Antidote to Infidelity (50 page)

Me:
(swallowing a
full-sized mint imperial at the word
‘
sweetheart
’
)
“
You were just   . . .
what
?
Mother, are you feeling alright? Are you dizzy? Seeing double? Have you banged
your head? Do you want me to come over?
”

Mother:
(tinkling gaily)
“
Why
yes
, actually
darling.
”

Me:
(jumping up like a
jack rabbit)
“
Right! Don
’
t panic, just lie on the floor
and I
’
ll be right there!
”

Mother:
(sweet as treacle)
“
What? Oh, no no, you silly
girl. I didn
’
t mean yes I
’
ve banged my head, I meant yes
I
’
d like you to come
over. That is,
we
would. On Sunday. With William and the children.
”
(Then, pausing for a moment)
“
We were hoping you might leave
them, actually. Thought it might be fun to have a little sleep-y-over . . .
”

Me:
(thinking,
‘
Right, that
’
s it, I
’
m calling 999’)
“
Mother, look, I really do think
you should let someone check you over. Just to be safe. Can you remember your
name? Can I speak to my father?
”

Mother:
(laughing like a pixie)
“
Oh, you are a
funny-osity, Sal. I
’
ll take that as a
yes shall I? Must dash, my potatoes are boiling dry . . .
”

Me:
(thinking
‘
Sal? Sal? Oh dear Lord,
whatever this is, it
’
s
serious
’
)
“
Mother? Mother? Wait . . .
”

But she
’
d gone. The pleasant pie-maker
had put down the phone.

“
Is everything alright mummy?
”
Rosie asked, sliding me a
handful of green winkies across the carpet.

“
No,
”
I told her, quite seriously.
“
Definitely
not
. Aliens
have abducted your maternal grandmother and sent back Julie Andrews.
”

***

As the twins sat giggling at my
feet, it was a toss-up who to call first - Amy or NHS Direct - but after a
quick deliberation with myself, I decided to keep it in the family. Dialling my
carefree sibling, I expected shock-horror and when I spilled the beans, but she
didn’t seem to give two hoots. Probably because I was interrupting her ten
o’clock bang with Big, Brilliant Ben.
Gross
.

“God, Sal, don’t get so
stressed, leave the old bag to it - she’s probably going through ‘the change’,”
she said, sounding distracted, uninterested and out of breath as I finished
relaying the conversation.

“Oh, you didn’t
hear
her, Amy,” I insisted. “It was freaky, she sounded almost
motherly
. I
think I might go over . . .”

“
Don’t
,” Amy squealed.
“It’s probably a trap. Once she lures you to her lair, it’ll be ‘back to the
tower with
you
, my girl’. Leave it Sal, she’ll be different again
tomorrow, you watch. She’s probably just pissed.”

“But she’s making me a
pie
. . .” I pleaded, fishing for back-up.

Unsurprisingly, none came. Just
a fatigued, “Sally, so long as she’s not making
me
miserable or using my
best tops as tea-towels, I couldn’t give a toss
what
she’s doing. Ooooh,
yeah, mmm baby, right there, mmm . . .”

“Amy! Will you
please
pay attention,” I snapped, yanking the phone away from my ear in disgust. “This
is
serious
.”

“Oh yeah? Well I’m, oooh,
seriously
not interested Sal,” she sighed. “So do the sisterly thing, yeah? Piss off and
call me in an how-aaahhhh.”

Appalled, I was about to tell
the randy little madam it was just like listening to a live feed from the
PornHub, when she purred, “Oh
Goood
, make that
next week.
Haven’t
you got anything, ooh, aaah, mmm, better to do? Nooo, not
you
sugar -
Sal
.
Don’t stop . . .”

And she cut me off. The
shameless little strumpet cut me off, leaving me with no option but to wink in,
tiddle out - and wait to see just what my mother was ‘changing’ into.

Pushing all thoughts
of stuck-up quacks, alien parents and Big Ben sticking it to my sister on the
hour, every hour, to the back of my mind, I ease the Saab through a ford of
water onto School Road.

Checking my rear
view mirror (mascara, not tactical manoeuvre) I expertly reverse into a space,
wishing I had someone to walk with, talk to, or - at the very least - lend me
some sunglasses to hide the monsoon of tears threatening to smudge my
Maybelline.

 By the way, yes, I
did just say
reverse
but only because:

One:
 
It
’
s the last space for
at least four blocks

Two:
You could quite
easily squeeze a double decker in it

and

Three
: I
’
m in the Saab, so
don
’
t give a flying fuck

Yes, the metallic
teal Audi TT in front
is
dangerously close but hey - that
’
s why we have Sheila
’
s Wheels, right girls? Right.
Accidents happen.

