Mummy Said the F-Word (27 page)

‘“Caitlin’s nuggets,”’ I repeat flatly.

‘Just a working title. “Nuggets” isn’t right. Ideally, it’d be another C-word so it rolls off the tongue – “Caitlin’s Corkers” or something … Can you think of a C-word?’

Not one that I can utter in the presence of my daughter. ‘“Chunks”?’ I suggest to get her off the phone.

‘“Caitlin’s Chunks” … Nope, that’s not right. How about “lumps”?’

‘“Caitlin’s
Lumps
”? Jesus, Millie, it sounds like a disease.’

‘Hmm. I really like “nuggets”. Shame your name doesn’t start with an “n”.’

‘I’ll just change it, shall I?’

‘I was joking, sweetie,’ Millie says, sounding hurt.

‘Sorry. I’m just not feeling very inspired right now. Can I think it over when I’ve helped Jake to pack up and leave home and everything?’

‘Oh. Yeah. I’ve called at a really bad time. I was going to tell you about that advertising man I went out with, but maybe we could meet up in the week.’

‘Yes, let’s do that.’

Lola eyes me as I finish the call. ‘Have you got a disease?’ she enquires.

After dinner, we drive to Jake’s sumptuous new abode.

‘I can do cartwheels,’ Lola announces from the back seat. ‘Shall I show you, Jake?’

‘What, in the car?’ he sneers.

‘I mean when we get to Dad’s,’ she says sheepishly.

No response.

‘Jake?’ she tries again. ‘D’you want to see my gymnastics?’

‘Could you answer her, Jake?’ I mutter. He sighs dramatically. He is sitting beside me in the passenger seat, staring pointedly out of the side window.

‘Jake!’ Her voice peaks in desperation.

Poor Lola. It’s as if she, like me, can’t bear to let him go. No one ignored Jake when he was Lola’s age. Martin and I would pore over every page in his homework jotter and laugh uproariously at his jokes. If he’d been able to do a cartwheel, we’d probably have videoed it and invited our friends round for a special screening.

‘You can show me,’ I murmur, ‘when you’re back from Dad’s on Sunday night.’

Lola digests this. ‘Why are
you
taking us to Dad’s? It’s usually Daddy that gets us.’

‘I just …’ I begin, realising I can’t tell her that I have to see Martin’s flat – Jake’s new home – for myself. I need to place him in it and picture him there when I’ve gone. ‘We just thought it’d be easier,’ I say lightly.

And it’s not sumptuous. Martin and
famille
reside on the third floor of a flimsy-looking development built in sickly-yellow brick. (You say ‘development’ these days, never ‘estate’.) It looks cheap and bleak, and is called Garfield Court, which makes me think of an over-stuffed tangerine cat. Surely Slapper must have insisted on moving here. It doesn’t look like somewhere Martin, architect supremo, would choose to live.

I buzz the intercom and he lopes downstairs to greet us. ‘Hi, guys,’ he says with a skewed grin, as if this were any ordinary Friday evening. He leads the way upstairs, laden with the heaviest of Jake’s boxes, explaining, ‘Sorry, lift’s broken.’ Surely it’s too new to be broken? The stairwell smells of fresh plaster and is stark white, the kind that dazzles your eyes.

‘Hi, everyone! Come in.’ Daisy flicks a tense smile at me, which I return. She hovers in the hall for a moment, clutching a plate of toast, as if she’s forgotten what she’d planned to do with it. Although she’s fully made up, with rather too much coral-coloured blusher, her lips are pale and her eyes faintly bloodshot, as if we’ve arrived during the aftermath of a row.

‘Hi,’ I say curtly, busying myself by ensuring that everyone takes off their shoes.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ she insists, but I sense that this is a shoes-off kind of flat. The last thing I want is for her to complain to Martin that we lack manners. We follow her into the living room, where the only decorative item is an outsized mirror on the cream wall, which must come in handy for Slapper’s constant preening. Sofa, curtains, fluffy rug – all are palest cream. Poppy’s toys are presumably banned from seeping out of her bedroom and polluting the rest of the flat.

‘Shall we take your things into your room, Jake?’ Daisy asks eagerly.

‘Yeah, OK.’ He seems at ease here and has already tossed his (non-cream) jacket on to the back of the sofa, thus marring the muted colour scheme. Good.

Poppy steps tentatively out of a bedroom and quickly scuttles back in.

‘It’s very, um, compact, isn’t it?’ I remark as Daisy shows us into Jake’s new sleeping quarters.

