More Than Just Mom

by Rebecca Smith

  The silence that follows is possibly the most uncomfortable twenty seconds of my life so far. But then hysterical laughing erupts from my two oldest children, swiftly followed by my husband: there is more indignity to come.

  It’s fine. I’m sure that nobody ever died from complete and utter public humiliation.

  ‘What are the others called?’ gasps Dylan, clutching the back of a chair to keep himself upright, such is his mirth.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Scarlet grabs his arm and shoots me what I can only describe as an evil grin. ‘Get ready for this!’

  ‘Is that the title of the book?’ yelps Dylan and they both dissolve into gleeful howls.

  I rest my elbows on the table and place my head in my hands. There is nothing to be done but to sit this out. I’m sure there is some quote about it not being how you survive the storm but how you dance in the rain. It’s quite hard to see how this applies to your teenage children discovering raunchy trash-sex books in your e-book account though.

  ‘No, no – it gets better!’ splutters Scarlet.

  ‘That’s what she said,’ adds Dylan and now they are crying; actual tears of joy are flowing down the innocent, childish faces that I have warped with my research.

  My children are making sex jokes at my expense.

  I want to give them both a good smack.

  Nick pushes his wine across the table towards me and when I look down, I see that mine is already empty. This is how alcoholism starts, I know that. Drinking without even knowing that you’re doing it.

  Very, very consciously and making sure that I am aware of every last drop, I drain his glass.

  Chapter 20

  I glance again at the word count at the bottom of my screen. It hasn’t changed since the last time I looked, which was approximately three minutes ago. I am still only eight hundred words into my literary masterpiece and I’ve been writing for days. At this rate, the only chance I’ve got of being published is posthumously, which is a very depressing thought indeed.

  The doorbell rings, jolting me out of my self-pity. Walking down the hall, I see the outline of my mother in the glass. I’m not expecting to see her today, and for a second my heart speeds up, anticipating a crisis of some kind.

  ‘I’ve brought buns.’ My mother breezes past me the second the door is opened. ‘Get the kettle on, Hannah.’

  I do as I’m told and then, once the tea is made, grab some plates and sit down on the battered, old, squishy sofa that is tucked into the corner of the kitchen. ‘Is everything okay, Mum?’

  My mother kicks off her shoes and curls up next to me.

  ‘That’s what I was going to ask you. Scarlet sent me a text this morning. She thinks you’re having a mid-life crisis, so I thought I’d better pop over and check that you weren’t buying a motorbike or planning on getting a tattoo.’

  I grimace and reach for a sticky bun. ‘Honestly, that child. She thought I was pregnant a few weeks ago and now it’s a mid-life crisis, is it? She needs to make her mind up.’

  Mum pats me on the hand. ‘It’s all the hormones flying around. They can make a person feel like they’re going mad.’

  I nod in agreement. ‘Scarlet’s a walking bundle of hormones at the moment.’

  Mum laughs. ‘I meant you, Hannah! It’s your hormones that are having a wild old time right now.’

  I take a large bite of bun to stop myself from saying something rude to my mother. She doesn’t know what she’s on about. There’s nothing wrong with my hormones and I can’t possibly be having a mid-life crisis because I’m only forty-three years old. I haven’t even reached my peak yet.

  ‘Are you and Scarlet having a bit of trouble at the moment?’ Mum isn’t going to let this go. ‘I’ve always thought that Mother Nature was being particularly thoughtless to combine peri-menopausal women with teenage daughters. It’s a recipe for disaster, it really is.’

  ‘I am not peri-menopausal, Mother.’

  Am I? Last time I went online and looked up the symptoms of menopause it all sounded so horrific that I think I mentally blocked it out. Maybe I need to check it out again.

  ‘It’s nothing to feel embarrassed or ashamed about,’ she continues. ‘It’s different now – everyone talks about these things.’ She picks up her tea and takes a delicate sip. ‘Not like it was for me. It was a lonely business. I had you blossoming into a glorious young woman while I felt as if time was slipping through my fingers. I sometimes used to look at the two of us in the mirror and think that you were like a beautiful butterfly, all fresh and bright and colourful while I felt like a crinkly, dried up, dull old moth.’ She laughs and puts down her cup. ‘I expect you feel like that when you look at Scarlet, don’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say, gritting my teeth. Absolutely not. That heartwarming analogy had not entered my head. But guess what I’m going to think the next time I have the misfortune to be standing next to Scarlet in a changing room? Thanks a lot, Mum.

