#Toots

by Linh Le James

  - Being removed by hotel security when I was standing on a desk in the lobby, mid-rendition of ‘Since U Been Gone’.

  It dawns on me that I have no clue where I am. I shake Freddie impatiently; the motion sends shooting pains through my head.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Some hotel in Mayfair.’ He flips over on his back and stretches luxuriously.

  ‘What did I have last night?’

  ‘Lots of alcohol. MDMA, also known as Molly. Cocaine, just a whiff. Couple of explosive orgasms.’

  The suite’s front door bell goes.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I grab the sheet and cover my chest in alarm.

  ‘Must be room service. It’s calm, I’ll get it.’

  Starkers, Freddie grabs an inappropriately small jacquard cushion to cover his privates and goes to open the door.

  A uniformed waiter wheels a cart inside without batting an eyelid at the condoms blown up like balloons and the duck feathers from cut-open pillows scattered like snow everywhere on the carpet. He sets multiple dishes covered with shiny plate covers on the dining table.

  ‘Shall I serve the coffee, sir?’

  ‘No thanks, mate, just leave it to us.’

  The smell of bacon and sausages makes me heave. I’m too worn out to move from the bed. The itch on my shoulder blade is maddening, I scratch it and realize that the patch of skin there is strangely raised, as if it’s inflamed.

  I drag myself to the bathroom, covering my modesty with a towel, which I drop in utter shock at the sight of my back in the mirror.

  I have a tattoo on my right shoulder blade. It’s three inches long and is made up of two capital letters in black ink:

  F U

  Gobsmacked, I can only whisper, ‘I’m in fifty shades of shit.’

  Chapter 6

  Tequila Mockingbird

  Tequila Mockingbird

  Ingredients

  50 g dried hibiscus flowers

  250 g golden caster sugar

  the zest of 1 lime

  200 ml tequila

  100 ml raspberry puree

  100 ml lime juice

  200 ml sugar syrup

  Granita: add the dried hibiscus to 500 ml water and bring the water up to 40°C, cover and infuse for 24 hours. The following day, strain the water, add the sugar and stir. Freeze until 6 hours. Scrape with a fork until the granita is in fine pieces.

  When you’re ready to serve, mix all the cocktail ingredients in a cocktail shaker.

  Put equal amounts of granita in each glass and add freshly grated lime zest and another hibiscus flower.

  At the last minute, pour the cocktail over the granita in chilled glasses.

  Jess

  Tuesday. My flat. 2 am.

  My children are constantly on my mind. Not because I think about them all the time, simply because I can hear them continuously. Crying, yelling, grizzling, sobbing, whinging, bawling, arguing, whining. I can hear them getting up to no good, which is when they are quiet. I can even hear them sleeping, as Mia babbles even in slumber, and Molly will wake up screaming bloody murder a few times a night and peacefully fall back to sleep after rousing the whole household.

  Sleep was easy once. Back in my twenties, I could fall asleep in a wink. Sober, drunk, at 10 pm or 4 am.

  Nowadays, drifting off is impossible when endless questions keep popping in my head:

  - First Choice or Thomas Cook?

  - Did I send the email or leave it in my drafts folder?

  - It looks like the Amazon jungle down there. No wonder we never get it on. When do I have time for a wax?

  - How many packs of baby wipes do we have left?

  - Why the hell is Mia awake now!?

  It is three in the morning and Mia will not sleep. She’s full of beans and running around in her room. She’s not heavy but it sounds like a whole herd of wildebeests migrating from south to north in there. I wish someone would invent cots big enough to restrain children at night till they’re at least teenagers.

  Mia is now screaming ‘Pa pig! Pa pig!’ at the top of her voice. She’s hoping someone will let her watch her favourite cartoon at that time of the night. Fat chance.

  I bury my head under the pillow and practise deep breathing while trying to ignore the shouting. Scott is pretending to be fast asleep, waiting for me to sort out Mia before she wakes her baby sister next door.

  Will Mia grow up and keep the same horrific habits? I have a spine-chilling vision of a grown-up Mia shouting at me from the couch:

  Mia at 8 years old: ‘Marmite Toast! Vimto! Minecraft!’

