Why Mummy Drinks

by Gill Sims

  And with that I skipped out the door, as Simon slumped dejectedly back in his chair, all hopes of bribing the children upstairs with sweets and iPads while he sprawled on the sofa in front of Wheeler Dealers slipping from his fingers and being replaced by the prospect of listening to his sister sob about how ALL MEN ARE BASTARDS for the fourth night in a row. (Louisa’s repertoire is rather limited; she starts with how she would like to kill Bardo and Sgathaich, and then moves on to how the Goddess has abandoned her and what will become of her, and ends by shouting furiously about being oppressed by the patriarchy as she nears the bottom of the bottle.) On the plus side, he was too defeated to even ask who I was meeting, which was probably a good thing, as I hadn’t quite made up my mind what I should say about Charlie.

  In the event, the evening didn’t go at all as I had expected. We met at a rather posh new wine bar (is it just me, or are wine bars becoming a ‘thing’ again? They vanished for a long time after the eighties, but all of a sudden they are popping up all over the place). We did the polite chit-chat thing, the ‘how are yous’, and the ‘what have you been up tos’, and I was thinking ‘ha ha ha, it is all going to be all right, we are not going to have to talk about feelings, we will just have a quiet drink like two civilised people and go on our way’, which was absolutely fine by me, because Louisa has provided enough emotion to last a lifetime, when there a was a pause in the meaningless conversation and Charlie said, ‘Why have you been avoiding me?’

  Buggeration. I thought we had established that I hadn’t been avoiding him by me saying I hadn’t been avoiding him. You are supposed to accept that at face value, even if it is a blatant lie. I am starting to wonder if Charlie is British at all. Didn’t he do a gap year in America? That was probably where it all started, this desire to communicate instead of living a perfectly happy life of awkward silences and speaking only in clichés.

  Obviously I said the only thing one can say under those circumstances, which was to laugh shrilly and squawk, ‘Of course I haven’t been avoiding you! Ha ha ha! So sorry, just busy busy busy.’

  I stared at the table as I babbled this, frantically dodging eye contact, as there was no need to make this even more embarrassing. Charlie, however, leaned across the table and put his hand under my chin, lifted up my head, then gently brushed my hair out of my eyes. Fuck. I knew I should have put a kirby grip in, like Lucy Worsley, and then he wouldn’t have any excuse to do things like that. I wished I was as sensible as Lucy Worsley – she would never get herself into a position like this. Or if she did, she would deal with it in a brisk and no-nonsense, jolly hockey sticks manner, like the games captain telling the Upper Fourth off for having a crush on her. I bet Lucy Worsley was a games captain at school. Or, actually, she was probably head girl. I wondered if I could google Lucy Worsley under the table to distract me from the inevitable unfortunate scene about to unfold.

  My googling plans were thwarted when Charlie reached across the table and took my hand. Oh God. MORE physical contact. Not a good sign. Maybe, I thought desperately, I could just knock my wine over, send it flying over us both, and the moment would be over while we mopped our ruined clothes and then I could just grab my bag and say, ‘GOSH! Is that the time? Must go, lovely to see you, byeeeeee!’ then run away and move to Outer Mongolia and change my name. And google whether Lucy Worsley was a games captain or head girl.

  Only he was holding the hand closest to the wine, so in order to knock it over I would actually have to lean across the table with my other hand and give it a good shove. I could totally do that. Or, I could suddenly shout that I had explosive diarrhoea and had to go to the lavatory RIGHT NOW! I defy anyone to have a ‘moment’ in the face of the uncontrollable squits. Oh bollocks, he was talking again.

  ‘Ellen, are you listening to me?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Do you think Lucy Worsley was a head girl or games captain when she was at school?’

  ‘What? Who is Lucy Worsley? What does she have to do with any of this?’

  ‘You know, the blonde historian lady off the TV. Very sensible. She always wears a kirby grip in her hair, and comfortable-looking shoes.’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘LUCY WORSLEY! KIRBY GRIP! Lots of programmes about Henry VIII! She wears a fucking kirby grip, how many TV historians wear kirby grips, for fuck’s sake? You must know who she is.’

