by Suzy K Quinn
The Bad Mother’s Detox
Preface
Well hello there!
YOU, dear reader, are fantastic.
How do I know that?
Because all my readers are fantastic. And real. And fun. And extremely cool.
I really hope you like the second instalment of the Bad Mother series.
If you haven’t read the first book, Bad Mother’s Diary, you might want to grab a copy before you get stuck into this one.
If you’ve read the Bad Mother’s Diary, I am extremely honoured that you’re still reading.
I LOVED writing this book (I laughed so much), and I hope you laugh just as much reading it.
Please wander over to Facebook (facebook.com/suzykquinn) and tell me all about yourself, if you haven’t already – I love talking to readers.
My stories are all about real life. Despite all the rubbish we deal with, love gets us through.
You are part of my very special reader family now (whether you like it or not), and I have so much love for you.
MWAH!
Big kisses,
Suzy xxx
Sunday 1st January
Mum’s been arrested again.
It was the usual charge – disrupting the peace.
When will she learn?
She was drinking tea with the policemen, playing cards and sharing out her sausage rolls when I picked her up.
The police were cheerful too, letting Daisy crawl into the empty cells and jangle their handcuffs.
Mum asked me about the Dalton Ball on New Year’s Eve.
Under different circumstances, I would have shared my evening of drama:
Daisy’s feckless, irresponsible father begging for my forgiveness.
Me telling him to get lost and go home to his heavily pregnant girlfriend.
And THEN ending up in a hotel room with Alex Dalton, and having possibly the best night/early morning of my life.
(NB: Daisy’s birth DOES NOT COUNT as the best night of my life. How can it, when I shat on the bed?)
But the police station wasn’t the place to relive a romantic encounter, so instead I lectured Mum about proper grandmother behaviour, while she signed her release papers.
I could tell she wasn’t really listening, because when I’d finished the lecture Mum said, ‘Can we stop at the Co-op on the way home? I fancy some Findus Crispy Pancakes.’
Monday 2nd January
Alex Dalton called.
‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘Did you catch up on sleep after New Year’s Eve?’
I pictured Alex in one of his marble-floored hotel lobbies, black suit and white shirt, jet-black hair, gleaming jawline. Like an aftershave model, but a heterosexual one.
Stern, uncompromising Alex Dalton.
A man who owns hotels in London and has a street named after his family.
Asking if I’d caught up on sleep.
‘I’m okay,’ I said. ‘Just a bit of family drama.’
‘Is Daisy all right?’
‘Fine.’
Silence.
Then Alex said, ‘I want to see you. But I’m flying out to Tokyo for work. I’ll keep the trip as short as possible. I hate leaving, but a lot of people are relying on me.’
‘How can you be working already?’ I asked.
‘There’s no such thing as a holiday in the hotel trade,’ said Alex. ‘We have big plans for the Dalton Group this year. Do you have any New Year’s resolutions?’
‘Just one,’ I said. ‘I want to stop Daisy eating biros.’
‘Come on now, Juliette,’ said Alex. ‘There must be something you want.’
Yes – many things.
Unstained clothing.
Leaving the house before 9am.
Eight hours’ uninterrupted sleep.
Financial support from Daisy’s father.
And a lovely cottage with roses around the door.
But I’d count myself very lucky just to have unstained clothing.
Tuesday 3rd January
New Year.
A time to take stock.
Last January, I was living with Nick in London.
We were engaged.
Things weren’t perfect.
Nick’s mum was always letting herself into the apartment, criticising my parenting and eating fishy salads at the breakfast bar. Nick was drunk half the time, and panicky when left alone with Daisy.
Also, getting Daisy’s pram into the tiny executive lift was a nightmare.
But I honestly thought Daisy would grow up with two parents living together.
I was wrong.
Now I’m staying at my parent’s pub in Great Oakley, with Daisy in a travel cot, while Nick plays happy families with my former best friend, who will give birth to their child any day now.
Last year, Nick and Sadie’s affair felt awful. I wallowed. But then I got on with it. I even ran a marathon. Now I’m stronger. I’ve learned that life doesn’t end because your ex-boyfriend and ex-best friend are shitheads.
And now Alex and I … well things are looking up.
Can’t stop thinking about the Dalton Ball.
What a night.
Nick was SO shocked when Alex and I headed upstairs together.
‘Julesy. Babe. Please. You can’t leave with him. Come on. We have a baby together.’
Hilarious that after getting my best friend pregnant, Nick thinks he can have a say in my love life.
Nick STILL hasn’t paid any maintenance for Daisy.
And it’s been six months since we split up.
BLOODY Nick.
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.
Everyone warned me not to settle down with a charming, bit-part actor. But pre-Daisy I was young and stupid.
In my early twenties, Nick’s puppy-dog eyes and charismatic personality felt romantic. Then Daisy came along, and I realised charm means nothing. Responsibility is everything.
Nick’s new baby is due any day, so it’s not a great time to talk finances. But that’s not Daisy’s fault.
Sent Nick a text message:
Hope you are well. We need to sort out maintenance.
If you keep sidestepping this, I’ll have to take you to court.