  Mia at 13: ‘Charge my phone! Give me your credit card! Put Chloe on speed dial!’

  Mia at 18: ‘Make me dinner! Give me your car keys! Pay my credit card bill! Pass me the condoms!’

  Mia at 30: ‘Pay my rent! Clean my house! Rock my baby to sleep! Make more coffee!’

  My heart sinks. Though Mia might still grow into an angelic child and harbour ambitions to become a nun or a brain surgeon. Alternatively, she might get preggers really young and expect me to be a grandmother/mother all over again, just when I thought I was finally done with the baby years. I shudder.

  Another catastrophic scenario, Mia and Molly become teenage drug addicts or, worse, get brainwashed by Islam extremists and bugger off to Syria.

  When is it too late to give up your children for adoption?

  When Mia rolls on the floor in Sainsbury’s, in a full-fledged tantrum, and kicks a jar of mayo which goes flying off the shelf, I think I would quite happily lock her in a dungeon, Rapunzel-style, forever. And cut her hair off. But then Mia will babble ‘yesh pleash’ when I offer her a petit filou or hug her sister out of the blue with an enthusiasm which makes me go all gooey inside. In those moments, I realize my love for my daughters is so fierce that I would happily die or kill for them.

  When women become mothers, they turn into lionesses who would go to any lengths to protect their young. Which means half of the Earth’s population is unstable, a disturbing thought. Al Qaeda and Boko Haram have their strategies all wrong. If they were to kidnap children and blackmail their mums to shoot a bunch of innocent people, I’m convinced all mothers would readily comply. An apocalyptic scenario might come one day, in which all the baddies would not be zombies but innocent-looking mums shopping in Debenhams suddenly pulling out .22 Magnums from their Mulberry’s and shouting, ‘Allahu Akbar! Give me my kid back or I’ll shoot a hostage!’

  A couple of hours later, Mia has gone quiet. I tiptoe into her room and find her fast asleep on the floor, her plastic magic wand sticking into her back not bothering her the least. I carry her back to bed and as I wrap her fingers around her bunny comforter, she grasps my hand and doesn’t let go. Half asleep, she mutters something about a purple pony. I contemplate her little angelic face in wonder, my heart swelling in my chest, till her hand relaxes and I can free myself.

  Full of hope that I might still get a couple of hours’ sleep before going to work, I slide back under the duvet.

  What the hell is that green light blinking in the dark? It’s Scott’s stupid phone. He is blissfully unaware of his own snoring and his phone light flashing. I want to chuck phone and man through window. Can’t he be more respectful of my sleep? Isn’t it enough that I’m always the one getting up when the kids play up at night? Only getting five- or six-hours’ broken sleep makes every minute precious. Why does he need to have his mobile on and right next to him at night?

  Jess

  Later in the morning. My flat. 5.45 am

  5.45 am and Molly is already up, the cheeky sod. She possesses a sixth sense akin to some Egyptian solar clock: she always wakes up at sunrise, despite the blackout blinds and curtains in her room. On the other hand, she enjoys long naps during the day when the nanny is on duty, and, to add insult to injury, refuses to go to bed before nine in the evening, when all of my friends’ babies are down for seven. Molly chats to herself in her cot, where I usually leave her until she starts screaming ou
t of boredom.

  Mia, after her night antics, will sleep late this morning.

  Fleetingly, I think of my first nanny, Maria, who was terminated by the agency after her work visa expired. Maria was the closest person to Mary Poppins I ever met. The house, hit daily by a tornado of stickers and toys, would unfailingly be returned to spotless by the time she finished her shift. Mia’s hair was always neatly plaited, and her face scrubbed clean. The girls had an appropriately sized serving of freshly cooked meat or fish, veg and wholemeal pasta or rice at every meal. They would be read countless stories, sung nursery rhymes, taken to playgroups and parks, comforted when upset and cheered on when excited. Molly had somehow fallen into a natural military nap-feed-play schedule which was unheard of before.

  Maria was every mummy’s dream.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t extend her working visa and didn’t know of any single British citizen who might want to marry her.

  When she left, I cried as though it was my first teenage heartbreak. I took two days off work, at the end of which I ate four mini pots of Ben and Jerry’s, downed half a bottle of sauvignon blanc, then picked up the phone and asked the nanny agency to send the best candidates they had the next day.

