The Single Mums Move On

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The Single Mums Move On Page 2

by Janet Hoggarth


  On the flip side of the coin, I was fighting being an actual functioning adult with every single atom of my being. For example, one morning after a one-night stand fuelled by Bolivian marching powder, I had found the draining board swept of dishes, what could only be smeared arse cheek prints on the steel worktop, and the green washing-up liquid overturned, dripping down the kitchen cabinets. This wasn’t how I had planned to be approaching forty-two: as a single mum, living in a Dickensian flat, with a dead mouse in the hoover bag, indulging in a multitude of meaningless but fun one-night stands.

  Meanwhile, Jacqui had met Mark, a psychology lecturer, when she was visiting her sister in Australia the Christmas after I moved out of the commune. She engaged in an all-out war with Simon, her ex-husband, about emigrating with their children, Neve and Joe, a year later (she had dual citizenship). But she won him round eventually with a deal to bring them over twice a year for a few weeks at a time. ‘Yeah, I don’t get why he’s so fucking angry about it – he only sees them twice a month anyway because now he has two more kids, he hasn’t got time for them. I told him this way he’d spend more quality time with them than his half-baked attempts at being a dad every other weekend.’

  I had been devastated when she’d dropped the bomb – she had been my steadfast wing woman out on the Strip (our affectionate nickname for Lordship Lane), when our misadventures had seen us behaving like teenagers in the Adventure Bar, hooking up with the most unsuitable men, snogging behind the fruit machines in Kebab and Stab while awaiting chips for the journey home.

  ‘In the words of Arnie: “I’ll be back,”’ she reassured me as I grizzled into my red wine. ‘I’m renting my house out and if it’s empty when it’s time to come home for the kids’ custody visits, we’ll stay there. If not, I’ll rent somewhere local. The kids will be with Simon most of the time, and Mark might come over too, depending on work. He’s never been to the UK. We can all hang out.’

  To top it all off, Chris proposed to Amanda just before Jacqui abandoned us, making me wonder if my time in the Single Mums’ Mansion had only been a dream. I was so happy for Amanda – she totally deserved happiness second time round – but it had just served to highlight how far I was from finding that lasting relationship, until I met Ifan. Since we’d been together, the mould, the distance from my friends, and Penge itself had steadily grown on me, much like the spores in Grace’s wardrobe. Bad Ali had finally been firmly stashed back in her box.

  But now, my spidey senses were tingling. For two nights in a row between Christmas and the wedding, Ifan had failed to come home from a boys’ night out. His phone was ‘switched off’ the entire time, sparking well-acquainted dread in me.

  ‘Where were you?’ I’d beseeched him when he’d nonchalantly resurfaced the day before we had to leave for the wedding like he’d just popped to the shops for some milk instead of vanishing into a textless void.

  ‘Nowhere. At the old flat. I told you I was going there. Things were mad at the shop because of the sales so I crashed with Niko both nights.’

  ‘You never told me!’ I’d screeched, hysteria bubbling dangerously below the surface. ‘I would have remembered.’

  ‘You were on the phone to Amanda talking about some wedding stuff when I told you – you nodded.’

  ‘You’re lying! I would’ve said something.’

  ‘I’m not lying, babe. How could you say that?’ He winked at me; his puppy-dog eyes coupled with his lilting Welsh accent making it impossible for me to get genuinely cross with him. ‘We live together – I’m hardly going to sabotage all this, am I?’ He waved his hand round the dingy living room like it was Versailles.

  ‘I suppose not.’ I really wanted to believe him. He was so good with Grace, well apart from when she had a tantrum; then he would storm off. But to be fair, I find her annoying when she’s behaving like that. When it was good it was lovely to finally feel like a real family, and maybe one day, when he had a proper job we would have a baby of our own… ‘Next time can you just make sure I’m listening before you think you’ve told me something?’

  ‘Yes, anything for you, babe. You know that.’

  *

  ‘I hate everyone looking at me,’ Amanda said tremulously, holding on to her dad’s arm as we waited for the music to start in the antechamber of Rye Town Hall. ‘What if I cry?’

  ‘You’re supposed to cry at weddings!’ Jacqui said, rolling her eyes. ‘No one’s going to tell you off!’

