The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence

by Catherine Robertson

  Aishe’s gaze travelled back across the road to the children’s playground. The woman was about her age but her children were years younger than Gulliver. She could do with losing a few pounds was Aishe’s critical assessment, but she was very pretty, with a fiercely straight-cut black bob and an equally fierce frown that suggested she was either concentrating hard or thinking of something that infuriated her. She was pushing a baby — a girl, by the looks — in one of those secure infant swings. I wouldn’t have pushed a child that young that hard, thought Aishe, but judging by the gleeful shrieks, the baby seemed to be loving it.

  The woman’s second child was a handsome blond boy of about three or four. He was sitting on the ground, slowly pushing a yellow plastic truck through the leaves and dusty dirt. He was completely absorbed in the task, so much so that he didn’t seem to hear when his mother said, ‘Right, you two! Time to go.’

  She put her hands under the baby’s armpits, whereupon the little girl immediately stiffened and began to shriek in protest. Aishe saw the woman, with a firm tug, pop the baby clear of the swing like a cork from a wine bottle. She carried the yelling infant to the stroller, whereupon the little girl arched her body into a rigid bow and refused to sit. Clearly well practised at dealing with her small daughter’s temper, the woman deftly wrapped the stroller’s straps around the child and pulled them tight, forcing her to collapse into the seat. Ignoring the bellows of rage from below her, the woman then pushed the stroller up to where her son was still steering the yellow truck around in a circle.

  ‘Come on, Harry,’ she said to him and, without waiting, began to push the stroller down the path that led out of the playground. Harry, Aishe observed, did not move, did not even seem to notice his mother was quickly putting distance between them. The woman got all the way down the length of the playground, at which point she stopped, turned and yelled, ‘Harry! Move it!’

  Harry’s head shot up and Aishe saw his eyes widen, his lower lip begin to tremble. ‘Mom-mee!’ he wailed. ‘Wai-ait!’ He scrambled to his feet, clutching the truck, and began to run down the path, sturdy, chubby legs pumping as fast as he could make them. His mother tapped her foot as she waited, but when he reached her, she bent down and gave him a quick hug and a kiss.

  As they walked off slowly down the road, Aishe saw Harry tuck the truck under one arm and reach up his free hand to take hold of the edge of his mother’s jacket. Feeling this, the woman shifted her grip on the stroller bar so she should push it one-handed. She loosened her son’s hold of her jacket and took his small hand in hers.

  To her astonishment, Aishe felt her breathing quicken, as if tears were imminent. She was not one for crying — couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had a really good weep. I was never the kid who ran bawling to Daddy if another kid was mean to me, she thought. I was the one who punched the mean kid right in the face. Anger has always been my response of choice. So why do I feel like I’m about to cry right now?

  The small, possibly Frank-like voice said: Because you know those days are gone forever. Those days when your son worshipped you, when he loved you uncritically, unconditionally. When he was wholly and completely yours.

  I’ll never hold his hand like that again, thought Aishe. And you know what? I’m not sure I can bear it.

  7

  ‘How hard can it be to find your own sister’s phone number?’ Michelle demanded of Darrell. ‘It’s not like she’s in freaking witness protection!’

  ‘He’s doing his best. Jeepers! Why the urgency?’

  ‘I’m desperate! Desperate for contact with adult human beings. Normal adult human beings.’

  ‘I thought you’d found a mothers’ group to join?’ Darrell frowned. ‘Aren’t they normal?’

  Michelle’s face loomed on Darrell’s Skype screen as she leaned forward and glared.

  ‘They’re all blonde. Is that normal? No! That’s like one of Josef Mengele’s Aryan cloning experiments. They have the body mass of a greyhound that’s been left to starve now its racing days are over. They all drive giant SUVs and carry totes made only by Kate Spade. And every single one has a little tattoo on her sacrum. I know because there’s always a gap of perfectly toned flesh between their daily uniform of yoga pants and skin-tight organic-fabric exercise tops. Do you know what one of them told me her exercise top was made from? A by-product of tofu. Freaking tofu!’

  ‘So they’re blonde and skinny,’ said Darrell, ‘which is annoying, true. But that doesn’t necessarily make them horrible people, does it?’

