The Motherhood Walk of Fame

by Shari Low

  We were in LA–how would he know that Schwarzenegger wasn’t a close personal friend?

  Pause.

  ‘Okay, I’ve checked Mr Tusker’s schedule and he has seven minutes this afternoon from 16.04–would that be convenient?’

  ‘That would definitely be convenient.’

  Gleeeeeeeeee! Fantastic! Ike Tusker wanted to speak to me! Please God, I solemnly promise that for the rest of my life I will put money in those Salvation Army envelopes that come through the door if you please, please make this good news.

  I rounded up the boys–time for a sharp exit. I didn’t want to be engaged in a highbrow, movie-type conversation with one of the biggest players in Hollywood while having a small boy dangling from my back squealing, ‘Ninja Turtles! Into the water, Master Shredder!’

  I headed back to Sam’s, hoping fervently that Eliza would be there and wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on the boys for seven minutes from 16.04.

  To my surprise, and I suspect his too, Sam was already there. Something that I wish I’d known before the boys and I strutted into the house singing a rousing version of ‘Hi Ho Hi Ho, It’s Off to Work We Go’. With actions. Even more surprisingly, he was alone. He must have given the supermodel apostles the day off. Not that I would have cared–I was far too excited to let pert bosoms spoil my day.

  ‘Sam, Sam,’ I screeched. ‘Ike Tusker’s office called and made an appointment for him to call me. Incidentally, what’s that all about–appointments to call?’

  He grinned. ‘Yeah, they all do that here. So what happened?’

  ‘Don’t know–he’s calling me back at 16.04. What do you think–good news or bad?’

  ‘Good. Definitely good.’

  Excellent. If there was anyone who knew this town and this business it was Sam. He had an acute mind and his experience with these people would only make his perceptions even more informed and razor-sharp.

  ‘Why do you think it’s good?’ I wanted substantiated facts, real-life precedents and anecdotal evidence. He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Dunno. Just got a feeling.’

  Right then. Good enough for me.

  I checked my watch–still a while to go. The boys had gone off in search of Eliza (after I’d checked the doors to the pool were locked–I’d been having recurring moments of panic about them going swimming with the alligators without adult supervision). Sam had pulled a carton of juice and various food-like ingredients out of the fridge and was busy concocting a sandwich that was the approximate height of Benny. I don’t know how he did it. I thought bread was listed as a Class A drug in California. Shouldn’t he be on the Atkins or in the Zone or…Oh, I don’t know, but I was pretty sure he shouldn’t be scoffing a whole loaf in one sitting; yet there he was, the man with the body of a finely tuned athlete, worshipping at the temple of Hovis. Those arms, perfectly formed with biceps like melons. That chest, pumped and defined. Those abs–oh God those abs–I could spend all day just counting every one of those perfectly toned little bumps. Thighs. Thighs. Thighs. Sorry, got stuck there for a moment.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  Those thighs. Those thighs. Those…

  ‘What’re you thinking?’

  Thighs.

  ‘CARLY!’

  ‘What? Where? What is it?’

  Sam was staring at me quizzically.

  ‘What are you thinking? You’re in a world of your own there.’

  ‘Oh, erm, sorry. Just…thinking. About Ike Tusker and what he’ll say.’

  ‘Oh. Erm, thought so,’ Sam replied uncomfortably, before taking a huge bite out of his sandwich.

  This was hopeless. What had happened to us? We’d always had such an easy relationship, had always been able to tell each other everything, and now there was a really strange atmosphere between us. I had absolutely no idea what he was thinking but I had a feeling that I wouldn’t like it. Even during our darkest days as a couple we’d still talked, still cared, still understood each other. Now? Accidental strangers.

  I momentarily considered going for a soak in the bath and using that tried and tested manner of relationship therapy: avoidance of major issues. Well, it seemed to be working well for my husband.

  But Sam had been good to us. Besides, I had a niggling worry that the sandwich might be a sign of some kind of anxiety-related comfort eating, and if so I thought I’d better address the problem before the only role he was fit to play was Elvis in his later years.

