by Sophie King
EMAIL FROM LISA SMITH
Hi mum. Am sending you this so you can make a wish. R u ok? Sory about our arguement. Pleese write.
MESSAGE TO MR MARK SUMMERS
Dear Mr Summers, you have just performed an illegal operation.
EMAIL FROM ANNABEL CRAWFORD
Hi Mum and Dad,
Thailand is AMAZING! We’ve met so many incredible people. Only prob is that I’m running out of money. Any chance of a top-up?
WELCOME TO WHAT MUMS KNOW
JOIN OUR DISCUSSIONS ON:
Disciplining your kids. What’s the best way?
More of your news and views on epidurals.
Dating agencies: can single mums trust them?
Can you rewire a dead marriage?
TIP FROM MELINDA OF SOUTHSEA
Make a hand-puppet out of an old sock and get the puppet to ‘talk’ to your kids. It encourages them to do chores like clean teeth.
THOUGHT TO KEEP YOU SANE FROM MAD MUM
All things must pass. Good and bad.
CHUCKLE CORNER FROM ALI OF SLOUGH
Q: Are you sexually active?
A: No, I just lie there!
5
‘More tea?’
Roger dabbed his mouth with kitchen roll, then carried his cereal bowl to the sink and carefully tipped the contents down the waste-disposal unit. ‘No, thanks.’
He was so polite, thought Caroline, despairingly. Just like her, hovering with the teapot like a fifties housewife. Briefly, she caught sight of herself in the glass of the oven door. Funny how her image always seemed to belong to a stranger. The woman with shoulder-length blonde hair was more attractive than she felt inside. But the fear and uncertainty on her face, apparent in the oven’s tinted glass, were hers, all right.
The fear forced her to put on her makeup before Roger got up, while the uncertainty made her uncomfortable about her small breasts, which had never recovered from feeding three children all those years ago. It was about then that Roger had stopped cupping his hands round them . . . Why, oh, why, hadn’t she seen the warning signs?
Carefully, she began to unload the dishwasher, her back to him. It was so much easier to talk without eye contact. Besides, she knew what he looked like. The mole on his neck, just below the collar. The upper lip that tightened when she said something that annoyed him. The thin line of black hair that ran down the centre of his chest, parting slightly above his navel. Had that woman run her tongue down it? Had he dug his nails into her skin with excitement as he had once with Caroline?
‘Got anything interesting on today?’ she asked nervously.
He was putting something into his briefcase and didn’t bother to look up. ‘Another meeting with Harris. That man’s impossible.’
‘Where?’
‘Kingston.’
Kingston. Nowhere near Wembley. Unless he chose to go there when she wasn’t aware of it and, God knows, he’d done that in the past.
‘What about you?’
His coldness made her want to scream. Instead, she slid back the dishwasher drawer – too roughly: it stuck and she gave it a push to free it. ‘Busy. It’s conference day.’
‘Don’t do that. You’ll break it.’ He shoved past her. ‘Look, all you have to do is ease it gently on to the runners. Don’t be so impatient.’
‘There’s no need to snap.’
‘I’m not.’ He clicked his briefcase shut. ‘Right. Better go or I’ll miss the train.’
She glanced at the kitchen clock. She hadn’t even got Georgie up yet. Just as well it was the holidays. She leaned towards him for a kiss. After his affair, they had begun to kiss properly again but now, almost through unspoken mutual agreement, they were back to cheeks. He smelt faintly of lemon.
‘New aftershave?’ It came out like an accusation.
‘Yes.’ He looked steadily at her, unsmiling. ‘The one my mother gave me for my birthday. I’m off now. Bye.’
Why did he always make her feel as though it was her fault she was suspicious? And now she’d annoyed him – it was obvious from the way he’d said goodbye, and the way he strode down the path towards the gate. No turning back to wave. A tall, dark, good-looking man with a bulging briefcase, who seemed younger than his mid-forties in a soft grey pinstriped suit, as befitted an accountant. Very suitable, her mother had decreed after meeting him. Dependable.
