He sticks his chest out and beats his fist on it in the manner of Tarzan. Holding a bodybuilder pose, he blows a kiss at his left bicep, and, pleased with himself, smiles at me.
Tosser.
He’s having a dig at me, the sonofabitch. He’s referring to me, his middle-aged, plump wife, who’s only good enough to wash his socks and look after his children. He must compare me to the office sluts he drools after. That’s what Scott and his loser mates talk about in the pub. Their old wives who don’t keep up their attractiveness, gain two dress sizes, and turn into a nagging machine overnight.
They do not wonder how their women keep a full-time job, run the household, single-handedly look after the kids 23.5/7 (the thirty-minute break corresponds to the daily time the husbands pitch in), only get four hours’ sleep a night yet still have the strength to get dressed in the morning and brush their teeth. They do not acknowledge that their partners shoulder the brunt of the child-bearing and raising, in manner of altruist / masochist, so that their husbands can have a full night’s sleep, work long hours, go on jollies and retain their exercise regime.
I take out my anger on the dirty patch of carpet, but no amount of Vanish seems to make any difference.
He doesn’t know Molly’s nappy size, nor which comforter Mia goes to bed with. He’s not aware Molly’s not supposed to eat honey because she’s a baby and Mia should not have nuts for fear of choking till she’s older. On the other hand, he knows all the cricket scores and has watched the latest stupid viral video on Facebook. Men are just bloody useless.
The doorbell interrupts my aggravated cleaning. That will be one of my eBay sales.
A wide-eyed, fresh-faced woman, belly the size of a watermelon, is standing in the doorway. Should I warn her about her life coming to an end and her partner turn into a pig?
‘First one?’ I bark. I just want to confirm my own theory that the first pregnancy leaves you glowing and blissful, and the second one haggard and wretched.
‘Yes, a boy,’ the woman corroborates proudly.
Whoop-de-doo. She must have been expecting me to jump around in shared joy and exclaim ‘A boy! A boy!’
I quietly hand over her eBay win, the baby swing, and pocket the cash.
How the first baby had me walking on air for nine months! The delight of shopping for tiny cream outfits and choosing the nursery furniture, only dampened by fits of puking in the toilets! The delusion lasted until the harsh reality of sleep deprivation and the demands of an uncooperative, screaming new-born kicked in.
Then, as things got easier (not easy, just easier) with Mia starting to crawl and becoming less needy, Molly’s arrival threw my life upside down. I welcomed the news of the pregnancy with tears of joy the first time around, and tears of apprehension the second. I blamed my reckless birth control on sleep deprivation. I had only just gone back to my job and got back into the swing of things. My company’s maternity rights are not the most generous, so I didn’t take a full year off. My stretchmarks had not yet faded, and I still had a baby belly. Babies are expensive, and the reality of caring financially for two meant I would have to put a stop to little luxuries like spa days and night outs.
It was hard to cope with a terrible-twos’ toddler and an infant. I decided to return to my career only three months after Mia’s birth, to save my own sanity. With the nanny’s salary, and the cost of petrol to commute to the office, I actually pay to work. Scott doesn’t have a clue; he leaves me in charge of the household expenses. It would make more economic sense to be a stay-at-home mum, but I worked it all out. Nanny, £10 an hour. Full petrol tank, £55. Peace, priceless.
‘You got rid of the baby swing? Mia used to take all her naps in there. Too bad Molly never liked it. How much did you sell it for?’
Scott always has the knack of asking annoying questions.
‘Twenty pounds?’ I add a question mark at the end of the price because I lied and doubled the resale. Luckily, he seems suitably absorbed by the cricket and his ‘Jeepers, wasn’t it a 200-quid swing?’ is more of a passing comment than a need for a confirmation.
Having spent that amount of money on something Mia used for a couple of months now seems silly. I had to have the best of everything for Mia. My excuse was I would sell all the baby stuff afterwards and recoup my money. Problem is, the market price of second-hand baby equipment is driven down by the hordes of thrifty mothers plaguing this country. I could not complain, though, as I became one of them with Molly’s arrival. She only ever had passed down or gifted toys and garments.
