Mum On The Run

Chapter Three

‘Mum broke her foot today,’ Grace announces over dinner.

‘Aww,’ Toby says. ‘Poor Mummy.’

‘You mean she pretended to break it,’ Finn cuts in, carving grooves in his mashed potato with his fork. ‘Dad, didn’t she take the bandage off as soon as she got home and start walking normally? She was totally putting it on.’ He takes a noisy slurp of his orange juice and bangs his glass on the table.

‘Well, yes,’ chuckles Jed.

I glance down, checking that I still exist. Yep, all evidence suggests that I am a functioning human being with a beating heart and everything.

‘Why?’ Toby asks, wide-eyed, twirling a fork through his still-blond curls.

‘To make people feel sorry for her,’ Finn replies, ‘because she’s . . .’

‘Excuse me,’ I butt in. ‘I am here, you know. You don’t need to talk about me as if I’m somewhere else.’

‘Like hospital,’ Finn mutters.

I shoot him a look and push my shepherd’s pie aside, unable to face another mouthful. ‘I know it sounds stupid,’ I start, ‘but I didn’t mean for that to happen. You see, I was dizzy and confused – concussed maybe . . .’ I refrain from adding: and you know what? If it hadn’t been for the shock of seeing your darling father and that teacher woman, prodding each other on the sports field, I would never have fallen in the first place.

‘Were you really concussed?’ Jed sniggers.

‘It’s not funny, Jed. It’s one of the most embarrassing things that’s ever happened to me.’ I eye the pea which Toby has flicked off his plate, and which is now rolling steadily towards the table’s edge. It drops off, lands on the floor and trundles towards the cooker.

‘And me,’ Finn adds. ‘It was embarrassing for me as well. Everyone was pointing and laughing . . .’ He tosses his head so his dark, heavy fringe falls over his eyes.

‘Were they?’ I ask, appalled.

‘Oh, come on, honey.’ Jed smiles and reaches for my hand across the table. ‘Maybe you’re just not built for speed.’

‘What are you saying, Jed?’ I blink at him furiously. It’s okay for him; he’s still in excellent shape. Taut tummy, toned legs, infuriatingly firm butt. He even has his own hair and teeth.

‘Just that . . . your talents lie in other areas.’ He grins cheekily, trying to lighten the mood.

‘And what areas might they be?’

He pauses. I can virtually hear his brain whirring as he tries to dredge up evidence of my brilliance. ‘All the, er, stuff you do,’ he says, glancing in desperation at the children. ‘Doesn’t Mum do lots for you?’

Grace nods eagerly. ‘She packs our lunchboxes.’

‘She wipes my bum,’ Toby says approvingly, flicking another pea off his plate.

‘You should be doing that for yourself by now,’ Jed mutters.

‘He can’t wipe his bum!’ Grace titters. ‘Dirty boy with a dirty bum . . .’

‘I’m not dirty,’ Toby roars, and furious tears spring into his eyes.

‘Can I stop having cheese sandwiches in my lunchbox?’ Finn cuts in.

‘Okay,’ I say lightly, ‘but what would you like instead? You said you didn’t want ham, tuna, salami, chicken or beef . . . and didn’t you complain that the egg ones were smelly? It’s tricky to think of stuff you do like, Finn. Maybe you should start having school dinners?’

‘I just don’t like cheese, okay?’ He shudders dramatically, as if I’ve just tried to force-feed him a pilchard. ‘Ham is fine, I suppose,’ he adds, ‘but not the cheap stuff you usually buy.’

‘What on earth’s wrong with our ham?’

‘It’s kinda . . . wet. And see when you cut my sandwiches? Instead of two fat rectangles could you cut them in triangles like the ones in shops? That’s what James’s mum does.’

I hold his gaze. This is what my life has become. Not only am I not built for speed, I can’t even make an acceptable sandwich. Not like James’s mum does anyway. James’s mum who has a nanny even though she doesn’t work. ‘Would that be an isosceles triangle?’ I enquire. ‘Or would you prefer an equilateral or, um . . . that other kind I can’t remember the name of?’

Finn scowls. ‘Scalene. It’s called scalene, I learned that when I was eight, Mum. Didn’t you get that at school?’

‘No, I only got taught how to pick things up off the floor and wipe arses,’ I growl.

‘Uh?’ Finn barks.

‘I only asked because I might need to borrow your protractor to cut them really accurately.’ I smile brightly, aware of Jed’s caustic gaze.

