Mum On The Run

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘It’s definitely getting easier,’ he says as we swerve out of the park, following the narrow path which runs alongside the river. ‘I never imagined I could enjoy running, to be honest.’

  ‘Neither did I.’ When I glimpse the church clock, I’m astounded to see that we’ve been running for twenty minutes without having to walk, or anything terrible happening at all.

  ‘Want to take a rest?’ he asks as we approach a bench.

  ‘Shall we see if we can manage another five minutes?’

  ‘God,’ he laughs, ‘you’re a ruthless woman.’ We run and run, taking the steps back up to the road and following the shortcut alleyway until we’re back in the park where we started. We stop abruptly, both of us laughing and gasping for breath. ‘You were challenging me, weren’t you?’ he pants. ‘You wanted me to suggest stopping first.’

  ‘No,’ I fib, allowing myself to drop onto a bench. ‘But I could sense you were struggling there so maybe we’d better have a rest. I mean, I don’t want you keeling over or anything.’

  He sits beside me and catches his breath. ‘We must have run three miles, Laura. Three miles! A couple of lapsed old Tub Club members like us.’

  I giggle and look at him.

  ‘We’re brilliant, aren’t we? Belinda would be proud.’

  A solitary duck catches my eye, and I watch it, enjoying the stillness.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Danny says.

  ‘Sure. What is it?’

  ‘Could I take some pictures of you sometime? I’d really like to. Remember I told you I really love to do portraits? Well, I’ve let it slip lately. Focused on commercial work instead of taking pictures just for myself, the kind of shots I really want to do. And I thought you’d be perfect. Would you mind, or am I being horribly cheeky?’

  ‘Of course you’re not,’ I say. ‘You really think I’d be perfect, though? Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Oh yes. Don’t tell me you hate having your photo taken . . .’

  I laugh, trying to work out whether I do or not. ‘You know, I don’t know how I feel about it because no one ever takes any pictures of me.’

  ‘Seriously?’ he says, frowning. ‘Like, never?’

  ‘Well, Jed used to. Hundreds, actually, and we’re talking years back – pre-digital – so, somewhere in our house, there are stacks of prints of me in various states of inebriation at parties.’ I snigger.

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Well, then we had the children and it stopped.’

  ‘Did it? Why?’

  I smile, realising that of course he doesn’t understand. ‘Danny,’ I say patiently, ‘something happens when you have kids. Suddenly, they’re the ones everyone takes photos of. Which is understandable, given the sleep-deprived general knackeredness of the parents and the cuteness of the children. I mean, they’re far more photogenic than we are.’

  ‘Right, I get it. But what about holidays? Surely you’re in family holiday shots?’

  ‘We haven’t had a family holiday for four years,’ I explain. ‘Last one was to a damp cottage in Northumberland which had other people’s toenail clippings in the bath. We came home with about 300 photos of the children, and Jed was in a few, but there was only one of me. And I was bending over in the background with my bum in the air, picking something up off the floor.’ Danny is choking with laughter. ‘I could dig that out for you if you like,’ I add, ‘if you need creative inspiration.’

  ‘Well, um, I was thinking of something a bit more . . . dignified actually. In fact, this could be your reintroduction into the dazzlingly glamorous world of photography. What d’you think?’ He gives me such an open, hopeful look that I want to hug him.

  ‘Where would you do the shots?’ I ask.

  ‘Just at my place. There’s plenty of space there.’

  ‘Oh. Um, I think . . .’ I hesitate. ‘I think I need to think about it, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘No pressure at all.’

  I smile, and we sit in easy silence, watching the ducks paddle across the lake. Then his hand touches mine, and my heart turns over. I don’t move or look at him. I just sit in the milky sunlight, with a handsome man’s hand over mine, thinking that whatever happens I’ll never forget this weird, but strangely perfect morning.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Danny and I meet up three times together the following week, and the week after that. The soft May air turns drier and hotter as we slip into June, which makes running a little more challenging. We start bringing water bottles, like proper runners do, and swig and chat as we follow our usual route through the park and alongside the river. He tells me more about Sarah, and the illicit meetings with her builder boyfriend while he was out working, and how betrayed he felt. ‘I’ve never told anyone about all of this,’ he says. Nothing has happened between us since the brief hand-holding incident, which doesn’t count for anything really. I try to convince myself that I’m doing nothing wrong.

