Mum On The Run

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Naomi says, striding back into the kitchen. ‘Phoebe makes such a fuss about bathtime these days. Keeps insisting that she doesn’t need one every day.’

  ‘Well, maybe she doesn’t at her age,’ I offer.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t have her all smelly and dirty,’ Naomi says with a shudder. As she tips the remains of Phoebe’s dinner into the bin, my gaze rests upon another picture stuck to the fridge door. It’s so small, it takes me a moment to pull it into focus and realise it’s a tiny, shrunken miniature of one of the nude paintings of Naomi from the gallery. ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’ I ask, indicating the image.

  ‘Yes.’ She laughs ruefully. ‘At least, it’s my younger, springier, less haggard self.’

  I smile and wander over for a closer look. ‘D’you think you’ll ever do some life modelling again?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she exclaims. ‘Why d’you ask?’

  ‘I just thought, you know, with you doing all this training for the 10k, and being in such good shape . . .’

  ‘Life modelling’s not about having a good body, Laura. It doesn’t matter what you look like. I just did it because I was asked, and I thought, well . . . why not benefit the artistic community?’

  I nod, chewing this over, and glance at the kitchen clock.

  ‘Why, are you thinking of doing it?’

  ‘God, no,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Is money a bit tight for you and Jed at the moment?’ She pulls a sympathetic face. ‘If it is, I’m sure one of the colleges could use you . . .’

  ‘No, no, we’re fine, really.’

  ‘It pays well,’ she adds. ‘£15 an hour in some colleges and you soon get over your shyness.’ I laugh, draining the remains of my puddle-tea.

  ‘No, honestly. I’m just curious. Anyway, I’d really better be going. I’m due to meet a friend at eight.’

  *

  I’m hardly ever alone in the car. It feels rather strange, driving with no bickering or vomit smells. No one is poking anyone else in the back, and all I have with me is a small bag containing my make-up, a hairbrush and my father-in-law’s silken robe. I discovered the robe crumpled up in our bed after the Vitesse visit. I’d have preferred to bring my own dressing gown, but thought Danny would spot the burnt sleeve and assume I have a habit of setting fire to myself.

  As I drive out of town, I start to wish the kids were here with me. In fact I’d give anything for some in-car squabbling to take my mind off my modelling session. I’m doing this for me, I remind myself. It’s empowering. I will merely be benefiting the artistic community, and who could possibly object to that?

  Unfortunately, though, I’m not entirely clear about the etiquette of posing naked. I would have pressed Naomi for details, but couldn’t think how to without arousing suspicion. I’ve just managed to glean a few tips from the internet. There’s nothing sexual about it, one life model wrote. You are just an object to be drawn. You could be an apple. ‘I am an apple,’ I murmur to myself. I also learnt that the model should be offered a screened changing area where she can disrobe as, apparently, the act of undressing is deemed potentially erotic. Model then emerges from behind screen, wearing robe (hence Brian’s silken dressing gown, the very thought of which is now making my skin prickle uneasily), and assumes pose as directed by tutor/students. Only then does she slip off the robe to reveal nude bod.

  The ‘assumes pose’ part is particularly unsettling. Surely he’ll want me demure, with knees pressed firmly together, and not in some kind of splayed porno pose. A sickening thought hits me: what if Danny’s planning to cash in by putting my pictures on the internet? My heart is thumping as I turn off the main road and up the narrow lane which leads to Danny’s place. The road curves steeply up a hill, then down towards a cluster of trees where I spot, as Danny described, an old farmhouse in pale biscuit-coloured stone. The windows are small and square with darkness behind. I wonder what made me think that this would be empowering for me.

  By the time I pull up at the house, Danny has come out to greet me. ‘Hey,’ he says, all smiles. ‘You’re really here.’

  I grip the bag containing Brian’s dressing gown. ‘Yep,’ I say, feigning enthusiasm.

  ‘Well, are you coming in?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ My smile sets as I follow him in. While the house looks crumbly from the outside, inside it’s all stripped wooden floors and chalky white walls, giving an airy, spacious feel. ‘Like a drink or anything?’ he asks.