From time to time I wonder if I was better off pre-babies, with no one to be responsible for besides Alfie the dog.
Lost: Dignity/Money/Figure/Single friends/Sleep
Gained: New sense of humbleness/Thriftiness/Weight/New mummy friends/Unconditional love
The phone interrupts my thoughts.
‘Hello Jess, Mum here. For the christening cake, I know I asked you before, are you sure you want to order from M&S? Sue from work, she does birthday cakes – numbers, castles, footballs, to match your theme and all that. She’ll do one for you for free because I looked after Felix when she went on her Med cruise with John last year. You could have one with little pink booties and a personalized ribbon with the date and Molly printed around the sides. Oh, guess what, I saw in Hobbycraft little favour-type boxes – you could have any colour you fancy. We could fill them up with foil chocolate hearts. I can get them for you in milk or white. Ten metres of the ribbon should be enough. We could go for dusty rose or raspberry. Or a vanilla cream or eggshell for a plainer look. Could Sue come to the christening with John if she makes the cake? She would absolutely love to see you all. She bought you a present for Molly from Next, with the gift receipt too.’
I would rather go for an actual run than talk to my mother about the christening.
Mum has tried to take over everything so far. She has had her say in the catering, the invite list, Mia’s and Molly’s dress and shoes…
She calls every two days.
‘Auntie Gertrude would like to know if you’d prefer a first curl box or a first tooth box?’
‘I’ve seen a Beatrix Potter vintage nursery set on eBay. I’m bidding on it for Mia!’
‘Is anybody else getting you an engraved necklace? Can you please ask Scott’s mum? If she is, I will go for a bangle instead.’
‘Should I ask the girls to club together and get you a silver-plated frame? A big one? Or maybe three little ones you can put on the wall over the cot?’
‘John Lewis. Pewter baby cutlery set. Reduced to £49. Last one, yes or no?’
Every time she called, I reiterated that I’d prefer gift vouchers if guests felt inclined to buy a present.
My mother would reply, ‘There was no gift voucher nonsense back in my days. Anyway, I sent you the Web Link by Email to a gorgeous baby blossom dress from Monsoon. Let me know your thoughts.’
She would also try her luck with inviting her friends and colleagues. ‘Mark from work, with his wife Lucy? Only for the church!’
‘You know Margaret, the neighbour from across the road, she’s known you since you were born!’
‘Auntie Gertrude is asking if your cousin Cecilia can bring her boyfriend Mike.’
Did they all get the wrong memo? Do they all believe it’s some fancy wedding rather than a crappy christening at the local church and pub?
‘Mum, I’m going for a run. Got to go.’
◆◆◆
I am running. I can’t believe it. The last time I exercised was before my wedding, five years ago. My lungs burn like they’ve been set on fire by a dragon’s breath. My legs feel like a ton of lead I can barely lift off the ground. There’s a recurring sharp pain in my upper back, only matched by the excruciating throb in my stomach.
Then something magical happens. The aches don’t ease off, but I manage to ignore them. I catch my breath again. My feet start hammering the asphalt at the same speed I’m inhaling and exhaling. My heart begins to po
und in my ears at the same tempo as my stride.
I try to picture myself running away from my worries and towards something. Towards a better version of myself.
I can reclaim myself. Find my identity again. Be once more be the Jess I used to be, before I got lost in motherhood.
It doesn’t matter that Scott isn’t the same person he was when we got married. People change. Life happens. Shit happens.
Evolving and adapting to my new situation in necessary. Children have totally changed my life, but they are still the best thing that’s ever happened to me. The tired, woman whose reflection I catch in the mirror in the morning is not really me.
I realize I don’t need to get the old Scott back.
I only need to get my own old self back.
Jess
‘That was a short one! Did you just sprint to the Co-op to get some biscuits?’ Scott jokes.
I’m wheezing from my run and too short of breath to bite back.
‘Well, if you’re not going to make the most of the nice weather, I will. The lads are all in the beer garden at the Riverside. They’ve been nagging me to join them. I’ll only go for one. Why don’t you download a movie from Sky? We’ll watch it together when I get back later.’
