More Than Just Mom

by Rebecca Smith

  ‘I suppose he might not have touched the poison,’ I say hopefully. ‘He would appear to be quite an intelligent hamster.’

  The vet puts Fluffy Rocket back in the box and looks at me pityingly.

  ‘Not a chance, I’m afraid. Rat poison has an attractor in it. It’s designed to be as appealing as possible to all rodents, and in this case that unfortunately includes runaway hamsters. Your pet will definitely have ingested the poison. There’s nothing that can really be done at this point.’

  ‘Is there an antidote?’ I enquire, feeling like I’m on a particularly unusual episode of Casualty. ‘Is there anything we can do, doctor?’

  The vet scratches his head and stares down into the box where Fluffy Rocket is frantically stuffing bedding into his voluminous cheeks.

  ‘Well,’ he draws out, sounding reluctant. ‘We could give him twice-daily injections of Vitamin K in an effort to combat the effects of the poison and thicken his blood. But that would mean you bringing him here every morning and evening and it would be incredibly costly and also quite painful for the little chap.’

  We both pause and watch Fluffy Rocket, who is now regurgitating his bedding.

  ‘Would it definitely help him?’ I ask.

  The vet shakes his head. ‘It would be a long shot,’ he tells me. ‘If you want my advice, it would be to go home and put him back in his cage. Then put the cage somewhere that your son can’t see it. Internal bleeding can be a messy business.’

  ‘Will it be quick?’ I cross my fingers, praying for some good news.

  The vet squeezes his lips together. ‘Look, I’ll be honest with you. You need to be prepared for a particularly long and horrific death. If you like, I could just do the kind thing and euthanise him now.’

  The fucking circle of life.

  For one moment I am tempted. But then I look down and see that the hamster is staring up at me, like I am its only hope in the entire word. And I think about my little boy and him calling me ‘Mummy’ and I know that I have to at least try.

  ‘No thank you.’ I pick up the shoebox and clutch it to my chest. ‘I shall take him home and we will see out his last days with dignity.’

  Then I drive home, playing the vet’s words over and over on repeat. Internal bleeding and Vitamin K and nasty injections. And a thought pops into my head, so the instant I get through the front door I deposit Fluffy Rocket back in his cage and pull out my phone, calling upon the wisdom of the World Wide Web to check out my theory. Then I race back to the car and speed to the supermarket, where I buy three overpriced packets of posh, organic cabbage, which, according to Dr Google, is a rich source of Vitamin K.

  And so it is that instead of spending my day writing chapter one of my brilliant erotic novel, I spend it forcing a hamster to eat five times its own body weight in kale.

  Chapter 19

  I. Am. Writing.

  I am actually, honest-to-god, writing, and it feels brilliant. The words are flying out of my fingertips and onto the screen in front of me and it’s like being the queen of the world. I have never felt more powerful in my entire life.

  Downstairs, Benji is engrossed on his iPad and Scarlet is pretending to revise while watching Netflix. Dylan is out at his girlfriend’s house and I’m not collecting him for hours yet. Nick keeps popping in to our bedroom to replenish the cups of tea that I have no time or inclination to drink, because this story is telling itself and it’s all I can do to keep up with it.

  I lean back, stretching out the kinks in my back. I know that sitting on my bed isn’t great for my posture, but it’s peaceful up here and I need to be somewhere that I won’t be disturbed if Bella Rose and Daxx are going to tell their tale.

  It took me a while to come up with my main characters’ names. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that it has got to be one of the most stressful parts of writing; possibly even harder than choosing the names for our own kids. For starters, every name I thought about seemed to belong to some pupil I’ve taught over the years, or a colleague who I’ve worked with, and that would just be inappropriate. And secondly, the names have to be right. All my research suggests that the heroes and heroines of erotic fiction have names that befit their sexy status. There are no characters called Vera or Bob in this game.

  I read the paragraph that I’ve just written.

