The Bad Mother's Detox

by Suzy K Quinn

  Surprisingly, this spurred Alex into showmanship. He hit the keys with panache, and sang ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ with gusto.

  When the song finished, everyone smiled and clapped.

  Alex turned to me and asked, ‘This is me, trying to be more open. For you. Have I embarrassed myself enough to meet your approval?’

  ‘Almost. You need a pair of wobbly reindeer antlers.’

  ‘We should be together at Christmas, don’t you think?’ said Alex. ‘All of us. You, me and Daisy. Isn’t that what this time of year is about?’

  ‘It’s about the birth of Jesus,’ I said. ‘But I suppose … I mean, there is a love aspect.’

  ‘May I buy you a glass of champagne?’

  At the St Pancras champagne bar, Alex ordered a bottle of Louis Roederer, then messaged the King’s Cross Dalton to bring Daisy a fleecy blanket.

  Daisy fell straight to sleep under the blanket, which was a blessed relief. Although it was a delicate business, laying her down in the pram with all the shopping on the back – like a real-life game of buckaroo.

  On the concourse below, a group of carol singers sang ‘Silent Night’.

  ‘They sang that on Christmas Eve you know,’ said Alex. ‘During World War One. And everyone understood – it meant truce.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But after Christmas, they carried on blowing each other to bits.’

  When we finished our champagne, Alex had a driver take us home.

  The house was freezing, but I got the heating going with the hammer and Alex lit a fire.

  ‘It’s nice here, Juliette,’ said Alex, after we’d put Daisy to bed. ‘You’ve made it feel warm. Like a home should be.’

  ‘Some of the furniture is stolen,’ I said.

  Alex laughed, unaware I wasn’t joking.

  ‘I don’t have much to eat,’ I admitted. ‘We’re at Mum and Dad’s for Christmas dinner, so I didn’t get any food in. Mum always sends me home with a fridge-load of leftovers.’

  Alex investigated the fridge and cupboards. ‘You have cheese. You have slightly stale bread. You have macaroni. Do you have garlic?’

  I nodded, showing him a scarily gnarled lump at the bottom of my organic veg box.

  Alex made macaroni cheese with garlic breadcrumbs.

  We sat on the sofa, fire blazing, with Christmas music on the radio and lights twinkling on the tree.

  It was pretty funny, hearing which songs Alex liked. I suppose that’s the trouble with boarding school – you have no sense of what’s socially acceptable.

  I mean, Boney M isn’t a band you admit to liking. Even if secretly, you want to sing along.

  After we’d eaten, we drank sherry and talked.

  Then we went to bed.

  And yes.

  We did.

  Again.

  I don’t know what the New Year will hold, but Alex is right – sometimes, you just have to grab those perfect moments when they come along.

  Sleep now.

  Can’t believe I’m going to wake up with Alex on Christmas Day.

  Monday 25th December

  Christmas Day

  Woke this morning to hear the shower running, and to see Alex’s suit folded neatly on Daisy’s toy kitchen. His suitcase and shoes were arranged neatly against the wall.

  Daisy was calling, ‘MUMMY. MUMMY. Get me UP. Get me UPPP!’

  I put on my dressing gown and took Daisy downstairs for porridge and presents.

  As I was sniffing the milk, Alex came down, hair wet from the shower. He wore the pressed suit his driver had packed him, and carried an armful of gifts.

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said, kissing me on the cheek.

  ‘Where did those presents come from?’ I asked.

  ‘Just call me Santa Claus,’ said Alex. Then he felt the need to give a serious answer, and added, ‘My driver packed them. Along with the clean clothes.’

  As Alex arranged presents under the tree, there was a jaunty knock at the door.

  Nick’s voice called out: ‘Yo ho ho! Merry Christmas!’

  My heart sunk.

  Bloody Nick.

  Alex sprung to his feet, looking furious. ‘After all this talk of me changing, you’ve invited Nick Spencer around on Christmas Day.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He mentioned calling by Mum and Dad’s place, but not here.’

  ‘You know how I feel about that man. Could you be any more disrespectful? To have him arrive while I’m still here?’

  ‘I didn’t know he was going to come. And he’s Daisy’s father. You have to accept—’

  ‘Goodbye, Juliette. Goodbye, Daisy. I wish you a happy Christmas and New Year.’

