The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy

by Fiona Neill

  I am reminded of a journey home the previous summer from my brother’s fortieth birthday party. I was driving on this same road and Tom had fallen asleep in the passenger seat minutes after we’d left Mark’s house in west London. There was an inexplicable midnight traffic jam just off the Westway, and I was left alone to roam around conversations I had had with various people at the party.

  Some way into the evening, Emma said that she wanted to tell me something and led me by the arm to a quiet corner in the corridor by the front door. I baulked at her timing, because I was in the middle of a conversation with my brother about why the death of my father-in-law a couple of years earlier might have sparked Tom’s mother’s obsession with clearing out her house.

  ‘It is probably a way of letting go,’ Mark said. ‘Every time she gives something away, she reviews all the memories that surround that object and then moves on. Either that or she is preparing for her own death.’

  ‘Well, that leaves a lot of scope,’ I said.

  Then Emma came over. There had been some unfinished business between her and my brother years ago, I didn’t want to know the details, and there was a brief but awkward exchange before she led me away.

  ‘I’ve met this man,’ she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘But you mustn’t tell anyone, because he’s married.’

  When Tom and I moved in together around a year after we first met, one of his first observations about the inner workings of my life was the magnitude of confidences that I inspired. Some men might have found this irritating, since it often involved long phone calls at inconvenient moments and bottles of wine over the kitchen table late at night. But Tom said that it was much more interesting than the kind of conversations he had with his friends, and wondered how the surfaces of peoples’ lives belied what lay underneath. Coming from a family in which emotional honesty held no currency and was largely viewed with suspicion, this was a new world to him.

  Emma explained how she had met this man at a dinner between executives from her news organisation and a handpicked group of senior bankers. She told the story slowly and precisely, as if each detail was significant. It was quite different from the way she usually spoke about relationships, trying to downplay their importance by deflecting any serious questions with humour, and viewing any attempts at emotional engagement with distrust.

  ‘I normally don’t have any interest in these types. They don’t actually have much to talk about beyond business. They work so hard there’s no space for anything else in their life, not even their family. He sat next to me, and we hardly spoke during the meal. It was as though we both knew it wasn’t a good idea. At least that’s what he said to me later. There was definitely a connection, not just a lust thing, because at that stage I hadn’t really examined him closely. It was more a feeling of being drawn to someone.

  ‘When they brought round the coffee, my mobile phone rang, so I bent down to get it from my handbag. At the same time he knocked a spoon off the table on to the floor with his left hand, and as he tried to pick it up his finger touched my own, in fact, it was less than a touch, more the sensation of something brushing past, but I felt something inside me stir and so did he. We both knew as soon as we looked at each other. It was as quick and simple as that. Like an electrical current.’

  ‘That sounds amazing. Has he done this before?’

  She looked at me askance, because people always like to consider their own situation unique, so I bravely continued.

  ‘Tom has a theory,’ I told her, ‘that affairs happen not because people find each other attractive, because that happens all the time, but because people allow themselves to get into situations where they can thrive. And after you’ve done it once, it can become a habit that’s difficult to break.’

  ‘Well, he certainly created the situation, because on Monday morning he phoned me and asked me to go out for lunch. He didn’t even pretend that we were going to talk about anything related to work. We didn’t get beyond the first course, there was too much tension, and so we went to a hotel in Bloomsbury. In the lift on the way up, we stood apart. I don’t think we even talked. He locked the bedroom door behind us, and that was the first time we had touched since we met at the dinner.’

  ‘How did you know about the hotel?’ I asked.

  ‘Lucy, you always have such an offbeat line of questioning,’ Emma said. ‘But to sate your curiosity, I had been there before. He hadn’t, and judging by his paranoia about his wife finding out, I really think this is the first time he has played away. You can tell men who make a habit of it. Anyway it was amazing, all-consuming. We’ve met every day since then. And we’ve talked a lot more.’

