by Suzy K Quinn
The Bad Mother’s Holiday
Suzy K Quinn
A note from your author
I still can’t believe so many people read my books.
Each and every day, I am grateful for you, dear readers.
Thank you so much.
If you want to ask me any questions about the books or chat about anything at all, get in touch:
Email: [email protected]
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Happy reading,
Suzy xxx
Monday 1st January
New Year’s Day
How do you measure a life in a year?
416 fish fingers cooked for Daisy, but mostly eaten by me.
244 loads of washing.
One stone lost, one gained.
Seven bottles of Calpol.
364 nights of disturbed sleep.
Said ‘no’ approx. 5000 times, told no 50,000 times.
Two calls to 999 (Daisy glo-stick chewing incident and freaky green poo two days after).
One unexpected pregnancy.
One marriage proposal.
Told Daisy ‘I love you’ more times than I can possibly count.
This year? I would like fewer:
Custody battles with Nick, Daisy’s feckless, irresponsible father.
Relationship uncertainties with Alex.
Stressful house renovations.
Mortgage, credit card and utility bills.
Finances are an uncomfortable subject right now.
I’d planned to get a proper grown-up job in London this year, but commuting will be tough now I’m pregnant.
I know employers aren’t supposed to discriminate, but pregnancy mimics hangover symptoms – tiredness, sickness, bad memory, etc. – and lasts all day, every day. There’s no afternoon respite after a restorative Big Mac.
Frankly, I wouldn’t hire me.
Alex has offered to pay my bills during the pregnancy, but told him ‘no thank you’.
Maybe I’m being an idiot, but it would just be too weird. Yes – we’re having a baby together, but our relationship is extremely uncertain.
Have asked Alex to give me thinking space, re: his marriage proposal. I think he’s a bit offended. Am imagining him drinking an expensive Southbank latte, watching the Thames, black hair romantically tousled, dark eyes flashing.
‘Another coffee, Mr Dalton?’
‘No thank you. I’m too furious.’
Tuesday 2nd January
It’s only been four days since the positive pregnancy test result.
Four years wouldn’t be enough to digest this information.
Two children.
How will I do it?
Have booked in to see Dr Slaughter tomorrow.
Called Alex to let him know.
Alex was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Juliette – a very good doctor and family friend has agreed to see us too. I spoke to him this morning. He’s called Dr Rupert Snape and has promised to take very good care of you.’
‘I’ve known Dr Slaughter since I was a little girl,’ I said. ‘He’s wonderful. Why would I see anyone else? Look, you don’t have to come. First appointments are just routine, anyway. All they do is log you on the system and tell you not to eat Stilton.’
‘Dr Snape also mentioned sushi,’ said Alex.
Told Alex I don’t like sushi, so Dr Snape’s premium advice would be useless in my case.
Alex asked where I’d eaten sushi.
‘Marks and Spencer,’ I said.
Alex said Marks and Spencer doesn’t do real sushi, because it’s made from cooked tuna, mayonnaise and seafood sticks. Then he asked me to move into his Chelsea apartment.
‘I can’t move to London,’ I said. ‘I have a job here and a house. And a family.’
‘If we’re committing to a life together,’ said Alex, ‘we have to make compromises.’
‘Okay, Alex,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you stop working a fourteen-hour day and move back to Great Oakley?’
Alex said moving out of London was impossible right now.
‘I hate the city, but it’s where the money is,’ he said.
‘You’re obsessed with earning money,’ I replied. ‘Babies only need a cot, clothes and nappies. Most of the other baby gadgets I wasted my money on never got used. And you can get a lot of free stuff second-hand – people are always getting rid of baby things. Your business earns millions.’
Alex said that company profit and personal income were not the same, and anyone who said different didn’t pay enough tax.
Told Alex he reminded me of an anorexic girl who thinks she’s fat.
Alex didn’t seem to understand the comparison, citing the fluctuating diet industry as an excellent example of boom and bust.
