‘Yes, when we moved in this room was massive but a dark cave with no light, so we put the glass doors on the end and opened it all up.’
‘My kitchen is a very similar layout but it’s in my basement. I didn’t do it. It was like it when I moved in last month.’
‘You only just moved house?’
‘Yes, I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
While Jacqui inspected my metal dresser openly displaying my nan’s mismatched floral bone china, dining plates, vintage cake tins, jars of pasta and pulses, I sorted mugs.
‘Your house is so homey and colourful. My kitchen is all white – I love the kids’ playroom over there.’
‘Well, we hadn’t got loads of money so we painted the cabinets ourselves. It’s all done very cheaply. The floor’s reclaimed boards because the originals were all rotting.’
‘You did a good job; I hate DIY. I always manage to cock it up.’ I laughed. ‘I also loathe ornaments in my house, but you’ve managed to get everything in its place. My house is bare, very uncluttered. But I like this.’
‘Thank you.’ I handed her a tea in one of the surviving mugs that had evaded the massacre.
‘So, tell me what happened. You’re going through a divorce, too?’
I nodded and shared my tale of woe.
‘He ran off with that woman off the telly?’
‘Yes. I’m only telling you because I can’t tell anyone else in case they blab to the press, and I have a feeling you’re trustworthy. No one else knows, apart from my friend Ali and my parents and another friend, Mel.’
‘That doesn’t sound like no one to me.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘So, when will the divorce start going through?’
‘I only filed before Christmas. My mum gave me a lecture about getting it started before he has kids, which made me want to vom.’ I sipped my tea and contemplated opening the chocolate biscuits I’d squirrelled away. ‘So how come you moved house? Did Simon make you sell for the divorce?’
‘No. I wanted to. I couldn’t stay there. It felt too emotional, too many memories. I knew he was shagging his PA – I found the emails – but I have no idea what he’s doing now, if he’s still with her. He sees the kids but we don’t talk about what happened, not after I begged him to stay. He just went.’
‘What, he just left there and then? Didn’t even explain, or try, or do anything?’
‘Nope, just upped and left with a suitcase. Said he would come back for the rest.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I got down on my hands and knees and held his feet so he couldn’t go. It was awful. So traumatic. I’ve never broken up with someone before. I still can’t get my head around it. Now I don’t think he ever loved me. He was ticking a box.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true.’
‘I don’t know. It’s how I felt after I tried to make him stay, just to talk it through. He waited until my sister arrived because I was in a right state, and then he left, completely cold. The kids were crying. My mum and sister didn’t know what to do. But at least they were there. I also had people at school saying, “Well, at least you get every other weekend off to do what you want. A nice little break.”’
‘Fuck me, people have said that to me, too, and I have literally wanted to kick their FUCKING heads in! Don’t you think I would rather have my family back together and my children happy than having every other weekend free to drink myself into a dark hole? Stupid fuckers.’
‘Who’re stupid fuckers?’ Ali wandered into the kitchen carrying Grace, her hair stuck up in a shagger’s clump at opposing angles so she had clearly just woken up from a sneaky nap.
‘Other people who say aren’t we lucky to have time off from our kids when they go to their dads.’
‘Oh my God, who says that? I will punch their fucking faces in!’
Jacqui started laughing.
‘Oh, Ali, meet Jacqui, she’s one of us.’
‘What, superior beings?’
‘Yes!’ Jacqui agreed animatedly.
‘No, she is also a single mum.’
‘It must be catching. How do you know each other?’ And so we explained.
‘This is so strange because up until a few hours ago, I was the only single mum I knew. Now suddenly I know you two.’ Jacqui beamed like she had won a full house at the bingo, only she was far too posh to enter a bingo hall.
‘I live in the attic like Anne Frank,’ Ali admitted, smoothing down her errant hair. ‘Well, until my house is sold, which could be years in this recession.’
‘I think that’s lovely,’ Jacqui said. ‘I would love to have someone help me with the kids and share a bottle of wine in the evenings.’
‘Well, you can come here any time you like!’ I could feel an indefinable difference, as if something had clicked into place.