  As we sit in traffic I think about the prospect of a trip alone to a pub with Sexy Domesticated Dad looming on Monday evening and I realise that, actually, I don’t really want to go. Although my more recent musings over Sexy Domesticated Dad have evolved into the kind of daydreams that you don’t share with friends, involving, as they do, tussles in alleyways in Soho, where having sex in the street is more common than in the suburbs, they remain a fantasy. I decide I am dealing with my inner toddler, having a tantrum over something I can’t have and then rejecting it out of hand when it is offered to me on a plate. It dawns on me half-heartedly that having a fantasy does not necessarily mean that you want it to become a reality. I know I am probably ahead of myself at this point, because there is no earthly reason why I shouldn’t be able to go out for a drink with one of the parents from school without it being any more than a simple social engagement. A drink and perhaps more banter about his book, and how exactly he is going to help me in my imminent role as class rep.

  Part of my petulance is because as far as Sexy Domesticated Dad is concerned, it was I who made the first move in sending the enigmatic text, And then what? It is strange how the juxtaposition of three innocuous words can amount to something approximating a proposition. As the facts stand, he will be looking to me to manage the situation, since I was the one who created it.

  There is no way of getting out of it without making it look as though I am turning down the invitation because of doubts over the spirit in which it is intended. I am pretty certain that his suggestion amounts to no more than a friendly gesture. And therein lies the rub. I realise with sudden clarity that I don’t really want to become friends with Sexy Domesticated Dad, because to do that will detract from the possibility of the fantasy.

  Apart from old male friends, it is years since I have done anything on my own with a relative stranger. In fact, apart from sleeping, I have probably spent no more than four hours alone at any given stretch since I gave up work. Really, I shouldn’t be allowed out on my own at all. With Fred starting nursery and the eldest two at school most of the day, it is becoming apparent that I need to rejoin the adult world and relearn basic social codes.

  ‘By the way, my mother has said she will babysit for you on Monday night so that you can go to your school meeting. She’s going to come and spend the day with you and stay the night,’ says Tom, shattering the silence. The deadlock is broken.

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Thanks for sorting it out.’

  ‘You aren’t planning to be out too late, are you? You know how she worries that she might fall asleep and then not hear the children if they wake up.’

  ‘No, I might go for a drink with some of the mothers afterwards. Just to be friendly,’ I say. ‘Right now, I think I should call Cathy and warn her we’re going to be late.’

  ‘Good idea,’ he says.

  Over the years, I have become an expert in domestic shorthand. This involves swift and exquisite analysis of situations where it is incumbent to be economical with the truth to protect harmony and deflect arguments. So I do not consider my response to be a lie, but more a partial truth. A grey area.

  ‘I still can’t really understand why you want to do this class rep thing, Lucy. I never saw you as the committee type, and, to be perfectly honest, I don’t think your great strength is organisation,’
he says, tapping the steering wheel with his fingertips.

  ‘What do you think are my great strengths, then?’ I say.

  ‘I think you are a wonderful mum, maybe a little short-tempered sometimes, but always there for your children. And on those rare occasions when we are both awake at the same time and there are no children in our bed, I still really like having sex with you,’ he says, looking straight at me. ‘And you’re good at drawing.’ I’d forgotten that one.

  Then he decides to put on a CD. I feel the blood coursing through my veins, because I know the CDs are all muddled up. He picks up an album by the Strokes and finds Best of the Mr Men inside.

  ‘I’m not going to say a thing,’ he says.

  ‘When I take a CD out to put another one in, I generally put the one I have taken out in the case belonging to the one that I have just put in,’ I explain in an attempt to derail a potential crisis.

  ‘Why don’t you put it in the right one?’ he says.

  ‘Well, because that one has got the one that I took out to put the new one in,’ I say.

  He looks confused.

  ‘ “Fish in a tree, how can it be”,’ he mutters, quoting Fred’s favourite line from Dr Seuss.