  ‘Stop catastrophising,’ I said gently. ‘Just enjoy it. It’s your moment!’

  However, when the time came to walk down the aisle, I hadn’t heeded my own advice. As soon as the impressively ornate doors opened and the town crier rang his bell to announce us, I spotted Ifan standing next to Jacqui’s Mark, his hand proprietorially on Grace’s shoulder, eagerly waiting. The first thought that burned in the back of my mind was: I can’t marry a shop assistant. I swiftly berated myself for being such a snob, but in reality, he didn’t earn enough money to support us if we had a child.

  He mouthed ‘I love you’ as I passed him and the predictable waterworks switched on. What did I even want? Why did weddings always emphasise all the glaring faults in my own life? Cue tender violin music playing a dulcet tune and a close-up of my face as I realise yet again, I am the bridesmaid and not the bride. Cut away to Ifan, looking longingly at me. STOP IT! I had been editing and imagining my inner movie since I was eight when I first saw Nine to Five and realised I wanted to be a combination of Jane Fonda, Lily Tomlin and Dolly Parton when I grew up. Other leading ladies I’d cast in my internal film over the years included various girl crushes of the moment: Molly Ringwald during the John Hughes era; Julia Roberts when Pretty Woman and Mystic Pizza were released; Claire Danes when she starred in My So-Called Life; but my failsafe overriding choice would always be Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan.

  By the time the ceremony was over and we’d all posed for photos on the steps of the town hall, I had pulled myself together. Later that evening in the grand ballroom, still decked out in Christmas regalia for New Year’s Eve the following day, Ifan disappeared from his seat at the top table during Amanda’s dad’s emotional speech in which he thanked all of us for standing by her in her hour of need. Later, I found Ifan escaping, halfway up the hotel’s windy stairs to our room.

  ‘Where’re you going?’

  ‘To bed.’

  ‘Why? The party’s just about to start.’

  ‘I don’t belong here.’

  ‘Yes you do, you’re with me.’

  ‘No one will ever say those amazing things about me if we get married. Everyone here is so decent. I should go.’

  ‘Stop being dramatic! Come on, let’s go and dance. I want to see Amanda cut the cake and throw her bouquet.’ He looked uncertain, like he was about to say something and then thought better of it.

  ‘OK. Sorry. Can men get periods? I think I’ve got mine.’ I play-punched him on the arm as we headed back to the ballroom and the disco, his sweaty hand in mine.

  *

  ‘Can you meet for coffee?’ Amanda asked after she’d returned from her Sri Lankan honeymoon two weeks later, uncharacteristically ringing me instead of texting.

  ‘I’m at work. I can do it Wednesday or Thursday.’

  ‘Can you do this evening?’ I was sure I could detect a cagey undercurrent in her voice.

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes, no everything is fine. Can you do later on?’

  ‘I can meet you when Grace is in bed and Ifan is home. Where?’

  ‘My house, if that’s OK.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll see you there as soon as I can escape.’

  All day at work, in between chasing mischievous toddlers round the studio forcing new outfits on them for the catalogue shoot I was styling, I kept trying to guess what was so important it couldn’t wait. Then it dawned on me: Amanda must be pregnant! She wanted to tell me face to face. Oh, how exciting. I couldn’t wait to see her. I’d buy a bottle of f
izz. Technically she could only have one glass, if she wasn’t feeling sick, but Chris and I could polish it off. How was she going to cope with four kids, though?

  By the time I arrived at Amanda’s it was eight o’clock.

  ‘Hello! You look so well. Glowing! How was the honeymoon? The pictures looked amazing on Facebook.’ I leaned in to hug her in the hallway and she grasped me tightly, her face set in a rigid mask of concern. I glanced past her and noticed Ursula sitting at the central island in the kitchen, sipping a glass of red in her slick city work clothes, her wavy brown hair scraped off her face into a sleek topknot. Chris was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Come through and sit down,’ Amanda said in a kind voice, the one she reserved for serving someone a dose of uncomfortable home truths.

  ‘Oh, fucking hell, what’s happened? Who’s died?’ I asked as I followed her down the hallway and into the homely kitchen at the back of the house.

  Ursula stood up from the bar stool, taller than normal on account of her bitch heels. She also looked grave, but gave me a smile.