‘And children are expensive,’ Alex insisted. ‘They need schooling, healthcare, good-quality ski equipment … the list is endless.’
‘That’s what you’re working for?’ I asked. ‘Ski equipment?’
‘Every child needs ski equipment,’ said Alex.
It was another reminder that we’re from different worlds.
‘So are you coming with me tomorrow?’ I asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Alex. ‘I’ll see this NHS doctor with you.’
I felt he said the word ‘NHS’ in a derisive tone.
‘You’d better not be snobby about private healthcare if you come along,’ I said. ‘Dr Slaughter doesn’t suffer fools gladly. He’s one of the few people who’s shouted at my mum and lived to tell the tale.’
‘What did he shout at your mother for?’ Alex asked.
‘He caught her buying 12 custard-filled doughnuts in the Co-op,’ I explained. ‘The day after she’d been diagnosed with diabetes.’
Wednesday 3rd January
Appointment with Dr Slaughter.
Alex drove me to the doctor’s surgery in his shiny MG.
It was unnecessary to be driven there, since the doctor’s surgery is a five-minute walk from my house, but I think Alex wanted to feel useful.
Felt a bit conspicuous, getting out of Alex’s fancy sports car.
It didn’t help that Alex looks a bit like James Bond – black tailored suit, clean-shaven jaw, dark eyes scanning the surroundings for snipers.
An old lady, hobbling past on a Zimmer frame, whispered, ‘Tosser’.
‘This is the doctor’s surgery?’ Alex asked, looking over our village health centre. ‘The medical facility where you’ll be cared for? It looks like an insane old lady’s house.’
It’s true – our doctor’s surgery is essentially a bungalow, complete with moss-covered roof and orange curtains. But it’s very cosy inside, except for the damp.
We waited the usual half an hour (Dr Slaughter is always late, except for the rare occasions when I’m late, in which case he’s always right on time and I miss my slot).
‘This is unacceptable,’ Alex announced, when we were finally called into Dr Slaughter’s office. ‘Juliette is pregnant. She’s had to wait over thirty minutes.’
Dr Slaughter said it was impossible to run an over-stretched NHS medical facility on time.
‘Most problems exceed the ten-minute appointment slot,’ he explained. ‘And the older patients like a bit of a chat.’
‘Is this a health facility or a community centre for the elderly?’ Alex challenged.
Dr Slaughter considered this for a moment, then replied, ‘I suppose it’s a little bit of both. Are we congratulating or commiserating
?’
‘Congratulating,’ Alex barked.
‘Wonderful,’ said Dr Slaughter, pulling out a box of mint-chocolate sticks. ‘Well help yourself to the leftover Christmas spoils. Since we’re celebrating.’
Alex declined the chocolate, muttering something about purified water and hand-cut vegetable platters at Dr Rupert Snape’s surgery.
‘You’ve done all this maternity stuff before, Juliette,’ said Dr Slaughter, munching on a mint chocolate stick. ‘You know the drill. Don’t eat Stilton. Stay away from raw egg. We’ll do a glucose test next time you come in. Buy yourself a bottle of Lucozade and drink it one hour before.’ Then he handed me a Bounty pack of maternity information and said, ‘The midwife will see you from now on. I’d make the appointment today if I were you – she’s booked up solid until March.’
‘You’re not going to carry out a pregnancy test?’ Alex asked.
‘A home test is sufficient,’ said Dr Slaughter. ‘You have done the wee on a stick test, haven’t you Juliette?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I bought a kit from Boots.’
‘But what about a proper pregnancy test?’ said Alex.
‘Pregnancy tests are all much of a muchness these days,’ said Dr Slaughter. ‘It’s just absorbent paper at the end of the day. The home tests are no different from the NHS ones. If anything, they’re more accurate.’
‘Juliette.’ Alex took my hands. ‘I really think we should see Dr Rupert Snape.’ Then he turned to Dr Slaughter, eyes blazing, and said, ‘You haven’t even mentioned sushi.’
