Читать книгу The Motherhood Walk of Fame - Shari Low - Страница 10

There are two things in life that I know inside out: one is the local kiddies’ indoor play area and the other is my husband. He doesn’t like change. He doesn’t do spontaneity. He definitely doesn’t do plain fecking crazy. So I did have the wherewithal to recognise that if I ambushed him with the grand announcement that we were all off to Hollywood the very minute he walked in the door he’d be about as thrilled as J.Lo in anything polyester.

So I waited until he’d dumped his briefcase at the door, hung up his jacket and kicked off his shoes before me and the kids did a conga past him singing, ‘We’re all off to LA, we’re all off to LA, da da da da da, HO, da da, da, da, da.’

He laughed, that gorgeous face crinkling up into a grin that gave me goose bumps. Mac threw himself into his daddy’s arms. ‘Daddy, daddy, we’re going to Hollywood and, and…’ he was in a frenzy by this time, ‘Mickey Mouse is there, and, and Pluto and, and Spiderman and, and, and…’ He didn’t get a chance to finish. Wisely, Mark recognised that such an extreme level of excitement could mean only one thing: incontinence. He whisked Mac into the downstairs loo before he peed his pants.

‘Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever a spider can…’ sang wee Benny in something approaching the cartoon’s theme tune. What did that say about me as a mother? Could they rhyme off the birds in the skies? No. Could they spot a petunia at a hundred paces? No. Could they tell you the name of the Prime Minister? No. But they could win Junior Pop Idol by chanting the theme tunes to every cartoon that was ever made.

We definitely had to get out more. Oh well, in LA we’d be far too busy surfing and going to Tom Hanks’s house for tea to spend any time in front of the box.

‘So, do you want to tell me what’s going on?’ said Mark when he emerged from the downstairs loo. He didn’t look too pleased and I guessed that it probably had something to do with the damp patch on the front of his Hugo Boss suit. Damn.

‘Sam called today–his agent has read Nipple Alert and feels sufficiently excited by it to request that I come over to LA while he promotes it to the world’s biggest movie studios. I’ve done a cost-versus-risk analysis and while it is, of course, a speculative journey, I feel that it has sufficient merit to warrant extracting funds from our account and making the trip. I’ve cleared it with our accountant who has confirmed that a large portion of the outlay will indeed be tax deductible. I recommend that we start scouring the internet immediately in order to minimise our outlay by booking the most economical flights available and use the air miles that we’ve accumulated over the years to further reduce costs. I would anticipate leaving in approximately three weeks, giving you plenty of time to clear your current caseload.’

You just know I’m lying, don’t you? Was it the ‘cost-versus-risk analysis’ bit that gave it away?

What I actually said, in a babbling rushed voice that was donated especially for the occasion by the Gods of Helium, was, ‘Sam called, we’re going to LA, they want my book, Mark, they want my book! Oh my God, I can’t breathe! Anyway, so we have to go to LA and we have to go this week, so I looked on the internet and all the flights are fully booked, so fuck it, I used my credit card and got us all on a flight on Friday, business class, British Airways. You get those lie-down seats and free pyjamas. And your own telly screen. And, oh my God, Mark, I’m so excited. I haven’t found us anywhere to live yet, but Sam says we can stay with him till we find somewhere. Can you believe it, Mark, can you believe it?’ At which point I spun round, reached behind me for his hands, slapped them on my arse, grabbed wee Benny and started another conga, singing, ‘We’re all going to LA, we’re all going to LA, da da da da da, HO, da da da da da…’

I was halfway into the kitchen before I realised that Mark wasn’t behind me.

I stopped, turned around and saw that he was still standing at the end of the hall, and the whole ‘crinkled-up cute grin’ thing he had going was definitely gone.

‘Pardon?’ he said.

I knew I was clutching at straws, but for a few seconds I hoped that it wasn’t a pardon in the ‘for fuck’s sake, have you lost your mind’ sense and more one in the ‘sorry darling, in all the excitement I missed some of that last statement–free pyjamas, did you say?’.

‘What bit did you miss?’ I asked hopefully.

‘The bit where my wife lost the plot altogether and, if I understand correctly, booked flights we can’t afford, for a trip we can’t take, on the premise that some agent thinks that her book might, perhaps, maybe appeal to someone in the movies.’ Then his tone changed altogether. ‘Incidentally, congratulations on that part, honey, you deserve it.’

‘Thanks,’ I mumbled.

