by Fiona Gibson
‘Look, Mummy,’ Toby says, indicating the vase of glass beads.
‘Yes, lovely.’
He touches the vase. ‘S’ nice, isn’t it?’
‘Please don’t touch, love.’
‘There’s marbles in it,’ he observes.
‘They look like marbles,’ I explain, ‘but they’re not for playing with. They’re really just for decoration.’
‘Why?’ He cocks his head. ‘They just . . . look pretty.’
Toby looks baffled at this, perhaps comparing Celeste’s bathroom to ours with slimy bath toys and rank flannels strewn everywhere. It takes me a moment to register that he’s gripping the vase to his chest. ‘Put it down!’ I shriek.
‘No,’ he yells in delight.
‘Toby, please. It’s really heavy, you might drop—’
Cackling manically, he runs to the window. I spring up from the loo, assuming I’d finished my wee but – damn my malfunctioning pelvic floor – apparently not. Pee trickles down my legs and onto my bunched-up knickers and tights as I try to snatch the vase from his grasp. ‘No, Mummy!’ he squeals, laughing and twisting away from me. He’s up at the window now, peering down at all those happy, champagne-sipping, toffee-coloured people.
‘Give-me-that-vase,’ I bark at him.
‘Look!’ he yelps. Then he leans forward and tips the vase, pouring glass beads through the half-open window so they rain down upon the heart-shaped cookies and the little girls in floral dresses, who were sitting happily on the lawn and are now screaming and running away.
Everyone stares up. I stagger back and lower myself onto the bath’s cold, hard edge. ‘God,’ is all I can say.
‘Sorr-ee,’ Toby sing-songs. I stare blankly. My tights and knickers are still bunched at my knees.
His face wilts a little, and he places the empty vase on the floor. ‘It looked like a waterfall,’ he says.
A waterfall. Great. Isn’t a child’s imagination a wonderful thing? Perhaps I, too, could liquefy and dribble down the plughole and into the dark, stinking drains. Right now, it would be preferable to being here. My tights and knickers are damp. I hoik them up anyway, wondering which aspect of mothering I’ve got horribly wrong for things to have turned out this way.
Other people’s children don’t do things like this. When Jed told me he wanted us to have a baby, I’d hugged him, delighted; I’d never met anyone with whom I’d have remotely considered having a child, and he said he hadn’t either. I’d never imagined that one of our offspring would run amok with xylophone hammers or pour glass nuggets from second-floor windows. Is it any wonder I forget to ask Jed what’s happening at school, and didn’t know about his mosaic enterprise?
Toby wipes his nose on his T-shirt sleeve. ‘Wanna see Daddy in the garden,’ he murmurs.
‘Hmmm.’
‘Wanna go on the ’ammock.’
Silence.
‘Can I?’
‘In. A. Minute.’
He twiddles the bathroom door handle impatiently. ‘Wanna cake,’ he growls.
Standing up, I realise that what felt like a few stray splashes have, in fact, entirely soaked the lower part of the back of my new emerald dress. I am drenched in wee. As I twist to survey the damage, I catch Toby scrutinising the wet patch.
Then his deep brown eyes, clear and unblinking, meet mine, and his mouth curls into a delighted grin. ‘You peed yourself, Mummy,’ he says.
Chapter Seventeen
Whilst I hate to brag about Toby’s capabilities, and I’m not about to start crowing that he can speak Mandarin or play the bassoon, I have to point out that he’s pretty perceptive. ‘Come on, Mummy,’ he demands, trying in vain to unbolt the bathroom door.
‘Hang on a minute, Toby.’
‘Why?’
‘Because . . . because I need a moment to think.’
‘I want Daddy!’ With a groan, he flops down and sets about trying to pick the circular bumps off the rubberised floor. Clicking into damage-limitation mode, I try to work out my options. One: rejoin the jolly gathering outside and spout some twaddle about Toby spraying me with the bathroom tap. Would that be convincing?
‘Are you still thinking?’ he asks solemnly.
‘Yes, love, I am.’
He thumps the bathroom floor. ‘This is boring. Wanna play in the ’ammock with Grace.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I mutter, figuring that he has a point: we can’t stay locked up in Celeste’s bathroom forever. For one thing, at some point, other guests will need the loo. Jed might even notice our absence a few hours down the line. He might even worry. Even if he doesn’t, I have work on Monday, and Toby has nursery. Life must continue as normal.
