Mum On The Run

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Just Tub Club,’ I say bleakly, caressing the peanut butter jar.

  ‘What’s Dub-Dub?’ Toby asks.

  ‘Just a place I go to,’ I say vaguely. On my birthday. Because I have nowhere better to go. Remember, when you’re a grownup, that when a woman says she doesn’t care about celebrating her birthday, she doesn’t actually mean it.

  ‘Oh.’ Jed frowns. ‘I’d forgotten about that. Would it be okay to skip it this week? Or do they fine you or something?’

  ‘Of course they don’t. Why d’you want me to skip it, though? Worried I’m getting too skinny?’ I laugh hollowly.

  ‘No, um, it’s just, er . . . I thought I’d take you out for dinner.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not really bothered about going out,’ I say quickly. ‘And I doubt if we’d manage to get a babysitter at such short notice.’

  ‘It’s all sorted,’ he says, smiling. ‘I’ve booked Joelle and a restaurant table.’

  ‘Have you?’ I’d be no less shocked if he told me he’d successfully performed a triple heart bypass.

  ‘Don’t look so surprised,’ Jed chuckles. ‘I am capable of organising a birthday night out, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know you are. It’s just, you hadn’t mentioned anything so I thought you’d forgotten.’

  He smiles and kisses me lightly on the lips, and I inhale the faint smell of peanut butter. ‘Of course I didn’t forget, silly girl.’

  ‘So where are we going?’ I ask eagerly.

  ‘Rawlton House.’

  ‘Oh Jed, that’s so posh! Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  I grin at him. ‘Thanks.’ I’m so delighted, I don’t have it in me to stop Toby from slurping milk from his cereal bowl.

  ‘There is, um . . . a small catch,’ Jed adds, nudging a small pile of toast crumbs along the table with a finger.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘My, er . . . parents are coming too.’ His mouth sets in a firm line.

  ‘Tonight?’ I exclaim. ‘What – here? For God’s sake, why didn’t you warn me?’

  ‘Are Granny and Grandpa coming?’ Grace asks delightedly.

  ‘Yes, love,’ Jed murmurs.

  ‘Great! Does that mean we can sleep in the caravan?’

  Jed throws me a panicky look. ‘I don’t know, Grace,’ I say quickly. ‘When are they coming, Jed? Are they bringing that caravan with them this time?’

  Jed nods. ‘Of course they are. They’re on a tour – only found out yesterday and I forgot to mention it last night. I’m sorry, but I’m sure it’ll be okay. They said they didn’t want to put us to any trouble, that they’ll only stay for a night and drop off your birthday present . . .’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I bark. ‘The famous bread maker.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if they actually bought you one . . .’

  ‘You know what’ll happen,’ I charge on. ‘Grace and Toby will insist on sleeping in the caravan, and I’ll have to sleep out there with them with that stinking chemical toilet.’

  ‘It’s not stinkin’,’ Toby shouts, stomping into the kitchen.

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ Jed insists, ‘so long as you keep the lid down.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I bark. ‘You do it then. You have a lovely dinner at Rawlton House, then sleep outside on your birthday on that tiny narrow bed with the bobbly nylon cover.’

  ‘Can’t we have the beds?’ Grace grumbles.

  ‘Ok. Sure you can. I’ll sleep on the floor like last time . . .’

  ‘Mum, I’ll sleep out there with them,’ Finn says, wandering in with his schoolbag looped across his body.

  ‘Thank you, love,’ I murmur, ‘but you’re not old enough to be in sole charge of your brother and sister in a dangerous fibreglass structure.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Jed mutters under his breath. ‘I thought it’d be a treat. I thought you’d like to go out to dinner.’

  ‘I would,’ I say, following him to the door, ‘if it was just me and you on a night out, like normal couples have. But this is a bit different, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m off to work,’ he says huffily. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’ With that, he steps out, slamming the front door behind him.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ I murmur into the tense air.

  ‘Are we normal?’ Toby pipes up from the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, darling, of course we are,’ I call back. ‘I can’t think of anyone more normal than us.’

  ‘Mummy, don’t you like Granny and Grandpa?’ Grace asks as we head out to school and Finn, as is his habit these days, tears ahead of us.

  ‘Of course I do,’ I tell her. ‘It’s just . . . a bit of a surprise, that’s all. But it’ll be fine. And you like it when Joelle comes round, don’t you?’

