More Than Just Mom

by Rebecca Smith

  *

  The rumbling of my stomach eventually becomes loud enough for me to hear, immersed as I am in the world of Mr Grey. I blink and swim back to reality, struggling for a second to place myself in my normal kitchen after the things I’ve just read. The clock on the wall tells me that I’ve been reading for hours and that I’m going to have to get a move on if I’m going to collect the kids from school.

  I stand up and stretch my arms over my head. I need to eat and I need to put in a load of laundry unless I want to spend the whole of tomorrow up to my eyebrows in dirty pants. But I’m three quarters of the way through now and as I’m always telling my pupils, once you get on a reading roll it’s a crime to stop. And I’ve always hated hypocrisy.

  I walk over to the cupboard where I keep the stuff for the kids’ packed lunches, pushing aside the improbably sized packets of raisins and dried fruit in the shape of a pencil and bars made out of birdseed. Right at the back I find what I’m looking for, and I head back to the table with a KitKat in one hand and a Wagon Wheel in the other. Then I grab my phone and send a text to Logan’s mum.

  Hi! Any chance you can drop B off as you drive past? Something’s come up here, lol! Thanks x

  I press send, sniggering to myself. Logan’s mum is lovely and worthy and very, very proper. She’d be horrified if she knew that I was eschewing pick-up duties to read Fifty Shades of Grey.

  My next two texts are to Dylan and Scarlet.

  Get the bus x

  Then, before I can change my mind, I take my chocolate and Mr Grey over to the comfy chair next to the window, where I can read in peace and keep an eye out for the kids.

  Chapter 12

  I spend all of the next day reading the second book in the trilogy, stopping on several occasions to shout at the main female character and telling her to grow some self-respect. By the time it’s Friday night, I am a bundle of mixed emotions. It’s awful. The entire premise is absolutely terrible. But I can kind of see the appeal.

  Nick brings home a bottle of Prosecco and we drink a toast to Fizzy Friday and the end of the week.

  ‘Here’s to a slightly less stressful seven days,’ he says, holding his glass in the air. ‘Maybe we’ll win the lottery tomorrow night and all our worries will be behind us!’

  ‘We’d have to buy a ticket to do that,’ I point out, snuggling up next to him on the sofa and tucking my feet under his legs. ‘And anyway, I reckon winning a huge amount of money would cause more issues than it would solve.’

  I take a huge gulp of my drink.

  ‘Do you really?’ Nick looks at me in surprise.

  ‘Of course I don’t! I’d bloody love to win more money than I could count!’

  Nick laughs. ‘Why do people always say that, though? That money brings its own problems?’

  ‘I bet nobody poor ever says it,’ I mutter darkly.

  Nick nods in agreement. ‘Too right! Now, where have those annoying kids hidden the remote?’

  ‘It was in the fridge yesterday,’ I remind him. After a good twenty minutes searching, Nick had found it balanced on top of the cheese. Benji eventually confessed that it might possibly have been him who put it there when he was looking for the milk; and by the way, did we know that there was no milk left?

  ‘I’ve told them that they’re banned from watching TV if they can’t treat our belongings with respect,’ Nick complains, sitting up and ramming his hand down the side of the sofa. ‘But do they pay the slightest bit of attention?’

  ‘Those noise-cancelling headphones don’t exactly help,’ I say. ‘I had to scream Scarlet’s name three times earlier and I was standing right next to her.’

  ‘She probably heard you the first time.’ Nick turns his attention towards the cushions that line the back of the sofa.

  Time suddenly warps; I can see exactly what is about to happen in slow motion but am powerless to stop it.

  ‘Nooooo!’ I shout, but I am too late. Nick pulls the middle cushion forward and his hands grip around the book.

  I turn fifty shades of puce.

  ‘What’s this?’ He picks it up, turns it over and examines the cover, his eyes widening when he sees the title. ‘Oh my god, Hannah!’

  ‘I can explain,’ I say, trying to pull the evidence away from him. He stares at me, his face contorted with concern.

  ‘What do you know about this?’ he asks, narrowing his eyes.

