by Jane Moore
The door slammed and the phone rang. It was Tim. “Hi Sis, have you murdered her yet?”
“No, but I’ve come pretty bloody close. And there’s still thirteen days and twenty-three hours to go,” sighed Jo, idly spelling the word “bollocks” on the fridge with Sophie’s magnetic letters. “I’ve decided distant relatives are the best kind, and the further away the better.”
“I know, grim, isn’t it?” said Tim, as Jo wondered how it could possibly be that way for him, considering so far he’d done sweet FA in helping to shoulder the burden that was their mother. How did the old saying go? A son is a son until he gets a wife, a daughter’s a daughter for life. Tim hadn’t got a wife but he’d still managed to offload most of the parental duties on to Jo. This occasion was no different.
“Listen,” he said nervously. “I know I was supposed to be joining you for Sunday lunch but—”
“Tim, you promised!” interjected Jo. “You know I can’t handle Mum on my own for too long.”
“I know, I know. Look, I’ll come round early evening instead, if that’s OK. It’s just that it’s a lovely day and Conor and I want to go fishing.”
Jo marveled how men have the capacity to feel absolutely no guilt at all in the pursuit of their own selfish desires.
“What you mean is that you and Conor want to stand by the riverbank and drink yourself stupid, while the fish swim by in complete safety.” She felt a little flutter of anxiety as she said his name.
“Damn, you’ve busted us. Anyway, we’ll see you later.”
“We? What do you mean, we?” she snapped.
“I thought I might ask Conor. You know how good he is with mother. It’ll take the heat off us for a while.”
“No Tim, what you mean is it will take the heat off you. If I’m going to put up with her on my own all day, you can damn well suffer it this evening without help. Come alone.”
Tim let out a long, deep sigh. “If you insist. I’ll be round at about six.”
Jo placed the phone back on the cradle and stood staring at it for a few seconds. She couldn’t face the double dilemma of having to deal with her mother as well as the awkward situation with Conor. She hoped her insistence that Tim come alone hadn’t alerted him that anything was amiss. Maybe Conor had already told him, but she doubted it. She suspected Tim wouldn’t be able to resist having a subtle dig here and there if he was privy to such a hot piece of gossip.
She looked at the clock. It was noon and a table was booked at a local restaurant for 1 P.M. Thomas wasn’t coming home until 4 P.M.
Jo was furious with Tim for backing out of lunch, but it had always been the same story. Tim could do what he liked and was clearly Pam’s favorite, while Jo felt she was always doing something wrong.
Tim was a struggling actor who had very little work, yet Pam supported him wholeheartedly as well as financially on occasions. Jo earned much more as an interior designer, but her mother was always saying, “Why don’t you get a proper job?”
Jo wished she had the guts to tell her mother, “If you like Tim so much, why don’t you stay with him when you come to London?” but she could never quite manage it. The female guilt gene at work again.
Picking up the phone, she dialed Rosie’s number and crossed her fingers in the hope of an answer. When one came, her relief was palpable.
“Oh, thank God you’re there,” she said dramatically. “Look, I’m really sorry to ask you this, but do you fancy coming for Sunday lunch with me, Sophie and my mother? Tim was supposed to come but the git has just pulled out, and I seriously don’t think I can handle it on my own.”
Rosie paused. “Jo, I’m so sorry, but I can’t. I’m giving eight pints of blood this afternoon.”
“Oh ha bloody ha. Pretty please?”
“Go on then. But you owe me.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you. One o’clock at Ashfords, table in the name of Beelzebub. If not, try Miles.”
Jo heaved a sigh of relief. The sound of the key in the door made her sit up and straighten her back in anticipation of the next round of tense exchanges.
“There we go, that’s much better for her than sitting in front of the television.” Her mother’s wind-whipped face gave her the look of a toby jug.
“Thanks, Mum. By the way, Tim’s not coming for lunch, he’ll come round early evening instead. But Rosie is going to join us.”