  ‘Sam, I was thinking. It’s been so brilliant of you to let us stay here but I don’t want to out-stay our welcome. We’re disrupting your life and filling the house with mayhem. I really appreciate everything you’ve done, but we’re in the way here–so maybe tomorrow, if it’s okay with you, I’ll ask Eliza to help me find a hotel.’

  He looked stunned. Oh shit, I’d offended him. He thought he’d been hiding the fact that we were getting on his tits really well and now I’d made it obvious that I’d sensed it.

  It was ages before he spoke, mainly due to the mouthful of sandwich. Finally, he swallowed, then spoke. ‘Do you…want to move out?’

  ‘No, it’s not that I desperately want to move out–it’s just that I love you, Sam…’

  He choked. I ignored the bit of cucumber that shot across the room and pressed on.

  ‘…You’re one of my best friends. But, you know, that doesn’t mean that we won’t get on each other’s nerves if we’re together too much.’

  I was trying to make this easy for him.

  ‘I mean, Carol is one of my closest friends, we’ve known each other all our lives, we’re even related now, but if we’re together for any longer than eight hours at a time I get a nervous tic and an overwhelming urge to staple up her mouth.’

  He laughed. At least I think it was a laugh. It might have been a minor choke. God, this was excruciating. Say something. Just say something.

  Zzzzzzzzz. Phone! Phone! I panicked, snatched up the phone, dropped it, snatched it up again, pressed a button, held it to my ear, then turned it around so it was the right way up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘This is Stefan from Ike Tusker’s office. I have Mr Tusker for you now.’

  I’m not a religious woman but I suddenly knew how a lowly parish priest felt when he was granted an audience with the Pope.

  ‘Carly!’ Ike’s voice boomed on to the line.

  ‘Hi Ike, how are you?’ Damn. Why was I wasting my time with pleasantries when I’d already been warned that I only had seven minutes in the presence of His Holiness? Give me the news; just give it to me straight. My nerves were jangling and my buttocks were clenched.

  ‘Great, Carly, just great. Listen, I’ve had some feedback on the book.’

  Come on, come on…

  ‘A few of the studios have passed–just not the right thing for them just now.’

  Come on…

  ‘And two of the actors I sent it to have passed too. Still waiting to hear from a couple of them, though. Julia is on location in Morocco and the communications aren’t great.’

  Okay, stop now. Don’t want to hear any more. Bubble had well and truly burst and I’d be picking gum out of my hair for the next ten years.

  ‘But we’ve had interest from three parties: Global, GMG Studios and Dreamtime would all like to meet you.’

  ‘Fantastic, Ike, I’m thrilled about that. Can you get your people to fax my people with the proposed schedule and I’ll get back to you to confirm availability?’

  A very efficient, appropriate reply, which, true to form, came out as, ‘Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeekkkkkk!!!!!!’

  A few moments later, having regained the power of speech and discovered that two of the meetings would take place on the Thursday and the third one on the Friday of the following week, I pressed the end button on the phone.

  ‘Well?’ Sam was waiting with an expectant grin. I repeated the conversation, trying not to sound like a stunt double for Minnie Mouse, but unable to stop myself lunging into his arms at the end, spinning
him round in circles and then jumping on the spot as I squeezed the life out of him. If he didn’t have heartburn now it would be a miracle.

  I was doing a jig, making the most of the feelings of sheer and utter bliss right up until…stop!

  Suddenly I realised that I was standing with my arms around Sam Morton, my nipples were squashed against his torso, my head was somewhere between his pecs and he was breathing on my hair. What the hell was wrong with the air-conditioning? Had he forgotten to put money in the electricity meter?

  ‘I’m so chuffed for you, babe,’ he announced. ‘You deserve it. And when they meet you they’ll love you.’

  ‘Mmchm.’ That’s all I could say as my face was still immersed somewhere in his chest cavity.

  ‘And for the record, I LOVE having you all here, I DON’T want you to move out, and you can STAY for as long as you want.’

  I retrieved my skull.

  ‘Are you sure, Sam? Because, honestly, I won’t be offended.’

