Mum in the Middle

by Jane Wenham-Jones

  He carried on gazing in front of him. ‘Your boyfriend left you already?’

  I sat down beside him. ‘He’s not my boyfriend. He never was,’ I said. ‘And he won’t be now.’ I added, disturbed by Malcolm’s stony profile still turned away from me.

  ‘And I’m sorry,’ I rushed on. ‘I’m sorry for calling you a bastard and for not realising you’d helped do the party – well, bought it all, really – and for not knowing you’d been nice to Gabriel when I thought you’d sacked him, and for being very good to me on a number of occasions–’

  I stopped. Malcolm hadn’t moved.

  ‘I didn’t know David was going to turn up,’ I went on. ‘He didn’t stay long. I’ve realised he’s not my type at all,’ I finished desperately.

  ‘And I’ve missed seeing you. I don’t want us to fall out because …’ I stopped again as my voice began to wobble.

  He put an arm out and closed it around my shoulders.

  ‘Because?’ he enquired as he pulled me towards him. He felt warm and solid. I let my head fall against him.

  ‘Because I haven’t tried your sausage casserole yet,’ I said, attempting to laugh and finding myself choking back tears instead. I gulped and snorted. His arm held me tighter.

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ he said.

  ‘I was going to make it up with you when I came for lunch. When you cancelled and–’

  ‘I was right up against deadline, you silly woman,’ Malcolm sounded entirely unapologetic. ‘That was Bill Williams, the leader of the council I had in there, and I was trying to get him to tell me some approximation of the truth or at least a decent lie I could quote. I had only minutes before I needed to send the copy off. We were literally holding the front page.’

  As I was silent, he went on. ‘Didn’t Grace explain? If we miss our slot at the presses all hell breaks loose and it was too good a lead to let go–’

  ‘Why didn’t you phone later? Suggest another lunch date?’

  ‘I thought you’d be in a strop. I was going to sort it out tonight. After I’d checked with your friend that you weren’t still mooning over the great architect …’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Have you told him that?’

  ‘Yes. I have now.’

  We sat in silence for a minute or two. I wanted to stay there in the warm dark evening, feeling safe and comforted, forever.

  ‘How’s your bird?’ I said at last.

  ‘Flown off into the big wide world,’ said Malcolm. ‘I’ve only got my journalists to spoon feed now. So that twerp of a boy told you he’s back, then?’

  ‘He said you were very kind.’

  ‘Pah! Only to stop you wringing your hands.’

  ‘Jinni’s forgiven him too.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s another bleeding-heart liberal behind that gobby front.’

  ‘Look who’s talking!’

  I leant into his warmth and listened to the breeze blowing through leaves, the sound of a car in the distance, a sudden burst of laughter from the lane outside.

  ‘I’ve got a real conspiracy for him now.’ Malcolm’s tone was conversational. ‘Ingrid was right about backhanders. But not at the community centre. I was quizzing Bill after a tip-off that there’ve been a few brown envelopes doing the rounds over the site of the old swimming pool. The council have sold it off far too cheap and someone is set to make a killing with forty new-builds.’ He paused. ‘Guess who the architect is behind the development?’

  ‘Not–’

  ‘One Jason Radley. His business partner. So just as well you’ve seen the light about lover boy,’ Malcolm sounded satisfied. ‘Because he’s going to need to like porridge if this is what I think it is.’

  As I stared at him, shocked, Malcolm gave a grim chuckle. ‘Irony is Ingrid created merry hell when that pool closed. And has been ranting about corruption at the council ever since. She evidently doesn’t know her little boy’s up to his neck in it.’

  ‘Are you going to report it?’

  ‘Too bloody right I am.’

  ‘Is that why you gave him that look when he was in my house?’

  ‘I didn’t know about it then.’

  ‘Do you think David wrote that horrible note to Jinni? Gabriel swears he didn’t.’

  ‘If the spelling was correct.’

  ‘Perhaps he did dye his eyebrows as well.’

  We were quiet again. I could feel Malcolm’s breaths in rhythm with mine and as I looked up at the clear sky studded with stars I suddenly longed for him to turn and put his arms around me completely. I wondered what it would be like to kiss him and what he would do if I made the first move.