  ‘It’s not Jacqui, is it? Has something happened to her?’ I clutched my throat, my hand shaking while Amanda stopped next to Ursula.

  ‘No one’s died. Fuck, this is so hard, so I’m just going to say it.’ Amanda took a deep breath. ‘Ifan has been caught on camera having a threesome with Sandeep and Mary from the newsagent round the corner from me.’

  2

  I Don’t

  ‘Fuck off! They’re married. That would never happen!’

  ‘Apparently they’re massive swingers,’ Ursula piped up regretfully, handing me a glass of red wine. I took it, my hand shaking so violently I had to temporarily put it back onto the wooden worktop.

  ‘How do you even know this?’ I spat out, the walls of the kitchen expanding and then rapidly contracting. I felt the force of my breath whacked out of me as familiar crimson rage gripped me tightly round the chest. ‘I bet it isn’t even true!’ I was pacing now, both legs juddering like loose live wires sparking uncontrollably, making stillness a near impossibility.

  ‘Ifan’s other girlfriend posted the clip on a revenge porn site and someone saw it,’ Amanda said quietly, the gravitas of the words visibly weighing her down.

  ‘Other girlfriend? Who saw it? Did you see it?’

  Amanda nodded.

  ‘What the fuck were you doing looking at a revenge porn site?’

  ‘I wasn’t. One of Chris’s friends happened to catch it. I daren’t ask how or why, but they recognised Ifan from the wedding.’

  ‘Have you got the clip?’

  ‘You don’t need to look at it. I can tell you it’s Ifan.’

  ‘I want to see it.’

  ‘Ali, it will just make you feel worse,’ Ursula tried to reason with me, but I was beyond that.

  ‘How the fuck can I feel any worse? You’ve just told me Ifan has been unfaithful and that he actually has another girlfriend. Who is she?’

  ‘That’s the thing, we don’t know,’ Amanda admitted. ‘She posted on this website. Shani something or other.’ I shook my head – it felt like it was crammed with buzzing bees.

  ‘I don’t know who that is. She could be fake. Or from before I met him.’

  ‘The footage was filmed a few months back. I think the date said November the ninth, which was when we were out for my hen do.’

  ‘Fucker! He didn’t come back until Tuesday after the hen do,’ I roared.

  ‘Has he gone AWOL before?’ Ursula asked suspiciously. I winced, knowing what they’d say about the truth.

  ‘Yes, but he always had an explanation.’

  ‘Ali! You should have told us. How many times did he go missing?’ Amanda cross-examined me.

  ‘Half a dozen or so.’

  ‘You’ve only been together just over a year,’ Ursula protested. ‘What excuses did he use?’

  ‘He had to work late at the shop with Niko to do a stocktake after work a few times so they crashed at the flat. Other times he bumped into someone from home and they went on a bender.’

  ‘Isn’t this what Jim used to do before you gave birth to Grace?’ Amanda eyeballed me. ‘He used to go AWOL too.’

  ‘Yes, but it was always after a row. I haven’t had a proper row with Ifan, yet.’

  ‘Ali, what the fuck? He’s been treating you like a doormat and you’re just covering for him. Has he been sponging off you too?’

  ‘I’ve lent him money, yes, but he’s promised to pay it back. He’s trying to break into modelling.’

  ‘You have a child and rely on benefits to help you out. He shouldn’t be taking anything or expect anything!’ Amanda wore her crazy face; she’d abandoned her zen softly-softly approach.

  ‘Can I see the video?’

  Amanda glanced at Ursula and she nodded at her.

  ‘Fine, if it gives you closure.’ She handed me her phone with the footage already open. It was very blurry but then, when the lens focused, I could make out Ifan half naked on a flowery Cath Kidston duvet with a bare-chested man dressed in tight black leather chaps looming over him. The chaps were unflattering, pushing his gut up into a muffin top. It certainly looked like Sandeep, and in any other situation it would have been hysterically funny, the thought of him trying to squeeze into unforgiving black leather. Mild-mannered Sandeep, who always asked if you wanted one of the chocolate bars on special offer. And to think I had missed seeing him when I’d moved out of Amanda’s! Mary must have been filming. Holy shit, there she was standing in front of a large canvas of the New York skyline. It looked exactly like one from Ikea, in fact the whole bedroom was kitted out with Ikea knick-knacks – some of them were in my home! She was in full leather bondage gear with a stick in her mouth, or was it a gag? I turned the volume up so I could hear. Who was filming then? Suddenly I heard a familiar voice: Niko, he was the cameraman. Sandeep started tantalisingly to peel down Ifan’s underpants and I couldn’t watch any more, my stomach swilled with what felt like battery acid, and I hastily thrust the phone at Amanda.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Amanda whispered. ‘I couldn’t not tell you.’