‘Carly, I’m sorry but I can’t take any time off right now. You might not have noticed, since the last time you asked me about my work was about three years ago…’

Ouch. Bulls-eye in the dartboard of brutal honesty for Mr Barwick.

‘…but I actually have a lot on my plate just now and there’s no way that I can…’

‘We’re all going to LA, we’re all going to LA, da da da da da, HO, da da da da da, HO.’

It was Mac, on the way through the hall, having divested himself of his wet undergarments and replaced them with a Batman suit.

Benny spotted him. And, naturally, burst into song.

‘Da na na na Da na na na Da na na na Da na na na BATMAN!’

Woah. My husband and I were in crisis talks, having one of the most important discussions we’d had in years and I couldn’t hear a word he was saying because I was stuck in the family home equivalent of Nickelodeon Channel hell.

And said husband was looking at me like he was trying to decide whether to have me certified or shot.

How to play this? I could shout, I could holler, I could blackmail. I was sure I had some dodgy photos of him somewhere. In the end, I decided to let one of my other personalities take over. If anyone could swing this, it was Saint Carly of the Blessed Martyrdom.

‘But Mark, we have to go. Come on, please. Mark, look at my life. I cook, I clean, I organise your life and I spend most of my day dealing with the aftermath of other people’s body fluids.’

Mac and Benny had the decency to hang their heads at this point.

‘This could be great! This could be our big chance for financial reward, for a life of fame and stardom, for glitz and glamour…’

I could see I wasn’t winning, so I pulled out my trump card.

‘…for a NANNY!’

He still didn’t blink. God, he was good. Saint Carly gave it one last shot.

‘Come on, babe. In five years I’ve never asked you to do anything for me. Do this for me, please.’

His face softened. I could taste victory. We were going! Now where was my passport, my travel adaptor and the list I got off the internet of all the stars’ Hollywood addresses?

Or maybe not.

‘Carly, I’m sorry. I’m really pleased that they’re interested in your book, but we can’t go just now. Mac has school. I have work. I can’t just take time off on a whim. And most of all, we can’t afford it. Can’t you tell them we’ll come over in a few months’ time when we’re a bit more organised and on our feet?’

Over my dead Tinseltown-bound body!

‘But we can’t. Mark, Hollywood doesn’t work that way!’ said I, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about. I’d seen Fresh Prince of Bel-Air twice, I watched Beverly Hills 90210 for years and I never missed an episode of Baywatch; I was a seasoned LA veteran.

I took a huge breath then went on the offensive.

‘Mark, they’re interested in me this week, but it’ll be someone else next week if I don’t get over there and make the most of it. And Sam says we should plan to stay for a month–four weeks without preschool for Mac is hardly going to scar him for life. He’s four–they’re still painting with their fingers and singing songs about blind mice for God’s sake. As for your work, Mark, you need a holiday. The whole legal backbone of this country is not going to crumble if Mark Barwick takes a month off. And don’t even get me started on money. If lack of money were a barrier to everything I wanted to do in life then I’d have done nothing. To hell with it, that’s what credit cards are for, I say!’ I finished with a dramatic flourish and accompanying triumphant hand gesture.

I peeked at the boys. Mac’s expression showed he was definitely on my side–I think it was the whole school-avoidance thing that swung it. Benny, however, just looked puzzled. Then, a split second later, his face lit up and he blurted out, ‘Three Blind Mice, Three Blind Mice…’

That boy was a walking request show.

Mark didn’t notice–he was far too busy getting pissed off. Or as close to pissed off as Mister S. T. Able ever got.

‘Carly, we know that’s your attitude to money and that’s probably why you had more debt than Peru when we met.’

He must have spotted the blaze of anger that went across my eyes because he switched to a more conciliatory tone. ‘Honey, it’s just too tenuous for us to risk blowing a fortune, not to mention my job. If Warner Brothers were on the phone right now with their chequebook at the ready, I’d say go for it. But how many people are in Hollywood right now trying to sell a script? Hell, the whole city is made up of wannabes who are convinced they’re the next big thing. Tell Sam thanks, but we’ll pass. We’ll maybe go over for a fortnight later in the year. The kids can do Disney and you can perhaps set up some meetings then.’

I was furious. What do you call a Taurean with the hump? Raging bull. Or ‘me’. But I was suddenly aware that the kids were watching the whole exchange, their heads swivelling from side to side like something out of The Exorcist.

I morphed into Mary Poppins. ‘Right, guys, come on then, bath time,’ I said in a singsong voice.

‘Don’t want a bath,’ Mac replied petulantly. ‘Want to go to see Spiderman.’

