‘That is a potential possibility,’ I murmur, closing my eyes for a second so that I can avoid seeing the horror on Caroline’s face and the amusement on his. ‘I thought it wasn’t working so I used each strip several times.’
‘And how many strips did you use?’ he enquires.
‘All of them.’ I swallow loudly. ‘Was that wrong?’
There is a brief moment of silence while everyone takes in my words.
‘You waxed your upper lip using all the strips?’ breathes Caroline. ‘How many strips were in the box?’
I think back. ‘Maybe six?’
‘Didn’t you read the instructions at all?’ She is literally incredulous that anyone could be so stupid.
I think we can all agree, Caroline, that it is quite clear that I did not, in fact, read the instructions. Not after the word ‘anus’, anyway.
I nod my head vigorously. ‘Of course I read them. I’m not a complete idiot, you know.’
‘Hmmm.’ The new hairdresser looks at me appraisingly. ‘Then you’ll know that absolutely, under no circumstances, are you supposed to wax the same bit of skin more than once. You’ve given yourself a first degree burn.’
‘Will it take long to heal?’ I think about the fact that I am due in the classroom on Monday morning. I will never live it down if I walk in looking like this.
Caroline tilts her head to one side. ‘It’ll probably take a few days if you treat the burn and stop it from getting infected.’
‘How do I do that?’
The new hairdresser grins at me wickedly. ‘You need to get some of those burn pads from the supermarket and cut one down to size,’ he tells me. I sense that he’s enjoying himself. ‘And then stick it to the affected area.’
I look at him in disbelief. ‘You want me to walk around with a massive pad stuck to my top lip? Are you serious?’
‘I don’t care what you do, lady.’ He puts his hands on his hips and raises his eyebrows at me. ‘It’s your call. Do you want a permanently scarred lip or are you prepared to suffer in the short term?’
He struts back to his client who has been watching the whole thing as if she’s never seen a woman with a mutilated lip before. The rest of the salon resumes their business and Caroline gently spins my chair so that I am once again facing her and not my evil nemesis, the mirror.
‘Let’s get rid of these grey hairs, shall we?’ Her voice is shaking as if she’s trying not to laugh, but I don’t care. I’ve got bigger things to worry about than whether I’ve just made myself a complete laughing stock.
I care. I really, really care.
I sit in silence while Caroline starts slopping hair dye onto my head. I have three choices that I can see.
One: ignore the entire situation. Act normally and pretend that it never happened. If I don’t mention it then maybe nobody else will and my lip will heal before I have to walk into school on Monday.
Two: take the new hairdresser’s advice. Buy a burn pad and walk around looking like Groucho Marx all weekend. Hope that anyone I encounter, including my loving family, doesn’t mock me too enthusiastically.
Three: Wear a balaclava. It is still February, after all. People wear all manner of headgear during the arctic winter months here in southern England.
Okay, so option two is out straight away. Wearing a burn pad is going to look almost as ridiculous as my current appearance. And I don’t think much of option three. I can’t go into the supermarket wearing a balaclava – they have a very enthusiastic security guard who spends his days ensuring that nobody tries to steal the trollies. I’ll be rugby-tackled to the floor and put in a deadlock before I can say ‘lip trauma’.
Not that I can see the first option working too well for me either. I might be able to pretend that this hasn’t happened but there’s no way that my darling children will ignore it.
Which means that I’m going to have to choose door number four.
‘Is Laura in today?’ I ask Caroline. ‘And can you ask her if she has any spare appointment slots.’
And so it is that two hours later, I am sidling down the frozen food aisle with my beautifully manicured hands held out in front of my face. I have chosen a particularly zesty shade of azure blue and my nails are sparkling like the Mediterranean Sea. They will surely distract even the most observant of viewers from the car crash that is going on in the vicinity of my mouth.
And if that fails, then the very teensy bottle of Prosecco that I am currently purchasing will mean that I really don’t care.
