More Than Just Mom

by Rebecca Smith

  More Than Just Mum

  REBECCA SMITH

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published as More Than Just Mum in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

  Copyright © Rebecca Smith 2019

  Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Rebecca Smith asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008386610

  Ebook Edition © December 2019 ISBN: 9780008386580

  Version: 2019-12-03

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Acknowledgements

  About the Publisher

  For Polly.

  May women everywhere have a friend as supportive, strong and bloody hilarious as you. xxx

  Chapter 1

  The first question is stupid and illogical. It is also highly personal. I pause for a moment, unsure about whether I should really be doing this. But there’s nobody else here, and I am on a break. It’s not as if what I’m doing is illegal or anything.

  Returning to the question, I chew the end of my pencil and mull over the multiple-choice answers.

  A) Eight or more times a week. Well, that’s obviously ridiculous. It’s clearly been added as the amusing option. That’s more than once a day. Who on earth has the time for that? Or the inclination, when it comes to it?

  B) Up to five times a week. Possibly, when I was in my early twenties and didn’t have anything better to be doing; like the laundry or preparing the next day’s packed lunches or catching up on Netflix or sleeping.

  C) Two or three times a week. Now we’re moving away from the fantastical and heading into the realms of reality. But honestly, whoever wrote this question needs a good talking to. There is a world of difference between twice a week and three times a week – ask anyone. Twice a week is enough to feel smugly adequate. Three times a week is pushing it a bit, but perfectly possible if there’s been a birthday or it’s Christmas or a bank holiday.

  D) Less than once a week. Again, this is impossible to answer without being more specific. Which week am I meant to be basing my answer on? If it’s the weeks after I gave birth then the answer is a resounding D. If it’s the week that Nick surprised me with a romantic trip to Devon then I can circle B with confidence. Or am I supposed to be taking a mean average over the course of one year?

  I scan my eyes across the page, searching for advice. But other than the questions and the screamingly large quiz title, there’s nothing.

  The end-of-break bell rings and hundreds of feet start pounding down the corridor. I’m not teaching for the next hour, but I keep my eyes fixed on the classroom door, just in case a hapless Year Seven takes a wrong turn. I don’t need anyone to catch me in the act of reading the magazine that I confiscated from Elise in Year Nine during the last lesson. And I am probably old enough to identify my own areas of sexual competence without taking a quiz entitled ‘Are You A Sex Goddess?’. But I’ve started now and I’m feeling curious about what the verdict will be.

  Dissatisfied with the choices, and wishing that there was a ‘once or twice a week’ category, I recklessly break with tradition and circle both C and D. Then I move onto the next question.

  Which of these positions is your favourite?

  Good god. The list of answers reads like a cocktail menu. I haven’t heard of any of them, never mind having an actual preferred position. Flicking back to the front cover, I look again at the title of the magazine. Surely Elise has got her hands on some kind of black-market, top-shelf publication and I should be handing this straight to the Headteacher? This kind of question is completely unsuitable for girls of her age.

  Magazines and their content have clearly moved on from my day; this is definitely aimed at the teenage market. Or maybe they haven’t moved on. Maybe it’s me. I do remember poring over magazines with sketch drawings showing the ‘Position of the Week’ and sniggering with my friends. But that seemed more innocent somehow, like it was a serving suggestion rather than an assumption that we were all getting it on at every available moment.

  I ignore the second question and move onto the next, which rather intrusively wants to know how many sexual partners I’ve had. Interestingly, zero is not an option – I suppose that’s because the quiz writers assume that one needs to have actually had sex in order to identify whether one is, in fact, a sexual goddess. Answer A is a bit alarming though. I wouldn’t have thought anyone would have the energy to have that many different liaisons, and I feel a grudging respect for the sheer work ethic that must be required. I look down the list towards the more sedate numbers, while running my own experiences through my head.

  It doesn’t take that long. I was a late developer, and a combination of worry about how my body looked and terror about getting pregnant meant that I waited until I’d left home and gone to university, where quite frankly, it was relief to get the whole first-time thing out of the way. And no, there were no fireworks and the earth didn’t move and the sky did not fall in. Instead, I spent the entire time wondering where I was supposed to put my legs and trying to politely ask if he could take his elbow off my hair because I thought that there was a risk of me getting scalped, which wasn’t really what I’d envisaged from the whole affair. And yes, it got better after that (or maybe I got better after that) and there were several longer-term boyfriends, one of whom I remember fondly and the other two who have been consigned to my he-whose-name-must-not-be-spoken list.

  So, five if I include Nick, which of course I should, because we’ve been married forever and that counts, surely? That doesn’t seem too shoddy or too promiscuous. I can live with five.