‘ Spiderman, Spiderman…’ Oh, Christ. I scooped Benny up, and invoked Method Number One in the Parental Code of Discipline and Behavioural Adjustment–blatant bribery.

‘Mac, fifty pence for sweets if you’re in that bath in five minutes.’

He shot up the stairs. That boy will do anything for cash to finance his E-number habit.

I crossed the hall to follow him with Benny wrapped around my neck, drooling milk down the back of my shoulder.

Mark was standing at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’m going,’ I said deadpan, when we were face to face. ‘This means a lot to me, Mark, and I’m going.’

I carried on up the stairs, furious that he’d so ruthlessly burst my little happy bubble of optimism and excitement. How often is the repetitiveness of everyday life interrupted with such an exciting prospect? One of my biggest ambitions in life had always been to sell one of my books to someone in the movie industry. Anyone. I didn’t care if it was the bloke who drove the tour bus in Universal Studios and he bought it for a tenner. But all my beloved husband could think about was the cost, and the fact that it wouldn’t allow him the statutory two-week lead time to fill out his company’s administration form, number 2334: Holiday Request Form for the Anal Retentive.

In fact, Sam wasn’t the only major A-list movie star who knew how serious I was about my dream. Kate Winslet knew too. Oh yes, we were close personal friends once. For about five minutes.

A few months before, the boys and I had been having a picnic in Richmond Park. It all sounds very Enid Blyton, but in truth it involved two Happy Meals from the nearest McDonald’s and a rug I got free with an order from a catalogue. We were lounging in the sun, when another family plonked down not far from us. I nodded a friendly hello, a gesture that was reciprocated by the blonde woman who was unpacking a picnic from a real hamper. Flash cow. I was furtively shoving my Happy Meal boxes under the rug, when I realised that I’d seen her before somewhere. It came to me in a flash. Checkout number six at Waitrose. She was the girl from Newcastle who was trying to break into glamour modelling. Suddenly the blonde with the picnic shouted to a little girl who was with her. Nope, no Geordie accent. But…oh, good grief, Kate Winslet! I was sure of it. I considered bursting into the theme tune from Titanic just to check.

‘Mac,’ I hissed, ‘go and play with that little girl.’

‘Can’t,’ he replied, completely matter-of-fact.

‘Why not?’

‘She’s a girl. Don’t play with girls.’

‘Mac, please. Just this once.’

‘Nope.’

I was getting desperate. I needed an ‘in’ and I wasn’t above resorting to desperate tactics to get it. Ever since Nipple Alert had been published I’d carried a copy around in my bag, just waiting for the day that I would bump into Steven Spielberg in Woolworths and present him with the material for his new blockbuster.

Time to call out the big guns.

‘Mac, a Spiderman magazine, a pound for sweets and you can watch The Simpsons every night this week if you go and play with her.’

He knew when he was beaten. But five Curly Wurlies would cushion the blow. Off he wandered with his football, and soon he had a game going with the little girl–two-touch soccer with Benny as a goalpost.

I wandered over as casually as I could. ‘Ah, kids–they just make friends so quickly, don’t they?’

Ms Winslet smiled, a grin that was no longer on her face ten excruciating minutes later after I’d feigned surprise at recognising her, told her how great she was, thrust my book into her hand and given her my phone number. I’m sure she was surreptitiously pressing a panic button on her hi-tech, A-list mobile phone to summon her security by the time I collected up the kids and left. I walked quickly just in case the police had already been tipped off about a demented stalker who was casing Richmond Park giving out free novels. Oh the shame.

Mark had laughed when I told him the story–then reminded me to carry his mobile number at all times so that I could get hold of him to post bail. That was in the days when he still had a sense of humour, before it went the way of Miss Winslet’s maiden voyage on that big cruise ship.

The splashes as I bathed the boys snapped me back to the present. I watched as Underwater Action Man whupped Scuba Spiderman in a fight for supremacy of the octopus squirty sponge and then we sang four choruses of ‘Row, Row, Row the Boat’.

‘Look at me, Mummy, look,’ shrieked Mac as he made a bubble Mohican on his head. I know I’m biased but my boys are extraordinarily gorgeous. Sometimes I wonder if I had sex with Brad Pitt and George Clooney.

The strange thing is, neither of my boys look particularly like Mark or me. Mac has jet-black hair, almond-shaped blue eyes and the most gorgeous smattering of freckles across his nose. Benny, on the other hand, is blond with the hugest green eyes, long black eyelashes, a little upturned nose and perfect little lips. At that time both the boys had spiky inch-long crew cuts–I’d love to say it was fashion but it had more to do with an outbreak of nits that had reached our house about four weeks earlier.

