I could feel him getting harder by the second. ‘Once Molly is in bed,’ he continued, ‘we are going to shag until one of us passes out. Just thought you should know.’
‘Oh, you fucker,’ I murmured, almost giddy at the thought. I could feel his breath on my neck as he squeezed my breasts. If it wasn’t for his parents, sister and our daughter fifteen feet away in the other room, my knickers would have been round my ankles. He really picks his moments. Nothing for weeks and now he was two seconds away from fingering me next to some out-of-date stock cubes. Classy.
Sadly, our kitchen rendezvous was cut short by the appearance of Molly at the door asking for milk, while Oliver scrambled to pull his hand out of my large bra. My boobs never really disappeared after breastfeeding. Now it just looks like they have gigantism.
I grabbed the lemon and ginger teabags with one hand and straightened my top with the other, knowing that Oliver would have to give himself a moment to adjust before getting some milk for Molly. I was excited, his words until one of us passes out swirling around in my head for the rest of the afternoon.
At half past eight, Oliver drove the Webb clan back to their hotel as their flight was early the next morning. They seemed merry enough; Megan making us promise to visit soon and Louise telling Oliver to get his hair cut for the seventeenth time as she climbed into the front seat of the car. As soon as they drove off, I sprang into action. I allowed Molly to skip her evening bath and gave her a quick wash, brushed her teeth and put her promptly into her jammies. I let her read in bed while I quickly ran an electric razor over my legs and armpits, choosing to ignore the fact that my knicker whiskers were running fucking riot. If Oliver calls my bush Phil Spector again, I’m going to batter him. Throwing on a random, mismatched black underwear set, I covered myself up in my dressing gown, just in time to hear him return.
By 9.45 p.m. one of us had indeed passed out . . . it was Oliver, while reading Molly a story in her bed. I SHAVED FOR NOTHING.
Today he hasn’t even mentioned it, busying himself with a work project while Molly and I had a Despicable Me movie marathon. I just don’t get it. I remember the days when his penis made 99% of his decisions, including waking him up specifically to bang me. I miss those days. Maybe my New Year’s resolution should be to go back in time. I’m as likely to fulfil that as I am to lose weight.
Tuesday January 3rd
God, today was boring. The weather was still cold and miserable so we all sat inside and annoyed each other to the point of murder. However, as we’re all back to normality next week (thank God), I suggested we get out of the house and go for a family dinner somewhere. To be honest, I just wanted a cocktail. A big one. I’m not proud. After telling Molly seventeen thousand times that McDonald’s wasn’t an option, we finally decided on TGI Fridays in the shopping mall where she could get a burger, Oliver could get a parking space and I could get something made with Jack Daniels. It didn’t have to be solid food.
The restaurant was full of weary-looking families who had had just about enough of the holidays. We had to wait a few minutes for a table, so we sat at the bar, giving me a chance to responsibly choose something from the cocktail menu and not just grab the barman by the lapels and yell ‘JUST. NUMB. ME’ into his face. We sat near the back of the restaurant, Molly beside her Dad and me beside the Lynchburg Lemonade I’d ordered.
‘Mum, how come we had to come here and not McDonalds?’ Molly asked, her swinging legs thumping the table as she opened her kid’s activity pack.
‘Because McDonalds doesn’t sell this kind of lemonade,’ Oliver replied on my behalf. He lifted my glass and took a swig. ‘Damn, that’s nice. I wish you’d driven now.’
I smirked. ‘The burgers are bigger here anyway, honey. And we can share those chicken strips you like?’
‘OK.’ She shrugged and began colouring, just as another little girl three tables away started to lose her shit over ice cream. I took another gulp of my drink, feeling grateful that we’ve managed to raise such an easy-going child. No, not grateful . . .smug.
We got home around nine and Oliver put Molly to bed, while I opened a bottle of wine for us to share. It’s not often we do this. Usually one of us will stay completely sober in case we need to drive in a ‘Molly emergency’. My good friend Hazel says this kind of responsible behaviour is apparently very common for your first kid but after you’ve popped out a few more, you’re both drunk by 8 p.m., thinking Fuck it. We’ll call a taxi.
‘She went out like a light,’ Oliver remarked as he came into the living room. ‘I think she had fun.’