Outwardly, I
’
m smiling, making jokes,
giggling with the kids as we bop away to Ryan
’
s
favourite track, Surfin
’
USA, igniting the
early airwaves courtesy of Good Morning Goldwell. Inwardly, my flagging ebb is
at an all-time low, so sunken in fact that all I want to do is stick the jacks
up to the world and hammer my head repeatedly against the steering wheel.

To have Will
stubbornly staying away is bad enough but the way my so-called
friends
have
snubbed me too, leaving me to deal with the daunting first-day-at-school scenario
all alone? Humph! Some chums
they
’
ve turned out to be.

***

Last night, chin
quivering as I ironed two tiny uniforms, I made a desperate moral support
ring-around. But rather than compassion and a hand-squeezing companion to keep
me dry-eyed, what did I get?

Five firm no
’
s, that
’
s what. No, no, no, no, no
Sally-o.

Sorry Sal, I
’
m busy reading Vogue and
re-modelling my
dull-as-shit
clients.
Cheers Bi.

Sorry Sal, I
’
m busy being a love-struck
schmuck in my
lavish
apartment.

Cheers Amy.

Sorry Sal, I
’
m busy getting divorced and
shagging hot hockey players.

Cheers Rowan.

Sorry Sal, I
’
m busy pretending to be
straight-laced and swinging from chandeliers.
Cheers Liselle.

Sorry Sal, I
’
m still
angry
and busy
being a
wanker
.

Cheers Will.

Fair enough, the girls
have their own lives to get on with, I can half understand
their
excuses, but
Will
? No way, the twins are half his responsibility. He
’
s got an important parental
duty to perform, he
’
s their
daddy
for Christ
’
s sake and ‘oh,
don’t bother taking them, Sal’ just doesn’t cut it.

Mary, bless her,
volunteered her services in her
‘
working-away
’
son
’
s absence but what good
’
s
that
? I need stern
resolve and a strong hand on my shoulder, not a blubbering catalyst to crank up
the crying. Crikey, she
’
s so soft with them
she
’
d have me sobbing
and super-glued to the railings before I knew what
had
hit me.

So, feeling
emotional and immensely let down, just past midnight I snuggled down between
the twins and decided I didn
’
t need
anyone
.
Except my two cuddly cuties, of course.

***

So far, so good.

Putting my
resentment on a back burner, I ignore the ringing phone in my pocket and
shepherd the kids through the iron gates into the playground. All around us,
sombre-faced mums and dads stand hand in hand, stealing last-gasp cuddles
before taking deep breaths, stepping back and watching their tiny tots wander
off to find some friends.

The sky is black and
threatening, the ground a mass of muddy puddles. The school itself, usually so
welcoming, looms tall and imposing, cloaked in a cloud of damp, grey mist.

“
Do we
have
to go?
”
Ryan whispers sulkily,
clinging to my hand as a roll of angry thunder rumbles overhead.
“
Daddy
said we didn
’
t have to go to school in the
rain.
He
said . . .
”

“
Daddy
’
s a dodo-brain,
”
I say, planting a smacker on
his forehead.
“
He lives in his own
little world ninety percent of the time, and the ten percent of the time he
’
s actually in the
real
world, he talks complete and utter boll . . . er, rubbish.
”

Kicking myself for
my slip-of-the-tongue, I think I
’
ve got away with it.
Until I spot the cheeky twinkle in Rosie
’
s eyes, that is.
Then I realise
: I
’
m busted.

“
Oh! Were you about to say
bollocks, mummy? Baaad mummy!
”
she giggles,
innocently twisting her pigtails.

“
Of
course
not, I was
going to say
balderdash
,
”
I fib, going red in
the face as the strict-looking mother behind gives a righteous tut.
“
And don
’
t let me catch
you
saying it either, you naughty little madam. Wherever have you heard a horrid
word like that, Rosie?
”

“
Grandad Clive,
”
she chirps, matter-of-factly.
“
It
’
s what he said when Ryan fell
off the wall.
”

“
And
when mamma Mary took his
bin-occleers off him so he couldn
’
t look at them
ladies on the beach no more,
”
says Ryan,
scratching his head.
“
And
when that mister at
the hospital told him my arm was broketed. He said,
“
Oh boll . . .
”

“
Kids!
”
I cut in, shushing the
gostering pair as the school bell sparks a stampede for class.
“
No. Understand? No, no, no. Or
the bikes are going straight back to Santa. Get me?
”

Scuffing his shoes,
Ryan tugs at my hand until I
’
m kneeling beside
him on the wet tarmac. Then, making sure everyone within a half-mile radius can
hear, he shouts,
“
Are you
sure
I
have to go to school with a broketed arm, mummy?
And
turkey pox?
”

Ooooh, kids.