Chapter 5
The bottom falls out of my car as I pull into the school car park. I know this because the accompanying noise is enough to attract the attention of the teenagers who loiter by the gates; they won’t draw their gaze away from their phones for anything but the direst of emergencies. And from the look of delight on their faces, my ancient old car is breathing its last, fume-filled breath. I won’t hear the end of it when I’m attempting to teach them the finer points of passive voice on Monday morning.
‘Maybe it’s not that bad,’ I tell myself, closing my eyes briefly and clutching the steering wheel. ‘Perhaps I just went over a pothole or a small cat? Maybe this isn’t actually a complete, unmitigated disaster?’
I inhale deeply, trying desperately to remember the mindfulness training that we had to endure on the last Inset day at work.
Be in the moment. That’s what the infuriatingly calm woman leading the course told us. Make sure that you have times of peace and serenity throughout your day. It was tricky enough finding peace and serenity in the comfort of the school staffroom; I am unconvinced about my ability to bring forth my inner tranquillity right now. However, I refuse to be deterred. Desperate times and all that. I rack my brains for any of the other words of wisdom that fell from her calm and composed lips.
FOFBOC. That’s what she told us we had to do when things felt overwhelming. We are supposed to ground ourselves in the here and now, which ironically is also what my car appears to have done. Clenching the steering wheel harder, I run through mindfulness lady’s instructions.
Feet On Floor? Check.
Bottom On Chair? Also check. If by ‘chair’, she meant slightly fraying and tatty car upholstery that has seen better days.
I am making a concerted effort to step away from my worries and towards my happy place when a rapping sound on the glass distracts me. I open my eyes and see that Elise from Year Nine is frowning at me through the window while simultaneously gesturing at the car and furiously stabbing away at her mobile phone.
I open the door. It’s not like I could have stayed in here indefinitely, no matter how appealing a prospect that might be.
‘Hello, Elise.’ I plaster on a big smile.
‘You do know that your car has just fallen apart, don’t you, miss?’ Elise punctuates the end of her proclamation with a smack of bubble-gum. ‘And also, there’s something wrong with your lips. Looks like stubble rash to me.’
‘I was aware that something was amiss, yes.’ I feel that my reply is sufficient for both observations. Sighing, I step out of the car and then crouch down to peer underneath. Something large and dirty and metallic looking is hanging down onto the road. It looks like it’s a vital component and probably fairly necessary for actually driving. ‘Oh, shit.’
Behind me, Elise gasps dramatically. I do not for one second believe that she is genuinely shocked to hear an adult swear, but still, I suppose I am on school property.
‘I’m sorry, Elise,’ I say, standing up. ‘That was unprofessional of me. But my car appears to have died and I’m feeling slightly upset.’
Elise is saved from having to answer by the appearance of Scarlet who instantly forms the impression that the car has broken down to shame her.
‘Mum!’ she hisses, standing several feet away as if she can’t be seen talking to me. ‘Why is the car in pieces? Why are you standing in the car park? You know the rules if you must insist on collecting us. Stay. In. The. Car.’
‘
It’s broken down,’ I hiss back at her. ‘And I’m standing here because I’m going to have to sort this mess out.’
‘God!’ Scarlet’s shoulders droop down and her bag slides onto the floor. ‘This is so embarrassing. I told you we should get a better car.’
I am not in the mood. Not today. My brain is whirring with everything that I’ve got to do and I can’t even begin to figure out how we’re going to pay for the repairs, if it can even be repaired in the first place.
‘What’s going on?’ Dylan lopes up to us. ‘Has the old rust-bucket finally died, then?’
I leap into action. ‘Right, you two need to get over to the primary school and collect Benji,’ I pull out my phone. ‘Then bring him back here to me.’
Scarlet grimaces. ‘Can’t I just get the bus home?’