  There was Kathryn, who spent the whole of her interview sneakily peeking at her Facebook account while I was asking questions. There was Roxanne, all platinum bleached hair and St Tropez, who refused to acknowledge the kids and stopped mid-interview to argue with her nail salon about a manicure appointment. And there was Eszter, the least-bad choice.

  Eszter showed up the following morning, thirty minutes late, a Costa coffee in one hand, OK! magazine in the other. I couldn’t help comparing her to Maria, who brought presents for the girls on her first day – a cupcake mix box, and some pine cones she collected they could paint together.

  Hopefully Eszter won’t be late again this morning. She says buses often have problems in her hood. Scott always waltzes out the door at 7 am, fresh faced, clean shaven, thermos in hand, leaving me to wait for the nanny and be late to the office myself.

  I always brew a strong pot of coffee first, before I make up Molly’s bottles, not trusting Eszter to prepare them correctly. I once caught her using sparkling instead of boiled water and using indifferently a teaspoon or tablespoon instead of the formula scoop to measure the milk powder. I then tackle the mess Eszter left last night which I couldn’t face dealing with after a long day’s work.

  I pick up Scott’s watch, which Mia got her hands on and played with yesterday. I place it on his side of the bathroom cabinet, near his cologne. I locate his wedding ring on the top shelf and move it to the middle one at eye level, so he can’t miss it when he opens the cupboard next.

  The ring is a sore point. Scott stopped wearing it regularly last year and then altogether this year. I used to occasionally mention: ‘Your ring is in the bathroom cabinet.’ Scott would invariably reply, ‘I know.’ I never dared say aloud what my mind wanted to scream: ‘Then why don’t you bloody wear it?’ He’d just repeat that he worries about damaging the ring with the dumbbells when training. He stopped lifting weights when he took up kickboxing, but the ring still has been gathering dust in the bathroom cabinet. I suggested to have it resized if too tight but he refused, saying it fit just fine. I offered to take it to Ernest Jones to have it replated so it would be nice and shiny, but he declined. I am tempted to accuse him of dark motives. Of wanting the slappers in his office believe he’s single. Or of having so much contempt for our marriage that he prefers not to wear any reminder of it. I don’t want to nag nor seem paranoid so I just let the ring topic gnaw at my insides every time I see his bare finger.

  Eszter finally makes it, only half an hour late. She skips in with a Starbucks in one hand and a Waitrose bag of doughnuts. She half apologizes by chirping something about roadworks playing havoc with the buses.

  ‘Eszter, I bought some finger paint for the girls. Only let them play with it under supervision. That means when you’re keeping an eye on them, please? There’s leftover shepherd’s pie in the fridge and don’t forget playgroup at ten this morning. I don’t want the girls cooped up inside all day. Can you remember to let Alfie out in the garden, please? And would you mind emptying the dishwasher during the girls’ nap? Thanks! See you later.’

  After I pick up my laptop bag I hang back. Molly’s sticky fingers have already left jam swirls on the flatscreen TV which I’ve been asking Scott to hang on the wall for the last two years. She distracts herself by pressing the DVD player button and watching the tray pop in and out. Mia somehow found my tampons in the bathroom. She is chewing on one and thoughtfully mashing another one into the jam doughnut Eszter gave her, producing a disturbing picture of a raspberry jelly-smeared tampon.

  I turn and rush down the stairs.

  Jess

  My office. 10:30 am.

  My office has a lovely break room. Large tables, comfy leather chairs, Nespresso machines and two screens showing BBC news. I indulge in some me-time with an espresso and a chocolate bar from the vending machine. It is delightful to be surrounded by sane humans (adults) versus incontinent and irrational ones (babies).

  Two young girls from Events gossip about their weekend adventures. One sports designer-looking gold trainers with metal studded hearts and a huge spiky ear jacket; the other one wears platform wedges with a large pink pompom on top. They show each other photos from their phones and whisper like teenagers. Bags under your eyes from too much clubbing and sex? That was me fifteen years ago. Now my dark circles are solely caused by my two sadistic offsprings, who take turns at night to wake me up. I reckon I only ever go into light sleep, never reaching deep sleep before being jerked out of my slumber by one of my two torturers. Mia asking for water or mummy to keep her company on the toilet. Molly for the sake of it. If Molly’s warm, dry and fed, then I am guessing she must only need reassurance she hasn’t been deported to a foreign country during the night.