  ‘I’m sure. Actually, I’ve got an idea. Your first meeting isn’t until next Thursday, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Soooo. How would you and the boys fancy taking a little trip? With me, that is.’

  Let me think–another weekend on the admittedly sunny delights of Mother’s Beach or a mystery adventure with one of my favourite people on earth? I resisted the urge to chew on one of his nipples while I contemplated the dilemma.

  ‘Oh, I think a wee trip would be lovely,’ I announced, just as Mac and Benny came thundering in.

  ‘Hey guys, how would you like to go somewhere really, really cool?’ Sam asked them.

  ‘How cool?’ Mac eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘ Very cool,’ Sam answered.

  It wasn’t enough–Mac needed a bit more. ‘Can we take the alligator?’

  Sam thought about it for a moment, then nodded. ‘We can take the alligator.’

  ‘Yay!’ they chorused, with much jumping up and down and clapping of hands. A week here and I don’t think they’d stopped grinning for more than a few seconds. They were having an absolute blast. And stressful career moves and confusing relationships with ex-boyfriends aside, so was I. And now it was only going to get even better because we were going on a jaunt. A trip. Which, unlike my temperature at that precise moment, was going to be very, very cool indeed.

  Family Values Magazine

  PUTTING THE YUMMY IN MUMMY

  THIS WEEK…

  CHILDREN’S SPECIAL TOYS

  Children often form strong emotional attachments to special objects or toys. Don’t worry if your favourite cashmere stole goes missing–chances are your little darling has commandeered it because it’s soft, comforting and reassuring.

  Boys, too, are prone to deep affections for their favourite teddy, train or blanket. This is all a perfectly natural stage in the development process, and don’t fear, ladies, they do grow out of it! Your little angel will not be clutching on to Poopoo the stuffed Pomeranian when he takes his first steps through those vaulted doors at Eton or Harrow. Although he will always have a soft spot in his heart for his first Harrods teddy.

  Indeed, far from being cause for concern, your child’s attachment to that inanimate object conveys that they are loving, gentle and already developing the capacity to nurture. What’s more, they often choose objects that comfort them because they remind them of their home or family. It might be the touch, the smell, or indeed, perhaps they even think their new favourite friend looks like Mummy or Daddy! Mothers of Barbie lovers, rejoice and congratulate yourself that the last little nip and tuck worked wonders.

  Whatever the cause, indulge their little foible. Allow them to carry the object of their affection with them at all times. A gentle word with an understanding vicar and there will always be room at the end of the pew for a large purple dinosaur. Although, British Airways first-class cabin crew may not be quite so obliging.

  Treat your little darling’s toy like an item of value. Which indeed it is–it’s adding to the richness and depth of your child’s personality.

  Now surely that’s something worth treasuring?

  Step Eight

  I do realise that I’m often too quick to jump to conclusions and occasionally need to pay more attention to what people are saying, but in my defence I don’t think that there are many people who wouldn’t have misconstrued the finer details of our weekend destination. We were in California. The sun was shining. People wore flip-flops. There were half-naked bodies everywhere, usually with wheels attached to their feet. It was like one great big tampon advert. And yes, our trip was indeed destined to be very cool. As in polar bear’s arse. Because we were going…

  ‘Skiing,’ Sam announced the following morning when I checked what to throw into my suitcase.

  ‘Skiing?’ I replied incredulously. It was official–he was on mind-altering drugs. I was under the impression that skiing required snow, and unless four foot of white stuff had poured down onto Pacific Palisades for the first time in living memory, then I was struggling with the practicalities of the trip.

  I’d also, at this point, like to make a confession: I’d rather have had my teeth knocked out with a jousting pole than go skiing. What, exactly, was the point of going all the way up a bloody great hill just to come back down it again at speed? And don’t even get me started on hill-walkers, but suffice to say that I’m convinced they need psychological help and I can quite understand why a disproportionate number of them are single.

  Skiing is my idea of sheer bloody torture: cold, wet and energetic. Skiing wasn’t a holiday, it was a sentence.

  I was gutted. My idea of a fun trip is lying on a sun-lounger, eating chicken-in-a-basket, drinking cocktails with elaborate fruit garnishes and reading steamy bonk-busters penned by my biological mother.

