by Suzy K Quinn
Admitted I’d been stood up. Then (arg!) sent drunken text messages to Alex accusing him of being an absent boyfriend and telling him that I spent more time with Nick than him.
Can’t bear to re-read those messages this morning.
SO bloody embarrassing.
There should be some sort of app that measures your blood alcohol and shuts off all message functions if you’re over the limit.
Afternoon
Have made an unfortunate discovery.
If I want to get Alex’s attention, all I have to do is mention Nick.
Got a lunchtime call from Alex (7am New York Time), demanding to know what the hell I was doing, ‘entertaining’ Nick in the small hours.
Explained, rather sheepishly, that Nick had come to the pub.
There was an awkward silence, and then I said: ‘How come you haven’t called in so long?’
‘Because of Nick Spencer.’
‘You’re being jealous.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Well maybe you need some space.’
And I meant it. With all this court stress and the possibility of Daisy living with Nick, I don’t need this silly, childish jealousy drama.
Alex needs to grow up.
Maybe he’s not so different from Nick after all.
Tuesday 27th June
Got a job interview!
For a charity, somewhere near Victoria Station.
SO worried about court now, but if I get this job, Jeremy says it will be a ‘tremendously positive step’.
Wednesday 28th June
Bumped into Nick on his way to work this morning, pulling out of the driveway in his new Volvo.
He gave the horn a playful toot when he saw Daisy and I.
Daisy, who had been cuddling a lamppost, shouted, ‘TOO NOISY Baddy. Sakes.’
When Daisy says sakes, she means ‘For fuck’s sake’.
It’s a phrase I didn’t know I used, until my one-year-old parroted it back to me.
I genuinely didn’t realise I swore that much, but children are horrible mirrors of truth.
Turns out I say, ‘Oh buggering hell’ (Buggers bell!) and ‘Fuck beans’ (Uck beans!) much more than I realise.
You’re halfway through!
Hope you’re liking the story so far …
I’d love to give you a little window into my writer’s world and show you the Pinterest board I used whilst writing this book.
It’s here:
uk.pinterest.com/suzykquinn/bad-mothers-detox/
No more interruptions I promise.
See you at the end, lovely lady.
Suzy K Quinn xx
Thursday 29th June
John Boy has bought Daisy a present.
It’s a soft toy called ‘Lil Singing Sausage’ that sings when you press its flashing heart-shaped tummy:
‘I’m a friendly singing sausage, I’ll teach you one, two, three. A sizzling, laughing, funny sausage. Hey – come and hug me!’
Over and over again.
There’s no off switch.
VERY hard applying for jobs with that song playing repeatedly in the background.
Now I have ‘I’m a friendly singing sausage’ stuck in my head, like a feverish dream.
Predictably, Daisy loves the singing sausage and presses its heart-shaped tummy over and over again.
Mum suggested pulling the ‘sodding batteries out before I hit that sausage with a hammer.’
But an intrusive investigation under the singing sausage’s clothes has revealed no battery carriage.
Possibly, Lil Singing Sausage is powered by hugs.
Friday 30th June
Bloody Lil Singing Sausage song stuck in my head all day.
Shut UP Lil Singing Sausage!
SHUT UP!
Dad doesn’t like the sausage either, because it runs on (we assume) batteries.
‘In my day, everything was wind up,’ Dad reminisced. ‘You had to work before you played.’
He then began a lecture about wasteful attitudes, which ended with Mum bellowing, ‘BOB will you SHUT UP about the bloody 5p carrier bag charge.’
Saturday 1st July
John Boy has ‘fixed’ Lil Singing Sausage, using his army electrician training.
He’s replaced the sausage’s insides with Callum’s ‘record your own noises’ toy.
Now the sausage sings, ‘Bugger bugger, poo poo. Bugger bugger, poo,’ continuously for three minutes.
John Boy and Callum think this is hilarious.
