Mum On The Run

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Thanks, Mummy.’

  ‘Fanks,’ Toby barks, ripping the foil from his gift and stuffing it into his mouth. Grace takes a huge chomp out of hers.

  ‘I got this for you,’ I say, brandishing the remaining coin as Finn strolls downstairs in a fug of recently-applied Lynx and hair gel.

  ‘Oh. Right. Cool,’ he mumbles, which causes my insides to twist a little.

  ‘Guess what,’ Grace announces through a full mouth.

  ‘What, love?’

  ‘Celeste was here.’

  ‘Was she? Why?’ Frowning, I glance at Jed.

  ‘She was just passing and popped in for coffee,’ he says quickly, sweeping back his hair.

  ‘Did she?’ I study his face, trying to read his expression and ignoring the fact that Toby is repeatedly whacking my leg with Ted.

  ‘Yeah, well, uh . . .’ Jed murmurs.

  ‘I didn’t know she knew where we lived,’ I add.

  ‘It’s just, she still doesn’t know many people around here,’ Jed explains, looking a little more relaxed now. ‘I just said, if she was at a loose end at the weekend she was welcome to pop round, have a bite to eat with us . . .’

  ‘While I was shopping,’ I add.

  ‘Yeah, but, uh, I didn’t realise . . .’

  ‘Look what I made!’ Toby interrupts, dropping Ted and burrowing into the pocket of his rumpled trousers. He extracts a clump of custard-yellow felt which has been glued to form a sort of pouch. ‘S’a present for you,’ he adds.

  ‘You made this all by yourself? That’s fantastic, Toby.’

  He nods proudly. ‘He didn’t,’ scoffs Grace. ‘Celeste made it.’

  My heart thuds to my boots. ‘She didn’t!’ Toby thunders with an ineffectual attempt to punch his sister in the chest. ‘I made it!’

  ‘Celeste did it all,’ Grace crows, deliberately winding him up. ‘She did the cutting and sticking. You couldn’t make a purse all by yourself, you’re only a baby . . .’

  ‘I’m not a baby!’ he rages. ‘I’m four . . .’

  ‘Only just,’ she snaps back.

  ‘Hey, don’t fight, you two,’ I protest, turning to Jed. ‘So you had a sort of, um . . . craft session?’ I’m trying to keep my voice light, but am aware that it sounds taut and ugly.

  ‘Er, yeah. Celeste had some fabric with her so the kids started making things . . .’ He shrugs. He really is overdoing the casual look.

  ‘Oh. That’s . . . great.’ I grin inanely, aware of three pairs of children’s eyes, dark as coffee beans, boring into me. Celeste was here. How fantastically cosy. Not only does she show up precisely when I’m grappling with an oversized romper suit, but also happens to have a wealth of child-pleasing craft materials about her person. As you do. On your way to your yoga class or to Mother Earth for your goddamn sprouting seeds or whatever it is she allows to come into contact with her precious insides.

  The first time I met her, at a leaving do for Jed’s deputy head, she was eyeing the buffet with distaste. We were in the dingy downstairs room of a bar in town, and everyone else was troughing pizza and sausage rolls. I’d tried to make an effort, since Jed was obviously so taken with the newest staff member and had gone on about how much fun she was, and how the children loved her. ‘Hi, I’m Laura, Jed’s wife,’ I’d said, sensing that she looked a little lonely.

  ‘Oh, are you?’ she’d said with a quizzical smile, as if surprised that tall, swarthy, handsome Jed should have such a dumpy wife. There’d been a small silence, and I’d babbled something nonsensical about the hassle of booking a babysitter that night.

  ‘Bet it’s lovely for you to be out,’ she’d said, flicking a gaze towards Jed who was deep in conversation with Carol, his head teacher.

  The way she’d said it, and looked at my husband like that – she’d made it sound as if I’d just been released from an institution. ‘It’s great,’ I’d replied, a little tiddly on cheap white wine by that point. ‘I’m only allowed out until ten, though. Otherwise they come in a van to take me back.’

  ‘Haha,’ she’d managed, grabbing her handbag from the greasy table and scooting towards the ladies’. I’d spotted Mickey and Duncan, Jed’s teacher mates, and been awash with relief when they’d beckoned me over and been friendly and chatty and normal.

