Читать книгу Mum On The Run - Fiona Gibson, Fiona Gibson - Страница 14

By Saturday afternoon I’m quivering with anticipation. This is combined with mild dizziness, due to substituting lunch with a glass of hot water with a dusting of cinnamon in it. I read somewhere that this combination helps to melt away wrinkles as well as being a miracle fat cure. I know it’s ridiculous, but with my Big Surprise looming, these are desperate times.

‘I’ve arranged a special treat,’ I blurt out as Jed, the children and I head home from the park.

‘What is it?’ Grace demands, gripping her ice cream which I have been eyeing ravenously. ‘What kind of treat?’

‘I’m taking you, Toby and Finn to Granny Heather’s. You’re staying over tonight, and me and Daddy will come and collect you in the morning.’

‘Yeah!’ she cries, delighted.

‘Today?’ Toby asks eagerly.

‘Yes, honey, a bit later today.’ I glance at Finn. ‘You okay with that, darling?’

He shrugs. ‘Yeah. What are you and Dad going to do?’

‘It’s up to Dad,’ I say, my stomach whirling with anticipation. ‘What would you like to do, Jed?’

‘Don’t know,’ he says, guiding Toby away from a ferocious-looking dog he wants to pat. ‘It’s all a bit sudden, Laura . . .’

‘How much notice do you need?’ I ask, teasing him.

‘None, I just . . .’

‘Did you have any other plans for tonight?’

He stops and frowns at me. Grace pauses mid-lick, her tongue thickly coated in strawberry ice. ‘No, of course not. Are you sure it’s all right, though? It’s a lot to ask of your mum. And Finn has football in the morning, and I’m meant to be taking the junior team . . .’ My heart slumps. Oh no, he’s thinking. A whole night alone with Laura and her hideous au naturelle do . . .

‘Actually,’ I say, more subdued now, ‘she was delighted. She hasn’t seen the children for ages. And I’ve spoken to Calum’s dad, and he’s happy to stand in for you at football this week. You don’t mind missing footie just this once, do you, Finn?’

‘Nah,’ he says with a shrug.

‘Please, Dad,’ Grace blurts out. ‘Let us have a sleepover at Granny Heather’s.’

‘We’ll be fine, Dad,’ Finn says airily.

‘Um . . . okay then,’ Jed murmurs.

‘So tonight,’ I add cheerfully, ‘we can do whatever we like.’

‘Great,’ Jed says flatly. I grin broadly at him. He grimaces back, looking for all the world as if he’s about to have a bunion removed. Still, I won’t let him dampen my mood. The problem is, Jed won’t realise how much we needed this night by ourselves until we’re actually having it. I don’t mean having sex necessarily – although that would be pleasing – but time together without the children. Is it any wonder, I reflect later as I drive us all to Mum’s, that our sex life has withered up? If I so much as try to cuddle Jed, Finn looks as if he might vomit and Toby starts shouting for a biscuit. They are allergic to adults showing each other affection. It’s a miracle anyone manages to produce more than one child.

‘Come here, my darlings,’ Mum says, emerging from her red-brick cottage as we all tumble out of the car. She hugs me and the children in turn – even Finn, who reserves a soft spot for his granny, allows it – while I unload the kids’ overnight bag. ‘Hi, Heather,’ Jed says, kissing her cheek. He hovers uncertainly as if about to deliver a particularly stressful public speech.

‘We’re so grateful for this,’ I tell Mum, trying to blot him out of my vision.

‘Yes, er, thanks, a lot,’ Jed adds feebly.

‘My pleasure,’ she says as we follow her inside. ‘You know I’m happy to have them any time.’ Since Dad died nearly four years ago – just after Toby was born – Mum has lived here alone in the smart, touristy town of Kittering. I know she still misses Dad terribly, despite filling her days with art classes and volunteering for every community group in the area. There are no tears as we prepare to leave. ‘Say bye to Mum and Dad,’ she prompts the children, but all three – even Finn – are engrossed in Dad’s old Hornby train set which still works, amazingly, and which Mum has painstakingly laid out on her living room floor.

‘So what d’you want to do?’ I ask Jed we drive away.

‘I don’t really mind,’ he says vaguely, gazing out of the passenger window. I wonder now if he’d have preferred this not to have been a surprise, and to have had some input into the planning. Maybe then he’d be quivering with excitement.

