The Mum Who Got Her Life Back
Page 22
‘Haha,’ I say dryly.
‘Jack?’ There’s concern in Nadia’s voice now.
‘Yeah?’
Another pause. ‘Look, I wasn’t going to say anything,’ she starts now. ‘But after Sunday, Alfie must’ve felt pretty awful – I mean, genuinely sorry – because he rang his dad—’
‘Look, we’ve talked about it,’ I say firmly. ‘I don’t think we should go on about it anymore, okay? There’s nothing else to say, really.’ I inhale deeply. I am standing outside my block, poised to go for my run. ‘They’re on their cruise now,’ I breeze on, ‘and by the time they come back, they’ll be full of all that, so it’s fine.’
Although I can hear the chatter and laughter from a bar somewhere, Nadia doesn’t speak for a moment. ‘Jack, I know Alfie’s a bit of a disaster at the moment. There’s stuff that’s gone on at uni – I don’t know whether it’s with his girlfriend, or the course, or what it is. I’m just hoping that he gets himself together this summer, you know? And finds a job, like his sister has – anything to give him some structure, a sense of purpose …’ She tails off. ‘Are you doing anything right now? Why don’t you come into town and meet us for a drink?’
‘Oh, I can’t right now,’ I mutter, knowing I should see her really, to explain precisely why Mum was so upset. But she’s with her friend, and they’ve had a few wines, and I can imagine how it’d turn out: a flood of emotions and gushing apologies that would do no good at all.
‘What are you doing?’ Nadia asks.
‘I’m just about to go for a run.’
‘Ah, right …’ She makes some kind of noise, and perhaps I misconstrue it, but it sounds like an exasperated sigh.
‘So, I’d better go,’ I add.
‘Oh, please come out,’ she exclaims. ‘I’d love to see you. I’m sorry it’s been so weird since Sunday. It’s like we’re not communicating the same anymore. Maybe it’s me, and I’m just being paranoid …’
‘Let’s talk another time,’ I start.
‘Things’ll be a lot better when he has a job,’ she reiterates.
‘Well, maybe his dad can help him out?’
There’s a lull in the background noise. Perhaps she has stepped outside. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘You know,’ I say, hating the coldness that’s crept into my voice now, ‘with a job or something. You mentioned he’s casting for a film. There must be loads of work for—’
‘You mean his dad could put him in the film?’ she asks tersely. I’m cursing myself now for leading our conversation down this road. ‘It was just a thought,’ I say now, aware of a dramatic change of mood as Nadia clears her throat.
‘The film industry doesn’t work like that,’ she says coldly.
‘Well, I just wondered, seeing as Danny often uses people off the street, who have no drama training or anything …’
‘You think he’d just stick his son in a film?’ she gasps. ‘How would that look? Alfie isn’t even interested in acting – not remotely. He’d hate it …’
We fall into an ill-humoured silence. It’s a lovely, warm evening, and the tiny park across my street is filling with groups of students sprawled out on blankets, drinking from plastic cups. There’s a whiff of weed in the air.
‘Jack?’ Nadia’s voice jolts me.
‘Yeah?’
‘Are you … okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ I reply, over-emphatically. ‘I was agreeing with you that it might be good for Alfie to do something, to see what working is like,’ I mutter, aware that I’m spinning off now down an ill-advised direction, but unable to pull myself back.
‘He has been working,’ she says levelly. ‘He’s a student. He studies English Lit.’
‘I know.’
Then: ‘You think, because he’s not up milking cows at five in the morning, then he’s not really working?’
‘Oh, that’s nice!’ I snap.
‘Well, what d’you mean, then?’
I exhale, my heart quickening now. Before I met Nadia, I guess I knew there was something missing in my life, but I didn’t know what it was. I’d had my years with Elaine, which ended pretty disastrously when I found Charlie Gillespie’s wallet sitting on the side of our bath (they’d had a sodding bath together, in our house! He’d dried his arse on one of our towels!). It had all come out, how he’d made her feel special and young and really cared about her (yeah, for a couple of months after she and I had split up, and then he ended it). And later on there was Zoe, and a couple of others, people I thought I cared about but it was never right, because there was something missing.
