The Motherhood Walk of Fame

by Shari Low

  ‘Carly, Sam didn’t have two kids and a partner with a job that wasn’t transferable. I cannot come and live here. Ever. Unless we were completely financially independent and had a million quid tucked away in the bank. And let me tell you, we’re pretty far away from that at the moment–about a million quid away, to be exact.’ So much for the ceasefire.

  ‘And I hate to point out another small flaw in your plan, but you don’t work for a studio.’

  ‘But I might.’

  He was getting really frustrated now. There was a vein in the side of his neck that was bulging like a beach ball.

  ‘And Mac needs to get back–what about school?’

  ‘They have schools here.’

  ‘Carly, I’m not even going to discuss this any more,’ he announced angrily. Then, in a gentler tone, ‘I’m not denying this is a great life, Carly. But it’s not our life.’

  He spun on his heel and marched off.

  I slumped against the worktop. He was right. This wasn’t our life. But I wanted it to be. And it wasn’t even for the money or the flash houses. To be honest, I wouldn’t have cared if we lived in a one-bedroom shack on the beach. Not that there were any of those–this was LA, not Bora Bora–but you get my meaning. I just loved the excitement of all this. The sheer bloody madness of it. And when I was 102 and lying on my deathbed in the nursing home next to Mark, I knew that if I hadn’t at least tried my damnedest to go for the life I’d always dreamed of then my dying words to him would involve profanity and castigation.

  The buzzer for the security system kicked into life. I checked the screen to see a teenager in a baseball cap and a Dominos uniform clutching a pizza.

  I pressed the button.

  ‘Pizza delivery,’ he announced. ‘I’ve got a sixteen-inch Celebration with extra everything.’

  I bet he wowed the ladies down the disco on a Saturday night with that chat-up line.

  I buzzed him in. I just hoped the boys were hungry, because I’d suddenly lost my appetite.

  We have much to be grateful for in this world. Technological advances. The wonder of modern medicine. And the complete and utter lifesaver that is Scooby-Doo. We all crashed out in the den, pizza on the coffee table, and Scooby-Doo valiantly masked the fact that Mark and I couldn’t even look at each other.

  It was a relief when the pesky kids triumphed and I packed my two off to bed. Mark had already left the room by the time I returned. Sod him. I didn’t even want to talk to him. I headed straight for the office and sat down to work, an act that was hindered slightly by the fact that I was in the middle of writing a comedy scene, and right at that moment I felt about as funny as botulism.

  I slogged on until the early hours, then capitulated to the need for contact with a human being who actually liked me. I texted Sam, who was still languishing in the sheer bloody deprivation of a palatial villa on the banks of Lake Como.

  ‘Mark now leaving Sunday. Sorry.’

  Concise. Apologetic.

  Half an hour later the reply came back. Strange. Sam always answered almost instantaneously. He was the only person I have ever seen texting with his index finger–and a super-fast one at that. It was a talent he’d acquired in his last job by…nope, didn’t even want to go there.

  ‘No problem. U ok?’

  ‘No.’

  I definitely wasn’t okay.

  ‘U want me 2 come home?’

  Did I? I thought about it for a moment. I did. I wanted some fun. I wanted some laughs. I wanted to chat to someone who was interested. I wanted someone to help me get from page ten of my script to page thirty and check that it wouldn’t get me laughed out of town.

  But I had to be realistic–if Sam came home just now the atmosphere in the house would be unbearable. And it was already unbearable enough.

  My phone beeped again. Since I hadn’t replied, Sam must have thought there was a problem with the message and re-sent it.

  ‘U want me 2 come home?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. Then I suddenly had the thought that since this was actually his five-million-dollar palatial pad we were dossing in, that answer probably wasn’t the best one. It was like we were holding his house in a siege situation.

  ‘I mean, YES. It’s ur house. Sorry. Brain addled, not thinking str8.’

  A message came right back. ‘Think I’ll stay here another few days. Will come back Monday.’