  ‘Tea would be great, thanks.’ In fact I’d kill for a huge, sedative glass of wine right now, but as I’m driving home it’s not an option. I glance around the open-plan living space. Neat, shiny red kitchen at one end; chocolate-coloured sofa, a couple of armchairs and a simple fireplace at the other. No tawdry sheepskin rug that he’ll expect me to lie on. No obvious porno accoutrements, as far as I can see. I swallow hard, trying to dredge up a smidgeon of courage. ‘We should get a few runs in,’ Danny is telling me, ‘if we’re not going to completely disgrace ourselves at the race. How are you fixed this week?’

  ‘Um, I should be fine most evenings,’ I murmur, wondering at what point he’s going to produce the rubber catsuit or suggest I step into a cage.

  ‘There’s what, a month to go?’

  ‘Yes, something like that.’

  He turns away and busies himself by making a pot of tea. ‘Are you hungry?’ Danny wants to know.

  ‘No, I’ve already eaten, thanks,’ I fib. My gaze rests on three large black and white photos above the fireplace. ‘Are these yours?’

  ‘Yes, like them?’

  ‘I really do. They’re beautiful.’ They are pictures of trees, each pin-sharp twig twisting elegantly against a colourless sky.

  ‘Thanks,’ Danny says. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many I took to end up with those three. I mean literally hundreds.’ He chuckles. ‘I guess I can be pretty obsessive.’

  Will you be like that when you photograph me? I want to ask, nerves swirling in my stomach. Will my pictures be in sharp focus like those trees, or a little more forgiving? I was hoping for soft-focus. Dim lighting, stocking-over-the-lens kind of thing. ‘Um . . . what kind of pictures were you thinking of taking?’ I ask casually.

  ‘Just as you are, really. Nice and natural. Nothing too posed.’

  Right. Natural as in naturist, in the buff. ‘Um, how long d’you think it’ll take?’

  ‘As long as you have,’ he says, looking a little crestfallen. ‘Do you have to rush back?’

  ‘Er, no, not at all.’

  He smiles. ‘Great. Shall we get started then?’

  ‘Um . . . is there somewhere I can get ready?’ I blurt out.

  Danny looks confused. ‘Do you need to?’

  Sweat prickles my brow and I’m conscious of my simmering cheeks. ‘I’d prefer it, if you don’t mind . . .’

  ‘Sure. No problem. The bathroom’s just down there, first right.’ He indicates the far end of the living area.

  Gripping my bag, I scuttle out of the room, grateful for a few moments’ respite before getting down to the nitty-gritty. I feel terrible now, telling Jed I was popping over to Naomi’s and omitting to mention this other, potentially more controversial part of the evening. Everything is bound to unravel, as Beth warned it would, like those jumper-trousers I forced Toby to wear.

  I perch on the edge of Danny’s bath, trying to reassure myself that at least there’s no chaise longue for me to lie on. So what will I do? Sit on the sofa or one of the armchairs, as if I’m watching TV and have simply forgotten to put on my clothes? Despite the fact that I’ve lost weight, being naked still feels alien to me these days. I try to picture Naomi in those paintings. She looked neutral, I remember, as if mentally compiling a shopping list. Maybe that’s how I’ll get through it. I could sit there and plan a menu of dinners for the week ahead, the way proper mums do to ensure variety and no wastage.

  Slowly, I pull off my sandals and unzip my skirt, draping it neatly over the side of the ba
th. My upper lip is prickling with sweat and my heart seems to be rattling away at twice its normal speed. I mustn’tfreak out. There is nothing to fear – this is not a tenth as mortifying as my last sojourn into someone else’s bathroom, which involved Toby, glass nuggets and an impromptu pee. Compared to that, this is fine.

  I pull my T-shirt over my head and survey myself in the mirror over the wash basin. It’s still a little shocking to see the new me – still Laura, but in a different body, with slimmer hips and thighs, smaller boobs and a flattish tummy. I pull off my bra, placing it over the skirt and T-shirt, then finally my industrial white knickers. Now I’m properly nude, about to benefit the artistic community. From my bag, I pull out Brian’s dressing gown. I shrug it on, knotting it tightly at the waist. Glimpsing my reflection again, I see a scared-looking woman who looks as if she’s about to undergo a particularly unpleasant operation.

  ‘Laura?’ comes Danny’s voice in the hallway. ‘Are you okay in there?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, I was just er . . .’

