The Bad Mother's Detox

by Suzy K Quinn

  Mum kept phoning from the car behind, complaining that she needed a wee.

  She can’t hold it in for long these days, because of her diabetes.

  ‘Can you see any bushes from where you are?’ she kept asking. ‘I’m busting.’

  When we finally drove past some shrubbery, I phoned Mum and told her she could pull over soon.

  ‘It’s okay, love,’ she said. ‘I went in my lunchbox back at Junction 14.’

  Monday 1st May

  Early May Bank Holiday

  Cyber-spied on Nick and Sadie today.

  I don’t know why – I suppose Nick moving to Great Oakley has shaken me up a bit.

  There were loads of pictures on their timelines of Horatio dressed up in various pretentious outfits.

  In one, he wore gangster gear, stocking cap over his eyebrows, hands arranged in a ‘yo yo’ gesture.

  Then there was a picture titled: ‘Our countryside move, innit’, with Horatio dressed in a tweed hat, silk scarf and wax jacket.

  Sadie was in some of the pictures, pouting. But they’re all headshots – so I’m guessing she’s still carrying some baby weight.

  Pleased about that.

  For a moment, I thought – what if Nick and I did get back together? What would that look like?

  Then I realised there were no pictures of Daisy on Nick’s wall.

  Felt furious with myself, both for looking and caring.

  Tuesday 2nd May

  There’s been a higher offer made on Station Cottage.

  The estate agent phoned to tell me.

  ‘But that shouldn’t matter, should it?’ I asked. ‘The sale is already underway.’

  ‘Under English law, the seller can pull out at any time,’ said the estate agent. ‘They’ve asked if you can up your offer.’

  ‘But I can’t,’ I said. ‘I’m stretched enough as it is.’

  What if I lose the house?

  Feel sick at that thought. Have already committed thousands in legal and mortgage fees.

  Phoned Alex for advice.

  He was appalled about the counter offer. ‘The estate agents shouldn’t have allowed it,’ he said. ‘It’s called gazumping. And it’s very much against the rules, if not against the law. Are you sure you want this house?’

  I told him I was certain.

  ‘Let me look into things,’ said Alex. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Wednesday 3rd May

  John Boy brought his new girlfriend round for tea this evening.

  She’s a sociology student called Gwen Dubois.

  They met outside the Co-op while Gwen was studying litter-dropping habits.

  John Boy had been dropping litter.

  Gwen’s hair is a natural colour, her nails are modestly manicured and she doesn’t wear much makeup.

  In short, she’s way too classy for John Boy.

  At tea, she said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ after everything – even when Callum spilled orange squash on her.

  Mum fussed over Gwen, piling her plate high and making her endless cups of tea, then poking her ribs and telling her she needed feeding up.

  Both Callum and John Boy gazed at Gwen with soppy eyes.

  Callum even asked if Gwen would like to go to the cinema with him.

  Gwen smiled her nice, gentle smile and said, ‘Oh yes. We can all go together.’

  Mum said, ‘You don’t need to be on best behaviour with us, love – we don’t stand on ceremony.’

  Gwen said, ‘Thank you.’

  Then Mum and Brandi took it in turns to interrogate Gwen about previous boyfriends, favourite cleaning products and Quality Street chocolate preferences.

  Mum said, ‘You will be careful in the bedroom, won’t you, love? Trina tells me that John Boy’s already had one scare.’

  Gwen went bright red and said, ‘Thank you.’

  Thursday 4th May

  Oh the relief!

  The estate agent rang – they’ve disallowed the higher offer on Station Cottage.

  They didn’t say so explicitly, but I know Alex phoned to tell them off because they mentioned a ‘third-party objection’.

  Called Alex to say thank you.

  ‘You don’t need to thank me,’ he said. ‘Friends help each other.’

  ‘We’re friends, are we?’ I asked.

  ‘I like to think so.’

  ‘Not anything more then?’

  ‘Of course we’re more,’ said Alex, sounding annoyed. ‘Much more. But there are … issues. Look, I’m struggling with the Nick Spencer stuff. Really struggling. When I pictured us together … he wasn’t in that picture. I can’t stand that you’re tied to that man.’