  ‘They wear baseball caps over their ponytails. Indoors as well as out.’

  ‘Horrible or not? Focus!’

  Darrell’s screen suddenly contained less of Michelle’s face, as her friend slumped back in her chair.

  ‘Not,’ Michelle admitted. ‘But that’s the problem. They’re all too freaking polite!’

  ‘Now you’re just being contrary. Why is that a problem?’

  ‘Because it’s weird polite. Not real polite.’ Michelle flapped a hand helplessly. ‘I don’t know. They act, right from the start, like you are the coolest thing they’ve ever met. They say things like “Your hair is so amazing, I just love your accent, your kids are so adorable.” They go on about how fun it would be to get together, but when you try to pin them down to an actual date, they start coming up with all these patently bullshit excuses. “Oh, you know, it’s just so crazy right now.” And then they blind you with their freakishly white smiles and say, “But it’d be so fun. Call me.” I want to reach out and slap them!’

  ‘Is that a particularly Californian quirk, do you think?’ said Darrell. ‘Californians have always struck me as being somewhat solipsistic.’

  ‘The Charlotte women I met certainly weren’t like that,’ Michelle replied. ‘I was in a great group of mothers. We cussed, we drank, we bitched — it was fabulous. I may just have been lucky though, because Virginia and her crowd would rather poke out their eyes with a hot stick than be ill-mannered. I’ve witnessed her in conversation with someone she clearly despised, her face frozen in a rictus of courtesy, extruding scrupulously polite small talk through gritted teeth. To be honest, I had to admire her self-control.’

  ‘At the risk of diverting from the main subject, how is Gin-Gin?’

  ‘Oh God.’ Michelle briefly hid her face in her hands. ‘Don’t ask. The mere thought fills me with burning homicidal rage.’

  ‘Against Virginia?’ Darrell was agog.

  ‘No! Against her freaking son! Against my spineless, commitment-shirking shit of a husband!’

  ‘Oh dear. Don’t tell me he made you turn down the invitation to Lowell’s birthday?’

  ‘He didn’t make me,’ Michelle said grimly. ‘But when Lowell rang and asked me straight out whether we were coming, I could hardly prevaricate.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Darrell again. ‘Poor you. How did he take it?’

  ‘He took it very well. And that’s what’s so awful. I mean, you’ve heard me talk about Chad’s dad before, haven’t you? He’s like Zeus played by Brian Blessed or Rip Torn. Huge physique, bellowing voice, back slaps that send food flying from your mouth. The kind of man who doesn’t take “No” for an answer mainly because the word “No” doesn’t even register in his consciousness.’

  ‘Hearty,’ suggested Darrell.

  ‘Hearty is the word,’ Michelle agreed. ‘As is vigorous. Lowell was vigour personified. He was always going on about it, too. He was convinced that his glowing good health was due to dynamic muscle exercises and some disgusting combination of linseed, sunflower and almond oil. He was constantly trying to foist it on everyone around him.’

  ‘I thought you were supposed to eat the nuts and seeds, not drink the oil?’

  ‘Seeds! Seeds are for wimps!’ said Michelle. ‘But I suppose we can be grateful it wasn’t castor oil he was trying to shove down our throats.’

  ‘Must have been a shock for him,’ said Darrell. ‘The stroke, I mean. He probably thought he would live fore
ver.’

  ‘When I told him we couldn’t come to his birthday,’ said Michelle, her voice subdued, ‘he said he understood. That Chad was busy with his work commitments …’ Darrell watched her friend drag a hand wearily through her hair. ‘He didn’t bluster or protest,’ Michelle continued. ‘He didn’t even sound like himself — his voice had that little-old-man quaver to it. I’ve never heard that before.’

  ‘He is turning seventy,’ Darrell said. ‘Technically that does qualify as old.’

  Michelle seemed not to hear. ‘I told Chad,’ she said. ‘I told him he needed to call. I’m not sure he has yet …’

  ‘What’s up with Chad, do you think?’ Darrell asked. ‘He used to be the model of filial devotion.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Michelle shook her head. ‘But I tell you what. I’m fast getting to the stage where I’ll no longer give a fuck.’