  And now, I’m clutching the felt purse she helped Toby to make, and having to pretend I love it. ‘This is great, Toby, thank you,’ I say, trying to regard it with fondness.

  ‘Looks more like a codpiece,’ Jed hisses into my ear. His arm snakes around my waist, and I muster a smile. Of course I’m being ridiculous. Why shouldn’t Celeste happen to be passing, and drop in? This proves that nothing’s going on between them. No one who was shagging, or even planning to shag their father, would have the gall to make codpieces with our children.

  ‘We had a picnic in the park,’ Grace adds.

  ‘That’s lovely. It’s been a gorgeous afternoon.’

  ‘Celeste came with us.’ She grins.

  My throat tightens. Jesus, was she here the whole day? Is she planning to move in with us? Shall we build an annexe for her in the garden? Actually, you could probably fit three in our bed if I positioned myself with my arse hanging right off the edge. ‘Did she?’ I say. ‘That’s lovely. Sounds like you’ve all had a great day. Anyway, I’m just going to take my shopping upstairs.’ I glower at Jed, who looks relieved to finish this conversation.

  In our bedroom, I pull out the emerald dress and hold it up against myself. It’s a little skimpy and low at the front, I realise now; my boobs are ample, to put it mildly, and I’m not used to so much creamy flesh being on display. I wonder if my powers of selection had somehow become distorted after I’d met Danny. I’d felt emboldened then, and a little flirtatious, like my old, carefree self before all this weight began to creep on. It had given me a confidence surge, just chatting to him in the café. A smile tweaks my lips as I picture his cheeky, boyish smile, the pale blue eyes fringed with long, black lashes, the slightly dishevelled, needing-a-trim dark hair. How he’d made me laugh, and feel like Laura again, not the twerp who humiliates herself at sports day.

  Just a coffee with a friendly stranger. That’s all it was – nothing compared to cosy craft sessions and picnics, and therefore not worth mentioning to Jed. I didn’t even fancy him, not really. I was just flattered, that’s all. Is Jed attracted to Celeste? Of course he is. Any straight man would be. She’s beautiful, slim and creative. I am merely okay-looking if you squint at me in a dim light, and it took me two whole terms at school to make a rabbit pincushion.

  The door creaks open and Grace strolls in, licking melted chocolate from her fingers. ‘Hi, bunny,’ I say.

  She tilts her head, and I notice a grubby smear on her pointy little chin. She looks tired in an outdoorsy way, worn out by a day of fun. ‘Love you, Mummy,’ she says suddenly, causing my Celeste-vexation to melt away.

  ‘Love you too.’ I open my arms and pull her in for a hug. This time, she doesn’t wriggle.

  ‘Celeste can rollerblade,’ she adds.

  Chapter Seven

  There’s no chance to bring up the subject of Celeste in the morning as Jed and I aren’t alone for a minute. I didn’t mention it last night either, being a little unsure of what I would actually object to. The picnic? The rollerblading? The making of purses? When you look at it that way, it’s all pretty innocent, child-pleasing stuff. Even so, I feel unsettled all through breakfast, and I notice that Jed is particularly keen to dart off to work.

  I must be mature about this. Mustn’t seethe as I take the children to school and nursery, or Naomi will spot me and make some spiky remark about me looking wired and suggest, ‘I always find the mornings run more smoothly if I get the children’s lunchboxes and uniforms ready the night before, don’t you?’ I’m seized by an urge to supply them with packets of Monster Munch to consume in public. That would get her neck vein pulsating.

  Finn is marching ahead, all unkempt dark hair and long, gangly l
imbs, giving the impression that I’m some irksome stranger lurking behind him. Spotting James and Calum swaggering ahead, he hurries to catch up. I’ve tried to work out why I’m so embarrassing – so much so, in fact, that he no longer allows me to cut his hair and insists on going to some scabby place under the railway arch where they also do piercing. Surely I can’t be that mortifying. It’s not as if I walk to school in a pink bikini, singing opera songs. In fact I try to tone myself down in my extremely plain black trenchcoat and flat boots. I don’t think I look freakish. Sometimes, though, I worry that I’m not quite normal. A sensible person would take this Celeste business – the showing up at sports day, the jolly craft sessions and picnics – in her stride. Maybe I should be glad my family has a perfectly nice time without me?