“I see. Couldn’t face having lunch with me without some back-up, eh?” Her mother may have old-fashioned views, thought Jo, but she wasn’t stupid.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I just thought you’d like to see Rosie, that’s all.” She knew it sounded unconvincing but she didn’t really care.
By 3 P.M. they were back at the house, with Sophie once again firmly planted in front of the television, much to the disapproval of Pam.
Jo’s theory that her friend’s presence might alleviate matters had proved to be entirely wrong, and lunch had been a rather uptight affair, where Pam had persisted in pressing Rosie to side with her point of view over Jeff’s desertion.
“Honestly, these things can be worked out, can’t they, Rosie? You should point out to Jo that if she doesn’t get back with Jeff she might end up on her own.” She looked at Rosie and realized her remark had been tactless. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being on your own, of course,” she added hastily.
“I’m sure you meant it in a kind way. But I don’t think Jo should have to ingratiate herself in any way by trying to make Jeff see sense. He’s completely in the wrong and should be here right now begging her to take him back.”
Pam fixed her with a forced smile. “That’s a very quaint view dear, but there are always two sides to every story.”
“Yes, and I know both sides to this sorry tale and still think Jeff is in the wrong. In fact, he’s so bloody stupid he could throw himself on the ground and miss.”
Jo could see Rosie was close to losing her temper. It happened rarely, but when it did it was memorable. So she spent the rest of the lunch interjecting at tense moments with a string of irrelevancies designed to distract. The wallpaper was lovely. The weather was even lovelier. And as for the food, well it was just incredibly lovely. Turning down Jo’s invitation to return to the house afterward, Rosie had muttered something about a Blockbuster video that needed returning and hastily left.
Back at the house, Jo was so desperate to dilute her mother’s company that she kept looking at the clock and willing Jeff to arrive back with Thomas. He eventually pitched up at 4:30 P.M. and her mother got to the door first.
“Jeff! Come in and have a cup of tea. I haven’t seen you for ages.” Pam’s tone was positively gushing.
“Shit!” muttered Jo in the kitchen. She could have kicked herself for not getting there first, grabbing Thomas, and preventing Jeff from coming in.
“Hi, how’s Sophie?” Jeff asked as he walked into the kitchen and sat down.
“Ask her yourself on your way out. She’s in the living room watching TV,” said Jo, desperate to get rid of him.
He returned two minutes later with Pam hot on his heels. “She’s fine. Your mother has worked wonders with her.”
Jo was about to snap back with a sarcastic retort when her mother’s booming voice rang out.
“Now then Jeff, I’ll bet you’ve missed my tea haven’t you? You always said no one could make a cuppa like mine,” she said, putting the kettle under the tap.
“That’s for sure,” replied Jeff, nervously glancing across at Jo. He was clearly wondering whether she would tell Pam the truth, that Jeff had always loathed her overly strong tea.
She decided not to hang him out to dry completely, but Jo couldn’t resist a private dig.
“Seeing as he likes it so much, give him that extra-large mug at the back of the cupboard.”
By now her mother was scurrying around the kitchen opening every cupboard door. “Have you got any biscuits dear? You know how Jeff likes a biscuit with his tea.”
“No, Mum
, I haven’t. I don’t like the kids eating them, and as Jeff isn’t here any more there’s no need.” She said the words loud and deliberately, but the effect was clearly lost on Pam who was placing a steaming vat of dark orange liquid on the table.
“There we are, Jeff. The next time you pop around, I’ll make sure there are some biscuits or a nice piece of cake for you.”
“Thanks, Pam. You certainly know how to look after me.”
Jo knew the remark was made deliberately to wind her up, but the tension between her and Jeff seemed to go straight over her mother’s head.
“Now then, isn’t this nice and civilized? Honestly, I don’t know why you two can’t just work out your differences and get back together. You’ve got two lovely children who would be thrilled to bits if Mummy and—”
“Shut up, Mum.” Jo stood up and paced the floor in front of the sink. “The reason we can’t get back together is because Jeff has chosen to go off with some nubile bimbo rather than stay with me and the children. He has made his choice and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, so spare me the bloody speeches about saving the marriage. It’s him you should be lecturing.”
