Mummy Said the F-Word (7 page)

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, no problem. Leave me your name and number and I’ll call you if anything else comes in. This’ll tide you over for now. Are you after a combo or an LCD or a plasma screen?’

He gives a cheeky look, which I shoot back. ‘Just one with, you know, pictures.’

He grins and hands me a pad on which to write my name and number. As we leave, he winks in a way that could be plain creepy, but somehow manages to be cute. Yes, he’s definitely the right side of cute. The blush whooshes up from my chest.

‘See you around, Caitlin,’ he says.

‘See you, um …’

‘Darren.’

‘Thanks, Darren.’

I’m still beaming stupidly as I drive our new fourteen-inch baby home.

Buggeration. Martin has showed up half an hour early to collect the children for a weekend of joy and splendour. He’s stepping out of his car looking spruce in dark jeans and an expensive-looking soft grey sweater. Handsome bastard.

I watch his approaching form through the living-room window. No one is ready. I have yet to pack the kids’ clothes. (Although their possessions are accumulating at Slapper Towers, and Martin is perfectly capable of operating a washing machine, I cannot stomach the idea of her laundering their stuff. I can picture her wincing as she examines grubby collars and greying whites.)

‘You’re early,’ I remark as I let him in.

‘Better than late, isn’t it?’ He saunters into the living room as if he owns the place, which he still does (well, half of it) and frowns at our new TV. ‘What happened to the telly?’

‘It shrunk.’

‘Seriously, where’s that crappy ancient thing Millie gave you?’

‘Lola poured a can of Fanta down the back.’

‘Fanta?’ he repeats, slanting his eyes.

‘Yes, you know – the fizzy orangey drink.’

‘Since when did Lola have Fanta?’

Fury fizzles inside me. ‘Are you criticising me for giving her a treat for completing her school star chart?’

This is a fib. The Fanta was a bribe, not a reward.

‘Of course not,’ Martin blusters. ‘I just thought we agreed they wouldn’t have fizzy drinks.’

Oh, we agreed lots of things – for instance, that we wouldn’t screw other people.

‘I can’t believe you’re lecturing me,’ I snarl, wondering when
this
will become easier and we’ll be able to ‘manage’ each other, like tolerant work colleagues, without spite.

‘Sorry,’ Martin murmurs, perching on the sofa’s threadbare arm. ‘Guess I’m just upset about last weekend.’

‘What, because we went to Thorpe Park too?’ My voice is clipped, like a doctor’s receptionist’s. It’s not a voice I like.

Martin sighs and glances upwards, as if trying to penetrate the ceiling with his gaze. Jake and Lola are supposed to be choosing their clothes. Lola will probably interpret this as embroidered jeans, rainbow tights and the old-lady furry hat that she insisted on buying at the school car-boot sale, but no sweaters or pants.

‘Hello, Daddy.’ She wanders into the room, dragging her zebra-striped wheelie suitcase, closely followed by Travis and Jake.

‘Hi, guys,’ Martin says, beaming. ‘We’re going to have such fun this weekend, aren’t we?’ He touches Jake’s shoulder as if testing if paint has dried.

‘What are we doing?’ Lola asks warily.

‘I thought we could go to the zoo, and there’s a space exhibition at the Science Museum – they’re showing a 3-D film. It sounds brilliant.’

‘Great,’ Jake enthuses.

‘I wish Mummy was coming,’ Lola whispers.

‘You don’t want me there,’ I respond quickly. ‘You’ll have a great time with Daddy.’

She blinks at him. ‘Can we see the penguins?’

‘They’re not at the Science Museum,’ Jake scoffs.

‘No, I mean at the zoo …’ Hurt flickers in her eyes.

‘Of course we can, darling,’ Martin says hurriedly. ‘Right, is everyone packed and ready?’

‘I’ll just fetch Travis’s bag,’ I murmur, grateful for an excuse to vacate the room.

Martin follows me upstairs. I feel so self-conscious with him clomping behind me, and canter up the final few steps to shake him off. He goes into the bathroom and bolts the door behind him.
My
bathroom, to dribble all over with his wee.

I snatch Travis’s bag – a matted
Magic Roundabout
Dougal – from his ravaged bed and hunt for his beloved Captain Hook’s hook.

‘Why is there blood on the bathroom floor?’ I hear Martin asking the kids as I head back downstairs. ‘Did someone cut themselves?’

‘I think it was Mummy,’ comes Lola’s reply.

