by Gill Sims
‘Not like me, Hannah the Frigid Cow?’ Hannah said, her voice trembling horribly. ‘Not like me, poor old Hannah who couldn’t get a ride on a rocking horse?’
‘No,’ I sighed. ‘Not like you, as in me being a fucking slut. Not like you as in me being the sort of person who just slept with someone because they felt it would be rude not to. Not like you as in me being a horrible person without an ounce of your self-respect and confidence.’
‘Confidence?’ spat Hannah. ‘CONFIDENCE? YOU were the one with the confidence, Ellen, you still are! You were the one everyone wanted to talk to, be friends with, go out with. I was just your sidekick. I WISH I had an ounce of your confidence. You were the one Simon bloody Russell fell in love with, when half of Edinburgh was panting after him. You were the one who had Charlie worshipping the ground you walked on. YOU! I didn’t not have a boyfriend because I was so full of self-respect and confidence, it was because I was so bloody shy and nervous. If I hadn’t been friends with you, I probably would be some mad old spinster now, living alone in a basement with seventeen cats and no friends. I was just washed along in the wake of you; people only liked me because I was your friend.’
‘I wasn’t confident!’ I howled. ‘I was fucking terrified. I hated myself. I hated every single moment when I had to walk into a roomful of people, and you always made me go first, start talking to people first. Do you know how I did it? I pretended I was Jessica. Not me, my fabulous, clever, confident, big sister Jessica. I wished I could be like you, quiet and self-contained, and having the courage to be myself, instead of being a fake, loud, OTT copy of my fucking sister.’
Hannah and I looked at each other. Sam opened his mouth, then thought better of it and closed it again.
Hannah sighed. ‘We seem to see ourselves very differently to how other people see us.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘And I was horrid to Charlie, you’re right, but I don’t understand why you’re so upset about it now, when you weren’t at the time.’
‘I just don’t want you to hurt him again,’ said Hannah. ‘You almost destroyed him before.’
‘But why do you care so much about bloody Charlie Carhill? Why were you so pissed off about me having a drink with him? We haven’t had a row in years, Hannah, and we just had one over him! Oh my GOD …’ a realisation just hit me … ‘Did you have a thing with him too? Is that why you’re so cross with me for catching up with him?’
Hannah, always a terrible blusher, was scarlet. You could practically see the colour pulsating as the veins throbbed on her forehead.
‘NO! There was nothing going on with me and Charlie!’
‘Then why are you puce?’ I asked, as understanding started to dawn. ‘OH! You liked him. You wanted Charlie to be your darling. Why didn’t you say anything? Christ, I know I was awful, but I’d never have gone to bed with him, never have had anything more to do with him if I knew you liked him.’
‘It was a bit more than liking,’ said Hannah sadly. ‘And Charlie was mad about you. I didn’t want him as your cast-off, knowing he was only with me because he couldn’t have you and I was the next best thing. I wanted him for myself. I kept hoping if I could be a friend to him, he’d finally start to prefer me to you. And then you slept with him. And you arranged to meet him for a drink the next night, and for once in your useless life you were early, and started talking to Simon and so as he came in one door, you went out the other door with Simon, with Simon’s arm round you. And he was shattered, but once you and Simon were so obviously serious, I thought he would get over you. Only you couldn’t leave him alone. A quiet drink here, a trip to the cinema there, a walk round Holyrood Park – every time you needed an ego boost, you dragooned in good old Charlie. How was he supposed to move on? So I told him he deserved better, he needed a clean break. And the next time he met you, he told you that, do you remember?’
I did remember. Remembered very well. Charlie, sitting across from me, holding my hand and saying, ‘I just can’t stand this anymore. I love you so much and I can’t bear to be with you and know you’re with someone else. I don’t think I can see you again, I can’t just be your friend.’ And then he’d stood up, and kissed me, very gently on the mouth, and said, ‘Bye, Ellen’. Then he turned around and walked away, without a backwards glance.
Sam sniffed dramatically and wiped his eyes.
