Mummy Said the F-Word (30 page)

‘Isn’t that Martin?’ Rachel whispers.

‘Yes.’

‘What’s he doing here? Did you know he was coming?’

I shrug. ‘I’d no idea.’

Seeing him here, looking a little lost among couples and camcorders, makes me soften inside. Travis, who has yet to spot Daddy, yawns loudly and yanks off his trainers. Rachel shrugs off her cardie and folds it to make a plump cushion.

I tear my gaze away from Martin and focus on the silver-haired lady, who’s announcing (I can’t quite believe it), ‘First prize in the junior section goes to our very talented … Lola Collins!’

Lola rushes up to collect her prize. I’m on my feet clapping and cheering, and Martin is too, and our eyes meet across the hall, and he’s grinning. Lola disappears towards the changing rooms – Martin’s heading towards me now, and it seems so normal, like the way we used to be before water-coolers ruined everything and caused all this mess we’re still trying to unravel.

‘Isn’t that fantastic?’ he says, arriving beside me.

‘Brilliant,’ I say, and the hug he gives me feels almost
real
. ‘She’s been practising really hard. She’ll be so chuffed.’

The smile warms his face, and there’s no hint of the cold, flinty look that I’ve become so accustomed to.

‘Daddy!’ Travis cries, leaping up in his stockinged feet and hurling himself at Martin’s legs.

‘Hey, little man,’ Martin says, ruffling his hair before turning to me. ‘Where’s Lois? Do we need to collect her?’

‘She’s just getting changed. She’ll be ready in a minute.’ A pause settles between us. Rachel’s gaze bores into the back of my neck. ‘She’ll be so pleased you came,’ I add.

Martin touches my arm. ‘Let’s take the kids out,’ he says, ‘to celebrate.’

I pause. ‘Won’t Jake feel left out? Where is he, anyway?’

‘He’s at a friend’s. He’s made a couple of new mates in our block—’ Martin catches himself, as if he’s aware of how this makes me feel. The fact that Jake has new friends. That Martin’s flat is where he belongs.

Registering Rachel, Martin smiles awkwardly. ‘Um, would you and Eve like to come, Rachel? We’re just going for a pizza or something.’

‘No thanks,’ she says briskly, ‘I need to get back.’ She tries to throw me a look, but it’s too tricky to return it. ‘See you at the
Bambino
thing tomorrow,’ she adds.

‘Yes, OK.’

‘What
Bambino
thing?’ Martin asks.

‘Oh, just some readers’ event. You know the problem page I’m doing for Millie?’

He smiles. ‘It’s pretty good. The kids look sweet in the photo, don’t they? And it’s a step up from those boil-squeezers or whatever it was you used to write about.’

I snigger. His eyes are teasing; he doesn’t mean it snidely. ‘Millie seems pleased with it. Anyway, she’s got me doing a talk. I’m petrified, to be honest. Woke up last night in a panic that I was stranded on stage in my bra and knickers …’

He laughs, and I know he’s remembering Pac-a-Mac night. ‘Worse things could happen. You could be naked. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be great.’

We go to Pizza Express, and those familiar smells hit my face as we walk in. Warm, doughy, the smell of Sunday afternoons when we couldn’t be bothered to cook. Lola and Travis, having rejected Leoni’s fare, are ravenous.

‘Why is Venice in peril, Daddy?’ Lola asks, and we all laugh.

Martin looks different, and it’s hard to know why. He’s still wearing his stiff work clothes, but his face looks softer. ‘Martin,’ I venture, ‘what made you come to the gym hall today?’

‘I was just at a loose end.’

‘Fibber,’ I say, laughing. ‘You don’t have loose ends.’

He studies the menu, but I can tell he’s not reading. ‘I wanted to see your performance, didn’t I, Lois?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’ Her eyes are shining. Then her face falls. ‘Why didn’t Jake come?’

‘He, um, couldn’t make it.’ Martin shoots me a glance. ‘It’s not your fault, you know, Jake living with me. I don’t want you worrying that it’s something you’ve done.’

I glance at Lola, reluctant to discuss this in front of the kids in case I lose it. ‘How does he get on with Daisy?’ Damn, I’ve blurted it out in front of small children. Harriet Pike wouldn’t approve.

‘They’re polite with each other,’ he murmurs. ‘Polite and a bit stiff. You know.’

‘No, I don’t know,’ I say.

