Erring on the side of caution, I went for the ten-cookie box – you can never have too much chocolate chip in a time of crisis. I passed one to Lucy, hoping it might shut her up for a minute, and wandered over to a stall that was selling fresh lardy cake and tiffin as well.
‘For God’s sake, you’re disgusting,’ she said, attractively spitting out tiny chunks of chocolate as she hissed at me. ‘All you do these days is eat. So he’s gone – so fucking what? Did it ever occur to you that eating yourself to death might not be the answer? It’s all your fault anyway…’
This was a rehashed version of one of her very favourite theme tunes of the last few weeks – a catchy ditty known as ‘You Drove Him Away (You Stupid Selfish Cow)’. She launched loudly into an extended remix, and I noticed small crowds of backpacked tourists edging around her nervously, as though she was a terrorist attack in Emo form – a weapon of mass destruction who could go off at any minute, taking all our eardrums with her.
‘And anyway,’ she screeched, crumpling up her cookie wrapper and throwing it on the floor, ‘it’s all so fucking embarrassing! Why did he have to bugger off with some teeny trollopy Iron Curtain whore, for fuck’s sake? My mates will piss themselves laughing when they hear about it! Why couldn’t he just shag his secretary like any other self-respecting middle-aged fuck-up?’
I often wonder why my kids are so foul-mouthed. I’m not. Very. But Lucy is in the Premier League when it comes to swearing. We were called into school when she was six because she called the dinner lady a ‘bastarding shit’ for giving her beans instead of spaghetti hoops. When she was forced to apologise she said, ‘I’m fucking sorry’, kicked me in the shin, and ran away laughing. Simon always blamed the Liverpool side of my family, and he may be right. I suspect those Scouse Irish genes definitely play a part in it.
She was still going great guns, lecturing me on how I was a bloated pig, a nightmare to live with, and completely bereft of any redeeming qualities. For her finishing touch she told me, and the other few hundred people in the market that Saturday afternoon, that a blow-up doll had more personality than I did and was probably better in bed, too. Nice. I can’t say it didn’t hurt, but I understand the way Lucy ticks – loudly, and like a bomb about to blow.
She was missing her dad and hurting like hell and, short of kicking the dog, which would contravene her moral code, Ollie and I were the only victims in sight. Ollie didn’t listen, and occasionally punched her in the kidneys anyway, so she was wary of him. I did listen, and as a responsible adult tried to avoid the kidney-punching thing, so I made a much better target.
I let her finish, then pointed at the wrapper on the floor. ‘Pick that up and find a bin,’ I said quietly, walking away. I heard her scream – full throttle – in the background. Priceless glass objets d’art probably shattered across the city, and shocked poodles in parks covered their ears with their paws.
‘I’m going home!’ she yelled after me, oblivious to the mounting concern of nearby stallholders, and strode off. Hopefully in the direction of the bus stops on Cornmarket, but entirely possibly to the nearest stockist of voodoo dolls, air rifles or nose piercings.
I clenched my eyes against tears, and reminded myself for the millionth time that she didn’t mean it. Most of it. That I was the grown-up, the mother, and no matter how much I was crumbling inside, she was hurting too.
It might have been stress-induced psychosis on her part, but she was right about one thing at least – it was time to stop seeking solace in the biscuit barrel. I’ve never been the kind of person who loses her appetite due to heartbreak. I’m far more likely to go the other way. At tough times in my life, a multipack of Penguins has often been my only friend. If I carried on like this, I’d put on masses of weight, be the size of two Latvian lap-dancers, and feel even worse about myself than I did already.
Since Monika-gate broke, Lucy had, predictably enough, refused to see her father, and had given no consideration at all to meeting the new love of his life. Or the ‘teeny trollopy whore’, as she affectionately called her.
