by Jo Middleton
‘Nope,’ he said, ‘I just arrived. Nice to meet you. Shall we get a drink, then?’
‘I hope you’re hungry,’ I said, as we made our way to the bar. ‘I feel you’ve made some pretty grand claims.’
‘Oh no, don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’m not going to go mad. I’ve already eaten.’
Wait … what?
‘You’ve already eaten?’ I said, worried that I’d got the wrong end of the stick and perhaps we were just going to an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet to check out the soft furnishings.
‘Yeah, I had a McDonald’s on the way,’ he said, ‘just to tide me over.’
‘A McDonald’s?’ I said, baffled. ‘What did you have?’ As though that was really the question here.
‘Just a double cheeseburger and fries,’ he said.
Oh, right. Well, that’s OK, then. Just a double cheeseburger and fries. That’s fine.
By this point we were at the bar and doing the whole awkward ordering of drinks thing, so I didn’t have time to think about the burger situation. We chatted for a bit about work, Barnmouth, films – all the dull things you talk about when you don’t know someone but have to make sure there is never a silence.
When we arrived at the all-you-can-eat Chinese we were directed up to the tills where, apparently, you have to pay before you start eating. Not exactly romantic, but I guess at least it gets the whole ‘who’s going to pay for dinner’ question out of the way. Over drinks he’d already said he preferred to watch illegally downloaded videos than spend money at the cinema – sexy – and that he didn’t earn enough money to go out much, so I felt obliged to pay for myself.
Over satay chicken he told me all about his living situation. He’d moved to a new house a couple of years ago with his wife, who had since decided that being his wife wasn’t really one of her long-term goals. They’d carried on living together while he saved a deposit for a place of his own, and in the meantime she’d moved in a new partner.
‘Is this a prawn?’ he asked, picking up a prawn.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘are you not a fan?’
‘I’ll give it a go,’ he said, looking sceptical. He took a nibble. ‘It’s not too bad, but I don’t think I’ll have another one.’
Over crispy shredded beef he told me how, for most of his twenties, he’d mainly eaten cheese sandwiches as he was a bit fussy when it came to food. This put me off more than the whole ‘living with ex-wife and new partner’ situation, to be honest. I already have one child who won’t eat vegetables and another who doesn’t like different foods to touch on the plate, so I really didn’t fancy having to prepare separate rounds of cheese sandwiches at every meal.
‘I’m not that keen on this duck,’ he said, poking about at a little mound of dry-looking shredded meat.
‘I think you’re meant to have it in a pancake with cucumber and sauce?’ I said. ‘I expect it would taste better then.’
‘Oh, right,’ he said. ‘Like a crepe?’
‘No, not really like a crepe.’
‘Oh.’
I wonder what the thought process was for him when he signed up for Tinder? ‘You know what, I’m living with my ex-wife still, I have no money and I don’t know how to eat like a grown-up – this feels like I’m in the right place to start thinking about dating!’
Tuesday 20 March
Message from Danny tonight: ‘Can you please name me the oldest cartoon you remember from your childhood?’
The ‘most old’? I waited a while to reply because I was in the middle of an episode of Millionaire Matchmaker and I don’t feel like Patti Stanger would be into replying straight away to WhatsApp messages from men who eat takeaway on the way to a dinner.
‘Pigeon Street?’ I wrote eventually. ‘Thundercats? Fingermouse?’
‘Pigeon Street sounds fantastic’ he replied. ‘Also, I think it’s pronounced Dangermouse.’
‘There was also a creepy programme I watched called Tottie,’ I said, ‘which I googled recently and apparently it showed the first-ever murder on a kids’ programme.’
‘Hardcore,’ he said. ‘Like The Wire of its time.’ Five minutes passed and he messaged again.
‘I’m watching Care Bears,’ he wrote. ‘They are amazing.’ A pause. ‘They shoot love out of their chests.’ Another pause. ‘Ahead of their time.’