  Spotting her friend India across the street, Grace waves and whirls round to face me. ‘Can India come for tea?’

  ‘We’ll see. I’ll need to ask her mum, okay?’ For a seven-year-old Grace has an enviable social life, which I’m pleased about – but this also means our house often has the feel of an impromptu after-school club, with mass-catering expected. By the time we arrive at school, Grace has accumulated a bunch of excitable friends. ‘Bye, Mummy,’ she says sweetly, planting a speedy kiss on my cheek.

  ‘Bye, darling. Have a lovely day.’ I glance around for Finn, hoping to say goodbye, but he’s already sauntered into the playground with his friends.

  ‘Come on, love,’ I say, clutching Toby’s hand. ‘Let’s take you to nursery.’ Scamps is just around the corner from school. He charges in, flings his coat in the vague direction of his named hook and throws his backpack onto the floor. I grab him for a quick hug goodbye before he tears off into the main room, and put his coat and bag in their rightful places. ‘Hi, Laura.’ Cara, the manageress, pops her head around the cloakroom door.

  ‘Hi, Cara. Just tidying up after Toby as usual.’ I force a grin.

  ‘Hmm. Did he tell you about his little adventure last week?’

  ‘No,’ I say hesitantly.

  She crooks her eyebrow, making me sweat. ‘Took the plug out of the water tray. Flooded the main room. The children had to sit in the library corner until we’d mopped it all up.’

  ‘Oh, I’d no idea. He didn’t mention that. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ She chuckles in a kids, eh? kind of way and flutters her eyelashes at me.

  ‘Bet that happens all the time,’ I add.

  ‘No,’ she says levelly. ‘In the fifteen years I’ve worked here, no child has ever done that.’

  Good for Toby, I think, gushing further apologies as I make my escape. At least he thought of something new and different to amuse himself. Although he enjoys nursery, he will only tolerate cutting and sticking for so long (unless Celeste is involved, obviously – in which case he could probably be persuaded to fashion an entire spring/summer collection in yellow felt). As I’m not due at work until ten, I decide to have a coffee and mull over whether I should let the plug incident go, or apply the thumb screws and water torture.

  Café Roma is virtually empty. It smells good in here, of delicious things baking, which is especially welcome after the breakfasty fug of our kitchen. When we moved here from London, when I was pregnant with Toby, the small North Yorkshire market town had a time-warp feel about it, and you couldn’t get a decent coffee anywhere. Jed had been offered a senior teaching position at Rosebank Primary and I’d welcomed the move. With our third child on the way, I’d looked forward to being a mere half-hour drive from my parents. Now, four years on, there’s a clutch of new cafés offering respectable bursts of caffeine to get the nerves jangling nicely. Dad’s no longer here, though. I hadn’t imagined having to face that.

  Selecting one of the trashier newspapers from the rack, I take a seat at the steamed-up window. A supplement falls out; it’s called Your Complete Summer Grooming Guide. We’ve only just staggered through the Easter holidays, yet already I’m supposed to be fretting about the pallidness of my legs. I flip through it. You might adhere to the old ’70s thing of leaving your pubic hair au naturelle, is where my eyes land.

  What ’70s thing? What do they mean?

  A little light grooming is common courtesy, it thrills on. Are they implying that it’s rude not to? I glance around the café. A group of four women of around my age has drifted in, chatting and laughing and smelling of light, floral perfumes. They are all smartly dressed with their hair freshly blow-dried, and I vaguely recognise them from the few times I ventured into the gym. An awful thought hits me: I’m probably the only woman in here who doesn’t have her bikini line waxed. Heck, even the chef, who I can see bobbing about in the kitchen through the circular window, probably keeps himself nice and tidy down there.

  I glower down at it. Not at my own pubic hair – that wouldn’t be fitting in Café Roma – but at the damn magazine. Is this why Jed has un-synchronised our bedtimes? He isn’t really staying up marking jotters, planning lessons or even indulging in lurid fantasies starring Celeste. He’s simply appalled by my lack of personal grooming. I’ve been so wrapped up in looking after the children that I’ve missed a significant cultural shift. Closing the grooming guide, I sip my coffee morosely. That’s it: my ‘au naturelle’ do is as outmoded as a poodle perm or culottes. Jed has to fight the urge to retch every time he glimpses it. He’s just been too polite to tell me.