Well, maybe that’s the way life is, I figure now, as Nadia politely asks me not to tell her what’s good for her own child, adding, ‘I’d never tell you how to be a parent to Lori. I just wouldn’t, Jack. It’s out of bounds.’ Maybe there is always something missing, and we learn to adapt to that, filling the space with other things, like, uh – well, stuff. Because no one can have everything, can they? I have a brilliant daughter, and a job I love – well, like, at least. It’s okay. I am okay.
I open my mouth to try to express all of this, but she’s off again: ‘Look, Jack, can we stop this, please? I wasn’t calling to argue with you. I phoned because I was happy. Okay, I’m a bit drunk, but Corinne and I have had a laugh and I had great news to tell you—’
‘Nadia, please stop,’ I say curtly.
‘You’re still in a mood with me, aren’t you? You’re still mad about Sunday …’
‘I don’t want to go over and over this.’
‘He’d had too much wine. He didn’t mean it …’
‘Nadia,’ I cut in, although for that split second it could be Elaine I’m talking to, who’d call, drunk, when she was on a night out, even after we’d broken up, and after the Charlie Gillespie episode was over. I made a mistake, Jack. We all do that, don’t we? Can’t we get together and talk?
‘What?’ Nadia says sharply now.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘I can’t do this right now. I’m not coming to Barcelona with you.’
Part Three
The key to a successful holiday with one’s grown-up child
• Accept that they will have a ‘museum limit’ (which might well be ‘just the one’, or even ‘none’) and it is unlikely to match yours.
• Do not force your itinerary on them.
• Do not expect them to walk anywhere.
• Be prepared to spend roughly half of your holiday finding places where they will happily eat.
• Do not expect them to keep in touch constantly as if they are twelve years old.
• Be ready to pay for everything.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Nadia
It’s Sunday morning, and something incredible has happened.
Alfie is up and properly dressed, without complaint – jeans, T-shirt, even shoes – at 5.20 a.m. It’s not even light yet. I find myself glancing at him, awestruck, as he goes about his business, drinking coffee, zipping up his wheeled suitcase. I’d be no more mesmerised if I’d spotted an Arctic fox was pottering around my flat.
I decided not to wake Molly at this hour; we said goodbye last night. She was fine about Alfie coming to Barcelona with me. ‘Oh God, he needs it, Mum,’ she said. ‘Get him out of the flat – out of Glasgow for a while. Put a smile on his face. Anyway, I’m working all next week and Thomas’ll kill me if I don’t show up, after he went on at his dad to take me on.’
With twins, there’s a certain kind of pressure to treat them fairly. Every Christmas, I’d count all their stocking presents to make sure they had equal amounts. Danny thought I was being silly, and he was probably right; they never compared their loot. But better to play safe, I always thought. Gift allocation was one aspect of parenting that they couldn’t tell me off about.
Perhaps I’ve always shied away from confrontation, because on Thursday evening, after that heated conversation with Jack, I didn’t call back, or text, or try to persuade him to change his mind.
I was pretty upset, and after a couple more wines with Corinne I headed home, feeling annoyed with myself for drinking too much and screwing things up so badly.
Molly and Alfie came in around midnight and found me having a little cry on the sofa. As I heard the front door opening I’d tried to blot my face back to something resembling normality, but they knew immediately that something was wrong. ‘Jack says he’s not coming away with me,’ I explained.
‘Oh, Mum!’ Molly swooped down beside me and gave me a hug. ‘Why? What’s happened?’
I glanced at Alfie, who was now sitting on my other side, and had placed an arm rather awkwardly around my back. ‘It’s not ’cause of what I said, is it?’
I shrugged. ‘We just had a bit of a heated conversation.’
‘Oh, shit, Mum. I’m so sorry.’
‘Alf, it doesn’t matter,’ I said quickly. I couldn’t face raking it all up again. ‘Sod it. Sod him. I just won’t go.’
‘You’ve got to go!’ Molly insisted. ‘It’s all paid for, isn’t it? I bet you wouldn’t get any of it back.’