Ollie had done both and, bless him, reported back hilariously on how Dad was now dressing in Bart Simpson T-shirts and pink Crocs in an attempt to look younger. I’d tried hard not to pump him for too much information, but he’s a bright boy – he gave me a full run-down before I had the chance to even consider interrogating him. ‘Mum,’ he said, ‘I can’t lie – she’s not a munter. In fact she’s pretty fit, if I’m honest, which feels wrong when your dad’s holding her hand. But she talks weird – like a Russian villain in a spy film. With this really deep voice. So there’s always the chance that she’s actually a man and Dad just hasn’t discovered her internal willie yet.’
Which I must admit I found strangely comforting.
I wandered along Turl Street and out on to the High, narrowly avoiding a collision with a pack of cyclists waging guerrilla warfare on pedestrians. No, this definitely wasn’t one of those good days in Oxford. It was the new Oxford, setting for the new me, and my new, vastly unimproved life. The one where I felt completely and utterly alone, adrift in a sea of misery.
In fact, all the beautiful people and the beautiful buildings were just making me feel worse. For the first time I could understand the urge to take a semi-automatic weapon, climb the stairs of St Mary’s Church tower, and just let rip.
I stopped outside the travel agent’s, looking at the offers in the window. We hadn’t booked anything for this year. Simon had been reluctant to commit to our usual two weeks in France. He said he was getting bored of it. Now I knew he wasn’t just bored of France. He was bored of his entire life. He’d been gone for six weeks now – which equated to 294 blow jobs by my reckoning. That probably made things a bit less boring for him.
For me, it had been a torment of tedium combined with near paralysing anxiety. Six weeks of yo-yoing between ‘I can do this’ and utter desperation. Six weeks of total loneliness. Six weeks of watching mindless TV and doing household chores and wearing false smiles; my heart leaping every time the phone rang or the door was opened. Just in case he’d come home. Of worrying about the kids and worrying about me and worrying about a future I couldn’t quite get a hold of.
Six weeks of total crap, in all honesty.
Maybe, I thought, I needed a holiday too.
Ollie had told me his dad and Monika were heading off to Ibiza for a week. Clubbing in San Antonio. The thought of Simon waving his forty-one-year-old hands in the air and blowing a fluorescent whistle at a beachfront rave was one of the few things that had made me crack a smile in recent days. A lesser woman than I would hope he’d overdose on E and get trampled to death by a tranny in platform heels.
The door pinged as I wandered in, and I sat down, plonking the cookie box on the seat next to me. My new life-partner.
‘How can I help you today?’ said the sales assistant, who had ‘Nikki’ printed on her name badge. Nikki had disconcertingly huge bleached-blond hair, and skin that looked like it had been marinated overnight in a vat of Bisto.
‘I’m looking for a holiday,’ I replied. ‘I’m not quite sure what, but something special. We all need a really special holiday. So knock yourself out, Nikki – anywhere in the world, anything at all. Money,’ I added, safe in the knowledge that I still had access to Simon’s credit card, ‘is no object.’
‘Well, that’s the kind of challenge we thrive on in the travel consultancy business!’ she said, keeping a straight face. I was about to laugh but then I realised she meant it.
Her fingers started to fly over her keyboard, her face frowning in concentration. She was murmuring to herself as she worked; a steady subconscious flow that sounded something along the lines of ‘Yes! No! All booked up! No availability there…maybe…possibly…Ebola virus outbreak…border control…diamond mines…mosquito nets…’
‘Stop!’ I said, leaning over the desk to break her concentration. I had visions of ending up on a camel-back tour of Alaska or blue-tailed-skink-watching in Cameroon.
‘When I said anything, what I actually mean is a holiday with a beach. A swimming pool. Cocktails. Possibly the opportunity to do “Macarena”-style Euro-pop dances with waiters in restaurants. Lots of activities for the kids. Other teenagers, but nobody too scary who might teach them how to use flick knives or get one of them pregnant. And somewhere I can get a tan just like yours.’
Her face froze like a teak mask, clearly unhappy at this dull change of direction.
‘Well, my tan comes from the Boots in Summertown, but I presume you’re looking for somewhere a bit further afield than that?’
Suitably chastised for my lack of adventurous spirit, I watched her manicured nails go back into overdrive. Occasionally she paused to ask me a question, like how old the kids were (easy), if they liked water sports (um…possibly) and if I was into tennis (yes, if it involves watching men in tight white shorts at Wimbledon).