  ‘So what have you done to upset that daughter of yours, then? I don’t suppose it takes a lot at the moment, does it?’

  She smiles at me, and I remember that she came all the way over here just to check that I’m okay. And she may be quite blunt and outspoken, but she’ll also do whatever it takes to support me. And she’s the only woman I know who has never, ever been shocked by anything that I have told her.

  That does not mean that I’m happy to share everything with her, however.

  ‘Oh, the usual.’ I pull a face. ‘Do you want some more hot water in your drink?’

  Mum gives me a look, like she’s trying not to laugh. ‘My drink is fine, Hannah. And I think you’re already in hot water, from the sounds of it!’

  I narrow my eyes at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, nothing! How’s your bun?’

  ‘Delicious.’ I glare at her, feeling suspicious. ‘Just spit it out, Mother. Why are you really here?’

  Mum puts down her plate and pats her hair into position before turning to face me. ‘I told you. Scarlet sent me a text. I thought I’d just pop in and see how everything is going.’ She pauses for a beat. ‘See if you had any good book recommendations?’

  I close my eyes so that I can’t see her pathetic attempt to keep a straight face. There’s absolutely no point in lying to her – she obviously already knows, and even if she didn’t, her maternal instincts include a sniffer-dog ability to smell a secret from one hundred yards away. I make a decision.

  ‘Scarlet found some erotic fiction on our e-book account,’ I say. ‘I was doing some research and I thought that I’d deleted it but it turns out that I only removed it from my e-reader and not the actual account so it popped up on Scarlet’s screen.’ I open my eyes. ‘There’s a possibility that she’s going to require some form of counselling.’

  Mum waves away this last comment with a flick of her hand. ‘What were you researching for?’ she asks. ‘Surely not for school?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m trying to write a book.’ I say the words slowly, gauging her response. ‘You know – a bit like those Fifty Shades books that everyone talks about?’

  Her face lights up. ‘I’ve always thought that you should write a book! How fantastic!’ She thinks for a second, mulling over what I’ve said. ‘I suggested reading those books for our book club a few months ago. But Pam said that it would be inappropriate, for some reason.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘I’m not sure what is inappropriate about a load of women in their sixties reading about sex, though. It’s not like it’s a new invention.’

  I think about Mrs Knight from school and make a mental note to never let her meet my mother. The two of them together could be dangerous.

  Mum looks at me. ‘How exciting, Hannah! How much have you written so far?’

  I take a big slurp of tea.

  ‘It’s really, really difficult!’ I blurt. ‘I thought it’d be easy but it’s actually impossible. I keep thinking in my head about what I want the story to look like but every time I write somethin
g, it doesn’t go in the direction that I thought it would.’

  Mum smiles. ‘But you’ve made a start and that’s more than most people do. Ooh – I can’t wait to tell my book club about it!’

  I reach across the table and clutch her arm. ‘No! You can’t say a word! I’m serious, Mum. I don’t want anybody to know about this, particularly not the kids.’

  ‘So what did you tell Scarlet, then? When she found the research?’ Mum raises her eyebrows at me in a way that is supposed to suggest that she isn’t buying the research story for one minute, which is offensive but I haven’t got time to address it right now.

  I let go of her arm and put my hand in front of my eyes, in a pathetic attempt to block out the memory of the conversation that followed Scarlet’s discovery.

  ‘I might have suggested that I was just a bit curious,’ I mumble. ‘And then I might have said that it was different in our day and that sex education mostly consisted of an elderly teacher trying to put a condom on a banana while we all died a thousand mortified deaths. And that I was just trying to educate myself.’

  Mum stares at me. ‘Would it not have been less embarrassing to tell her the actual truth? That you’re going to write porn?’