Jeff slammed his untouched tea mug down on the table, the contents splashing over the side. “Right, that’s it. I’m off. I’m trying to keep things friendly here, but every time I come round you cause an argument.” He looked at Pam and softened his tone. “I’m sorry you had to witness this.”
It was enough to tip Jo over the edge. “Oh, do me a fucking favor with the pleasantries toward my mother,” she snapped. “You’ve never bloody liked her and, what’s more, you’ve always hated her tea!”
She pointed triumphantly at the full mug on the table as Jeff marched out of the kitchen and down the hallway.
Jo heard him say goodbye to the children in the living room, then one minute later the front door slammed shut. She turned to look at her mother who was staring into space with a shocked expression.
“Is it true that he never liked me?” she said forlornly, after a few moments.
Jo was desperate to tell her mother the truth about all the rude remarks Jeff had made about her over the years. But even though her mother drove her to distraction, Jo still couldn’t bear to hurt her deliberately.
“No, it’s not true,” she smiled weakly. “He does hate your tea though.” She picked up the mug and poured the contents into the sink.
Her mother’s mouth reminded her of a rip in a paper bag. With heavy heart, she knew another lecture was on the way.
“Sometimes, Jo, it’s better to rise above these things and keep matters pleasant between you. It won’t be long before he and this girl start having arguments, and if you provide a sweeter surrounding for him to come to, he will. No man likes to come home to a war zone.”
Jo couldn’t even be bothered to reply. The fact that it was Jeff who had started the war and thrown a hand grenade into all their lives seemed to have escaped her mother. She knew that whatever she said, the gulf between her and this woman who laid her husband’s clothes out each morning would never narrow. So it was better to say nothing.
“You see, that’s the first time you’ve not answered back. I do believe you’re coming round to my way of thinking, dear.”
8
file marked “Frampton Road,” Jo made a quick check of her appearance in the hall mirror before stepping outside into the watery sunshine.
As she fumbled for her car keys, she waved to the small figure of her mother in the distance, walking back up the road after taking Thomas and Sophie to school. Despite being driven to distraction several times a day during the past two weeks, Jo had to admit Pam’s presence had freed up valuable time for her to concentrate on work.
She had just started a huge project in Chelsea and was nervous about it because it was the most ambitious project she’d ever taken on. Rosie, who was always wittering on about “perception,” had persuaded her to fork out a fortune for an ad in the back of a glossy property magazine, delivered free to all the classy areas of London.
“If they see your ad in there, they’ll think you’re really established and used to doing such big projects,” she said. “If you need it, I can give you a reference letter about your ‘excellent work’ on my flat. They don’t need to know it was only the downstairs loo.”
The advertisement had only spawned one call, but it was a biggy; the restoration of an entire six-story house. The money was excellent, but more importantly, it would last for months, and meant she had something to focus on other than the breakdown of her marriage, which was even beginning to bore her. Astonishingly, her mother hadn’t mentioned it for a couple of days either, but was still in the habit of shaking her head in sorrow on the rare occasions Thomas and Sophie were playing nicely together, as if to say “poor little mites from a broken home.”
Deep down among the loose tampons, old tissues, discarded sweet wrappers and scrappy pieces of wallpaper samples lurking in her voluminous handbag, she found the keys to her little blue Renault Clio, or “the rollerskate” as Tim called it.
As she began a nine-point maneuver to get out of the tight space she had been sandwiched into by her neighbors’ his ’n’ hers BMWs, her thoughts turned to the meeting she was about to have with Martin Blake, the owner of Frampton Road. She had only been to the property once, very briefly, but it had been enough time to establish that it was top-to-bottom burgundy flocked fleur-de-lis, like a giant curry house.