  The café door opens, and Naomi flounces in, flushed with rude health. ‘Hi, Laura,’ she says. ‘Day off today?’

  ‘No, I’m working at ten.’ I check my watch. ‘Thanks for rescuing my sandals, by the way. And well done with the mums’ race.’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing. No one cares about these things, do they?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I say with a chuckle.

  ‘Ankle okay now?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better, thanks.’ I glance at her. Of course, she’s naturally neat down there – or so it appeared in those paintings of her at the Riverside Arts Centre. It was quite off-putting, trying to eat an apple Danish with all those naked Naomis gawping at me. I’d made a speedy exit, and avoided the place until they took her paintings down and replaced them with landscapes.

  Her gaze drops to the table. ‘Cute purse. Very homespun.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. Toby made it actually.’

  ‘Really? You’re good, doing that sort of thing. Our au pair does all the artsy-crafty stuff . . . Hi, could I just have a dandelion tea?’ she calls out to the girl at the counter, who nods.

  ‘It was nothing really,’ I witter.

  Naomi smirks. ‘Who was that girl at sports day? The one standing with Jed?’

  ‘Oh, just a colleague of his from school,’ I say lightly. ‘They’d come over for a meeting.’

  ‘Pretty, wasn’t she?’ she chirps, almost as if she knows, and is hell-bent on torturing me. ‘All the dads were checking her out, did you see? James Boland’s dad virtually had his tongue out!’

  ‘Yes, haha,’ I croak, scrambling up from my seat and stuffing Toby’s purse into my bag. Naomi picks up the grooming guide.

  ‘Mind if I read this?’

  ‘Go ahead. I’m running late actually.’

  She flips it open at the au naturelle page as the waitress brings her a steaming mug of dandelion witch-brew. It looks like puddle water. ‘Oh, Laura?’ she calls after me as I head for the door. ‘Miss Marshall’s looking for parent volunteers to set up a junior athletics club.’

  I blink at her. ‘That sounds good.’

  ‘She asked me to help to run it. You know, coaching the kids, motivating them, that sort of thing . . .’

  ‘Great.’ I try to look excited.

  ‘Thought you might be interested,’ she adds, ‘in the fund-raising side. Maybe you could do some home baking or something.’

  I force a wide smile, hoping it’s the smile of a woman who is dynamic, perky and firmly at the helm of family life. ‘Love to,’ I say. ‘Count me in.’

  *

  ‘I’d like somet
hing like that,’ my first client says, thrusting me a snipped-out photo from a magazine. The woman has over-bleached hair which peters out to fine wisps at her shoulders. The photo is of Angelina Jolie.

  I take time to study her hair, feeling its coarseness and trying to figure out a diplomatic approach. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer something that works with your hair’s natural colour and texture?’ I suggest, slipping easily into hairdresser-speak. It’s not that I loathe my job. Far from it: I enjoy the steady routines, the companionship, and knowing that most clients walk out feeling far happier than when they came in. I especially enjoy the dramatic transformations, when the right cut heightens a woman’s bone structure, and she emerges a real beauty. I still preferred it, though, before our grand relaunch as Shine Hair Design, when we were plain old Snipperz. More realistic expectations. Install a bubbly water feature and butter-soft leather sofas and people think you can transform them into Hollywood actresses. It’s like the time I joined Bodyworks, the fancy gym over the road, in the hope that I’d somehow be magically transformed by simply wafting around the building.

  As I show my client sample hair shades, the magazine photo appears to have been forgotten. She leaves, not as Angelina, but thoroughly de-frizzed and happy.

  ‘Lovely colour you did there,’ remarks Simone, my boss, as I check my appointments.

  ‘Thanks. She was pleased, I think.’

  ‘Fancy a quick coffee? I’ll make one.’

  ‘That’d be great. I’ve got a fifteen-minute gap, then I’m booked up pretty much all day.’

  In the kitchen, Simone hands me a mug. ‘So, good weekend?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, I actually managed to get out on my own and do some shopping.’

  ‘Sounds great . . .’

  ‘Celeste popped in,’ I add, ‘while I was out.’

  ‘Oh.’ She frowns. ‘Were the kids there?’

  I nod. ‘I know – nothing was going to happen while they were around, and I’m probably being ridiculous and reading far too much into it. But still. I felt kind of . . . uncomfortable.’