I pictured Patti the Millionaire Matchmaker’s face and decided not to reply. I screenshotted the conversation to WIB though, obviously.
‘WTF?’ said Sierra. ‘How old is he? Seven?’
‘He’s thirty,’ I said, ‘but he did get a bit squeamish over a prawn at the Chinese buffet. He mainly likes cheese sandwiches.’
‘He sounds like he’s perhaps not quite at the same life stage as you?’ suggested Lou tactfully.
‘Fox would get on well with him,’ said Sierra. ‘He loves all of the beige foods.’
What is it with kids and beige foods? Bread, cheese, pasta, potatoes – they can’t get enough of them. You’d think that, instinctively, they’d be drawn to colourful things, wouldn’t you? Primary colours and all that. Lego don’t make all their bricks beige. But maybe that’s because they know that kids would just eat them.
Thursday 22 March
Overheard Cassie and Yvonne at Busy Beavers talking about tutors. For a while I wondered if Cassie was thinking of learning a language, or perhaps Yvonne was retaking a maths GCSE (wouldn’t surprise me), but it turns out they were talking about tutors for their three-year-old children.
Cassie said, ‘You really cannot begin too early if you want give them the very best start. We’re keen that Aubyn gets to grips with phonics as soon as possible.’
Just fuck off, Cassie. They’re basically babies.
Friday 22 March
Stomped about all day feeling angry over nothing in particular.
Child-free weekend again as Jess wanted to be at home next weekend instead, so that the Easter bunny wouldn’t get confused. She was very anxious about missing out on the Mini Eggs. She is her mother’s daughter.
I thought about inviting Sierra or Lou over but the thought of having to speak to other people made me feel cross. Drank wine and re-watched Legally Blonde instead. Cried at Elle’s graduation speech.
Saturday 24 March
Profound pieces of advice received from hormone app – 0. Wine – 3 (for menstrual cramps and general despair at lack of purpose etc).
Period started today, so the last couple of days make sense now. Logged day one on the hormone app.
‘Today you may experience menstrual cramps and fatigue that might leave you feeling like you want to curl up on the sofa!’
No shit, Sherlock. I hope it’s more helpful than this, generally.
Sunday 25 March
Jaffa Cakes – 7 (as instructed by hormone app). Mild feelings of jealousy – 0. (Lies.)
According the hormone app, rising estrogen levels will be improving my outlook slightly but I ‘may still find myself upset if someone eats the last cookie’. I finished the Jaffa Cakes in my bedroom while Jess was watching Flo play Sims … just in case.
Lou has got a photography job! The woman from Grape and Grain who came to the IWD event got in touch with her and asked if she’d be able to create some product images that they can use on social media and in their marketing. Lou is over the moon, obviously. I am very pleased for her and not at all envious.
Monday 26 March
Bit of a shocker today. I had a WhatsApp message today from Cam, Flo’s father, while the girls and I were watching an old Death in Paradise and eating pizza. I now know where the expression ‘blood runs cold’ comes from.
When I saw his name appear on my phone I felt the insides of my arms go icy and my heart started pounding so fiercely that I had to make my excuses and hide in the bathroom for a bit as I felt sure the girls would be able to hear it.
I put the lid down and sat on the toilet, staring at the phone cradled in my lap. I didn’t know what to do. Should I read it? Should I
delete it without even looking? It’s ten years since we last heard from him. I decided that I couldn’t not read it.
‘Hey Franny,’ it said, ‘how’s things? I’m back in the UK and wondered if you fancied catching up? I’ve missed you. And Flo, of course. Call me. X’
I thought I might cry, but I didn’t; I just took very quick, shallow breaths. I felt numb. My eyes moved from side to side but my head was still. I didn’t know how to move my hands.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Mummy!’ It was Jess. ‘I need a wee! When are you coming out?’
‘I’m coming out now, darling!’ I said, standing up. I put my phone in the bathroom cabinet, behind the countless half-empty bottles of Calpol. I didn’t want it near me.
I went back downstairs and tried to do normal things, in a normal way, until bedtime.