Thursday 4th January
The morning sickness hit today – a sort of low-level, travel-sickness feeling.
Did watery, spitty sick in the toilet when I woke up and now feel both sick and starving hungry.
Long, curly hair is no friend of the nauseous, so I’ve tied it up in one of those messy top buns that make me look like a sumo wrestler.
Have spent the morning watching kids’ TV with Daisy, delicately sipping teaspoons of Heinz Tomato Soup. We watched a Mickey Mouse’s Club House episode all about hot dogs, which finished with the usual ‘Hot Diggity Dog’ song. It made me feel simultaneously sick and in need of a hot dog.
Phoned Mum for sympathy.
‘Will you come over and help with Daisy?’ I pleaded. ‘I feel awful.’
Mum refused, telling me to walk or drive to the pub.
Told Mum I couldn’t face getting Daisy dressed.
‘Why not?’ Mum asked.
Explained that dressing Daisy, now she’s a wilful two-year-old, involves half an hour of stressful negotiating. Doing her hair is equally challenging, since she either refuses to have it brushed or asks for some elaborate Disney princess hairstyle that I can’t do.
‘Why don’t you just leave her hair?’ Mum asked.
‘I can’t do that,’ I said. ‘Daisy’s hair grows forward over her face now. She looks like a Yeti cave girl until I get a hairband on her.’
Then I moaned some more about feeling hungry and sick.
‘How about something light to eat?’ Mum suggested. ‘Like a nice thick slice of buttered toast with jam? You want to get some calories into you.’
The thought of anything buttered made me vomit into Daisy’s half-eaten bowl of Shreddies.
Mum took pity on me then. ‘Dad will come get you,’ she decided. ‘Let me shout at him a bit and he’ll be on his way.’
Dad arrived twenty minutes later on his bicycle, wearing waterproofs, cycle clips and a red reflector pinned to the back of his green bobble hat. With his neatly clipped white beard and the single white curl escaping onto his forehead, Dad looked like a special-edition cyclist gnome. There was a cushion strapped to his bike rack with hooked elastic.
‘Hop on love,’ said Dad. ‘I’ll pedal you up the road. Daisy can sit on your lap.’
‘I thought you’d be in the car,’ I said. ‘I can’t sit on the back of your bike with Daisy. It’s dangerous.’
‘As if I’d waste the petrol on a three-minute journey!’ Dad chortled. ‘There’s nothing dangerous about this bike – I’ve just given it a full service.’
Told Dad my instructions had been miscommunicated, and I required a nice, warm motor vehicle.
Dad said I was getting spoiled, and relayed (again) the story of his own father pedalling him and his brothers to school on his bicycle crossbar with no cushion or padding of any kind.
‘Our testicles were black and blue by the time we reached the school gates,’ Dad announced. ‘But it toughened us up. Taught us not to complain about minor discomforts.’
Ended up walking to the pub with Daisy, while Dad pushed his bike.
The ten-minute walk took half an hour, because Daisy needed to investigate every leaf, bramble and potential dog poo.
Am now at Mum and Dad’s, taking yet more delicate sips of Heinz tomato soup from a mug shaped like a pair of boobs.
Mum keeps trying to force Guinness on me, believing it to be some sort of health tonic for pregnant women.
Phoned Alex to complain about how sick I felt.
Alex suggested taking me to Accident and Emergency. I hope he’s not going to be this paranoid for the whole pregnancy.
Friday 5th January
Still at the pub.
KEEP being sick. The only foods I can keep down are bland, yellow processed foods.
Thank god my cousin John Boy is staying at the pub. He’s stocked up on white bread, Super Noodles and Monster Munch crisps.
It’s incredible John Boy has such a muscular physique on an unbelievably crap diet. But he’s some sort of genetic oddity. Apparently, he lived off corned beef, biscuits and vodka in the army and didn’t put on an ounce of fat.
Maybe it comes down to exercise. Even with his prosthetic leg, John Boy does squat jumps, ten-mile runs and one-handed press ups – the latter with Callum on his back.