Have tried smashing Lil Singing Sausage to pieces on the beer-cellar floor, but his plastic shell is extremely sturdy. If anything, the sausage seems to like being hit. The more I smash it, the faster it sings, ‘Buggerbuggerpoopoo, buggerbuggerpoo.’
Sunday 2nd July
Have hidden Lil Singing Sausage in my handbag.
Daisy cried and cried when she couldn’t find her ‘light up’ cuddly sausage.
I’m pretending I don’t know where it is.
Feel guilty for lying, but my sanity needs preserving.
I can’t be a good mother if I’ve gone mad.
Monday 3rd July
Job interview this morning.
People keep asking me how it went.
I wish they wouldn’t.
Why didn’t I clear out my handbag?
Got to London okay. The train was on time, and nice walk from the tube station.
My potential new employer’s offices were in one of those shiny Ally McBeal buildings, which was exciting.
At the front desk, a well-groomed receptionist asked me for ID.
As I groped in my handbag, my fingers found Lil Singing Sausage.
He shouted, ‘Bugger bugger poo poo, bugger bugger poo.’
‘Is that your phone?’ said the reception lady, looking horrified.
‘Oh no,’ I laughed. ‘Just … uh, one of my daughter’s toys.’
The receptionist stared at me like I was a maniac.
Before I could go into the difficulties of motherhood, a stern-looking lady appeared from a nearby conference room.
She had short, jet-black hair cut into lots of sharp edges, like a fashionable toilet brush, and go-getting chevron glasses that shouted: ‘I mean business. And I mean it quickly.’
‘Diana Fitz,’ the woman announced, shaking my hand vigorously. ‘Head of recruitment. You must be Ms Duffy. Here for the 11 o’clock interview?’
‘Yes,’ I said, clutching my handbag.
Mercifully, Lil Singing Sausage fell silent before Diana could discern Callum’s fast-paced swearing.
Diana led me into an interview room, where two equally severe-looking women waited.
One had silver hair, like a frost-commanding super villain, and the other a Mr-Sheen-shiny blonde bob.
‘Let me introduce you to the other heads of HR,’ said Diana. ‘Malory Pipes and Karen Weaver. Miss Duffy, do you have your CV with you?’
‘Yes of course,’ I said, lowering my handbag carefully onto the table, and gingerly feeling inside for my CV folder. It was like a game of Operation, sliding the folder free without disturbing Lil Singing Sausage.
The women watched me as I lifted the CV folder slowly, slowly from my handbag, then presented it with a flourish.
After some paper rustling, Diana, Malory and Karen took turns interrogating me about every detail of my CV – including my primary school maypole dancing club and the fact I once solved a Rubik’s cube on a car journey to Scotland.
I went over all the great things I’d done at Give a Damn, before Hari Khan took over, and I think they were impressed.
Then Diana looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘I do have one concern, Miss Duffy. You have a one-year-old daughter.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Do you want to see a picture?’
Diana shook her head. ‘We’ve noticed that people with children have a marked decrease in timekeeping and attendance. How can we be assured that you’ll be as professional as someone without a family?
’
‘Do you have children?’ I asked her.
‘No,’ said Diana.
‘No,’ said the two women either side of her.
‘My career is my child,’ the silver-haired woman added helpfully.
‘I am a committed, hard-working employee,’ I said. ‘I give one hundred and ten percent. Having a child hasn’t changed that.’
Diana nodded and made a note on her pad.
‘Lovely, Miss Duffy,’ said Karen. ‘Well. Let me show you out.’
I shook hands with all three women, and made it to the door before Malory called out, ‘Oh Miss Duffy! Your bag.’
I’d left my bloody handbag on the table.
Malory grasped the bag with firm fingers, at which point pastel coloured lights flashed through soft leather, followed by,
‘BUGGER BUGGER POO POO, BUGGER BUGGER POO!’
Malory blinked in alarm.
Diana and Karen exchanged surprised glances.