‘Fart! Fart!’ screamed Benny, momentarily turning the bath into a Jacuzzi. He then laughed so hard that it set off a choking fit and I had to whip him out, calm him down and make him sip water.

When was the last time I’d done that? Laughed uncontrollably, I mean, not farted in the bath–I gave that up when I got married.

God, I couldn’t remember. I now spent my life cooking, cleaning, working, smoking, sleeping and trying in vain to resuscitate a sex life that was in second-stage rigor mortis. Where was the fun? This wasn’t life, it was monotony.

And of all places, LA would be such an adrenalin rush. Running in slow motion across Baywatch beach. Skipping down Hollywood Boulevard. Going around on the big wheel on Santa Monica pier. Stalking Liam Neeson. Catching up with my best pal Kate Winslet.

How amazing would all of that be?

As for the boys, let’s see: they could spend a whole month freezing their bums off here, staying indoors because the rain was pelting down, painting with potato shapes for the four hundred and tenth time already this year, or they could have a blast surfing in the sun, playing baseball in the park and going to Disneyland.

And I hadn’t started on the fundamental reason for going. What if…Oh, I could hardly even think about it without wanting to shriek and dream about what I’d do with my first million. (Botox, incidentally, followed by lots of Prada, first-class flights and generally swanning around acting starry.) But what if some big-time, legendary, iconic studio actually bought the film rights to one of my books? That’s like winning the lottery. It’s like discovering an elderly relative you never knew has died and left you a fortune. It’s like robbing a bank. It could be the start of a brand-new life, not just for me, but for all of us.

I read the boys their stories, tucked them in and kissed them goodnight. No sign of husband. He’d obviously done what he always does when there’s a conflict in sight–decided to avoid it altogether. If Mark Barwick were alive in Wild West times he’d have chosen the day of the Alamo to nip to the nearest IKEA and stock up on soft furnishings for his cabin.

Mac yawned as I ruffled his hair. ‘Love you, Mummy.’

I kissed his cheeks, then his forehead, then his chin, then blew a raspberry on his chest. ‘I love you too, gorgeous.’

‘Mummy…’

‘Yes?’

I stood by and mentally prepared myself for one or more of his standard 443 stalling gestures. Can I have an apple? I want another story. Sing me a song. There’s a ghost under my bed. Is it Christmas tomorrow? I need a pee. Can I have a drink? What age am I? How many sleeps until I’m ten? Why is there no ice in ice cream? When I grow up can I be the Pink Panther? Where did I come from? So how did they get me out of there? Yuk, I’m never doing that. What goes faster, Batman or a jumbo jet? Why is Shrek green?

‘Mummy,’ he murmured again, his eyes already closing. ‘Are we really going to Disneyland?’

I kissed his forehead. ‘Yes, we are, baby. We definitely are.’

‘And Mummy…’

‘Yes, babe…?’

‘Why is Shrek green?’

I lay in bed that night with Mark lying next to me, pretending he was asleep. Or actually, maybe he was. It was amazing how many things I could think of that irritated me about my husband when I really tried, and the fact that he didn’t in any way hold with the old saying that you should never go to sleep angry was one of them. He could. Easily. We could have an argument that was verging on volcanic and he would still have no problem whatsoever rolling over and grabbing forty winks right in the middle of it.

My brain, however, was racing.

Whichever way I analysed it, there was no justifiable reason not to go to LA. Mark would come round. I had four days until the flight and if those days went the way of our normal major disputes (of which, I had to admit, there had only ever been five or six in the twenty-odd years we’d known each other), then he’d avoid me for about a day, spend the next day acting as if nothing had happened, finally get around to looking at things from my point of view on day three, and on day four either compromise or capitulate. Capitulation would be good, but I figured I could handle compromise. We could cancel the business-class flights and go standby. Or perhaps wait until the following week at the very latest. Or change airlines and save money by flying via Bangladesh.

One way or another, we’d get there.

There was no way that Mark would make me pass up this chance when he realised how much it meant to me. It might be a gamble, it might be reckless, it might be completely misguided–but it just might be fabulous. And there was only one way to find out. I knew Mark would come round. There was absolutely, definitely no way he’d make me do this on my own.

‘I can’t believe you’re doing this on your own,’ said Kate as she steered her perfectly clean, perfectly green, hybrid car around the big Concorde statue at Heathrow airport.

