More Than Just Mom

by Rebecca Smith

  When we pull into Cassie’s street she hands over her share of the fare before reaching for the door handle.

  ‘Thanks for a fabulous evening,’ she tells me. ‘Glad I haven’t got any irritating kids to wake me up bright and early tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Nick can sort them out,’ I mumble, half-asleep. But then something makes me sit up and grab her arm before she can leave.

  ‘What word should I use?’ I ask. ‘If I can’t use “penis”?’

  ‘The clock’s ticking, love,’ calls Geoff from the front.

  ‘One minute,’ I tell him. ‘This is very, very important.’

  Cassie puts one leg out of the taxi. ‘I don’t know about you,’ she says. ‘And obviously, it’s not me that’s the writer here. But I’ve always found the term “ding-a-ling” has a certain something about it.’

  She pushes herself out of the door and then turns back and bends down to look at me. ‘That or “disco-stick”. Or maybe “schlong”.’

  I blink, trying to work out if I’ve heard her correctly. ‘You think I should write about Daxx’s “disco-stick”? Are you serious? He’s a stud owner in Wyoming, Cassie. I’m not even sure that they have disco there.’

  Geoff clears his throat. ‘Look, ladies, I’ve got work to do. If you don’t want me to drive then you’re going to need to get out of my cab.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I’m just trying to figure out if my so-called best friend honestly thinks that “ding-a-ling” is a legitimate word to use for a man’s penis.’

  He looks at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever met any self-respecting bloke who’d use that term, myself.’

  ‘Exactly.’ I thump the back of the seat and turn back to Cassie who is doubled over with laughter, her legs crossed in what I can only assume is an attempt to prevent her from wetting herself.

  ‘Do you want my advice?’ Geoff swivels round in his seat. ‘Go with something realistic. Something like “Geoff Junior”, for example.’

  Oh god oh god oh god. He did not just say that.

  ‘That’s an excellent idea, Geoff,’ says Cassie. ‘There you are, Hannah. Problem sorted. Daxx can refer to his “Geoff Junior” when he’s attempting to proposition Bella Rose.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s particularly relevant,’ I say weakly. ‘But thanks for the suggestion.’

  ‘Or there’s always “Captain Geoff”,’ he continues. ‘If the fella is feeling confident, that is.’

  ‘I’m going to get out here,’ I say, thrusting the money forward. ‘Nick won’t mind coming to collect me from yours, Cassie. Thanks anyway, Geoff.’

  ‘As you like.’ Geoff is unperturbed. ‘I’ll see you around, ladies.’

  I clamber out and we watch as he pulls off down the road.

  ‘There he goes, good old Captain Geoff,’ calls Cassie, snapping her heels together and saluting.

  ‘That was awful,’ I tell her, pulling out my phone. ‘And it was all your fault.’

  Cassie puts on her I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-on-about face. ‘It wasn’t me that brought up the whole subject,’ she says. ‘And for what it’s worth, I still think that “ding-a-ling” is a contender.’

  The phone connects and I hear Nick’s voice at the other end.

  ‘Is everything okay, Hannah? I expected you home ages ago.’

  I nod and then remember that he can’t see me.

  ‘I’m fine. It’s just that I need a lift from Cassie’s. Is Dylan still awake? Can you ask him to listen out for Scarlet and Benji?’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ says my gorgeous, understanding husband. ‘Will I need to bring the sick bowl?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I reply in a snippy tone. I hang up and stagger up Cassie’s front path, where she is attempting to get her key into the lock and murmuring something dangerous about a little evening snifter before bed.

  Chapter 24

  It’s another long day. My Year Seven class utterly fails to grasp even the most basic rules of the English language and I spend an entire lesson battling to get them to include capital letters and full stops in their work. And then, when I finally get home after spending two hours making notes on Year Nine’s Shakespeare essays and collecting Benji from his after-school club, I discover that nobody has cleared up the breakfast things from this morning and that Dogger has obviously had a funny five minutes and has taken it upon herself to destroy all the post. So instead of sitting down with the nice cup of tea that I deserve, I find myself kneeling on the hall floor, jigsawing together mangled pieces of paper and hoping desperately that today wasn’t the day that we finally received a large and mysterious cheque in the post. I am ever hopeful of being the recipient of a large and mysterious cheque.