After what felt like a lifetime of waiting and watching, she finally looked up from her screen, a brilliant smile breaking out on her face. She had great teeth too – I wondered if they were from Boots as well but didn’t dare ask.
‘I’ve got it. It’s in Turkey, and there are just two interconnecting rooms left. Very nice, exclusive resort – lots of planned activities for young people, like sailing, windsurfing, water-skiing, as well as for adults. Tennis lessons. Golf if you want it. Beauty treatments, spa. If you don’t mind me saying, you look a bit tired – I think this is just what you need. A perfect holiday.’
She was right. I was tired. And more than a bit…A perfect holiday.
Now, that sounded even better than another cookie.
PART TWO
Turkey – The Big 4-0
Chapter 4
‘You mean to tell me there’s no fucking hairdryer in this dump?’ said Lucy, stalking round our rooms as though she’d just been stranded on a landfill site and told to lick old tins of cat food for tea. ‘You told me there would be!’
‘I’m sure there is, somewhere, Luce, I’ll look later…’ I answered, puffing a bit as I dragged the suitcases through the door. Ollie followed, hefting the biggest case into the corner and kicking it straight.
‘I’ve got a solution, Lucy,’ he said. ‘When you’ve washed your hair, go down to the kitchens and stick your bloody head in the microwave.’
He accompanied this with a mime of a skull exploding.
‘Ha-fucking-ha,’ she said, falling backwards on to the bed and declaring she was exhausted.
I sat next to her, glancing around – two interconnecting rooms, one with a double bed for me, and the other with two singles for Lucy and Ollie. An en-suite for each, with walk-in showers big enough to live in. Whitewashed walls, wrought-iron headboards, pretty blue bedspreads, and views over a sparkling turquoise bay. All of which would be worth nothing if Lucy didn’t find a hairdryer soon.
As I leaned down to unzip my case, I realised that either my ears were still dodgy from the flight, or the luggage was buzzing. I walked up closer to it, straining my ears to listen, telling the kids to shut up.
‘This case is buzzing…’ I said, cautiously flipping over the name tag with one finger. Mr and Mrs Smith of Solihull, it read. Which was odd, as I was expecting it to say Mrs Summers of Oxford. I said as much out loud, and Lucy instantly snapped out of her catatonia.
‘You picked up the wrong case, you fucking idiots!’ she declared, jumping up with more energy than she’d shown in the last year and dashing to her own luggage to inspect it. ‘But that’s okay! Phew! It doesn’t matter, panic over – at least you got mine right!’
‘And mine,’ added Ollie after checking. ‘Looks like it’s just you with the buzzing luggage, Mum. Should we call the bomb squad or something?’
‘It’s probably just one of Mum’s vibrators – imagine them giving an armed escort to a Rampant Rabbit!’ sniggered Lucy, loving every moment now she knew her straighteners were safe.
‘I do not own a vibrator!’ I snapped back, prodding the case with my toes to see if the buzzing stopped, ‘although maybe I’ll buy one when I get back, seeing as your dad has opted out of active service on that front, and I’m not quite dead yet!’
Silence from both offspring at that comment – a double-whammy reminder of the fact that not only had their father left, but their mother had sexual needs. Guaranteed killer.
I decided to open the case. It was probably just an electric shaver that had been switched on by accident or something. The bags had been through the wars, and had sat out in the sun for a lot longer than they should have while the baggage handlers enjoyed a second cup of coffee. I mean, how weird could a Mr and Mrs Smith from Solihull be?
‘Yeuuw!’ yelled Lucy, jumping away as I opened the lid.
‘Gross!’ added Ollie, so shocked he took several steps back.
‘Shit!’ I said, as it was the only word I could remember. The pungent aroma of overheated rubber and sweaty plastic wafted up from the case, making us all wrinkle our noses in disgust. It was like being held face-down in a ball pool after a couple of toddlers had vomited in it.