  Monday. Five more days. One day before I met with Lee Stavorski again. That meant one hour for Sam to read my script, two minutes to break it gently to me that it was crap, forty-five minutes for me to have a complete meltdown, and twenty-two hours and thirteen minutes for me to frantically rewrite it. Doddle.

  I poured another of my endless cups of coffee, flicked the computer off standby and started typing again. Sitting worrying about this wasn’t going to get it done.

  I just had to focus, forget about all the turmoil, mainline some more high-grade caffeine and keep typing.

  And phone my pals for moral support. Kate answered on the third ring.

  ‘Kate, it’s me. I’m going to tell you what’s happened and you have to swear that you’ll take my side, defend my motivations, and say “Mark–what a prick he is!” every time I stop for breath.’

  ‘I’m good on the second one, but a bit shaky on numbers one and three–do you want to hang up and go phone one of your other best pals?’ I got the distinct impression she wasn’t taking this seriously.

  Miraculously, for the woman who usually defends my husband at all costs, I got all the way to the end of the story without her telling me that I was being unreasonable, harsh and bloody-minded.

  ‘So there you go–what do you think?’ I asked her after an outpouring that would have put a daytime talk show to shame.

  ‘I think you’re being unreasonable, harsh and bloody-minded.’

  ‘Why?’ I replied petulantly. Okay, really I knew why–I was stubborn, not thick–but I figured hearing it from someone else might help with absorption and acceptance.

  ‘Carly, he came all the way over there. He’s watched the boys for a whole week on his own. My Bruce struggles to get my three dressed in the morning. Now he’s delayed his flight back to help you even more. He’s absolutely right about moving over there or anywhere else that he can’t work. You’d end up spending your life on the corner of a junction holding up a sign saying “WILL WRITE FOR FOOD”’.

  ‘I have got money.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On my credit cards. I’ve one with a ten-grand limit that I haven’t even used yet. And there’s a grand of credit left on my secret one too.’

  ‘Carly, credit cards do not count, on the grounds that Visa, MasterCard and American Express are not in the habit of donating money. And I understand that this is your dream, honey, but maybe it’s just not your time yet.’

  ‘It’ll never be my time if I don’t take a chance on this, Kate.’

  ‘It will. You’re getting there. Look how far you’ve come already–a month in Hollywood and they’re already letting you past security. They obviously don’t know about your criminal record.’

  ‘I was seven, it was pickled onion crisps and they let me off with a caution. After I’d cried a lot.’

  ‘Yeah, you were lucky. Anyway, don’t be too harsh on Mark–this is all hard for him too. He just wants his wife back.’

  ‘She’s gone. I stabbed her to death with a kebab skewer after too much time waiting in the pissing rain for buses to come sent me into a psychotic frenzy.’

  ‘Ah the road to crime. One day shoplifting, the next day murder with a kebab skewer. Happens all the time. Anyway, I have to run–some of us do actually have to work for a living. Go be nice to your husband. And tell him he owes me another large kitchen tool for acting as his official PR manager once again.’

  ‘Okay, the yoghurt-maker is yours. His mother gave me it for Christmas last year. I never liked her.’

  There was laughter, then silence. I missed Kate. I missed Carol. I mi
ssed my brother Cal. And Michael. I even missed my mother.

  But much as I missed them all, I wasn’t ready to go home. No matter what Mark said.

  I looked down at my computer screen. Page thirty. Twenty more to go. Twenty pages of script that I was sure an experienced screenwriter could rattle off on his lunch break.

  ‘Experienced’ being the key word there–I was getting a migraine just thinking about it. Although that could have just been a reaction to too much coffee.

  Migraine or no migraine, I had to keep going. Because if there was one thing, one thing, that was going to save me in all of this, it was the success of this script. I just had to keep my head down and my spirits up–the latter of which would probably be aided by avoiding my husband as much as possible. I knew Mark was right. I knew he was sensible. I knew he was being a responsible adult.

  But I was going to be a screenwriter.

  And the last time I checked, that was a lot more fun than being a grown-up.

  ‘Mum, I never want to be a grown-up.’

  ‘Why not, honey?’