  I remind myself that this is the twenty-first century and I do not have anything to feel ashamed about. I don’t care who knows that I read these books. It doesn’t make me a bad person. Nobody has the right to judge me for it. I’m not going to be made to feel ashamed just because I read something that is a little to the left of centre. Or is it to the right of centre?

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘If you’ll just listen, then I can—’

  But Nick doesn’t let me continue. He stands up and starts pacing the floor. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,’ he mutters. ‘It’s not right, Hannah.’

  I have to admit, I’m slightly shocked at his reaction. Nick has never been someone who I would describe as prudish. Maybe he’s been having a mid-life crisis too? Oh god, what if my loving, caring, gorgeous husband has been feeling insecure and now thinks that I’m turning to Christian Grey to get my kicks?

  I feel absolutely terrible.

  ‘It’s not a big deal.’ The words rush out of my mouth in my eagerness to reassure him. ‘Honestly.’

  ‘It’s porn, Hannah! Porn! And you think that’s okay?’ He stares at me in disbelief.

  I stand up and meet his gaze. ‘It’s not porn, it’s erotic fiction,’ I state, more confidently than I feel. ‘And you need to stop overreacting.’

  ‘She’s only sixteen, for god’s sake,’ Nick howls. ‘Is nothing sacred anymore?’

  I pause, thinking back to the books. Then I shake my head. ‘Nope. She’s definitely in her twenties. The plot holes feel criminal, but it’s all legal, Nick.’

  Nick looks at me like I’m speaking an alien language. ‘Scarlet is only sixteen,’ he says. ‘I’m talking about the fact that you seem to think it’s fine for our daughter to read this stuff!’

  ‘What?’ I shake my head. ‘I wouldn’t let Scarlet read these books, and I can’t imagine her wanting to. She still pretends to throw up when you give me a goodbye kiss! What are you going on about?’

  Nick sinks back onto the sofa and holds the offending book in the air. ‘So if Scarlet didn’t hide this behind the cushion then who did?’ he asks.

  Oh. Right. I can see where this is heading now. I wonder if I can get away with changing my story and blaming it all on my only daughter. Would that make me the worst mother in the universe? But what am I even thinking? I am a grown-ass woman. I am allowed to read whatever I like without having to explain myself to anyone.

  ‘I hid it.’ I jut my chin in the air and defiantly await Nick’s reaction. If he tries to make me feel bad then I’m going to have a meltdown. ‘I’ve been reading the books and I hid that one there because I didn’t want the kids to find it. The only mistake that I’ve made is not choosing a better hiding place.’

  Nick leans back on the sofa and puts the book down. ‘Babe.’ His voice is low. ‘How come I never knew you were into this stuff?’

  I sit down next to him and fix him with a steely glare. ‘I am not into this stuff. It was research. I am an English teacher, you know.’

  Nick sniggers. ‘Whatever you say, Hannah. I wasn’t aware that this was part of the GCSE curriculum. Or has Miriam got you teaching sex education now?’

  I shudder and pick up my wine glass. ‘Well if I was, I would definitely not be using this story as a helpful example. Woman meets man. Man is very, very rich. Woman wouldn’t have looked twice at man if he were working a dead-end job for minimum wage. Man stalks woman and manipulates her into becoming his girlfriend. They have some kinky sex, which mostly involves woman being weak and powerless. The end. Repeat for the sequel.’

 
I take a huge slug of drink, emptying my glass.

  Nick laughs. ‘So there’s nothing sexy about the story at all?’ he asks. ‘Only, I seem to remember hearing that these books made an indecent amount of money and got a whole load of people reading. They can’t be that bad!’

  ‘I didn’t say that they aren’t sexy.’ I curl up on the sofa and think for a moment. ‘It’s just all so fake. None of the sex scenes are even recognisable. Nobody would accept any of it if Christian Grey wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous and totally minted.’

  ‘Well, if people are prepared to pay for this stuff then I guess that’s up to them,’ Nick says. ‘And you can’t have thought they were so awful; not if you read more than one of them.’

  ‘It was research,’ I repeat. ‘That’s all. I was interested to see what everyone was going on about.’

