“I don’t think so.”
Liar.
“One of these days I’m going to find out that you’ve been secretly finishing at 5 p.m. on the dot and you’re out having a life before coming home to us lot.”
“A life? What’s that? Between you three, the office, my hot mistress and golf on the weekends I really don’t have time for anything else."
I threw a tea towel at him, which he caught effortlessly and threw back at me.
“I count down the hours until I’m reunited with my family, you know that.”
“Liar.”
“I am not!” he countered, incredulously.
“Did I say that out loud?”
He shot me a sulky look and called to the kids:
“I love you, boys. I’ll be home on time.”
I spent the next hour pleading with Adam to get ready, at a speed faster than a drunk snail but – as usual – it ended with me screaming at him to ‘get a move on’ because – as usual – we would be late. The school run was stressful enough, without the added pressure of battling traffic in less time.
Parents were feral at this time of the morning. I knew I wasn’t alone in this stress because everyone seemed to have the same look of grim determination on their face as they tried to park illegally or battle the jam at the drop-off point at the front of the school.
When I was lucky enough to get there on time, and parents worked as a collective being with seamless drop-offs, it was usually when Adam told me he’d lost a shoe or had forgotten to put his socks on.
If I didn’t get him out of the car in less than ten seconds I was going to be lynched by a stressed-out office worker in the car behind me, who needed to drop their own kids off immediately so they could get a large, bizarrely named coffee and get to their work on time before that bitch, Sandra, from the office tapped her watch and tutted at them for being late again – or so I imagine…
In order to prevent this anxiety-filled moment I usually opted to park on the road outside. It was a free-for-all too but at least if I managed to find an illegal parking spot I’d be able to let Adam put his shoe back on before I dragged him up the drive to the school.
Today, we were stuck in the traffic and we were late. I noticed that the woman in the car behind us was using her time in the traffic jam to apply her make-up.
I didn’t remember the last time I wore make-up. I caught a glimpse of my very pale, tired-looking face and decided to never look in the mirror again. I used to wear make-up every day but sheer laziness and a talent of avoiding mirrors at all costs meant I was now free of that responsibility.
Perhaps that’s why we haven’t had sex in a while. The mistress crack was one of his stupid attempts at a joke but it hit a nerve. Maybe it wasn’t a joke at all.
My destructive train of thought was interrupted by the make-up applicator, who beeped at me for not driving forward the five foot the traffic had moved. She’d obviously finished her eyeliner and was once again, conscious of the time. I waved my hand as a fake apology in the rearview mirror and continued on the slog that was the school run.
In a miracle of miracles, there was a space and it was big enough that I didn’t have to embarrass myself by attempting to parallel-park under pressure.
“Before we get out, do you have everything?” I asked, nervously.
“Yes, Mummy.”
“Shoes on both feet?”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“Great, we’re just about going to be on time! Good work, team!”
“Mummy, I forgot my school bag.”
“Crap.”
“Crap!” echoed Arthur, with glee.
“Don’t say bold talk, Mummy!” cried a stressed-out Adam.
“Do you really need it?”
“Of course, Mummy,” his eyes were filled with tears.
“Ok, sweety. We’ll go back and get the bag.”
With a heavy heart, I left behind my beautiful, big parking spot and trekked back to the house. The school bag sat in the driveway.
At least it hadn’t been taken away by the neighbour’s dog – who had a penchant for stealing towels from my washing line.
It was already after 9 a.m. by the time we made it back to the school, so I had no choice but to face the drop-off line at the door. If Adam’s shoes hadn’t survived the second trip to the school he was going in with whatever was left on his feet.
“Now, do you have everything?”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“Shoes on both feet?”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“Great, just jump out and tell the teacher you’re sorry for being late. I love you, have a great day.”
I got no reply and he didn’t even look behind to wave us off, as he ran into the school.
Ungrateful wretch.
I comforted myself in knowing that his teacher (and not me) was going to have to sit through a blow-by-blow account of the forgotten schoolbag incident.
“Ok, Artie. The world is our oyster, where shall we go?”
“To get chocolate from the shop,” he demanded.
“No, Artie.”
“How about some crackers?”
“Ok, we’re going home then.”
“Yay!”
While Arthur was happy to look out the window and say ‘crackers’ over and over, I took the opportunity to revisit my bad mood about my now absolutely positively philandering husband.
Could he really be having an affair? Was it the lack of sex? The lack of make-up?
I stopped myself in my tracks for even thinking that this alleged affair was because of something I had done.
As far as I was concerned I deserved sainthood for giving up my career to raise his children. Instead, I was being repaid by him screwing the ‘other woman’.
That utter bastard. I’m not going to stand for this.
I pulled the car over to a screeching halt and dug around in the handbag for my phone.