‘For God’s sake,’ he snaps. ‘It’s time you all stopped being so fussy. Mum has enough on her plate without these ridiculous demands.’

‘Yes, she does,’ I shout, even though I feel physically ill when people refer to themselves in the third person.

‘I’m not fussy,’ Grace protests. ‘I think you make nice lunches, Mummy.’

‘Thank you, darling. I’m glad someone appreciates them.’

‘Wanna Penguin biscuit,’ announces Toby, whose dinner has congealed in unappetising brown heaps on his plate.

‘I don’t know why we do this,’ I mutter under my breath.

‘Do what, love?’ Jed asks.

‘This! These family mealtimes. I always thought, you know, that sitting down to eat together means we’re doing something right, that we’re good parents and are functioning as a family, getting on and enjoying each other’s company . . .’ I laugh hollowly.

Finn snorts through his nose.

‘But it doesn’t, does it?’ I rant. ‘It always seems to descend into bickering and shouting like this. Give me one reason, Jed, why family mealtimes are a good thing.’ He opens his mouth and decides to shut it again. ‘The whole concept’s overrated,’ I add, grabbing a dishcloth to mop up a small pool of juice from the table. ‘Sometimes I think we’d all be happier if everyone just foraged in cupboards or picked up scraps from the floor.’

‘Yeah!’ Toby exclaims, banging the table with his fist.

‘What’s foraged?’ Grace asks.

‘It’s when you go out and find food in the wild,’ Jed says quietly, casting me a frown as he gathers up the cutlery.

‘What wild food is there around here?’

‘None,’ Finn says with a smirk. ‘Mum’s just saying it ’cause she’s sick of cooking for us.’

‘No, I’m not.’ I pause, looking around at my children. ‘I’m sorry,’ I add. ‘I don’t mind cooking at all. It’s just sometimes, when everyone’s so picky and critical . . .’ My voice catches in my throat. ‘It’s just been a bit of a day,’ I add quickly.

‘Hey,’ Jed says, squeezing my waist as the children stomp out of the kitchen. ‘Why don’t you chill out for a while? I’ll clear up in here.’ I look at his handsome face: the deep brown eyes, which our three children have inherited, and the full, generous mouth which I loved to kiss, before kissing no longer seemed like the thing to do.

‘It’s okay,’ I say, glancing up at the ceiling. Finn has started drumming upstairs, causing the whole house to reverberate. I’m glad he drums, in that he clearly has musical talent, but occasionally I wish he’d chosen something gentler, like the oboe or flute. I glance at the tragic remains of Toby’s dinner which now looks like a small, collapsed volcano. For some reason, the sight of the unwanted meal – its ingredients shopped for and lovingly cooked – brings a lump to my throat. Ted is lying beside the plate with a daub of gravy on his matted ear.

‘Oh, love,’ Jed says gently. ‘Not still upset about that stupid mums’ race, are you?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Yes you are. I know you.’ He takes a plate from my hands and sets it on the worktop. I nod, because it’s easier than admitting how crushing it was to see him and Celeste, watching the races, as if she were the mother of our children. I know I’m being paranoid. They work together; they’d come for a meeting, that’s all. ‘Know what you need, darling?’ Jed says gently.

‘A diet,’ I mutter. ‘Did you see all the other mums? How lean and skinny they were? Especially Naomi . . .’

‘Well, she’s obsessed,’ Jed scoffs. ‘She’s a freak of nature.’

‘No she’s not. She’s just fit. And what about Beth? Why did I have to choose someone so athletic and sporty to be my best friend around here?’

‘It’s just the way she is,’ Jed insists. ‘She’s just made that way, love, while you’re, er . . .’

‘I feel so fat and useless,’ I cut in. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to me, why I don’t have any willpower. I try to start diets but on the first day, at the first twinge of hunger, I’m scrabbling about for a snack, a biscuit or something . . .’

‘Then have a biscuit!’ he exclaims. ‘Who cares if you’re not built like a stick? You’ve had three children, haven’t you? You’re normal. You’re fine . . .’

‘Well, I’m sorry but I don’t feel fine.’

He grabs both of my hands and squeezes them tightly. ‘You just need some time to yourself, all right? A day doing, well . . . whatever you want to do. What do you really love doing?’

‘Can’t remember.’ I glare at the floor, sounding like Finn at his most petulant.

‘What about shopping?’

‘I don’t need anything,’ I say, silently mourning my wrecked turquoise sandals.

‘I’m not talking about needing things,’ Jed insists. ‘I mean you could just go out and buy yourself something nice.’