  ‘Because you have to do really yucky things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like clean up when Benny pees the bed. And eat baspargarus…’

  ‘Asparagus.’

  ‘That’s what I said. Baspargarus.’

  ‘Okay. And what else?’

  ‘And kiss girls. Yuk! I hate girls.’

  ‘I’ll remind you that you said that when you’re eighteen.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t ask. I’m your mother, by that time embarrassing you will be my full-time job.’

  ‘Daddy kisses Mandy.’

  Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip! Rewind. Daddy kissed…?

  ‘What was that, honey?’

  ‘Daddy kissed Mandy.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the b—’

  Fuck me dead, I was about to have a heart attack.

  ‘Beach.’

  Oh, thank God. Bottom or boob would have put me in casualty.

  ‘No, I mean, where did he kiss her. On the lips?’

  ‘What name shall I have today, Mummy? Have I been Doctor Octopus before?’

  Curse small children with the attention span of something that lives in a bowl.

  ‘Yes, you have. So where did he kiss her?’

  ‘Doctor Octopus doesn’t kiss girls,’ he said in a ‘duh, I can’t believe you didn’t know that’ voice.

  I counted to ten. I did it in time with my heartbeat so it was over in about 2.3 seconds.

  ‘Where. Did. Daddy. Kiss. Mandy?’

  There. Even Mac couldn’t misinterpret that one. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, fearful of the answer. How had I managed to go from eating baspargarus to a potentially life-changing moment in less time than it took to make a cup of tea? I could hear Oprah’s voice in the background. ‘So, Carly, how did you first find out that your husband had been unfaithful?’

  ‘There.’

  I opened my eyes, but Mac’s hands were already back down on the worktop. Shit, I’d missed it. Where? Where did he point to?

  ‘Do that again, Mac.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘No telly for a week,’ I warned.

  ‘Oh, okay. It was there.’ He pointed to his cheek. Relief. Sweet, giddy, sodding relief. I felt faint.

  ‘What was there?’ came a voice from the doorway. I turned around just as Mark came in with a holdall over his shoulder.

  ‘Oh, nothing. Mac was just telling me a story about Doctor Octopus.’

  ‘Mum’s telling lies!’ said Mac with an astonished gasp.

  I threw him the glare of death. He clammed up immediately and automatically searched for the nearest exit.

  I turned to face Mark. ‘So…you’re ready?’

  ‘Yep, taxi will be here any minute.’

  Silence.

  ‘Thanks. For coming here, I mean. And for staying longer.’

  I tried my hardest to make it sound like I meant it, and deep down I did. Really, really deep down. On a surface level, where I much preferred to exist, I was still annoyed with him for going home at all. I was sure he could have swung another week, another fortnight even, but when I’d put this to him the night before, in the only proper conversation we’d had since the blow-out on Tuesday, he’d been really dismissive.

  ‘And then what, Carly? Another three weeks? Another four? It’ll never be enough. You want to live here and it’s not possible. And if I stay here any longer then the work piles up even more at home and so do the debts. My company appreciates me, but I think paying me while I’m swanning it up thousands of miles away might stretch their appreciation just a little too far.’

  The buzzer went on the security system.

  ‘Good luck with the meeting on Tuesday. Let me know how it goes.’

  ‘I will.’

  I could feel the tears welling up. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t…go. Please don’t go. He wouldn’t leave us. I just knew he wouldn’t. He was bluffing. Wasn’t he?

  ‘Better go.’

  Wrong again.

  He scooped up Mac while I shouted to Benny, who tore himself away from a Scooby-Doo omnibus and wandered through. When he saw that Mark was leaving he burst into tears.

  ‘Don’t go, Daddy, me miss you.’ He threw his arms around Mark’s leg. Ever the drama queen, Mac decided that since there was an inkling of the theatrical, he was going to join in too. The two of them were clutching on to Mark, sobbing their hearts out and refusing to let go.

  Where the hell had this come from? When we left the UK they’d been positively nonchalant about leaving their daddy for a few weeks, and now they were clinging on to him like he was their life source.

