The Bad Mother's Detox

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘And what about the best needs of the child, Mr Jiggens?’ the judge asked. ‘What’s your opinion there?’

  ‘In my opinion, the child’s needs will be best met with joint residency,’ said Johnny. ‘I think spending an equal amount of time in each residence would be ideal at this moment in time.’

  Felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. Expected Jeremy to say something, but he was frowning and making notes.

  ‘Mr Spencer owns a spacious, family home and is committed to Early Years learning,’ Johnny Jiggens continued. ‘He’s even built a bee hotel in the garden. Once Nick – I mean Mr Spencer – can bond with his daughter again via a joint residency arrangement, I suggest residency is reviewed and Mr Spencer is allowed to reapply for full custody.’

  Oh my god.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  Nick gave Johnny a thumbs up.

  Jeremy said, ‘Miss Duffy’s residence is temporary, following her separation from Mr Spencer. She is committed to finding her own home. And I should remind you that Mr Spencer has been absent for much of last year.’

  ‘Mr Spencer visited when he could,’ said Penny Castle. ‘Miss Duffy refused him visitation on many occasions, and has continued to do so this year.’

  The judge said, ‘Thank you, Mr Jiggens, for your appraisal. As a Cafcass Officer, you are the eyes of family court and I pay close attention to your views. However, I don’t feel confident awarding joint residency at this stage. Miss Duffy has only recently started work again. She needs more time to find a permanent home.’

  Then he gave us our court orders.

  Nick and I are to attend an online ‘parents’ separation course’. We have to go to more mediation, and there will be another court hearing – ‘prior to which Miss Duffy is urged to find more suitable accommodation.’

  On the way out of court, Jeremy Samuels said, ‘Juliette. A quick word.’ He gave me serious eye contact and said, ‘If it wasn’t clear enough in there, let me summarise. Get your own place sooner rather than later. We don’t want to leave any gaps.’

  Everyone said this was just a formality. That Nick had no chance.

  Am now extremely worried.

  Bloody Nick.

  Tuesday 28th March

  Have spent all day looking on Rightmove, whilst trying to stop Daisy prodding sticky little fingers on the iPad screen.

  In the end, I did what I swore I’d never do – Mum’s ‘keep ‘em quiet’ trick of feeding her Jammie Dodger after Jammie Dodger.

  It sort of worked, except for occasional jam smears across the iPad screen – which sent Rightmove into shock and churned up homes in Birmingham.

  Have found a big problem, though.

  Rental prices have skyrocketed since they extended the local university. The most I can afford is a bedsit, and I don’t think the court will look upon that as a decent family home.

  ‘But interest rates are very low, love,’ Dad pointed out. ‘Mortgage repayments will be a lot less. Why not think about buying?’

  He’s right, but this comes with a whole host of new problems – i.e. getting a mortgage. I suppose I do have a wage now. So you never know.

  Told Mum I needed to find my own place ‘sooner rather than later’.

  ‘I don’t see why a court would have an issue with you living here,’ she said. ‘Four solid walls and a fridge full of cheese. What’s the problem?’

  But Mum is very prone to delusion. She thinks a Jaffa Cake is a healthy snack because it’s fruit-flavoured and full of air.

  Wednesday 29th March

  Phoned five different banks and got told the same bad news five different ways – you can’t get a mortgage within the first six months of a new job. The fact I don’t have a deposit doesn’t help either.

  ‘I was on maternity leave,’ I kept saying.

  But apparently, because I have a new job title, this doesn’t matter.

  Was very frustrated. Tried to be polite, but by the last phone call I lost my temper.

  ‘I can afford the repayments,’ I said. ‘And it’s not a new job.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Daffy,’ said the squeaky-voiced mortgage advisor. ‘You’re seen as high risk.’

  There are some positives, if I’m prepared to wait six months. I have a good wage, no childcare payments (thanks to my amazing family) and no debt.