‘Well, we’ve made it as nice as we could. New bed and chest of drawers, though we couldn’t fit in any shelves, Jake, and I know you’re a bookworm.’ She giggles unnecessarily. ‘Perhaps we can find some boxes to fit under the bed.’

‘All right,’ he murmurs. The duvet cover is striped purple and grey, typically boyish, and is slightly stiff to the touch, indicating newness. And the room smells new, faintly chemical. It’s so insipid, and clearly furnished in a hurry, that I can’t dredge up one positive thing to say about it. This is where Jake wants to be. Away from the mess, the clutter and the sea monkeys and, presumably, me. My stomach feels like a hollow pit.

‘Is this what you’re reading these days?’ Martin asks needlessly, marching in behind us and swiping one of the novels that Jake has tipped on to the bed.

‘Yes, Dad,’ he says quietly. He flicks me an anxious glance and I try for a reassuring smile. Then
The Simpsons
theme tune kicks in and he seems to forget the enormity of what’s going on and flees to the living room, away from all these self-conscious adults.

Martin creeps away and Daisy and I look at each other. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a grey felted top that skims her youthful figure. Mercifully, her breasts aren’t on obvious display.

‘Caitlin …’ she begins, and her cheeks flush prettily.

Don’t say you’re sorry, or that you’ll take good care of my son, or my tear ducts will spurt into action right here in this crappy cardboard flat.

‘That email I sent …’ she adds, lowering her gaze to the biscuit-coloured carpet.

‘I was surprised,’ I say coolly. ‘I mean, we’ve never really spoken, have we? Not properly.’ Please don’t start on about your relationship troubles. Not with me, not now – not ever.

Daisy smiles weakly. ‘I wanted you to know how things are with us. I thought it was important, if Jake was going to come and live here.’

Shut up, shut up, shut up. If I could get away with it, I’d stick my fingers in my ears and start singing loudly, the way Lola does sometimes when I ask her to pick up her pants from the floor.

‘The Siiiimpsons …’ Poppy is laughing heartily in the living room. It’s an unfamiliar, gurgly laugh.

‘D’you … like
The Simpsons
?’ Lola asks tentatively.

‘Yeah!’ Poppy enthuses.

Now they’re all in hysterics together, with even Jake laughing his socks off. Maybe, as far as kids are concerned, it doesn’t matter which family you’re from.

‘Daisy,’ I venture, ‘I know I write a problem page, but yours and Martin’s personal stuff … it’s a bit too close for comfort for me to deal with.’

She laughs uneasily. ‘Yes, of course it is. I’m sorry. You just seem so …
sensible
in the magazine.’

I gawp at her. ‘Well, I’m not really. That’s not what I’m like at all. It’s just a job, OK? It’s what I
do
. Like you and the water-cooler thing.’ The sternness of my voice surprises me, and Daisy shrinks away.

‘Martin was really angry that I’d emailed you,’ she adds.

I shrug.

‘He’s very loyal to you, Caitlin. He has a lot of respect for you as, as … a mother.’

Please, spare me.

‘Anyway,’ she adds, ‘it was silly of me to tell you my personal problems. I bet your friends do that all the time.’

‘Not really,’ I mutter.

‘It’s just …’ she grins lopsidedly ‘… if you weren’t, um, connected to my family, I’d write to you for advice about Poppy. How she nags for new toys all the time – any advert she’s seen on TV, basically, and we really can’t afford them after taking this place on.’

My jaw is clenched and starting to ache. The woman is a fruitcake. ‘Daisy,’ I say, ‘I think you should talk to Martin about that.’

‘That’s … what you’d suggest?’

She actually seems disappointed that I am unwilling to offer a one-to-one counselling session.

‘Yes,’ I say firmly, and stride out of the room.

While Martin pulls out the sofabed for Lola and Travis to sleep on, the kids settle themselves on cushions on the floor. All four are entranced by the TV. I feel superfluous and utterly lost.

‘Well,’ I announce stiffly, ‘I’d better be going. See you on Sunday, OK?’

‘Guys,’ Daisy prompts them, ‘your mum’s going now. Aren’t you going to say goodbye?’

‘Bye, Mummy,’ Lola sing-songs. I notice with alarm that she and Poppy are sharing a cushion.

Jake doesn’t even look at me.

‘Shush!’ Travis growls. ‘Am watching TV.’

What should a ditched parent do when she returns to Bleak House? Seek adult company. Despite my fear of interrupting some guest-list-planning session, I call Sam. There’s no Amelia. ‘Change of plan,’ he says lightly. ‘Why don’t you come over?’

‘Are you sure? It’s pretty late …’

He laughs hollowly. ‘To be honest, I could do with some company.’