  Bella Rose peeped up through her improbably long eyelashes, wondering just who this incredibly gorgeous man, with his come-hither eyes, thought he was. She’d seen him around before but he’d never so much as glanced in her direction. Not that she cared. With looks like those, he was probably a complete prick …

  Hmmm. I’m not entirely sure that I’m striking the right mood here. Pressing the delete button, I erase the first sentence and rewrite it, this time making Bella Rose peep up through her implausibly and remarkably long eyelashes at the exquisite and pulchritudinous man before her. It’ll do for now.

  Maybe it’s time to take a break.

  ‘How goes the work?’ asks Nick as I walk into the kitchen. He closes his laptop and takes a slurp of tea. ‘Do you fancy getting takeaway tonight?’

  I look at the clock and see that I’ve been writing for hours.

  ‘Definitely. I can collect something when I’m out getting Dylan.’ I sink into a chair and give him a grin. ‘And the work is going okay. I think.’

  ‘So tell me what you’ve written so far. What’s it actually about?’

  I lean forward, keen to share my vision for Bella Rose and Daxx’s story.

  ‘Right. Well, there’s a guy called Daxx – that’s with two x’s – and he owns a ranch. And he’s also totally sex-on-legs, obviously. And then there’s a woman called Bella Rose who has to sell her horse because she’s down on her luck and is all alone in the world, and so she sells it to Daxx who instantly falls in love with her, although he has to fight his feelings because he has taken a vow to never love anyone ever again after his first and only true love fell to her death in the mountains, and—’

  Nick puts his hand up, stopping me. ‘Can I ask a quick question?’

  I nod, although I was in full flow there and I do think it’s a little bit rude to interrupt someone when the creative juices are flowing, so to speak.

  ‘Where exactly is this story set?’

  ‘Wyoming,’ I explain. ‘It just makes sense because there are loads of ranches in Wyoming.’

  Nick looks puzzled. ‘But you’ve never been to Wyoming, Hannah. And as far as I’m aware, you’ve never even ridden a horse.’

  ‘I have, actually,’ I remind him. ‘I’ve told you about my horrendous experience pony trekking on Dartmoor when I was a teenager. And anyway, what’s your point?’

  ‘I just thought that writers were supposed to write about what they know.’ Nick’s mouth starts twitching at the corners. ‘I had no idea that you were so knowledgeable about the ins and outs of cowboys and studs.’

  ‘Ha bloody ha.’ I am not impressed. ‘I am writing erotic fiction, Nick.’

  ‘I am aware of that.’ He holds up his hands as if he’s placating me. ‘I’m just wondering why it has to be set in a place that you’ve never even been?’

  I wonder if all writers have to cope with the small-worldliness of their spouses?

  ‘Look,’ I tell him, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘George R.R. Martin has never been to Westeros, has he? And J.K. Rowling hasn’t visited Hogwarts. If they’d only written about what they knew then the world would never have experienced the delights of Harry Potter and A Game of Thrones.’

  ‘Now that sounds like a book worth reading.’ Nick snorts. I shoot him my death-glare.

  ‘As I was saying,’ I continue. ‘I am writing erotic fiction. My research has led me to understand that there are certain rules that you have to follow if you want to appeal to your readers.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like setting the story in a sexy environment.’ I lean back in my chair and wave my hand around the room. ‘Readers want to hear about ranch hand
s or billionaires in penthouses or vampires in mansions. They don’t want to read about their own lives. They want escapism. They want Wyoming.’

  ‘What if your readers live in Wyoming?’ Nick asks. ‘Don’t they want to read about rural England? Maybe our lives sound exotic to them.’

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘Yeah, right. I’ve not exactly seen a ton of erotic fiction set in the Shires.’

  Nick pulls a face. ‘That’s a bit of a shame. Maybe there’s a gap in the market for some Hobbit porn?’

  And then we both start sniggering because the whole thing is so ridiculous. It feels so damn good to have something in my life that isn’t connected to school or parenting.

  *

  It is now day six since Hamstergate and miraculously, incredibly, improbably, Fluffy Rocket is still alive and kicking. I have bought our local supermarket out of kale and I swear that the poor animal goes a bit pale when I advance upon it each morning, brandishing a fresh packet, but I’m invested in its survival now and I’m buggered if it’s going to die on my watch. Nick found a padlock and now even the most cunning of criminals would struggle to escape from the confines of the cage.