Sorry.
The text message wasn’t strictly true. I don’t hope he’s well, and I won’t be sorry to take him to court. But social nicety is hard-wired into me.
Nick hasn’t replied yet.
Knowing him, he probably won’t answer.
Denial is his favourite way of dealing with problems.
Wednesday 4th January
Visited Nana Joan this afternoon with the shopping she wanted – bacon, pork chops, frying steak and beef kidneys.
Her care home has a strict vegetarian policy these days, so Nana makes a little on the side selling contraband meat.
Nana took one look at my tired face and fired up her portable grill to make bacon sandwiches.
She’s not supposed to have Calor gas in her room, but the staff let her get away with it because it saves arguments at meal times.
Daisy got really excited about my bacon sandwich and kept making grabs for it. Foolishly, I let her have a bite, and she crammed half the sandwich in her mouth before I could stop her, then clamped her little lips closed and stubbornly refused to let me pry them open.
Was concerned about salt content, choking, etc., but Nana told me not to worry.
‘Our family are born with unusually large gullets,’ she said. ‘Your mother used to scoff whole Eccles cakes, a
nd no harm ever came to her.’
Cleaned Nana’s portable grill in the en suite shower room, using fairy liquid from the shower rack.
Then I helped Nana with her mobile phone. ‘It doesn’t ring anymore,’ she complained. ‘There’s something squiffy with it.’
It turned out to be an easy problem to solve.
Nana had confused her phone with the temperature controller. The diagnosis was a relief for Nana because she’d been sweating at night for months.
Told Nana I’m a bit worried about Daisy, re: walking.
The NHS website says babies start walking around the age of one, but Daisy hasn’t even taken her first step yet.
‘Daisy is fifteen months old,’ I said. ‘Surely she should be able to walk by now.’
Althea’s little boy, Wolfgang, walked at eight months – although it proved to be a nuisance. Althea was forever arguing about the price at soft play, and eventually resorted to bringing Wolfgang’s passport everywhere.
‘But Daisy is walking right now,’ Nana insisted. ‘Look at her go.’
‘She’s not walking,’ I said, as we watched Daisy pull herself up on the rise and recline chair. ‘She’s cruising.’
‘Cruising?’ said Nana. ‘Isn’t that something you do on a ship?’
‘It’s when children hold onto furniture,’ I said. ‘But it’s not the same as walking. I wish she’d take a few steps.’
‘She’s probably just lazy,’ Nana reassured me. ‘Your mum was the same. She only bothered walking if there was cake to be had. The rest of the time she’d sit and whack your Uncle Danny with her rattle.’
Nana asked if I’d seen Nick recently.
‘I saw him on New Year’s Eve,’ I told her. ‘He asked for a second chance.’
‘Steer well clear,’ said Nana. ‘He’s a good-looking waster, that one. Has he paid you any money for Daisy yet?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not a penny.’
‘Better sort that out,’ said Nana Joan. ‘He’ll have another baby soon, won’t he?’
‘It’s not that simple,’ I said. ‘As far as Nick’s concerned, Daisy and I are staying with Mum and Dad, so he doesn’t need to take care of us.’
‘Don’t the government just take money from absent fathers these days?’ Nana asked.
‘Not in our case,’ I said. ‘Most of Nick’s earnings are undeclared. And he gets pocket money from his mother – there’s no tax bracket for that. If he doesn’t pay up, we’ll have to go to court.’
Nana asked about the New Year’s Eve Ball. ‘I hope you wore something that showed off your figure,’ she said. ‘I used to have a natural cleavage like yours. These days, I need yards of sticky tape.’
Nana is what you call a ‘glamorous granny’. Even in her eighties, she wears leopard print, Lurex and Wonderbras.
Told Nana that Alex Dalton and I ‘got close’ at the New Year’s Eve ball.
I don’t really know how else to describe things with Alex.
I mean, I suppose we were already ‘close’. Alex trained me for the Winter Marathon last year. And we had a few romantic moments while that was going on. But now … it feels like we’re sort of, possibly, seeing each other.
‘About time,’ said Nana. ‘Look at you. All your own curly hair and a lovely bosom. It’s no wonder you’ve been snapped up.’
‘Our lives are different, though,’ I admitted. ‘Alex is a Dalton. His family own half of London.’
‘Opposites attract,’ said Nana. ‘Your grandad liked wholemeal bread. Whereas I stick to white sliced.’
But the truth is, I have baggage with a capital B.
Actually, a capital N.
Nick.
Thursday 5th January
Nick phoned at midday, sounding terrified.
Sadie is in labour.
Nick and I aren’t exactly on friendly terms, but I sensed he was desperate for support so I let him rattle on.
‘How long does it last?’ Nick asked. ‘Sadie’s going mental, and we’re only an hour in.’
‘Don’t you remember my labour?’ I said. ‘It was over twelve hours.’
‘Twelve hours?’ Nick screeched. ‘Daisy didn’t take that long to come out, did she? That’s all day.’
I couldn’t help adding, ‘You know my friend, Althea? Her labour took five days.’