Off he goes.
It’s not like Scott to miss a drink at the pub. Always someone’s leaving do, someone visiting, the company paying for drinks after a good month, or the mandatory Friday night get-together. Scott is never short of a good reason. He put the girls to bed, though, which is a blessing. Scott has a natural authority over the girls. Mia will only demand a couple of stories and will let Daddy brush her teeth without kicking and screaming. Molly will take her bedtime bottle without fuss and go down in her cot without playing up.
I don’t mind a bit of time on my own, though. I have a lot of thinking to do on how to reclaim myself.
After Scott leaves, I chuck a pizza in the oven and open a bottle of sauvignon blanc. Both will be finished by the time he returns. I grab my laptop and start a to-do list.
I used to be fun. I used to have fun. The only excitement I get nowadays is snatching a parking spot at work near the entrance, Molly sleeping late, or Mia eating her vegetables. If I could pinpoint what I enjoyed most, I could ensure I do the same now – even if it means ramming babysitting shifts down Scott’s throat.
Before the kids, I would:
Socialize. I had a circle of girlfriends I partied with when I was single. I lost touch with all of them over the years. I only ever go out with my sisters these days.
Shop. I never shop for myself these days. Purchasing clothes in bigger sizes is too depressing. Besides, I resent spending money on new clothes when my wardrobe is crammed with nice outfits that don’t fit me anymore.
Pamper myself. Manicures, massages, girlie afternoon teas… these seem like distant memories from another life.
My plan is straightforward: socialize, shop, pamper myself.
Simples!
I will be the young, energetic, exciting Jess I was ten years go. Granted, I’m not going to lose a stone by Monday, but the rest can change.
Swinging into action, I Facebook Charlotte and Asha, two of my old partners in crime, and arrange to meet. I email my boss to ask for Monday off, using the nanny’s stomach flu as an excuse, and cc Shneck so she can cover my desk in my absence. Monday will be sensational. A day just for myself, to do whatever I please. Scott surely isn’t going to spoil me, so if I want a treat, I had better take matters into my own hands. I start researching spa day packages and look up the latest store list at my favourite outlet.
It’s midnight and Scott isn’t back yet. I texted him an hour ago – ‘You OK?’ – but he hasn’t replied.
It is not unusual for him to stay out longer than he says he will, and not reply to texts. I must be the last thing on his mind when he’s out. I check WhatsApp – he was online ten minutes ago, so he’s obviously still alive.
Should I go to the Riverside? It is always packed in the evenings. I could sit down incognito inside and peer out at the beer garden, just to confirm who he’s with. If he sees me, I could say I wanted to surprise him. Someone must stay with the girls, though. I ring Emily to ask her, but Molly wakes up and kicks off and I go to soothe her. It dawns on me that I couldn’t drive to the pub anyway with a bottle of wine down me.
However, it is not a lost opportunity. There are other priorities. The spying gear will arrive next week, and give me the answers I long for. For now, I must focus on myself.
Chapter 8
Dirty White Mother
Dirty White Mother
Ingredients
45 ml brandy
15 ml Kahlua coffee liqueur
Single cream
Pour the brandy and Kahlua into an old-fashioned glass filled with ice cubes and stir.
Float cream on top and serve
Jess
Reclaim yourself – Stage 1 – Socialize
Saturday. Prezzo. 2 pm
Emily texted me this morning about a supposed emergency, something about Carla dumping Ben. She’s such a drama queen, she could drown in a glass of water. I didn’t really pay attention to her; no doubt Ben and Carla will get back together by next week. Déjà vu! I’ll call her to get the lowdown later. I must put myself first and get my socializing back on track.
I’m not sure what to expect from lunch with Charlotte. We were inseparable when we were younger. I was her best toot since crèche. We shared a flat when we were students and went on holiday to Magaluf and Butlins as single lasses. I then met Scott. I tried to get Charlotte involved in our social life, but she didn’t seem to enjoy Scott’s company, so we started hanging out with friends who were already hitched. I went from getting annihilated with Charlotte on Saturday nights to cuddling up with my new boyfriend chainwatching Netflix series.