  There is a striking difference between the twenty-somethings, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed despite their hangovers, and the thirty-somethings flopped at the next table. It is confirmed once more that it is not time but children that age you.

  Claire and Danielle are mums, and as such look buggered. They both sport the obligatory mum haircut, a short, practical bob that’s easy to maintain and quick to straighten before going out. They have convinced themselves that the look is a cross between Emma Willis and Victoria Beckham – when it is just a younger version of Mary Berry’s crop.

  Becoming a mother is depressing. It starts with stretch marks, saggy abdomen skin and a hacked-up vagina. Ten years later, you plod around Waitrose with Mary Berry’s wrinkles and haircut, and your boobelly whacks you in the face when you leap around to pop songs in Zumba (‘boobelly’ is the term I came up with to describe when one’s boobs have merged with one’s belly, through overindulgence in calorific foods).

  The MILF myth must be debunked. Only about 15% of all mothers are MILFs. This includes teenage girls who got knocked up very early on in life and still look hot at twenty-five. It comprises the tiny minority wealthy enough to afford a Mummy makeover (tummy tuck, lipo and so on), chuck down glasses of hyaluronic acid between personal trainer sessions and have a 24/7 nanny. It also encompasses the lucky few who have their parents or in-laws living nearby to whom the kiddies can be offloaded every weekend. The rest of us mortals go around mournfully pushing our iCandies and the extra stone no diet will shift. Mostly because diets are not designed for a mum’s way of life. The 5/2 doesn’t take in account my very limited 30-minute window for drinking after putting the kids to beds and before settling myself down for a night of broken sleep. Paleo, Atkins, Weight Watchers – none of them allow you to shove in your mouth kids’ leftover fish fingers and potato waffles.

  Looking at Claire and Danielle’s worn-out, pasty faces, I feel I must slap on a whole tub of foundation and bronzer. If only one could kick around the office with oversized shades on, Italian style, to hide the
dark circles, without someone grabbing your arm and asking if you dropped your white cane!

  One day, after a sleepless night spent soothing Mia when she was teething, I looked so terrible that I wore my sunglasses at work. Shneck (real name Pat, but I’ve nicknamed her Shneck as her chin and her neck are not two separate entities anymore, but a single consolidation of fatty tissues) jokingly asked me if I had a black eye to hide. I jested that I only get hit in places which can be covered up. Afterwards, I wasn’t sure whether Shneck took me seriously or not, so I had to walk around the office in the middle of winter in small tees and short skirts to prove I had no bruises and Scott isn’t a wife beater.

  Talk of the devil. I spot unpopular Shneck fetching herself a hot chocolate and scouring the room with her beady eyes for familiar faces to latch onto. Shneck wears a frilly cream Victorian blouse which accentuates her triple chin, along with a floral knee-length skirt. I wish I had a gigantic newspaper to hide behind but, as I don’t, I make a big fuss of draining my coffee and staring at my watch as if I’m short of time. However, it doesn’t deter Shneck from sitting resolutely at my table.

  ‘Hi Jess! Just heard you’re going to Belgium for the exhibition! Lucky you!’

  There is nothing exciting about going to Belgium, also known as Shiteland, for an exhibition where I’ll be standing up all the time and getting aching feet in a horribly draughty hall. The only upside is being away from the brats for two days and grabbing a proper night’s rest, although the hotel is reputed to be one of the worst Travelodge in the area.

  ‘You’re going with Will and Albert, aren’t you? How cool!’ Shneck’s tone is jovial. I struggle to conceal my lack of enthusiasm.

  Watching Antiques Roadshow would be more thrilling to me than going anywhere with Albert and Will. Shneck would happily be enraptured by either of them or, as a matter of fact, by anyone willing. She has a serious crush on Albert. There’s a rumour he snogged at the last Christmas party when he was pissed but ignored her ever since.