  ‘Ellen, I don’t even know what a kirby grip is, let alone why you are suddenly so obsessed by them. Can we just talk about –’

  ‘It’s a sort of hair clip. To keep your hair out your eyes, or your bun in place. But I just think she’s very no-nonsense and she was obviously a games captain or head girl at school, but I wondered which? I’m thinking more head girl actually. Our head girl was awfully clever and sensible. I wasn’t even allowed to be a prefect, because they said I was a rebel leader to the junior school, because I wore my school socks rolled down round my ankles. It’s not exactly Star Wars, is it? Shall I google Lucy Worsley, so you know who she is? And maybe Wikipedia will tell us whether she was a head girl or not. I bet you £5 that she was! Actually, I’ve probably got a kirby grip in my bag too, so I can show you what it is …’

  Charlie was looking baffled by this, and I took advantage of his temporary confusion to try to snatch my hand away under the guise of googling Lucy Worsley’s school career and giving a masterclass in kirby grips, but he pre-empted me and hung onto it.

  ‘Ellen, I don’t really care what some woman off the TV did at school, and as you may have noticed, I don’t really have enough hair to have any interest in your bloody kirby grips. I want to talk to you!’

  ‘We ARE talking, Charlie! We’re discussing a wide range of topics, such as history and television and fashion.’

  I succeeded in wresting my hand away from him and dived into my bag, emerging triumphant with a rather grotty kirby grip and my phone.

  ‘LOOK! See, this is a kirby grip. Now do you know who I was talking about? Look, I’ll just quickly google –’

  Charlie removed both the kirby grip and my phone from me, and put them on the table, but not before he looked slightly horrified at the dusty glob of matter clinging to the kirby grip (I think it was probably a bit of a forgotten jelly baby).

  ‘Enough!’ he said. (He was quite masterful actually. If I hadn’t been so in dread of having to talk about how I felt, I would almost have had a frisson.)

  ‘I don’t give a shit about this woman. My life has been in no way enhanced by learning what a fucking kirby grip is! We need to talk. Can we just be honest with each other, please?’

  NO! Let’s not, please?

  ‘Why are you here, Ellen?’

  ‘Ha ha ha, for a drink! Lovely, lovely drinky poos. Can I have my kirby grip back, please? They’re very useful, you can pick locks with them. I’ve never actually picked a lock with one, but apparently you can. There’s probably a YouTube tutorial on it. I could google it! Maybe Lucy Worsley’s sensible head girl image is all a front and she is actually a cat burglar in her spare time and that is why she always wears a kirby grip, so she can break in and steal all the diamonds.’

  ‘ELLEN! SHUT UP! If you mention fucking kirby grips, or Lucy Fucking Worsley one more bastarding time, I WILL NOT BE RESPONSIBLE FOR MY ACTIONS. WE NEED TO TALK.’

  ‘We are talking! We are talking about –’

  ‘We are not talking, you are wittering crap at me. Now we are going to talk. Answer me – you could go for a drink with anyone. Why are you here with me?’

  Oh FML, he really doesn’t give up.

  ‘Because we’re friends, of course. Ha ha ha!’

  ‘Please would you stop laughing like that. It’s really quite disconcerting.’

  ‘Ha ha ha! Sorry.’ Ha! I decided to put him off with my dreadful nervous laugh instead. A shrill cackle is surely as good a passion-killer as threatening to soil yourself at the table or offering a blow-by-blow account of the history of the kirby grip.

  ‘Ellen, pl
ease. I do hope we’re friends. But I think maybe you have been avoiding me because you’re worried that I want us to be more than friends?’

  ‘Oh no! Nononono! Of course not, what an IDEA. Ha ha ha!’ I wondered whether to stab my eye out with the kirby grip as a distraction technique.

  ‘Please will you shut up now? You’re actually being quite irritating, and if we are going to be friends, I think we need to clear some things up.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Firstly, yes, I find you attractive. You were my first love. My first …’

  ‘Shag?’ I supplied helpfully.

  ‘Well, yes, I was going to go for something a little more grown-up, like –’

  ‘First jiggy jiggy? First bonk? First beast with two backs –’

  ‘Lover. You were my first lover as well.’

