Читать книгу Mum On The Run - Fiona Gibson, Fiona Gibson - Страница 9

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.’