  ‘It was like some fucking shit porn film from the seventies.’

  ‘Was that Niko I could hear?’ Ursula asked tentatively. She and Niko had shagged once when they were very drunk. Not to be repeated: apparently his sexual transgression was golden showers…

  ‘Yes, the fucker. I always thought it was weird how much time they spent together. And Ifan was completely obsessed with anal sex.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he’s gay,’ Ursula said reasonably. ‘Lots of straight men are obsessed with it. The forbidden fruit and all that.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Amanda asked me, as always she expected there to be an exit plan just when I wanted to curl up into a ball and pretend none of this was happening.

  ‘Throw him out. Oh God, why now? I fucking hate January, I hate being on my own, especially in winter.’ Before I knew it I was howling my eyes out, my nose stinging from the deluge, and Amanda and Ursula were hugging me.

  ‘You deserve so much better, you really do,’ Ursula soothed me. ‘You are too good for him.’

  ‘Yes,’ Amanda agreed. ‘I think he has massive self-loathing, which is why he’s so vain. I’ve seen him posing in the pub windows. He hasn’t got anything else apart from his looks. He’s never going to make it as a model now. He’s too old. Don’t they all have to have been spotted by the time they’re eighteen?’

  ‘Yes, but older models are trending now,’ Ursula replied while I continued to snot into my hands. Amanda shoved a torn-off piece of kitchen towel at me. ‘Look at David Gandy, he’s old.’

  ‘Hardly! He’s the same age as Chris. We’re old!’

  ‘Speak for yourself!’ Ursula cackled.

  ‘I’m old,’ I sobbed pathetically. ‘I’ll never find anyone now. I can’t face going back out there. It was so shit last time.’

  ‘Then don’t go out there,’ Ursula said firmly. ‘You’ve got to
bin Twat Face yet. Why are you talking about meeting someone else when you’re still in the shit? One thing at a time!’

  ‘I hate him! How can he do this to me?’

  No one said anything. Fundamentally I knew what they were thinking: that I’d let this happen by being a pushover. Amanda was such a hard nut that no one would ever walk over her again. Chris was lovely and was besotted with her, but she was in charge and completely emotionally self-sufficient. And Ursula expected perfection from every man she ever met, most of whom were dumped for sniffing too much or breathing too loudly. She managed a massive job in recruitment in the city and didn’t need anyone. She had a fabulous life travelling and dating only on her terms.

  ‘Right, we’re going now, you and me.’ Amanda clapped her hands together as if she was rounding up her gaggle of children. ‘You coming?’ she asked Ursula.

  ‘No, I have to head off. I’ve got a meeting to prep for.’

  ‘What?’ I cried, wiping my streaming nose on the sodden kitchen towel, looking from Ursula to Amanda. ‘Where’re you taking me?’

  ‘To your flat. We’re chucking out that cock womble.’

  ‘Cock womble!’ I spluttered, almost, but not quite, forgetting that I was aggrieved.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  I nodded enthusiastically

  ‘I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to use it. This feels like the right occasion.’

  *

  When we entered my flat, Amanda hung back in the poky kitchen situated by the front door. Ifan’s shabby bike rested up against the assortment of coats dangling down from the rack in the gloomy entrance hall. His bulky orange cycling rucksack took up the rest of the space so I had to step over it to walk into the open-plan living room. The urge to kick the bike until it was reduced to a pile of nuts and bolts was so unbearable I had to dig my nails into the palms of my hands until my knuckles turned white. Ifan was stretched out on the incongruous hot-pink fleur-de-lis sofa that was more suited to the Victorian house from my life with Jim.

 

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