‘Don’t you think I look nice, Jed?’ God, woman, get a grip on yourself. Stop being so damned needy.

He inhales deeply, and I detect a flicker of impatience in his deep brown eyes. ‘All I mean is, if you buy yourself something new, it might make you feel better about yourself. And you’d have a bit of time away from us lot.’

I nod, shamefaced. Jed is instructing me to cast off the shackles of motherhood and spend money on frivolities. If the playgroup mums could hear this, they’d faint with lust. ‘Maybe I’ll go into town on Saturday,’ I mutter.

‘Great.’ He smiles. ‘Celeste was talking about some new shop – some little boutiquey place by the station . . .’

My heart does a mini-thud. ‘I’d rather go into York,’ I say quickly. ‘There’s a lot more choice.’

‘It’s just, Celeste said . . .’

‘I know all the local shops inside out, Jed,’ I bark. ‘The clothes are either for teenagers or people over 150. There’s nothing in between. I’d like to go to York if that’s okay with you.’

‘Of course it is,’ he snaps back. ‘You can go wherever you like.’

I can sense him glowering as I gather up Toby’s Lego bricks from the kitchen floor and fling them into their red plastic bucket. I’m trying not to obsess over this new friendship of his. I haven’t interrogated Jed when he’s come home two hours later than expected, having stayed on to help The Celestial One with her wall display. I have even resisted reading all the texts she pings at him, perhaps scared of what I’ll find.

I march through to the living room to sort out a fracas over whose turn it is to use the remote control. Upstairs, Finn is bashing the life out of his drum kit. A day out on my own, away from all of this: I should be ecstatic. Yet I fear that my patience is stretched dangerously taut, and is about to twang like frayed knicker elastic.

Chapter Four

What the jiggins is wrong with you, Laura Swan? I ask myself this question as I drive to York on Saturday morning. Usually, I’d jump at an opportunity like this. A few hours in town without Finn complaining bitterly if I dare to venture into the wrong kind of shop – i.e., one with clothes hanging neatly on rails. Grace is tolerant, as long as we schedule a visit to the fancy dress shop. As for Toby – he loves the bustling streets, for about eight seconds, after which I have to placate him with a visit to Jorvik to hang out with the Vikings.

Not today, though. This is what the glossy magazines call ‘me-time’. It’s supposed to be soothing and restorative. As I stand in a changing room cubicle, with some girl chirping, ‘D’you think this makes me look too thin?’, I suspect I might be having a jollier time sniffing the authentic Viking cesspit with Toby.

‘No, you look gorgeous,’ her companion enthuses. ‘God, I wish I had legs like yours. They go on forever.’

All right, all right. No need to over-egg it, lady. I peer down at mine, which absolutely do not go on forever. They are the colour of raw pastry and urgently require a shave. Disconcertingly, the changing room mirrors are angled in such a way that you can view yourself from every conceivable angle. They should have a warning sign outside, saying it’s unsuitable for those of a nervous disposition.

The thin girl is now in the communal changing area. She probably looks like Penelope Cruz and has a Lancôme advertising contract. Standing in my bra and knickers – once dazzling white, now a lardy pale grey – I scrutinise the garment I grabbed randomly from a rail, simply because it’s in my favourite shade of blue. Actually, I’d assumed it was a top with little pearly buttons down the front. Nothing too controversial. Nothing to make the children shriek in horror and refuse to be seen in public with me. Now, though, it’s clear that this isn’t a top – at least not for a woman with a normal-shaped body. It has some kind of bottom-scenario attached. It’s a romper suit for a grown-up. My mind fills with a picture I once saw in a Sunday supplement, showing adults who dress up as babies for kicks. Grown men in knitted matinee jackets. Has the world gone insane? This is a respectable department store. They do wedding lists and Nigella Lawson tableware. Surely they haven’t started catering for sexual freaks.

I step into the ‘thing’ and try to pull it up over my body. Jesus. I look like an unconvincing transvestite. In a sweat, I yank it off, shutting my ears to the sound of a seam ripping and a button popping off. After hastily pulling on my jeans and top, I hurry out of the changing room where the Penelope look-alike is twirling in front of the mirror. She is skinny and angular, like a foal – and is wearing the thing. The romper. It’s several sizes smaller than mine – it would fit a Bratz doll, actually – but is clearly the same style. ‘Hi,’ she says, catching me staring. ‘It’s so hard to decide, isn’t it?’