At 2 a.m. I got my phone back out of the bathroom cabinet and the read the message again. And again. And again, until I knew it by heart.
I was mad, now.
How dare he? How dare he be so fucking casual about everything? Like we only saw him a few weeks ago. Like he didn’t leave me a broken mess on the floor of my life, Flo without a father, me without even a sense of who I was any more. And the ‘And Flo, of course’. Always an afterthought. Always someone to think about if it was convenient to him.
According to the hormone app my ‘thoughts are turning to secret crushes. Rising estrogen making you more likely to focus on that special someone’s strengths than their weaknesses.’
Not the time, estrogen, not the time.
Wednesday 28 March
Energy surges noted – 0. Episodes of Friends watched – 5. Chocolate digestives – 3.
Hormone app says I should be noticing a ‘significant surge in physical and mental energy today’. I’m beginning to be suspicious of its accuracy.
Horribly long day at work, taking calls from volunteers, promoting a sponsored skydive and ordering toilet paper at the same time as trying to fill out grant application forms.
‘What is the need you have identified; how did you identify it and how will your idea meet it?’
I have a 250-word limit for that question. Stared at it for a while, but realised I didn’t know the answers to any of it. Reluctantly knocked on Steve’s door.
‘Could I have a word?’ I asked him.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘my door is always open!’ Not true, as I had to open it after I knocked on it, but I let it go.
‘I’m working on some of these funding applications that Angela identified, but I’m not entirely clear on what it is we need the money for?’
‘To run the museum!’ said Steve, doing a weird flourish with his hands, like Willy Wonka or something.
‘Yes, but what, specifically?’ I said. ‘What needs have we identified and how does what we do meet them?’
He looked kind of blank. ‘Isn’t that your job?’ he asked. Is it my job? I don’t think so.
‘I thought perhaps there might be a little bit more strategic guidance?’ I asked, not sure if Steve would even know what that meant. ‘You know, some key objectives, market research?’
‘I trust you to take care of that,’ said Steve, and he started shuffling papers about. Excellent. So Steve has no idea about anything. Super.
Maggie came in with the collection boxes from Sainsbury’s and a slice of double chocolate brownie. I told her about the fundraising issues. She said it sounded like it might be the time for me to find something new. I asked if she was trying to get rid of me.
‘As long as you’re local I can always bring cake,’ she said.
No more messages from Cam and I haven’t replied. Spent all evening watching reruns of Friends and eating chocolate digestives.
Thursday 29 March – last day of term
Last day of term today and the much anticipated Busy Beavers Easter bonnet parade. This has always been a nerve-wracking time of the year for me, ever since my first brush with bonneting back in 2009 when I made the infamous ‘bonnet of death’ for Flo’s reception class Easter party.
It wasn’t long after the last time we saw Cam and, looking back, I wasn’t perhaps the most together I have ever been. I wanted to do well with the Easter bonnet, with that desperate sort of panic that comes from feeling like you just need this one thing to go well, to make everything else OK.
I bought an old straw hat in a charity shop and lengths of yellow satin ribbon and the night before the party I’d made a huge, ornate ribbon bow and decorated the brim of the hat with some fluffy chicks that I’d saved from the top of some Easter cakes we’d had the week before.
When I’d finished, I stood back to admire it, but it had felt as though something was missing. I hit on the genius idea of making some hard-boiled eggs and gluing three of them in a cluster, surrounded by twigs. I boiled the eggs and put them in the box to cool overnight before gluing them on in the morning.
Flo looked adorable. There were sighs of admiration from other parents as she took her turn on the stage in the school hall. She looked so proud – and for a second it felt like perhaps everything really was going to be OK, after all.
Then she spotted me in the audience and did a little skip of excitement. One of the eggs wobbled and came away from its gluey fixing. It fell to the floor in front of Flo and smashed open, white and yolk oozing out on to the stage. One of the other children screamed.
‘Flo killed a chick!’ yelled a boy who I think was called Kai.