  Just as I ascertain that Dogger has only chewed up a gas bill, a request for cash from a charity and what appears to be a flyer for the local yoga group, Dylan crashes down the stairs, his rucksack slung over one shoulder.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Mum,’ he calls casually, making his way towards the front door.

  I am on my feet in an instant, blocking his exit. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ I ask. ‘I’m cooking supper in a minute.’

  Dylan shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot.

  ‘I’m staying over at Zoe’s house tonight,’ he says. ‘I’m pretty sure I told you about it.’

  We both know that is a big, fat lie, kiddo.

  I tilt my head on one side and pretend to deliberate for a moment. ‘Nope. I’m fairly sure that we haven’t had this conversation yet. But there’s no time like the present.’ I gesture towards the kitchen. ‘Please. Enter my lair.’

  Dylan looks at me pleadingly. ‘Come on, Mum. I told her I’d be there by six o’clock.’

  I look at my watch. It is half past five. Zoe lives fifteen minutes away.

  ‘Fine. We don’t have to talk about this in the kitchen.’

  Dylan looks relieved and slightly surprised. ‘Thanks! I knew you’d be cool with it.’ He takes a step towards the door and I put my hand up, like I’m a New York cop directing heavy traffic.

  ‘Not so fast, sunshine. I said we don’t have to talk in the kitchen. We can talk about it right here.’

  Dylan sighs exaggeratedly and lets his bag slide off his shoulder before leaning against the wall. ‘Okay. Do your worst, Mother.’

  I plant my feet apart, adopting a no-nonsense stance. ‘Do her parents know that you’re going to their house?’

  Dylan nods wearily. ‘Yes. Her mum is cooking tea which is why I have to be there by six o’clock.’ He meets my eye. ‘You don’t want me being rude to someone’s mother, do you?’

  It’s a nice try, I’ll give him that. But my concerned parental inquisition has only just begun.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I agree, amicably. ‘I have just a few more enquiries and then you can be on your way, lickety split.’

  My skills really are wasted as a teacher. I should have been a detective or a lawyer.

  ‘Just ask what you want to ask and let me go,’ begs Dylan. ‘And by the way, I am actually eighteen now, remember? If you keep me here against my will then I can have you done for unlawful imprisonment.’

  I have no idea if that’s true or not, but I am unimpressed with his attitude. I hate it when the suspect gets all prisoner’s rights on me.

  ‘Then we’d better make this snappy, hadn’t we?’ I put my hands on my hips. ‘Why do you need to stay at her house tonight? Dad or I can come and collect you if you don’t want to walk home in the dark.’

  ‘She invited me to stay over,’ says Dylan. ‘It’s not a big deal, Mum.’

  Those six words are the precursor to every single big deal that has ever happened in my parenting life.

  The living room door opens and Benji stampedes into the hall.

  ‘When is it teatime?’ he bellows. ‘’Cos I’m literally starving!’

  Dylan seizes the moment. ‘I’ll be off, then.’ He picks up his rucksack and Benji
lets out a wail of misery.

  ‘Where are you going? We haven’t had tea yet and you said this morning that you’d play Minecraft with me tonight.’

  Dylan pulls a face and bends down to his little brother. ‘I’m sorry, mate. I totally forgot about that. But I’ll play Minecraft with you tomorrow, how about that?’

  Benji scowls. ‘That’s what you said yesterday. Where are you going, anyway?’

  ‘And where are you sleeping?’ I add. Benji’s arrival is quite timely – he’s made Dylan feel guilty and vulnerable and I might actually be able to get some truthful answers out of him if I strike fast.

  ‘I’m going to Zoe’s,’ he tells Benji. ‘And I don’t know where I’m sleeping, Mother. Does it matter?’

  ‘Not in the slightest, as long as it’s at least twenty-five metres away from wherever she is sleeping,’ I say. ‘Do not underestimate the power of teenage hormones, Dylan. Maintain a safe distance from her after ten o’clock and you should both be fine.’