  ‘But what can I do?’ I said. ‘He’s Daisy’s father.’

  ‘That title is so often bestowed on unworthy people,’ said Alex.

  But Nick really does love Daisy in his own way. It would be wrong to keep that love from her.

  Why can’t Alex see that?

  Friday 5th May

  Didn’t want to leave Daisy this morning.

  When I’m at work, I feel like a piece of my heart is missing.

  Daisy is my little treasure, my special little girl, my sunshine.

  Does this get easier?

  Considered pulling a sickie so I could have a mummy-daughter day, but thought it would be bad form since I’ve only been back at work a few months.

  Sometimes, I wish I were irresponsible like Nick. Life would probably be easier.

  Phoned Althea to moan about mummy guilt, but she has the opposite problem.

  She’s still breastfeeding Wolfgang, so sees way too much of him.

  Saturday 6th May

  Walked past the Gables and heard Nick and Sadie rowing.

  It was hard to determine exactly what they were shouting about, but I heard, ‘sneaking around’ and ‘lying to me’.

  I’m assuming Sadie has worked out Nick is doing something behind her back, i.e. seeking custody of Daisy.

  Feel sorry for little Horatio.

  At least Daisy has one sane parent.

  As I was listening, Nick charged out of the front door with Horatio in the pram, looking sweaty and scared. He did a double take when he saw me.

  ‘Did you hear all that?’ he asked.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ Sadie screeched from the hall. ‘It had better not be that fucking leaflet girl with the big tits.’

  ‘I’m going OUT,’ Nick shouted back, slamming the door behind him. He pushed the pram down the path and said, ‘I was just taking Horry for a walk. Which way are you going?’

  ‘Back to the pub,’ I said.

  Daisy shouted, ‘Little bugger, little bugger!’

  We walked towards the pub, Daisy holding onto Horatio’s pram.

  ‘I’m getting a visitation schedule together,’ said Nick. ‘It could be a while before the court makes a decision so … I thought Daisy could come once a month to start off with. How does that sound?’

  I said it sounded uncharacteristically reasonable.

  ‘I’m growing up, Jules,’ said Nick. ‘Learning to take responsibility. I have to, living with Sadie.’ Then he looked at Daisy and Horatio and said, ‘Look how well these two get on.’

  I had to admit, the children weren’t killing each other.

  When we reached the pub, I told Nick I had to go.

  ‘Are you still seeing Alex Dalton?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s none of your business,’ I said.

  ‘It is my business,’ said Nick. ‘I don’t want him around Daisy.’

  ‘You don’t get to make those decisions.’

  Nick looked stoically into the distance and said, ‘I do if the courts give me residency.’

  ‘We’ve got mediation to get through before court, Nick,’ I snapped. ‘You have to survive that without me ripping your head off.’

  Sunday 7th May

  Nick texted to apologise for yesterday. He used big words like ‘immature’ and ‘inappropriate’, rather than his u
sual mess of misspelt half-words and random emojis.

  He finished up by saying he was trying to be a good father to both his children, and that he was finally growing up.

  I texted over my bank account details again, and a short message:

  Actions speak louder than words.

  Monday 8th May

  Daisy took her FIRST STEP!!!

  FINALLY!

  I have Brandi to thank. She came up with the genius idea of luring Daisy across the room with cheesy Wotsits.

  Cried tears of joy watching Daisy do one-step, two-step, unaided, on her chubby little feet.

  She looked so happy, all smiles and dribbles and cheesy Wotsit powder over her face.

  Brandi and I spent the rest of the afternoon helping Daisy walk back and forth across the living room, while I filmed her and clapped with delight.

  My phone keeps flashing warning messages about low storage.

  Suppose I could get rid of the (very) long video where Daisy spins around fifty times, then falls over. But in its own way, that’s a precious memory too.

  Sent Alex an edited video of Daisy walking, and he sent back a smiling emoji.

  That means a lot coming from him, because he’s not an emoji sort of man.