  ‘Do you think I’m fat?’

  Chad’s forkful of waffle halted halfway to his mouth. He went very still.

  ‘No-o?’

  ‘I am.’ His wife sat back in her chair and glared at him. ‘Fuck it. I never used to be.’

  She sat forward again. ‘I mean, I have no desire to become one of those blonde shreds of dessicated coconut. I’ve dumped dried chicken bones in the trash that had more meat on them. But, look—’ She shifted around so that Chad could see her pinch a roll of flesh from her middle. ‘I never had that before. Even after Harry, who was huge, I snapped back to normal within six months.’

  ‘You’re hardly—’

  ‘I went to the doctor, you know. Before we moved here. I told him there must be something wrong with my glands because I couldn’t shift Rosie’s baby weight. Do you know what he said?’

  Chad shook his head.

  ‘He said, “Perhaps it’s time to make exercise your friend.” Exercise! What does he think I do all day — lie around in a peignoir scarfing Belgian truffles? Has he ever tried to wrestle Rosie into a car seat? Joe Frazier got less of a workout going ten rounds with Muhammad Ali.’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He went fourteen rounds with Ali. If you’re talking about the Manila fight …’

  It was probably fortunate that Rosie decided at that moment to give one of her piercing screams. Being Sunday lunchtime, the café was full and the noise level high. But even so, the penetrating quality of Rosie’s scream caused a short lull, as everyone stopped to stare in the Lawrence family’s direction.

  ‘Jesus! What?’ Michelle glared at her. ‘Oh. Harry, sweet pea, can you grab Rosie’s sippy cup from under the table? Quickly, before she raises more dead people.’

  Obediently, Harry scrambled down off his chair, retrieved the plastic cup and handed it back to his sister in her highchair, who chuckled and shoved it into her mouth. Michelle caught a woman at the next-door table oozing disapproval.

  ‘What?’ Michelle demanded. ‘What’s your problem?’

  ‘Mitch—’ Chad murmured.

  Red-faced, the woman quickly turned away and bent her head over her salad.

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ said Michelle. ‘I didn’t whip out the antibacterial wipes or the freaking hand-sanitiser. And as a result my daughter is about to drop dead of psittacosis or yaws or some such. Have you not heard of super-bugs? Because that’s where all you clean freaks are sending us — to hell in a super-bugged handcart.’

  ‘Mitch, shut up.’ Chad didn’t raise his voice but his tone was unequivocal.

  Michelle opened her mouth to retort, and caught sight of Harry watching her, brown eyes huge with anxiety.

  If I was a better person, she told herself, I would apologise. But I’m not, am I? I’m a seething mass of resentment and anger and frustration. And I’m taking it out on that perfectly decent if anal woman because I can’t take it out on the real source of all my ill feeling. Even when he has the nerve to criticise me in public, as if I’m the only one who’s behaving badly round here. I can’t take it out on him for two reasons. One: because my children and possibly the whole of this café are now watching. And two: because he’s made it clear he no longer wants to hear it, which has made me afraid of what might happen if I push it further.

  If I were a better person, I would accept my situation, focus on the positive and make the best of it. But for the first time in my life, Michelle thought, and certainly in our relationship, I feel stuck — trapped— and it’s making me fearful and bitter and furious. I want to yell and scream at him, smack him around the head. But I can’t, can I? I’m paralysed.

  Michelle took a deep breath. ‘I want a nanny,’ she said.

  Chad reached for more syrup. ‘So get one.’

  Michelle leaned as close to his ear as she could get. ‘No!’ she said. ‘You get one. You organise it. Parenting is a two-person job. It’s time you acted like you’re part of this family instead of some kind of disinterested onlooker.’

  Her husband stared at her. ‘When am I going to find time to do that?’

  ‘I don’t care!’ Michelle just managed to keep her voice low. ‘Get your freaking PA to organise it. Isn’t that what high-powered executives do? She can buy your father a birthday present while she’s at it.’

  ‘Mommy?’ Harry sounded perilously close to tears.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Michelle muttered under her breath. Why Mommy? Why not fucking arsehole Daddy?