Things became a bit frosty between us after I elected to only have Louise, Carla and Emily as bridesmaids at my wedding. I didn’t want to have seven bridesmaids, and I felt I couldn’t ask Charlotte without also asking Asha, and Katie. The fact I named Charlotte chief organizer for the hen do didn’t get me off the hook.
Fast-forward a few years, and Charlotte has stopped confiding in me about her love life troubles (in the form of Liam-the-married-man, who left his wife for his dental hygienist, then left the latter for his neighbour’s daughter, all along telling Charlotte she was his soulmate). She was vaguely bitter about my seemingly perfect life. As her career started taking her away to New York for several months at a time, and I got busier back in England juggling two tots and a full-time job, we grew apart. Charlotte still ships Mia some impossibly fashionable outfits from Barneys a couple times a year, usually the wrong size, as she can never remember her age.
‘A boozy lunch without kids – what more can I ask for?’ I gesture for the waiter to fill my glass of rosé after tasting the wine. ‘Are we going for the two-course set menu? I fancy the lasagne and tiramisu.’
‘I can’t follow you on that one. I’m already cheating with the wine. My personal trainer would disapprove big-time. I owe him so much. I can’t disappoint him. He’s so great. We do HIIT twice a week. He got me into SoulCycle and Bikram yoga. A.ma.zing. What about you – do you find time to do anything at all to try to keep fit?’
‘I started running again. A bit.’ I trail off unconvincingly, wondering if Charlotte’s tone is more concerned than condescending.
‘Good job! Are you doing intervals? Tempo runs? Or just long runs? I’m doing the New York City Marathon this year. Fancy joining me? You’d have some catching up to do, but we could train together.’
I glance at Charlotte’s figure enviously. She looks sensational in her slinky midnight blue DKNY dress, which drapes over every inch of her body as if it was designed with her in mind.
My black jersey cowl neck and leggings feel drab. I wish I had bothered to put something smarter, but most of my nice dresses are a size too small now. It firms up my resolve to reclaim my old self. I
need to go shopping.
‘Have you decided what you’d like to order, ladies?’ the young waitress enquires, clicking her pen on and off on her pad. From the look of it, she doesn’t eat lasagne and tiramisu.
‘The chicken and bacon salad, please.’ Charlotte snaps the menu resolutely shut. ‘Shall we share some marinated olives?’ She turns to me expectantly.
At what point did someone decide olives would make a nice snack? They are still essentially veg. Marinated olives? Charlotte could just as well have offered sizzling sprouts, cubed carrots or celery sticks. You have to order cheesy garlic bread whenever you’re in an Italian. Anything else, and you’re better off chewing on your straw while waiting for your main.
‘Sure. And I guess I’ll have the salad too, please,’ I mutter half-heartedly. I console myself by promising I’ll treat myself to whatever I truly fancy on my Indulgence Day on Monday.
‘How are the girls?’ Charlotte queries, topping up our glasses. She hasn’t met Molly yet, and she’s only met Mia once, when she was a newborn. There is a misconception that when you’re good friends, you can be apart for years, meet up again and you’ll pick up exactly where you left off. The reality is, when you’re not in each other’s lives for the big stuff, you get the impression you’ve walked into a movie halfway through and don’t really get the jokes. Charlotte doesn’t know the girls; I couldn’t go into detail about what they’re up to. My mother does that all the time – tells me some workmate’s life story as if she was talking about a close family member. It must be something older people are able to do easily. I’m not there yet.
‘They’re good. Growing. Mia is two and Molly almost a year old. She crawls and can pull herself to standing up. Still a pain in the backside, though. They’re not great sleepers and they wake me up several times a night.’
‘Aren’t they supposed to sleep through at that age? I could never. I need my eight hours, otherwise I can’t work out in the morning and I’m off balance all day. I froze my eggs last year though, did I tell you that? It’s like putting money in a savings account for a rainy day – you never know. But I look around at all my friends who have children and it makes me think twice. Is it really what I want? No offence to you, but it is taxing on the brain and on the body, isn’t it?’
#Toots Page 11