  Tuesday 9th May

  Bumped into Dr Slaughter in the supermarket today, whilst stocking up on three-for-two Wotsit multipacks.

  He told me Sadie had been in the surgery yesterday, asking for anti-depressants, and that she suspected Nick was cheating on her.

  Now Sadie is in the village, I’m particularly glad that Dr Slaughter ignores the Hippocratic oath and doesn’t ‘hold with’ patient confidentiality.

  He’s the biggest gossip in Great Oakley, after Mum.

  Felt a bit sorry for Sadie. But not that sorry.

  It’s Horatio I really feel sorry for.

  Wednesday 10th May

  Got a phone call from Badger Partridge Solicitors today.

  The searches have come back on Station Cottage.

  They show contaminated land, flood risk and potential subsidence.

  ‘So you’re nearly good to go!’ said the cheery solicitor’s assistant.

  Freaked out and said I couldn’t buy a house that might flood, sink or make us ill. But the assistant said it was okay.

  Apparently, the searches are carried out by paranoid council workers who have to cover their backs and cite everything as a risk.

  ‘I can’t remember a property that didn’t come back with a risk of something or other,’ she assured me.

  Phoned Alex, and he confirmed this was true.

  ‘Half my properties are at severe risk of flooding, and they’re nowhere near the river. Don’t pay any attention.’

  ‘And the contaminated land?’

  ‘There’s a train station nearby.’

  ‘And subsidence?’

  ‘A plot in the village had subsidence once. It was built on an old rubbish dump, but that’s miles away.’

  Buying property is SO stressful!

  Thursday 11th May

  Good news – the sellers have agreed on a ‘provisional completion date’ for Station Cottage.

  It’s not until mid-June, because the sellers are in long negotiations over who gets the eco light bulbs. But we’ll complete way before the next court hearing, so it’s all good.

  Feels great to have a moving date in sight.

  Having my own place will relieve a LOT of stress.

  Althea visited today to congratulate me on my impending house purchase.

  We took the kids to the freezing cold play park.

  Spring seems to have forgotten Great Oakley right now.

  The play park was so cold that we were in danger of frostbite from the swing chains, but that didn’t stop Wolfgang putting his beefy hands on the swings and trying to chuck them over the metal frame.

  Althea was very proud, saying, ‘He really sets high goals for himself. Most two-year-olds would give up, but look … he keeps trying.’

  An old lady near us said, ‘The terrible twos, eh?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Althea replied nonchalantly. ‘I’m so lucky. I mean, you read about kids going mental at this age. But Wolfgang hasn’t changed a bit, bless him.’

  Friday 12th May

  Just got a call from Alex.

  A gold-leaf paint disaster has been averted, and he is unexpectedly free tomorrow evening.

  The problem is, it’s the Eurovision Song Contest.

  ‘I’ve already promised myself to Mum,’ I said. ‘We always watch Eurovision together in the pub.’

  ‘I could always join you,’ said Alex. ‘I’ve never watched Eurovision. It will be an experience.’

  ‘You want to sit and watch Eurovision in our pub?’ I said, my voice a little high-pitched.

  ‘Would that be a problem?’ Alex asked.

  ‘No,’ I mumbled. But I was lying.

  It would be a massive problem.

  Alex has only ever had small doses of my family.

  Coming to the pub on Eurovision night is like taking Duffy steroids.

  Desperately trying to think of a way to un-invite him. Or stash Mum somewhere.

  Saturday 13th May

  I couldn’t think of a way to un-invite Alex, so he came to watch Eurovision.

  The evening started okay.

  Alex strolled into the pub in a spotless white polo shirt and pressed navy jeans, and helped me pin up Union Jack bunting.

  Then the jukebox broke, and Mum started hitting it with a hammer, shouting, ‘Play some fucking Bucks Fizz’.

  ‘Mrs Duffy,’ said Alex. ‘I’d be careful. Your insurance is unlikely to cover hammering.’

  ‘Insurance companies won’t cover anything in this pub,’ Mum replied. ‘Not since Yorkie ripped the fireplace off the wall. How hard can you hit with a hammer?’

