The Mum Hunt

by Gwyneth Rees

  Juliette made an exasperated noise and left me to it.

  Juliette got more and more enthusiastic about the advert. She said we should read through all the replies we got and make a shortlist, before showing them to Dad. Then she said it was a pity we couldn’t conduct interviews before we let any of these women actually meet Dad so we could eliminate any weirdos at the outset.

  I reckoned we should let Dad decide for himself who was a weirdo and who wasn’t, but Juliette insisted that once a person started falling in love, there was often no way of stopping them, and that she wouldn’t like to rule out the possibility of Dad falling in love with a beautiful weirdo. The whole thing was starting to make my head spin. The more Juliette discussed the pros and cons of screening processes that would eliminate axe-wielding psychopaths and interviews that would sift out any women who were just after Dad’s money, the more nervous I started to get. Because Juliette was talking like she had no confidence whatsoever in Dad’s own taste in women and that if we didn’t watch out, I could end up with just about anyone for a stepmother.

  And then there was the question that I didn’t dare ask Juliette, the one that kept popping into my mind before I went to sleep each night. What about my real mother? What was she thinking about all this? I mean, there she was, waiting patiently up in heaven for Dad to die one day and go and join her. It wasn’t going to be very good, was it, if he got to heaven and had to choose between spending eternity with my mother or with wife number two? Unless wife number two went to hell instead, which would certainly solve the problem, but she couldn’t go to hell unless she was bad and, if she was bad, I wouldn’t want her as a stepmother, would I?

  On Thursday night I was lying in bed, staring at my mother’s photograph, worrying about all of this, when something really weird happened. I had just asked my mother if she minded Dad falling in love with somebody else, and as usual she was looking back at me silently with that smile on her face which didn’t tell me anything, when the phone started ringing. It was just as if it was her ringing me to answer my question. Well, I knew that was a crazy idea and I dismissed it straight away, but then my dad called up the stairs to ask me to come down to the phone, and that got me thinking crazily all over again.

  ‘Who is it?’ I called out, as I tramped down the stairs to join him.

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ he said, smiling.

  I took the telephone from him and said, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Esmie?’ a crackly voice said on the end of the line.

  ‘Grandma!’ My grandmother lives in America and we don’t get to see her that often. She got divorced from my grandfather years ago, before I was even born, and then, about five years ago, she met this American university professor and got married to him and went out to live with him in Chicago. We always watch out for her in the background when we’re watching ER, just in case she’s got herself a job as an extra or something, which is just the sort of thing my grandmother would be likely to do.

  ‘How are you, my angel?’ she asked. She was getting an American accent but I knew better than to tell her that.

  ‘I’m fine, Grandma!’ I replied. I started to ask her lots of questions about her three cats and her voluntary work with homeless people and whether she had seen any of the actors from ER.

  Dad whispered to me that he was going upstairs to get Matty – my brother never hears the phone when he has his headphones on – and I knew that this was my chance. You see, my grandmother is the one who talks to me most about my mother – she was her mother – and it seemed like more than just a coincidence that she was phoning just at the moment when I most wanted my mother’s advice.

  ‘Grandma,’ I said, quickly, when Dad was out of earshot. ‘I’m a bit worried about something. It’s to do with Dad.’

  There was a short silence on the other end of the line. Then my grandmother asked, ‘Has he met someone?’ Just as if she was telepathic.

  ‘Not yet, but . . .’ I wished I could explain about the advert and everything but there just wasn’t time. ‘. . . I think he might be about to.’

  ‘Well,’ Grandma sighed. ‘If he does find the right person – someone who will make him happy and love you and Matthew as well – then I shall be very happy about it.’ She paused. ‘And I know your mother would be too.’

  ‘Would she?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course! When you love someone, you want them to be happy, don’t you?’ Grandma sounded one hundred per cent certain about that.

  ‘I guess so . . .’ I murmured, and then I had to change the subject because Dad and Matthew were coming down the stairs towards me.