Both she and Dylan get the bus home on the days that I’m at work. Benji goes to the after-school club at his school. I had fondly imagined, back when Dylan started in Year Seven and later when Scarlet joined two years later, that they would hang around in my classroom at the end of the day and we would swap witty anecdotes about what we’d been up to while I got my marking done. The reality is that neither teenager will even acknowledge my existence when they pass me in the corridor and I suspect that they would far prefer to get the bus home every day. But on Thursdays and Fridays, when I’m not at work, I like to collect them myself. It gives my days off a sense of purpose.
Scarlet reaches out her hand and grabs Elise’s arm. ‘We’ve got loads of homework to do, haven’t we?’
Elise nods her head earnestly. ‘It’s true, Mrs Thompson. So much homework.’
I glance at my phone and see that Benji’s class will be coming out in ten minutes. I do not have time for this.
‘You aren’t even in the same year group as Elise,’ I snap at my daughter. ‘Stop trying to drag her into your web of deceit. Now go! Get your brother and bring him back here. I’ll ring the breakdown people and they’ll fix the car. And run!’
Dylan launches into action, flinging his bag to the ground and setting off at a run. Scarlet hesitates for a brief second but the thrill of the competition is too much for her to resist.
‘Good luck with all that homework,’ she yells at Elise and then she’s off, sprinting after Dylan with a determined look on her face.
I scroll through my phone and find the number for the breakdown helpline.
‘I hope your car gets sorted, miss,’ says Elise, giving me a wave before plodding off in the direction of the buses.
‘Have a good evening!’ I call back, and then a nice lady answers the phone and reassures me that all of my problems are about to be solved because I had the magnificent foresight to join the nation’s most elite breakdown service.
I might ask for advice about how to handle being forty-three years old, permanently strapped for cash and doing a job I hate while trying to deal with three exhausting kids. That’s the kind of breakdown service for which I would happily pay a monthly premium.
*
The nice lady lied. I’m sure that she didn’t mean to – she was probably just trying to bolster me with her calming and encouraging words – but all the same, she told me a massive fib. All my problems have not been solved. The evidence for this is the fact that we are making the three-mile journey from school to home in the crew cab of a breakdown lorry while my poor, geriatric car rides in regal splendour on the back of the truck.
Scarlet is sulking about the time wasted when she could be revising and muttering about the ridiculousness of not just getting the bus home. I really am going to have to speak to her about her attitude. Dylan can tell that I’m worried about the car and the money and is helpfully attempting to distract me by explaining an idea he’s had for an amazing app that will make him thousands of pounds. I’d be more enthusiastic if I hadn’t already heard this speech about fifty times. Benji is bouncing up and down in his seat, excitedly pointing out familiar landmarks even though we make this journey at least twice a day. Clearly, seeing the world from a higher perspective is pretty fabulous when you’re ten years old.
And me? I am frantically doing sums in my head, trying to work out how I can get the car fixed and pay the mortgage and buy food and get the oil tank filled up yet again because our ancient old radiators seem to guzzle fuel like it’s going out of fashion and apparently it’s going to snow next week and we’re all likely to get hypothermia; but it will definitely be all right.
I’m sure it will be all right.
There’s a remote chance that it will be all right.
The mechanic drops us off at home and we wave goodbye as he drives off up the road, taking the car to the local garage where they are primed and on standby, ready to try and revive it. Then we go inside and Scarlet puts the kettle on and Benji unpacks his school lunchbox without me even asking and I start to relax, just a little bit.
‘There’s a school trip to the theatre coming up.’ Scarlet turns to look at me. ‘It costs fifteen quid and I have to pay by tomorrow – can I go?’
I wearily reach for my purse and open it up. Of course she needs money today of all days, when I’m already haemorrhaging cash.
‘I’ve only got a twenty-pound note,’ I tell her. ‘You’re going to have to wait until I can get some change.’
Scarlet reaches her hand into her pocket and pulls out a wodge of five-pound notes. ‘No worries – I’ll swap you for one of these.’
She swipes the twenty out of my hand and hands me one of her notes in return.
‘Where did you get all of that from?’ I ask, easing my shoes off. ‘And can you pass the biscuit tin?’