‘So, I thought then, when he’d made a clean break with you, he’d finally see me as more than a friend,’ Hannah went on. ‘Only he didn’t. He saw me as he always had, as an extension of you, and he didn’t want to see me either, because it just reminded him of you. So I had to accept that Charlie and I were never going to happen, so I started seeing Eddie, and he started seeing that awful law student who had been chasing him for the last three years –’
‘Repulsive Rachel!’ I interrupted. ‘He married that ugly bitch. They’re divorced now.’ I added hastily, as Hannah’s mouth twisted worryingly. ‘I imagine she was a complete cow, but we could’ve told him that. But I can’t believe you never told me any of this then.’
‘I can’t believe you never told me you pretended to be Jessica to be able to go over and talk to people!’ said Hannah.
‘I thought you knew.’
‘No, I always thought that was just how you were. I pretend to be you sometimes, if I have to talk to a load of people I don’t know. Emily’s first day at school, all those mums in the playground to be faced, I thought “what would Ellen do?” and just brazened it out and talked to them like you would.’
‘Ha ha ha,’ sniggered Sam. ‘That’s where you’re wrong! Ellen doesn’t talk to most of them, she doesn’t like them.’
‘SHUT UP, SAM!’
‘Anyway,’ said Hannah. ‘I’m sorry, you’re right, I overreacted. I was just taken aback to hear you’d seen him, that’s all.’
‘I’m sorry, too, and you’re right, I was awful to Charlie. I’ve always felt guilty. I had no idea he’d seen Simon and me that night, though, he never said.’
‘Oh well, it’s all water under the bridge, I suppose, now.’ Hannah began to calm down, as curiosity got the better of her. ‘How is he anyway? I can’t believe he married Repulsive Rachel. Did she nag him into it?’
‘CAN I TALK NOW?’ grumbled Sam. ‘Or will you just tell me to shut up again? I could’ve mediated between you two, you know, if you had let me. We could have been like a mini middle-class Jeremy Kyle Show, though obviously I’m much better looking. We could do it again, properly, and I’ll tell you each when you can talk.’
‘Shaddup, Sam,’ we said once more, although much more good naturedly this time.
‘Oh, for God’s sake! If you won’t let me play at Jeremy Kyle, I’m so over this sharing business,’ complained Sam. ‘To summarise, Ellen was a bit of a slapper; Charlie Whatsit was some sort of saint who was shit in bed and Hannah needs some cock. Get yourself on Facebook, honey, and send this Charlie a friend request, see where it takes you. It’s been eighteen years, he’ll be over Ellen by now, and it doesn’t sound like his wife was anything to write home about and he’s had plenty of time to practise undoing bras with his clammy paws. Just do it, Hannah. Literally, fnah fnah … Now, you know what we need? TEQUILA!’
Several tequilas later, Hannah slurred, ‘Whaddabout Jeshca?’
‘Eh?’
‘Whaddabout Jeshca? Who you think she pretendsh to be?’
‘Jeshca don’ need to pretend to be anyone, she’sh shcary Jeshca!’
‘Nooo …’ insisted Hannah. ‘I pretend to be you, you pretend to be Jeshca, who she pretend to be? Bet she pretend to be shomeone.’
I thought about it. ‘Jeshca pretend to be the Queen!’ I finally pronounced.
Sam laughed until he fell off his seat. ‘I pretend to be the Queen too!’ he hiccupped. ‘Not tonight, obvioushly, though. Queen wouldn’t fall off her sheat. Or her throne,’ he added.
I would have no problem if Hannah got together with Charlie. They are both very nice people who deserve to be happy.
I only forgot to mention he had given me his number because I was very drunk. I will in fact be virtuous and put right the mistakes of the past by texting Hannah’s number to Charlie and nonchalantly suggest he gives her a call to catch up. I will definitely do that. Later. I’m just a bit busy right now, being very drunk.
Sunday, 6 March – Mother’s Day
Mother’s Day with a hangover is not a thing to be recommended. The children woke me early to give me their cards and gifts. The cards were caked in glitter. The gifts were unidentifiable lumps, covered in glitter. My bed is now full of glitter.
‘Mine is a poo!’ announced Peter.
‘That’s lovely, darling,’ I beamed weakly, unsure whether he had made a clay poo at school, which would be bad enough, or had in fact simply dried one of his own turds and sprinkled glitter on it. You can never tell with Peter.