  ‘Are you putting on make-up?’ he asks.

  Damn. I’ve been so stressed about disrobing that I’d forgotten about that. ‘Yes,’ I call out.

  ‘Don’t put on too much, will you? You’re fine just as you are.’

  Right. Pale and corpse-like in my father-in-law’s dressing gown. ‘Won’t be a minute,’ I add unconvincingly, hearing his footsteps retreat to the living area. There are some clanking noises, which must be him setting up harsh, unforgiving lights. Just do it, I tell myself, unlocking the bathroom door and trying to exude confidence as I walk out. The corridor’s only a few strides long but it feels like an eternity before I reach the living area where Danny is refilling his mug from the teapot.

  He has his back to me as he pours. I take in two lights on silver stands and a black leather chair which I hadn’t noticed before, placed in the middle of the room. His camera is perched on its sturdy tripod like a huge, unblinking eye.

  Danny turns at the precise moment I pull off Brian’s gown, letting it fall in a silken heap to the floor. ‘Ready,’ I announce, forcing a grin to show him I can do this, and that I’m at one with my nakedness.

  He stops dead, then quickly turns away and places his mug on the worktop. ‘D’you want me to sit in this chair?’ I ask shakily.

  Danny rakes a hand distractedly through his hair. ‘I . . . I don’t understand,’ he murmurs. ‘Why are you naked, Laura?’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  ‘I just assumed, when you said you wanted to do pictures, you meant . . .’ I snatch the dressing gown from the floor and struggle into it.

  ‘You thought I meant . . . nude pictures?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply coolly. ‘I just thought, you know . . .’

  ‘But . . . why? What on earth would make you think that?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know. I just assumed, when you said natural pictures . . .’

  ‘But that’s all I meant,’ he exclaims. ‘Honestly, Laura. There was no hidden agenda or anything. I mean, I’m not prudish but . . . it’s not what I had in mind at all.’

  ‘Oh,’ I murmur.

  ‘I just wanted to shoot your portrait.’ He smiles, and I grip the back of the leather chair.

  ‘You mean . . . just my face?’

  ‘Yes.’ His cheeks flush, and the glossy blue teapot, which he’s been clutching all of this time, hits the worktop with a solid thud. ‘Unless you really want . . .’

  ‘No, no, of course not.’ I pull Brian’s dressing gown tighter.

  ‘We don’t have to do the pictures at all,’ he adds, ‘if it’s stressing you out.’

  ‘It’s not at all,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ll, um, just go and get dressed then.’ I turn and walk as calmly as I can to the bathroom.

  Once there, I collapse onto the loo seat. Tears well in my eyes, even though they’re shut tight as I try to block out the horror of what I’ve just done. Why did I think he wanted me naked? Was it Naomi’s nude paintings? Or Finn going on about those naked fat women in the art gallery? Whatever the reason, no one else – no normal woman, I mean – would jump to such a ridiculous conclusion.

  I wipe away the tears with my hands and wonder how I’ll ever be able to walk out of here. Here I am again, trapped in a bathroom – just like at Celeste’s, but in fact, this is far, far worse. Grabbing some loo paper to blot my eyes, I stand up and pluck my knickers from the neat pile on the side of the bath. I pull them on, followed by my bra, top and skirt and finally sandals, specifically chosen as they wouldn’t leave crimpy imprints all over my bare-naked feet.

  I inspect my face in Danny’s mirror. It’s the face of an idiot, a woman with a nice, normal husband and children who, for some unbeknown reason, decided to strip off in a man’s house. A tear has left a silvery line down my cheek, like a snail’s trail. Danny probably assumes I was trying to seduce him. He was appalled, too, judging by the shocked look on his face. And he’ll be desperate for me to go so he can call a friend and tell him about this berserk woman who came round to his house for an innocent photo shoot and took all her clothes off.

  ‘Laura?’ he calls through the locked bathroom door.

  ‘I’m coming,’ I croak.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine, Danny.’ His footsteps fade. Taking a deep breath, I try to flatten my hair with my palms and stuff Brian’s dressing gown into my bag. Slinging it over my shoulder, I open the bathroom door and stride down the corridor to the main living area where he’s dismantling one of the lights. ‘Well, I’d better be off now,’ I announce coolly.