  So I can afford a nice flat around here, or a maybe even a very small terraced house.

  I asked if paternity payments from Daisy’s father would help, but he said no. Apparently, very little counts as a source of income. Not even employment.

  Why are banks so strict? I know loads of people reneged on their credit in the 1990s, but I WASN’T ONE OF THEM.

  People like Brandi have a lot to answer for.

  Thursday 30th March

  Visited Althea in Bethnal Green today, and told her my stresses over a big pot of camomile tea and soapy-tasting lavender biscuits.

  Althea was outraged that I can’t get a mortgage. ‘That’s against European Human Rights law,’ she ranted. ‘You need to contact Brussels and start banging heads.’

  After a lengthy chat (moan), Althea came up with a neat solution to my mortgage application problem.

  ‘Just lie and tell them you’ve been in your job for more than six months.’

  It sounds so simple.

  But I’m one of those ridiculously honest people who go bright red at the slightest untruth.

  When I told Althea I valued honesty, she snorted and said, ‘If you value honesty, stop dying your bloody hair.’

  ‘But this is a BIG lie,’ I said. ‘You know I’ll go all red.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Althea laughed. ‘Like that time you used my VIP pass. And the White Stripes thought you’d done amyl nitrate.’

  Friday 31st March

  Arranged a mortgage appointment with the only high street bank I haven’t tried.

  Wanted to apply over the phone, but they had some policy about meeting in person. So I’m going into the bank on Monday.

  The thought of being scrutinised face-to-face made me even more nervous.

  I’m seeing someone called Kelly Borstal.

  She sounds tough. Unyielding. The sort of person who’d make lengthy eye contact.

  Saturday 1st April

  One of our cash tractors got sacked today.

  It’s a rare occurrence, because usually they’re the ones who leave. Within hours sometimes.

  It was a fair sacking, because the cash tractor had been stealing from the collection bucket.

  It’s pretty much the only thing a collector could be fired for.

  Street collectors arrive late, drunk and, in some cases, on Grade A drugs. But Hari is happy as long as they’re bringing in the cash.

  After the sacking, Hari sent the other collectors out with their buckets and clipboards, giving them high fives and hearty pats on the back.

  ‘There they go!’ said Hari, eyes moist with excitement. ‘Going out to harvest all that lovely money.’ He turned to Lloyd and whispered, ‘That guy I just sacked. What’s his name?’

  ‘Terrance,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘Give him a ring next week,’ said Hari. ‘If he says sorry, he can have his job back.’

  Sunday 2nd April

  Told Dad about mortgage woes.

  ‘Keep trying, love,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing like owning your own home. I remember when your mum and I bought this place. We were over the moon. Of course, the mortgage payments brought us down to earth a bit. Ninety-four pounds a month! That made our eyes water.’

  Ninety-four pounds a month …

  I wish I could go back to the seventies.

  Not getting a good night’s sleep here, which increases my stress and desperation to move.

  Mum snores like a motorbike and John Boy shrieks in his sleep.

  Monday 3rd April

  Mortgage appointment.

  Kelly Borstal wasn’t how I imagined. She was a cuddly, ex-figure skater from Southend who sa
id things like, ‘What am I like?’ and ‘Oh my days!’

  She told me, conversationally, that she’d never been able to get a mortgage herself.

  ‘There are so many blimmin rules,’ she laughed. ‘You get jaded, seeing rejection after rejection.’

  I blurted out my carefully prepared lie, red-faced and frantic, but Kelly was barely listening.

  ‘You don’t have a deposit,’ she lamented. ‘So … it doesn’t really matter about your job.’

  She went through three different mortgage products, then told me why I was ineligible for all of them.

  Tuesday 4th April

  Have spent all afternoon calling mortgage companies.

  Am now calling obscure banks with weird names like ‘Sparrow and Dudley’ and ‘The Black Bank’.

  No joy so far.