The memory made her chest tighten as she raced up the stairs.
She could hear the tell-tale series of pings that indicated her daughter was on Facebook. ‘Georgie! Will you get off that? You’re going to be late and, besides, you can talk to your friends later.’
‘I’ve got to check something, Mum. Have you got my kit ready?’
She had. Neatly pressed for the summer sports club, run by the school in the holidays, it was in Georgie’s Adidas bag in the hall, next to her own dark-brown leather briefcase.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Seeing if there are any tickets left for The Wattevers.’ Georgie’s face was puckered in concentration and Caroline’s heart leaped with love. It was worth putting up with all this awful stuff from Roger just to keep the children happy. They couldn’t bear it, she was certain, if he went.
‘Do you know that if you get picked to go on stage, they shave your hair?’
She shuddered at the thought of her daughter’s beautiful hair being hacked at by some scissor-happy pop star. ‘Then you’re definitely not going. What about parental approval?’
‘It’s cool, Mum. You get to play their bass guitar too. Yes. Yes! There are some tickets. Can you get them for me, now, online?’
‘Not now. There isn’t time. Maybe later.’
‘Mum!’
‘Downstairs, please.’
Since when had parents pleaded with kids?
Reluctantly Georgie followed Caroline into the kitchen and sat down to breakfast, tearing at it with her knife and fork.
‘There’s no need to stab your bacon. It’s already dead.’
‘You’re so sad, Mum.’
‘That’s not very kind,’ said Caroline, hurt. Like many modern parents, she’d encouraged the children to speak their minds and this was the result. Roger had often remarked that she had only herself to blame. ‘More toast?’
‘All right.’
‘Please.’
‘Please.’
Georgie was always hungry but she never put on weight, although she tried desperately – in her bid to become more of a heavyweight so she could be picked for the under-13 girls’ rugby team next term.
‘Don’t turn on the television. I’ve got the radio on.’
‘It’s the holidays, Mum. Chill.’
Caroline silenced Chris Evans mid-sentence. She didn’t want an argument on a work day – life was hectic enough already.
‘Can I have some cereal?’
‘You’ve just had a cooked breakfast.’
‘So? It all goes down the same way. That’s what Ben says about girls.’
Caroline continued unloading the dishwasher, wishing she’d done it the night before. So much to do. So little time. ‘You don’t want to believe everything he says.’
‘Really?’ Georgie frowned. ‘Well, what do you think of this? You know that party Ben went to on Saturday night? He met some girl there and after he’d finished snogging her she said he’d kissed her ages ago at another party, and he couldn’t even remember her.’
Caroline tried to remember the last time she’d been snogged. Probably at Ben’s age. ‘Well, if it was true, it wasn’t very nice of him to forget.’
Georgie shovelled a final slice of toast, thickly coated with peanut butter, into her mouth. ‘That’s what I thought. God, I feel stuffed. I won’t be able to run now. Mr Crapper makes us jog three times round the pitch even when we’ve got our periods.’
If she was that poor man, she’d definitely change her name.
‘Don’t say God and don’t talk with your mouth full. And buck up or I’m going to miss the
train.’
No point in waking Ben, who was still sleeping after finishing his A levels last month. He planned to wallow in post-traumatic sleep for an indefinite period of time, he’d informed his parents, during a rare sentence directed at them. Yes, he’d find a summer job (‘Stop nagging, Dad’) but not just yet.
‘Ready?’
Georgie nodded as Caroline dabbed at the milk stain on her daughter’s previously pristine white T-shirt. ‘Run and clean your teeth, then.’
‘Did them before breakfast.’
‘Then you need to do them again.’
‘Mum, there isn’t time.’
She was right. But a good mother (a not-so-stressed mother?) would insist. ‘Upstairs now, pronto.’
A quick flick round the sink with a grubby dishcloth. Dash upstairs to drop a kiss on comatose Ben’s cheek. Leave note for Mrs B, who was coming in, thank heavens, to sort out this mess. No time for the loo. Still a bit chilly today but not enough to wear tights. Besides, if she couldn’t go barelegged in August, when could she? And her longish skirt covered most of her legs anyway.