She had a point. Why shouldn’t I go? And why shouldn’t I take someone else?
By the following morning it had been agreed that Alfie would come. I worried that it might seem as if I was ‘rewarding’ his terrible behaviour at Jack’s, but then, I wanted company. The idea of roaming the streets of Barcelona alone, trying not to miss Jack, was hardly appealing. I didn’t want to be that solo traveller who’d find herself tippling back cava alone in a bar.
I’d also started to figure that, with some time alone, just the two of us, I might be able to convince Alfie that flouncing out of university after just a year was pretty foolish and mad. And perhaps my generosity – he was pretty chuffed to be asked – would lend me some bargaining power. ‘If you’re coming with me,’ I ventured, in a face-off in the kitchen, ‘you’ve got to promise to stop acting like such a slob around the flat. I can’t stand it, Alf. The wet towels, the loo roll thrown on the floor, the kitchen devastation … It’s doing my head in. I’m just not used to this anymore, and I can’t stand having to do a deep-clean every time you’ve buttered a cracker or peeled a tangerine.’
‘Okay, okay,’ he said briskly.
‘I’m just saying …’
‘I hear you, okay? You’ve made your point!’
I clamped my back teeth together. Was it going to be possible for us to exist together in a tiny apartment in Barcelona without me murdering him? Well, I’d committed to it now – having paid to change the name on Jack’s flight, and shoved Jack’s half of the Airbnb money back into his bank account, despite the fact that, during our curt text exchange late on Thursday night, he’d been adamant that he didn’t want any kind of ‘refund’.
No, no, I’d decided, rather sanctimoniously – and, okay, a little drunkenly too. I will owe you nothing. My conscience will be clear.
I spent Friday working from home, taking breaks to pack, carefully folding my most attractive dresses, which (I hoped) would lend me an air of elegance as Alfie and I wafted around the city. Perhaps, I mused, a couple of photos of me not looking terribly awful might make their way onto Facebook, for Jack to see. Not to make him miserable or anything, or even regret his decision, even if now, almost a week since his gathering, I do wonder if the whole thing was blown up out of all proportion.
After all, it’s hardly unusual these days for a teenager to shun animal products (I’m always slightly shocked whenever I see Molly tearing into a steak), and to be blinkeredly opinionated, as if everyone else – particularly the ‘older generation’ – is thick and uncaring, concerned only with pensions and holidays and double-locking their front door. Alfie was wrong, I know that – but he does seem contrite, and if Jack can’t see that, then maybe he’s really not right for me after all?
Admittedly, I can’t imagine Lori behaving that way. Whilst not shy exactly, she’s more timid, less sure of herself. Even at fourteen, Molly and Alfie were bolder and more opinionated – which is a positive thing, surely? Although no one wants a kid they can’t take out in public, in case they start mouthing off and making old ladies cry.
I’m wondering now, did I screw it all up, this mothering thing? Was I not firm enough? I was angry about the smashed Buddha in that garden centre. Danny and I marched them back to the car, and they were sharply told off and sent to bed early. But maybe I should have made them glue him back together, then scrub our entire home – with toothbrushes – in order to do penance for their crime.
Does any parent ever know if they’ve done a decent job?
On Saturday morning, the day before our trip, I took myself down to Kiki’s beauty salon, as agreed via Danny, where she greeted me with a brisk hug and a waft of her light floral fragrance. ‘Perfect timing for your holiday,’ she said, whisking me into the back room, which was painted a restful warmish grey. She draped me with a rustly black cape, held back my hair with the aid of a soft elasticated band, and directed me to sit on a reclining chair.
‘What’ve you been up to?’ I asked over the gentle vocal music. It sounded like angels singing softly, and I decided I was pretty safe in her hands.
‘Oh, this and that,’ she replied, squirting lotion onto her delicate hands and applying it to my face with featherlight strokes. The stroking became a little firmer in a lovely, soothing, rhythmic way. We hadn’t specified the kind of treatment I’d have, but I figured I’d just leave it to her. She was the guru after all, and so far, I had to admit, everything smelt – and felt – wonderful.