  Dylan closes his eyes, as if he is trying to transport himself far, far away. ‘You are aware that what you’ve just said makes absolutely no sense, aren’t you? You do know that teenage hormones don’t magically switch to extreme mode when the clock strikes ten?’

  ‘Are you having a sleepover at Zoe’s?’ asks Benji. ‘’Cos if you are, I bet you won’t be getting much sleep!’

  Dylan and I turn in unison to stare at him, horror plastered across both our faces.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ I hiss out of the corner of my mouth. ‘You’ve robbed him of his innocence.’

  ‘It was you that started it,’ hisses back my oldest son. ‘If you’d just let me leave then none of this would have happened.’

  I lean down next to Benji and put my hands on his shoulders. ‘Do you remember when we had that chat about puberty?’ I start, ignoring Dylan’s whimper of distress behind me. ‘And we talked about how sometimes, when people are grown-up, they find other people really attractive and they want to go to—’

  ‘Mum!’ explodes Dylan. ‘Do you have to do this now?’

  I straighten up and turn to look at him. ‘Well, from the sounds of it, it won’t hurt for you to have a quick recap of the basics. Seeing as you suddenly seem to be sleeping at her house.’

  ‘He won’t be sleeping though,’ repeats Benji. ‘Not if it’s a sleepover. When I stayed at Logan’s house we didn’t get any sleep and his mum had to come in and shout at us because we were talking so much.’

  Oh. Right. Thank god for that. The last remaining bit of innocence in the Thompson household appears to still be intact.

  ‘I’m going.’ Dylan shakes his head at me, as if I have failed a very important test. ‘Thanks a lot for the chat, Mum. It was enlightening.’

  I take a few steps and wrap my arms around him. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you,’ I say. ‘I just want to make sure that you’re safe. You know?’

  Dylan nods. ‘I know. But you need to trust me. I’m not an idiot.’

  Yes, you are! You are a raging mess of hormones and you have no clue about cause and consequence. You are the Oxford Dictionary definition of the word ‘idiot’.

  I stand back and look him in the eye. ‘I know you’re not. But that doesn’t stop me worrying.’

  He bends down and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you after school tomorrow,’ he says. ‘And you don’t need to stress. Her dad’s really strict – I’ll probably be sleeping in his garden shed.’

  I watch him open the door and head down the path. My first-born, my baby, my little boy. Only he isn’t a baby and he isn’t little, not anymore, and I know that I have no choice but to let him make his own decisions. And it isn’t that I don’t trust him – well okay, I don’t trust him a tiny bit – but mostly it’s just that I didn’t know it would be this difficult.

  Whenever I thought about him growing up, I imagined a scenario where we would all be different; where we would all be ready. And he is – I can see that – but I am not. I am not the sensible, logical, mature woman that I imagined I would be. When I waved Dylan off to adulthood I thought I would have perfect hair and possibly be wearing something floral. I would send him on his way with a cheery farewell before heading indoors to prepare a simple yet delicious meal for the sixteen friends that would be popping over for an informal yet entertaining supper. The harsh reality is that I still hate cooking and I still haven’t found my perfect hairstyle. And Nick and I have never held a dinner party in our lives apart from one time when we invited some friends over and we cooked our signature dish, known as very-hot-chilli-chicken-that-changes-depending-on-what’s-in-the-cupboard. It was barely edible and they got divorced shortly afterwards. We have never quite got over the suspicion that our cooking was the final straw.

  I am supposed to be someone different, someone better. Not the same old me that I’ve always been. Because the same old me doesn’t think that she has the strength of character to let her babies fly the nest. Not without a parachute, anyway.

  Chapter 25

  My inbox pings. I click off the lesson that I’m struggling to plan and into my emails. There’s one unread message and it’s from my mother. I take a sip of now-cold coffee and open it up.

  Subject: Porn

  Hannah.

  Can you remember what the formula is for working out your porn name?

  Mum x

  I snort, narrowly avoiding spitting coffee across the keyboard. What the hell?

  Nick looks up from his laptop. ‘Something the matter?’

  I grimace. ‘Nothing to see here. Just my normal mother asking me a normal question about how to generate your porn name.’

  I look back at the screen and start typing a response.