Option two: I could rush down to the garden, retrieve my cardi which I dropped onto a chair and tie it around my waist, thus camouflaging the worst of the damage. Option three: make a huge joke of the wet patch, as a kind of party ice-breaker with all the Felixes and Annabellas, and leave early with Ash-blondie murmuring, ‘I’m not surprised they don’t get invited to many parties.’
‘I know,’ I burst out. ‘I’ll dry my dress.’
‘Yeah!’ Toby leaps up from the floor and snatches the pristine white towel from the rail.
‘No, I can’t use that. I need a hand dryer or something.’ Of course Celeste doesn’t have one. This is a flat, not a public loo.
‘A hair dryer,’ Toby repeats mistakenly.
I grin at him. ‘A hair dryer – yes, that’d be perfect.’ Unbolting the door, I grab his hand and lead him into the first bedroom we come across. It’s a small, narrow room, painted entirely in white, with a single bed covered with a jaunty crocheted blanket. Celeste’s handiwork, no doubt. A shelf is neatly stacked with children’s books: The Ballet Shoes, Famous Five, The Water Babies, all guarded by a plush rabbit wearing an oatmeal hand-knitted sweater. They must be Celeste’s old books. Naturally, they appear to be in mint condition. I’d hoped to preserve our children’s favourite picture books, but most are smeared with Nutella or scrawled with crayon. The other day, I discovered that Room on the Broom had a slice of salami wedged in it.
‘Let’s try the other bedroom,’ I murmur.
‘Wanna play with Grace,’ Toby grumbles, already bored with our mission.
‘Soon, honey. This won’t take a minute, I promise.’
The second, larger bedroom is tastefully furnished in cream and taupe in the style of a boutique hotel room. Faint laughter drifts up from the garden. Everything must be okay down there. They wouldn’t be laughing if someone had been maimed by a falling glass nugget and rushed to A&E. As I scan the room, taking in the floaty white curtains, and the artful array of appliquéd cushions arranged on the bed, my spirits start to rise. Surely there’s a hair dryer in here.
‘Don’t sit on the bed, love,’ I say, as Toby bounces lightly on its edge. He slips off without protest, deciding to rearrange the cushions instead.
‘Please don’t touch those,’ I add, feeling fortunate now that our house is so unkempt that at least I don’t have to constantly worry about the children fouling it up. Opening Celeste’s wardrobe, I peer inside, with Toby hovering and breathing throatily beside me.
Her clothes are stored on padded hangers, all facing in the same direction. It’s the wardrobe of a proper, sorted, grownup woman, not one who wets herself at parties. My dress clings damply to the backs of my legs as I scan the cubby holes up the right-hand side. They are filled with neatly-folded T-shirts and sweaters – I spot the fine lemon cardi she modelled at sports day – but, it would appear, no hair dryer.
I kneel down on the creamy carpet. At the bottom of the wardrobe, her shoes are neatly paired up. All look immaculate. A pair of embroidered slippers in oyster satin look more like museum exhibits than something you’d jam your feet into. I feel as if I’m sullying them with my breath. Yet I can’t help reaching out to touch them, and trace the intricate beading with a finger—
‘Um . . . Laura? Can I help you with something?’
I wh
irl round and stagger to my feet. Celeste is standing in the doorway, clutching a glass of champagne and smiling quizzically. ‘Oh, er, I was just . . .’ I babble, aware of hotness surging up my chest.
‘Mummy peed her pants,’ Toby announces with a giggle. ‘Sorry?’ She frowns.
Sweat springs from my forehead. ‘I . . . this is so embarrassing, and I don’t know how to say this really, but I, um, had a bit of an accident in the bathroom . . .’
‘Oh, that,’ she says with a small laugh. ‘Don’t worry about that. We managed to collect most of them, and no one was hurt or anything.’
‘Um, no,’ I mutter, cheeks flaming now. ‘There was another accident. I, um, needed the loo but didn’t quite make . . .’
‘You mean . . .’ She winces, and her forehead crinkles.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ I stare down at my feet.
‘Oh, God, you poor thing . . .’
‘And I was I looking for a hair dryer,’ I add lamely, ‘to dry my dress. I’m sorry, Celeste. I shouldn’t have come in here and started prowling around without asking.’