  ‘Coldplay will be in the Goblet of Fire case, because that is what it replaced,’ I say. And I am right.

  ‘So where is the Goblet of Fire?’ he asks.

  ‘In the Best of Bob Dylan,’ I say confidently.

  ‘And where is the Best of Bob Dylan?’ he says. ‘Actually, I don’t want to know. It’s a bit like playing “I packed my bag”.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘There is a logical system. It just requires a little reverse psychology. Tell me what you’re looking for and I will be able to find it.’

  ‘David Gray, White Ladder,’ he says. I think for a moment.

  ‘That will be in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.’ And it is.

  This could have been much worse. He is lining up cases on the dashboard and putting piles of CDs on his knee. But it is good displacement activity when stuck in a small space, unable to go out for dinner because of a traffic jam on a Friday night. I look at the clock. It is almost twenty to ten. We have been here for three-quarters of an hour. And, actually, I think we are behaving pretty impeccably.

  Tom peers out the front windscreen as the driver of the car in front switches on his engine. Then other people start to wander back to their vehicles. As mysteriously as it knitted together, the complex web of cars packed bumper to bumper as far as the eye can see unravels and everyone slowly drives away back to the drama of their own existence.

  ‘Shall we go home?’ he asks tiredly. ‘By the time we get to the restaurant they’ll be shutting down the kitchen.’

  So I call Cathy again to deliver what I anticipate is further bad news. Blind dates are a thorny enterprise at the best of times, and at least if we had been there, we could have filled in the silences.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Cathy, I know we’re really landing you in it, the traffic was dire. We’ve been at a standstill for the past hour and we might as well head home,’ I say. ‘Hope it hasn’t been too tortuous with Tom’s architect.’

  ‘Look, it’s fine, in fact, it’s better than fine,’ she says. ‘In fact, it’s so fine, it’s probably a good thing that you’re not here. There’s a lot of heavy flirting and it would be embarrassing to have witnesses. He’s in the loo at the moment and we’re about to go to Soho House together.’

  ‘That’s great, just as well we didn’t come then. So what’s he like?’ I ask.

  ‘Great. One of those coke-and-pope types,’ she says.

  ‘Sounds very wholesome, apart from the caffeine, of course,’ I say.

  ‘Lucy, you need to get out more. What I mean is that he enjoys the party lifestyle, but then gets guilty about it afterwards. It’s a heady combination. I’ve met these types before. Anyway, he’s gorgeous, say a big thank-you to Tom, won’t you? Look, he’s coming back, don’t call me too early tomorrow morning, I’ll let you know what happens,’ she says.

  ‘How’s it going?’ asks Tom looking slightly worried.

  ‘Fine. Better than fine. I think they are probably going to sleep together,’ I say.

  ‘Well, there’s an idea,’ he says. ‘It’s been nice spending time alone, anyway.’

  ‘Not what I’d describe as quality time,’ I say. ‘I mean, a night out in the shadow of the Westway is not what I’d choose.’

  ‘No, but I feel as though we’ve reconnected. Sometimes it feels as though you are drifting away from me, Lucy, into an impenetrable world of your own. By the way, I think you should text Cathy and tell her not to sleep with him on a first date.’

  ‘That’s a bit hypocritical isn’t it?’ I say.

  7

  ‘The bread never falls but on its buttered side’

  I NEVER APPRECIATE Tom more than when he is away. Without him, the domestic pressure cooker is perpetually pitched at boiling point. I miss his ability to simultaneously pour cornflakes and milk into bowls at breakfast, the way he lines up three coats, each with a packed lunch on top, by the front door, and his uncanny ability for locating my keys. Today it is the latter that I miss most.

  Tom left for Milan very early this morning and, as instructed, reluctantly double-locked the door behind him.

  ‘It is unfathomable to me that the same person who left her keys in the front door not once but twice this week can be so paranoid about early-morning break-ins,’ he said, whispering in my ear as he bent over the bed to kiss me goodbye. ‘Good luck with the vote. If you win, at least you will have scored so many points that the school has to let Fred through the door.’ Then he reconsidered. ‘Of course, if you are a disaster, the reverse might prove true. There’s a good incentive.’