“I can’t stand it,” said Martin Blake, with masterly understatement, curling his lip and casting a despairing eye around the vast living room. “I want minimalist.”
Jo’s heart had sunk when he’d said this, as minimalism wasn’t her forte. But she wasn’t about to turn down such a lucrative job.
She worked her way out of the parking space and was about to pull away, when her mother drew level with the car, panting and placing her hand on the rearview mirror to steady herself.
“I’ve been thinking. I’ll probably head off back home on Sunday,” she puffed. “I spoke to your father this morning and I think he’s getting fed up of me being away for so long.”
On the contrary, I’ll bet he’s loving every moment, thought Jo. Instead of escaping to his shed every five minutes, he’ll be smoking in the house and watching all his favorite sports programs in peace and quiet.
“OK, Mom. I must say we’ll miss you when you’ve gone. Your help has been a godsend.” She wasn’t sure about the “miss you” bit, but she meant the last part wholeheartedly.
She had hoped to spend the car journey getting her thoughts straight on exactly how she would articulate her “vision” of the new look Frampton Road to its owner, but instead she became distracted by the worry of how she would cope with juggling work and the children without Pam’s help.
She toyed with the idea of employing a full-time nanny and making Jeff pay. God knows he deserved to suffer somehow, so why not financially? But she couldn’t do it to the children. They’d already had one parent walk out, they needed her to be there for them as much as she could and not hand over responsibility to someone else.
Maybe an au pair was the answer. But then she remembered the angst suffered by her friends Martha and Rob after they’d employed a Czechoslovakian girl to live in and help with their children. Svetlana had rapidly proved herself to be Dagenham—two stops past Barking—and developed a serious drinking problem to the point that even Rob’s lighter fuel couldn’t be left unattended.
There had been a memorable Christmas Day when Rob’s elderly parents were visiting and the family had decided to play a word game. Everyone had come up with various category words beginning with a certain letter, in this case “T.” A girl’s name? Tabitha. A car? Toyota. A TV show? Taggart. Everyone was managing quite well, with the exception of Svetlana who was understandably frustrated by her lack of English.
The next category was four-letter words and Rob started with “tape,” followed by Martha’s “tick” and Rob’s mother with
“tank.” Then it was Svetlana’s turn.
“Twat,” she said, smiling broadly.
Rob said his aging parents never really recovered from the incident, and six months later Svetlana came home in tears to announce she was pregnant and the father had “done a legger,” as she put it.
No, I’ll just have to find another way, thought Jo, as she slowly pulled to a halt at some traffic lights.
Thwack! The unmistakable thud of another car hitting hers jolted her out of her thoughts.
“What the . . . ?” She leapt out and swiveled on her heel to glare at the offending car.
The driver was opening his door and stepping out, much to the annoyance of the man behind who was now hooting his horn and trying to steer around them. It was chaos. Jo opened her mouth to give him what for.
“Bloody hell, I’m so sorry,” he said, before she could get a word in. “It’s totally my fault. I wasn’t concentrating.”
His profuse and hasty apology threw her, and Jo stood by the side of her car at a loss.
“That’s OK,” she said, bending down to inspect the damage. There was a slight dent on the bumper and an even slighter crack in the rear light, neither of which she was sure had been caused by the latest bump.
Straightening up, she looked at the other driver properly for the first time. He was in his mid-thirties, with dark blond hair and hazel eyes. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, with a large nose and slightly protruding ears, but he had a devastating smile now being used on her to great effect.
“Well, they do say Volvo drivers are the worst on the road,” he grinned.
Jo found herself thinking how incredibly attractive he was, despite driving a battered, rusting Volvo with a ridiculous bull bar for all those wild animals you find in west London.
“Look, don’t worry about it,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears then immediately pulling it out again. “My car’s not exactly brand new and the damage is really small. Besides, my idea of double parking is to put my car on top of another, so let’s just forget it.” She looked anxiously at her watch, fearful she was going to be late for her appointment.