She steps towards me, scrutinising the damage while taking care not to come too close. ‘Ooh. You really are wet. Why don’t we find you something to wear? You can have a shower if you like, get yourself freshened up . . .’
‘I’ll be fine, honestly. I’ll soon dry off.’ I no longer care about my unsavoury condition. I just want to get out of here, go home and be normal. I’ll tell Jed what’s happened and take the children home. He can stay on, quaffing champagne, unencumbered by wet-panted wife or offspring. Surely someone will give him a lift home.
‘Oh, come on,’ Celeste insists. ‘You’ll feel much better if you’re all clean. Toby, want to help me pick out a nice dress for Mummy?’
He nods. Although he’s not remotely interested in dresses, Celeste’s collection clearly possesses a certain allure. ‘That one,’ he says, reaching up to tug at a scrap of flimsy pink cotton.
‘Um . . . okay,’ Celeste says warily. She takes the hanger from the rail and holds up the narrow, spaghetti-strapped dress. I picture myself crammed into it, looking like an over-stuffed sausage.
‘I’m not sure if that would fit me,’ I murmur.
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll find something.’ She flicks along the rail, causing the padded hangers to bounce together. ‘I’ve got tons of stuff in here,’ she adds. ‘Things from years ago when I was much . . .’ She tails off tactfully. My back teeth jam together. We both know what she was going to say: bigger. ‘Er, what size are you, Laura?’
‘Sixteen,’ I say dully.
‘Oh.’ She bites her bottom lip, as if faced with a particularly tough exam paper. I’m primed for her announcement that nothing will fit me apart from a dressing gown or a sack.
‘Celeste,’ I add, ‘if you really can’t find anything I’ll just stay as I am. I’m almost dry now actually . . .’
‘Here!’ she announces, brandishing a rather matronly dress in navy blue linen.
Toby scowls. ‘It’s ’orrible.’
‘No it’s not,’ I correct him. ‘It’s, um . . . elegant.’
‘It’s much better on,’ Celeste insists. ‘Go on, try it. Take some underwear, too, if you need it – it’s in that top drawer by my bed.’
‘Thanks, Celeste.’ I muster a faint smile and take the dress from her. ‘And I will have a shower if that’s okay.’
‘Of course it is. Come on, Toby. Let’s give Mummy some peace and see what the others are up to in the garden.’
*
Celeste’s shower has an instantly healing effect, blasting steamy water from all angles and sluicing away my mortification, despite the prospect of wearing the matronly dress. Who cares what I look like anyway? Things can’t get any worse today. My green dress lies in a damp heap in the wash-basin. I glare down at my legs and twist round to examine my bottom. Those tights lied. My cellulite hasn’t melted away at all. It’s still there, now looking pink and angry – and who could blame it, after it’s spent two hours being impregnated by tights?
An image of Jed, sipping champagne in the afternoon sunshine, makes me prickle with rage. Hasn’t it occurred to him to investigate why I’ve been gone for forty-five minutes? Look at what happens when a man ventures into playgroup. He’s bestowed with coffee and a dazzling array of biscuits. Yet I come to a party where I know virtually no one, and might as well be an insect, buzzing ineffectually around the garden.
I towel myself dry and pull on Celeste’s knickers. They are turquoise, with a shimmery gold stripe and ribbon ties at the sides, and aren’t from Tesco but Coco de Mer. They are ridiculously glamorous. My tummy bulges over them, even when I try to suck it in. I rummaged through Celeste’s drawer for a less salubrious brand, but there weren’t any. No saggy cotton articles, no greying whites. Must remember to launder them lovingly and not leave them mouldering in the basket with the kids’ damp swimming things.
The dress surprises me by not only fitting perfectly but also being pleasingly flattering. Pulling on my sandals, I make for her bedroom where I dry my hair with the dryer she left out for me. As I glimpse my reflection in her bedroom mirror, I’m shocked by the transformation. The anxiety has melted from my face, and my whole demeanour is more relaxed. Who cares if I’m accessorising not with a dinky ‘it’ bag but a plastic carrier stuffed with my damp emerald dress? I feel light and happy as I skip downstairs to rejoin the party.
‘Hi,’ I say, striding across the lawn.