‘Oh,’ Martin chuckles.
That’s all right, then
.

‘No one’s cleaned it up,’ Jake adds pointedly.

I stand in the doorway and hand the Dougal bag to Martin, then follow them out to the pavement. There’s a kiss each – excluding Martin – and mumbled goodbyes. Lola lingers on the pavement as Martin chides her to get in the car. It’s as if she’s reluctant to leave me.

‘Come on, Lols,’ Martin says. ‘Hop in.’

‘OK, Daddy.’ She climbs in, mustering a smile through the window. My heart aches as I smile back. Jake’s too busy chatting to his father to wave back, but I’m treated to a sharp rap on the glass from Travis.

‘Bye,’ I say, pulling a fake grin before turning and hurrying inside. The house always feels so empty when they’ve gone.

So here I am, stuck for forty-eight hours with no work to keep me occupied. I never thought I’d actually
miss
mild bladder weakness.

Actually, I’m not quite alone. Perched on my desk is Jake’s sea-monkey tank. Sea monkeys sound exotic, maybe a blend of baboon and squid. They’re actually tiny white dots – dandruff-like dots – that drift aimlessly in water. And that’s it. There’s no stroking, no cuddling, no cute tricks. If you expect them to chase a ball or fetch a stick, you’re on a highway to nothing. With a magnifying glass, you might be able to identify miniscule wriggling legs. They’re that interesting. No one shows any interest in the dandruff until they suspect that one has died, at which point Lola declares that each flake had a name and was loved dearly. Not by Jake, obviously; he asked for the tank to be removed from
his
room, presumably on hygiene grounds. It now lends an air of professionalism to the nerve centre of cutting-edge journalism.

Although seemingly still alive, our latest hatchlings are unlikely to offer much in the way of engaging company on a Friday night. I run through my list of alternatives. Sam? Not an option. He and Harvey are visiting friends in the Lake District. My assorted mummy-friends? All happily un-dumped. On a Friday night, un-dumped parents book a babysitter and go out to dinner, or snuggle up with a DVD at home. And Millie? Not sure I can face another instalment of her scintillating sex life.

I eye the sea monkeys and swear that they’re gloating.
Get you, Nora-No-Mates, all alone on a Friday night. Go watch your sad-person’s portable telly
. How did this happen? I have lived in London all my life, yet have found myself with no one to play with. I’ve lost touch with most of my old colleagues with whom I’d while away evenings on cheap wine. That’s what happens when you’re the first in your group to have babies. Either I wasn’t able to come out or they’d assume I couldn’t and wouldn’t ask. Anyway, back then, being with Martin and our close circle seemed enough for me. Most of my school friends have relocated to suburban semis or honeysuckle-strewn cottages in the country. Maybe we should have done that – moved on, done something different. I bet none of their husbands have been tempted by after-sales services.

I fish out a soggy Cheerio that Travis must have flung into the tank. God, I hate Friday nights when the kids are at Martin’s. ‘It can’t be all bad,’ Marcia once announced outside school. ‘I guess one good thing about being a single mum is all the time you get to yourself. It’s almost enough to make me want to leave Casper!’ I grinned ferociously, wanting to punch her. I never used to be like this: constantly suppressing violent urges and growling at sea monkeys.

Perhaps I’m turning into my mother.

A copy of
Bambino
is lying on my desk. I pick it up, open it at Harriet Pike’s page and read:

Dear Harriet,

How can I get my life back on track when it feels so empty? I love my kids and I love being their mother, but it’s not all I want to be. I used to have a fun, stimulating job, but gave all that up after having my first baby eight years ago. Since then I have had two more children. The working world where people have real conversations, not poopy-nappy conversations, seems so distant and for ‘other’ people – people with smart shoes and full diaries. I have what my husband calls a ‘little part-time job’, but it doesn’t fulfil me at all.

What can I do? I want something for me, to make me feel young and alive again. This sounds so selfish – it’s not how mothers are meant to feel, is it?

So how are mothers meant to feel? After all, we’re not
just
mothers. Beneath the nit-zapping and homework supervising, we’re still the person we once were. Still the young woman who flirted with strangers and got tiddly on wine.

‘I feel so guilty,’ the woman adds.