To be fair, I think Althea strung her labour out a bit.
She had a big hippy love-in with candles and hummus and cushions, and shouted down any midwife who talked about ‘speeding things along’.
Also, a yogi came to bend Althea’s womanly figure into ‘baby friendly’ positions, and weave her thick, curly black hair into ‘love braids’.
Baby Wolfgang was ‘breathed’ into the world, with the occasional bellow of ‘Om Shanti’.
‘They won’t let Sadie into the hospital yet,’ Nick sobbed. ‘I can’t handle this shit, Jules. You know how sensitive I am.’
‘Funny to hear you describe yourself as sensitive,’ I said. ‘Immature and self-absorbed are the words I’d use.’
In the background, I heard Sadie screech, ‘Put on my Ellie Goulding album, you useless twat.’
Felt a bit sorry for Nick then, but not that sorry.
When Nick got Sadie pregnant, my world fell apart. But like Althea said, ‘Karma will get him. Wait and see.’
She was right.
Friday 6th January
Nick and Sadie have had their baby.
A little boy.
Actually, really little – only 5lbs 10oz.
Daisy was 8lbs, and the midwives said things like, ‘big strapping legs’ and ‘a great pair of lungs’.
Daisy has a half brother. Such a weird thought.
I wonder if the baby looks like Nick, with dark, flirtatious eyebrows and blue eyes. Or like Sadie, with a big moon face and porcelain skin.
Nick and Sadie’s baby was born last night by C-section.
Nick phoned in the early hours of the morning to tell Daisy about her new brother. He was glowing with new fatherhood, telling me about little baby Horatio and his massive balls.
‘You’ve called him Horatio?’ I said. ‘Like Penelope Dearheart’s dog?’
Nick went quiet for a moment. ‘Well we can’t change the name now,’ he said. ‘Mum’s ordered an engraved silver tankard.’
Sadie’s doing well apparently (not that I asked), but has got a bit possessive – hissing at anyone who comes near ‘little Horry’.
Nick sounded slurred, so I’m guessing he’d managed to sneak some whisky into the labour ward.
No surprises there.
At Daisy’s birth, Nick won the prize for worst birthing companion ever, drunkenly screaming, ‘What the fuck is that?’ at all the wrong moments.
Even the midwife asked if I’d prefer he waited outside.
Saturday 7th January
Nick phoned at 3am, asking if I could put his ‘little girl’ on the phone.
‘I’m not going to wake Daisy,’ I told him. ‘It’s the middle of the night. Why didn’t you ring in the daytime?’
‘Come on, Jules,’ said Nick. ‘The baby wants to say hello. He’s Daisy’s brother.’
Wow.
Brother.
‘Did you get my text message about maintenance payments?’ I asked.
Nick didn’t answer, which I took to mean yes.
‘Sort it out,’ I said. ‘Or I’ll take you to court.’
Sunday 8th January
Alex just called.
He’s cutting his Tokyo trip short and flying back next weekend specially to see me.
And in possibly the weirdest post-coital conversation ever, he asked if I would attend Mass with him and his mother at Westminster Cathedral.
Once I’d ascertained Alex wasn’t trying to purge me of sin, I asked why he wanted me to meet his mother.
‘Because you’re an important person in my life,’ said Alex.
‘Okay,’ I managed to say. ‘Yes. I’d love to come.’
H
ung up before I started blubbing girl tears.
Think I must still be tired from New Year’s Eve. That’s the trouble with having children. You never get a chance to catch up on sleep.
But I felt so emotional. Meeting Alex’s mother …
Nick never introduced me to his mother.
I met Helen by accident, when she let herself into our apartment to give Nick a pair of Gucci loafers she’d picked up at Selfridges. Helen screamed in shock when she saw me, having had no idea I’d moved in with her son.
Not totally happy about Westminster Cathedral as a venue.
I might spontaneously combust at the door.
Need to sit down with Dad for a quick Christianity recap.
He has rubbings from all the famous cathedrals, and can recite great chunks of the King James Bible by heart.
I haven’t been to a proper church service since Nick and I’s wedding day fiasco. And before that, not since school when we all used to snigger at Mrs Blowers, singing in her funny falsetto voice.
Monday 9th January
Just phoned my old employer, Give a Damn, to find out when I can start work again.
Left a message, but got the distinct feeling it had fallen into a black hole of messages that will never get listened to.
Will keep trying.
Like the idea of using my brain again, but feel guilty about Daisy.
Then again, I feel guilty about living with my parents, and I need a job to solve that problem.
I suppose guilt and motherhood go hand in hand.
Tuesday 10th January
My adopted cousin, John Boy, turned up on the doorstep this morning, wearing a huge military rucksack.
He left the army last year after losing half his leg in Afghanistan, and said he’d come to ‘learn the pub trade’.
John Boy has gelled, black hair, a pencil moustache and lots of tattoos – plus Harley Davidson stickers over the fibreglass part of his prosthetic leg, and a Nike trainer on his metal foot.
Technically he’s a war hero, although he didn’t lose his leg in combat – it got blown off when he jumped from the tank for a roadside wee.