  The worst part is knowing I can nearly get a mortgage. And that I can afford the repayments.

  Wednesday 5th April

  Letter from family court.

  The next hearing is 10th July. That gives me three and a half months to get a property, and I don’t even have a mortgage yet.

  Ironically, a salesman called in the afternoon, saying I’d been mis-sold payment protection on my mortgage.

  ‘No one will give me a sodding mortgage,’ I barked. ‘And I really need one.’

  Unperturbed, the bright-voiced young salesman asked, ‘Are you sure you don’t have one? Have a really good think.’

  Thursday 6th April

  A BRILLIANT day.

  Alex turned up at the pub unexpectedly with a big bunch of roses for me, and offered to take Daisy and me out.

  We went to the village pottery café, so Daisy could smash plates while Alex and I drank coffee.

  I had a cappuccino. Alex had an espresso macchiato, which he said wasn’t a real macchiato but ‘would do’.

  Then Alex harangued me about my living arrangements.

  He’d been talking to Jeremy, and was ‘alerted to the seriousness’ of my current living situation, re: residency.

  ‘I’m trying,’ I said. ‘Believe me – I’m bending over backwards to get a mortgage.’

  Alex grilled me about my income, forcing me to expose the pitiful state of my finances. Then he sat back and pondered, fingers steepled together.

  ‘I know some banks that might give you a mortgage,’ he said. ‘Let me call my mortgage broker.’

  He strolled outside, and paced back and forth in front of the glass window, frowning and barking into his mobile phone.

  When he returned, Daisy had eaten his muffin. She was very sneaky about it, grabbing the bun while I was hunting under the pram for wet wipes, and eating the whole thing – paper and all.

  Alex didn’t seem to mind. He stroked Daisy’s fluffy hair and said, ‘You have the right instincts. Maybe you can teach Mummy a thing or two.’

  He downed his coffee whilst standing, then said his broker friend had found me a mortgage.

  ‘The fees are relatively high,’ said Alex. ‘But you can add them to the loan.’

  I stared, a stupid smile on my face. Then I jumped up and threw my arms around him.

  ‘Oh my God!’ I shrieked. ‘Really?’

  ‘Don’t thank me yet,’ said Alex, giving me that half smile of his. ‘You haven’t even filled out the paperwork.’

  ‘Last week, getting a mortgage was impossible,’ I said.

  ‘That’s my job then,’ said Alex. ‘Helping you achieve the impossible.’

  We smiled at each other, and for a moment it was like all our problems didn’t matter.

  Friday 7th April

  Long phone conversation with Alex’s broker, whilst pretending to do a spreadsheet at work.

  The broker requested all sorts of paperwork, including an employment reference and contract.

  Realised I’ve never actually signed an employment contract.

  ‘You don’t have a contract as such, Juliette,’ Hari told me, when I asked. ‘We all work in a far more flexible world these days.’

  ‘Yes, but I need one,’ I insisted.

  ‘Let me look into it,’ said Hari.

  ‘No, Hari,’ I said. ‘Don’t look into it. Do it.’

  Hari said he’d try and, ‘knock something up’.

  Saturday 8th April

  Completed the mortgage application.

  Almost.

  Sent off bank statements, passport, etc.

  The only thing missing is my employment contract and reference.

  Had to answer all sorts of unusual questions, like how much I paid in school fees and how regularly I went skiing, because the mortgage isn’t with a high street bank.

  Sunday 9th April

  John Boy woke at 5am to ‘spring clean the house to army standards’.

  He worked all morning, only allowing himself a brief pause for five custard creams and a six-sugar tea with condensed milk.

  By lunchtime, John Boy’s back and legs were giving him trouble. He had to sit down on a hard chair with his prosthetic leg propped up. Of course, he played down the pain, saying he ‘just needed a rest’, but he winced every time Callum played teaspoons on his metal foot.

  I put on a violent computer game for Callum, then fetched John Boy another six-sugar cup of tea.