  I shake my head fiercely. ‘No way! Can you imagine their reaction if I told them that I was doing something like that?’ I stand up and start pacing the floor. ‘And it’s erotica, by the way, not porn. It’s perfectly healthy and acceptable and nothing to be ashamed about.’

  ‘Well, that’s rather my point,’ Mum chuckles. ‘Why lie about it? And it’s no wonder that poor Scarlet sent me that text. She obviously thinks that her mother has turned into some kind of sex fiend!’

  ‘You’re really not helping, Mother.’ I sink back down next to her on the sofa. ‘And do you honestly think I should have told them what I’m really doing?’

  Mum stops laughing and puts her hand on my knee. ‘Actually no, I don’t. And of course I won’t breathe a word to anyone – I can see why you’d want to keep your porn career separate to your everyday life.’

  I don’t bother to correct her. At least she’s on my side.

  ‘So what are you going to call yourself?’ Mum continues. ‘You can’t use your real name, not if you want to be incognito.’

  Now this is the kind of conversation I can get behind. Even though I know it’s utterly ridiculous when I haven’t even finished the second chapter yet, this is fast becoming my favourite game. Trying to choose a pseudonym and planning my launch party. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that these two things are the best parts of writing.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I tell her. ‘But you’re right – I can’t have Hannah Thompson as my author name. Even if I wasn’t trying to be anonymous, it doesn’t exactly scream erotica at you, does it?’

  Mum nods thoughtfully. ‘Why don’t you choose the name of a writer who’s already successful?’ she suggests. ‘That way, people will buy your books thinking that they’ve been written by someone good.’

  I give her the look that I usually reserve for my Year Nine class.

  ‘I’m pretty sure that’s not allowed, Mum. And if, somehow, I actually manage to write a book that’s good enough to publish then I want a name that means something to me on the front cover.’

  Mum thinks for a moment. ‘Oh, I’ve got it! What about using your great-great-granny’s name? That will be meaningful and I’m fairly sure it’s quite unique.’

  I like the idea of using a name that’s linked to me. This could actually be a good idea.

  ‘What was her name?’ I ask.

  Mum grins at me. ‘Edna Tickle,’ she says, working hard to keep her expression deadpan and failing miserably. ‘I think it’s perfect!’

  ‘Is that the time?’ I stand up and stare pointedly at the clock. ‘I’m sure you’re busy, Mum. I don’t want to keep you.’

  ‘I’ll keep giving it some thought.’ Mum pulls on her shoes before straightening up and miming pulling a zip closed across her lips. ‘And mum’s the word, Hannah. Don’t you worry!’

  I stand on the front step and keep waving until she’s out of sight, just to make sure that she’s really gone. Then I close the door and trudge back into the kitchen where my laptop is waiting.

  When it comes to my mother, I would always be wise to worry.

  Chapter 21

  I wake up feeling determined. Today, nothing is going to get in my way. I take the kids to school then hurry home, lock the front door behind me and put my phone on silent. I’m going to take the advice that I dish out to my pupils and not overthink my writing. I am going to let the words flow and I’m going to splurge them onto the page without too much thought about whether they’re actually any good or not.

  And so I write. And actually, once I relax and let my mind wander to Wyoming and the situation that Bella Rose and Daxx find themselves in, the scene plays out in my head like a film reel and my fingers fly across the keyboard, trying to keep up.

  The horse galloped along the vast plains [note: do they have plains in Wyoming? Ask Google later] but Bella Rose barely noticed the incredible scenery as it flashed by. Instead, her mind was churning with the feelings that Daxx had aroused in her. [Note: good use of word ‘aroused’. Subtly suggests something sensual without being too obvious.] He may be the most gorgeous man that she had ever had the good fortune to rest her eyes upon, but he was also the most stubborn, pig-headed son-of-a-gun that she had ever met. [Note: add more colloquialisms like that – makes it more authentic and clearly set in Wyoming not the Shires. They do not say ‘son-of-a-gun’ in the Shires.]

  I write all morning, stopping only for a brief sandwich at lunchtime, and then I keep writing all afternoon. And by the time it’s three o’clock, I have written two thousand words. Two thousand! And if that doesn’t call for Fizzy Friday then I do not know what does.