Once upon a time, in another life, Roger had told her she had a great pair of legs . . .
‘Who are you playing today?’ she asked Georgie, as they walked briskly down Broomfield Road towards the station.
‘Greenway Seniors. We’re going to crucify them.’
‘Georgie! I’ve told you before, that’s an inappropriate word.’
‘Sorry,’ said Georgie, happily. ‘But I’m a teenager. I’m allowed to say whatever I like. Ben says so.’
‘Well, I’m perimenopausal so maybe I can say what I like too.’
Georgie gave her one of her ‘You’re crazy, Mum’ looks. ‘Periwhat?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re weird, Mum. There’s Kirsty. Got to go. See you tonight.’
No kiss, and not even a wave when, five minutes later, Caroline was standing on the opposite platform where she could see her daughter chatting to her friends and steadily ignoring her. Her own train usually came first. Here it was. On time for a change.
She picked up her briefcase and got in. The beauty of living at this end of the line was that there was usually a seat. She gazed at Georgie through the window and her daughter glanced up with the glimmer of a smile.
‘Be careful,’ Caroline mouthed through the glass. She still couldn’t help saying that to all of her children, even though, one by one, they were growing up and leaving. Be careful. It was like a mantra, a lifebelt in an uncertain world. So much might go wrong for them – they might be run over, bullied at school, pushed into drugs . . . find themselves without a father.
Caroline opened her laptop and groaned. The screen had frozen. Resigned, she turned it off and rebooted. If only, she mused, as the train passed terraced houses, an empty playground and a parade of shops, it was possible to do the same for her marriage . . .
An hour later, Caroline flashed her ID card at the security desk and got into the lift. Fourth floor. First set of swing doors on the left. Large open-plan office, studded with pale beech desks at which your knees virtually knocked your neighbour’s. Screens already on. Coffee-machine bubbling. Diana’s door firmly shut, which meant she was writing the Editor’s Letter.
‘Hi,’ said Zelda, spinning round on her chair. ‘Hope you got more sleep than I did. Aurora was up all bloody night. How the hell am I going to cope when number two arrives?’
Caroline dumped her case by her desk and helped herself to a glass of water. ‘You’ll manage. Just don’t think too much about it in advance or you’ll panic.’
‘How did you cope with three?’
She hadn’t – or what had happened wouldn’t have. She could have been a nice stay-at-home mum and concentrated on keeping her husband happy. ‘I think I’d have gone mad if I hadn’t worked. I needed something to think about apart from the children. But there are times, to be honest, when I feel it’s awfully selfish.’
‘Nice one.’
‘What?’
Zelda was tapping away at the keyboard without looking up at her screen. ‘Are you a selfish mum? We could put it up for conference.’
It wasn’t bad, Caroline conceded. She and Zelda worked well as a team, which Diana, always astute, had spotted when Caroline had asked to go part-time and Zelda had got pregnant with Aurora. It had been Diana who had persuaded the powers-that-be that Zelda and Caroline should job-share. The result was that between them they edited the Parenting and Health pages for Beautiful You magazine. Caroline worked Mondays and Tuesdays, Zelda worked Wednesdays and Fridays, and they both came in on Thursdays for conference when the whole team thrashed out ideas for the next issue.
‘Ready, everyone?’ Diana put her head round the door of her office.
‘Bloody hell! She’s early,’ muttered Zelda.
Caroline tried Roger’s mobile. No reply. Zelda lived in Kingston. She’d know. ‘Your mum’s in Wembley, isn’t she?’
‘Yup. Why?’
‘How long does it take you to get there?’
‘Half an hour, maybe. Forty minutes. Come on – everyone else has gone in. Got your notes?’
She had. Organisation might not be her forte at home but work was different.
‘Caroline, switch off your phone now. We’ve got to go in!’