  ‘It’s not something I’ve ever measured,’ said Alex, with a small smile. ‘I’ve just been admiring your television. It’s extremely large.’

  Mum beamed with pride. ‘It’s literally the biggest one they sell,’ she said, patting the screen like a proud parent. ‘Brandi lent us it for Eurovision. You’ve got to have a big screen to appreciate all the outfits.’

  ‘Outfits?’ Alex asked. ‘I thought it was a song contest.’

  I explained that Eurovision wasn’t really about singing, but laughing at other countries – what they wore, how they danced, etc.

  Alex said, ‘So the Eurovision song contest is something you routinely celebrate?’

  ‘Most years,’ I said.

  ‘Where’s your sister?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Out with her new boyfriend,’ I told him.

  ‘He’s a cut above her usual type,’ said Mum, strolling past with an armful of Union Jack paper plates. ‘He has a job.’

  Dad popped up from the cellar, wearing a Union Jack sunhat, and shouted, ‘Would you lovebirds like a drink of something? I’ve put two new ales on.’

  I wanted to be sophisticated and ask for a glass of white wine, but Dad had already poured my usual Guinness. He suggested Alex try this week’s guest ale, Hoppy Endings, then began his usual speech about the declining standards of local breweries.

  ‘I expect you find the same thing in your hotels,’ Dad asked Alex. ‘All these modern brewing methods ruin the taste. Do you go in much for real ales?’

  ‘Not so much,’ said Alex. ‘But we have seventy different types of whisky from all over the world.’

  Dad then began to rant about new whisky distillation processes.

  Luckily Mum barked, ‘Pour the man a bloody whisky, Bob. No – not that one. The Scottish reserve. Oh move out the way, let me.’

  She poured Alex a double – which was really a quadruple. Mum measures the old fashioned way, using her fingers. And she has really fat fingers.

  ‘So, Alex,’ said Dad, pouring himself a pint of Ginger Tosser. ‘You’ve just got back from Paris, I hear?’ He said it as if Alex had been to some mystical land.

 
‘I was there earlier in the year, yes,’ said Alex.

  ‘You know, I hoped Juliette would learn French,’ said Dad. ‘But it wasn’t meant to be. Laura picked it up in no time. She went on a French exchange and came back fluent.’

  ‘We got that French exchange girl in return,’ said Mum. ‘She got confused about the toilet, didn’t she Bob? And shat in the shower. Well – I’d better get the party food out.’

  Mum fetched out plates of sausage rolls and the sweepstake tin.

  ‘You’re the guest,’ said Mum, thrusting the Quality Street tin of paper slips under Alex’s nose. ‘So you get first dibs.’

  ‘On what?’ Alex asked.

  I explained about the Eurovision sweepstake – how we all picked countries to cheer on.

  Alex drew Ireland, which was very good.

  Mum got the United Kingdom.

  ‘I’ve got no bloody chance,’ she complained. ‘Can’t I drop it back in the tin and try for Sweden?’

  I ended up with Hungary.

  ‘My mother is from Hungary,’ said Alex. ‘I wonder how they’ll do.’

  The Hungarian song was performed by a fifteen-year-old boy, who sang about the rainforests dying out.

  It didn’t do very well.

  Dad got Sweden, so predictably he won.

  Alex and I sat together at the bar holding hands, and Alex said, ‘Your family are a lot of fun, Juliette. Just like you. A lot of fun.’

  ‘Exactly what every girl wants to be told,’ I said. ‘That she’s fun.’

  ‘It’s a better compliment than “beautiful” or “accomplished”,’ said Alex. ‘You’re … yourself. There’s no front. No PR spin. It’s refreshing. The girls I’m used to mixing with … my world can be very serious. Very false, actually. People making acquaintances to further themselves. Women marrying for money. I love that you’re yourself.’

  ‘Does your mother think I’m after your money?’ I asked.

  Alex smiled. ‘Of course she does. My mother is a social climber. She assumes all women think the way she does.’