‘Me neither,’ concurred Carol.

I sighed. ‘Don’t get me started.’

I couldn’t quite believe it myself. The usual post-meltdown reaction had gone right to schedule. For a whole day.

On Tuesday evening (Day One: Avoidance) Mark had come home from work around eight. The boys were already down for the night and I was at the kitchen table pretending to create a literary work of genius on my laptop. He said hi in a flat, dismissive tone. I didn’t respond. He looked in the oven for his supper. I let him discover for himself that the oven was bare. He flicked on the kettle and pulled one cordon bleu, exquisitely prepared Pot Noodle from the cupboard. I continued to type. By this time my fingers were rattling across the keyboard, forming perpetual repetitions of Mark is a Tosser, Mark is a Tosser, Mark is a Tosser. He made his Pot Noodle, grabbed the paper and went into the living room. About an hour later I heard him moving around upstairs, going in and out of the boys’ room. He always kissed them goodnight before he went to…bed! He couldn’t be going to bed! Didn’t he want to talk about this at all? Aaargh! Well, bugger him.

And anyway, we were still on Aftermath, Day One of Operation Big Sulk. He was bound to have changed his tune by Wednesday.

He had, but only in a musical way.

Come Wednesday (Day Two: Pretend nothing has happened) he was whistling ‘Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love’ as he came in the door. Bloody whistling! My life was in turmoil, my heart was breaking, my soul was scarred…Okay, so I’m exaggerating a wee bit, but I was mightily pissed off. And he was whistling.

Tap, tap, oven bare, another Pot Noodle, bed.

Finally, Day Three, he spoke.

‘Carly, we have to talk about this.’

Ah, I knew he’d come around and I was delighted that he was actually doing it a day ahead of my estimation.

‘You’re right,’ I said softly, putting on my very best humble face and trying my hardest not to gloat.

‘Did the airline give you a refund or do we need to ask them in writing and provide some kind of official explanation as to why we cancelled the trip?’

I was astonished. This was when he should be packing his suitcase, ordering his dollars and launching a search party for his Speedos–last seen in 1989.

‘Mark, we’re going. I won’t miss this. I’d regret it forever.’

He looked more irritated than angry. ‘Come on, Carly, be reasonable. It’s crazy.’

‘I know! That’s one of the main reasons I want to do it. When was the last time you did something really, really crazy, Mark? So crazy that you wanted to scream with the sheer giddiness of it.’

‘The day I married you,’ he said calmly.

Oh. Sails now wind-free. And his facial expression hadn’t changed so I couldn’t tell if that had been a good comment, as in crazy-great, or a bad comment, as in crazy-should’ve-been-locked-up, so I just ignored it.

‘Please, Mark, this really means a lot to me.’

‘Carly, my job means a lot to me–mainly that it keeps a roof over our heads. I’m in the middle of a major deal. If I pull out now I could lose the client and a shit load of commission–commission that we could really do with.’

‘Fuck it, there’ll be other deals, other commissions.’

‘Jesus, are you never going to grow up, Carly?’

I don’t think the first response that came into my head–‘Definitely not, and where did you put my pogo stick?’–was the answer he was looking for, so I didn’t say it out loud. Once upon a time that would have made him crease with laughter. Where had that guy gone?

‘Yes! I will, I promise. I mean, I have. Look at me: I iron, for Christ’s sake. I now know that Dyson isn’t the name of a rock group. I pay tax. I make the boys wash their hands after they pee. I say things like, “If you don’t behave then Santa won’t bring you any toys.” I’m a fully fledged bloody adult.’ I was tempted to add, na na na na boo boo, but thought it might blow my well-made point.

‘Then use some sense and don’t go.’

‘I’m going.’

‘I’m not.’

And he didn’t. Day Four (Capitulation and compromise) and here we were, charging up to the departure terminal at Heathrow, one woman, two pals, two children and six suitcases. And no Mark.

He had tried again to change my mind the night before, but it was futile, despite tugging my heartstrings so hard that they almost snapped.

‘Carly, you can’t do this. How can I be apart from the boys for a month?’

I knew it would devastate him, but on the other hand there was a simple solution–he could find a way to come. He’d been with his company for twenty years–twenty years of slog and success. I was positive that if he asked them for a month off they would agree. But I was also convinced that the problem wasn’t with bureaucracy, it was with Mark’s refusal to do anything that hadn’t been analysed, prepared and planned to the degree of a military operation.