‘Come sit with me, handsome face,’ I said, already halfway through my glass of wine. ‘You know, this wine isn’t as vile as the cheap price-tag suggests.’
He slumped down beside me, putting his feet up on the coffee table. ‘I’ve eaten too much. I can’t move.’
‘Same. I’m down to one bar of health. You could rob me right now, I’d be unable to defend myself.’
‘I’m unlikely to rob someone who had to borrow twenty quid off me last week.’
‘Fair point.’
He laughed and gently nudged me. ‘You know, you could totally take advantage of me, right now. I’d be powerless.’ He started to run his finger over my thigh and towards my stomach. ‘I might even let you off with that twenty quid.’
‘You know that person you adore so much?’ I replied, gesturing towards Molly’s bedroom. ‘I pushed her out of my vagina. You should be throwing money at me on a daily basis. You should be makin’ it rain!’
He smirked at my attempt to palm imaginary money into the air. ‘It’s true. You did birth our lovely child. But to be fair, she was a lot smaller then . . .’
‘Yeah, so was my vagina . . .’
He snorted and took a swig of his wine. ‘Well, if we’re not going to ruin each other, I might put a film on?’
I nodded for him to go ahead but his words made my heart sink a little. When did we stop wanting to ruin each other? Why didn’t he defend my vagina? When did we let overeating interfere with sex? I’ve been overeating my entire life and it’s never stopped me shagging.
Thursday January 5th
Mum and Dad called from Canada this afternoon, placing me on speakerphone from what sounded like the middle of a dog shelter. Which, as it turns out, is EXACTLY where they were calling from.
‘Why are you getting a dog?’ I exclaimed. ‘You’re always pissing off on holiday!’
‘Oh relax, we’re not getting a dog. We’re just visiting them. I thought Molly might like to say hello.’
Jesus Christ. Everything I said about Oliver’s parents – I take it back. Compared to mine, they are normal and reasonable. Louise and Brendan didn’t sell everything they owned and emigrate to Canada, giving their only child two weeks’ notice. They don’t go skinny-dipping in their sixties or attend rock concerts or call their granddaughter to speak to random dogs. They didn’t bring me a set of Kegel balls for Christmas. Still, they do come over every year for ten days and spoil the shit out of Molly. I think they’re pleased to see me too. I hope so, anyway.
I called for Molly to come to the phone and watched her say hello to some dogs three thousand miles away. I could picture my mum: her blonde hair tied up in a bun, jacket hood up, holding the phone towards the cages, while my dad, head to toe in winter gear, would be telling her to hurry up so he could go home and knit a flaxseed cake or something. I was grateful that Molly was in her ‘I hate dogs’ phase. If she’d been listening to cats, she’d have been begging for one the minute she hung up.
After a minute or two Molly said bye, handed me the phone and went back to the living room while I had a quick chat with my parents. They think I’m daft. Not once have they ever just casually popped by a shelter to visit stray dogs. They’re totally adopting one.
Monday January 9th
After Molly was born, I fully intended to go back to work full-time, even though the thought of going back to The Post for any length of time filled me wit
h utter dread. However, after looking into the horrendous cost of private nursery, we decided that I’d go back part-time and look after her on my days off. Oliver did offer to go part-time instead of me but he earns more than I do and actually enjoys his job. So now I work Monday, Tuesday and Thursday while Molly splits her time between the council-run nursery and childminder extraordinaire Maggie Wilcox.
Despite having a new position as Entertainments sales rep at The Post and cutting my hours down to three days a week, I still hate selling advertising space and I’m still angry at myself for being here. Actually, I’m more angry at myself for being thirty-nine this year and still not feeling satisfied with my work life. How do these smug ‘I love my job’ fuckers do it?
Lucy has the right idea. She’s completely nonchalant about her job. She found the least taxing, best paid job she could find and doesn’t give it another thought when the clock strikes 5.30 p.m. We’ve worked together in the same office for seven years but she views it with amusement rather than the contempt I feel. She can afford to be indifferent though – her outgoings are minimal given that she’s child free and rent free (she owns her granny’s old house outright). All my granny left me was a purple cloth bag which contained some dress jewellery and what looked like an adult human tooth wrapped in a hanky.