  In fairness, that does sound much better than my suggestions.

  ‘And when I bumped into you again, it did cross my mind that something might happen. Actually, I quite hoped something might happen. And if you were single, maybe it would have. But you’re not, are you?’

  ‘Well, obviously not. I never pretended to be. You knew I was married.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, will you stop interrupting me?’

  ‘You asked me a question!’

  ‘A rhetorical question! Anyway, the point is, you’re not single, and you’re not that sort of girl either, are you?’

  I opened my mouth to ask what sort of girl exactly, but Charlie gave me a look, and I closed it again. I did like being referred to as a girl, though.

  ‘The sort of girl who has an affair. Because I do still know you quite well, Ellen, even though I didn’t see you for years. I know you can be spoilt, and frequently shallow, and often selfish, and you can be infuriating.’

  Really, I thought, if he is trying to convince me to have it off with him, his compliments need a great deal of work.

  ‘And there will never be anyone else for you but Simon. I think I knew that, the first night I saw you both together. Also, I don’t think that you would be able to bring yourself to break up your children’s home; do the same thing to them that your parents did to you, have them shuttled between different houses every week, and have step-parents and step-siblings to get used to. So I realised pretty quickly that there was no point even thinking about you and me.’

  ‘I could so have an affair!’ I burst out indignantly, feeling not entirely thrilled with the image of the boring, repressed, spoilt, suburban mummy that Charlie was painting. I could be that woman, in the smoky jazz club, with the inappropriate man and the sweet nothings. I could!

  ‘Do you know why my marriage ended?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘No,’ I muttered sulkily, thinking, oh my God, did I forget to ask? Is that another sign of my spoilt, shallow, selfishness? No, of course I asked. Nosiness would have compelled me, if nothing else. I’m pretty sure he just said something vague about drifting apart and wanting different things.

  ‘I had an affair,’ he said calmly.

  ‘YOU?’ I spluttered. ‘YOU had an affair?’

  ‘Is it such a ludicrous idea? That more than one woman should find me attractive enough to sleep with?’

  ‘No! But you are meant to be one of the nice guys. The good ones. The sort who don’t have affairs. You’re Lovely Charlie. That’s what we used to call you, Lovely Charlie. Because you were so straight and decent.’

  ‘Lovely Charlie? I wasn’t lovely enough for you, though, was I? Being the good guy didn’t do me any favours there. And anyway, I’m not. I’m shallow and selfish as well, and I was bored and unhappy with my marriage and I was flattered and excited when someone else seemed to offer me all the things Rachel didn’t. So I had an affair, and Rachel found out, and that was the end for us, and ultimately the affair itself wasn’t that exciting or glamorous, it was rather sordid. A lot of Travelodges and beige carpets, and a constant nagging sense of guilt, once the initial excitement had worn off. But I did it anyway. So I’m not this chivalrous, shining noble knight you think I am, I’m a bit of a dick. But I think when we first met each other again, you felt a bit like I did at the start of things with Sarah. You were fed up, and Simon was getting on your tits and you wanted something more. Only I don’t think you would go through with an actual affair, because you love Simon too much, whereas I never really loved Rachel – and yes, that probably is something to do with you because I should never have got together with her on the rebound from you, and then somehow we were just on some wedding juggernaut that I couldn’t stop, and I’m not proud of myself. But then you felt awkward about seeing me, because you thought you’d been leading me on again, and so you started avoiding me because of your ridiculous fear of actually talking about things and so here we are. Am I right?’

  I stared hard at the table again and wondered about changing the subject.

  ‘Ellen?’ said Charlie. ‘Please say something. And don’t change the subject. Were you avoiding me because you thought I wanted more from you? Talk to me.’

  ‘Yeeeeees, I was. But why did we have to talk about it? If you don’t want to shag me, why wouldn’t you just let me avoid you? Why did you push it?’