‘Well,’ I say lightly, ‘we could go to York, have dinner . . .’ My mouth waters at the thought of tucking into a meal I haven’t cooked. Stuff the calories. I’ll even have dessert. Something chocolatey with a molten interior. Gooey cheese. Lashings of wine. Sod the water-and-cinnamon regime. It was starting to make me feel ill anyway and I don’t even like cinnamon. ‘We could even stay at a hotel,’ I add, munching some Quavers from an open packet I found in the car. ‘Fancy breakfast in bed? That would be lovely, wouldn’t it, having it brought up to our room with the papers and . . .’

‘A hotel?’ Jed repeats. ‘Why would we do that?’

‘God, Jed! You don’t have to sound so horrified. You’d think I’d suggested booking us into an abattoir.’

‘It just seems, I don’t know . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘Unnecessary.’

‘Of course it’s unnecessary,’ I exclaim. ‘That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To do something exciting and different and a little bit decadent. I thought it’d be fun, Jed. Anyway, I packed your overnight bag in case you fancied it.’

‘Did you? You packed my pyjamas?’

‘Yes, Jed. They’re in the boot, travelling in this very car with us.’ And I stuffed in your cast-iron chastity pants too, I want to add.

‘It just seems extravagant,’ Jed murmurs.

‘It wouldn’t have to be, would it? I don’t care about posh. We could find a tawdry little place, somewhere nice and sleazy . . .’ I grin at him, and try for a saucy eyebrow wiggle, but the joke falls flat.

‘I’m not sure I’d fancy that, love.’

‘Oh, come on,’ I say, crunching a stale Quaver impatiently. ‘It’ll be a change, won’t it?’

‘A change from what?’

‘From boring old domesticity. Putting the bin out and wondering why there’s a weird smell coming from the drain. Loading the dishwasher. All that stuff we never used to think about before we had the kids . . .’ By now I’m feeling rather manic and driving a little too fast.

‘I thought I’d fixed that drain,’ he says tetchily. ‘And could you slow down? You took that corner a bit too fast.’

I exhale loudly. It’s a long time since I’ve read anything about reigniting passion, but I’m sure they never recommend talking about drains. ‘Just an idea,’ I say flatly. ‘I was trying to think of something different to do, but if you don’t fancy it, that’s fine.’

Mustering a smile, Jed nicks a Quaver from the packet on my lap. ‘Tell you what, love,’ he says, patting my leg. ‘Shall we just have a cosy night in?’

*

Despite my plummeting spirits, I’m determined to make this work out and for us to have an unforgettable evening. Jed and I hardly ever go out. He seems to have forgotten that emerging from our house after dark – just the two of us – is a real possibility. I see couples heading out at night, holding hands or with the girl kind of tucked under the guy’s arm, being hugged as they walk. It squeezes my heart to see that. We used to walk that way, although doing that now would feel ridiculous. Jed would assume I felt faint and couldn’t stand up properly. Yet sometimes it feels as if the whole world is out there, hugging and kissing in public, and that Jed and I have somehow slipped off its edge.

The first year we were together, I don’t think we saw a single DVD right through to the end. We’d put one on, when he’d taken a minicab over to my tiny Archway flat, or we’d plan to watch one when I’d cycled over to see him in his maisonette in Bethnal Green. The credits would start, and we’d have a little kiss – and before we knew it we’d be tangled on the floor together, kissing and laughing that that was another movie we’d never know the end of.

And now, I can’t imagine how Jed would react if I pounced on him while he was watching a movie. He’d probably think I’d lost my mind.

I unload our overnight bag from the boot – a gesture which seems particularly tragic – and let us into the house. It feels too still and quiet without the children. The carpet is littered with components from Toby’s Lego fort, and I almost tread on a partially-constructed rocket which he and Grace had been making out of a plastic water bottle and a mangled toothpaste tube. ‘One of my regulars told me that new Moroccan place is good,’ I tell Jed, pacing the living room. It’s a downside of being a hairdresser. You hear every detail of your clients’ glittering social lives. You make them look gorgeous for nights out you’ll never have.

Jed looks up from the armchair. ‘I don’t really fancy it tonight, love. I thought we’d agreed to stay home.’