  She nods enthusiastically as I take her hand in mine. Of course I’ve lied, but what else could I do? I couldn’t tell her that I’ve had an aversion to Jed’s parents ever since they came up from London a week after Toby was born, and his mother said, ‘I never thought you’d go for a third baby. But I suppose, with your child-bearing hips . . .’ As if to produce less than three children would have been a waste of my generous proportions.

  All day at work, I try to raise my spirits by imagining the Rawlton House menu and how a mouthful of gooey chocolate dessert will dissolve on my tongue. I attempt to conjure up visions of lemon tart and oozing cheeses and glasses of lovely wine. Yet I can’t shake off the gloom over their impending visit. I’m so tense that, by the time I leave the salon for Toby’s nursery, I don’t have any appetite at all.

  Their car pulls up as I’m clearing up after the children’s dinner. I spot the caravan too, which goes by the optimistic name of Vitesse. As I let them in, Pauline allows me her customary mechanical hug, then stands back and gives me a speedy up-and-down look as if trying to ascertain how much weight I’ve gained since we last saw each other. ‘You’re looking . . . well,’ she manages, meaning, at least five or six pounds at a guess. Even though she’s trying to disguise it by wearing black. God, what made Jed ditch that slim Natasha girl he went out with at college? Pauline, who’s of wiry build, is wearing a floaty button-up dress in a pansy-patterned fabric. Her copper hair is set in tight, brittle curls, and her face is liberally dusted with bronzing powder. The effect is oddly metallic, like Hammerite paint. Hovering beside his wife, Brian regards me with a faint smirk, as if bemused that their darling Jed – sorry, Jeremy – has wound up with such a substandard wife. ‘So, how are you both?’ I ask. ‘Journey up okay?’

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ Pauline says.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Brian adds, lips wet and shiny beneath a neatly-trimmed silvery moustache. ‘Smashing drive up. Awful impatient, though, drivers today.’

  ‘What, on the roads around here?’ I ask.

  ‘No, on the motorway.’

  ‘Right,’ I say carefully, ‘but I suppose that’s the idea. To be able to get to places quickly.’

  ‘Well, we like to take things at our own pace, don’t we, Brian?’ Pauline says, lowering her gaze. ‘We like to enjoy the scenery.’

  ‘Quite right. Otherwise, what’s the point of it?’ I force a smile. ‘Jed should be home soon,’ I add, ‘and the kids are having a snack in the garden. I’ll just let them know you’re here.’

  Pauline nods, and I see her eyeing the messy pile of newspapers and drawings and half a Lego galleon teetering on the coffee table. ‘Granny and Grandpa are here!’ I announce at the back door. Grace shrieks in delight and shoots indoors, closely followed by Toby and Finn. As is their custom, Pauline and Brian are armed with a gigantic plastic sack of unbranded, neon-bright sweets. If they were analysed, they probably wouldn’t even be classified as food.

  ‘Just one or two each,’ I say ineffectually as Toby plunges a grubby hand into the sack and rams a fistful of sweets into his mouth. In order to pick out her favourites, Grace tries to gain control of the sack, while Finn’s mouth is already sloshing with molten, chemical-smelling jelly.

  ‘It’s
your birthday today, isn’t it, Laura?’ Pauline says.

  ‘That’s right. In fact, Jed’s taking us all out for dinner tonight to a lovely country hotel.’

  ‘Oh, isn’t that Jeremy all over?’ Pauline gushes, clasping her hands to her neat bosom. ‘So generous, treating us all.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t he?’ I force a smile, and am overcome with relief when the door opens and he saunters in, greeting his parents warmly. He’s clutching a small, posh-looking carrier bag which he hands to me.

  ‘Is that for me?’ Grace demands, her teeth bouncing off a jelly snake.

  ‘No, love,’ Jed chuckles. ‘It’s for Mummy.’ He turns to me. ‘I knew you’d say you have nothing to wear tonight, so I thought . . .’

  ‘Isn’t that lovely, Brian?’ Pauline swoons before I’ve even opened the bag. ‘Isn’t he so thoughtful?’

  ‘She’s a lucky woman,’ Brian observes, as if I’ve melted into the ether. I turn away to pull out my present, conscious of all eyes boring into my back. It’s a putty-coloured wrap dress in a fine, silky fabric. ‘This is lovely,’ I murmur truthfully. What I really mean is: this would look lovely on someone else.