‘What happened to your weird pencil moustache?’ I asked John Boy. ‘You’ve let it go all straggly. And are you growing your hair out too?’
John Boy explained that he is cultivating one of those overly long, fashionable beards and a man bun.
Mum keeps asking why he wants to look like the back-end of a Crufts champion. But she isn’t one to talk about succumbing to silly fashions. In the 1980s, her hair was bleached, permed and feathered. She also still wears lots of neon Lycra, animal prints and lace, often together, and shops in New Look, Top Shop and Forever 21.
Nice being back at the pub.
Dad has made the bathroom a bit more fun, putting magazines, crossword puzzles and a radio in there, plus a little vase of bluebells he picked from the woods.
Alex has asked to come see me, but I don’t want visitors while I’m pale and throwing up. This has put into stark relief the uncertain nature of our relationship, and the fact I don’t know him well enough to be sick in front of him.
The undesirable effects of pregnancy are yet another reason to be in a proper relationship before you get knocked up.
Saturday 6th January
Still at the pub.
Saw my tired, pale face this morning, coupled with a giant mess of frizzy curly hair, and realised there’s no way I can go home yet.
Having morning sickness with Daisy running around is impossible.
Toddlers have no respect for illness. While I’m vomiting into the toilet bowl, Daisy prods me and shouts ‘cuddle, cuddle’.
Realised, between vomits, that Daisy looks more like Nick these days. Her fluffy blonde hair is brown and straight at the roots, her eyebrows are darkening and her eyes are bright blue.
I wonder whose nose Daisy will get – my roundy, squishy one, or Nick’s long, straight actor nose? Hard to know what to hope for. Nick’s nose does look striking in his headshots, but extremely evil on his mother.
I suppose it doesn’t matter if Daisy looks like Nick, as long as his selfishness isn’t genetic.
Afternoon
It’s nice being looked after at the pub, but Mum can’t get her he
ad around me feeling sick. She is certain she can ‘cure’ me with the right meal.
Today Mum bought a range of ‘get-well food’ from the Cash and Carry: a catering-sized 24-slice pepperoni pizza, a 2ft garlic baguette and 50 chocolate-covered profiteroles. She unloaded this nauseatingly calorific assortment onto the kitchen table and said, ‘There you go love – there must be something in that lot you fancy.’
Tried to ignore the tower of cream-filled chocolate puffs and cheesy, oily pizza, but Dad drew attention to it by starting an argument.
‘You’ve bought enough food for twenty people, Shirley,’ Dad complained, wagging the Guinness pencil he was using for Sudoku. ‘It’s a waste.’
‘Jules and Daisy are here,’ said Mum. ‘We need a bit extra.’
‘Juliette is feeling nauseous,’ Dad insisted. ‘A huge garlic baguette dripping with greasy butter is hardly going to settle her stomach. Nor is a pizza with all that gelatinous, bright-yellow cheese and fatty sausage on top. And she won’t want a dessert, filled with whipped double cream and covered in rich, chocolate sauce.’
Slunk off to be sick then, but could still hear the argument about ‘oil’ and ‘grease’ through the toilet door.
‘How are we ever going to eat a pizza that size in two days?’ Dad finally demanded.
‘Oh, stop going on,’ said Mum. ‘If there’s any food left over, I’ll bring it downstairs for the regulars.’
Dad took out his calculator and totted up the cost of leftover food Mum brought down to the pub last year. He estimated at least three-hundred pounds worth of food had been ‘lavished’ on Yorkie and Mick the Hat. He also pointed out that Yorkie is always too drunk to appreciate what he’s eating and thinks smoked salmon is ham.
Mum snatched the calculator and added up Yorkie and Mick the Hat’s bar bills last year. They worked out at over £10,000.
Dad sloped off to his office, muttering about ‘dubious calculation methods’ and ‘imprecise measures’.
After lunch, Alex rang. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.