  With a huge effort of will, she summoned a smile for her son. ‘Are you done there, buddy?’ she asked brightly. ‘Want a babyccino?’

  Harry’s relief was palpable. ‘Can I have a shake?’

  ‘Just a small one,’ Michelle told him.

  ‘That’s right,’ said his father. ‘Remember what happened the last time you had a big one?’

  Harry beamed. ‘I hurled!’

  ‘And what colour was it?’ Chad continued, his face mock stern. This was a game Harry loved to play.

  ‘Pink!’

  ‘Exactly. So no big pink shake for you, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  Harry’s face was bright with happiness as he gazed at his father. Michelle felt her heart clutch. It used to be like this all the time, she thought, only back then all of us would be smiling. Back then Chad looked at me with affection and pleasure, whereas the best I can hope for now is weary resignation and the worst blank indifference. Back then. Jesus, I’m acting like it was years ago. When in fact it’s been barely a month …

  Chad had summoned the bill from the young waitress, and Michelle watched him count out the right notes and change. He doesn’t look any different, she decided. He’s still that blond, gorgeous man I fell in love with. So good-looking. And such a nice-natured, decent-hearted man. I suppose I knew I was lucky at the time, but then I’ve always considered good luck my due. Is this the universe punishing me for my hubris, she wondered? If it is … just how bad can I expect things to get?

  Back home, Chad took Harry and Rosie into the living room and switched on the television to watch sport. Michelle knew Harry would rather watch Dora or Ben 10, but if it gave him the chance to feel like his father’s special little guy, he’d have gladly sat through three full days of the Ryder Cup. Rosie, in her playpen, happily set to smacking her Tickle Me Elmo nose first onto the carpet.

  Michelle realised her presence was superfluous. On the one hand, it was a relief to have some real time to herself. On the other, what was she? Chopped liver?

  Sod them, she decided, and trudged upstairs to the bedroom. She found a message in her email inbox.

  It contained a phone number for Aishe Herne.

  8

  Aishe’s good intentions to be pleasant evaporated the instant she opened her front door and heard Gulliver and Benedict laughing together up in her son’s room.

  She threw her keys into the bowl and strode through into the kitchen to dump the tacos on the bench. Why did it bug her so much to know they were having fun? she wondered. Why was she such a cranky goddamn cow?

  The afternoon at the animal shelter h
ad not been one of her better ones. Aishe had made a seven-year-old cry, which had led the father of said seven-year-old to lay a complaint with Nico. Aishe explained that she had only been trying to impress upon the child the importance of continued commitment to the puppy he was about to acquire.

  ‘I just told the kid that a dog wasn’t a toy you could shove under the bed and forget about when you got bored with it,’ she’d said to Nico.

  ‘You also told the kid that a force of animal-loving avenging zombies would hunt him down and rip out his heart if he missed even a single feed,’ Nico had replied. ‘Possibly that sent your instructional talk beyond the bounds of acceptable. His father certainly thought so.’

  ‘Bet his twat-wad father will thank me later,’ Aishe had muttered. ‘That kid will be a more dedicated dog owner than Queen fucking Elizabeth.’

  Aishe had looked for the twitch at the corner of Nico’s mouth that meant his reprimand would go no further. But there’d been nothing in his expression but a weary gravity. He had taken a deep breath and said, ‘I can’t let this go on, Aishe. Another incident and that’s it, understand? I’ll have no choice.’

  Aishe had made such a huge effort for the rest of the afternoon that the other shelter staff became alarmed. Aishe touchy they were used to. Aishe pleasant was disconcerting, if not mildly terrifying. They found excuses to leave her alone, which would normally have suited her fine. But this time all it did was highlight the fact she had no friends and few allies at the shelter. If Nico fired her, she’d be the only one to feel upset. I have no choice, either, she told herself. It’s zip my mouth from now on or hit the road. The shelter needs to see a whole new Aishe Herne.

  Trouble is, it doesn’t take much to revive the old, she thought. As soon as I heard those two laughing, all my good thoughts were vaporised, like a vampire in sunlight …

  Fuck it, she decided, yanking open the refrigerator door. I’m going to have a beer.