  ‘You’ll wear it tonight, won’t you?’ Jed asks hopefully.

  ‘Yes, darling. Of course I will.’ I turn and smile at him, picturing myself in the restaurant, the silky material clinging to every ripple and bulge. I’ve driven past Rawlton House countless times, and the place reeks of refined elegance. They probably don’t even let fat people in. Or, if they do, they are handed a ‘special’ menu with those darn Tub Club faces plastered all over it.

  ‘Now that is a stunning dress,’ Pauline goes on. ‘Think it’ll fit you, Laura?’

  ‘Um, I hope so.’

  ‘Why don’t you try it on?’ Jed suggests. ‘We really should get ready anyway. I thought, if we set out early we can have a glass of champagne in the bar first.’

  My stomach twists, and I smile at him. ‘That’s a lovely idea, Jed. And thanks for arranging all this.’

  ‘Hey, go and get ready, birthday girl,’ he says, planting a kiss on my lips.

  ‘If it’s too tight,’ Pauline calls after me, ‘I’m sure they’ll take it back.’

  ‘Mum, just leave it, okay?’ I hear Jed mutter as I head upstairs.

  ‘It’s just, that sort of silky material can be very unforgiving, love . . .’

  I clatter across the landing, trying to quell murderous urges and wondering how I might possibly get through the evening ahead with my dignity intact. In our bedroom, I strip and hold the dress up against myself. It is lovely, and the putty colour is surprisingly flattering against my pale skin. It’s just the fabric that’s the problem. Pauline was right: it is unforgiving. Some sturdy undergarment is required. Not Celeste’s Coco de Mers. Not even my Tesco ensemble. Something unyielding to suck everything in, like the stomach reducer girdle thingie I bought in York. Surely it’ll be more effective than those anti-cellulite tights.

  I retrieve the packet from my bottom drawer. As I’m scanning the blurb, I hear Joelle, our babysitter, arriving and Grace chatting excitedly to her. Joelle is a nineteen-year-old student. She has a nipped-in waist and certainly doesn’t require fierce undergarments. ‘Drop a dress size,’ it says on the packet. Ooh, yes please. There are ‘before’ and ‘after’ photos of a model on the packet, and the contrast is astounding. I check the instructions which comprise nine steps:

  1. Step carefully into each leg of the Reducer.

  2. Gently ease up so each leg is positioned approximately 5 cm above the knee.

  3. Now slowly roll up the rest of the Reducer . . .

  ‘Laura!’ Jed calls up. ‘Are you ready? Joelle’s here, we’re all waiting to go . . .’

  ‘Just a minute,’ I call back. Jesus. Hasn’t he the faintest idea what it’s like to be a woman? How long it takes to make ourselves alluring for the outside world?

  4. Smooth the Reducer over your bottom, ensuring back seam lies centrally. How can I see if it’s central or not? I crane round. My backside looks horribly misshapen.

  ‘What are you doing, Mummy?’ Toby saunters in and stares at the Reducer which is still only half on. I try to tug it upwards and snatch the sheet of instructions from the bed. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks again.

  ‘I’m, um, trying to put these special pants on.’ He regards me with intense, dark eyes, taking this in – his first lesson about the curious habits of femalekind. The fact that we need an entire manual in order to put on an undergarment. Glancing down, I note with dismay that wodges of flab have squished out below the leg bits. I hadn’t realised those parts were fat. It’s like suddenly realising you have podgy eyebrows.

  Toby cocks his head to one side. ‘What’s that?’ he asks, pointing at the weird-looking gusset. It’s actually a double gusset which, apparently, enables the wearer to pee without taking the whole thing off. But I can’t tell him that. Don’t want him getting ideas about it being okay to go to the toilet through his underwear. Besides, at his age, I don’t want him even knowing the word gusset or he’ll be shouting about it at Scamps and Cara will ask me to come in for a ‘little chat’. After the water tray incident, I’ve been trying to keep a low profile at nursery. Toby stares as I yank the thing up.

  ‘Er . . . what are you wearing?’ Jed, too, has now appeared at our bedroom door. I am tempted to suggest he invites his parents up too, maybe hand out some popcorn while they all sit down, make themselves comfortable and stare at me.

