by Sue Watson
‘Oh, this is too much,’ I said.
‘What you talking about…? He said he wants to talk about Gatsby, not stick his—’
‘NO,’ I shouted, in an attempt to stop the vile filth that neither I nor Judy needed to hear – the woman was traumatised enough and I was in bits. ‘You don’t understand,’ I said, more calmly now. ‘He bought me a copy of The Great Gatsby before I started my course; it was our favourite book, he used to read it to me… It’s symbolic…’
‘Oh!’ She was either unimpressed or hadn’t a clue what I was talking about – probably the latter.
‘We both had our favourite passages,’ I sighed.
‘I’m sure you did, but we don’t need to know about that, do we, Jude?’ Another slap across Judy’s back. The woman was a wreck and at this point I could only imagine the state of her intestines.
‘Anyway, I haven’t got time to discuss Bruce’s passage or your symbolics,’ she winked. ‘I’ve got an eyebrow tattoo at four, so do you want me to text him back for you or not?’
‘Yes… Yes, please…’ I nodded gratefully. I had to finish Judy’s hair and without my glasses it would be easier to dictate a message than fumble blindly around myself and leave what I wanted to say at the mercy of autocorrect. I’d been there so many times. Only the day before I’d texted for a client who was having her hair washed. ‘Can you ask my daughter to bring my epi pen – I have allergies and am not meant to leave the house without it,’ she asked. ‘No problem,’ I said, quickly sending the message without my glasses on. But within seconds her daughter called up, horrified, asking to speak to her mother. Apparently epi pen autocorrected and I had in fact asked if she could bring her mother an ‘epic penis’ because she couldn’t be without it!
No, I wasn’t going there again, and though dictating in the salon wasn’t very private, it was better than anything autocorrecting to ‘penis’ and giving Dan the wrong idea – he’d think I’d got text Tourette’s. I glanced at Judy, who was about to hear everything I said to Dan, but she’d seen and heard enough in her years coming to the salon. She’d witnessed the breakdown of Sue’s marriage, Mandy’s slutdropping and was only too familiar with Gayle, the head stylist’s, ovulation cycle (don’t ask). My text to ‘Bruce’ would be a day in the park for Judy after all that. ‘Okay, Mandy, please don’t mess about. This is important, okay? So say this… “Sorry, but you can’t just text me like this. What we had was magical… Erm… You are the love of my life, but this can’t happen, full stop… WE can’t happen. I think about you all the time, but you have to stop texting me, it’s too painful. Goodbye.” Full stop. Have you got that, Mandy?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You haven’t put “penis” in there, have you?’
‘No, but I can if you want me to,’ she said in all seriousness. I shook my head vigorously, ‘No, please don’t.’
‘Suit yourself,’ she said, screwing her face up and still punching out the last few letters. ‘Don’t send it yet,’ I cried. ‘Read it back to me, so I know you’ve written it down right, and please do NOT add anything disgusting – I’ll never forgive you.’ I had to trust her not to add her own colourful asides.
When I’d first met Dan in the deli where he worked, Mandy had told me to ask him for ‘a bush oyster sandwich’ for her – which I stupidly did. Imagine how red I went when I discovered this is in fact Australian slang for kangaroo testicles.
‘And don’t mention…’
‘I know, I know… bush oysters,’ she said slowly, in a bored voice, then read out the text, which was surprisingly accurate.
‘Would you send it now, please,’ I said.
‘Okay, my queen. I’m pressing send,’ she sang.
‘Thanks, Mandy,’ I sighed, sad that I’d had to say this to Dan and at the same time relieved I’d been strong and made my feelings clear.
She stood at my side for a few seconds, watching me ‘transform’ Judy. Call me psychic, but I had a strong feeling she was about to say something tasteless about someone in the vicinity – possibly me.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked, waiting for a tsunami of vileness.
‘Yeah. I thought Bruce’s name was Dan?’
‘It is… You know, it’s not bloody Bruce. Not all Australians are called Bruce,’ I added, returning to Judy’s violet hair.
‘I know. So why is he calling himself Dave now?’
‘He’s not.’
