by Suzy K Quinn
Penelope’s two huge dogs bounded into the play area and began head-butting swings and chewing at shredded bark.
Since that awful lunch at the Dearheart’s house last year, Penelope has pretended not to know who I am. I suppose cleaning poo off your conservatory leaves bad memories.
Helen and Penelope wore identical black sunglasses and displeased expressions.
Penelope spotted me first, and tapped Helen’s arm. Then Helen’s witchy face turned in my direction. Her bony shoulders shot up.
‘Juliette.’ Helen looked momentarily flustered. ‘You’re here with Daisy?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She’s right there. You’ve probably forgotten what she looks like by now.’
‘I do try, Juliette,’ said Helen, putting on her serious, business voice, and throwing an embarrassed glance at Penelope. ‘You don’t make it easy.’
‘I don’t make it easy? The last time I came round your house, you tried to blackmail me into dropping maintenance requests.’
Helen reddened at this, her role as doting grandmother challenged.
‘You were using terrible language,’ said Helen. ‘And you never trusted me with Daisy, Juliette. Sadie is always asking for help.’
Helen turned to Penelope. ‘Of course, I can’t babysit as much as they’d like. You know those two – always being pulled back to London for one reason or another. And Horry isn’t the best of sleepers. Very hard to settle. So sometimes I just have to tell them, it’s your turn now! Ha ha!’
Penelope forced a grin.
‘You know Nick won’t get residency of Daisy,’ I said. ‘Why are you putting me through this? After everything Nick’s done?’
‘As a matter of fact, we’re getting a strong case together,’ said Helen. ‘We’re hoping character will win the day. And lack of it … Nick is determined to win his daughter back.’
‘If he’s so bloody determined, how come he didn’t see her for nearly half a year?’ I shouted.
Helen danced awkwardly and turned to Penelope. ‘Perhaps … shall we head to the café?’
Penelope gave a strained nod.
They turned and scurried off.
‘That’s right, fuck off back to your Land Rovers,’ Althea shouted after them.
Sunday 26th February
Sunday lunch at the pub with the family.
Especially nice to see Laura, who came down especially from London.
Mum did her special, extra-crunchy roast potatoes, which are essentially scoops of buttery mash dropped into the pub-kitchen deep-fat fryer.
Told everyone about bumping into Helen.
‘Nasty old cow,’ Mum said.
‘Do you think Nick could get residency?’ I asked.
‘No way,’ said Laura. ‘The courts almost always favour the mother.’
‘But will it actually go to court’ I asked. ‘Nick might back off now things are getting serious. What do you think?’
The room went silent, except for the awkward munching of Mum’s extra-crunchy roast potatoes.
Monday 27th February
Still no maintenance from Nick.
He hasn’t responded to my phone calls or messages.
Sent a text message, threatening to phone the HMRC tax-dodger hotline if he didn’t call back.
Tuesday 28th February
Nick just rang, begging me not to phone HMRC.
I could tell he was stressed – his voice had gone all high and wobbly.
Horatio was screaming in the background.
‘Look, I’m about to have a nervous breakdown,’ he screeched. ‘You can’t call HMRC. The tax people will be after me for years of back pay. I don’t know how you can be so vindictive. You’ve already got your revenge. I’m fucking miserable and Sadie is too.’
‘I’m not being vindictive,’ I told him. ‘I just want what’s best for my daughter. START PAYING MAINTENANCE.’
‘How can I send money when I’m not working?’ said Nick. ‘My skin is terrible. I’m getting no sleep. No one will hire a spotty actor with bags under his eyes. Just give me time, Jules. Give me time.’
‘Take a non-acting job,’ I said. ‘You have two kids to support. Playtime is over.’
‘The country is in crisis. There are no jobs.’
‘Rubbish. Give a Damn is always looking for new street collectors.’
Nick gave a hysterical laugh. ‘What – join those limp-faced, twenty something drama students crawling around Oxford Street, begging for money? No thank you.’