  ‘Holder-inner pants,’ I mutter, glimpsing my disturbing reflection in the mirror.

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘For a smoother line.’

  ‘But . . . how the hell will you get them off?’

  ‘I don’t care about getting them off,’ I snap. ‘It’s taken me twenty-five minutes to get them on.’

  ‘I know,’ he says hotly. ‘We’re all waiting downstairs and if you don’t hurry up they’ll give our table to someone—’

  ‘Does this thing make me look thinner?’ I blurt out desperately.

  ‘Um . . .’ He scans my body, clearly trying to dredge up a positive comment. ‘You look, um . . . compressed. Sort of boxy.’

  ‘Boxy? What d’you mean, boxy?’

  ‘I, er . . .’ He is laughing now, his shoulders bobbing with mirth. ‘Your, erm . . . your bum . . .’

  ‘What about my bum?’

  ‘It’s gone kind of . . . shoebox shaped.’

  ‘Shoebox shaped?’ I wail as Toby splutters with laughter.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Jed sniggers. ‘Once you’re dressed, I’m sure you’ll look, um . . . almost normal.’

  Almost normal. Perhaps that’s the best I can hope for. While Jed ushers Toby downstairs, I pull on my new dress and sandals and clatter down after them. ‘Wow, you look amazing,’ Joelle announces.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, kissing the children goodbye before our curious group tumbles out into the soft spring evening. Brian pulls out a car key and unlocks the doors. ‘Aren’t we going in our car?’ I ask.

  ‘No, love,’ Brian says. ‘Thought I’d drive, let Jed have a drink. Look like you could do with one, son, after all the time it took Laura to get ready . . .’ Everyone chuckles, and I force an icy smile.

  ‘I could drive,’ I suggest. ‘I really wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Oh, no, love,’ Brian says, clearly horrified by the concept of me being in control of a car. ‘C’mon, ladies. Hop in.’

  Obediently, Pauline and I clamber into the back. ‘We’re not taking the caravan, are we?’ I ask faintly as Jed climbs in beside his father.

  ‘’Course we are, love,’ Brian says.

  ‘But couldn’t you . . . unhook it and leave it behind?’ I glance back. Vitesse, its creamy exterior smattered with mould, fills the entire rear window. A woman shrinks away as she walks by, as if it might have a contagious disease.

  ‘Oh no,’ Pauline says. ‘We wouldn’t want to leave it un attended around here.’

  ‘What?’ I splutter
. ‘But you live in Peckham . . .’

  She throws me a baffled look. ‘What’s wrong with Peckham?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. But there’s hardly any crime around here, and I’m sure it’d be safe for a few hours . . .’

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ Brian observes as we pull away from our house.

  I like to pretend that we’re normal. That we do civilised things like go to a grown-up restaurant to celebrate a birthday. It’s a little hard to pull off with a rotting caravan wobbling precariously at our rear.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  By the time we arrive at Rawlton House, the Reducer has slipped down several inches and rolled up on itself. The effect is of a thick electrical cable wrapped around my waist. My instinct is to pelt across the gravelled drive to the entrance and into the ladies’ before anyone notices, but I force myself to loop an arm through Jed’s and walk demurely. ‘You look lovely,’ he whispers.

  ‘Thanks.’ I muster a smile.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind about . . .’ He flicks his eyes in the direction of his parents, who are strutting ahead.

  ‘No, it’s okay.’

  ‘There wasn’t anything I could do. I wanted to take you out, just the two of us, then they announced they were coming . . .’

  ‘I know,’ I say, squeezing his arm. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine, Jed. Just relax.’

  And it seems as if it will be fine, as we are greeted at the restaurant’s entrance and shown to a window table offering a fabulous view of the gardens and lake. Vitesse glows in the distance like a decaying molar. I focus hard on my menu. ‘What are you having, Laura?’ Pauline asks.

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’ Actually, I sense that someone who requires such a sturdy undergarment should consume as little as possible. A solitary broad bean, perhaps, or a sliver of poached fish.

  ‘What do they recommend at that diet club?’ she asks, copper hair glistening beneath the orangey lights.

  ‘They, um . . . have a kind of face system,’ I murmur, throwing Jed a quick, vexed look. What possessed him to tell his mother about Tub Club?