The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy

by Fiona Neill

  ‘She’s right,’ says Robert Bass. ‘I know this doesn’t look good, but really nothing has happened. In fact, Lucy has tried to resist my advances on several occasions.’

  There is a knock at the door. We all stare at it nervously. It is not Diego’s quiet, tentative, rhythmical knock. It is more determined and demanding.

  ‘Who is that?’ asks Robert Bass, looking at me. Everyone else stares too.

  ‘Who is it, Lucy?’ says Mark abruptly.

  ‘How can I possibly know who is at the door?’ I say, irritated.

  ‘You are the common thread of connection here,’ says Mark.

  ‘I’ll open it,’ says Isobel resolutely. ‘It might be someone from my sleuthing course.’

  ‘Let me go,’ I insist. ‘It might be Tom.’

  I think about what lies ahead. Months of recrimination, of doubt about the authenticity of my story, the sneaking suspicion of everyone in this room that Robert Bass and I were not telling the truth. It’s not better to be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. Absolutely not. Then I consider how everyone present will use my story to detract from the drama and emotion of their own, until the rest of the evening blurs into insignificance when set against my alleged infidelity. Tom will want to believe me but will face the humiliation of all these people assuming that he is being blind. I sigh deeply, the first of what I imagine will probably be a lifetime of sighs. Tom might leave me. He might decide that I am untrustworthy and that it would be better for the children to live in a household with less suspicion and tension. He might retaliate with a proper infidelity of his own, not a half-baked unconvincing fantasy of the kind that I have dabbled with.

  I turn the handle.

  ‘Sweeney,’ a male voice says, pushing against the door when he feels my resistance. ‘Let me in. I am here to rescue you.’ The last sentence is said in an accent from the Deep South. The others stand transfixed as Celebrity Dad comes into the bedroom. I worry that he has finally succumbed to a partial nervous breakdown and is reliving a role he played in a Hollywood film. Possibly something set in the tropics written by Graham Greene, because he is wearing a grubby suit that probably started the week cream but has ended it in an off-grey colour.

  ‘Not him,’ groans Robert Bass. ‘My bête noire.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ says Emma, perking up. ‘Can I just say that I have seen all your films and I think you are a fantastic talent. Also, I am newly single.’

  Celebrity Dad looks at her appreciatively.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask him.

  ‘I am here with a specific purpose and that is to take you home,’ he says. ‘I have a car waiting outside.’

  ‘Would you drop me on the way?’ asks Isobel.

  ‘Can I just say that you really know how to divorce in style,’ says Celebrity Dad admiringly. ‘And, of course, I can drop you.’

  ‘It’s of little consolation,’ says Isobel, but I can tell that it helps slightly.

  ‘But how did you know that I was here?’ I ask.

  ‘Tom called me,’ he says. ‘About three hours ago you sat on your mobile phone and dialled home. Tom has been listening to everything that has happened since then. He found my number on the class list and called up to ask if I would come and collect you.’

  ‘How long has he been listening?’ I ask, nervously gripping the sleeve of his jacket.

  ‘Since you arrived in the hotel room and started to listen to that programme about ferns in the Amazon,’ explains Celebrity Dad. ‘An unorthodox erotic prelude if ever I heard one.’

  ‘So does he know that nothing happened between me and Robert Bass?’ I ask.

  ‘Absolutely,’ says Celebrity Dad. ‘He realised that you were completely out of your depth and called me up to intervene. He briefed me on everything that was taking place and told me that you had got yourself into a situation that required immediate resolution and that, since I knew everyone involved, and am a fellow Arsenal supporter, I was the best person to come and sort things out.’

  ‘But why didn’t he come?’ I ask.

  ‘He was worried that Fred might wake up and find a drunken American actor asleep on the sofa,’ he explains. ‘Also, I know this hotel. I have very fond memories of the Aberdeen.’ He laughs wistfully.

  Diego comes to the room.

  ‘Your time is up,’ he says to me sorrowfully. ‘We usually charge per person.’

  Celebrity Dad hands him a bundle of notes.

  ‘That should cover it. He’ll pay the rest,’ he says, pointing at Guy, who remains sitting on the bed.