  One morning, I notice Kirsty checking me out as I start to cut her freshly-washed hair. ‘Haven’t seen you at the last few meetings,’ she remarks.

  ‘I decided Super Slimmers wasn’t for me,’ I tell her. ‘My problem is, once something’s forbidden, I want it all the more. I was starting to dream about all those foods on the banned list.’

  ‘You’ve lost weight, though, haven’t you?’ she adds. ‘And you’re looking so healthy these days. Kind of glowing in fact.’

  ‘Oh,’ I laugh, ‘that’s just the trick lighting we have in here to make our clients walk out feeling amazing.’

  ‘Hey, don’t tell Kirsty about that,’ Simone sniggers, overhearing our conversation.

  ‘Isn’t Laura looking great, though, don’t you think?’

  ‘She always does,’ Simone replies. ‘But yes, there’s definitely a bit less of her these days.’ Later, as I remove Kirsty’s cape and sweep the brush across her shoulders, I glimpse my reflection. I do look better, if I say so myself: brighter and sparklier. Not the kind of woman you’d present with an oven glove on her birthday.

  ‘Well, something’s doing you good,’ Kirsty declares, raising an eyebrow as she pulls out her wallet to pay. ‘If that’s what running does, I might think about taking it up too. You’ve got a real glow about you, Mrs Swan.’

  Beth notices too, and brings up the subject when we’re making the most of a scorching afternoon by having an impromptu after-school picnic tea in her garden. ‘So, are you going to tell me?’ she asks, popping a strawberry into her mouth while our kids hang out at the far end of her lawn.

  ‘Tell you about what?’ I ask.

  ‘Come on, Laura. You look fantastic, but it’s not just that, is it? Not just the weight loss, I mean. You’re seeing a lot of Danny these days, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I murmur. ‘Two or three times a week. But it’s only running, you know. We’re just well-matched and we keep each other motivated . . .’

  ‘Are you sure it’s just that?’ She throws me a teasing look.

  ‘Okay, we did sit and hold hands in the park, just the once, which sounds silly, doesn’t it? Like something teenagers would do . . .’ I realise I’m blushing furiously. ‘It was nothing,’ I add quickly.

  ‘It doesn’t sound like nothing,’ she murmurs. ‘I bet you still haven’t told Jed you run with him . . .’

  ‘No, but how could I tell him now? It would look as if we had something to hide.’

  Beth glances at me, and I detect a flicker of concern in her eyes. ‘Just be careful,’ she adds. ‘Things can get out of hand, can’t they? And I don’t want to see your life unravelling.’

  ‘It won’t,’ I say firmly, draining my glass of sparkling, calorie-free water. ‘Nothing’s going to unravel, I promise.’

  *

  Finn returns from school the next day with a startling announcement. Apparently, despite him handing it to me personally weeks ago, I have lost the vital permission form for his class outing to the art gallery. ‘I told you I needed
you to sign it,’ he huffs during dinner, ‘or I won’t be able to go.’

  I cast an eye around the kitchen. Piles of rumpled papers clutter the top of the microwave and fridge. In several drawers, so much paperwork is crammed in that the odd vital document flutters down the back to the cupboards below. ‘When are you going?’ I ask.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow? Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘I am saying,’ he mutters. ‘I’m saying now.’

  I thought you didn’t even like art, I want to shoot back. Last time we went to a gallery, you said it made you feel sick . . .

  Jed arrives home promptly from work. Since Grace’s birthday incident, three weeks ago now, his behaviour has been exemplary. He has changed the kids’ beds, cleaned out all the nasties from the back of the fridge and started to dig over our weedy border. It’s a little unnerving, as if he’s eagerly working towards his Being Helpful at Home badge. ‘Are you sure you brought the form home?’ he asks Finn. ‘I don’t remember seeing it.’

  ‘Yeah, I gave it to her.’ He jabs his fork at me, as if I’m some random domestic help.

  ‘You gave it to Mum, you mean,’ Jed corrects him. ‘There’s no need to be so rude, Finn.’