‘Um, yes,’ I say, conscious of a faint throbbing in my temples. God, it’s hot in here. Penelope doesn’t look hot, though. At least not in a flushed, sweaty way. Her abundant dark hair cascades around her bronzed shoulders. It’s not natural to be tanned in April in Yorkshire. She must have been sprayed like a car.

‘Doesn’t she look amazing?’ says her equally dainty, redheaded friend, emerging from a cubicle.

‘Yes, she does.’ My back teeth clamp together.

‘You’ve got to buy it,’ the redhead urges. ‘It’s so you.’

‘Oh, I’m not sure . . .’ Penelope leans forward, studying her cleavage in the mirror. She has perky, young-person’s breasts. It’s a fair bet that they haven’t been gnawed by three ravenous infants or leaked milk in the supermarket checkout queue.

‘I, er, hope you don’t mind me asking,’ I say, fuelled by sudden curiosity, ‘but what would you call that thing you’re wearing?’

‘It’s a playsuit,’ Penelope says, twisting round to admire her minuscule derrière. Isn’t it obvious, Granny? she adds silently.

‘A playsuit?’ I repeat. ‘Like little children wear?’

She laughs. ‘Yes, I suppose so. They’re back again. Meant to be the big thing for summer.’ The redhead throws me a curt look as if to say: ‘No, she’s the big thing for summer.’

‘Oh, you’ve got one too!’ Penelope exclaims, registering the garment scrunched up in my clammy hand. ‘Are you treating yourself?’

‘Um, I don’t think so. It’s not really my thing.’

She flares her nostrils. ‘Hmmm. Guess you’ve got to go with what suits you.’

‘Yes, of course.’ I force a grin, which I hope suggests that I’m on the hunt for some foxy little cocktail dress, and not support hose or a girdle.

Back in the sanctuary of the mall, I wonder where to go next. I must buy something sexy and completely impractical. I can’t face going home empty-handed after being awarded a day off from domestic duties by my beloved. Ignoring a burning desire to check out drum accessories for Finn, or toys for Grace and Toby, I fish out my mobile, deciding to cheer myself up by telling Jed about the playsuit incident. Our answerphone clicks on, and when I try his mobile it goes straight to voicemail. ‘Hi, love,’ I say. ‘Just thought I’d let you know I’ve bought a playsuit. It looks great, really foxy – thought I’d wear it to your next work do. Hope you’re all having a fun day. Missing you. Bye, honey.’

I glare at my phone, as if it’s responsible for my husband’s unavailability. It’s not that I’m worried that Jed is incapable of looking after our children. He works with kids, after all, in the toughest primary school in the area. He’s even had a feature in the local newspaper about him. Jed Swan, it said, has scooped a well-deserved Local Hero award for his unfailing commitment to children’s artistic and sporting endeavours in the borough. He’s not the kind of dad who needs a map of the kitchen to indicate where milk is kept. Beth told me that, on the rare occasions when she’s going away overnight, she still feels compelled to leave Pete, her husband, a list of child-related instructions which can run to five pages. What guidance could a father possibly need in order to care for his two children, I wondered? ‘Take kids to park . . . you’ll do this by first ensuring that they are adequately clothed according to climatic conditions . . . Leave house via front door remembering to take key . . . In the park you will find a large circular object. This is called a roundabout. No, not the traffic kind. The other kind. Let Jack go on it, and Kira if she wants to, then proceed to spin them as fast as humanly possible for several weeks . . .’

As I head for Starbucks, I figure that at least Jed does his fair share. In fact, he could probably survive perfectly well without me. He certainly doesn’t seem to need me. Sometimes I suspect he wouldn’t notice if, instead of sleeping beside him, I replaced myself with a cushion. I have come up with possible reasons for this:

1. Severe exhaustion (although toning down his sporting activities might help).

2. He is suffering from some kind of sexual dysfunction and is too embarrassed to talk about it, even though we have been together for fourteen years. Regarding this option, I have delved about on our computer for evidence of him trying to buy Viagra or some kind of pumper-upper penis device. So far, nothing.

3. He no longer fancies me due to my ample fleshage.

4. He is shagging Celeste, a possibility which is too horrific to contemplate seriously and makes me barge into Starbucks in a rather aggressive manner, nearly sending a man flying in the doorway.

‘Whoa, after you!’ he says, staggering back dramatically.

‘God, I’m so sorry,’ I bluster. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

‘That’s okay. You’re obviously more desperate for a caffeine fix than I am.’ He grins, and his cheeks dimple in a distinctly fetching way.