  Nick puts his hand on my knee and gives it a squeeze. ‘Well, I think it’s great that you’re broadening your horizons. We’re never too old to switch things up a bit.’

  I raise one eyebrow. ‘I’m not sure that I know what you’re talking about, Mr Thompson,’ I say. ‘But we still don’t appear to have found the remote, so Netflix is not an option this evening.’

  Nick stands up and reaches a hand down to me, pulling me off the sofa. ‘I think I like having a wife who reads porn,’ he mulls. ‘It’s quite exciting.’

  I elbow him sharply in the ribs. ‘If you call it porn one more time, I’m going to re-enact some of the scenes from that stupid book,’ I tell him. ‘One of the chapters with the pain but minus any kind of pleasure. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am!’ Nick salutes and marches across the room. ‘I actually think you’re perfectly suited to life as a dominatrix, Hannah. You’re bossy and controlling and you can’t stand anyone doing anything that you haven’t sanctioned. I think you’ve found your calling in life!’

  He darts up the stairs before I can find a suitable item to whip him with.

  Chapter 13

  The pub is crowded when I arrive, but Cassie has bagged us a table in the corner. I go straight to the bar and order two glasses of Prosecco and a packet of peanuts before heading across to where she’s sitting.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say, handing her a glass. ‘I would have been here sooner, only Dylan decided to have a crisis about going to university and then Scarlet didn’t want to be outdone so she sat on my bed while I was attempting to get ready and told me all about how stressed she is about her exams and did I know that there are literally only two months to go and why haven’t we got her a tutor for Maths, even though she’s never once mentioned needing extra help. Then she asked me how illegal it is to forge a bank note and looked highly shady when I asked why she wanted to know.’

  I take a deep breath and sit down opposite Cassie. ‘And then just when I thought it was safe to leave, Benji fell off his skateboard and landed on Dogger and Nick was incapable of providing hugs because the stupid toilet was leaking and apparently, unless I want to return home to a house filled with piss then he needed to sort it out immediately. So I left them all to it.’

  I knock back half my drink. ‘Does that make me a bad mother?’

  Cassie laughs. ‘God, no. It makes you someone who needs more than one glass of Prosecco though.’

  I grin at her and feel myself starting to relax. ‘So what’s new? What did I miss at work on Thursday and Friday?’

  ‘Not a lot.’ Cassie rips open the peanuts and offers me the packet. ‘Nothing as exciting as Mrs Knight’s sex revelations!’

  ‘Bloody hell, that was excruciating, wasn’t it?’ I pour myself a handful of peanuts. ‘I really thought she was about to give us an X-rated description of her glory days.’

  ‘At least she has an X-rated version,’ moans Cassie, casting her eyes around the pub.

  I sit back in my chair and wait for her to finish her recon; since her divorce, Cassie is constantly on the lookout for eligible men. Sadly for her, they are thin on the ground in this neck of the woods.

  I glance around at the assembled males. There’s Mark Rotherham who works in the butcher’s – I’ve always thought that he would make quite a good catch apart from the minor issue that he’s covered in blood for the majority of the working day. That’s a tiny bit off-putting. Over at the pool table is Gary Peters. He’s a personal trainer and incredibly fit and handsome. He also left our school about five years ago, which puts him firmly in the ‘ewww’ category. And then there’s Timmo, who’s definitely in the correct age group, and lives just down the road from me. With his mother. That’s barrier number one, for sure. Barrier number two is the fact that he still refers to himself as Timmo. I can’t look at him without picturing an enthusiastic Labrador puppy with a wagging tail.

  ‘We need to get out more,’ Cassie tells me. ‘But anyway, I’m not interested in men tonight.’ She brandishes her empty glass at me. ‘I appear to be in need of more sustenance. Shall we just get a bottle?’

  I think for a second. It’s Sunday tomorrow and I need to be up at some ungodly hour to take Benji to his swimming lesson. I suppose that I can do that just as well with a hangover. I nod.