‘Lola and Poppy seem to be getting on better. Poppy even shares her My Little Ponies – at least the knackered ones with grubby manes. Isn’t that right, Lois? You’re pretty friendly, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ she says, ever eager to please. I try for a smile, but fail.

Martin toys with his glass, oiling its surface with fingerprints. ‘Things are … kind of difficult at the moment,’ he murmurs.

‘Are they?’ I ask. ‘Why?’

He gives me a not-in-front-of-the-kids glance, which Lola seizes upon. ‘What’s difficult, Daddy?’

‘Oh, choosing pizza. There are so many these days. They keep adding extra ones and it’s all very confusing. What are you having, darling?’

‘The egg one that Jake likes.’ She grins.

‘Salami,’ Travis declares.

‘Me too,’ I say, thinking, This is nice, us being together. If Jake were here, we’d feel like a whole family again.

There’s a group at the circular table by the window: Mum and Dad, who look as if they’re relieved not to be cooking, and two small children who are drawing on their paper napkins. That used to be us, and we thought it was so ordinary.

Our pizzas arrive. As always, Travis protests when I cut his up, even though he’s unable to do it for himself. I catch Martin watching me, and I swear there’s some warmth there. I don’t want to spoil it.

I eat slowly, trying to spin out the meal, already deciding to have dessert. My missing-Martin pang is so unexpectedly strong I have to jam my lips together to stop myself from blurting out something embarrassing. He drives us home, with Lola babbling about her triumphant display, and parks at the end of our road. I’m desperate to ask, ‘What do you mean, things are difficult? What’s going on?’ but I manage not to.

‘Well,’ I say to him, as the kids clamber out, ‘I’m glad you came today.’

He smiles. ‘I’m glad I did too. And good luck tomorrow.’

‘Thanks.’

I turn to leave and Martin grabs my arm, planting the briefest kiss on my cheek. Its suddenness almost makes me laugh. As the kids tumble into the house, I can still feel it there, quickening my heart like a kiss from a decade ago.

I don’t wish to de-mother myself to such an extent that
Bambino
readers will assume I’m not really a mum at all, that the kids in my problem-page photo were, in fact, borrowed from a child modelling agency to lend me an air of authenticity. Nor do I wish them to assume that I’m nannied up to the hilt and that any child-rearing insight has been gleaned during my brief scamper through the house between my Pilates class and arse-exfoliation appointment.

On the other hand – and I’m scrutinising myself now in our bathroom mirror, which is frosted with gobbed-out toothpaste – I certainly don’t wish to go as me. Brief rundown:

•
Hair
: no longer crying out for a cut, but sobbing helplessly like a child being subjected to the controlled-crying technique (i.e. leave your baby to wail until he falls asleep. Sounds so simple. First night with Jake, I actually bit a hole through my pillowcase while Martin slumbered blissfully. Swine.)

•
Neck
: showing definite signs of wear and tear. Premature withering directly attributable to child-rearing. Millie’s neck-skin resembles that of a young nectarine, like the rest of her infant-free colleagues. Her enthusiastic dating regime appears to not mar her appearance one jot.

•
Face
: Jesus wept.

•
Breasts
: flumping slowly floorwards, mercifully concealed by Martin’s pale-grey French Connection sweater, which he forgot to remove from our property and of which I am particularly fond. Not because it still smells of him or anything. Absolutely not.

•
Stomach, hips, arse
: while not gargantuan, certainly requiring some kind of industrial support.

After much sweaty deliberation, I choose my knee-length black dress, which fits fine round the middle (if I suck in my stomach at all times) and shows just about the right amount of cleavage and legs. As I walk the children round to Sam’s, I am conscious of being looked at differently by strangers – of being noticed.

‘Whoa, very nice,’ Sam exclaims, letting us in.

‘Are you sure?’ I gawp down at what now looks terribly funereal.

‘Yeah, honestly. I’d have hardly recognised you.’

I take this as a compliment. ‘Not too drab?’

‘You,’ he says, laughing, ‘are absolutely not drab. God, they’re sexy shoes. Why don’t you wear them more often?’

‘What, like in the park, or the gym hall?’ I ask, laughing.

‘Like anywhere,’ he says, and my stomach flips in nervy anticipation.

Lola and Travis have already hared up to Harvey’s room. For a ten-year-old, he’s unusually tolerant of younger children, and bursts of laughter fizzle around the house. I spot it then: a fringed purple silk scarf – a girl’s scarf most definitely – strewn over the back of a chair. I inhale deeply and Sam mistakes it for pre-event nerves. ‘You’ll be great, babe,’ he says gently.