I set out with a bottle of wine, plus a headful of gripes about my departed son and his new cardboard home, but by the time I’ve reached Sam’s place, the bad stuff’s evaporated.

‘He’ll come back,’ Sam assures me, crouching by his CD shelves as he searches for cheer-up-Cait tunes.

‘No he won’t. This is it, Sam.’

‘Has he taken all his stuff? Like everything from his room?’

‘Well … no. His skateboard’s in the garden, but he’s probably just forgotten it. There are still loads of books in his room – even some of his favourites – and his Top Trumps collection.’

‘There you go,’ Sam says softly. ‘He’s just trying to make a point. I bet he’s back by the end of next week.’

Within minutes Martin texts me:
JAKE ASKED IF U CD BRING HIS SKATEBOARD, CDS, ART STUFF, TOP TRUMPS & REST OF BOOKS WHEN U COME ON SUN, CHEERS M
.

Trial separation? Permanent dumpage more like.

‘Hey, Sam.’ I show him the text and he meets my gaze. He’s looking especially lovely tonight, honey-skinned after a day spent working in the garden.

‘It’s just a phase,’ he says firmly.

I shake my head. ‘If anything, this is worse than Martin leaving. When that happened, I could direct all my anger on to him and Slapper, but with this …’ My eyes prickle. ‘There’s no one I can be angry with, Sam. I don’t know what the hell to do.’

He smiles and puts his arms round me. My heart flits like a trapped bird. ‘Which stage is anger meant to be again?’ he asks softly.

‘Um, three, I think. I’ve forgotten. Think I screwed up the order a long time ago.’

Sam laughs and pulls me close on the sofa. We sit like that, with my head resting against his chest, even though Harvey could wake up and wander downstairs and be
really
confused, with the impending nuptials and everything. Sam lightly kisses the top of my head, then gets up to pour wine and play a CD.

I don’t ask about Amelia. Instead, I play a game with myself in which the wedding isn’t happening at all. He’s changed his mind.
She’s
changed her mind – got back with that boyfriend in Cornwall. She and Sam were being silly trying to turn back the clock.

So I pretend, and it feels like we’re our old selves again. In fact, if it weren’t for the fact I’ll be picking up only Lola and Travis on Sunday, life would be pretty damn perfect.

All week I will myself not to miss Jake. This is tricky because I pass his bedroom about eight billion times a day, find his damp PJs festering in the washing machine and his favourite peach yoghurts in the fridge. I swear the yoghurts smirk at me. Neither Lola nor Travis will eat them, and I can’t face them, so they end up being tipped in the bin. The PJs, I re-wash and iron with a level of care and attention never before seen in our home.

Plus, I still see him at school every morning. Martin drops him off on his way to the office. This results in him being late to work, but, hey, Superdad is prepared to make small sacrifices for the sake of our first-born.

Every morning so far I’ve had my teeth jammed together during the walk to school and have been incapable of listening properly to Lola and Travis’s perpetual chat about how clever it is that oranges are in fact orange, and how dogs talk to each other in dog language, which we can’t understand. The school-bound world crackles around me, as if someone has tampered with my inner tuning dial.

‘Mummy, you’re not listening!’ Lola chastises me on Friday morning.

‘Sorry, sweetheart. We’d better hurry up or we’ll be late …’

‘I
said
, Bethany Holden fell in the playground and her eyes went funny with stars in.’

‘That only happens in cartoons, Lols. Real eyes can’t have stars in.’

‘They did! I saw.’ She allows her schoolbag to fall from her shoulder and drags it along the ground, narrowly missing a small mound of dog poo.

‘Pick up your bag, Lola. It’ll get filthy.’

‘Where’s Jake?’ Travis rumbles. ‘I want my brother Jake!’

Every morning I’ve had this and I fear that my head will explode, splattering the school-gate crowd with juddering brain cells. I want it to stop, for everything to be normal again and not have to endure our two disparate groups (mine, Martin’s) stumbling together for a brief exchange at the railings.

‘You’ll see Jake at the school gate,’ I tell Travis, but now his brother’s forgotten and he’s more interested in snapping a branch off a tree.

Today I spot Martin before he sees me. He still looks self-consciously new to this school-gate lark, in his charcoal work suit and polished black shoes. Jake lurks beside him, with his hair combed in a spooky way. There’s an attempt at a parting and perhaps the introduction of some kind of product.
She
must have done it. Martin would never acquaint himself with, with … What the fuck is it? Gel, or that serum stuff that looks like snot? Slapper had better not have come into contact with one follicle on my darling son’s head.