  But I was still holding it together. Just. I was taking my mind off the emotion of the situation by wondering if Sam had a crowbar in the garage that would prise small children from a departing parent, when I suddenly caught Mark’s face. Or, rather, the huge big tear that was running down it.

  I had never, never in my life seen Mark Barwick cry. Never. Not even when John Potts battered him with an ice-hockey stick back in 1982. Or when he’d crashed his Ford Cortina into next-door’s lamppost the week after he passed his driving test in 1985.

  Everything stopped. Everything came to a crashing halt, as my husband bowed his head and used his shoulder to wipe away the moisture from his cheek.

  I just wanted to reach out and pull him towards me, to tell him that everything was going to be okay and that I loved him. I wanted to, I really did.

  Right up until the moment that he sniffed really loudly and said, ‘Come on, guys, don’t be sad. Daddy has to go back and go to work, but don’t worry, I’ll see you when you get home.’

  He raised his head and stared straight at me.

  ‘When you get home on Wednesday.’

  ‘Wednesday?’ said Mac, not comprehending the implications. ‘How many sleeps?’

  ‘Three sleeps,’ said Mark.

  ‘Three sleeps!’ Mac repeated, then burst into tears again. ‘I. Don’t. Want. To. Go. Home.’

  That’s my boy. I knew exactly how he felt. And, of course, Benny, whose sole purpose in life was to copy everything his big brother said and did, immediately launched into a chorus of ‘I don’t want to go home’ too.

  I lifted Benny up and put him on one hip, then scooped Mac off Mark and on to the other hip. Mark was still staring at me, as if trying to read my thoughts.

  It was easy, but I decided to help him out anyway.

  Mac didn’t want to go home. Benny didn’t want to go home.

  ‘I don’t want to go home either,’ I whispered. There. I’d said it. I’d finally said it.

  Mark’s eyes fell to his shoes and stayed there for a few excruciatingly long seconds. Eventually, he lifted his head.

  ‘You know what you’re saying? What this will do to us?’

  I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. And not in a good way.

  Then…then I nodded.

 
Without another word, he turned and left. Just like that. Gone.

  But even as huge big fat tears ran down my face, I knew I’d done the right thing. Even if the cost of staying might be a high price to pay.

  Family Values Magazine

  PUTTING THE YUMMY IN MUMMY

  THIS WEEK…

  THE SEXUAL SOUL WITHIN

  We’ve got so much to thank those Sex and the City girls for! The fashion, the lifestyle trends, and most of all–the sex talk! Oh yes, ladies, say it loud and say it proud (checking first to make sure the housekeeper is not within earshot)–‘I have a clitoris and I know how to find it.’

  Sadly, however, many men still need a flashlight and a diagram–so, girls, the time has come to take control. No more unsatisfactory fumbles with the lights out. No more lying back and thinking of Harvey Nicks. Leave the missionary position to those who choose a career in religious service.

  Take control of cunnilingus, organise your orgasms and titillate your tickly bits–and if you don’t have the equipment necessary for that last suggestion then it can be purchased very discreetly from several high-profile internet sites.

  Yes, the days when the only rabbit in the house was soft, furry and wore a Dior collar are long gone. Let’s throw off those inhibitions and revel in the physical delights of a great sex life. Gone are the days when we waited for our partners to initiate intercourse. When husband comes home tonight, surprise him by answering the door wearing nothing but Chanel No. 5. Seduce him in the shower, join him in the Jacuzzi, attack him on the Aga–and as for the window-seat? I’ll leave that one to your naughty imaginations!

  Oh, the advantages are endless–the radiant glow, the satisfied partner, the inner contentment. But the best part? You guessed it, girls–sex burns off 550 calories an hour. Now there’s a fitness regime with additional perks!

  Step Sixteen

  I always wondered what the Earth would be like after Armageddon and now I knew. As I stumbled out into the new world, I squinted against the sun, my eyes unused to the light after all that time spent locked in isolated semi-darkness. I stumbled on, up through the dense foliage, until I encountered another life form, one that bore a terrifying resemblance to a creature from another long-ago time.