mild panic, looking for any of Jed’s teacher friends.

  Three immaculate little girls in floral dresses wander over to sample Celeste’s goodies as their mothers watch from a distance. ‘Not too many now, Maisie,’ one calls out.

  ‘Okay, Mummy,’ the child replies sweetly, selecting a heart-shaped cookie.

  I’m awash with relief when Toby charges towards me and skids to a halt. The girls teeter back, clearly alarmed by this scruffy boy with his parting askew and grass poking out of his hair. ‘Hi, love,’ I say. ‘Have you tried these cakes with hundreds and thousands on? They’re delicious.’

  He doesn’t reply. Even my own child is blanking me, after I carried him in my womb for nine months and allowed him to gnash his baby teeth on my nipples. He extracts a white plastic horse from the pocket of his shorts and makes it canter between the plates. The table is littered with glasses of wine and champagne. The potential for spillage is immense.

  ‘Careful with all these glasses, honey,’ I murmur.

  Toby slams his horse onto the cake stand’s top tier and sends it skidding through a daub of lilac icing. ‘He’s skating,’ he says. ‘He’s an ice skater. Look!’

  ‘Toby, that’s a cake stand, it’s made of glass, be care . . .’

  ‘What’s a cake stand?’

  ‘It’s this, a thing to put cakes on and it’s very delicate and breakable . . .’ I try to snatch the horse from his grasp, but he spins away deftly and makes it perform a dramatic leap over a dish of strawberries. One of the girls’ mothers flicks her ash-blonde bob and throws me a look of disapproval. How uncouth I sound, having to explain to my child what a cake stand is. In her house, they probably use one every day.

  Toby has now slithered under the table, and I don’t have it in me to coax him out. At least there’s nothing to break down there. I catch Ash-blondie staring as he emerges with damp, filthy patches on his bare knees, and he laughs and rubs his nose on his forearm. Good, I think defiantly. This is how children are supposed to be. Messy and at one with nature.

  At the bottom of the garden, Grace is swinging exuberantly in the hammock. Speedy risk assessment: the hammock could ping off the trees or – more likely – she could simply tumble out. There’s grass beneath, so injury is unlikely, and it’s probably not worth me haring down there and leaving Toby unattended by the cakes. ‘Leave them alone, Toby,’ I hiss as he picks off sugared violets.

  ‘But Celeste said we could have everything.’

  I glance round and meet Ash-blondie’s infuriating smirk. ‘He’s just excited,’ I explain. ‘We don’t go to many parties.’

  Christ, what made me say that? I might as well add: no one invites us because we’re completely dysfunctional. ‘Don’t you?’ she asks with a small frown before swishing off to join the group under the trees. My legs are throbbing now, probably due to extracts of God-knows-what seeping into my skin. How can I relax and join in when I’m being impregnated?

  Across the lawn, Jed and Celeste are laughing uproariously. He places a hand on her bare upper arm. Tears prickle my eyes as I realise that anyone would assume Jed and Celeste are a couple, and that I’m some weird stalker person who should be frogmarched out of the garden. Well, I can’t have that. I will not allow that to happen. I shall reclaim my husband and show everyone that I have as much right to be here as they do. ‘Come on, Tobes,’ I announce, grabbing his sticky hand.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Over there by those trees.’

  ‘Why?’ He looks longingly at the cakes.

  ‘Because it’s a party, darling, and the whole point of parties is to have fun and be friendly and meet people. Come on. We’re going to make some new friends.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  As we approach the group, I’m delighted to see Duncan and Mickey, friends of Jed’s and the only other male teachers at his school. ‘Hi,’ I say brightly, positioning myself between him and Ash-blondie.

  ‘Hi, Laura,’ Duncan says, kissing my cheek. ‘Wow, you look great. I saw your kids but didn’t realise you were here too. Where’ve you been hiding?’

  ‘By the cakes, for my sins,’ I say, laughing. ‘I was just trying to stop this fellow here’ – I indicate Toby, who’s freed his hand from mine – ‘from being a bit rough with the cake stand.’

  ‘Sounds dangerous,’ Mickey chuckles. Jed, who’s positioned next to Celeste, gives me an unsteady smile.

  ‘Looked like you had your hands full over there,’ Ash-blondie remarks, taking a dainty sip of champagne.

  ‘Well, you know.’ I shrug. ‘Kids, parties, tons of cake . . . they’re always a challenging combination.’