‘Oh, you know – birthday money and stuff.’ She hands me a cup of tea. ‘Also, Mum, I was just wondering how illegal it is to do other people’s homework and charge them money for doing it?’
I nearly splutter out my drink. ‘What? Why are you asking that?’
Scarlet assumes her most innocent expression. ‘I’m just asking, that’s all,’ she says. ‘For a friend.’
I frown at her. Is it possible that she knows the Year Eleven girl mentioned by Elise? Is my daughter hanging out with the kind of racketeer who would run an illicit homework ring at Westhill Academy? Oh my god, maybe she’s being forced to launder the dirty money and I’m now in possession of a hot five-pound note.
‘Scarlet—’ I begin, but I’m distracted by the sound of the front door opening. As Nick walks into the kitchen, Scarlet takes the opportunity to make her escape. Before I can yell at her to come back, Nick tells me that he popped into the garage on his way home and the car will be fixed by tomorrow afternoon. And then he quotes an eye-watering price and I forget about everything except the spiralling panic in my stomach.
‘We can’t afford that,’ I tell him, shaking my head. ‘That’s a stupid amount of money.’
‘I do keep saying that we need a car fund,’ he says, pouring me a glass of wine. ‘It’d help when we have emergencies like this.’
‘Well, it’s all very easy to be sensible in hindsight, isn’t it?’ I snap. ‘I don’t see you holding back on the spending.’
Nick holds his hands out in self-defence. ‘What spending? I’m at work all week. I don’t get the chance to spend any money! And anyway, I’ve got something to tell you.’
Unfortunately for my argument, he’s right. Every penny we earn (and he earns more than I do now that I’m on a three-day working week) goes straight into our joint account and it’s almost all accounted for with the mortgage and food and electricity and oil and insurance and taxes and petrol – and that’s before we’ve paid for music lessons and vet bills and driving lessons and new school shoes (because Benji’s feet seem to have a dedicated growth mindset all of their own). Nick never has any spare cash and he rarely complains about it, even though he works so hard.
Not that any of this makes me feel any better.
‘You could always sell Betty,’ I suggest, feeling like a bitch the instant that the words are out of my mouth. Ni
ck’s old Land Rover is his pride and joy and after a challenging week at work, tinkering about on it is one of the only things that helps him unwind.
‘You could always go back to work full time,’ he counters and for a second, the air is heavy.
Then he gives me a grin. ‘But I told you, I’ve got some news.’ He pauses, milking the moment. ‘I got that contract that I was after. You are now looking at the new head tree surgeon for Urban Tree Surgeons Limited!’
‘That’s fantastic!’ I leap off the stool and fling my arms around him. ‘I’m so proud of you. You didn’t think you’d get it!’
‘Head Office called me in at the end of the day and told me.’ Nick’s arms tighten around me. ‘It means a bit of a pay rise, Hannah.’
I squeeze his waist and close my eyes. I love this man as much today as I did when we first got together, twenty-two years ago. Probably more, actually, because he was a bit of a knob back then and neither of us had a clue that our first drunken kiss in a tacky nightclub would end up with the life we have now. And the life we have now is manic and constantly changing and filled with adventures but never, ever boring.
His pay rise will probably cover the cost of two driving lessons for Dylan and we both know it. Consultant arborists are never going to be living a champagne lifestyle, even with a new contract like this one. But it would be a criminal shame to waste an opportunity for a celebration, and it isn’t about the money. Not always, anyway.
‘Fish and chip supper?’ I ask him, pulling away and giving him a grin.
‘Only if we’ve got some raspberry ripple ice cream for pudding,’ he says, smiling back at me.
We are the epitome of classiness.
*
Later, lying in bed, I think about what Nick said. He’s been mentioning me going back to work full time more and more recently, although we’ve yet to have a serious conversation about it. Mostly because I can’t decide how I feel. Next to me, Nick snores and rolls over. It doesn’t seem to matter how stressed out he is, he’s always fast asleep the instant that his head hits the pillow.
More Than Just Mom Page 4