  The evening snowballs. The bubbly flows as fast as the conversation; we discuss every topic from Trump’s latest cock-up to impending menopause and how we are supposed to know whether we’re menopausal or actually dying, because the symptoms seem frighteningly similar. We debate the possible ways that we can avoid the Inset day and the birth reenactment, ending up in a particularly macabre conversation about all the things that we would rather do than act out our own birth.

  ‘Have you met my mother?’ Cassie splutters, brandishing her glass in the air. ‘She’s absolutely terrifying. It’s impossible to imagine her even contemplating any kind of act that resulted in conception, never mind being forced to spend time thinking about her vagina.’

  ‘Maybe we could change career completely?’ I suggest, squinting to see her in the dim light of the pub. ‘We’re not too old. We could start all over again as something completely new.’

  Yes. This is a brilliant and cunning plan. Cassie always has the best ideas – I’ll lure her into a conversation about different jobs and then steal her best ones for myself.

  Cassie’s eyes light up. ‘Totally! We could be astronauts! Or brain surgeons! Or dustbin men – I’ve always wanted to drive a bin lorry.’

  ‘I think they’re called Refuse Collectors now,’ I inform her. ‘And that would be a horrible job. What if you found body parts in a bin bag, like they’re always doing on crime programmes?’

  Cassie nods seriously. ‘That is a very good point. Not bin men then.’ She scans her eyes around the room. ‘Maybe we could be high-end escorts? You know, the kind that get paid to go for posh meals and wear nice dresses with rich businessmen?’

  I stare at her. ‘You mean women of the night?’

  ‘That sounds like a cheesy Mills and Boon title. But on that subject,’ she leans across the table, ‘tell me what you thought about the books, Hannah! I know you read them!’

  I attempt a confused look for all of three seconds before caving in.

  ‘Oh. My. God.’ I pick up the bottle but it’s empty. ‘Where do I start?’

  ‘I knew it!’ shrieks Cassie. ‘Are you going to be one of those middle-aged housewives who give their husband a heart attack by producing a set of handcuffs and a blindfold on a Saturday night after Britain’s Got Talent?’

  I snort. ‘Not bloody likely. It’s not exactly sexy, is it?’

  Cassie stares at me. ‘You’re telling me that the highest-grossing book of all time, written purely about sex, isn’t sexy? What’s wrong with you, girl?’

  I look across at the bar and use international sign language to signal my need for more Prosecco. Thankfully the bartender (who I taught in my Biology class six years ago) understands my request and does not interpret it as me making an obscene gesture towards him, which has happened on a previous occasion. He brings us our drinks and I wait until he leaves be
fore replying. I am, as always, a consummate professional and do not wish to shock the younger generation.

  Then I put my hands on the table and stare Cassie down. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me, thank you very much. It’s just not very real. It’s like reading the Disney version of what a relationship should be like. And I don’t find that particularly sexy.’

  My best friend gawps at me for a second and then bursts out laughing. ‘The

  Disney version? What are you on about?’

  ‘It’s fake and glossy and complete fantasy,’ I tell her. ‘Nobody actually behaves like that in real life. I’m surprised that nobody’s thought to make a musical version. Christian Grey breaking into song about how messed up he is and how he can only find happiness through hurting women before breaking into a snazzy dance number with all his former submissives.’

  ‘I can see it now.’ Cassie holds up her hands and spreads them apart, as if weaving a magical tale.

  ‘I’m a rich man and I like things pretty dark,’ she sings loudly, to the tune of Adele’s ‘Rolling in the Deep’.

  ‘Come close to me, my love and let me make my mark,’ I contribute, raising my voice to match hers.

  ‘I’ll show you my playroom and the things I keep inside,’ she warbles.

  ‘If you have the slightest sense you’ll run away and hide!’ I finish, slamming my fist triumphantly on the table before we both collapse in a fit of cackling laughter.

  It’s possible that we have drunk slightly more than is good for us.

  ‘She did make a ton of money,’ says Cassie eventually, once we’ve calmed down. ‘And she did actually write three books. That’s quite an achievement.’

  ‘But she must have written them in two minutes,’ I protest. ‘Honestly, Cassie! I could do a better job with my hands tied behind my back.’

  ‘And wearing a blindfold?’

  We start sniggering again, like the mature women that we are.