  Perhaps if we went indoors and he made coffee. Perhaps I could move towards him naturally, in his kitchen, put my arms around him, tell him how much I valued his friendship, how I wanted to get to know him better …

  Heart thumping, I stretched out my arm and took his other hand. For a second I felt him tense. ‘Shall we–?’ I began but he had given my fingers a brisk squeeze and let me go.

  ‘I’d better get you back to the party,’ he said, standing up.

  My insides shrank in disappointment. ‘I’m really not that bothered,’ I said, trying to sound blasé.

  ‘I am!’ he said firmly.

  I followed him through the house. I noticed now he’d changed out of the suit he’d been wearing earlier and had on a pair of dark-green trousers and a soft cotton shirt. I felt touched he’d made an effort to dress up for me and even more guilty that I’d got it all wrong.

  ‘We don’t have to–’ I tried once more as he picked up car keys from a shelf in the hall.

  He turned and gave me a brief, inscrutable smile. ‘We do.’

  I sat watching his hands as he drove expertly round the twisting lanes. Sick to my stomach that it had taken me so long to realise I wanted him and that it now seemed way too late.

  I’d been blinded by my crush on David, like a silly, shallow adolescent. When I was old and ugly enough to know that what really mattered was trust and loyalty. A warm arm around you when things felt grim, pulling you close.

  David had me dangling too – on tenterhooks – wanting to choose the right words, make a good impression. With Malcolm I could be me and being me was enough. Or it might have been.

  I looked across at his profile, intent on the road ahead. David had only pursued me when he thought I wasn’t interested enough. Malcolm had always been there when I needed him. I wished I’d accepted his invitation to dinner, wished I’d sampled his scrambled eggs instead of wasting time on fantasies about someone whose speciality was multiple irons in the fire. And making a fast buck. I shuddered at myself. And felt ashamed.

  ‘So here we are!’ Malcolm’s tone had an air of brittle jollity as we pulled up outside Jinni’s once more and crunched across her gravel to the door someone had conveniently left on the latch. He stepped back to let me go first.

  The hall was deserted. As we approached, the kitchen door opened a crack, spilling out light and then rapidly closed again. I could hear muffled voices.

  As I pushed the door back open, the lights were off. I could see figures moving about in the gloom. Someone giggled.

  I swung round to look at Malcolm. What were they planning now?

  There was a cry of ‘Close your eyes,’ and then the soft whoosh of matches being lit and I opened my eyes again to see Caroline and Tilly holding up an enormous cake, alight with a cluster of candles. Guitar chords twanged to my right and half a dozen drunken voices began to sing ‘Happy Birthday’, as the cake wobbled and yet another champagne cork popped.

  I felt Malcolm move up close behind me. ‘We couldn’t waste that,’ he murmured. ‘Cost me a fortune.’

  ‘I’m 48,’ I said in wonder. ‘What will happen when I’m 50?’

  ‘We’ll put a ribbon on your Zimmer frame,’ said Ben, from a stool beside me, as the lights went back on and they all cheered.

  Malcolm was walking away. I swallowed.

  ‘W
hen am I going to meet Maria?’ I said brightly. ‘She sounds an interesting girl.’

  Ben took a swig of beer and moved off, apparently having something pressing to say to Dan on the other side of the room.

  ‘She’s 34,’ said Tilly in my ear.

  ‘Drink!’ cried Jinni, gesturing with the bottle as I stood startled. ‘Then I might need to hit the sack.’

  ‘Oh God, me too. I’ll help you clear up in the morning.’ Caroline caught my eye and cocked an eyebrow towards Malcolm. I gave a small shake of my head.

  Sam and Emily were handing round plates of cake. I couldn’t swallow. Malcolm was standing next to the Aga munching.

  I took a deep breath. ‘It’s been lovely to see you here, Grace,’ I said to his receptionist, who was holding a plate nearby.

  She frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ I tried again. ‘It’s very nice of you.’

  ‘Oh.’ She still didn’t smile. ‘Happy Birthday,’ she said flatly. ‘We signed a card. He’s got it somewhere.’ She jerked a head at Malcolm.

  ‘I’m not sure she likes me very much,’ I said to him as she moved off, glad of a reason to speak. ‘I’ve always tried to be friendly and polite …’

  Malcolm guffawed. ‘She’s not really Grace,’ he said. ‘We call her that to be ironic.’