It was time for Benjamin Cole to get a piece of my mind.
Chapter 2
“Hello?”
The fool answered.
“What do you mean you have a mistress?” I raged.
“What?”
“This morning, you said you had a mistress!”
“Amy, I’m in the middle of the office can I phone you back?”
“No, you bloody well can’t. Do you think I’m going to give you time to get your story straight? You’re going to tell me what you meant by that.”
“It was a joke.”
“Oh yeah, likely story. I bet it was one of those jokes that are actually true, but you’re trying to put me off the scent by admitting to it. I’m wise to you, gobshite.”
“What?” he sounded genuinely confused.
“It makes sense, think about it.” I offered, with a little less fire in my belly than before.
“No, I won’t think about it nor am I entertaining this bizarre argument after I told a joke.”
“So you’re not going to admit it?”
“Admit what? That you’ve lost your sense of humour?”
After we remained silent on either end of the phone for almost thirty seconds I said: “There’s no mistress is there?”
“No, Amy.”
Fuck.
“Right, bye then.”
I clicked the phone off and wondered how I could spin this round so that I could also claim that I was joking.
I worked in PR for years, spin was my skill; but even this may be a tough one to get around.
Was I hungry? I tend to get cranky when I’m hungry. Damn it anyway, what was I even thinking?
Ben had never given me a moment’s worry when it came to fidelity.
In all the years we’d been together I couldn’t remember a time he had given another woman a second glance, let alone wanted to strike up a conversation with them. I was going to have to pin this on school run stress and hope he had a terrible day at work so this paled in significance.
Best keep my phone off for
a while just in case.
By the time Artie and I we were home, I was lost in thoughts of the early days of my courtship with Ben.
We met through mutual friends and it wasn’t an instantaneous spark of everlasting love, it was just: easy.
Everything with him was so simple. We had our first date and I was off the market ever since. There was no big dramatic declaration of love or stormy years of fights that eventually turned into a settled existence together, it was all like falling into the easiest transition of my life.
After years of horrible boys, I was wary of how easy the relationship was but it didn’t stop me. I think that’s always been a problem with me, I didn’t seem to learn as I bumped from one turd boyfriend to the next. I didn’t protect my heart as I should have, even after the umpteenth heartbreak, but I was glad I didn’t. If I had been a hardened, cynical wretch I might have lost Ben before it had even begun.
For the first few months, I waited for the other shoe to drop so I could discover the real him that he was obviously hiding – the horrible version. It never came. Instead, I fell deeper in love with a kind and thoughtful man.
Getting married was the logical next step. Afterwards came buying the house and having children; it was all textbook.
Up until that December.
“Right, Artie. Crackers?” I asked.
A pointless question, this child had never said ‘no’ to a cracker in his life.
“How about chocolate?”
“Nice try, kid.”
I handed over the crackers and hummus and asked for fifteen minutes so I could check my work.
“You don’t work, Mummy. I’m your job.” He said, sweetly.
“This is just the other little job I have.”
“Oh, your secret job that we don’t tell Daddy about?”
“Yes, that one.”
“Ok, can I have cartoons on TV then and I won’t tell Daddy?”
I was quite obviously being played by an incredibly smart three-year-old who knew all about extortion. I shouldn’t have let him get away with it but I really wanted those fifteen minutes.
“Ok, Love.”
The television clicked on and so did my laptop.
It wasn’t exactly a secret job, it was still my old job. I just liked to check in from time-to-time and offer any little ideas or advice.
I didn’t feel like telling Ben that I hadn’t completely cut the cord on my old career. By trying to keep an ‘in’ with the company I had a backup plan just in case I needed it.
It seemed logical to me that perhaps I would have needed to return to work if I had accidentally lost both the kids in a supermarket and realised I was completely unqualified to be a parent.
I told myself it was easier to keep this little part of my day a secret – for now.
I wouldn’t have long as I had promised that I would make a bigger effort to get involved with other parents in my position – those who were staying at home, not those who were losing their grip on reality – and Ben had helpfully found a local parent and toddler group that was on this morning.
I really hated those things, mostly because I generally didn’t want to spend time with people other than those I’m related to; but a promise was a promise.
There was nothing of great consequence in my inbox so I decided to send one of those easy-breezy emails just to see what everyone was up to.
I preferred to communicate via text or email, that way I could think about what I needed to say instead of letting nonsense pour out of my mouth.
I found it hard to remember how to have a proper conversation with adults other than Ben. I spent the majority of my day with Arthur and, as talkative as he was, the topics were limited to cartoons and what junk food he could extort out of me.
An email was safer; I could form actual sentences without stuttering or tumbling over my words.
I opted to reach out to my old partner in crime, Rita. She would know what was going on with my accounts.