  Celeste emits a tittery laugh. Toby is tugging my arm now, trying to pull me away towards the hammock where his brother and sister have set up camp. To top it all, I need the loo. Proper mothers can control their toileting functions, having performed those squeezy pelvic floor exercises several hundred times daily since the birth. ‘Toby,’ I murmur, ‘I’m going to pop inside to the loo. Stay here with Daddy, would you?’

  ‘No,’ he says firmly.

  ‘I won’t be a minute, love. I really need to go.’

  ‘Wanna come with you.’

  ‘Not now, Toby. Jed?’ I say hopefully.

  ‘Umm . . . uh-huh?’

  ‘Could you keep an eye on Toby for a minute? He’s fascinated with that glass cake stand on the table and I’m worried he’ll knock drinks over . . .’

  Jed blinks at me. ‘Okay.’

  ‘And I’m concerned that Finn and Grace might wreck that hammock by swinging too hard . . .’ God, how neurotic do I sound? Jed glances at the hammock. It contains two of our children and is tossing violently like a ship in a storm.

  ‘They’re just having fun.’ He wrinkles his nose, as if I’m something he’s found rotting in the salad crisper.

  ‘Gosh, you’re a worrier, aren’t you?’ Duncan says with a chuckle. ‘They’ll be fine, love. We’ll keep an eye on them.’

  ‘Thanks, Duncan.’ I try for a relaxed smile, which is challenging as I am now desperate for a wee. Jed transmits a silent message: begone, tedious wife, with your multitude of worries and beleaguered pelvic floor.

  ‘Oh, you’re Jed’s wife,’ announces Ash-blondie. ‘Sorry, I’m being really slow here. Louise, isn’t it?’

  ‘Laura actually . . .’

  ‘Yes, of course . . . have you met everyone here?’

  ‘Um, no, I er, really have to . . .’

  ‘This is Felix,’ she says, ‘and Jason, Peter, Chloe, Maggie, Tamara, and I assume you already know Duncan . . .’ The roll-call continues for a thousand years. They stop being names and become random sounds with no meaning. ‘Marcus, Mickey, Annabella, George . . .’

  ‘Sorry,’ I cut in. ‘I really must nip to the loo. Please keep an eye on the kids, Jed . . .’

  ‘They’re fine, Laura. What d’you think they’re going to do?’ There’s an exasperated edge to his voice.

  ‘I need toilet!’ Toby bellows.

  ‘Come with me then,’ I say, taking his hand and hurtling across the neatly-clipped lawn towards the mill’s main entrance. It’s easy
to find our way to Celeste’s flat, as jam jars of spring flowers have been placed on each stair. Imagine having the wherewithal to decorate your stairs. The door to her flat is open and festooned with brightly-coloured Tibetan prayer flags. Inside, it’s pleasantly calm and airy after the hubbub of the garden. I lurch from room to room, gripping Toby’s hand so he can’t get any ideas about investigating Celeste’s glass candle-holders or our bouquet, which has been arranged prettily in an elegant duck-egg blue porcelain vase on the table.

  We find the bathroom: a perfect white cube of a room. I bolt the door and charge towards the loo. Tugging down his grubby lime shorts, Toby buffets past me and starts peeing into the loo. ‘Me first,’ he says unnecessarily.

  This is awful. My whole body feels contorted, as if it’s squeezing in on itself from the effort of not weeing on Celeste’s immaculate rubberised floor. I fear that I’ll collapse through the effort, and be found hours later slumped in a puddle of urine. That is, if Toby has the nous to unlock the bathroom door and fetch help. He might have to scream for assistance through the half-open frosted window until the fire brigade arrive and axe the door down. What would the party guests make of that?

  Toby’s tinkling seems to be going on forever. Just how much lemonade has he drunk? ‘La-la-nee-nee . . .’ he sings tunelessly, gazing around, clearly thrilled by our impromptu excursion. Who needs trips to Viking villages when there are other people’s bathrooms to explore?

  Ripples of laughter drift up from the garden. To distract myself from the very real possibility of bladder combustion, I examine every item in Celeste’s bathroom. There’s not much to look at: just a pristine bathmat of looped cream wool, one fluffy white towel neatly folded on a chrome rail, and a vase half-filled with blue glass nuggets perched on a shelf. Unfortunately, there’s no bidet. Although I can honestly say I’ve never coveted one, I’d give anything now for one to pee in. Celeste would never know, unless Toby grassed me up, and I could tell him it was a funny-shaped toilet. Just as I’m seriously considering doing it in the bath, his peeing dwindles to a trickle, then finally stops. I drag down my tights and knickers and collapse onto the loo.