  Circling answer C (which is slightly disappointing as I�
�d have thought five partners would place me slightly higher up the scoreboard than that) I read on.

  How good are you at undoing a belt?

  Ha! Now this is the kind of question that was written for me. I am the queen of undoing belts, thanks to the fact that my irresponsible family are constantly putting their dirty jeans and trousers in the laundry basket with the belts still attached. I can sort whites from darks and unbutton shirts and whip belts out from trouser loops with my eyes closed. I am an expert.

  Except I have clearly overestimated my skills. The options suggest that there are women out there whose talents at belt removal far exceed my own pathetic offerings. No, I cannot undo a belt with my teeth. I can’t think of a single time that I would wish to do so. Doing it with my eyes closed is actually answer B, which gives me a brief thrill of achievement – but then I read on and see that it’s only eligible if I have done a sexy pole dance first. The image of me strutting my stuff as I sort through the day’s washing pile makes me snort.

  I whizz through the remaining questions, revealing my most personal secrets, tot up my total points and turn the page to discover my fate. And it was just as I suspected all along. I am Hannah Thompson, Ultimate Sex Goddess: all lesser mortals bow down before my sultry and provocative nature.

  I’m lying. My score puts me in the bottom league. Instead of achieving the heady heights of ‘Sex on Legs’, I am firmly placed in the ‘Could Try Harder’ category. I think the pun is intended but it’s difficult to know for sure.

  Standing up, I head towards the door. If I’m quick I’ve got time to pop to the staffroom and grab a coffee before the next session of riot-control-slash-listening-to-new-and-innovative-homework-excuses.

  I drop the magazine in the recycling bin as I walk past, wishing that I could abandon my slightly dented ego just as easily. Not that it matters. It’s just a stupid quiz and it doesn’t mean anything. I bet virtually every woman my age would get the same result that I did. There are far more important things in life than sex, and I’m sure that if I took a quiz called ‘How Nice Are You?’ or ‘How Efficient Are You?’ then I’d totally score in the top percentile.

  I would on the efficiency quiz, anyway. I am very well organised. The jury would probably be hung on their verdict as to whether I’m nice. All they’d be able to say for sure is that since I’ve been doing this job, I appear to be getting less nice by the day.

  Chapter 2

  Taylor Swift is admonishing me as I stumble into the room, my arms laden with yet another load of laundry. She informs me, in her dulcet tones, that she knew I was trouble when I walked in, which I think is fairly rude when all I’m doing is attempting to navigate from the kitchen door to the washing machine while avoiding the obstacles that my youngest child, Benji, and Dogger, the dog, have kindly put in place. Clearly they both felt that I needed the extra challenge.

  ‘Scarlet, can you please turn your phone off and set the table?’ I step nimbly over a skateboard. ‘Benji! Clear your stuff away now.’

  Taylor segues into her next song like the professional that she is, asking me why I had to rain on her parade.

  It is my lot as a mother, Taylor, I tell her silently. It’s just what I do. So if you’ve organised some kind of parade, or perhaps a party, then you can be fairly sure that I’m not going to like it. Especially if there will be boys or alcohol involved. And judging from your song lyrics, Ms Swift, I believe that there is a high possibility of that.

  ‘Hello, people!’ Dylan bounds into the room, throwing his arms out like Hugh Jackman in The Greatest Showman. ‘I am here!’

  ‘Congratulations for you,’ snarls Scarlet, finally turning off the music. ‘I’ve been here for the last sixteen years but I don’t make a song and dance about it.’

  She does, though. In the last six months especially, Scarlet has started behaving as if her life is some kind of dramatic theatre production. And clearly, this particular production requires a lot of tortured expressions, self-introspection and extended monologues.

  Dylan strolls across to his sister and flings his arm around her shoulder. ‘That’s because you’re just not as special as I am,’ he says, pulling a sad face. ‘But don’t worry, little sis. I’m here for you.’

  Scarlet gives him an almighty shove in the chest and he staggers backwards, narrowly avoiding Benji, who is attempting to remove his skateboard (as per my instructions) by putting Dogger on top and pushing her along.

  I ram the washing into the machine and straighten up, sniffing the air. It smells suspiciously like burnt sausages.

  ‘Has anyone checked the oven?’ I politely enquire. ‘Because I’m pretty sure that I asked you all to keep an eye on the cooking while I sorted out the laundry.’

  ‘I’ve been revising for my Maths exam!’ Scarlet’s voice is laden with persecution. Nobody does aggrieved like my daughter.

  ‘I was in the bathroom.’ Dylan sits down and starts prodding at his phone.

  ‘Again?’ asks Benji, voicing what we’re all thinking. ‘You were in there for hours when we got home from school. Have you got diarrhoea or something?’