‘Look, I’ve adored meeting with you girls. I don’t have anyone to talk to about this stuff. No one else really understands what it’s like, do they?’ Ali and I both shook our heads. ‘If you’re around for coffee, we could meet up and get the kids together? I know my two would love to see you all.’
‘We’d love to!’ Ali cried, like she and I were a married couple ourselves.
After Jacqui had left, I told Ali about my Beardy Weirdy vision on the way to nursery.
‘What are the chances of any of that happening, you witch?’
‘But what are the chances of Jim leaving you so soon after Sam left me, and then me bumping into Jacqui, who I never really knew but always liked? What if I had never gone to baby music all those years ago? I almost drove home when I was sat outside in the car with Isla because I knew no one, but something forced me to go inside. Natalie said there are no such things as coincidences. This was predestined: we were meant to be friends and then adopt Jacqui. The universe has been silently nudging us together all this time.’
‘Like a witches’ coven?’ Ali marvelled.
‘Yes, like The Witches of Eastwick. Weren’t they all shat on by men and then doubled their power?’
‘The Witches of East Dulwich! Double, double, toil and trouble.’
9
Lipstick Putting the Bins Out
‘Oh my God, it’s too early.’ I blindly clawed around for my phone on the desk next to the bed before it vibrated onto the floor, the ringing hammering inside my skull.
‘Have I woken you?’ Sam’s voice blasted into my ear. Sonny was curled up next to me, having woken screaming at two in the morning.
‘Yes. What’s happened? Why are you ringing me at five thirty in the morning?’
‘Sorry. I just wanted to warn you that you might get doorstepped. Someone’s sold a story to the papers.’
I was instantly awake, the news injecting adrenalin into my eyeballs.
‘Who?’
‘Carrie’s ex.’
‘Why would anyone want to doorstep me?’ I whispered.
‘Because technically you’re still my wife and mother of our kids, and Carrie is currently riding high as Channel Four’s big success. She’s got a book deal and another series in the bag. She’s a celebrity.’
Excuse me while I flap my pompoms and execute a particularly nifty sideways split.
‘No comment,’ I said.
*
‘Is there anyone outside?’ I asked as Ali peered through the shutters in the front room, all the lights off so no one could see us. I had woken her at six.
‘I can’t tell; it’s still dark. It’s so early. It’s not like Carrie’s a politician, is it, caught with her pants down giving a male stripper a blow job? She’s just a fucking TV chef.’
‘No, you’re right.’
‘Come on, let’s look on the internet and see what it says.’
‘Probably nothing.’ However, I was wrong: the scandal was springing up all over cyberspace.
‘TV Star Chef Carrie Bags Sexy Married Camera Man.’
Ali read on one website as we sat shivering side by side at the living-room table, the heating yet to come on.
‘I don’t know if I can read it,’ I admitted, feeling mildly nauseous. ‘I’m going to make tea. Do you want one?’ The children were all still asleep, even Grace.
‘Do you want me to read it out to you?’ Ali asked.
‘No, thanks. I think I’ll just ignore it. Maybe I’ll give it a go in ten years’ time when this is funny and they’ve got divorced, she’s got fat and Sam is bald.’
‘This Alex guy sounds very bitter!’ Ali commented when she’d finished reading. ‘I know you don’t want to know, but I could summarise – it’s quite interesting!’
‘Go on.’
‘Apparently he and Carrie were actually going to get married next year. They had a date, a venue, everything.’
‘Sam said they were kind of engaged. Very different from actually getting married.’
‘Yep! Anyway, he found out about Sam and Carrie when he walked in on her snogging him in the loo at work.’
‘No way! He worked with them both?’
‘Yes! Talk about shitting on your own doorstep.’
‘Poor guy. I bet he was gutted. But still, doing a kiss-and-tell is pretty shitey.’
‘I bet they paid him megabucks for it. He looks a bit like Sam, too. She obviously has a type!’
‘You’re not going on the school run looking like that?’ Ali’s face creased into a critical frown at breakfast an hour later.