‘And yours is lovely, too!’ I said to Jane. ‘It’s a, er, it’s a, is it a …?’
‘It’s a thing with glitter on,’ shrugged Jane. ‘We all had to make them. Will we make your breakfast now?’
‘Ooooh, yum, yes please, darlings! Will I come and help?’
‘NO! It is Mother’s Day, we are bringing you breakfast in bed.’
‘How wonderful, darlings, what a treat.’
As the children thumped downstairs, I kicked Simon, ‘Go and supervise.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because this is Peter and Jane, darling. Do you not know your children at all? They have just been turned loose in a room containing sharp knives and flammable objects. I’m just a tiny bit hungover, sweetie –’
‘Self-inflicted, no pity!’
‘– And I really don’t want to spend the rest of the day having to explain to A&E and Social Services how exactly it was that my darling children came to stab each other and/or set each other on fire. So please, for me, go and supervise.’
‘But they’ll be aaaaages,’ moaned Simon. ‘I thought we could take advantage of them being preoccupied …?’
‘NO! NO. No sex. How can I concentrate on sex when all I can think about is the fruit of my loins murdering each other horribly in a fight over who gets to break the eggs over the cooker under the guise of making scrambled eggs? PLEASE, go and keep an eye on them. I’ll make it up to you later, I promise … a little bit of sexy time …?’ I wheedled.
‘For the love of God, Ellen, please never, ever refer to it as “sexy time” again. It’s remarkably offputting,’ huffed Simon, as he finally got out of bed. ‘Have you seen my slippers?’
I sat up in horror. ‘SLIPPERS? Oh my God, since when do you wear slippers? And you say I’m offputting, talking about “sexy time”? Sexy time isn’t nearly such a passion-killer as slippers. You’ll be wearing a cardigan with leather patches on the elbow and prowling around, doling out Werther’s Originals to unsuspecting children next. SLIPPERS!’
‘My feet get cold,’ he said sulkily.
I lay back down. Bastarding slippers.
Breakfast would have been a challenge at the best of times, but managing to eat half-cooked scrambled eggs, seasoned liberally with chunks of shell, served on burnt toast with a tepid cup of tea-coloured milk on the side, all with a tequila hangover, is testimony if ever there was one to the strength of a mother’s love.
The rest of the day was uneventful; having trashed the kitchen, Peter and Jane lost interest in the whole concept of Mother’s Day, so I dutifully rang my mother to listen to her complain about why she had not received a card from my children as well as me and bit my tongue to prevent me from shouting ‘Because you’re not their fucking mother’, then sat through twenty minutes of the Wonders Of Jessica And Her Children and spent the rest of the day nagging Simon to phone his mother.
I didn’t quite get round to texting Charlie about Hannah, but I totally will. He did send me a Facebook friend request, though, which it would have been rude not to accept.
Saturday, 12 March
Every single bloody weekend I decide things are going to change; things are going to be different, we are going to be a happy, wholesome loving family and we are going to have a wonderful time, worthy of being documented on Instagram with suitably cloying hashtags. Every week I think the weekend is going to go something like this:
Saturday
8 a.m. Wake up, spring out of bed rested, refreshed and raring to go. I awake my darling children, who yawn and stretch and tumble out of bed looking adorable in their White Company pyjamas.
8.30 a.m. We all sit around the table, chatting merrily of the plans for the day. Simon is tousled and stubbly and rather sexy, but that’s okay, because we have already had sex once this morning before we got up. We feast upon croissants and orange juice and coffee while we read the papers and discuss current affairs with the children, who are interested and involved.
10 a.m. I emerge from a relaxing bath to find Simon shaved and dressed in tasteful knitwear. The children are also dressed and we look like something from a pretentious middle-class clothing catalogue.
12 p.m. The children help me to make a delicious lunch of healthy soup and homemade bread. They eat it with delight and exclaim how tasty it is.
2 p.m. We all go for a lovely walk in the woods and finish up at a rustic pub, where the children charm the slightly cross tavern keeper, whose cold heart is touched by their simple childish joy and he learns to love again. The dog lies quietly at our feet.