‘Is Dave a new one then?’
‘New one? I haven’t got a new one, as you so delicately put it.’ I rolled my eyes at Judy in the mirror, but she didn’t look up – I think she might have been pretending to be in a trance so she could pretend none of this was happening. I’d definitely seen her flinch at ‘bush oysters’. Her hair was purple and Mandy’s language was blue – God alone knows how the woman had survived this long.
‘You are one crazy bitch,’ Mandy was laughing as she skipped off to rugby-tackle a client into her heavenly spa and I thought little of it until later that day, when I received another text. This time I put my glasses on to read it.
I had no idea you felt this way. I only wanted to discuss your dissertation on Gatsby.
And when I looked at the sender it was Dave Bronson… my lecturer from college.
My mouth went dry and I scrolled up, willing for it not to be – but yes, the previous text that I’d thought was from Dan had been from Dave. I died on the spot. I couldn’t face this now, but I wondered what on earth my college lecturer must think of me. He’d merely asked to arrange a chat about my work and I’d told him what we had was ‘magical’, that he was ‘the love of my life’, but that ‘WE can’t happen’ and he had to stop texting me because it was ‘too painful’… Shit! Looked like I’d have to brace myself for one very awkward chat at some point in the near future. Even more awkward than the last one regarding my forty-something thighs and sex in a car…
10
Three Arrests and a Bruddy Rabbit
One evening in May, I noted Emma seemed quite agitated. She was unable to sit still, constantly texting and smiling. She’d been away to Richard’s that weekend and I understood how she felt – it was sometimes hard to come back to real life. I was cooking dinner, and Rosie was drawing on the kitchen table, while Emma continued to be completely lost in her online world. I guessed she was looking at the photos of the two of them on their weekend, savouring every moment in retrospect. I used to spend hours doing this when I was with Dan.
‘Mummy, do you like my picture?’ Rosie suddenly said, having finished her masterpiece and waving it in Emma’s face. ‘Mummy… Mummy!’ She was yelling now.
I turned to see why Emma hadn’t responded, surprised to watch her gently waft Rosie away and continue texting, which wasn’t like her.
‘What a lovely cat drawing,’ I said, stepping in, so Rosie would feel satisfied and Emma wouldn’t be disturbed.
‘It’s NOT a cat, Nana,’ she yelled, ‘it’ a bruddy rabbit!’
I found this quite funny, but I didn’t let Rosie know that and glanced over at Emma, fully expecting her to pick up on this and chastise her daughter for saying a naughty swear word. I waited for rolling eyes and gentle admonishment, but Emma was completely oblivious.
Later, when we’d had supper, Rosie was in bed and Emma and I were settling down to watch some old reruns of Prime Suspect. But just as Helen Mirren began to instruct the ‘coppers’ about the latest killing, Emma’s phone rang. She immediately answered – after all, it had been glued to her hand all evening and I could tell by the way she said ‘Hey’ in a sweet sing-song voice that it was Richard and that me and Helen, aka DCI Tennison, would have to solve this case without my daughter’s help. She smiled over at me and took the call upstairs, while I continued to work out who did it.
She was gone for ages. Me and Helen Mirren had made three arrests and discovered a ‘bent copper’ before she was back in the room. At the risk of sounding a bit nosy, I asked Emma if all was okay.
‘Mum
, he’s asked me to marry him!’
I picked up the remote control and paused the investigation. ‘Richard has?’
‘No… Ryan Gosling. Yes, Richard!
This was a surprise – they’d been together a while, but they lived in different cities and I knew more than most how impossible that was. But Emma was flushed with happiness and I had to join in. ‘Oh darling, I’m delighted for you.’
‘He says he doesn’t want to hang around. We want to get married soon.’
‘Oh… great… okay. How soon?’ This was all so sudden. I was happy for her, but couldn’t help but feel she was rushing into this.
‘In a couple of months… July?’
‘You want to organise a wedding in two months?’
‘Yeah, we’ll work it out. Thing is, he’s stuck up there in Scotland and we’re finding the distance a big problem.’
I knew about that, only too well.
‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’ I said, torn between panic and elation, immediately trying to work out the childcare arrangements for a potential second child in my head.
‘No, we just don’t want to waste time being apart – like you’re always telling me, life’s short and we want to get on with it.’
‘But can he just leave Scotland so quickly – his job, his kids?’ I asked. ‘I know his kids are a bit older… in their teens, aren’t they?’ I knew Richard had been divorced five years, his wife had had an affair but he seemed to get the rough end of things, handing her the house and the kids. He adored his kids and saw them regularly at weekends. I knew this was going to be difficult, there was no way he was going to come and live here permanently.
‘Yeah, his kids are thirteen and fifteen,’ Emma said.
‘Well, I suppose they could come down here, stay with us some weekends…’ Then I suddenly realised Richard and Emma might not want to stay living in this little rented house. ‘Of course, you might want to move somewhere together. There’s a house down the road that’s for sale – that would be handy for me to collect Rosie and…’ I started.
‘Thing is, Mum, we’ve been talking about it for a while, but I don’t think that would be right for us, not with work and Rosie.’
I tried not to look too relieved. ‘I can see what you mean, you wouldn’t want Rosie to be moved around too much. Having a new daddy will be a big change, probably best to stay here until everyone’s settled… I mean, you’re introducing another man into her life.’
‘Another man? Richard’s the first man I’ve introduced into her life, Mum – I’m not the bloody village bike!’ she snapped, and I heard Rosie’s ‘bruddy rabbit’ echo and realised where she’d heard the word.
‘Emma, I wasn’t saying that – I just meant there’s a lot to think about from Rosie’s perspective. You’re dealing with long hours at work and now she’s going to have a different family dynamic…’
‘In a different place.’
‘Different? I thought you said you didn’t want to move Rosie around.’
‘No, Mum, I didn’t say that, you did. And actually, I’ve talked to my boss and I can move to the Edinburgh office, where Richard is. In fact, it’ll be a slightly bigger role, a bit more money… and more responsibility.’
Now it was my turn to bristle, and it dawned on me that I wasn’t part of this plan.
I stared at the TV screen, like Helen Mirren might be able to give me some advice, but she had enough on her plate with three murders and a stroppy deputy. My foundations suddenly felt very wobbly. Given my huge capacity for worrying about situations that were never going to happen, I’d managed to miss this one which was staring me in the face completely. I was trying hard to be pleased about Emma’s wedding, and trying even harder not to think of myself and where I fitted into this strange new world my daughter was now producing from nowhere.
Emma and Rosie were leaving. I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach; this wasn’t supposed to happen.
‘Talk to Richard…’ Emma was now excitedly dialling his number and handing me her phone.
‘What do you want me to say?’ I asked, still in shock, not ready for this conversation with my soon-to-be son-in-law and holding the phone like it was infectious. What do you say to the virtual stranger who’s about to marry your daughter and become dad to your granddaughter – and turn your own life upside down? But I didn’t have time to dwell on it as he’d already answered…
‘Congratulations, Richard – it’s lovely for Emma to have finally found someone. When I say, finally… I mean, it’s not like she’s been frantically searching… she’s had lots of boyfriends. Ha, when I say lots, I don’t mean she’s slept around… It’s not like she’s the village bike or anything… although, of course, she’s not a nun – she’s had her fair share of…’
At this point a rather horrified Emma whisked the phone from me: ‘Mum, for God’s sake, he doesn’t need my sexual history! Sorry, Richard,’ she said, putting the phone to her ear, ‘Mum’s a bit surprised and she tends to go on a bit when she doesn’t know what to say. I’m sure over the next few years you’ll get to know this and be as embarrassed as the rest of us by the stuff she comes up with,’ she giggled.
I put my head in my hands and watched her through my fingers. Emma was right: when I was nervous I attempted to fill awkward silences and didn’t know when to stop.
Eventually Emma put down the phone (not before some girlish giggles and secret whisperings) and we laughed about my incoherent ramblings. She was excited and wanted to talk cakes and dresses and venues, but it was all a bit much for me: my ship had hit the rocks. Everyone else was making plans and I suddenly felt like a gooseberry in my own life, not that I knew what that looked like any more. So much of my life had been about being there for Emma and Rosie and now that was ending. Naively, I’d imagined us all living together for years, with me there to help Emma guide Rosie through school and the awkward teen years and all the madness that came with it. But now I wouldn’t even see her start school.