  Never, at any point, have I had the desire to dress in a duvet and strange hat and throw myself off a mountain.

  However, I was aware that it would have been churlish, petty and ungrateful to object. But I did anyway.

  ‘But Sam, I don’t have any of the gear for skiing–no clothes, no hats, no co-ordination, no courage whatsoever…’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get it all there. And we’ll hire kit for the boys too.’

  Oh God, the boys. Up a mountain. With sharp sticks. I could almost hear the police helicopters circling overhead.

  A short while later I was on the Liam Gallagher side of chirpy when we all clambered into the car, but I slapped a smile on my face and resolved to make the most of it. At least it would be a great story to tell the grandchildren. If I survived the thousand-metre fall and ever came out of the coma.

  We stopped at one of the outposts of Jojo’s planetary home and stocked up on coffee, juice and muffins.

  ‘Won’t we get this at the airport?’ I asked Sam, slightly puzzled.

  ‘What airport?’

  ‘Skiing. Snow. Airport. Big plane to take us there.’

  He laughed. ‘We’re not flying, we’re driving. We’re going to Mammoth Mountain–it’s a brilliant ski resort about five hours north of here.’

  I had to admire him. Now I knew why Sam Morton had found fame and glory as a fearless action hero. He didn’t flinch as he scaled mountains. He could take on ten karate-chopping baddies without batting an eyelid. He fought to the death to save small countries from tyrannical terrorists. And he voluntarily decided to spend five hours in a car with two small children.

  Mammoth Mountain. It sounded amazing. I couldn’t deny there was a little tremor of excitement running through me. We were going on a road trip! It was like Thelma and Louise–only it was Sam and me in the front, Mac and Benny behind us, and an inflatable alligator called Archie sticking out the back window.

  And Sam seemed to be acting pretty normally again. The awkwardness of the last few days had evaporated and he was back to his lovely, funny self. I’m sure men have hormonal cycles every month as well.

  He gave me a map to follow the route. We were to ta
ke the Interstate 5 North, to the State Route 14 North, to the US 395 North, to the State Route 203 North–307 miles in total. Simple. If you were a satellite navigation system or a Sherpa.

  Soon the densely populated Los Angeles was behind us, the spaces getting more open with every passing mile. We kept the kids as amused as possible. We sang every song in our not insignificant repertoire, we told jokes, we played I Spy, Animal Alphabets and Who Am I? (a frazzled mother with an aversion to extreme sports). We stopped 435 times for small boys to pee.

  There was momentary excitement when we passed a huge field where the airlines send their decommissioned planes to die: row upon row upon row of aeroplanes of all shapes, sizes and nationalities. The boys were ecstatic. Cue toilet stop number 436. And then a few miles later…nothing! Absolutely nothing for miles. We were smack in the middle of the Mojave Desert, on a narrow road and with not another car in sight. On we travelled on our epic journey, four fearless explorers and an alligator. But we had no idea just how exciting our expedition was about to become. We cleared the desert and drove on until it happened. It was the moment that I knew I’d made it. Never mind that I’d trotted off to LA in search of the American dream and planned to offer movie producers my kidneys if they would only turn one of my novels into a big-screen production. Forget the fact that I was now en route to a top ski resort where I’d no doubt spend a week looking like a Michelin Man on planks. This was the defining moment of my trip: the glamour, the glitz, the ultimate thrill. As we drove up the deserted highway, the sign appeared like an oasis in the desert in front of me. ‘Welcome To Pearsonville, the Hub Cap Capital of the World.’

  Yes, I know a top spot when I see it. I was giddy with excitement. Maybe hubcaps are like cats and always make their way back home. If so, I was potentially only minutes away from being reunited with the ones that were nicked off my Fiat 126 one miserable night in Peckham in 1988.

  Despite my pleadings, movie-star-at-the-wheel refused to park up and we pressed on to Mammoth Mountain, with just one stop at a small town to buy winter clothes and change out of our LA togs. It was hard to believe that we’d had breakfast in the sun and now we were up to our knees in snow.