  I nip into the supermarket before collecting the kids and purchase a bottle of their cheapest Prosecco. Then I drive home, letting my offspring’s inane ramblings wash over me, a feeling of warmth and happiness creating a barrier between their end-of-week outpourings and my sense of achievement at actually having created something tangible.

  Which is why I am not really aware of the building tension until we get into the house and Dylan erupts.

  ‘He’s a dick, Scarlet. I don’t understand why you’d even speak to him, never mind hang around with him.’

  ‘Who’s a dick?’ I ask. ‘Benji, don’t forget to empty your lunchbox. And that’ll be twenty pence in the swear jar, Dylan.’

  ‘You don’t even know him.’ Scarlet is very quiet. Far too quiet actually; and it is this that gets my attention. When I turn to look at her, I see the same thing that people who have witnessed tsunamis have experienced. A terrible calm before all hell lets loose.

  ‘Why don’t we get a snack and you can tell me about your days?’ I start to herd them into the kitchen where I am hoping the presence of chocolate biscuits will defuse the situation.

  You would think that I had been parenting for the last eighteen minutes, not the last eighteen years, with ignorance like that.

  ‘I don’t want to know him.’ Dylan slams his bag onto the floor and stalks across the room towards the fridge. ‘And neither should you, if you’ve got any sense. Ashley Dunsford is seriously bad news.’

  Ashley Dunsford. He isn’t in any of my English classes but I’ve heard all about him. He moved here at the start of the school year and is single-handedly responsible for the fact that pupils now have random bag searches to check for illicit items. I had no idea that Scarlet had anything to do with him, other than issuing dire warnings about his ability to start a riot with Tupperware.

  Scarlet assumes the position: hands on hips and feet slightly apart. Then she fixes her brother with a hard stare and lets it all pour out.

  ‘Who do you think you are?’ As an opener, it’s hardly unique. ‘It’s none of your business who I hang around with.’

  I pass the biscuits to Benji and nod
my head towards the sofa where Dogger is curled up, fast asleep. He takes the hint and sits down next to her, out of the firing line.

  ‘Excuse me for looking out for you,’ snarls Dylan, his head buried deep inside the fridge. ‘I won’t bother in future. You can get yourself out of trouble next time.’

  ‘Will somebody please tell me what is going on?’ I put the kettle on: this sounds like a situation where I’m going to need some kind of fortitude and I’m not prepared to waste my celebratory Prosecco on teenagers. Then I turn to face Scarlet. ‘What trouble did you need to get out of?’

  Scarlet scowls at Dylan’s back. ‘It was nothing. He’s just trying to stir stuff up.’

  ‘Ha!’ Dylan finally emerges from inside the fridge, for some reason holding a packet of cheese and a red pepper. ‘Yeah, okay. If by nothing, you mean that you’ve got mixed up with a drug-dealing scumbag like Ashley, then I guess you’re right. It’s nothing.’

  Every parent has certain key words and phrases that are guaranteed to trigger a reaction. I think it is a fair assumption to make that for most of us, the word ‘drugs’ is pretty high on the list, alongside ‘pregnancy’, ‘tattoos’, ‘Snapchat’ and ‘I need some money’.

  I point at Scarlet. ‘You. Sit down.’ Then I turn to Dylan. ‘And you. Right now. Next to her.’

  I walk across to where Benji is sitting, jaw gaping open, biscuit held out in front of him. ‘Have you got any homework?’ I ask. He shakes his head, his eyes wide.

  ‘Is Scarlet on drugs?’ he whispers loudly. ‘Because that’s definitely very bad. We’ve been learning about drugs in school. We saw a picture, Mum. They make the inside of your nose fall apart.’

  He cranes round me and stares at Scarlet. ‘Do you want to look like Voldemort?’ he asks her. ‘’Cos that’s what’s going to happen if you take drugs. Your nose is going to collapse.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ mutters Scarlet. I shoot her an evil glare before turning back to Benji.

  ‘She’s not on drugs.’ I give him a quick smile. ‘But she does now owe the swear jar fifty pence, doesn’t she?’