  ‘Yo ho ho, Merry Christmas!’ called Nick through the door.

  ‘You’re leaving?’ I asked Alex.

  ‘Of course I’m leaving. What do you expect, Juliette?’ Alex ran a stressed hand through is hair. ‘Listen. If you want us to have a chance, you have to make a choice. Him or me.’

  ‘He’s Daisy’s father,’ I said. ‘I can’t make that choice and I shouldn’t have to. The problem here is your jealousy. If you can’t make your peace with Nick, then we have no chance.’

  ‘Then we have no chance.’

  I suppose that’s the thing about moments. They don’t last.

  ‘What do you expect me to do?’ I said. ‘Turn Nick away on Christmas Day? Say he can’t see his daughter?’

  Alex looked at me. ‘Yes. But you won’t. I was foolish to think I could handle this. I can’t.’

  He stalked out the front door, past Nick and into the cold.

  Nick watched him go.

  ‘What was fancy-pants Dalton doing here so early?’ Nick asked, sidestepping into the house and closing the door behind him.

  Nick was wearing an ironic Christmas pom-pom jumper and snowman scarf, and holding baby Horatio in a way that suggested he could projectile vomit any minute.

  ‘I’m not sure about much, where Alex is concerned.’

  ‘Where’s my Daisy?’ Nick bellowed. ‘Where’s Daisy boo? Daddy has presents!’

  From the kitchen, Daisy clapped her hands together and shouted, ‘Baddy present! Baddy present!’

  ‘You should have phoned first,’ I told Nick. ‘You said you’d come to the pub. Not here.’

  ‘Santa’s sleigh got lost. Ho ho ho!’ Nick set Horatio on the sofa, then picked up Daisy. ‘Hey Daisy boo! Happy Christmas.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Nick,’ I said. ‘It’s not okay to turn up unannounced. We have a visitation schedule.’

  ‘Not until next year.’ Nick put blue eyes on mine. ‘And it’s Christmas Day. Do you remember that first Christmas we were together?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘At Louise’s “It’s shit being born on Christmas Eve” birthday party. You wore that skin-tight C3PO costume. No one knew where to look when you stood up.’

  ‘Remember what I told you at that party? That I’d love you forever and ever?’

  ‘That’s not what I remember,’ I said, ‘I remember you going AWOL, then being delivered back by the police two hours later.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Nick laughed. ‘I was so pissed! Don’t you miss those times?’

  ‘Some of them,’ I admitted, taking Daisy. ‘Others, less so. Listen – Daisy and I have to go to my parents soon. So … you need to leave. What are your plans?’

  Nick glanced at Horatio, lying on the sofa. ‘Take the little dude to Mum’s house.’

  ‘What about Sadie?’

  ‘She’s at her mum’s.’

  ‘Isn’t she going to Helen and Henry’s?’

  ‘She and Mum had a screaming match over the Christmas Day dress code.’ Nick caught his reflection in the oven and adjusted his snowman scarf. ‘It’s looking nice, this place. You did it, Jules. Country house. Garden. All that shit. Just like you always wanted. You won.’

  ‘You think this is all I wanted?’ I said. ‘I wanted a family, Nick. For Daisy. It was never about a house OR winning. But it’s okay. We’l
l be fine.’

  Nick said, ‘I’ve made a big fucking mess, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You have. But it’s okay. Honestly. I’m over it.’

  And I am.

  I just wish I could get over Alex.

  Got to Mum and Dad’s house just before midday.

  Nana Joan was in the living room with Callum on her knee, drinking a sizeable glass of Bailey’s.

  Brandi was quiet for once, slotting Match Attax cards into Callum’s new album.

  Mum was in the kitchen, shouting, ‘No one’s going to bloody CARE if the plates don’t match, Bob. This is a FAMILY MEAL, not Come Dine with Me.’

  Dad was shouting back, ‘I WASHED and WARMED eight plates that do match, Shirley. What have you done with them?’

  ‘Those ones in the oven? I used them for the veg.’

  ‘WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT, SHIRLEY?’ Dad bellowed. ‘WHEN I SAVED UP ALL THOSE CO-OP VOUCHERS FOR THREE BERNDES VEGETABLE PLATTERS.’