  ‘Yeah, and she went and lost it.’

  ‘Well, it must be here somewhere,’ Jed declares, flicking impatiently through the pile on the fridge.

  ‘What’ll happen if we can’t find it?’ I ask. ‘Will they come round and shoot me?’

  Finn throws me an ominous look and sucks in a strand of spaghetti. I watch, transfixed, as it shoots into his mouth, like the cable disappearing back into the hoover. ‘Then I won’t be able to go,’ he mumbles, ‘and I’ll have to sit in class all day all on my own with nothing to do.’

  ‘Oh, Finn,’ I say. ‘I’m sure we’ll find it.’

  ‘But I don’t care,’ he adds defiantly, ‘’cause art galleries are the most boring places on earth.’

  ‘How can you say art’s boring?’ I exclaim. ‘I mean, all of it?’

  ‘Try to be more open minded, Finn,’ Jed offers.

  ‘How can I when Mum’s lost the form so I can’t even go?’

  Taking a deep breath, I blink at our kitchen wall cupboard. There’s a bottle of white wine in there. It’s horrible cheap stuff from the school fête tombola, and it’s not even chilled, but who cares? Even rancid lukewarm vinegar would be fantastic right now. It would be no trouble to uncork it and glug the lot. What’s so awful about art galleries anyway? They are calming. You’re not expected to do anything apart from stand or sit quietly and look at pictures. I can’t imagine many places more pleasing than that, unless Naomi’s nude pictures were on display. I did find those a little unsettling.

  ‘Ta-daaa,’ Jed announces, waving the crumpled A4 sheet like a prize. ‘One permission form.’

  ‘Holy shit,’ Finn growls.

  ‘What did you say?’ I bark at him.

  ‘Now I’ll have to go and look at all those paintings of naked fat women.’

  ‘Voluptuous,’ I correct him. ‘They’re beautiful, curvy and voluptuous, Finn. Not fat.’

  ‘Why did they do paintings of fat ladies?’ Grace asks, wandering into the kitchen. She looks healthy and sunny-faced, and her lightly-tanned nose and cheeks are peppered with freckles.

  ‘Well, in those days,’ I explain, ‘people thought bigger women were beautiful.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I suppose being bigger and rounder meant you were richer, with more money to buy good food. So that made those women seem attractive.’

  Grace fixes me with wide, dark eyes. ‘Did people like rich women in the olden days?’ Jed sniggers in the background.

  ‘Um, yes, I guess they did.’

  ‘They still do, don’t they?’ Finn remarks, excavating a nostril with an index finger. ‘Loads of people get married just for money.’

  ‘Well, I suppose some do,’ I agree. ‘But most people marry for love.’

  Finn peers through his dark fringe and throws me a narrow-eyed look, as if the very concept is horribly outmoded. ‘You still goin’ to that fat club?’ he asks.

  ‘No, as a matter of fact.’ I grin at him. ‘I gave all that up and started running instead which means that, from now on, I can eat whatever I like.’

  Chuckling, Jed comes over and kisses my cheek. ‘Hallelujah,’ he says. ‘Good to see the old Laura’s back.’

  *

  Later that night, as I’m tipping out the tumble of crumpled school books and half-eaten snacks from Finn’s schoolbag, a leaflet about the art gallery lands on the floor. I flick through it; he was right, there are lots of paintings of naked fat women. And they look good. They look normal. One in particular, a woman reclining on a turquoise chaise longue, dark hair piled up on her head, even looks a little like me. A terrible realisation hits me: what if Danny wants me naked in those photos? Of course he does! Doesn’t he want to put his energies into more artistic work? What does ‘artistic’ mean, if not nude? And didn’t he say our little ‘session’ could be my reintroduction into the dazzlingly glamorous world of photography?

  My heart lurches and I sense the blood draining from my face. Of course – it seems so obvious now. Danny wants me to strip off and pose like these languid ladies in the art gallery. He wants to loom over my quivering flesh with his massive zoom lens. And I can’t do it. Apart from the fact that no one sees me naked these days – not even Jed, at least not properly, unless he’s slicing me out of my girdle, of course – stripping off in that remote farmhouse would be the first step to my whole life unravelling, which is precisely what Beth was warning me against. I have to stop it right now. Focus on things here – the kids, Jed, work – instead of being swept away by ridiculous fantasies.