‘Oh, come on!’ I snap. ‘We can stay home any night we want. What’s the point in arranging for the kids to stay over at Mum’s if we’re not going to do anything? It seems crazy. Such a waste. Let’s, let’s . . .’ I flounder for words. ‘Let’s do something spontaneous.’ Jed blinks at me and looks rather tired. He didn’t used to be like this – a boring fart in an armchair who can’t even muster the wherewithal to take his wife out for a drink. Back in the old days, before he lost the will to live, we’d go to bars and restaurants and parties all the time, and he’d tell me he was proud to be seen with me. We were perpetually skint, but he still managed to buy me sexy dresses, teetering shoes, beautiful lingerie in black silk and ivory lace. Things a man would only buy for a woman he wanted to have wild sex with.

‘I’ve been working all week,’ Jed protests. ‘I’d just like to chill out, Laura, okay?’

‘I’ve been working too,’ I start, catching myself: of course I haven’t been working like he has. While Jed’s been mentoring disadvantaged kids, I’ve been . . . cutting hair. What does that matter in the great scheme of things? If there were no hair-dressers, what would people do? Hack it themselves with the kitchen scissors. It would be fine. No one dies from having badly-cut hair. Finn would probably enjoy that – chopping at it himself – as it’s the effect he seems to be after at the piercing place.

‘Why don’t we watch a movie?’ Jed suggests, his voice softening. ‘I’ll pop down to the Spar and choose something if you like.’

Well, whoop-di-doo. ‘Okay,’ I mutter. ‘Let’s do that. Let’s stay in and watch TV.’

‘Don’t be like that, darling.’ He throws me a wounded, big-eyed look.

‘I’m not being like anything.’ I snatch Grace’s pens and scissors from the floor, unable to think of anything else to do. Once I’ve tidied the entire room, and rounded up a few stray dishes, I perch on our other armchair and peer at him.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, looking up from his book.

‘Nothing. I’m just thinking, maybe you’re right. I can’t remember the last time we were home alone together. Maybe it could be quite fun.’

Jed nods. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it? Sort of . . . peaceful.’

‘Well, it could be nice. Why don’t I pop out for some shopping and cook us a special meal? Something the kids wouldn’t like?’

‘Sounds good,’ Jed says, eyes fixed back on the book. I have to say, he doesn’t appear to be primed for an evening of hot lust.

‘And I’ll get some wine,’ I add.

‘Yeah. Great.’

‘And maybe we could, you know . . . go to bed early.’ I move over to his chair, and try to nuzzle into him, but his gaze remains fixed on the page. What’s he reading? Some American crime novel where people are bludgeoned to death every three pages. I can smell the testosterone radiating from its pages. God, it must be riveting. If he were any other straight man, in a child-free house with his wife dropping walloping hints, trying to drag him off to a hotel, for God’s sake, he wouldn’t be reading a goddamn book. What do I have to do – dress up as an air hostess? Trill ‘doors to manual’ while wearing an Ann Summers tunic emblazoned with a Lust-anza logo? A couple of years ago, Simone had a brief fling with a guy – one of her clients, in fact – who was into that kind of stuff. He even suggested buying a hostess trolley that she could wheel through her house to dispense drinks. Is that what turns men on these days?

‘I’ll go then,’ I bark, causing Jed to flinch.

‘Yeah. Um, what?’

‘You relax and enjoy your book’ – a mere smidgeon of bitterness there – ‘and I’ll nip out to Tesco.’

‘Okay, darling.’ His jaw twitches from the effort of glancing up from the page. ‘That sounds great.’

*

Before leaving I quickly scan my cookery books. I used to love cooking fancy stuff – proper grown-up food involving coriander and limes – before my culinary gene shrivelled up. The children howled in protest whenever I presented any thing with ‘weirdy green bits’ (i.e. herbs). So my confidence shrank, and my cooking acquired a distinctly retro vibe: pies, sausages, roasts. None of it terribly waistline-friendly. As I’m usually ravenous by the children’s dinnertime, I tend to pick at their clammy leftovers, then often eat again later with Jed. Double-dinner Laura. No wonder I’ve gone up from a size twelve to a sixteen since we met.

I pore over recipes, uninspired by dishes involving grilled chicken and watercress. Can’t imagine Jed getting revved up over that. He can eat like a horse, lucky sod, and not gain an ounce. My eyes land on a pasta dish with prawns, chillies and rocket. How delightfully non-fish-fingery. ‘Won’t be long,’ I announce as I head out, feeling quite the hunter-gatherer. Okay, I’m not planning to grapple a wildebeest to drag home to my beloved – I’m only going to Tesco – but it’s a step in the right direction.

