by Janey Fraser
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
Copyright
About the Book
Bobbie’s children never listen to a word she says. Even worse, her mother has a new boyfriend: the notorious child expert Dr Know, who dishes out hard-line advice to the nation. Could parenting classes control her kids – and save her marriage?
Andy’s wife is due to run a Perfect Parents course at the local school. But when she scarpers, he’s left to look after their two teenage daughters – and face his own childhood demons.
Vanessa has found love, second-time round. But one night, six-year-old Sunshine is deposited on her doorstep with a message from Vanessa’s estranged daughter, ‘Please look after her’. This time she’s determined to get it right.
Can Bobbie, Andy and Vanessa really learn the secret of raising a happy family?
About the Author
Janey Fraser has been a journalist for over twenty-five years and contributes regularly to national newspapers and magazines including the Daily Telegraph and Woman. This is her third book following The Playgroup and The Au Pair. She has also published books under the pen name Sophie King.
This book is dedicated to my wonderful children, William, Lucy and Giles, who between them have:
accidentally broken the car window with a cricket ball, minutes before going on holiday;
handed me jeans to be washed and dried in ten minutes flat, so they can wear them to a party;
visited the tattoo shop without written parental consent;
had to be rescued from an angry nightclub owner, after being found in possession of four fake IDs (one is excusable but four was pushing it);
made me overdrawn;
given me big warm hugs to make it all worthwhile.
Happy Families is also dedicated to my husband, who makes me laugh every day.
ACNOWLEDGEMENTS
Grateful thanks to:
My agent Teresa Chris, who declares that my books should be used as contraceptives because the children are so naughty.
Gillian Holmes, Richenda Todd and everyone at Random House involved in the complex labour preparations required to give birth to a novel – and feed it.
Betty Schwartz, who helped me conceive, in a literary manner of speaking, many years ago.
In memory of Jane, my much-missed friend and children’s godmother.
PERFECT PARENTS’ SCHOOL! SIGN UP NOW!
EIGHT WEEKS TO CHANGE YOUR KIDS – OR
YOUR MONEY BACK!*
IS YOUR FAMILY LIFE IN A MESS?
DO YOUR CHILDREN REFUSE TO BEHAVE?
THEN YOU’RE NOT ALONE!
BUT THE GOOD NEWS IS THAT CORRYWOOD’S PERFECT PARENTS’ SCHOOL IS HERE TO HELP!
CLASSES FOR ALL AGES RUN BY INEXPERIENCED PARENTS
* Certain conditions apply.
Chapter 1
BOBBIE
‘I’M NOT TELLING you again, Jack! Put it back. NOW! Before I count to three. One. Two. Two point five …’
Bobbie felt like screaming. Correction. She was screaming. Why wouldn’t Jack do what he was told?
She’d tried everything. Hypnotherapy. Reflexology. Cranial osteopathy. Dairy diets. No-dairy diets. But Jack was the kind of child who simply couldn’t leave things alone. Including the Action Man Easter egg in his hands right now.
‘Two point seven five …’
An older woman in the queue ahead, wearing gold hoop earrings and bright pink leggings, was turning round to stare. Don’t blame me, Bobbie wanted to say. Supermarkets shouldn’t be allowed to display sweets (let alone Easter eggs when it was barely February!) right by the checkout. How was a parent meant to cope?
Jack, with his blond mop of hair (just like his father) might only be seven but he had a will of iron. Just look at the way he was hopping from one foot to another, challenging her with a gappy-toothed mischievous try-and-stop-me grin that would melt anyone’s heart. Anyone that is, who wasn’t related by blood. ‘Put that back,’ she repeated.
Jack leaped up and down, shaking his head. ‘What’s the magic word, Mum?’
She gritted her teeth. ‘Please.’
Jack tossed the egg in the air and then caught it. Why were small boys like rebellious fleas? Always zooming around as though their batteries were on speed. Constantly pushing your buttons. ‘Say it again, Mum!’
Anything! Just to stop him. ‘Please.’
There was a rumble of disapproval from behind her, followed by a ‘Kids are allowed to get away with anything nowadays!’ How true! Just look at Jack who now – despite two ‘pleases’ – was peeling off the shiny silver and purple wrapping, cracking off Action Man’s head and stuffing it in his mouth while still jumping around from one foot to the other as though in a boxing ring.
‘WE HAVEN’T PAID FOR IT YET!’
Oh dear. Everyone in the queue was turning round. Quite a few more were mumbling loudly about ‘respect’ and ‘in my day’ apart from a weasel-faced, tattooed youth who was yelling, ‘Go for it, kid,’ accompanied by a loud wolf whistle.
‘JACK! I’LL TELL YOU ONE MORE TIME!’
Was that really her, shouting like that? She must, Bobbie told herself, have been mad to have come here in the first place. A busy supermarket on a Saturday morning with a borderline hyperactive seven-year-old in tow? It was asking for trouble. But she’d been desperate for a birthday card and some wrapping paper for this wretched party. Not to mention a pair of tights and an instant colour wash to brighten up her hair, which had looked horribly mousy when she’d looked in the mirror this morning.