5 p.m. Simon suggests he makes dinner, and I sip a glass of wine while reading a gripping, yet still highbrow and improving, novel.
8 p.m. We all watch a classic film together. The children make engaged and pertinent comments about it, before going to bed.
10 p.m. Simon and I enjoy a final glass of wine together and discuss art and politics, before we go to bed and have more sex.
Sunday – pretty much the same, except the children go to bed earlier because they want to be well rested for school.
In reality, though, it goes like this:
Saturday
9 a.m. Stumble out of bed a bit hungover and in need of more sleep, but get up to avoid Simon’s increasingly determined advances. Find Peter in the sitting room playing some unsuitable-looking video game, wearing only his pants for some reason I don’t even want to know. Find Jane has got up, retrieved the iPad and gone back to bed, where she is now watching YouTube videos about cats. Pray she did not put ‘cute pussies’ into Google.
10 a.m. Shout at everyone to just stop arguing and eat some fucking breakfast. Simon scratches his balls at the breakfast table. Peter copies him. Jane screams they are disgusting and throws her spoon at Peter. Peter hurls his entire bowl of cereal at Jane, misses, and covers the dog with soggy cornflakes. Banish both children to their rooms as they loudly complain that is not fair because they are still hungry. Clean up carnage. Bath dog.
12 p.m. Go to make delicious healthy lunch and find Peter in the kitchen cramming mini sausage rolls into his mouth as fast as he can. Shout at him to stop it, and as he jumps in fright he manages to choke. Perform the Heimlich Manoeuvre while Jane repeatedly demands if she can have his room if he dies.
2 p.m. Bully, shout and scream at everyone until they agree to come out for a walk. Insist Simon drives to a suitable location for a delightful country walk, because I will not drive him anywhere because he is a bastarding pig of a back-seat driver and the last time I drove him I did an emergency stop and threw him out of the car in the middle of the street because I had had enough of his ‘helpful’ comments and his foot jabbing for an imaginary brake pedal. The children continue to fight all the way there, as Jane taunts Peter about what she will do with all his stuff if he dies.
The children continue to squabble, the dog runs off, Simon is wearing his oldest, scabbiest fleece to spite me. Jane pushes Peter into the river, on her quest for his death. We find a pub to have a warming hot chocolate for the children. The barman says, ‘No dogs’, so we have to sit outside. Peter says he is dying of hypothermia. Jane looks hopeful. Simon complains the
whole time because I’m having a glass of wine and he is driving.
5 p.m. Refuse to cook dinner and go on strike. Announce we are getting a takeaway. Referee World War 3 over what sort of takeaway. Refuse to order pizzas, curry AND Chinese and declare everyone will have curry. Have more wine.
8 p.m. Everyone is slumped, staring slack-jawed and glassy-eyed at various devices. Suggest a film. Get told my films are stupid and boring. Give up. Drink wine.
10 p.m. Remember the children are still up. Shout at them to go to bed. Finally snatch all electronics off them and tell them they are never getting them back ever, ever, EVER! Simon snores loudly on the sofa throughout. Get the children to bed and try to change the channel on the TV to something that isn’t Wheeler Sodding Dealers. Simon, who has been snoring determinedly for the last two hours, immediately wakes up and says, ‘I was watching that!’
1 a.m. Finally stagger to bed, a bit more pissed than intended. Tell Simon to fuck off when he goes in for another grope.
Sunday – much like Saturday but without the outing as no one could face round two, so instead Simon hides in his shed and I do eleventy fucking billion loads of laundry while shouting at the children. The bedtime row comes slightly earlier because they have school in the morning, while they scream at me that it is so unfair that they have to go to bed at 8 p.m. because EVERYONE ELSE at school gets to stay up until midnight, playing Grand Theft Auto.
Thursday, 17 March
Simon has finally got around to mentioning the tiny fact that I have been very clever and paid off the sodding credit card. He was less pleased than I had thought he would be. Actually, as I suspected, his first reaction was that I had done something dreadful to get the money, which was not very flattering. Then he accused me of having a rich great aunt I had omitted to tell him about who had left me the money. When I revealed I had made it all by my own self, because I am very clever indeed, he was strangely quiet.