‘There’s work out there if you look, Nick,’ I said. ‘You’re just going to have to swallow your pride and take what you can get. It’s time to grow up.’
‘Can’t we get back together, Jules?’ Nick whispered. ‘You have no idea how sorry I am.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Listen,’ said Nick. ‘I will pay for Daisy, just as soon as I get my act together. But I haven’t seen her in weeks. Jules – can you bring her over? At least to see her brother?’
I agreed, for Daisy’s sake.
She does have a brother now.
Whether I like it or not.
We’re meeting tomorrow at the old apartment.
Sadie will be out.
Nearly texted Alex to tell him I’m seeing Nick, and then thought – no. That’s not healthy. He’s jealous and he’ll have to get over it. End of story.
I’m not sure how we stand right now, anyway.
He hasn’t phoned since telling me he thought I should have some ‘space’.
Wednesday 1st March
It felt really weird going back to the old apartment.
Daisy probably doesn’t remember living there, but for me it was like yesterday – forcing the pram into that tiny elevator and jabbing Nick’s date of birth into the security door lock.
Nick appeared at the apartment door looking shifty.
‘Sadie hasn’t left yet,’ he whispered. ‘Her facial was moved. Don’t say anything about the residency stuff, yeah?’
Suddenly, Sadie appeared wearing a black-fur hat and puffy jacket. She pushed haughtily past us, and headed towards the elevator.
Her large, pale face was expensively made-up with big eyeliner swoops, and her brown-blonde hair was shiny under her hat. She was carrying a bit of baby weight, but had squeezed herself into leather trousers and her old red soldier coat.
I glared at her as she walked out.
‘Bye bye, my love,’ Nick called out.
Sadie didn’t reply.
‘We’d better go inside,’ said Nick, running a stressed hand through his hair. ‘Horatio’s probably vommed again by now. He can’t keep anything down.’
Was pleased to see the apartment was a total pigsty. Not so pleased to see a great big pile of moving boxes by the panoramic window.
‘Take a seat,’ said Nick, clearing piles of baby clothes and junk mail from the sofa.
Horatio was in a vibrating baby chair, drooling.
‘Oh thank fuck for that,’ said Nick, unstrapping Horatio and putting him against his shoulder. ‘He hasn’t thrown up. Jesus. I can’t go on like this. Two actors together are like an explosion. A bad explosion. A terrorist bomb.’
Seeing Horatio dangling over Nick’s shoulder, wide-eyed and innocent, I felt so sorry for him.
‘Sadie’s probably just stressed with the new baby,’ I said. ‘You should try and work things out.’
Nick gave a hysterical laugh. ‘Work things out? Have you met Sadie? You should know that’s impossible, Julesy – you were friends with her.’
‘Maybe it’s her hormones.’
‘Oh come on. You know what she’s like. And now we’re on this crazy fucking family rollercoaster and I can’t get off. Mum has bought us a house. We’re moving back to Great Oakley in like a week. It’s like no one is listening to me. I’m drowning.’
That hit me like a bullet.
‘You and Sadie are moving to Great Oakley in a week?’
‘It was a stupid idea,’ said Nick. ‘I tho
ught it might fix everything. Happily ever after, and all of that. But now I’m more trapped than ever.’
He patted Horatio frantically on the back, and a plume of white vomit exploded over Nick’s AllSaints jumper.
‘Christ,’ said Nick.
Daisy said, ‘Mess! Little girl make mess!’
‘You can’t seriously want residency,’ I said, watching Nick dab at sick with a Heal’s tea towel. ‘You can barely cope with one.’
‘I reckon I can manage,’ he said, a fierce expression in his eyes.
‘Manage?’ I said. ‘Jesus, Nick. Think about what’s best for Daisy.’
Thursday 2nd March
Have been contacted by Cafcass – the child-welfare organisation, who get involved in ‘more conflictual’ child-centred court cases.