  Re: Porn

  MUM!!!!! Do not go sending me emails with PORN as the subject heading!!! The government will absolutely be reading this now …

  Anyway, I think you have to use the name of your first pet and the street you grew up on, which if I recall correctly would make you the inimitable Rascal Cavendish. It has a certain ring to it.

  Do you have something that you’d like to tell me …?

  Her reply pops into my inbox one minute later.

  Re: Porn

  Was just thinking that it could be your nom de plume.

  Or maybe not.

  Xxx

  My laugh makes Nick close his laptop lid.

  ‘Is your mother going into the adult film industry?’ he enquires, with extra emphasis on the word ‘adult’. ‘Because I’m not sure that I can handle Sunday lunches at her house anymore if she is.’

  ‘Ha-ha.’ I close the laptop and yawn. ‘She was wondering if that might be a way to work out my writer name. You know, if I ever actually get this book written.’

  ‘Ooh.’ Nick’s eyes light up. ‘Let’s work it out, then. What is your porn name?’

  I think for a second. ‘Well, my first pet was a goldfish called Fishy and I grew up on Bush Lane. Urggh – it’s not exactly exotic, is it? It’s even worse than Edna Tickle, which was her last brilliant suggestion.’

  ‘Fishy Bush. Fishy Bush.’ Nick rolls the name around his mouth before shaking his head. ‘Sorry, babe. It’s pretty bad.’

  My competitive side rankles slightly at this. ‘Okay then, Mr Sex God. What would your porn name be?’

  Nick smirks and I realise that he’s already worked it out.

  ‘I am the incredible Mr Big!’ he declares. ‘Come on, admit it – I totally win!’

  I narrow my eyes at him. ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘I am absolutely not,’ he protests. ‘You can phone my mum and ask her if you want. When I was four years old I had a guinea pig and his name was Mr Big.’

  ‘Whatever.’ I stand up and check the time. Dylan is due back from his shift at the supermarket any time now and I still haven’t figured out what we’re supposed to be having for supper. ‘But even if you’re telling the truth, that isn’t your porn name. You have to include the name of the s
treet you grew up on.’

  Nick’s face falls slightly. ‘But that ruins it,’ he moans. ‘Why can’t I just be Mr Big?’

  I put my hands on my hips and stare him down. ‘Those are just the rules, Nick. There’s no point complaining to me, is there? I didn’t make them.’

  ‘No – you’re just the enforcer,’ he mumbles.

  ‘I’m waiting.’ I tap my foot on the floor. ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘Fine.’ Nick gives me a glare. ‘My actual porn name is Mr Big Cook.’

  ‘Ha!’ I let out a howl of laughter. ‘You sound like a character from that kids’ television programme.’ I put on my best TV presenter voice. ‘And now in the kitchen, Mr Big Cook will be whipping up a storm. His beans on toast are the envy of little cooks around the globe.’

  ‘It’s better than Fishy Bush,’ Nick snaps. ‘Way better.’

  ‘Keep telling yourself that.’ I smile sweetly at him and dance across the kitchen, humming a perky tune. ‘And this evening, boys and girls, Mr Big Cook is going to be showing his culinary prowess by driving to the fish and chip shop and ordering that well-known delicacy of chips and gravy. Yummy, yummy, yummy.’

  ‘So I take it that your writer name is not going to be your porn name then?’ asks Nick, in a pathetic attempt to gain control of the conversation. ‘What are you going to call yourself?’

  My light-hearted mood instantly dissolves and I start crashing around in the cupboards, yanking out a packet of pasta and some jars of pesto.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I admit, filling a pan with water. ‘But it can’t be my actual name, can it? A writer of erotic fiction needs to have a fitting name. Something glamorous and different. Something that says to the reader, “You are in safe but exciting hands with this author. You can purchase this book secure in the knowledge that you are in for a titillating yet informative read.”’

  Nick looks doubtful. ‘I don’t know, Hannah. That’s quite a lot to ask from a name, don’t you think? And also, I’m not sure that titillating and informative go glove in hand, as it were.’

  I dismiss his comments with a flick of my wrist. I’m pretty sure he’s got that phrase back-to-front anyway.