  ‘That’s like that moment in Reservoir Dogs,’ says Emma. ‘Or was it Traffic? LA Confidential? God, I can’t believe he is with us here.’

  On the way home in his car, we sit in a row across the back seat. It is clean and tidy and the driver plays soothing music. Isobel falls quiet. Celebrity Dad pulls out a bottle of whisky from a small cupboard behind the driver’s seat, takes a slug and offers it to her. She tips her head and drinks deeply, shuddering at its bitterness.

  ‘It’s going to be tough doing this on my own,’ she says. ‘I know I have a lot of help, but ultimately I will have to take responsibility.’

  ‘You could have been married to someone like me and then you would be doing it on your own anyway,’ says Celebrity Dad.

  ‘You might not be on your own for ever,’ I say.

  ‘I need to mourn my marriage for a while and try and make sense of it all. I am not without fault in all this. It is just that I am paying a heavy price for my mistakes,’ she says bleakly. ‘But I won’t punish the children for the sins of the father.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asks Celebrity Dad.

  ‘Actually, I have learnt a lot from this whole experience,’ he says, slurring his words and periodically jabbing his finger in the air. ‘When you live life so publicly, you come to dread dealing with yourself privately, because there is such a gulf between the two. I’d like to believe the myth of myself but every time I look in the mirror, all I see is the reality. I think I need a period somewhere remote with my wife and children to try and find the ground again. Somewhere without a liquor store for fifty miles. When Tom phoned me tonight, I felt that I had some purpose in life above and beyond having a good time. It actually felt good to be asked to do something positive. Something real. It’s also good practice. I’ve got a role lined up in a film about childhood sweethearts who meet up on Friends Reunited.’

  ‘What about you, Sweeney?’ he asks. They both look at me.

  ‘More of the same, I suppose,’ I say, with an unusual hint of certainty in my tone. ‘And less of anything different.’

  I’m not sure what I am expecting when I fumble for my keys to open the front door of the house, but I did at least anticipate a reception committee. I tried not to think about Tom’s mood or the arguments that might lie ahead, because it is often difficult to read him and, from my point of view at least, the evening marked the end of something.

  Instead it is dark as I head upstairs to the bedroom. The bathroom door is slightly open and the light is switched on. I go in to wash my face and remove my contact lenses. I can’t find the case, so I put them in a coffee cup that is standing on a shelf and then hide the cup on the top shelf of the airing cupboard. Suddenly I hear gentle splashing on the other side of the room.

  Of course, Tom is in the bath. That is perfectly predictable and I feel a surge of joy at the logic of this situation. I go over and peer around the side of the shower curtain and find him lying underwater, his hair floating around his face in pleasing patterns. I put my hand out to move a piece that has settled across his cheek when he grabs my wrist.

  ‘Lucy,’ he says, smiling. ‘You’re home.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would particularly like to thank Gill Morgan for allowing Lucy Sweeney to unburden herself in The Times Magazine every week. None of this would have happened without her. I am also indebted to Simon Trewin, with me every step of the way, and to Zoe Pagnamenta
in New York. I am very grateful to my editors, Nikola Scott and Kate Elton at Century and Arrow, and Sarah McGrath at Penguin, and the Random House team, for their unerring enthusiasm and dedication. No thanks big enough for my husband Edward Orlebar, for his impeccable advice on anything and everything, and for picking up the domestic mantle just when it mattered most. Helen Townshend and Henry Tricks read the manuscript and gave constant encouragement right from the start. Helen Johnston was an inspiration in every way. I am very grateful to Sally Johnston for insights into life at the BBC and to Imogen Strachan for advice on matters psychological. Thanks to my parents for so many things, but mostly the laughs. To the original slummy mummies, thank your for your friendship and most importantly for sharing trade secrets. You should know who you are, but in case not: Louise Carpenter, Carey Combe, Caroline Combe, Alexa Corbett, Sarah Dodd, Vicky McFadyen, Ros Mullins and Amanda Turnbull. Last but not least, thanks to Lucy Sweeney, an inspiration to us all.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781448106271

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow Books 2008

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  Copyright © Fiona Neill 2007

  Fiona Neill has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs

  and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the

  author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is

  entirely coincidental.

  First published in Great Britain in 2007 by Century

  The Random House Group Ltd, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780099502883