‘We don’t judge or take sides,’ said the Cafcass lady. ‘We just make sure parents remember that the child is at the centre of everything.’
In other words, Cafcass think Nick and I are at risk of fucking up Daisy’s life with our inability to cooperate.
I’ll be contacted shortly by my local Cafcass officer. He wants to meet me prior to the first court hearing, which is another way of saying, ‘assess’.
So I will be tested as a parent.
I’m way too tired to be perfect. But I try my best – surely he’ll see that?
Friday 3rd March
Work again.
VERY tired.
Saturday 4th March
Letter from family court.
They’ve asked me to submit documentation, re: why Daisy should continue living with me full-time.
There’s also a date for a First Hearing Dispute Resolution Appointment at county court.
It’s 5th April, just one month away.
I honestly thought Nick wouldn’t go through with this, but it looks like he’s not backing off.
Wanted to crawl back into bed, but couldn’t because Daisy pulled the duvet off and force-fed me plastic hotdogs.
Decided to phone Nick instead and shout at him.
Sadly, he won’t answer his phone.
Sunday 5th March
Have just seen a removal van outside the Gables.
Am praying that it’s nothing to do with Nick and Sadie. Maybe the Jolly-Piggott house purchase obscurely fell through. Or something.
But I’m not feeling that lucky because there were at least twenty boxes labelled ‘wardrobe’ in the back of the van.
Monday 6th March
Fucking hell.
Have just seen Sadie in the Co-op, complaining about the lack of guacamole.
This has forced me to accept a horrifying truth – Nick and Sadie have now moved to the village.
MY village.
Tried to sneak out of the shop without Sadie seeing me, but unfortunately Daisy had shoplifted a bunch of bananas so we had to come back.
Daisy spotted Horatio’s evil-genius pod pram while I was apologising to the check-out lady.
She shouted, ‘My bugger. My bugger, Mummy.’
Sadie saw us then. She was dressed in skin-tight jeans, brown riding boots and a navy kind of shawl-jumper-polo-neck thing.
‘Jules!’ she said, startled.
‘Bugger, bugger!’ Daisy shouted, pointing to Horatio.
‘Is she … calling him a bugger?’ Sadie asked.
‘She means brother,’ I said, through gritted teeth. ‘Come on Daisy, let’s go.’
Horatio made grunting noises.
‘Oh god,’ said Sadie. ‘He’s going to puke again.’ Her eyes went wild. ‘It’s never ending. Jesus, can’t he just give me five minutes? We haven’t even unpacked yet.’
‘This is motherhood,’ I said, pulling Daisy out of the shop. ‘Putting someone else before yourself. I’m not surprised you’re struggling.’
‘Wait!’ said Sadie, suddenly tearful. ‘Who’d have thought, the two of us in the countryside with babies, hey? Do you remember when we used to go for cocktails? You know, you should come over sometime. For wine or … something.’
‘Jesus, Sadie, you must be kidding,’ I said. ‘Daisy. Come on.’
‘But Jules, I’ve really missed you.’
I laughed. ‘I haven’t missed you. Actually, it’s been brilliant – not having a great big bucket of shit tipped over my head every day.’ Was very tempted to add, ‘By the way, Nick’s seeking residency of Daisy because he wants his family back. HA! How do YOU like THAT?’ But decided to be grown up about things. No sense stirring – there are two little children involved in all of this.
I’m going to bump into Sadie all around the village now. And Nick too.
This is an awful development.
Tuesday 7th March
Alex called.
He didn’t mention our last ‘you need some space’ conversation, which was sort of weird.
In the background, a waitress said, ‘There’s your steak, Mr Dalton. Would you like more red wine?’
After the usual pleasantries, Alex asked if I had any plans to see ‘Nick Spencer’.
‘You don’t make plans to meet Nick,’ I said. ‘He turns up when you don’t want him to, and when you do want him, he’s late.’
‘You visited his apartment recently,’ said Alex.