  As I gave up the phone so that Matthew could have a chance to speak to her, I found that I was feeling a lot calmer inside. And when I went back to bed and looked again at my mother’s photograph, I thought she looked more peaceful too. I know it sounds weird but it was almost as if, now that she had found a way of saying what she wanted to say to me, she felt much calmer too.

  It wasn’t until Juliette crept into my room all apologetic looking on Friday night, that I realized something had gone seriously wrong with our Lonely Hearts Plan. She was holding the newspaper in her hand.

  I sat up quickly. ‘What is it? Has Dad found out?’

  She shook her head. ‘But we did not read the instructions correctly. You don’t send your advertisement to the newspaper. You phone. Then they give you another number, which the lonely hearts ring if they want to leave you a message. Look!’ She pointed to the bit at the top that we hadn’t read properly before – the bit that gave you the complete instructions.

  ‘It’s all computerized!’ I said, in horror, after I’d pored over the relevant section for several minutes. You had to record a message into a voicemail thing when you sent in your ad. And then if someone liked your advert they rang the number and listened in to your message and if they liked that then they could leave you a message back with their phone number on it. ‘People don’t send you letters at all!’ I exclaimed.

  Juliette sighed. ‘The person seeking the partner must record the message for themselves, I think.’ She added, hopefully, ‘Perhaps if we tell your father he will agree to do it?’

  ‘No way! Dad hates computers! And answering machines! Anyway, he’ll be too embarrassed!’

  ‘These English men are easily embarrassed, it is true.’

  Just then there was a knock on my door and Dad stuck his head round. He stuck it back again pretty quickly when he saw Juliette. She was dressed in her nightshirt and when I say shirt, I mean shirt. She was wearing a pair of knickers as well, but I guess you probably couldn’t tell that from where Dad was standing.

  ‘Esmie, get to sleep,’ Dad growled. ‘You know you’ve got a busy day tomorrow. If you’re feeling up to it, that is.’ Dad reckoned it was a bit of a coincidence that I’d suddenly started feeling better on a Friday night just in time for the weekend. ‘And Juliette, I’m going into the bathroom now. I’d be grateful if you could streak back across the hall before I come out again.’

  Juliette raised her eyebrows at me. ‘See what I mean? Easily embarrassed, no?’

  I giggled and pushed her off my bed, kicking the newspaper off with her. ‘Are you coming tomorrow?’ I asked her. It was Holly’s birthday party tomorrow afternoon and Dad and Juliette had been invited too. Holly always has massive birthday parties with lots of grown-ups there as well as kids. This year they were having a barbecue in their back garden and I was going round early to help get things ready. ‘Go on, Juliette! It’ll be fun!’ I urged her.

  ‘And so will shopping be fun, I think,’ Juliette replied, smiling. ‘It is my day off, remember? No Esmie for the whole day tomorrow! Aahh!’ And she gave a sigh of pleasure like she was sinking into a longed-for hot bath.

  I stuck out my tongue at her, and she laughed and blew me a kiss as she slipped out of the door.

  Juliette was all right really. I snuggled down into bed and for once I didn’t feel like talking to my mother. But I didn’t go to sleep s
traight away. My mind kept drifting back to something that had happened just now. It was the way Dad had blushed and darted back outside when he saw Juliette, as if he was really embarrassed to see her in her skimpy nightshirt. Holly has this test she does on you if she wants to find out if you fancy someone. She looks straight at you and says the name of the boy she reckons you fancy and if you blush, she takes that as proof that you do fancy him. But Dad couldn’t fancy Juliette. I mean, she was loads younger than him and she drove him up the wall half the time. Of course, it was true that in movies people were always starting out hating each other and ending up falling in love. But that was in movies. Besides, Dad didn’t hate Juliette. He’d never said that. I tried to imagine Dad and Juliette doing something romantic like kissing each other. The thought of it made me want to laugh. I had to try really hard to think of something less funny or I knew I’d never get to sleep.