  I sat on the sofa with Daisy and poured myself a much needed Bailey’s.

  ‘Is that you, Juliette?’ Mum shouted from the steam-filled kitchen. ‘What took you so bloody long?’

  ‘I had visitors,’ I shouted back.

  ‘What visitors?’

  ‘Nick and Alex.’

  ‘OOOoo!’ said Nana Joan and Brandi.

  ‘OOOoo!’ Mum shouted from the kitchen.

  ‘Well I know which one I’d choose, ‘said Nana Joan. ‘That well-filled out lad. The one that came over for lunch. That Nick is a wrong ‘un.’

  ‘Nick will be in my life forever,’ I said flatly. ‘Alex might not be.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Nana Joan. ‘Plenty of fish in the sea.’

  Why do people always say that at precisely the time you only want one fish?

  Skyped Laura before lunch, and we all held up snowballs and shouted ‘Cheers!’ at the computer screen.

  Laura seemed a bit emotional. She was sitting in a cavernous drawing room with baby Bear on her lap. Every so often, a maid came into shot, then scurried out of view.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Mum boomed.

  ‘Having pre-dinner drinks in the parlour,’ said Laura.

  ‘Do they have real gold cutlery?’ Mum wanted to know.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Laura. ‘It’s really ever so nice. Zach’s family couldn’t have been kinder. And we’ve already had champagne and smoked salmon and all sorts.’

  ‘Sounds cracking,’ said Mum.

  ‘But I just want to be with all of you.’ Then Laura burst into tears, adding, ‘Sorry. I think it’s the hormones. I’m so emotional.’

  ‘Oh hormones will do that to you,’ Mum agreed. ‘Bob – do you remember that time I cried watching the Only Fools and Horses Christmas Special? You know, just after Juliette was born?’

  Dad nodded sagely. ‘And you were addicted to custard creams, even though they made you constipated. Common sense just went out the window.’

  ‘Bring Zach to our house next year,’ Mum told Laura. ‘We’ll show him a good time.’

  Laura had to go then. They were serving dinner, and baby Bear needed dressing in a three-piece suit.

  Mum cooked Christmas dinner this year, because she thought Dad would serve up ‘tiny fucking diet portions’ on account of her diabetes.

  On the positive side, there was plenty of food.

  On the negative, Mum got distracted rowing with Dad and some things were overcooked, some undercooked and some not cooked at all.

  I got a completely raw chipolata, a mushy carrot and a burned parsnip. But the turkey was fine, as long as you only ate the outer edges.

  After lunch, we settled Nana Joan in front of the TV, while Dad and I washed up.

  Dad refuses to use the dishwasher, claiming tablets cost ‘a king’s ransom’ at nearly forty-pence apiece. He washes up the old-fashioned way, using lemon juice, vinegar and the rinsing sink.

  We had buttered crumpets for tea, and after that I wanted to take Daisy home.

  ‘Don’t you want to stay over, love?’ Mum asked. ‘It’s cold out there.’

  ‘I fancy an early night,’ I said.

  Truth be told, I was feeling really sad about Alex.

  Was home by 7pm, and put Daisy straight to bed.

  Lit a fire, got into my pyjamas, warmed a mince pie and poured the last glass of sherry.

  Then I fiddled around with my phone, deciding whether or not to call Alex.

  Being half-drunk, I did.

  Alex didn’t answer.

  Tried again.

  He still didn’t answer.

  Felt stupid then.

  He’s already made his feelings perfectly clear.

  Tuesday 26th December

  Boxing Day

  No calls from Alex.

  If he’d called back, that would cancel some of the two missed calls mentalness.

  But he hasn’t.

  Wednesday 27th December

  Have put on a STONE over Christmas.

  Half has gone to my boobs, the other half has gone straight to my tummy. That’s disappointingly huge too.

  Need to do weight loss in the New Year.

  Mind you, I always think January is a stupid time to lose weight.

  It’s such a miserable month.

  Thursday 28th December

  Althea phoned this afternoon.

  ‘G’day!’ she shouted. ‘It’s nearly tomorrow here. How weird is that!’

