Читать книгу The Cows: The bold, brilliant and hilarious Sunday Times Top Ten bestseller - Dawn O’Porter - Страница 21

‘Mum, the cotton wool keeps falling off,’ says Annie, as we walk up to Trudy’s door. There are two birthday helium balloons tied to the handle and a little Post-it note saying, ‘LET YOURSELVES IN, PRINCESSES’.

My head is thumping from too much booze and almost no sleep. I can’t get the image of that guy’s face out of my head, his camera aiming at me like a gun that was loaded with shame. And Jason still hasn’t texted anything since before I got on the train; how did I get that so wrong?

‘Mum?’ pushes Annie. ‘I feel silly.’

I turned up to my mum’s house at eleven thirty this morning armed with an empty cardboard box, a Pritt Stick, a sheet of orange card, a piece of elastic, a white hat, some white tights and six packets of cotton wool balls. It’s amazing what you can muster from a Tesco Metro when you have to create a fancy dress costume for a six-year-old. I cut a hole in the box for Annie’s head and covered the whole thing with cotton wool balls. I made a carrot nose out of the orange card and elastic and with the tights and the hat, she looks great. OK, not great, but the best I could do.

‘Snowmen are round, not square, Mummy.’

‘Annie, it’s OK. You look snowy.’

‘But why am I a snowman, it’s the summer?’

‘There was a snowman in Frozen, wasn’t there?’ I say, which doesn’t seem to help.

We go in. It’s clear the party is happening in the garden; the shrieking of excited children is tearing through the house. I should have taken more Nurofen.

The house is nice. A very large Victorian terrace with tidy bookshelves, a massive TV and a posh navy sofa with a big doll’s house in front of a bay window. I’m surprised Amanda has such good taste, and her husband obviously earns loads because, apart from two large chests of practical-looking drawers, all with neatly written labels describing what toys they contain, the place looks impressively un-IKEA.

‘Annie, Annie,’ yells Trudy as she runs excitedly into the living room, followed by three other little princesses in their perfect, shop-bought fancy dress frocks. I feel instantly sorry for Annie. She looks ridiculous in comparison.

The other girls take her hand and drag her outside into the garden, where a small bouncy castle is being challenged by around fifteen extremely excited six-year-old girls. To the left of it is a long table with a blue tablecloth and plate after plate of blue and white foods. I want to eat all of it.

At the far end of the table are about twenty adults, men and women. Mums and dads. Why do I get so nervous in these situations? My hangover anxiety tells me that I have been the topic of conversation until now.

‘Hello,’ I say, approaching the table.

‘Tara,’ says Amanda, coming over all friendly, as if the uncomfortable moment at the school gate never happened. It’s a little unnerving. ‘Wine?’ she says, offering me a glass of white. I swear everyone has stopped talking and is smiling at me in that awkward way that people at parties do while they are waiting for you to make eye contact with them so they can say hello. I quickly look around them all, and mutter hello so they can get on with their conversations. ‘Well?’ pushes Amanda, waving the glass of wine under my nose. I think for a second, but my face must speak volumes because she retracts the glass and says, ‘Too early to drink?’

‘Oh, no, never too early. I just had a big night last night. Feeling a bit shaky.’

‘Oh come on, hair of the dog, it works wonders,’ says a man in a blue shirt approaching us.

‘This is Pete, my husband,’ she says. Something in her face shows me she is angry with him.

‘Hi,’ I say, reaching my hand out to meet Pete’s. He is tall, with a mouth that takes up a lot of his face, and really flirty eyes.

‘I could whip you up a Bloody Mary,’ he says. ‘I was a bit shaky myself this morning. I’ve got some already made up in the fridge?’

‘You know what, that would be perfect. Thank you!’ I say, as he goes inside.

‘Annie’s costume, it’s … it’s brave.’

‘Thanks, Amanda,’ I say, taking that as a compliment and making it clear I have her name right now. ‘I like to encourage her to be her own person, rather than just do whatever everyone else does.’ We look over at Annie. She is stepping out of the box and into a princess dress. ‘It doesn’t always work.’

‘Sure.’

We stand together, pretending to be engrossed in what our children are doing, trying to think of something to say, but something negative is in action between us. It’s cosmic, out of our control. I don’t have the energy to fight it.

‘Here you go,’ says Pete, handing me a Bloody Mary and breaking the silence.

‘Wow, celery and everything. Cheers.’ We chink glasses, and I take a big sip. It’s delicious.

‘OK, well, have fun,’ Amanda says, walking away, as if she has hit her limit on what she can handle from me. ‘Pete!’ she says, ordering him away. I can’t help but notice him glance at my tits as he goes.

‘Hello, hi, hey, hi, hello,’ I say, walking over to the table of food and the small crowd of people around it. ‘Mmmmm, bright blue cupcakes, yummy,’ I say, taking a paper plate and loading it full of food. Everyone is looking at me with ‘isn’t she fascinating’ faces. There are as many dads as mums. I feel very conspicuous. Very solo. How is it I can be so confident at work, but put me in a group of parents and I want to bury my head in the birthday cake?