I wished I had bothered to change my old university email address – it wasn’t exactly professional. I was left using it because the one for work was decommissioned when I left.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: What’s up??
Hi there,
Just having a look at the usual suspects and I haven’t had an update on the plan for the week ahead. I usually get something, at the latest, by lunchtime on Mondays. I hope you lot aren’t slacking off without me already??
I decided to add a few smiley emojis with my signature just in case she thought I was being a complete bitch, but I’d worked really hard to get some of those clients and I wasn’t about to be shut out, just because I’d left.
I was aware of how ridiculous my thinking on this was, but I didn’t care. Thankfully it didn’t take long for her to get back to me.
Good old Rita; I knew I could depend on her.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: What’s up??
Hi Amy,
We had a little meeting yesterday and we thought with you gone for so long now, all campaign business should be sent directly to the account directors. You’ve been such a great crutch during this transition but I think we can take it from here.
All the best and keep up the Facebook pictures of the boys, they are just THE cutest.
Coffee soon?
Xxx
Rita
I read and reread the email then slammed the laptop closed. I resisted the urge to write back “screw you, Rita” and locked myself in the bathroom to cry.
That’s it, I’m officially unemployed. Bloody, Rita.
Rita had always been my competition but we seemed to bounce off each other, spur each other on, and get the results. I considered her a friend; although she had cancelled plans to meet up for lunch four times over the last six months, and now this.
The more I thought about, the more I knew it was ridiculous to think of our relationship as a friendship.
She was five years younger, single and determined to make her name in the business. After two maternity leaves and that inconvenient bout of insanity, I had been treading water - at best – near the end of my time there. However, the rejection still stung.
Bloody, Rita.
I took a big breath and decided to leave the bathroom and face Arthur.
“You look funny, Mummy.”
Thanks, kid.
Taking a look in the mirror, I saw my eyes were red and puffy from the tears. My cheeks were blotchy and I really did look rather rubbish. I decided if I was going to have to face the outside world then I would have to put on some sort of make-up.
In choosing this I was presented with another problem: how much effort does one put into these things?
Should I look up a video tutorial and get some smoky eyes going on or do I just do the basic cover up the bags under my eyes?
The answer to this was easy because my make-up collection consisted of a very questionable looking sponge, foundation that was at least three shades too dark for my un-tanned body and dry looking mascara.
“Right, au naturale it is,” I said, to no-one.
I decided the make-up fiasco was also Rita’s fault.
I justified the lack of effort I was making for my appearance at this group was because I didn’t want to give these people unrealistic expectations on how I look; this way they would get to know the real me.
The real me was a puffy-eyed mess and if they didn’t like it, they could lump it.
I was always much braver in the safety of my own home; in reality, I knew I would be a self-conscious mess from start to finish.
“Television is going off now, Arthur,” I called into him, as I tried to locate my keys.
“But why?” he whined.
I resisted the urge to shout back: “Because I’m a terrible mother” and decided it was more constructive to not feed the tantrum.
<
br /> “We’re going to a new playgroup and you’re going to make lots of friends and have fun,” I said, trying to fake some enthusiasm.
He eyed me suspiciously and stayed rooted to the spot.
“Afterwards we can go get sausages somewhere.” I added, to sweeten the bargain.
Sausages or chicken nuggets were the way to get Arthur to do most things. The way to this boy’s heart was definitely through his stomach – as long as what you were trying to give him wasn’t, in any way, construed as healthy, or green.
A quick check over my clothes revealed that this particular top had several yogurt-y handprints splattered on it from when both boys pretended to give me hugs after breakfast – clearly, they had been really using me as a giant tissue.
Turds.
After a quick change of t-shirt, we were out the door before I could go back on my word and lock us in the house for the rest of the morning.
I decided to face the music and turn on my phone to see if there was a message from Ben.
There were three texts and four missed calls.
Damn.
Ben: Amy, pick up the phone
Meh, that wasn’t so bad maybe he wasn’t too mad about my slight overreaction.
Ben: Amy, you can’t avoid me for the whole day. I think we need to talk about therapy again.
Ok, well that escalated fast.
Ben: AMY, PICK UP THE DAMN PHONE!
Contrary to popular opinion I actually love reading messages written in capitals. People think they’re shouting at me when really they’re just making it easier for me to read the text without my glasses.
“Jokes on you, Ben! I’d better reply all the same,” I say to an oblivious Arthur.
Amy: Sorry, Sweety! Phone died, all charged up now though. Hope you’re having a good morning after that crazy person took my phone and pretended to be me. What a bitch, eh?!
I figured that I might as well curve into the insanity. He must have been waiting for my message because I received his reply within seconds.
Ben: THAT’S what you’re going with?
Amy Cole has lost her mind: The perfect laugh out loud, feel-good comedy (The Amy Cole series Book 1) Page 2