‘Guess I am. It’s just been one of those mornings.’ I smile back, pushing dishevelled hair out of my eyes, and realise I’m still clutching the playsuit. ‘Oh, hell . . .’ I shake it out and gawp at it.

‘Not your colour?’ the man asks with a smirk.

‘It’s not . . . I mean . . . it’s not even mine.’ Blushing furiously, I meet the stranger’s blue-eyed gaze.

‘So whose is it?’

‘It’s the shop’s,’ I murmur. ‘I . . . I stole it.’

Chapter Five

‘Really?’ He makes his way towards the small queue at the counter. ‘You mean you shoplifted it? That was very bold of you.’

‘I mean accidentally,’ I say quickly. ‘I tried it on in a shop and it was awful, some kind of playsuit thing that came up to here’ – I indicate thigh-length – ‘and it was so hot and stifling in there, and I was so desperate to get out I just walked off with it . . .’ My entire body tenses in preparation for a hand landing heavily on my shoulder and being named and shamed in the Collinton Gazette. Mother of Three, Wife of Local Hero, steals playsuit from city centre store . . . I glance around nervously.

‘What did you say it was?’ the man asks.

‘A playsuit. They’re the big thing for summer, apparently. I’ll have to take it straight back.’

‘Why not have a coffee first?’ He narrows his eyes and glances through the window. ‘Can’t hear any sirens out there. You should be safe for a few minutes.’

‘Think so?’ There’s a faint throbbing in my neck. Not even the sight of all the muffins and pastries can soothe me.

‘I’d say you could risk it. I’ll keep an eye out if you like.’ His blue eyes crinkle appealingly, and I notice how long and luscious his dark eyelashes are. Clients have theirs tinted at the salon to achieve a similar effect. ‘After you,’ he adds, beckoning me to join the queue.

‘Thanks,’ I say, relaxing slightly. I order my coffee, choosing a shortbread biscuit for nerve-calming purposes, and buy three giant chocolate coins for the kids. The stranger joins me at a vacant table. ‘I’m Danny,’ he says. ‘Okay if I sit with you?’

‘Laura.’ I smile. ‘Sure, no problem, as long as you don’t mind associating with a master criminal.’

He grins. ‘Think I can handle it. So, what’s the plan with the playsuit?’

‘I don’t know. How would you go about un-shoplifting something?’

Danny shrugs. ‘I might run past and throw it in through the door . . .’

I laugh. ‘I’m not running anywhere. You know the parents’ races they have at school sports days?’

‘Well, I can imagine,’ he says with a shudder.

‘Didn’t even make it to the finishing line,’ I tell him. ‘It’s a wonder my family hasn’t disowned me.’

He chuckles. ‘Well, don’t they say it’s not the winning . . .’

‘. . . but the taking part that counts. Not at my kids’ school. It’s a deadly serious business.’

He sips from his mug and wipes a little coffee froth from his upper lip. ‘So, how many mini-athletes do you have?’

‘Just the three.’

‘Whoa. Quite a handful.’

‘You could say that,’ I laugh, appraising this cute, friendly man with a cheeky smile who has lifted me from changing room despair to a far more agreeable state of mind. Danny has dark brown, slightly unkempt wavy hair, and a hint of stubble. He is chunky, like me, but it lends him an endearing quality and rather suits him. Anyway, men can get away with it. A little extra weight makes them look cuddly and cute. As they don’t have the babies, they’re not subjected to a barrage of pressure to lose their pregnancy weight in ten minutes. I nearly vomited when Naomi bragged that her body had ‘snapped back’ to pre-pregnancy tautness within ten days of giving birth to Phoebe. There was a distinct lack of snapping with mine. On particularly fat days I still wear my vast preggie knickers, and fear that they’ll still be surgically attached to my rear when Toby leaves for college.

‘Laura,’ Danny says thoughtfully, ‘I’ve got an idea.’

‘Uh-huh?’ I lick a spoonful of cappuccino froth. I should have ordered a skinny latte – or, better still, a bottle of joyless calorie-free water. What the hell.

‘You could post it back anonymously . . .’

‘Great idea. I could include a note telling them that it didn’t have a security tag on, so they’d realise there’s a fault in their system . . .’

‘. . . Which means you’d be doing them a favour,’ Danny says triumphantly. ‘Or I could take it back for you and tell them I’ve decided I don’t have the legs for it.’

We are giggling like children as we finish our coffees and step out into the bustling street. The grey April sky has brightened to a clear baby blue, and York looks sparkly and alive. ‘Think I’ll just take it back and explain what happened,’ I say, smiling.