Читать книгу Mum On The Run - Fiona Gibson, Fiona Gibson - Страница 13

I stand dead still, still clutching my wine glass, fury fizzing through my veins as I try to make out what Jed’s saying. Ooh, yes, ma petite French angel, you can slather me all over in chocolate sauce as soon as I can get away from the dumpy old wife . . . zut alors, I’m sure the old trout’s listening . . . Okay, he doesn’t say that exactly, but he’s chuckling, yacking about God knows what. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he murmurs, adoration spilling from his lips. ‘That sounds fantastic.’ Perhaps we could extend the chocolate-sauce slathering a little lower, Angelcakes . . . ooh yes, just there . . . perfect . . .

‘Daaaad!’ Toby screams. ‘I want my story!’ I scamper upstairs to find him sitting up in bed, gripping his battered copy of Dirty Bertie and glaring at me. ‘Daddy was reading it,’ he says, jutting out his bottom lip.

‘I know, sweetheart, but Dad’s busy with a terribly important phonecall right now. I’ll read the rest, okay?’ I squeeze onto the bed beside him and pop Ted on my knee.

‘Don’t want you to do it.’ He shuts the book and tosses it onto the floor.

‘Tobes, don’t be like that. Don’t be so sulky. I told you Dad’s—’

‘I want DAD!’ he snaps, exhausted tears springing from his eyes.

‘Okay, okay.’ With a sigh, I climb out of bed and tuck in Ted next to Toby. ‘I’m going to say goodnight and put your light off now, okay? And if you’re still awake when Daddy gets off the phone, maybe then he’ll come up and finish your story . . .’

‘Why are you cross, Mummy?’ Grace calls from her room.

‘I’m not cross, love. I’m fine . . .’

‘You are. You’ve got a cross voice on.’

‘Well, that’s probably just because I’m a bit tired,’ I call back, trying to sound light and perky and distinctly un-cross. I prick up my ears.

‘Yeah, that’d be great, I’d love that,’ Jed warbles downstairs. Anyone would think he’d called one of those pervo sex lines.

‘Night, honey,’ I murmur. Toby flicks his head away as I try to kiss him, as if I’m the one who’s abandoned him in favour of a natter with Fancy Pants.

‘Want Daddy,’ he bleats as I click off his light.

‘So do I,’ I murmur, stomping downstairs.

Jed is standing in the kitchen, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. Almost post-orgasmic, in fact. ‘What’s up?’ he asks brightly.

‘It’s just . . . Toby was upset that you didn’t finish the story.’

‘Oh, God, was he? I’ll pop up right now.’

‘I mean he was really upset.’ I fix him with a fierce stare. ‘Did you have to do that? Rush down like your life depended on it, to speak to . . . her?’

Jed stares at me. ‘Laura . . .’ He pauses. ‘What is this about exactly?’

‘Dirty Bertie. You were halfway through reading—’

‘But it’s not, is it? It’s about me, taking a call from a friend, which you suddenly seem to have some kind of issue with . . .’

‘I don’t have an issue!’ I protest. ‘You seem obsessed, that’s all. Celeste this, Celeste that . . . oh, we had a picnic and a little craft session and look! Here she is in her lemon cardi at our kids’ sports day for a supposed meeting . . .’

‘A supposed meeting?’ Jed repeats, blinking at me.

‘Yes. Why did she have to be there?’

Jed shakes his head despairingly. ‘Do you have a problem with Celeste?’

‘Yes. No,’ I bark, feeling my entire chest area glowing hotly.

‘Are you saying I shouldn’t have friends at work? Is that what you want?’

‘No, of course not . . .’

‘Or that they shouldn’t phone me? Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?’

‘All I’m saying is, one minute you were reading Dirty-bloody-Bertie . . .’

‘Mummy,’ comes Toby’s voice behind me. ‘It’s Dirty Bertie. Not Dirty-bloody-Bertie.’ I turn around to see our youngest standing there, with his pale curls sticking up in matted tufts, clutching the book to his chest.

‘I’m sorry, Toby,’ I mutter. ‘It just sort of slipped out.’

‘That’s a swearing word, Mummy. Cara said it’s naughty to say that bad word.’

‘Yes, I know, and I shouldn’t have said it. It was . . .’ My mouth seems to shrivel. ‘A . . . mistake.’

‘Will you finish it now, Daddy?’ Toby asks levelly.

‘Yes, of course I will, Tobes,’ Jed mutters.

‘You got to the bit about bogies.’

‘Yes, I remember.’ He rakes a hand through his hair, as if trying to brush off the bad feelings that have been flying around our kitchen. Throwing me a stony look, he takes Toby by the hand and the two of them head upstairs.

My bottom lip trembles as I stand in the kitchen doorway. So he took a phonecall. Anyone would think I’d walked in and found him and Celeste having wild sex on the table. I perch on a chair, listening to Jed upstairs, chatting jovially in Toby’s room. Our children love their dad. I do too, yet I’m making myself completely unlovable. The thought of losing him tears at my insides.

The house phone rings. I answer it; it’s Kate, my sister, sounding distant and crackly even though she’s only calling from Scotland. ‘How’s it going?’ she asks.

‘Good,’ I say. ‘Everyone’s fine. How about you?’

‘Oh, the usual chaos. Untrainable dog, terrorising sheep, lost a couple of chickens to a fox last night . . .’

‘Oh, God.’ Kate had her kids young – my two nephews are in their early twenties – and she and Will, her childhood sweetheart, have moved neatly from domestic mayhem to running a smallholding and B&B in the Scottish Borders. Which sounds like another kind of chaos entirely.

‘When are you coming up?’ she’s asking me. ‘The kids would love it. We’ve just got a couple of pigs. You’d better get yourselves up here soon if you want to see them before they’re bacon and sausages.’

‘You’re right,’ I say, smiling. ‘Toby and Grace would love that. Finn would too – although these days, he reckons he’s far too cool to like animals.’

‘Oh, he’s still your baby really,’ Kate says. ‘Anyway, stranger, I just thought I’d catch up. You never call me these days . . .’

‘It’s just hectic. You know what it’s like . . .’

‘What are you up to tonight?’

‘Um, nothing much. Grace and I made some cookies and I’m kind of tempted to curl up with a plateful and a DVD.’

‘Domestic goddess,’ she laughs, before ringing off.

Feeling boosted – Kate’s motherly tone always lifts me somehow – I eye our freshly-baked offerings. If you were being unkind you’d say they looked like chunks of moon rock but we decided they were ‘rustic’. I nibble one, relishing its comforting sweetness. Another won’t hurt. I nibble and nibble, soothed by Jed’s distant murmurs as he reads not just Dirty Bertie but a whole bunch of other stories too, judging by the time he’s been up there. He’s probably putting off having to come downstairs.

I blink down at the plate. How did I manage to plough through so many cookies? I must stop doing this – cramming my face when I’m not even hungry. Emotional eating, I think you call it. All that’s happening is that my clothes are getting tighter and I know that Jed must look at me and think . . . ew. Kate would say not to worry; she’s always telling me I’m the ‘gorgeous curvaceous one’.

But I don’t feel gorgeous and I don’t think Jed shares her view of me.

Desperate measures are called for, I decide, putting away the flour and eggs and wiping jammy smears from the worktop. I’ll start a diet tomorrow and get into shape – make myself minxy again like in the old days. I’ll show Jed that the woman he fell in love with – whom he could barely keep his hands off, if I remember rightly – is still here, right under his nose. I refuse to allow size-eight Fancy Pants to lure my beloved away from me.

In the meantime, though, there’s one cookie left. Where diets are concerned, there’s no time like tomorrow.