Maybe, thought Caroline, studying Diana furtively as the editor dissected the beauty editor’s ideas on non-surgical face lifts, it was easier not to be married. Diana was a single mum, an elegant, contented one. She had a younger boyfriend in advertising with whom she didn’t live, and a nine-year-old son at an expensive private day school in London. She was always impeccably groomed with her hair cut in a spiky black style, and her clothes were generally from East. She had enough empathy with her staff to understand when things went wrong – not that she knew anything about Roger – and enough grit to demand action when it was needed.
Marriage would probably destroy her.
‘Right. Moving on to Parenting.’ Diana’s nails – French-manicured – drummed on the pad in front of her. ‘I want to get more relationship-y. This page is beginning to focus too much on the poor-little-me side of parenting. Don’t you think, Zelda?’
‘Depends how you see it, really.’ Zelda glanced nervously across the pale beech conference table at Caroline. ‘Actually, we’ve got a great idea here. Are mums becoming selfish?’
Diana pursed her impeccably lined lips. ‘Exactly what I don’t want. Anyway, Just For You did something similar last month. I want to help readers get through the impossible stuff that happens in their lives.’
‘Like bad sex,’ ventured the girl from Practicals. A titter ran round the table.
Caroline cleared her throat. ‘What about How to rewire your dead marriage?’ The What Mums Know discussion topic – she’d spotted it after her laptop had unfrozen itself on the train – had ironic potential.
‘I fancy Infidelity,’ mused Diana.
Caroline’s mouth dried. ‘What angle were you thinking of?’
‘Did you see that new survey about marriage? No?’ Her eyes narrowed with disapproval. ‘Pity. One in four couples who have experienced infidelity are now trying again to make their relationship work compared with one in seven five years ago. I want you to find me three case histories who’ll come clean. Yes, Zelda, identified with pics. Women who can say that their husband had an affair but are prepared to start again.’
‘Men, too?’ demanded Zelda, sharply.
‘If you can get one.’
‘I know this isn’t my area,’ drawled the beauty editor, ‘but nowadays that just doesn’t happen. My brother-in-law had an affair and my sister threw him out of the house before he could pack his iPad. Any self-respecting woman would do the same.’
‘Not according to the marriage expert quoted in the survey.’
Diana’s fingers were drumming again. ‘What do you think, Caroline?’
‘I think it’s going to be tough to find people who’ll be identifie
d,’ she said quietly.
‘Try online.’ Diana tossed her hair dismissively. ‘Find some self-help group. All kinds of idiots want to be in print. I don’t need to tell you that. Pay them a hundred each. Two if you have to. There’s got to be someone out there who’ll talk.’
Caroline glanced at Zelda, whose face shone with unspoken sympathy. Poor you. She didn’t know or she wouldn’t have suggested it. Are you all right?
‘Sorry.’ Caroline stood up. ‘I’ve just got to go to the loo. Back in a second.’
Diana frowned. Cloakroom rights were a no-no during conference. Quickly, before she made a complete fool of herself, Caroline left the room. Through the open door, she could hear Zelda saying something about her not being well. All she needed was a few moments to compose herself and then she’d go back to acting – as she’d been doing for the past two years.
Caroline rinsed her face in the basin and quickly re-did her makeup. Better. But the problem remained. Even if she found someone stupid enough to be named, talking to her would bring back the pain. She’d like to confide in Zelda. In the early days, when she had barely been able to function in the office, she’d had to tell her that Roger had had an affair. But something had always held her back from revealing all the details. There was only one person who knew what had really happened.
‘Jeff? It’s me. Sorry, the reception’s awful.’
She moved to the other side of the basin to improve the signal. A secretary came in from Cookery and Caroline tried to talk quietly.
‘Look, sorry to bother you but I wondered if you were free for lunch this week? . . . No, of course I understand. Next week? . . . That would be lovely.’
6
Dating agencies: can single mums trust them?
The question was still pounding round Susan’s head. Why was it that everyone, including What Mums Know, presumed single mothers wanted another moron to stand in for the previous one? There were other things in life to think about. Such as why the Greenfields Centre bus was late.