  I stared, remembering how many times I’d greeted her by name. No wonder she thought I was peculiar. Malcolm laughed again.

  ‘She’s called Shirley …’

  Gabriel was rounding up a party to go to the Fox, announcing it had an extension till one a.m.

  ‘Don’t make a racket coming in,’ Jinni told Jake and Dan.

  ‘On second thoughts, I think I might get a second wind and go with them,’ said Caroline. ‘Jake’s rather delectable,’ she added. ‘How old is he?’

  Jinni was looking at her phone. ‘Twenty-six. I’ll give you a key.’ She smiled. ‘Mark’s popping over for a nightcap.’

  ‘We’d better be off, then,’ Malcolm put his plate down. I looked at him, heart beating. Did ‘we’ mean me too?

  ‘Do you need a lift?’ he asked Shirley-Grace.

  ‘Can if you want,’ she said tersely. ‘Save my legs.’

  The tight ball inside me tightened further. ‘Well, I hope I see you soon.’ I said, leaning up to kiss his cheek, willing him to suggest something himself. ‘Must be my turn to buy you lunch.’

  He nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘And thank you – thank you for the cake. And, er, everything.’ I could feel my voice wobbling again and saw Grace-Shirley throw me an odd look.

  Malcolm looked at me gravely. I felt my eyes fill and a tear run down my cheek. For a moment neither of us spoke. ‘Right, then,’ he said heavily and went out into the hall, Shirley-Grace behind him. Jinni pulled a face.

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ said Caroline cheerily. I could hear a murmur of voices in the hall and hoped she wasn’t saying anything cringe-worthy. While I was craning to eavesdrop, Jinni threw an arm around me.

  ‘Hey, I’m glad you moved here, girlfriend,’ she hollered in my other ear.

  ‘I am too,’ I told her, sniffing hard and grabbing a piece of her kitchen roll. ‘Remember that first day we talked, I was feeling so lonely–’

  Sam and Alice were leaving.

  ‘Summit meeting about Mother in the morning,’ instructed Alice. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ve found out and we’ll form a strategy.’

  ‘That means she will,’ I said to Jinni as they disappeared.

  Oliver put his glass in the sink. ‘I’m going back too,’ he said.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me how old Maria was?’

  Oliver shrugged. ‘It won’t last.’

  I thought about Malcolm. I wanted something between us to go on and on. I wanted him to hug me to him, to be there when I woke up, with his dear, craggy TV detective face.

  I bit my lip and blinked hard. Caroline was holding up her glass.

  ‘A marvellous evening all round,’ she declared, looking pleased with herself and critically at me. ‘I’ve got the most fabulous recovery eye-mask – I’ll give you a sachet, darling.’

  I began to gather glasses and plates, as around me the pub contingent assembled in the hall.

  ‘That first day–’ I continued to Jinni, who was reapplying lipstick and fluffing out her hair, ‘–the house felt so empty– Now …’

  I stopped as she broke into a wide smile and looked across the room. I turned – expecting my first sighting of her newly re-appraised neighbour.

  My heart jumped.

  ‘Just go and say it.’ With a sharp shove, Caroline propelled me towards Malcolm.

  I came to a halt inches in front of his chest. I looked up. Malcolm was impassive.

  ‘Can I come home with you, please?’ I said bravely, heart hammering hard in my chest, aware of Caroline on the edge of my vision, giving me a thumbs-up as she hustled Jinni away.

  Malcolm’s mouth twitched. ‘Are you telling me,’ he asked gruffly, ‘that after all these bloody months, you have finally fallen for my charms?’

  ‘I have fallen irrevocably and completely,’ I confirmed happily, watching his eyes widen. I paused for a mental head count. Taking in my offspring, not forgetting my sister Alice and including Mattie, to whom Tilly was still spot-welded.

  ‘And,’ I added, reaching for his hand. ‘There’s nowhere left to sleep at mine …’

  Acknowledgements

  Mum in the Middle was a considerable time in the making and many lovely people helped along the way. I am massively grateful to my good friend and one-time editor, Mike Pearce, for all the wisdom and journalistic know-how he has shared over the years, and for being such an inspiration and encouragement. I couldn’t have written this without you!