  ‘I never said I don’t want to shag you. I just don’t think it would be a good idea, even in the unlikely event that I got you drunk enough to actually do it. But look, I’ve recently moved here, I don’t know a lot of people outside work. The job at St Catherine’s seemed like a good chance to make a fresh start, but I hadn’t appreciated how lonely it would be, especially because I lost quite a lot of friends in the divorce – understandably most of them took Rachel’s side, although in my opinion she rather over-egged playing the martyred victim. But whatever … I did cheat on her, so I suppose I deserved it. But I would really like us to be friends, because right now I need friends more than I need another messy, complicated relationship, which is what an affair with a married woman would be. I need proper friends, and nothing more, without worrying about there being some sort of subtext, or either of us getting the wrong idea. But we can’t be friends if you are being all weird and thinking I’m still poor old love-struck Charlie. And also,’ he grinned wickedly, ‘it was bloody funny watching you squirm when you were actually forced to discuss something emotional instead of just brushing it under the carpet and running away.’

  ‘Rude!’

  ‘Also,’ he continued, looking more serious. ‘I do still care about you. I used to hear bits and pieces from other people, and I would think “Well, I’m glad Ellen and Simon are still together – I may have had my heart broken, but at least it wasn’t for some stupid thing that fizzled out after a couple of years”. I used to tell myself that clearly you two were meant to be. And I suppose I just wanted to remind you of that. You seem much happier now, in a much better place with him than when I first saw you, which is maybe why nothing happened with us, but if you do find yourself in another rough patch, and are tempted by someone else, it mightn’t be someone who has your best interests at heart, and it might end up causing an awful lot of trouble.’

  ‘So be a good girl, Ellen?’ I muttered crossly.

  ‘No. Just remember that very few people are lucky enough to have what you have with Simon. So don’t throw it away for a bit of excitement when things get tough or boring, because life is tough and boring, as is marriage. That’s all. Here endeth the lecture. Shall we get another bottle?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘You said you still want to shag me, though, so how can we be friends?’

  ‘Oh, that!’ said Charlie airily. ‘You have a nice arse, and I’m a single man who hasn’t had sex in a while. Hence, yes, the thought crossed my mind. In fairness, there’s quite a few shaggable women in here, you’re not the only one.’

  ‘Again, RUDE! But if that’s all it is, then yes, let’s get another bottle. And you’re buying for making me talk about feelings.’

  The rest of the evening was much more relaxed, and even enjoyable. We talked about Hannah, and I gave Charlie her num
ber and suggested he give her a ring – just as friends, I said. I do hope they will be more than friends, but I feared saying, ‘Do please ring Hannah, because she is afraid she is going to spend a number of years as a mad cat lady, before even they abandon her and she lives out her last days in a dingy basement, weeping alone for her lost youth, and like you she is also desperate for a shag’ might not be an entirely tempting prospect.

  On the way home I googled Lucy Worsley. Annoyingly, the internet gave no details of whether she was ever a head girl or games captain. I can now pick a lock with a kirby grip, though, should the occasion ever arise.

  JULY

  Wednesday, 6 July

  Louisa is still here. All the children are still here. She has largely stopped crying, at least, but shows no other signs of attempting to get a job, or starting to put her life back together, or finding a home for her children. In lieu of the crying, she has taken to going off on solitary evening walks, leaving Simon and I to deal with the eight children (eight children. Did I mention there are eight fucking children living in my house? DID I?).

  I get the impression that Louisa is rather resentful that we are unable to provide suitably dramatic windswept moors for her to passionately stride about, bewailing her lot to the heather and the rocks. Instead she marches round and round the park muttering to herself (Sam saw her when he was out with his dog), doing more of an impression of Mr Rochester’s first wife than of Cathy Earnshaw searching for Heathcliff.

  This morning it was my day off, and I had firmly suggested to Louisa (actually I had just ordered her, I have turned into something between Mary Poppins and Nurse Ratched when dealing with Louisa, brooking no arguments and speaking only in a bright and cheerful voice like the one you use in public to a recalcitrant toddler because you can’t scream ‘just fucking do as you’re told, you little shit’ when there are witnesses) that she took her children to the shops and bought some bread and milk as we were rather low. We are permanently low on bread and milk. We have seven extra people in the house to feed.