Inside Mr and Mrs Smith’s suitcase was a dazzling display of sex toys. I mean, dozens of them. A stash easily big enough to start their own shop, or at least a well-stocked market stall. As the smell cleared, the three of us stared down at the contents.
Even at first glance, I could see cock rings, dildos, vibrators, whips, baby-pink butt plugs and items in gaudy cardboard boxes promising a real kinkorama. There was a Make Your Own Vagina moulding kit, some actually rather attractive-looking red vibrating pants, and a blow-up doll called Suck-Me-Dry Sally.
Ollie reached out and picked one of the boxes up, eyeing the cover photo with interest. ‘Fake Pussy,’ he read from the blurb. ‘This pussy ain’t too fussy, let it stroke your cock for the purr-fect orgasm…’
‘Give me that!’ I shrieked, grabbing it out of his hands and throwing it back into the case. Lucy, in the meantime, had lifted what looked like a tramp-red lipstick and was snorting away as she informed us that it was, in fact, a Clit Stick. Which are not words you want to hear coming from your sixteen-year-old daughter’s mouth. I made a lunge for that as well, but she’d already pocketed it.
I had no idea who Mr and Mrs Smith were, but if they’d ended up with my bag, then somewhere in Turkey they were currently crying with disappointment. There was nothing more stimulating in it than a pile of trashy novels and swimsuits with control panels in the tummies. Not much that could compete with his-’n’-hers Hole Lot of Fun vibro-sticks, that’s for sure.
The suitcase switch also presented some very practical problems – like the fact that I had no clothes other than the ones I was standing up in. And they were in such a state, they could probably stand up without me.
Jeans, Timberland boots and a fleece sweatshirt might not be unreasonable for four a.m. in England, but in Turkey I was likely to boil to death and die if I couldn’t find an alternative.
I was already so hot and bothered I thought I might faint at a moment’s notice – although that might also have been a delayed reaction to seeing the Black Beauty Joy Rider in its nine-inch glory.
I needed a shower, fresh clothes, and a glass of something very cold and very alcoholic. Not necessarily in that order. On cue, Lucy grabbed her suitcase, walked into her room, and clicked the lock shut.
‘No,’ she shouted, ‘you can’t borrow any of my clothes – you’re too fat, and it’s your fault I don’t have a hairdryer…’
Chapter 5
There was a stunned silence as I walked into the Blue Bay Hotel’s poolside bar to catch the last few minutes of our welcome meeting.
The rep’s voice trailed off to a stammering standstill, and a gentle murmur of surprise did a noticeable Mexican wave around my fellow holiday-makers.
As I sat down, I was feeling decidedly nervous. Even under normal circumstances – without lost suitcases and the sudden appearance of sex aids – I wasn’t used to doing this kind of thing on my own.
<
br /> Every holiday I’d been on for the last seventeen years had been with Simon. Simon was good at social situations. He was charming and confident and always completely at home in a room full of strangers. I usually got away with being the support act, something I had rather pathetically mastered over the years. Now I was on a steep learning curve to becoming Miss Independent, and I can’t say I was enjoying the climb that much.
I’d been left with two options – staying cooped up in the hotel with two surly teenagers waiting for a stray suitcase to turn up. Or finding an alternative way forward. I had things to do, people to meet. I wanted to sign up for sailing lessons, take mountain-bike rides through the hills and perfect my serve. It was kill or cure – either I’d simultaneously find my inner strength and lose a stone, or I’d drop dead of a heart attack.
More to the point, I wanted to go downstairs because I was absolutely gagging for a drink – it had been a long day. Travelling is never easy, but doing it mid-marriage collapse and accompanied by the alien beings known as teenagers is torturous.
After a few wardrobe malfunctions and a lot of swearing, I eventually found something I thought I could live with, and made my way downstairs into the midday heat. It wasn’t the perfect outfit choice, but it covered my bits at least.
I sat alone; glancing around, I saw that every other table was filled with smiling couples and their children. Children who didn’t hate their parents. Husbands who hadn’t run off with Latvian lap-dancers.
The Birthday That Changed Everything Page 3