  Really, I have to grow up.

  Quickly, I stuff the contents back into Finn’s schoolbag, without sorting them out as I’d intended to. Pulling my mobile from my pocket, and wiping a smear of spaghetti sauce from my wrist, I text: VERY BUSY THIS WK CANT RUN WITH U SORRY. I wait for a reply, but nothing comes.

  So that’s that. Whatever ‘it’ was, it’s not any more. Maybe it’s better this way. Extracting a freshly-washed Ted from the laundry pile, I try to convince myself that, for once in my life, I’ve done the right thing.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  All week, I throw myself into motherly duties, culminating with getting up at 7.20 a.m. on Sunday to make extensive preparations for the annual Playgroup Picnic. This is only marginally less competitive than the mums’ race. Every edible offering is scrutinised; whilst home-made onion tartlets imply that one is coping marvellously on the parental scale, plain old ham sandwiches, made from white plastic bread, hint that you’re veering towards mental collapse.

  The first time I attended the picnic, when Toby had just turned two, Ruth had brought an intricately iced three-layer chocolate cake which she’d apparently been decorating until 2 a.m. It baffled me why she was boasting about this. ‘I’d never manage to do that!’ one of the other mums kept shrieking. Manage to do what, I wondered? Make the cake, or be unhinged enough to stay up half the night smoothing chocolate frosting all over it?

  I wondered, too, when my baking gene would kick in, and I’d morph into being a proper mother. Just stopping Toby from having terrible accidents – he was obsessed with climbing at that point – was virtually a full-time job. Everyone cooed over Ruth’s outlandish cake, whilst glancing disparagingly at my family packet of Monster Munch as if it were crack cocaine. That’s why Grace and I are preparing something spectacular. It’s actually rather enjoyable, creating something together before the menfolk of our household have emerged from their beds. Plus, it’s not anything as ordinary as cake. We are making a gingerbread house: a gingerbread stately home, in fact, with formal gardens and an annexe. Ruth will choke on her home-made taramasalata when she sees it.

  ‘How will it all fit together?’ Grace asks, surveying our freshly-baked sections. I glance at our library cookbook. The h
ouse in the photo is a thing of wonder, its roof tiled with neatly-overlapping white chocolate buttons, its windows edged with piped icing and sugar pearls. My confidence begins to waver.

  ‘We’ll stick it together with icing,’ I say firmly.

  ‘Are you sure? Have you made a gingerbread house before?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Loads of times.’

  ‘When?’ Her voice is laced with disbelief.

  ‘When . . . when you were much younger. You wouldn’t remember.’

  ‘You always buy my birthday cakes,’ she mutters, ‘except the volcano one and that broke.’

  ‘You mean someone broke it,’ I murmur, ‘and anyway, this isn’t a cake. This is going to be completely amazing.’ While I mix up the icing, and Grace figures out where the various sections should go, I start to remember how bad I am at constructing things, and how Jed shouted at me for not ‘holding the wood properly’ when we were trying to build a flat-pack shelf unit for our CDs. Why does everything have to be flatpack anyway? I once ordered Toby a special singing toothbrush in the hope that it would help him to focus on dental hygiene for more than a cursory three seconds. Even that was self-assembly, and its head fell off four days later and emitted nothing more than a pitiful squeak. Luckily, though, having appointed herself as chief builder, Grace is soon constructing the thing and decorating it with the vast array of sweets I bought for the purpose.

  ‘Wow, that’s impressive.’ Jed appears at my side in his dressing gown, smelling pleasantly of warm sheets and soap.

  ‘It’s gonna be the best thing at the picnic,’ Grace declares.

  ‘Bet it will be,’ Jed says. He’s in a buoyant mood, as is often the case on Sunday mornings. While Finn has begun to regard football with the kind of gloom normally associated with a trip to buy a school uniform, Jed still loves coaching the team. Or perhaps it’s the getting out of the house part that he enjoys. ‘Clever you,’ he adds, kissing me lightly on the forehead.