  I’d also like to thank Lynda Wenham-Jones, Rebecca Smith and Janie Millman, for answering my various questions and Matt Bates for being gorgeous. For the entertainment, help, support and fabulous times at Chez-Castillon, I pay tribute to Janie and Mike Wilson, Katie Fforde, Judy Astley, Captain Catherine Jones, Jo Thomas, Clare Mackintosh, and Betty Orme – wonderful friends who have all, in their different ways, given me so much. Along with my dear local pals Janice Biggs, Bill Harris, and Jacqui Cook who unfailingly get me through when the chips are down. My son Tom has provided flashes of brilliance when I’ve been stuck and also made me laugh like a drain; my agent Teresa Chris has proved once again that beneath that fearsome exterior beats a heart of pure gold, and the marvellous folk at HarperCollins have made it all happen. None more so than my clever, kind, insightful, and clearly discerning editor, Kate Bradley, who I quietly adore. Thank you all xxx

  Jane Wenham-Jones is a journalist, columnist and speaker who counts her press pass and Equity card among her most treasured possessions. She is the author of eight books and thousands of short stories, features and columns across a wide range of magazines and national newspapers – with regular slots in Woman’s Weekly Fiction Series and Writing Magazine where she is the agony aunt. As a presenter, she has hosted the Romantic Novel of the Year awards for the past eight years, appeared for the BBC on both radio and TV and popped up on more little-watched daytime television on long-defunct channels than she cares to remember. As an interviewer she has been ‘in conversation with’ hundreds of top authors and celebrities, and is a founder member of BroadstairsLit – literary events throughout the year – in the seaside town of Broadstairs, where she lives.

  @JaneWenhamJones

  www.facebook.com/‌JaneWenham‌JonesAuthor

  www.janewenham-jones.com

  Family gatherings and how to survive them – Jane’s top tips

  Christmas, birthdays, weddings and christenings can all be a minefield when today’s modern – often blended – families are suddenly brought together. But you can survive them with a little forward thinking…

  1. Make a seating plan. Grannies will like sitting next to their grandchildren and can deal with their runny noses and dodgy eating
habits. Second wives can be put at the opposite end of the table to the original spouses, and alcoholic uncles placed away from the wine. Make a plan even if it’s not your house and enlist an ally to help herd everyone into position.

  2. Weigh up the pros and cons of hosting against those of being a guest. If it’s your home, you can legitimately spend the evening hiding in the kitchen / popping upstairs to fetch something / searching for the cat in the garden. If it’s elsewhere, you can set up a friend to call you with a fake emergency and beat an early retreat.

  3. There is a fine art to judging how much alcohol to serve and to whom. As a general rule, for anyone likely to fall asleep - as much as you can get down their necks. Those with grievances to air - hide the whisky!

  4. Prime younger members of the family on suitable topics of conversation, and remind them that while they may consider a baah-humbug farting sheep a hilarious centrepiece, Great Aunt Hilda probably won’t.

  5. Talk of sex, religion and politics can all add spice to the proceedings. Instead, put a ban on discussion of parenting skills, divorce rates or anything that happened ‘in my day…’

  6. Invite non-family too. Relatives will behave better, and may offer polite chit-chat instead of bickering over the remote control and dragging up what Uncle Roger did in The Great Christmas Row of 1996.

  7. Prepare a fund of ‘rescue subjects’ to distract and divert if tensions are rising. New babies, holiday plans and the shortcomings of other relatives not present, will usually go down well.

  8. At funerals remember it is de rigueur to declare how much the deceased would have enjoyed the wake. Practise smiling and nodding and do not succumb to the temptation to reply: ‘No she wouldn’t, she’d have complained about the food and then sat in the corner with a face on.’

  9. Serve all food in quantity. It is harder to be argumentative when stuffed to the gills.

  10. If you have a cream sofa – cover it.

  11. If all else fails, whip out the Trivial Pursuit.

  12. Try deep breathing, mindfulness techniques, meditation or yoga. Repeat to yourself: ‘I am relaxed, I am calm, I am enjoying this.’ Then hit the gin early, grin a lot and remember in a few hours it will all be over.