  She was at an outback pub, drinking Victoria Bitter from a stubbie holder, while Wolfgang arm-wrestled the regulars.

  They were due to catch their flight soon, but Althea always leaves things to the last minute.

  When I told her about Alex and Christmas Eve, she asked if I’d be going to the Dalton Ball.

  It’s at the Westminster Dalton Hotel this year, which Althea reckons will be really cool because it’s right by Big Ben and the big party crowd.

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said.

  ‘You should,’ said Althea. ‘Go to the ball and show him what he’s missing, the jealous idiot.’

  ‘If you mean a stone of Christmas weight, dry winter skin and spots from all the mince pies I’ve been eating,’ I said, ‘I think you may be off the mark.’

  ‘But you go every year,’ said Althea. ‘It’s tradition.’

  ‘You hate tradition.’

  ‘Only traditional tradition,’ said Althea. ‘Your own traditions are different. Like my David Bowie day.’

  Friday 29th December

  Feel really tired today.

  And fat.

  Althea is en route from Australia to cheer me up. She and Wolfgang don’t get jetlag, because they don’t have sleep schedules or set meal times.

  Saturday 30th December

  Althea arrived on my doorstep looking tanned and wearing a straw hat decorated with real crocodile teeth.

  Wolfgang held a didgeridoo.

  They had gifts for us – some Aborigine artwork made from authentic tribal handprints and a box of assorted dried witchetty grubs.

  ‘Your boobs look massive,’ Althea announced, as we took up stools in the kitchen.

  Told her I’d porked up over Christmas – which seems unfair considering all the manual labour I’ve done on the house.

  Expected Althea to do her usual bit about fat being a feminist issue.

  But she said, ‘When was your last period? Your boobs look pre-menstrual.’

  Told her not for ages.

  ‘You should take a pregnancy test,’ said Althea.

  ‘I have,’ I told her. ‘Before Christmas. And anyway, Alex and I used condoms every time we slept together. Probably really expensive, rigorously tested condoms.’

  But Althea was insistent.

  ‘I can’t be pregnant,’ I said. ‘I drank a pint of Bailey’s on Christmas day. Surely my body wouldn’t let those two things coincide?’

  ‘I know a friend who got pregnant without having sex,’ said Althea. ‘Have you got any vinegar?’


  She made me wee into a glass of Sarson’s, then studied the mixture to see if it changed colour.

  ‘How is that supposed to work?’ I asked.

  ‘The vinegar should get darker if you’re pregnant,’ said Althea. ‘But it’s not very accurate, so …’

  Daisy kept trying to drink the urine and vinegar, saying, ‘Apple juice?’

  ‘You shouldn’t drink other people’s urine, Daisy,’ Althea advised. ‘Only your own has health benefits.’

  After ten minutes of coughing on urine fumes, Althea decided I should do a real test.

  We drove to the pharmacy for what Althea called, ‘one of those plastic, planet destroying wee sticks’.

  There were all sorts of tests on the shelves, including ovulation kits for foolish women who wanted to get pregnant.

  Althea snorted at those, claiming the moon was the best indicator of fertility.

  Ended up choosing a robust-looking test in a plastic case.

  It was ten times more expensive than the little 99p wee sticks, but I felt safe with its solid pink packaging and hopeful-looking blonde model.

  Got home.

  Weed on stick.

  Two lines appeared.

  PREGNANT.

  Didn’t believe it at first. Still not sure I believe it.

  ‘I knew it,’ Althea bellowed.

  Burst into tears.

  ‘Oh my god,’ I cried. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Everything will be okay,’ said Althea. ‘The fertility goddess only blesses strong women.’

  ‘It won’t be okay, Althea,’ I wailed. ‘How can it be okay? I’m barely coping with one. The test has to be wrong.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ said Althea. ‘Everyone says two children are easier than one.’

  ‘Who?’ I demanded. ‘Who says that?’

  ‘I overhead a mother say it once,’ said Althea. ‘In India. At least, I think that’s what she said. She was speaking Gujarati, so maybe there was another meaning.’

  ‘I should talk to Alex,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t need a man,’ Althea bellowed. ‘Come live with me. We can be single mums together.’

  Then she sang an augmented version of Beyoncé’s ‘Single Ladies’ song.