  ‘Are you sure?’ He turns around to face me, frowning. ‘You don’t need to. I mean, I hope you don’t feel bad . . .’

  ‘No, but I’d really better—’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ he bursts out. ‘I don’t understand. It’s like . . . I’ve done something to offend or upset you, and I’d really hate you to feel like that.’ Hurt shines from his clear blue eyes.

  ‘I . . . I’m not doing anything,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I mean all the naked stuff, which was fine and everything, just not what I expected, then rushing off to the bathroom and coming back out and speaking to me as if, as if you’re the gas man . . .’

  ‘The gas man?’ I repeat.

  ‘Yeah! Saying, “I’d better be off then” as if we don’t even know each other . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, I just meant . . .’

  ‘It’s . . . it’s just a bit weird, Laura.’

  ‘I know. I shouldn’t have come . . .’

  He comes closer, scrutinising my face. ‘You’re upset, aren’t you? I know you are. Please don’t be upset.’

  ‘I’m not upset,’ I insist, even though my vision is blurring again.

  ‘Hey,’ he says gently. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘I feel like such an idiot . . .’

  ‘Well, you’re not,’ he says, and I’m aware of him holding my hand, and those kind eyes focusing on mine. ‘You’re just you,’ he adds, ‘and I’ve never met anyone like you.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ I whisper.

  ‘Well,’ he smiles, ‘the first time I met you, you literally knocked me off my feet.’

  ‘Not quite,’ I correct him.

  ‘And you’d shoplifted a playsuit . . .’

  My face breaks into a smile, and I’m about to remind him that I’d never even wanted the playsuit, but I can’t because his lips are on mine and we’re kissing, and every cell in my body is fizzing like the lava in my volcano experiment. My head fills with the touch and taste of him, and I’m vaguely aware of my shoulder bag dropping to the floor.

  He pulls away and smiles. ‘Are you okay now?’ he asks gently.

  ‘I am,’ I say, taking in the clear blue eyes, and the smile that makes me feel so giddily alive. ‘I really am okay.’

  ‘Um . . .’ He pauses and pushes back his hair distractedly. ‘Can I be horribly cheeky and ask you something?’

  ‘Wh
at is it?’ I whisper.

  ‘Um . . . would it be okay to take your picture now?’

  I burst out laughing. ‘Why, Danny?’

  ‘Because . . . you look beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, come on . . . with my pink nose and red, puffy eyes?’

  ‘Believe me,’ he says, ‘you really are.’ I fall silent and watch as he fetches his camera from the tripod.

  ‘Okay, but what d’you want me to do?’ I ask hesitantly.

  ‘Nothing. Just look at me.’ I swivel my eyes to the lens and he clicks the shutter. He clicks again and again, then I tell him I really have to go, as I’m only supposed to be at Naomi’s. We kiss at the front door, the cool night air making my head spin as I tear myself away and say goodnight.

  I start the car and drive away. My heart feels as if it’s being walloped by Toby’s xylophone hammer, and I wonder if it will ever function normally again.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I step into our house and glance around the living room where it looks like a Lego explosion has taken place. ‘Jed?’ I call out in a hushed voice, horribly conscious of a tingling sensation on my lips.

  I hear footsteps on the stairs as I scoop up plastic bricks. Hiding under the coffee table is a complex Lego space missile which Jed must have made. My stomach turns over with guilt as I place it carefully on the table.

  ‘You’re back then.’ Jed stands at the bottom of the stairs, observing me.

  ‘Yes. Sorry I took so long.’ I blink down at the carpet and retrieve a minuscule Lego sword. Wordlessly, Jed strides past me, lands heavily on the sofa and flicks on the TV.

  I escape to the kitchen, heart hammering against my ribs. He knows. I know he knows. I fill the kettle, flick it on and try to check my reflection in the microwave’s glass door. The only features I can make out are my eyes, which look large and dark and scared, and are definitely radiating guilt. I turn to our chrome toaster which looks posh, and which we bought in the hope that it would offer a touch of glamour to our home, but it functions erratically and is full of incinerated crumpets. My stomach growls, and I remember that I haven’t had any dinner. Couldn’t face anything before my debut photo shoot.