‘I am just so tired,’ I said, ‘and I have lots to think about if we’re going to plan a wedding – so I’m off to bed, let’s talk tomorrow.’
Emma nodded, but she wasn’t really paying any attention to me – she was already back on her phone. If I’d done a mega slut drop right there in front of her, she wouldn’t have batted an eyelid, she was just so involved in the moment – and Richard. Having only just spoken to him, she was probably now texting him and I realised with a jolt that my little girl didn’t need me any more. I heard Dan’s words in my head, ‘Let Emma go and live her life so you can live yours’. How wise he was and how much I missed him now. Dan knew what I didn’t – that Emma hadn’t needed me for some time, I’d just been too ‘bruddy’ stubborn to admit it, even to myself.
11
The Crazy Bitch in the BIG Pants!
‘So, do you have an actual date yet?’ I asked tentatively the following morning over coffee and toast.
Perhaps now wasn’t the time to suggest it was all too much too soon and they just wait a couple of years or longer, until Rosie was eighteen. I’d come up with this idea at 3.47 that morning, while unable to sleep, but in the cold light of day, I realised it wasn’t going to work as a suggestion.
‘You’re okay with this wedding and moving and everything, aren’t you, Mum?’ Emma said, sitting at the kitchen table. ‘I mean, it will have an impact on you too, I suppose?’
‘I suppose it will,’ I said, trying to hide the sarcasm in my voice and faking a smile, but feeling bereft. I’d slowly travelled from shock to worry throughout my sleepless night, but just before dawn had come to the conclusion that Emma and Rosie would be fine without me. Now I was at the stage of wondering how I would be without them… and for that matter where I would be. I was a couple of weeks away from my finals, had no life partner, was about to lose my daughter and granddaughter and my home. Yes, I suppose it might just have an impact on me, Emma.
I didn’t want to rain on her parade, so girded
my loins, patted her hand and put on a brave face.
‘It’s wonderful,’ I continued, then repeated, ‘wonderful,’ before hiding my face in a sip of coffee. ‘Wonderful’ wasn’t a word I would use to describe this whirlwind of madness that had the potential to unsettle Rosie and leave me homeless, but I had to at least appear to be positive.
As much as I tried to be ‘delighted’ though, I couldn’t help but feel a little resentful. I knew she’d said I should go with Dan if that’s what I wanted, she also said they’d cope without me, but I didn’t hear it. Consequently, I’d pretty much given up my own life little more than twelve months earlier so I could be there for her. I didn’t exist as an independent being, I was an extension of my daughter’s needs and wants – and it was all my fault.
‘I’m taking Rosie to Scotland with me next weekend, and we’re going to spend it together with his kids – as a family. The children have only met a few times, be nice to have the whole weekend,’ Emma was saying now.
‘Great, I hope they all get on,’ I said, ashamed of my mixed feelings, but aware that it wouldn’t be hard to win over our feisty four-year-old in a weekend.
‘Oh, you know Rosie – buy her an ice cream and she’ll love them to bits,’ Emma laughed.
‘A relationship with a child isn’t built on ice cream, it’s built on love and trust and years of nappy changing and playing games and singing songs,’ I heard myself say. Aware I was sounding like a disgruntled nanny from the Victorian era, I stopped short of listing the up-all-night nursing a fever and not being able to attend lectures because the little one is poorly and Mum has her career. But Emma had seemed to conveniently forget the bond I’d shared with Rosie wrought from tears and sweat and love and endless hours of hide-and-seek – and let’s not forget Frozen on an endless loop! Okay, I’d just thought of a vague silver lining to this – I might never have to hear or sing another chorus of ‘Let It Go’, but that didn’t work because I loved duetting with Rosie – even if she did always have to be Elsa, the beautiful blonde one.
‘Dan seemed to win her over with ice cream and funny faces, so I’m sure we’ll be fine.’