‘The Easter bunny is dead!’ shouted someone else.
Flo started to cry, of course, looking between me and the egg, betrayal in her eyes. Apparently, I’d got a bit muddled and glued the uncooked eggs to the hat, leaving the hard-boiled ones in the box. I do feel the teacher overreacted a little bit, asking me to take Flo home. Once I’d taken the other two eggs off the hat and disposed of them safely there wasn’t anything to worry about. On the plus side, though, we got to have egg mayonnaise sandwiches for lunch.
My point being that you can understand why I was nervous about making Jess a bonnet.
Inevitably, I’d left it until the last minute and when the doorbell rang to signify Jess’s return, the extent of ‘plan bonnet’ was a vague idea involving egg boxes and mini eggs.
I opened the door.
‘Look what I made, Mummy!’ squealed an excited Jess, bouncing up and down on the spot. ‘It’s an Easter bonnet!’
She carefully tipped her head back to peer out at me from beneath what was undoubtedly a bonnet triumph. There were crepe paper daffodils, chicks made of woollen pom-poms and even some real foliage.
‘Oh my goodness,’ I exclaimed, ‘that’s incredible! What a great job you’ve done, Jess!’
‘Daddy helped a little bit,’ she said, ‘but I did most of it all by myself!’
‘What can I say,’ said Ian, shrugging. ‘She’s a pom-pom whizz.’
I didn’t know what to say. ‘Ian, it’s amazing! Thank you so much.’
‘You don’t mind, then?’ he asked. ‘I was a bit worried in case you’d already made something, but Jess didn’t seem to think you had.’ There was a hint of a smile.
‘Oh well,’ I said, ‘I was working on something, obviously, but this is way better. I can shelve what I’ve done for next year. Or, you know, just put the egg boxes back in the recycling.’
No more messages from Cam. I’m trying really hard to concentrate on other things – thinking about him gives me this horrible sense of being out of control, a kind of body-wide panic.
Friday 30 March – Good Friday
Body parts accidentally eaten – 1. Number of times Jess made me watch her do a ‘show’ – 7. (7 too many.)
Part of a tooth fell off today. I am thirty-seven years old and I am literally crumbling. Parts of me are just falling away like some sort of neglected country house where you aren’t allowed to touch the walls and old trees are propped up with steel rods.
What’s worse is that I didn’t even notice right a
way. I had been eating nachos and for a while afterwards I thought I just had a bit of salsa stuck between my teeth because it felt a bit weird. And then I realised the tooth felt weird because it wasn’t there any more. I must have actually eaten it, thinking it was a bit of tortilla chip, so I don’t even have it for the dentist to glue back on. (Can they even do that?) I will have to say I swallowed it, thinking it was a snack.
How embarrassing.
It was the side of a tooth around a root canal filling, so it doesn’t actually hurt – I’m guessing the tooth is just dead? It’s very sharp, though and obviously I have to poke at it with my tongue every twenty-seven seconds or so, so that’s not at all annoying. I phoned the dentist but then remembered it’s a bank holiday. This could really cramp my style when it comes to Mini Eggs.
According to the hormone app it’s a ‘great day to try out a new software program’, which seems a very oddly specific suggestion.
Saturday 31 March
Number of times tooth gap poked with tongue – 43,291. Medicinal gins swilled around my mouth – 3 (and swallowed so as not to waste it).
Bit down on the side of my tongue with my snaggle tooth while carefully eating a hot cross bun and scared Jess a bit by issuing forth a rather elaborate scream.
‘The tooth!’ I yelped.
‘God, Mum,’ said Flo, ‘how much longer are you going to go on about that tooth? You know that we can see when you’re poking it? It’s gross.’
‘Half of my tooth fell off Flo,’ I said indignantly, ‘and I ate it. Have a little sympathy.’
‘You said yourself it doesn’t even hurt,’ she said. She made a face and put on an annoying voice that I can only assume was meant to be me: ‘If you keep poking it you’re only going to make it worse.’