Jed steps away from the group and frowns at me. ‘Why are you wearing that dress?’ he hisses. ‘What’s been going on?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ I whisper.
‘What the hell happened up there, Laura? I can’t believe what Toby did, that you let him throw those—’
‘I didn’t let him!’ I protest. ‘He just did it, Jed, while I was on the loo. What makes you think I have the slightest control over anything he does? It’s not easy, you know, trying to stop him from wrecking other people’s houses. That’s why I got pee all over my dress . . .’
‘He peed on you?’ Jed mouths.
‘No, I peed on me. That’s why Celeste lent me this dress.’
Shaking his head despairingly, he drains his champagne glass and calls out for the children.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘I’ve had enough,’ he mutters.
‘We don’t need to leave yet, Jed. I’ve had a shower, I’m all clean and fine now . . .’
‘Well, I’m not fine,’ Jed snaps. ‘We’re going home.’
We don’t just leave the party. We make a hasty exit. ‘Oh, are you going already?’ Celeste asks, looking crestfallen as my family converges in the middle of the lawn.
‘Yes, sorry,’ Jed says. ‘I think the kids have had enough.’
‘I haven’t,’ Grace insists. ‘We’re fine, Dad. We don’t wanna go home.’
‘Come on, love,’ I murmur, taking her hand. She snatches it away. ‘Thanks for a great party, Celeste,’ I add. ‘And I’m really sorry about the, er, thing in the bathroom.’
‘It’s really not a problem,’ she says, smiling down at a furious-looking Toby. Finn is glaring, pink-cheeked, into the middle distance as if trying to disassociate himself from the scene.
‘I don’t see why we have to go now,’ I protest as we all bundle into the car. ‘The kids were having a great time.’ It’s true. The girls in floral dresses were clearly delighted at being chased around the trees by Grace and Toby.
‘I’d just had enough,’ Jed insists.
‘Are you drunk or something?’ I start the engine.
‘No, I’m not drunk,’ he snaps. ‘I had, like, two glasses . . .’
‘Are you sure you don’t mean two bottles?’
Jed snorts through his nose. ‘Why’s Daddy cross?’ Toby asks bleakly.
‘I’m not cross,’ he says in an over-bright voice. ‘I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’ Of course he is. Flirting under the cherry trees must
have been completely exhausting.
‘It’s not fair,’ Grace mumbles. ‘Nobody else is going already.’
‘Well, that’s up to them,’ Jed remarks.
I bite my lip, trying to rein in my fury as we pull away from the parking area. There’s no reason for this. I’d felt so good in Celeste’s dress – a new-improved, buffed-up version of myself, despite the accident – that I’d wanted to yabber away to all those shiny, toffee-coloured people. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you,’ I mutter to Jed.
‘I’ve told you – nothing’s wrong. I thought you didn’t want to come anyway.’
‘Well, I didn’t . . . but I didn’t want to leave either. Not like that.’ I rev far too aggressively as we turn into the road.
‘You’ll damage the clutch doing that,’ Jed points out.
Do you want to drive, I want to yell, and get breathalysed? I inhale deeply, trying to calm my racing heart. A rivulet of sweat trickles down my cleavage, no doubt staining Celeste’s dress indelibly. So much ill-feeling is flooding our car, every particle clearly directed at me, it’s a wonder there’s room for any oxygen in here.
Still, maybe it’s just as well that we left when we did. I’d imagine that, as the party drifts into evening, Celeste will decorate the garden with flickering candles. I’m always nervous with Toby around naked flames. After the hammock, glass nuggets and cake stand, I don’t think I could handle any more anxiety-making objects. I drive slowly and cautiously to avoid a further ticking off, hoping that, by the time we get home, all that grape juice sloshing about in my stomach will have fermented and turned into wine.
Chapter Eighteen
Compared to Celeste’s flat, our house looks even messier than usual when we get home. It’s as if burglars have been but couldn’t find anything worth taking. As Jed clatters about in the kitchen, I start to tackle the mess. The living room floor is littered with mangled cardboard tubes, and stray biscuits have been ground into the carpet. Normally I don’t mind the chaos, or have at least accepted that moving from one room to another usually involves spearing my heel on a plastic knight. When we set off for the party, ours had seemed like a pretty chaotic but normal family home. Now, there’s a distinct whiff of eau-de-not-coping.