  At ten past eight, ten minutes before the usual deadline, I line the children up by the front door, feeling quite self-congratulatory. Not bad. Library books. Check. Shoes. Check. Coats. Check. House keys. Nowhere to be found. At the outset, I refuse to panic. After all, it seems thus far in the day that the augurs are favourable. I search in the usual places: coat pockets, handbag, kitchen drawer. They yield nothing. ‘Don’t forget to look in the fridge,’ Joe shouts downstairs. ‘That’s where they were last time, Mum, remember?’ The fridge is bare.

  ‘Maybe you should look in your hippocampus,’ says Sam. ‘That’s where your memories are stored.’

  ‘How do you do that?’ I ask, suitably impressed.

  ‘We need to open up your brain,’ he says.

  I make the children turn out their pockets and question Fred closely, because he is the natural culprit. He looks down at his feet and shuffles them guiltily. The children follow me downstairs into the kitchen and I tip the rubbish bin out over the floor in case he has disposed of them there. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  The smell is overwhelming. The stench of rancid meat and the sickly sweet smell of rotting fruit compete for supremacy. The children put their hands over their mouths and stare in shocked silence at the sight of their mother scrabbling though the detritus of the past few days, shaking a malodorous chicken carcass upside down in case the keys are stuck inside, sorting through mouldy bits of bread and fruit that disintegrate in my hands. I hold my breath for as long as I can and then run over to the cooker, exhale and then breathe in again and return to the fray. My hands are covered in damp tea leaves from a broken tea bag.

  ‘Do you know that in poor countries children pick through rubbish on enormous dumps, looking for bits to sell and food to eat?’ I say, looking up at the three pairs of eyes watching me. ‘We are very lucky.’ They don’t look convinced.

  ‘Mummy, can I ask you something?’ says Sam. ‘When we die can we all be buried in a mausoleum, like the Egyptians, then we can always be together?’

  ‘Sam, that’s a very interesting concept. Do you mind if we talk about it later?’ I say.

  ‘Then we could make a special place for the keys,’ suggests Joe.

  I stop
the search and sit for a moment on my haunches, the bits of rubbish scattered around me like some sort of still life. I have to face up to the realities of the situation. My house keys are lost, and because Tom has double locked the door, I am incarcerated inside with the children. I say it several times, out loud, like a mantra, holding the sides of my head, hoping for divine intervention.

  In desperation, I phone Cathy for advice. ‘Climb out the sitting room window,’ she says. ‘Phone the school and tell them you are going to be late, because you have forgotten something. That is credible. This isn’t. Don’t elaborate, that’s always a give away.’

  ‘What happened with the architect?’ I ask. ‘Just the abbreviated version.’ I have resisted phoning her for two days.

  ‘We went back to his flat and I ended up spending the whole weekend with him, but I am feeling dreadful today. I don’t think I’ve slept more than about eight hours the past three nights, all chemically fuelled. Also I’m worried about having er, exotic sex on a first date.’ There’s one detail I won’t pass on to Tom, who through the weekend was still pontificating on the benefits of abstinence for the first month.

  ‘I’ll give you the gory details later,’ Cathy says.

  ‘Actually, I think I’ve heard enough already,’ I say, retrieving the spare car key from the kitchen drawer.

  The children are very excited to receive orders to climb out through the sitting-room window, this being exactly the sort of game usually outlawed by parents. I hope that no one is watching, particularly opportunistic burglars, because I have to leave the window open until I come back from Fred’s nursery. The same goes for the neighbours, who have children at the same school, because this is not behaviour befitting a highly organised stay-at-home mum, who is about to be elected to play an important role in the running of the school and by definition a minor role in the future of education in this country. I’m never more than one step behind the bigger picture.