‘I’m sorry,’ she blustered to the crowd at large. ‘I’ve got him on a no-sugar diet and … NO, JACK, NOT ANOTHER ONE! COME HERE!’
Bobbie hurled herself forwards but Jack had already rushed past, diving into the empty Reduced Bread shelf. Now the crowd was gasping with horror mixed with excitement. ‘Get out of there or you’ll hurt yourself,’ she hissed, bending down on all fours to try and extract him. But he was out of reach. Only someone so small – and unmanageable – could do this.
Then suddenly his right arm and leg came out from the shelf at exactly the same time and back again – rather like synchronised swimming. She tried to grab him – nearly! – but the arm and leg shot back, accompanied by loud giggles from the perpetrator. Then out again. And in. Missed once more! Oh no. He was flicking bogeys now. This was Jack’s favourite party trick whe
n in trouble.
‘Anyone got a camera?’ giggled a voice behind her. ‘This would look great on YouTube.’
Bobbie wanted to curl up and die. If she’d done this at Jack’s age, her mother would have given her a jolly good smack. But it wasn’t allowed nowadays. The only way was to give in as quickly and gracefully as possible, before this got any worse. Bugger that. She’d got him this time. By the elbow.
‘Stop, Mum,’ wailed Jack as she finally dragged him out of the shelf. ‘You’re hurting!’
‘Then behave yourself or else there’ll be real trouble!’ Even as she uttered her empty threat, Bobbie was aware of a general sucking in of breath from the audience. Please don’t let there be anyone she knew here! Someone from school or a neighbour perhaps, who had witnessed yet another example of her poor parenting skills. Bobbie was all too aware that within a few weeks of starting their new school, both her children had built up an impressive reputation at Corrywood Primary – and not for the right reasons.
Desperately, she tried to restore her credibility. ‘You’ll have to pay for the egg out of your pocket money.’
‘But you stopped it,’ protested Jack, trying to wriggle out of her grip. ‘Cos I bit Daisy.’
That was true. Wow, it was hard to hang on to him! Her son was twisting and turning so that her arm was in danger of being yanked out of its socket. They’d moved to the front of the queue now as if, by unspoken agreement, everyone else had let them go first, keen to despatch them. Meanwhile, all that was left of Jack’s crime was a silver and purple wrapper on the floor and a brown gooey smear round his unrepentant, grinning mouth.
‘I’m afraid,’ said Bobbie, flushing furiously, ‘that my son has eaten some of our shopping before we could pay for it.’
The checkout kid gave them a disapproving glare. ‘You’ve got to give it back. That’s the rule.’
Short of giving him an enema, that might be a bit difficult. ‘But he’s eaten it! Can’t we just pay for it?’
Dubiously, the checkout kid eyed the wrapper on the floor. ‘Only if I have the bar code.’
Bending down, she picked up the packaging. But the chocolate had smeared the numbers – and now her hands! ‘I’ll get another,’ offered Bobbie quickly. ‘Stay there and don’t move. Not you. My son.’
Quickly she dived out of her place, horribly aware that the some-parents-let-their-kids-get-away-with-murder rumbles were getting louder, belted down the aisle and raced back up with a substitute Action Man egg. Bar code intact. ‘I do wish’, she said hotly, ‘that shops wouldn’t put sweets so near the checkout. Can you have a word with your manager about that?’
The kid gave her a sharp look. ‘I am the manager.’
What? For a minute, Bobbie was tempted to demand proof of age. Not that she, Bobbie, had ever been asked for verification of her own thirty-nine years. Sometimes she felt even older. Recently (horror of horrors), she’d actually begun to notice the beginnings of eye bags! Mind you, it was no wonder, after eight years of sleepless nights and impossible behaviour. Rummaging through her untidy purse to find her card, she was dismayed to find hot tears trickling down her cheeks. How could she be such a rubbish parent? How was it possible that she, Bobbie Wright, former PR manager, who had once been known for her cool, calm, efficient manner, have become this screaming fishwife of a mother?
‘Why can’t you behave?’ Bobbie pleaded as she marched Jack towards the multi-storey car park. Even as she spoke, she realised she shouldn’t be pleading. She should be telling. Who was in charge here? Don’t answer that.
Jack flicked a bogey at her. ‘Piss off.’
Stunned, she stared at him. Where had he got that from? It definitely wasn’t a phrase they used in their house. Nor was it in the national curriculum – but then again, you never knew nowadays. ‘WHAT DID YOU SAY?’
‘NUFFING!’
Sensing he’d gone too far this time, Jack did a little twist, ducked out of her grip and shot off away from the walkway and into the road, narrowly avoiding a neat little blue sports car with, if she wasn’t mistaken, the disapproving woman with gold hoop earrings at the wheel.
‘JACK! COME BACK! For God’s sake, you nearly got killed!’ The shock, as she caught up with him – plus the effort of an emergency sprint – made her go hot and cold at the same time. The thought of life without Jack or Daisy was impossible. But if only she could be the nice rational mother she yearned to be, instead of this miserable, inconsistent failure who said ‘no’ one minute and ‘yes’ the next, just to keep the peace.