Well, don’t, I tell her silently. Stop that right now. You’ve invested nearly a decade in your children’s care and it’s time to do something for you. Yes, I know it’s hard. You say you loved your old job – isn’t there some way back into that world? The door may look closed, but I doubt if it’s secured with an enormous rusting padlock. Give it a nudge. Sign up for a course, or blow the dust from your address book and call up every one of your old colleagues. Let them know that you’re not merely alive and functioning beneath mounds of putrefying laundry but are ready to greet the working world with open arms, to grasp it by—

Heck, what am I thinking, assuming I know the first thing about this stranger’s life? I check the name: Searching for Something, Milton Whippet. I have never heard of Milton Whippet, yet I feel as if I
do
know her, because she could be me. And I suspect that she’s having a pretty crappy Friday night too.

She might even be stuck in the kitchen watching dandruff float by.

Would it really be so difficult to respond to letters like hers? Maybe I’d even enjoy it. Perhaps – my heart quickens at this – it’s the ‘something’ I’ve been looking for. To be Harriet Pike. No, not Harriet. Me. Caitlin Brown, as I was before I married Martin and became Mrs Collins and kind of
withered up
.

My gaze rests on her name. Searching for Something.

I think I might have just found it.

‘I knew you’d change your mind,’ Millie declares in the glass cubicle that separates her from her lowly staff. ‘Don’t worry about Harriet and how popular she was,’ she adds, ‘doing all the radio interviews and talk shows and stuff.’

‘Talk shows?’ I repeat.

Millie flips back her hair. ‘She’s quite a celeb, you know. A childcare guru with her books and DVDs and that slot she had on breakfast TV.’

Fuck. Bollocks. I haven’t watched breakfast TV for years. ‘Are you sure you want me to do this?’ I ask.

She grins reassuringly. ‘All I want is for you to cover for her until she’s better, OK? You’ll be great.’

I gulp down a kernel of self-doubt. ‘So how d’you want it?’

‘Short. Snappy. Don’t blather on too much.’

Words aren’t really Millie’s thing. She prefers to swoon over fashion shoots and check that her ‘team’, as she calls them, are including enough luxury baby socks fashioned from eyelash of yak.

‘I mean,’ I try again, ‘d’you want me to be sympathetic and caring or, um …’ I want to say ‘shoots-from-the-hip-ish’, like Pike, but can’t bear to.

‘Just be yourself. Draw on your life experiences. Make sure there’s a nice mix of problems – an affair maybe, some emotional trauma, some practical stuff, potential suicide perhaps …’ She guffaws. ‘Honestly, Cait, it’ll be a walk in the park. I only need five letters a week.’

I try to exude confidence, but my gaze drops to Millie’s desk. It’s not how you’d expect a glossy magazine editor’s desk to be –
i.e
. bearing only a vase of cream lilies and a front-row ticket for a Dolce and Gabbana show. Millie’s is a jumble of rival magazines, the nicotine pellets she sucks manically to help her quit cigs and a half-eaten bagel with a curl of salmon lolling out like a tongue.

‘So what do I do?’ I ask.

‘It’s really easy. Just choose problems from the letters and emails that come in. Harriet gets about a hundred a week so there’s no shortage of angst out there.’

‘Really? I can’t answer all of those, Millie. I’d be up all night …’

‘You don’t have to answer them all, dimwit! There’s a line on the page that says, “We’re sorry, but Harriet cannot reply to letters personally.” Were you thinking you’d have to visit them personally? Let them cry on your shoulder? Take them all on holiday with you?’

‘No, but—’

‘No one expects you to be their
friend
.’

A girl with tumbling auburn curls pokes her head into Millie’s office. ‘D’you have a minute, Millie? Just wondered if you could settle something with the cover.’

Millie swoops up from her chair. ‘Won’t be a minute, Cait …’

Though the glass walls I have an excellent view of the comings and goings of Britain’s weekly parenting bible. When I’d inhabited the real, working world, rather than the fish-finger-grilling world, I’d had short stints on parenting magazines. Their offices had been chaotic and overcrowded, as magazine offices tend to be, with raggedy posters stuck up haphazardly on every available wall. There’d been teetering piles of baby equipment – walkers, cots, buggies, car seats, high chairs, activity arches, changing mats, sterilisers – which had been called in for consumer testing. So much
stuff
. It’s a wonder it didn’t put me off having kids of my own. Sometimes a few spruced-up mothers would be clutching their babies for a casting. They’d try to affect a casual air, but you could tell they were desperate for their child to be chosen for a fashion shoot or, better still, the cover.

It’s not like that here. Radio Four burbles in a distant corner, and there’s an alluring coffee aroma, which I’d kill for right now. There are no half-assembled cots, no cries from bored babies.