  The bell rings for the end of morning break and I reluctantly pull myself up from my chair.

  ‘Are you teaching next lesson?’ asks Cassie, glancing up from the pages of her magazine. ‘Bad luck.’

  ‘I’ve got Year Nine, Class C,’ I tell her, picking up my bag. ‘I wouldn’t exactly call it teaching. More like crowd-control-slash-babysitting-slash-why-do-I-bother?’

  Cassie laughs. ‘The pay cheque, my darling. That is why we bother.’

  I walk down the corridor, studiously ignoring the pupils with missing ties and skirts that are the length of a handkerchief and hair that would make a unicorn look a bit shabby. I am not paid enough to notice these things. When I enter my room, the majority of the class is already there, draping themselves over the desks and hanging off the backs of chairs. They do not look like they are ready to engage in learning, which comes as no surprise but is a perpetual source of disappointment.

  ‘Okay, let’s make a start.’ I dump my bag on the floor and walk across to the whiteboard. ‘Who can remember where we left off last lesson?’

  ‘Oh my god!’ howls Wayne from over by the window. ‘You will not believe what car Mr Jenkins is driving!’

  There is a mass surge as everyone piles across the room, pressing their eager little noses up against the glass. I shake my head but from the jeers and general noises of contempt, it’s obviously a car worth commenting on, so I stroll across the room and peer over their shoulders.

  ‘Yo! It’s like, a granny car, dog!’ sneers Brody. ‘I ain’t be seen dead driving that lame-ass piece of crap.’

  I clear my throat loudly. ‘Language, Brody. It’s would not be seen dead, not ain’t.’

  ‘I’m just keepin’ it real, miss,’ Brody tells me. ‘And that is one ugly piece of metal right there, ya feel me?’

  I am not entirely sure what has got into him. Year Nine, Class C might not be the brightest sandwiches in the lunchbox but I’ve never heard Brody talk like this before. I’m mildly embarrassed on his behalf, to be perfectly honest.

  ‘You got the swagga, homie!’ calls Vincent. I may choose to ignore the occasional bit of swearing in my classroom but I absolutely draw the line at prejudice.

  ‘That’s quite enough!’ I snap. ‘I will not tolerate homophobic slurs in this room. Vincent – apologise to Brody this instant.’

  Vincent looks at me with a vacant expression on his face. ‘You what, miss?’

  ‘She thinks you called Brody gay,’ explains Elise, turning away from the window. ‘That’s what homophobic means, you dumbass.’

  ‘You calling me gay, boi?’ explodes Brody. He pushes himself away from the glass and rounds on Vincent, grabbing a ruler that he brandishes before him like a sword. ‘Yo – you better be followin’ that up with some serious attitude, my dawg. ’Cos I’s gonna whip your lily-white ass all the way to the playground and back if you be throwin’ shade in my direction.’

  I have thankfully never had the misfortune to witness either boy’s backside, but judging on the evidence in front of me, I would think it fair to assume that they are both as lily-white as each other.

  ‘I didn’t call you anything,’ shouts back Vincent. ‘Back off, Brody!’

  ‘You are all so incredibly stupid,’ sighs Elise, and the rest of the class murmur in agreement. She turns to me. ‘Miss, Vincent called Brody a “homie”.’

  I glare at Vincent and nod. ‘Exactly. And we do not use a person’s sexual preference as an insult in this school. Nor their gender, while I’m on the subject. Brody is free to identify as whatever sexuality and gender he, she or they prefer. Apologise right now.’

  ‘“Homie” means homeboy,’ continues Elise, rolling her eyes in a way that would normally cause me to give her a detention, but that today I’m prepared to overlook because it would appear that I need her translating skills. ‘Not homosexual.’

  How on earth was I supposed to know that?

  ‘It’s gangster speak, miss,’ adds Vincent helpfully. ‘He’s my homie, yeah bruv?’

  Brody nods and lowers the ruler. ‘You my bruvver from another muvver, Vincenzo. YknowI’msayin’?