For once I was awake that morning when he left. As I lay in the dark, I heard him go into the boys’ room, kiss them and murmur something. A few minutes later, thud (trip over briefcase), rip (banana off bunch), door open, door shut, car engine on, car engine fades as he drives off down the street.

I wrote him a letter, giving him the flight details, Sam’s address and telephone numbers, and got the boys to draw kisses across it before leaving it propped against the cornflakes. I still didn’t think that he’d let us go alone. Come on, we were a team. Soul mates. Best mates. Okay, so perhaps we’d let things slide lately and hadn’t been paying each other enough attention, but we were definitely in this for the long haul, weren’t we? Definitely. So he’d made his point. Let’s move on. Santa Monica Boulevard, here we come.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Carol. ‘Any minute now security will arrest you because you look like you’re casing the place.’

My eyes flicked manically from one door to another. We were standing in the middle of a packed terminal, at the entrance to the security area that leads to the departure lounge, and I was rooted to the spot.

‘I’m waiting for the snot bit,’ I replied, still searching the crowd.

‘What?’ said Kate.

‘You know, the snot bit. Officer and a Gentleman, he carries her out of the factory. Top Gun, he goes back to the café and puts their song on the jukebox. Dirty Dancing, he pulls Baby out of the corner. Friends, Rachel gets off the plane. Pretty Woman, he decides to overlook the fact that she’s a slapper and climbs up a ladder. The romantic ending. The bit where the hero comes rushing in and you go all warm and bubbly, despite dripping with snot.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen, would all passengers on Flight BA0283 to Los Angeles please proceed directly to your departure gate, as this flight is preparing to board.’

‘That’s you, honey,’ prompted Kate, her eyes misty. Oh crap, we were having a snot moment without the big hunk charging to the rescue. Could we do nothing right?

That’s when I saw him. It wasn’t hard. At over six foot Mark was usually one of the tallest in the room. Over a sea of heads, I could see an inch of that familiar dark hair coming towards us. I swear it was like a slow-motion B-movie ending, only without the crap music that sounded like it was composed by someone’s auntie on her organ after a dozen gins. He was fifty feet away: my heart started to race. Forty feet: a huge grin crept across my face. Thirty feet: I went up on my tiptoes, wanting to see the expression on his face as he rushed towards me. Twenty feet: I started to wave. Ten feet: I stopped breathing. Nine, eight, seven, six…A shriek was starting in my stomach and working its way north. Five, four, three. Aaaaaaargh! There it was–one shriek, at a tone so high-pitched that every dog within a tenmile radius just had a heart attack. Two, one…That’s how long it took me to realise that the shriek wasn’t mine. It belonged to what looked like a Swedish au pair called Inga, and she was now sucking the tonsils out of a bloke who was the spitting image of my husband from the forehead up.

It wasn’t Mark. He hadn’t come. He really hadn’t come.

I swallowed.

‘That’s us, Mum, that’s us. Come on!’ yelled Mac excitedly. Shallower than a foot spa, that boy. He was leaving his father for a month, his mother was devastated, we were going to the unknown, facing an uncertain future, and don’t even get me started on the fact that I’d be in debt until I was sixty after this trip.

‘Come on, Mum, our plane’s ready. D’you think I can wear the pilot’s hat, Mum? Do you, do you, do you?’ He was going hyper again.

I raised my eyes to heaven. Dear God, if I promise never to ask you for anything else again, please hear me now. Please, please, please make this trip worthwhile. Please make Mark come charging in that door right now. And please do not let Mac pee his pants in the middle of a security check at Heathrow. They’ll think it’s fear and have us strip-searched before you can say ‘And what exactly is that white powder up your jacksy, madam?’

‘You have to go now, Carly If you’re going…’ Kate said tentatively.

I swallowed again, and then scoured the room one last time. Bastard.

I took a deep breath, threw my handbag over my shoulder, my carry-on bag over the other one, grabbed both my boys’ free hands (their other hands were pulling Postman Pat trolley bags) and leaned over to kiss Kate and Carol.

‘We’re going,’ I said with a rueful smile. ‘We’re definitely going.’

We were going to LA, we were going to have a ball, and, most importantly, I was going to show Mark stubborn-arsed Barwick that it wasn’t just some crazy flight of fancy. I was going to make a success of this trip. I was going to sell the film rights for one of my books to a movie studio and get a cheque with more zeros than Stephen Hawking’s IQ. I was going to make this pay off big-time and show Mark that all he needed in life was a little more faith in his wife.

That’s if I ever forgave him. And I wasn’t sure that I would.