‘What’s wrong with this?’ The kids were eating Nutella on toast and Ali was breast-feeding Grace while I whirled round grabbing book bags and making Meg’s packed lunch for nursery.
‘You’re wearing leggings and a hoodie; the same ones you’ve worn for two days.’
‘I always wear this. It’s just the school run.’
‘No, it isn’t. It might be a fashion show where you’re going to be pitched against Carrie Stone, the husband stealer. The wronged wife needs to look glamorous, not like a bag lady. What if there is a pap waiting?’
I was torn between my hatred of fakery and the need for some one-upmanship.
‘Is this all you have? Where are all your clothes?’ One-upmanship won by a slim margin. Ali fingered the pathetic offerings in one of the built-in wardrobes that stood proud either side of the fireplace in my bedroom. The other one was empty, having been Sam’s. He’d left behind his black vampire cape from one of our many dressing-up parties and it hung like a solitary funeral shroud above the rolled-up spare duvet.
‘Yes. My other clothes are in the shops. There’re some jumpers in the chests of drawers.’
‘Come with me. This won’t do.’
I followed her up to the attic room where she lay Grace down on the crumpled duvet and kneeled on the floor, reached under the bed and heaved out a lidded plastic box rammed with shopping bags, her secret haul of unreturned clothes from photo shoots.
‘See what’s in there.’ She thrust a Topshop bag at me. I peered in and eased out a gold lamé dress; it slipped like mercury through my fingers.
‘I think this is a bit much for the school run.’
‘Keep it, though. Better for Sainsbury’s. Try that one.’ Inside the trendy brown paper bag was a pair of grey skinny jeans and a hipster-style, black polo-neck jumper with knitted frills curled round each shoulder, like tiny crimped beetles’ wings.
‘Yes, wear that!’
I stood before her while she added some blusher, forced me to curl my lashes and apply mascara and smoothed down my hair.
‘Right, a bit of lip gloss and you’re ready to face the paps. Wear my leather biker jacket, too. That parka is vile.’
‘Ooooh, Mummy! You look pretty,’ Isla cooed as I rounded up everyone for the infernal hell that was teeth brushing. ‘I like your jumper. You look like a ninja.’
‘Good luck.’ Ali waved me off as I trudged down the drive to take Isla to school, my eyes on stalks, waiting to be ambushed at any moment. We’d practised saying ‘No comment’ since daybreak. But there wasn’t a sniff of any journalists, and again when I returned from dropping Meg.
‘You were right,’ I said to Ali just before I collected Meg from nursery that afternoon. ‘Carrie’s no politician shagging a sheep. It will all blow over.’
We got back and Meg hopped down from her car seat and joined me on the pavement outside the house, clutching her gorilla. I locked the car, grabbed her hand, but just as we reached the gate a woman approached me.
‘Amanda Patterson?’
I turned to face her. She was very young with blond hair scraped back in a slick high ponytail. She looked like she was about to go off horse riding in her skin-tight black jeans and navy peacoat.
‘My name’s Amanda Wilkie.’
‘Hello, my name’s Fiona Walker. I’m from the Daily Mail.’ I abruptly turned from her and stormed to the house, pulling Meg behind me.
‘You’re hurting me, Mummy.’ I couldn’t find my keys. That’s when I remembered they were on the hall table. I’d automatically thrown them there when I had brought Isla home. I started ferociously banging on the door.
‘I believe your husband left you for TV chef Carrie Stone. We wondered if you wanted to give your side of the story. We’ll pay you.’
Just for today I will not be angry. Just for today I will be kind to all living things, even scumbag journos.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Are you sure. It would give you a chance to say your piece, clear the air. Apparently, your husband and Carrie are just about to buy a house in Clapham with enough bedrooms for all your children.’ That lit the fuse.
‘Get out of my garden. Get the fuck away from me and my kids. If you come here again I will call the police!’ Meg started crying. The front door swung open and Ali stood there with a glass of wine in her hand. She looked nonplussed. Then it dawned on her.
‘The paps!’