  ‘I have no idea what you’re saying,’ I say. ‘Or why you have both decided to start spouting utter gibberish.’ I spin on my heel and walk back towards my desk. ‘And if you aren’t all sitting in your seats with your books out in five seconds flat, then your lunchtime will be spent in my delightful presence. Do you all feel that?’

  I just about resist the urge to throw in a motherfuckaaaaa, for shock value, as I have no doubt that Miriam would walk in just as I embarked on the third syllable.

  *

  ‘You’re in a good mood.’ Nick hangs up his coat and walks into the kitchen where I’m making pasta sauce and gently humming some Rage Against the Machine while I chop tomatoes. ‘Had a good day?’

  ‘It was okay.’ I tip the tomatoes into a pan and turn on the heat. ‘It’s over, which is possibly the best part of it. And tomorrow I can write all day and I’ve had a brilliant idea for a scene where Bella Rose goes out in a thunderstorm and her horse gets spooked and Daxx has to save her and it’s raining and they kiss and—’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit clichéd?’ interrupts Nick, pulling a bottle out of the fridge. ‘Wine Wednesday, by the way?’

  I nod to both questions. ‘Yes to wine. And of course it’s clichéd. That’s exactly what the erotic-fiction fan wants. Duh.’

  Nick shrugs. ‘If you say so. I wouldn’t have a clue.’

  He pours us both a glass and I join him at the table. ‘That’s why I’ve done all the research,’ I tell him. ‘I know what I need to write to make this work.’

  I take a sip of wine and let myself relax. It might only be Wednesday, but my weeks are starting to have real shape and I love knowing that the next two days are going to be spent writing. Hamsters allowing, of course.

  ‘Oh. My. Actual. God!’ Scarlet’s shriek can probably be heard down the street. ‘What even is this?’

  I don’t move. The last few months have exceeded even my wildest expectations of what it means to have a drama-queen, angst-ridden, hormonal tornado of a teenage daughter in the house. The cause of this distress could be any number of things, ranging from forgotten homework to an Instagram post that doesn’t have enough likes to someone forgetting to flush the toilet. It is simply impossible to react to her every single time.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  That gets my attention, if only because I have no intention of spending my precious Thursday steam-cleaning the living room carpet.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I yell, rolling my eyes at Nick, who sensibly takes a hearty slug of wine. ‘Do you need me?’

  Footsteps pound across the floor and then Scarlet appears in the doorway, brandishing her e-reader.

  ‘Which one of you did this
?’ she demands, furiously. ‘Are you trying to traumatise me or something?’

  ‘Perhaps you could do us the courtesy of speaking at a reasonable volume and with a bit more respect,’ Nick tells her. ‘What is it that we’re supposed to have done?’

  ‘You’re going to talk to me about courtesy and respect?’ Scarlet’s voice rises a few more octaves, her indignation giving her the ability to commune with dolphins. ‘That’s rich, when you’re the one looking at porn!’

  Oh holy mother of the sweet baby Jesus. This cannot be happening.

  ‘Why are you yelling about porn?’ Dylan appears, as if by magic. Typical. I can waste ten minutes screaming upstairs at the top of my lungs to tell him that supper is going cold. It would seem that I have been shouting the wrong word to be assured of his attention.

  Scarlet glowers at him. ‘There are some very dodgy books on my e-reader and I didn’t order them. In fact, I think I’m going to need to wash my eyes out with soap. Some things just can’t be unseen.’

  ‘I deleted them off my device,’ I mutter, making frantic eye contact with Nick. ‘I don’t understand why they’re still on there.’

  Scarlet spins round, her mouth twisted in conflict. She’s clearly undecided about whether she should find this funny or appalling.

  ‘It was you? You’ve been reading porn? Oh my god, Mother. That is just so, so, ewww. It’s just, argghhh – I don’t even know what to say.’

  I have never once seen our daughter lost for words.

  Please find it funny. Please. Let’s all behave like grown-up about this.

  Scarlet looks down at her e-reader for a moment and then stares back at us. ‘I’m sorry for accusing you, Dad. I wasn’t thinking straight. I guess Too Hard to Handle Billionaire isn’t really your gig.’