I took my bag and said the first thing that came into my head.
‘Ha! Don’t worry – it’s just a little singing sausage.’
Then I slung the bag over my shoulder and walked out.
Tuesday 4th July
According to my Get That Job! book, I’m supposed to ring after every interview and ask for feedback.
But realistically, I don’t need feedback.
Just a little singing sausage …
Those recruiters must think I’m crazy.
Wednesday 5th July
Didn’t get the job.
Trying to tell myself it’s for the best.
I didn’t like those women, anyway. They weren’t the sort to understand that chewed-up food on clothing is part of life, post-children.
Am now petrified about the court hearing.
Thursday 6th July
Broke down today over losing the house and not getting the job.
Dad found me in the kitchen, crying into a tub of banana Nesquik.
He put his arm around my shoulder and said, ‘There’s more than one house in the world, love.’
‘But what’s going to happen in court now?’ I sobbed.
‘I’m sure they’ll understand. You’ll get a job soon. And find a nice house.’
‘But I wanted that house. It had a wood-burning stove.’
Which was a silly thing to say, because Dad began a lecture about ‘excessive heating in this day and age’, and how his childhood was heated by one daily lump of coal.
‘That house just felt meant to be,’ I told Dad.
‘Sometimes shiny baubles break,’ said Dad. ‘Keep looking. You’ll find somewhere.’
‘But not in time for court,’ I said. ‘What if they make Daisy live with Nick and Sadie?’
‘Oh I’m sure they won’t.’
I wonder … is Alex a shiny bauble? Or the real thing?
Put on the best smile I could manage.
‘Good girl,’ said Dad. ‘We’re not quitters, are we?’
Mum, who was watching Catchphrase on Challenge TV, shouted, ‘That’s my girl, Julesy. Keep pressing, keep guessing.’
Friday 7th July
Another shift in the pub last night.
The regulars were very sympathetic about the job interview and the house falling through.
Scottish George tapped one of his few remaining teeth and said, ‘In the words of Doris Day, what will be will be.’
Yorkie offered me his camper van as temporary accommodation.
‘I’m not homeless,’ I explained. ‘Daisy and I are staying at the pub.’
Dad popped his head up from the cellar and said, ‘I love a bit of camping, Yorkie. Cooking in the open air. Games of an evening. Sleeping under the stars. Do you remember those camping trips with your Scottish Grandma, Juliette? The ones your mum refused to come on?’
As if I could forget summer holiday trips to Grandma Duffy’s.
A ten-hour drive to rainy Scotland – the highlight of which would be a Tunnock’s teacake and plastic-tasting tea from Dad’s tartan flask, enjoyed in drizzly rain.
After stopping at various scenes of ‘spectacular natural beauty’, we’d reach Scotland and camp in Grandma Duffy’s thistle-covered garden.
On the positive side, Dad’s saggy army tent was always warmer than Grandma Duffy’s stone cottage.
‘What kind of camper van do you have, Yorkie?’ Dad wanted to know. ‘A two berth? Four berth?’
Yorkie said his camper van was a one berth.
‘I’ve never heard of a one berth before,’ said Dad.
Yorkie explained the camper was a transit van with a mattress and bucket in the back, parked on wasteland by the sewage works.
Saturday 8th July
More bad news.
Got my bill from Badger Partridge solicitors today, for legal work on a house I didn’t buy.
£1,800.
Additionally, the mortgage company is charging me £500 for a survey they booked in but never carried out.
Will need a small loan to pay everything off – the repayments for which will lower my already low income. This means I can’t afford to rent anywhere, not even a bedsit, and am eligible for the teeniest mortgage ever.
I suppose house stuff doesn’t matter right now, anyway. I’m hardly going to find a shiny new home between now and Monday.
The courts will have to make a decision based on me living at the pub.
Shitting myself.
Sunday 9th July
Court tomorrow.
Went to the village church today. I’m one of those pretend Christians who only believe in God when they want something.