I waved over to her as I entered the office, throwing my bag under my desk with a soft thud. I hadn’t spoken to her since New Year’s Eve, when she called me from Loch Fyne, so pissed I could smell tequila fumes down the other end of the phone.
‘I think I found Nessie!’ she yelled over what sounded like a mariachi band. ‘Fucking Nessie! I mean, it’s dark outside but there’s something going on in that . . . underwater . . .’
‘That’s nice,’ I replied, feeling a little jealous that I wasn’t there in person to tell her that Nessie lives in Loch Ness and also that she’s a maniac. ‘Where’s Kyle?’
‘Who?’
‘Your boyfriend.’ I laughed. ‘Remember him? Tree surgeon. Dark hair. Does occasional weird poetry. Pretty sure he drove you up there.’
‘Oh yeah, him. He’s lovely, right? Oh. Wait . . . here, fishy fishy . . .’
‘Lucy, where are you? Have you wandered off?’ I asked, feeling anxious that she was about to Jacques Cousteau herself into the loch, towards whatever the hell she thought she was seeing under the water. ‘Go and find Kyle, please,’ I insisted.
‘He’s here, Mum,’ she snickered. ‘Stop panicking. I can see him walking. He might be drunk. He has new glasses, you know – black rimmed. Like Huddy Bolly.’
The rest of the sentence was just a drunken slur but I heard Kyle’s voice so was able to hang up knowing that she wasn’t on her own. Unless he was equally pissed . . . and they both end up in the loch . . . ugh, I am such a mum. When did I become the intoxication police? Ten years ago I’d have been police-cautioned before the bells chimed midnight. Oh dear God, please don’t let Molly grow up to be anything like me.
Anyway, my boss Dorothy wasn’t back ’til Thursday which meant less pressure to sit at my desk and look like I gave a shit, so I started my day making coffee for everyone, except for office annoyance Kelly, who was already balls deep into her New Year detox.
‘Hot water with lemon – every morning.’ She sniffed loudly, holding up a flask. ‘If it’s not natural, I’m not interested.’
I could see Lucy biting her tongue as she listened to this streaky fake-tanned woman with drawn-on eyebrows and twenty menthols protruding from her handbag lecture the room on her new natural lifestyle. I knew that by lunchtime, there would be a sweepstake about how long it would last. (The pub downstairs are starting a ‘buy one get one free’ pizza on a Monday. I’m totally winning this.)
‘You brought your own hot water?’ Brian asked without looking up from his phone. ‘Is it special hot wa—’
‘Filtered . . . and smart.’ She looked at her flask like she expected it to take a bow.
Brian chuckled. ‘Your water is smart or it makes you smart? Will it make me smarter?’
‘It doesn’t fucking perform brain transplants,’ Lucy hollered from her desk.
Kelly smiled, grateful that Lucy stepped in. Lucy isn’t particularly a fan of Kelly but she dislikes Brian even more.
We’d been in the office for fifteen minutes and already these two were ready to battle. They’ve hated each other for years. Brian is still the cock he’s always been and Kelly is just, well, Kelly. Nothing ever changes around here. Actually, that’s a lie – handsome Stuart, the man I once let shag me up against a jaggy fence, left before Christmas to move to Finland with his new wife, leaving us wondering who the hell Dorothy would hire in his place. Fucking Finland! The lengths men will go to avoid me.
I sat at my desk and logged in, allowing emails to start trickling through. Of course the most recent was from Lucy.
From: Lucy Jacobs
To: Phoebe Henderson
Subject: New Year
So? How was New Year? How was the Irish invasion? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. Did Molly stay up for the bells or were you and Oliver snorting champagne and shagging in front of the telly?
From: Phoebe Henderson
To: Lucy Jacobs
Subject: Re: New Year
It went well, I think! I hope they had a nice time but his parents just give off a vibe of being uncomfortable everywhere except in their own home. It’s weird. Yes, Molly did stay up for the bells – we watched Jools Holland. She spilled Ribena on the floor. It was thrilling. Oliver woke me up in the morning to moan about potatoes. I know, I’m boring myself now. Let’s have lunch. You can tell me all about Nessie, you drunken arse.
From: Lucy Jacobs
To: Phoebe Henderson
Subject: New Year
No can do – I’m meeting Kyle. Tomorrow though! We’ll go to Max’s bar and get those hotdogs with all the weird shit on them.