Babe?
Flustered, I grab my jacket and bag, and reach up to kiss his cheek. ‘Thanks for letting the kids stay over. Thanks for everything, Sam.’

He sniggers. ‘Save your acceptance speech for the event. Off you go now. You did order your cab to pick you up from here, didn’t you? Is that him waiting outside?’

‘Looks like it.’ I glance through the window. I couldn’t face driving, having to find a parking space on top of everything else. I pause, aware of Sam studying my face. I don’t know where I’d be without him supporting me through everything. Sometimes it feels as if I give nothing in return. I open my mouth, wanting to thank him not just for babysitting tonight, but for so much more. The cab driver toots his horn impatiently.

‘Can’t be late for your own show,’ Sam says teasingly.

Turning my back on the scarf, I muster some semblance of a
confident
smile. Then I stride out, with even my motherish hair feeling less lacklustre now, as if that, too, has been Sam-ified.

Although my ‘script’ has been approved by Millie, I still play it over and over in the back of the cab.

‘Hello, my name is Caitlin Brown and I’m
Bambino
’s agony aunt. Every week I receive—’

The driver snorts. I grimace behind his oil-slicked head. Hell, was I talking out loud?

I continue, under my breath, ‘Hello, thank you for coming. My name is—’

I glimpse the driver’s teasing eyes in the rear-view mirror.

‘Hello! Welcome to our
Bambino
reader event! Every week I—’

‘Let out for the evening?’ he asks, as if I’m a prison inmate.

‘Um, yes. Just meeting some friends.’

My name is Caitlin Brown and I’m a halfwit.

An email that came in yesterday pops into my head:

Dear Caitlin,

I really enjoy your page, and your words of wisdom always make me feel so much better about being a mother. I am not writing with a problem as such but for some general advice on how to get back to being the old, confident me who had a sense of humour, a smidge of intelligence and who could read the
Guardian
without fazing off and finding herself gawping at the same paragraph over and over and over.

How can I be a fun person again? I so want to claw back the woman I once was – assertive and confident, like you.

With thanks,

Mashed-Potato Brain, Croydon

Yet again ignoring Millie’s never-reply-personally rule, I typed:

Dear Mashed,

You have hit upon something that virtually every mother experiences. The feeling that a vital part of you has been lost. It’s only natural, having devoted vast portions of your
time
to the care of your child; but there comes a time when the focus should fall back on you. What excites you and makes you happy? I suggest that you set yourself some challenges. These needn’t be monumental but should scare you, just a little.

The cab pulls up outside Jacob’s Court Hotel. Take your own advice, Caitlin Brown. I am scared, and not just a little.

‘I’ll be rooting for you.’ Where are you, R, when I need you? I pay the driver, climb out of the cab and stride – chin up, back straight, like Lola at her gym display – towards the hotel.

I glimpse my reflection in the glass door. I see a woman who’s putting on a passable act of knowing where she’s going, and what the heck she’ll say when she gets there.

Jacob’s Court Hotel is in the throes of refurbishment, which lends a chaotic air. There are hessian screens in the foyer blocking off the area where workmen are sanding and plastering, but they might as well not be there for all the screening they do. The air feels dusty, and there’s a palpable air of discontent. A woman with the proportions of a barbecue skewer clacks around the hall in spike heels, muttering urgent instructions to workmen.

‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘I’m looking for the
Bambino
reader event.’

She pulls an icy smile. ‘Davenport Suite.’

Like I know where that is. ‘Along the corridor to your left,’ she adds. ‘Follow it round the corner, last door on your right.’ She flicks back sleek toffee-coloured hair and narrows her eyes at the workmen.

I set off down the corridor. It’s carpeted with a ruby-red runner and has strips of parquet gleaming at either side. There’s something unnerving about walking along a long, narrow space. It’s too catwalk-like. ‘Sexy shoes,’ Sam had remarked, and at his place they’d felt right with their skinny ankle straps and just-manageable heels. For a moment I’d felt like the foxtrel mothers who shop at Leoni’s.

Now, in the hundred-mile corridor, they just feel bloody high and are pinching like buggery. Either they have shrunk a size since I left Sam’s or my feet have puffed up to gargantuan proportions. Where the hell is this last door on the right? Does it actually exist? A chambermaid emerges from a room with a trolley and throws me a sympathetic glance. The corridor turns a corner, and another. I suspect it’s leading me right round the building as some kind of sick joke and I’ll end up back at reception.