‘No, just scumbag journalists.’
‘Here’s my card,’ Fiona attempted to offer it to me. ‘If you change your mind, you’ll know where to find me.’
‘I said I’d call the police! I won’t change my mind.’
‘You heard her!’ Ali shouted, getting in on the act. ‘Get off our land!’ She flattened herself against the wall so Meg and I could squeeze past.
‘Are you Ms Wilkie’s lesbian girlfriend?’ Fiona brazenly asked, finagling for a scoop, her Dictaphone held aloft.
‘Yes, I am! We’re madly in love. Stick that in your paper.’ And just as she was shutting the door, Ali threw her glass of red wine at Fiona, soaking her posh navy coat and splashing her in the face. I was too stunned about the house revelation to laugh at the absurdity, and collapsed on the bottom stair in the hallway, feeling like I needed to pull an arrow from my heart as Meg howled next to me.
‘Spurned Wife in Carrie Love Triangle Has Lesbian Lover.’
Jacqui read out from the Mail the next morning after the school run. Joe, dressed in his beloved Chelsea kit, was very sweetly showing Sonny how to pass a football in the garden, keeping them both out of earshot. Running alongside the sparse feature where a ‘source’ confirmed we were indeed together, was a series of photos of me and Ali taking Sonny and Grace to the park, their faces blurred out, and a final picture of Ali throwing wine and swearing at the journalist. ‘Oh my God, ladies, you can sue them for that.’
‘We can’t. Ali shouted that she was my lover at the reporter. Straight from the horse’s mouth!’
Rob had had a field day.
I always knew you were a lesbian.
He’d texted earlier.
You can join my gang properly now!
‘Well, who cares if you’re lesbians or not? Let people believe it.’
‘We’re not, Jacqui. Ali was joking.’
Just then Ali hurtled into the kitchen like a tornado, raging incoherently.
‘I want to go round there and throw eggs. I need to smash something. Can I key his car?’ she pleaded, her eyes laced with lun
acy. She threw down Grace’s sheepskin and laid her on it next to Jacqui’s feet.
‘What’s happened? I’m assuming Jim.’
‘He just emailed to say he’s accepted an offer on the house.’
‘Oh, wow, it’s sold very quickly,’ Jacqui cried. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘He took the first offer, which is stupidly low, without asking me.’
‘But it has to be both of you agreeing,’ I pointed out.
‘The mortgage is in his name and because we were engaged when we bought it, not married, I have no say.’ Ali was shaking and pulling her hands desperately through her slicked-back hair. ‘I’m fucked.’
‘How so?’ Jacqui asked. ‘Did you put money into the house?’
‘Yes, I paid all the money from the sale of my flat into it. It was a lot. He said my money covered the lawyer’s fees, searches and other shit. And also, my share of the payment for renovations.’
‘What? You should have made money on that house. It was a wreck when you bought it.’
‘We hardly made any money. We put in all new windows just before he left, then the market bombed. We won’t get that money back from the sale. He must be keeping some to get somewhere with her.’
‘I’m sorry, but none of this is legal. He threw you out on the street, gives you the bare minimum maintenance and now won’t give you what’s rightfully yours. You have to threaten him with legal action.’
‘I’m going to threaten him with something else.’
She whipped her phone out of her jeans back pocket and stalked into the living room. Jacqui and I looked apprehensively at each other.
‘This won’t end well,’ I hissed. We cocked our ears towards the doors to listen in.
‘Jim, you can’t do this. You owe me my money. I paid the mortgage. It’s not legal!’ I could hear his indecipherable tinny reply from my chair.
‘Well, I’m stopping all visitation rights as of today. You don’t get to see Grace.’ More tin can raging. ‘Fuck you, I can do whatever I like. I’m her mother! I don’t want Hattie having anything to do with her. Fuck!’ She stormed back into the kitchen, pinpricks of fiery colour anointing each cheek. ‘He slammed the phone down on me before letting me know I would be hearing from his lawyer.’
The Single Mums' Mansion: The bestselling feel-good, laugh out loud rom com Page 6