It wasn’t that she was weak, as she’d tried again and again to explain to Rob. It was simply that two children in close succession was hard work. It might have been all right if they’d been the kind who did what they were told, like her sister-in-law’s girls. But their own children had such strong personalities …
Jack with his indignant ‘nuffings’ was always arguing with his sister. He was incapable of sitting still. Constantly making demands, especially when she was on the phone for work. Only able to sleep if she lay down with him or stood outside his bedroom door, uttering empty threats such as ‘if you don’t stay in your bed, there’ll be trouble’.
As for Daisy, her daughter – currently queening it at Saturday gym – she was just plain bossy! Eight going on eighteen. Convinced she knew better than anyone else. Not afraid of answering back, whether it was to her mother or teacher. Shows lack of respect to authority, her last report had said, as though this was her parents’ fault. Was it because some of her generation treated their children as friends or equals instead of putting that parent/child distance between them as her own had done? Or was it because she, Bobbie was so inexperienced at mothering? After all, she’d never even picked up a baby before having her own – unsurprising, given that she was the first out of her career-minded friends to get pregnant.
Of course, there were good moments. Well, seconds, if you were talking daytime. At night, when they’d finally dropped off, they both looked like little angels curled up in bed – Jack with his thumb in his mouth. Then she’d reproach herself for having yelled at them earlier on. But the next day, they would wake up, fully charged, and the arguments would start all over again.
Maybe, Bobbie told herself as she headed for her slightly dented, rather dirty Volvo estate with a protesting Jack firmly gripped by the scruff of his collar, they should have stayed put in Ealing. But moving out to Corrywood three months ago had seemed a good idea. More house for the money. Fresh air. A semi-rural environment that was just under an hour from London where Rob still worked. Not far from Pamela, her husband’s sister, who would, he had assured her, be a ‘real help’.
Bobbie still wasn’t sure about that. Nor was she sure about Corrywood Primary where Jack had already got a black mark for pinching someone else’s packed lunch and Daisy had upset the support teacher by correctly pointing out that the capital of Australia was Canberra and not Sydney.
How she missed their old school, not to mention her friend Sarah whom she’d known since antenatal days! If Sarah had been here, she’d have made her see the funny side. But right now, that was the last thing she felt like doing.
‘Get in the car. NOW.’ She almost pushed him into the back seat. ‘I don’t want to hear a word out of you until we’ve picked up Daisy from gym. Got it? Then we’ve got exactly one hour to change before we go to Aunty Pamela’s. And if you two don’t behave, you’ve had it. I really mean that.’
‘Sorry, Mum.’ A little pair of repentant arms reached up towards her. ‘I didn’t mean to be naughty.’
Was this the same child? Sometimes it felt as though there were two Jacks. The one who could be absolutely impossible, and the one who was merely mischievous and who gave her big warm cuddles. Bobbie’s heart melted. ‘I didn’t mean to shout. But you must …’
Just then her jeans pocket vibrated. Bobbie’s heart leaped at the name on the screen. At times, she would give anything to have her mother nearby. But in the meantime, they had to make do
with phone calls. ‘Mum! How are you?’
‘Quite good, actually!’
That was a relief. Since her father had died more than ten years ago, Mum had been on her own and even though it hadn’t been a great marriage, Bobbie knew she got lonely. Every school holiday, she and the children drove up north to see her (Rob was usually tied up at work) but it wasn’t really enough. She could just see Mum now, she thought guiltily. Sitting at her little kitchen table, teapot by her side, pictures of the grandchildren on the fridge and a meal for one in the oven since there was ‘no point’ in cooking a big meal now there was only her.
‘Actually, I’ve got some news. I’ve started to see someone.’ Mum gave a nervous little giggle. ‘He’s called Herbert.’
‘Really?’ A slither of apprehension slotted itself into Bobbie’s chest. No. That was selfish. Why shouldn’t Mum have a life of her own?
‘Yes! I won him at the WI raffle!’
‘What?’
‘I won a date with him, darling.’ Mum was babbling like an excited teenager who’d just secured her first date. ‘And we got on so well that we’re still seeing each other. Herbert’s actually rather famous. In fact, you might have seen him on television.’
‘NO, JACK, NO! Sorry, Mum. Jack’s trying to get out of the car. No, I’m not driving at the moment. Not this time. Please. Go on.’
‘He’s that famous psychoanalyst who goes into people’s homes every week to get their children to behave.’
Bobbie felt herself break out into cold, shivery goose bumps. ‘Not Dr Know? JACK, I SAID “STOP IT”.’
‘Yes! You’ll like him. I know you will. In fact, I want you both to meet. Herbert’s very busy with his filming for a couple of months but we wondered if we could come down after that. I thought it might be nice to see you on Mothering Sunday.’
She’d love to see Mum too, but on her own. Not with Dr Know: that awful so-called expert, whom some critics reviled while others adored. The one who made parents weep when he accused them of inconsistency. The man whose name was constantly in the headlines with varying degrees of puns along the lines of ‘Know-it-all’ or ‘Dr No’ because of his firm views on discipline. The doctor who had written all those bestsellers on childcare. This was horrendous!