I looked through my work diary to discover that I had a grand total of zero appointments booked for next week, not great when my boss also has access to it so I can’t bullshit her. Still, it’s New Year. People are on holiday. I can’t work miracles and even if I could, those miracles wouldn’t be wasted on this fucking job; I’d save them for gravity-defying tits, world peace and turning wine into more wine.
Tuesday January 10th
Oliver dropped Molly off at nursery so I got into work pretty early this morning, which gave me time to grab some breakfast before starting the morning ritual of calling people who didn’t want to speak to me.
Lunch at Max’s Bar was fun; massive hotdogs, fries and a catch up session in which Lucy recounted what she could remember about New Year, including the sex they’d had in a four poster bed. And in the car. And against the window with the curtains open. Beasts.
‘Ugh. Enough,’ I said, scraping some onions off my hotdog. ‘I’m beginning to hate you.’
She stared suspiciously at me. ‘What’s up?’
‘Let’s just say this hotdog is the only phallic-shaped thing that’s been near my face recently.’ I bit into it aggressively, continuing to speak with my mouth full. ‘I think Oliver is finally fed up shagging me.’
‘Nonsense,’ she replied, politely ignoring the fact that I’d just sprayed food on to the table. ‘Oliver is nuts about you.’
‘He was,’ I said, using a napkin to brush away the accidental food spray, ‘and I’m sure he still is. But we’re not the same. We haven’t had sex since November and it was a quick spoon. We discussed painting Molly’s room and didn’t even make eye contact. Even before then, it’s been really sporadic and not remotely noteworthy.’
Lucy shrugged, picking at my unwanted onions. ‘So you’re in a slump. You still fancy each other, right? No-one is shagging anyone else?’
I could feel the colour drain from my face. I hadn’t even considered this as a possibility. ‘NO! Wait . . . do you think he could be shagging someone else?!’
She shook her head. ‘I doubt it. He has a kid now. When the
fuck would he have the time? Then again, you’d make time to shag, wouldn’t you?’
My heart rate was increasing with every word that left her mouth. ‘Well, not with me obviously!’
‘I’m not helping, am I?’ she replied. ‘Is it both of you or just him?’
I thought for a moment. ‘We’re both a bit guilty. But it seems to be bothering me more than him. He’s barely mentioned it.’
Lucy gulped down some of her beer and shook her head. ‘What does Hazel think about it? She has a kid – maybe this is how it goes.’
Hazel is the adult of our group. Her life is in order, her shit is together and when I grow up, I hope to be just like her.
‘I haven’t spoken to her. She’s still at Disneyland Paris.’
Lucy smirked. ‘Then she won’t be shagging either.’
I giggled. It’s true. Hazel, Kevin and their seven-year-old daughter Grace will be sharing the same room; it’ll be out of the question. I shoved some fries into my mouth and sighed. ‘We’re just not synched. And then stuff gets in the way. And before you know it, you’re being felt up in a pantry.’
‘A what now?’
‘Never mind.’
As we headed back to the office, I vowed to speak to Oliver about this. Properly. We’re going to pull out of this rut before one of us foolishly considers looking elsewhere.
Wednesday January 11th
Day off today! Morning was spent tidying and sorting Molly’s old clothes into piles for the charity shop. Then off to nursery in the afternoon, where I bumped into Sarah Ward-Wilson by the gates, a woman who clearly cannot believe that despite her best efforts to marry well (and Botox poorly), she’s a mother of four, still living in Glasgow.
‘I cannot stand this weather, Phoebe. It doesn’t matter how expensive your car is, when it’s icy, these roads are a death trap to us all. Is that woman wearing a tracksuit? Oh dear Lord . . .’
I smirked, watching her pull her grey fur hat down over her ears, while simultaneously pushing her daughter Ruby towards the nursery entrance. Ruby is a sweetheart. A small ginger girl who looks exactly like her small ginger dad. If Molly wasn’t so fond of her, I’d have no reason to speak to this awful woman. She’s a mixture of aloof and sneaky, like a dastardly villain from a black and white movie. Most of the mums call her Lord Wilson because of her superiority complex. Including me.
Relight my Fire Page 2