  I woke up next morning and looked at my alarm clock. With any luck Dad would already have left for work. Dad always works whether it’s the weekend or not when there’s a murder investigation on the go. He doesn’t know what a weekend is, if you ask me. Except when we’re on holiday. Dad really relaxes when we go away anywhere. He’s not a bit like those detectives you get in stories who always manage to get caught up in a murder mystery no matter where they go. Someone could stab and strangle and shoot someone to death right in front of Dad when we’re on holiday and I reckon he still wouldn’t stop licking his ice cream. Dad doesn’t even like to admit to being a detective if people ask and he usually pretends to be something else like a pharmacist or a financial adviser. Don’t ask me why he chooses those two. He says he reckons they sound like really plausible things to be.

  I went straight downstairs to the kitchen. The Saturday paper had been delivered and it looked like nobody had opened it yet. I hunted through it until I found the lonely-hearts page and then I took it with me into the living room and picked up the phone.

  I was nearly at the end of listening to my tenth advert when Matty came into the room. I didn’t hear him at first. ‘. . . So, if you’d like to leave me a message, well . . . well, then please leave me a message . . .’ It was painful, listening to some of them, but I thought it might help to hear the sorts of messages other people leave.

  ‘Esmie! What are you doing?’ Matty was staring at me.

  I jumped. ‘Nothing!’ I had already punched in another number and I reckoned it was best not to act too secretive, but before I could start pretending just to be on the phone to a friend he had snatched the receiver from me. ‘HEY! GIVE THAT BACK!’

  He let out a loud whoop as he realized what I was listening to.

  ‘Matthew! What are you doing?’ Juliette came charging into the room and snatched the telephone. After listening herself for a couple of seconds she slammed it down and glared at both of us. ‘What are you thinking of? These phone calls are not free! And your father, on his bill he has all the calls written out, each one separately . . . Each one . . . Each one . . .’

  ‘Itemized?’ I supplied, sheepishly.

  ‘Exactly!’ She spun round to glower at me. ‘And now he will ask who has been phoning this expensive number behind his back!’ She grabbed the paper to verify just how expensive it was and her face went pink. ‘See how much it is every minute? Look!’ And she threw it back at me, looking like she was thoroughly disgusted.

  ‘It’s OK. He’ll just think it was Matty,’ I attempted to reassure her. ‘Matty’s always phoning up those dodgy chatline numbers whenever his friends come round.’

  ‘I am not!’ My brother stopped grinning.

  ‘Yes, you are! Dad said if you didn’t stop lying about it he was going to start checking the phone for fingerprints!’

  ‘Esmie, stop it!’ Juliette gasped. ‘I do not wish for more arguments between Matthew and your father! It is much too boring!’

  ‘You don’t mean boring, Juliette, you mean—’ I began, but she interrupted me.

  ‘Boring is exactly what I mean, thank you! Tiresome! Repetitive! Always the same! That is boring, is it not?’ She was still glaring. ‘Esmie, you must come now and try on your dress for Holly’s party! Your father has had to go to work for a few hours but he will be back soon. We must start to do your hair.’

  ‘Why were you phoning up the lonely hearts, anyway?’ Matty asked suddenly, as Juliette and I reached the door. ‘Planning on finding yourself a sugar daddy, were you?’

  ‘Matthew, do not be so . . . vulgar!’ Juliette hissed, before I could even ask what a sugar daddy was. She looked at me. ‘Have you told him?’

  ‘NO!’ I said, vehemently. ‘And we’re not going to either!’

  ‘Told me what?’

  ‘Come on, Juliette!’ I said, tugging at her arm. ‘It’s our secret!’ And I gave Matthew an icy look as I pulled her away.

  ‘Secret?’ My brother narrowed his eyes in a determined sort of a way which I should have taken as a warning sign, only I didn’t.

  The new dress I got for Holly’s party is worth telling you about. Juliette helped me choose it. It’s deep green – forest green, it says on the label – and it’s got a scalloped neckline made of green lace. It’s fitted above the waist and then it’s all loose below with the material billowing out in a sophisticated floaty sort of way when you walk. (When I showed it to Dad he said something about Marilyn Monroe and not to go standing over any air vents in the pavement.)

  Juliette rejected loads of dresses before she picked this one. She wrinkled up her nose – even though she says that’s something that only English people do – at the first one I tried on which was scarlet with a high ruffly neck. ‘You look like a Christmas cracker!’ she protested.