  ‘Why are you so gross?’ Scarlet glowers at him. ‘Nobody actually says stuff like that.’

  Benji glances across the room at me, his face a picture of confusion.

  ‘I was only asking,’ he says. ‘Because we’ve been learning about germs in Science and I was just going to say that Dylan should probably wash his hands a bit better after he’s been to the toilet. Then he won’t keep needing to go.’

  ‘The supper?’ I ask, but nobody hears me. Dylan is exclaiming his disbelief that Benji could be so hypocritical as to talk to him about personal hygiene when we all know that Benji runs the tap and pretends to put his hands underneath but for some ungodly reason refuses to actually get them wet, and Scarlet is furiously slamming knives and forks onto the table and muttering loudly that she is the only person in this family to actually do anything helpful ever, while Benji is repeating the word ‘diarrhoea’ over and over again like some kind of hideous mantra.

  So it is left to me to rescue the sausages and chips and heat up a tin of baked beans before screaming at them all to shut up and sit down.

  ‘I’ve cooked you a delicious meal and the least you can do is have enough respect to eat it nicely,’ I roar, slamming the charred contents of the oven onto three plates. ‘I’ve been at work all day listening to Year Nine mutilate the English language, which is enough to send the sanest teacher over the edge, and I’ve got lessons to plan and your dirty pants aren’t going to clean themselves and Dad won’t be home until late and we’ve run out of wine.’

  They all pause for a moment and I see Dylan eyeing me warily.

  ‘It looks great, Mum,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, thanks for cooking for us,’ says Scarlet. ‘We’ll do the washing up.’

  ‘Thank you for everything,’ adds Benji, passionately. ‘Like, thanks for making our food and doing the shopping and washing our clothes and making our packed lunches, and also thank you for giving birth to us and driving us to places and just for being our mum.’

  He pauses for breath and gives me a big, ten-year-old beam.

  ‘You are such a suck-up,’ mutters Scarlet. ‘And I think you’ll find that it’s me who makes the packed lunches, actually.’

  ‘You’re all very helpful,’ I say, sinking down into a chair. ‘It’s why people have children in the first place, you know? For an easy life and for all the extra help that they get.’

  Dylan laughs and starts squirting tomato ketchup copiously over his plate. I would normally make a cutting remark about the ratio of sauce to food but today I keep quiet. The sausages and chips have been cremated almost to the point of ash and I think a little extra moisture is acceptable in this case.

  For a few moments, the only sound is that of knives attempting to ineffectually carve their way through several layers of pyrolysed pork. I lean back and start to relax. Nick was going out with a couple of mates after work b
ut hopefully he won’t be home too late. We’ll eat pasta in front of whatever American crime series we’re currently working our way through on Netflix and it’s Wednesday, which means no school for me tomorrow. If I use my imagination and powers of delusion, I can almost make myself believe that it’s the weekend.

  ‘I started following Zoe on Instagram today,’ says Scarlet, giving up on her knife and picking up the sausage with her fingers. Her voice is casual but the look she shoots at Dylan is distinctly shifty.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Dylan rounds on her, his face screwed up in displeasure. ‘You don’t even know her!’

  ‘So?’ Scarlet shrugs, her grin stretching from ear to ear. ‘That’s what social media is for, Dylan. Getting to know new people.’

  ‘But you know that I—’ he stops and gestures wildly at Scarlet, before slamming his hands over his face.

  ‘I know that you what?’ purrs Scarlet. This is her favourite game. ‘I know that you fancy Zoe? Is that what you were going to say?’

  Dylan groans. A good mother would probably stop this but there’s no chance of me doing that. This is the first thing I’ve heard about any Zoe character, and if Dylan is interested in her then I want to know everything that there is to know. And fortunately for me, Scarlet is an excellent source of information.

  ‘Dylan’s got a girlfriend!’ crows Benji, his eyes sparkling with delight. ‘Are you going to get married? You’re allowed, you know. You can do that when you’re eighteen. And you can also vote and get a tattoo and be sued.’

  ‘I do not have a girlfriend!’ snaps Dylan. ‘So shut up!’

  ‘You are not allowed to get a tattoo,’ I say, but even as the words come out of my mouth, I’m wondering why I’ve never thought about having one.

  Maybe something tasteful, like a small butterfly or a daisy? Maybe something that would prove I’m not old and past it. Or perhaps I could get my eyebrows shaved off and perfectly arched brows tattooed in their place? That could be worth looking into. I think I could achieve a lot more in life if I had eyebrows that were on fleek, as Scarlet would say. It sounds quite French. I wonder if it’s actually spelt en flique? I must remember to ask her.