  ‘Should I book you in with Doctor Slaughter?’ I asked.

  ‘No point,’ said John Boy. ‘He’d only give me painkillers.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I asked.

  John Boy explained that he never took painkillers during the day, saving them for phantom leg pain at night.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were in pain at night?’ I asked.

  ‘No point in moaning,’ said John Boy. ‘It’s not going to bring my leg back, is it?’

  Monday 10th April

  I’ve been accepted for A MORTGAGE!!!!

  Right before Easter too, so I can stuff myself with chocolate to celebrate.

  Keep doing my happy dance (stir the cake bowl, stir the cake bowl!).

  Alex was quietly pleased when I phoned him.

  I think he might have known already, because he mentioned something about his broker calling.

  Alex has offered to visit the estate agents with me tomorrow, which I’m excited about.

  He’s the sort of man who knocks heads together and gets things done.

  Tuesday 11th April

  Met Alex at Belle Homes this morning.

  He told me off for not bringing a notepad.

  ‘You’re in an oversubscribed market,’ Alex said. ‘If you want to win in any oversubscribed market, you have to be organised. The organised bird gets the worm.’

  ‘I thought it was the early bird,’ I said.

  ‘The organised bird is, by default, always early.’

  The estate agency staff were terrified of Alex.

  It was like watching a shark swimming with goldfish.

  Alex introduced himself by barking his own name, then began an aggressive line of questioning:

  ‘What haven’t you put on yet? What’s on the to-do list today? What’s selling? What’s not?’

  He sorted out viewings on THREE properties tomorrow – two of which haven’t even been put on the market yet. AND he’s coming to the viewings with me.

  Woo!

  Things are moving forward.

  Wednesday 12th April

  Viewings today.

  Clarke Jackson from Belle Homes drove Alex and I around Great Oakley in his fancy silver BMW.

  The first place had mould on the walls (which Clarke said just needed ‘a bit of bleach’). The next was right by the noisy bus stop where all the teenagers hang out and drink cider (a commuter’s dream!), and the last one was miles out of the village (just a quick bus ride to the shops …)

  Alex was tight-lipped and silent throughout.

  Back at the Belle Homes office, Clarke made us coffee.

  It was instant coffee with powdered milk.

  Alex’s frown was the deepest I’ve ever seen it
.

  ‘This isn’t coffee,’ he barked. ‘It’s synthetic brown water. And when I’m looking for a house, I expect to see something decent. How can you market properties like these?’

  Clarke straightened his Armani suit and went on about Great Oakley being a ‘highly desirable’ area, adding that the coffee was Gold Blend and ‘not all that bad’.

  Alex demanded to see something decent, and Clarke pulled out another property that hadn’t been put on yet.

  ‘We expect this one to sell dead quick,’ said Clarke. ‘It’s called Station Cottage. And it’s on cheap, because the owners are divorcing. A perfect little starter home, I call it. Two bedrooms, kitchen, lounge – the lot. They’re even throwing in the furniture, because they can’t agree who bought what. It’s right near the train station too, so perfect for your fancy London job, Juliette.’

  The pictures showed a cosy front room with wood-burning stove. No garden, but that’s just one less job to do.

  Of course, I’ve been fooled by pictures before.

  Estate agents turn into Spiderman when taking photos, getting spacious-looking shots that can only have been snapped from the ceiling.

  ‘It’s right near the railway station,’ said Alex, in a way that suggested he didn’t approve.

  ‘So?’ I said.

  ‘You’ll be fighting with high-earning commuters, willing to up the price.’

  ‘This could be a great house for me,’ I insisted. ‘And it’s within my budget.’

  ‘You really like the look of this one?’ Alex asked.

  I nodded.

  ‘What can you do about that asking price?’ Alex barked at Clarke. ‘What’s the leeway?’

  ‘Two percent,’ said Clarke. ‘They can’t afford to go lower.’