Our anger-management-issues vicar got extremely cross when Daisy chewed on the prayer cushions – f-ing and blinding, talking about the fiery pits of hell.
But he did some deep-breathing exercises in the vestry, then gave Daisy pink wafers left over from Sunday School, so everyone was happy.
Please God, I said. Please, please God, don’t let Nick get residency. He can see Daisy whenever he wants, but don’t make her live with him and Sadie. She’d just be so sad …
Monday 10th July
Court hearing.
Anxiety woke me up at 5am.
Typically, Daisy slept in until 8am.
She certainly picks her moments.
Got to the courthouse an hour early.
Lots of separated couples were in the waiting area, sitting on beige chairs and glaring at each other.
I sat on my own beige chair, hands shaking, and watched the clock tick round.
After half an hour, I decided to risk the 1980s coffee machine.
It delivered me a cup of coffee granules and powdered milk, but no hot water.
As I was hitting the machine, I heard a voice behind me.
‘Juliette.’
It was Alex, dressed more appropriately for court than anyone in the room.
He carried two deli takeaway coffees in a cardboard beverage holder.
Did a stupid thing then.
Cried.
‘What are you doing here?’ I sobbed.
It meant so much. Not least because he’d brought good coffee.
‘You needed me.’
‘I don’t want to drag you into my mess.’
‘Juliette, why wouldn’t you want to drag me into your mess?’
We sat on beige chairs and waited, Alex holding my shaking hand.
Soon, Jeremy arrived with a briefcase and a bagged croissant.
He shook our hands vigorously, then had a long chat with the usher about the local golf course.
Nick turned up after that, with Penny Castle and Helen.
Alex glared at Nick, squeezing my hand extra tight.
‘What’s fancy pants doing here?’ Nick muttered, as he walked past me.
‘The same as your mother,’ I fired back.
An hour later, we still hadn’t been seen.
Alex barked at the usher about ‘atrocious time scheduling’, and when no satisfactory answ
ers were provided, Alex demanded other people were fetched to be shouted at.
After the shouting, we were next up, and went into a proper courtroom this time – not the ‘informal’ one.
I suppose we did sort of push in. But there was no reason for that dad to throw powdered coffee at us.
The courtroom wasn’t what I expected.
No benches or gavels.
Just a big table, at which sat a shrivelled-up man, with a black dicky bow around his wrinkly neck.
The shrivelled man turned out to be our new judge. The previous one died last week.
We sat around the table, and the judge asked Jeremy and Penny the same questions as last time:
Where is Daisy Duffy living at present?
Why is a change in residence being requested?
And so on.
‘Mr Spencer feels the child’s needs are better met at his home,’ said Penny Castle, ‘because Miss Duffy’s home is unsuitable. She also has anger management issues.’
Penny handed over pictures of our pub, with detailed notes about the adults currently living there.
The judge’s watery eyes swam with confusion, and he took a settling suck from his asthma inhaler.
The judge asked Jeremy, ‘So this is Miss Duffy’s residence? It says in my notes she is looking for her own home.’
Jeremy said, ‘Miss Duffy is currently looking for her own house.’
‘Well she’s had plenty of time,’ said the judge. ‘Why hasn’t she found somewhere?’
‘The house sale fell through,’ said Jeremy.
‘Because she lost her job,’ Penny piped up.
‘So where is Miss Duffy living at present?’ asked the judge.
Jeremy confirmed I was still living at Mum and Dad’s pub.
‘With four other adults and two children,’ Penny interjected, adding, ‘If I may, your worship, I’d like to present a diary log of Miss Duffy’s aggressive behaviour towards Mr Spencer and Mrs Jolly-Piggott.’
She read out a list of text messages I’d sent Nick, and gave diary accounts, written by Helen, about me shouting outside her house, calling her a dragon by the church and telling her to ‘fuck off back to her Land Rover’ at the play park.