  Then she did the same with all the other ones I tried on that were mostly bright pink or purple with loads of sparkly bits on them. ‘They are so girlish, no?’

  ‘Well I am a girl!’ I retorted, huffily, in Marks and Spencer’s because, by that time, I was starting to get tired of hiking round all the shops in town.

  ‘Yes, and so is Holly and what will she be wearing, I wonder? A pretty little party dress with sparkles on it? I think not!’ Juliette picked up a plain black dress and held it against me. ‘Chic, but too old for you, I think.’ She put it back and moved round to the other side of the rack.

  I sighed as I dragged after her. I was beginning to know how Holly feels when she goes shopping with her father. Holly’s dad is ever so fussy about Holly’s clothes. He specializes in designing women’s clothes himself and he’s always trying them out on Holly. (He used to try them out on Holly’s mum but now she won’t let him.) Anyway, if Holly ever buys something from a shop then he always insists on it looking good in case anyone mistakes it for something of his.

  ‘Holly will be wearing something very sophisticated, no?’ Juliette said. ‘And I will not have you going to that party like a little babyish . . . doll . . . just because—’ She stopped abruptly.

  ‘Because what, Juliette?’

  She was flushing a little. ‘Because you do not have a mother to help you choose nice things! OK?’

  ‘But I do have nice things!’ I protested.

  ‘Huh!’ She waved her hand in the air, dismissively. ‘I have seen inside your wardrobe!’

  ‘What’s wrong with my wardrobe?’ I demanded.

  ‘All those plain trousers with the elastic in the waist!’ She pulled a face. ‘And those dresses with those sleeves like this!’ She tugged at a dress nearby with puffy sleeves. ‘And those funny old cardigans! Urgh!’

  ‘My gran knitted me those cardigans!’ I said, indignantly. ‘And they’re not old! She knitted them last year when she was stuck in the house waiting for an operation to have her cataracts removed!’ My dad’s mother lives in Bournemouth with my aunt. She’s very old and doesn’t get out much but she never seems to stop knitting things.

  ‘Cataracts?’ Juliette looked horrified. (I found out later that the word is almost the same in French.) ‘See what I mean! She was blind when
she made them! All your clothes, they look like they have been made by a blind person! We must get rid of them! Otherwise, what will become of you? All the other children will laugh! All the boys will laugh, no?’

  ‘I don’t wear those cardigans!’ I said, defensively. ‘I just keep them in case . . . well . . . in case my granny comes to stay. So I don’t hurt her feelings.’

  ‘I am the one who has feelings,’ Juliette said, firmly. ‘Feelings about seeing you dressed like a baby! Come, we will try that new boutique down the road.’

  ‘But Juliette, it’ll be too expensive!’

  But she just waved the blank cheque Dad had given her in my face and told me to hurry up.

  And that’s how I ended up coming home with the most perfect – and most expensive – dress I’d ever owned.

  ‘I reckon you’ll have grown out of that by the time I’ve finished paying for it, young lady,’ Dad said, as I twirled in front of him just before going out of the door. He’d seen me in my new dress before when we’d first brought it home from the shop, but now my hair was all done up in a sort of wispy French knot, and Juliette had lent me her favourite necklace to wear as well. He stretched out his hand and added, softly, ‘Come here.’ And he liked the way I looked a lot. I could tell.

  He’d come home to run me to the party, but then he had to go back to work, though he’d promised to join us at Holly’s later on. Juliette still hadn’t left to go shopping and now she was standing looking at me with a big smile on her face as I stood in the middle of the hall.

  Dad turned and smiled at Juliette really warmly, like he liked her as much as he liked my dress all of a sudden.

  ‘Juliette,’ I said, giving her my most angelic smile. ‘Please will you come to Holly’s party after you’ve been shopping? Just for a little while. Dad’s coming, aren’t you, Dad?’

  Dad raised an eyebrow, looking cynical. ‘It seems that if I don’t, I’ll be missing out on the social event of the year.’