I march along our neat, tree-lined street, full of purpose and bubbling excitement. What else should I buy? Something hormone-stirring to slip into Jed’s drink? The only aphrodisiacs I can think of are oysters, which I don’t know how to prepare, or essence of dried bull’s penis or something, and I don’t imagine Tesco stock it. Then, as I approach the store’s entrance, an idea hits me.

Underwear. Nothing ridiculously porno – I have neither the nerve nor the body for that. Just a new bra and knickers that actually match, and are more alluring than the saggy articles I resort to these days. Maybe stockings, suspenders. Corny, I know, but Jed would love that. It doesn’t feel quite right, buying underwear in a supermarket, but he’ll be far too excited to check labels.

I glide around the aisles, lulled by the bland music, ridiculously grateful to Mum for having the children overnight. After choosing supper ingredients, I browse the make-up section. While hardly vast, it’s still overwhelming. Are the colours I used to wear hopelessly outdated, along with my au naturelle do? I’m supposed to know what looks good. It’s my job, and I have enough regular clients to know that I’m reasonably good at it. Here, though, I’m lost in an ocean of lip plumpers and mineral face powders – make-up that didn’t exist the last time I bought any. I grab a blusher, a smoky grey eye shadow and a sheer lipstick, making a mental note to hide them from Toby. Then, on a roll, I snatch some razors and passion-flower body lotion.

In the underwear aisle the knickers seem to fall into two categories – thongs or industrial old-lady pants – neither of which I had in mind. A man with generous chin-folds sidles up next to me and gives me a slimy, wet-lipped grin. This is the kind of male attention I attract these days. Middle-aged, sweating perverts who spend their Friday nights in the lingerie aisle. I realise with horror that that’s how a stranger might describe me, lurking here, not quite knowing what to do with myself. Quickly, I grab a black lacy bra and knicker ensemble, then black stockings and any old random suspender belt and stuff them into my basket. Without checking the sizes, I hurtle towards the checkout.

My stomach rumbles as I join the queue, and I eye the king prawns in the clear plastic packet in my basket. Is it normal to lust over food the way I do? To feel constantly ravenous? The checkout boy, who looks all of twelve, is taking an age to barcode-bleep everything. Finally, it’s my turn. I place my purchases on the conveyor belt, trying to conceal the underwear by laying the bag of rocket on top of it. The boy picks up the rocket and stares at the scraps of black lace. Only, they’re not just black lace. Neatly stitched between the bra cups – and at the front of the knickers, I now realise – are tiny pink satin teddy bears stitched with the words ‘Hugga Bubba’.

The boy smirks. I grimace back, willing him to bleep everything at breakneck speed so I can get out before my head bursts. ‘No price on this,’ he announces, dangling the suspender belt delicately between thumb and forefinger.

‘I can get another one if you like,’ I blurt out, blood swirling in my ears.

‘No, it’s okay . . . Cathy! Can you get another one of these? What size is it?’ He turns to me.

‘Um, medium, I think.’ I wonder what might be the most efficient way of committing suicide in Tesco. Impaling myself on a cooking utensil? Or hiding until closing time, then shutting myself in a freezer? A woman with her lips pressed into a prim, scarlet line stands behind me in the queue. Her eyes meet mine. Medium? she’s obviously thinking. A little optimistic, aren’t we, love? I glance down at her basket. It contains soya milk, porridge oats and a punnet of raspberries. No pervo underwear. No desperate woman trying to perk up her disinterested husband on a Saturday night. Bitterly, I wonder if he’s finished that book yet.

Somehow, though, by the time Cathy returns with another suspender belt, I’m beyond embarrassment and decide to just brazen it out. ‘Thanks,’ I say grandly, giving it a little twirl before dropping it into my shopping bag. ‘Have a great evening.’

‘You too,’ the checkout boy says, grinning. As I leave, making a supreme effort to walk tall and proud – with a slight sashay, actually – I feel the scarlet-lipped woman’s eyes boring into the back of my head. Who cares what she thinks? I am Laura Swan, a mother of three but also a woman, dammit, who is reclaiming her sexuality.

I march home, swinging my bag and breathing in the cool, soft air of a perfect April evening. Tonight will bring Jed back to me, I can feel it.