‘You’re harbouring an awful lot of tension in your jaw,’ Kiki murmured.
‘Mmm, no wonder,’ I replied. ‘Jack’s not coming to Barcelona tomorrow.’
‘Why’s that? Is he ill?’
‘No. We’ve had a bit of, um …’ I tailed off, wondering how much to share with her. It’s not as if we’re mates – but then, it felt oddly intimate, the two of us alone together in this quiet, deliciously scented room. As her fingers glided across my forehead – ‘this is a soothing cleanser, with mallow extract’ – I found myself opening up and telling her everything that had happened between Jack, Alfie and me.
‘Oh, God, you poor thing,’ she said, her sympathy clearly genuine.
‘Well, poor Jack’s mum, really.’
‘Yeah, but it must’ve been terrible for you too. Even worse in some ways, feeling responsible …’ Now my face was being wiped with something cooling that smelt vaguely of cucumber. I inhaled it slowly, wishing this treatment could go on all day and night. It felt wonderful. ‘I’d imagine everyone would feel sorry for an older lady in tears,’ she added, ‘and of course they should – but no one would consider how you felt in that situation.’
‘Never mind me,’ I murmured. ‘It was just awful for Jack’s mum and dad.’
‘Well, I think you’re a fantastic mum,’ Kiki declared, which stunned me slightly.
‘Really? That’s kind of you to say …’
‘No, I do,’ she said rather quickly. ‘You have a lovely family, Nadia. I’ve always thought that. Those kids are a real credit to you – and to Danny too, of course, but let’s face it, you’ve done the lion’s share of the work.’ She cleared her throat hurriedly and turned away, ostensibly to reach for a pot of cream. However, I sensed that something had upset her.
‘Close your eyes please,’ she instructed, returning her attentions to my face. ‘You’ll feel more benefit that way.’
Obediently, I closed my eyes, and wondered if perhaps she and Danny had had a row too, and she was still in the fragile aftermath. I’ve never known them to argue, but then, I wouldn’t expect to be party to the ups and downs of their relationship. ‘This is a deep, enriching moisturiser,’ she explained. ‘It’ll help to soothe away fine lines and create a soft, springy texture.’
‘It smells lovely,’ I said, pushing away an unwelcome memory of peddling those skincare products to Jack in Lush.
She sniffed, and I opened my eyes. ‘Are you … okay?’
‘I’m not really a normal client.’
‘No.’ She paused. ‘And you know Danny, what he’s like. He’s great, of course: full of energy and life and spontaneity.’ She laughed dryly. ‘Too much spontaneity sometimes. But when the kids issue came up … well, he was adamant we wouldn’t have any, that he had his family already, and that he’d made that clear when we first got together. I was fine with that – it felt like there was tons of time …’
‘Time to change his mind?’ I suggested gently.
‘Mmmm. Yes. And he did, eventually, after years and years.’
I was poised for her to continue, but not quite sure that I wanted to hear the nitty-gritty of baby-making between Kiki and my ex.
‘I had one very early miscarriage,’ she added, ‘and he said that was that, our one chance. So I went back on the Pill …’
I was stunned by this. I’d always thought Danny ran around after Kiki, tending to her every need. ‘Only I’m not really taking them,’ she said.
‘You mean, this is now?’ I exclaimed. ‘You’re not taking your pills now?’
‘That’s right,’ she said levelly. ‘I had the miscarriage in February, so just four months ago. Still not pregnant, though.’ She paused. ‘D’you think I’m doing a terrible thing? I know I’m forty-two. I’m ancient …’
‘You’re not ancient.’ Christ.
So Danny might become a dad again, in his fifties, without even being aware of her plans? It’s unlikely, I suppose. While I’m not familiar with the statistics, I can’t imagine that conceiving at her age is a given. No, she’s not ancient – compared to me she’s pretty youthful – but is it even wise, given the risks? And what if she does become pregnant, and Danny’s appalled? Would he insist on a termination? I can’t imagine that, but still … might her subterfuge break them up? Would she really relish being a single mum in her forties?