‘A Bloody Mary and carbohydrates, that can only mean one thing,’ says Tracey, Gabby Fletcher’s mum, coming over to me. We’ve chatted a few times before; she’s generally quite friendly but also has that air of primness about her that so many women seem to get when they get married and have kids. Even the wildest ones, like Sophie, even though she doesn’t have children. They used to be hard drinking, slutty drug munchers, but now they’re boring, safe, and married to men who would implode if they knew the things they used to get up to. I get the impression from Tracey that she has a past she doesn’t want to admit to. She always takes a second to answer questions, as if she is reminding herself of the right thing to say. Maybe I’m imagining it, maybe not.

‘Yup, killer hangover. This table has everything I need on it.’

Pause.

‘I haven’t had a proper hangover in years, I just couldn’t do it with my two,’ she says, and the rest of the parents mumble in agreement.

‘Oh, I know. My mum has Annie on Friday nights, so I can go out and have a sleep in. I’m not sure I could handle it otherwise.’

Tracey glances back at the group. I wonder if she’s been sent over to get information.

‘And I suppose you can do weekend swaps with Annie’s dad too? I mean, God forbid anything ever happen with me and James, but a bit of child sharing must be nice?’

It’s not unusual for people to presume that Annie’s dad and I split up. It is unusual for me to be asked about it in front of an audience of mums and dads at a Disney-themed birthday party. This topic gives me extreme anxiety at the best of time. Mix that with hangover fear, and I suddenly realise that my face is very sweaty.

‘Oh, actually Annie doesn’t have a dad,’ I say, stuffing half a blue cupcake into my mouth and hoping she moves on.

‘Oh. Yes, some of the girls and I were just saying, we don’t really know much about you, we just wanted to get to know you a little better.’

Girls, I think. Why do women refer to themselves as girls? It’s so weird.

‘Oh, right,’ I say, eating more cupcake.

‘So, was it a bad breakup?’ she asks, after watching me chew and swallow the whole thing.

‘No, nope. No, we were never actually together.’

The other mums have now moved closer. I wonder how many cupcakes I can get in my mouth at one time, so I don’t have to speak.

‘Oh, sorry I shouldn’t pry!’ Pause. ‘So, what, just a fling?’

I could just say yes, but as the Bloody Mary kicks in and joins last night’s alcohol that is still buzzing around my system, I have an unfamiliar wave of bravado.

‘Nope. Not a fling, a one-night stand. Well, there was a bit of flinging, I suppose. In that he flung some sperm up my vagina and into my uterus.’ I laugh, thinking that was pretty funny. Then I look at all of their faces, and realise it wasn’t.

‘That’s quite the image,’ Tracey says, picking up a cupcake she obviously has no intention of eating. ‘So he didn’t want to be involved?’ she asks, like a human lie detector that I know I won’t beat.

‘Nope. Actually he never knew. I never told him.’

Silence. For what feels like a very long time. I eventually realise this isn’t one of her weird pauses, she just has no idea what to say. My nerves keep speaking.

‘Anyway, now I’m dating and looking for love, not sperm. Real, actual love. So don’t worry, your husbands are safe, ladies!’ I let out a raucous and crazy laugh. What am I doing? Who am I being? Why the hell did I say that about their husbands being safe?

‘Pete,’ shouts Amanda across the garden. ‘Pete, let’s get the cake.’ I hadn’t realised that he was standing behind me again.

The crowd of parents disperses and spreads themselves into small groups around the garden. Every wife is making some sort of physical contact with their husband. I am left standing at the table alone, me and approximately 40,000 calories’ worth of blue puddings. I feel like the smashed-up sausage roll that nobody wants to eat.

After a minute or two, my anxiety wins.

‘Annie, Annie, come on, we have to go,’ I say, rushing over to the bouncy castle and elbowing parents out of my way to get my daughter.

‘But Mummy, we haven’t had the cake yet,’ she says, looking embarrassed and worried that I am serious.

‘We’ll have cake at home. Come on, grab your cardboard box.’

‘But …’

‘ANNIE, now!’

She does as she’s told, mortified that I just shouted at her in front of her friends. I don’t care, I’m too embarrassed to deal with judgement from these people. I also think I might be sick.

I grab Annie’s hand and hurry through the house, feeling like I’m escaping an avalanche. As I open the front door, Vicky Thomson is standing there, her fist up to start knocking. I jump about three feet into the air.

‘Tara,’ she says, ‘are you leaving? God, I’m so late. Is the party over, why have you got a blue mouth?’

So many questions. I push past her, dragging Annie by the hand.

‘OK, well, bye. And we should do coffee, I’ve written up a few more ideas, I really think one could …’

But I’ve strapped Annie in and driven away before she has the chance to finish. When I get around the corner, I feel a little calmer. Then I look in the rear view mirror and see Annie’s face.

My little princess is crying her eyes out.