I went quiet. ‘How did you know that?’
‘A member of my staff saw you at Canary Wharf.’
I felt angry then. ‘Are you spying on me?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d seen him?’
‘I already told you – I don’t have to report back. Anyway, it’s not exactly news, is it? I’m bound to see him from time to time. And the last time we spoke, you said I needed some space.’
‘But why at his apartment?’
‘Alex, me meeting up with my daughter’s father is none of your business.’
‘I’m sorry you see it that way.’
He’s in Edinburgh at the moment, due to some Amtico flooring crisis.
Feel our relationship is too early and uncertain to moan about wanting to see him more – especially after the oddness of our last phone conversation.
But I want to see him more.
Realise I’ve seen Nick more than I’ve seen Alex this year.
Not a good sign.
Wednesday 8th March
Mum’s just come back from the doctors, moaning because Dr Slaughter has put her on a diet.
‘He says I have to cut down on sugar and attend some sodding NHS healthy eating class,’ she complained. ‘And right before Easter, too.’
I asked her why Dr Slaughter had got so strict, and she admitted she might have to start injecting insulin for her diabetes.
‘What do you mean, might?’ I asked.
‘If I don’t start taking better care of myself,’ said Mum.
I told Mum that insulin injections were serious and she’d have to make some major lifestyle changes.
Dad and I are worried.
We spent the evening Googling health sites and diabetes blogs.
I don’t think Mum quite understands how serious this could be, because she’s feeding herself up in preparation for the diet class tomorrow.
‘I’ll need some reserves if they’re going to make me live on lettuce leaves,’ she said.
Why do people my parents’ age always think of diets in terms of lettuce leaves?
I told Mum I’d go to diet classes with her for moral support.
‘I don’t want some skinny cow going with me,’ she complained. ‘It’s humiliating enough already.’
‘This could be good for you, Shirley,’ said Dad. ‘A re-education.’
‘But I always hated school,’ said Mum.
Thursday 9th March
Mum has bought herself the 1970s version of health food:
Cottage cheese
Nimble bread
A bag of baking potatoes
Three different flavours of cup-a-soup
Butterscotch Angel Delight and low fat squirty cream
A lettuce
/> Laura came over this evening and lectured Mum about the sugar in powdered soup.
‘Packet food is a nutritional void,’ she said. ‘If you’re cutting back calories, you need to pack every meal with vitamins and minerals.’
She presented Mum with a bag of shopping she’d brought from her local organic health food shop.
I have to admit, it didn’t look very appetising and everything was brown.
Laura wrote a diet plan, which included organic vegetable broth, mung bean biscuits and hummus.
The thought of mung bean biscuits threw Mum into a depression, and she barred one of the regulars for putting Take That on the jukebox.
A change of diet will be tough for Mum, but ultimately, it’s about time she took care of her health.
Her cure for colds is a double shot of tequila or, in severe cases of flu, WKD blue and port.
Friday 10th March
Mum has ripped up Laura’s diet plan, complaining the mung bean biscuits have caused constipation.
Dad wrote her a new plan this morning.
He’s eaten healthily for years, and baked his own seeded wholemeal bread before it was readily available.
The plan includes things Mum absolutely won’t eat, like vegetables. But Dad is determined.
‘It’s about time your mother treated her body better,’ he said. ‘She owes it to her family. I don’t want to be a widower.’
Then he had a bit of a cry.
I put my arm around him and said Mum would be fine.
He gave a sad laugh and said, ‘She seems like a tough old soul. But only I know how fragile she is.’
I’m worried about Mum too, but it’s very hard to think of her as fragile. She’s the only person I know who’s ever frightened a traffic warden into removing a ticket.
Saturday 11th March
Just found Dad in the garden, watching the stars with tears in his eyes.
I asked if he was thinking about Mum.
He nodded and said, ‘But I’m trying to stay positive. When you look at the world, there are so many miracles.’
