“What are we doing today, Mum?” came the all-too-familiar question.
Saturday was our treat day when we went to the Popcorn Club at the cinema or to the swimming pool.
Saturday used to be the day when their father would spoil them until he decided to move to America with his new Californian wife who had the cheek to have legs up to her armpits and look like a coat-hanger.
Tony (aka The Arsehole) came home one day about four years before this and announced that he no longer loved me but hoped that I would understand that he had found a soul mate. Stella was the American stick insect’s name. Tony met her through business and it was the start of a beautiful relationship. It was just a pity that the prick didn’t remember that he was in one with me at the time.
My children no longer saw their father and he didn’t seem to care. He and his new wife were expecting a baby, I had heard, and were all loved up. Tony’s sadistic old hag of a grandmother took great pleasure in imparting this particular piece of information just as I was unloading my trolley in Tesco’s the previous week. My first thought when I had digested the news was that I hoped that the baby had an unusually large head. Perhaps if the bimbo went through a tough labour she wouldn’t be so keen to get pregnant by other people’s husbands and her sprog wouldn’t be nicking Ben and Carly’s father either.
Saturday evening came and we were all pooped. My children loved saying or rather singing that word, should I say. We all loved the film Father of the Bride, you see, so the kids liked to indulge in a verse of “Every Party has a Pooper” and stick in “Mum” where George Banks’ name should be.
The day had been hectic. We went to the circus at Ruby’s request. Ruby was a child at heart and not having children of her own she often used mine as an excuse to do things that she should have grown out of years ago. She loved the circus so accompanying Ben, Carly and me was a good reason to go. The children had always called her Auntie Ruby and she was like one of the family. A very noisy, boisterous addition in fact.
“First one to bed gets a bottle of chocolate milk!” I shouted and heard the children scrambling to beat each other into their rooms. Of course they knew I had one sitting in the fridge for each of them but they didn’t seem to care about that as I announced the competition.
An hour later and I had finally settled in front of the Saturday-night film with a glass of White Zinfandel. I was trying my best not to keep looking at the phone but I couldn’t help it. It was sitting in the corner of the room mocking me by remaining silent.
I repeated the mantra over and over again in my head. He’s not going to phone. He’s not going to phone. He’s a man. He’s not to be trusted and he’s not going to phone.
Midway through my inner speech the phone rang and I sloshed wine all over my jeans.
“Hello?”
“Hello, can I speak to Lois?”
“I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number,” I said with bitter disappointment in my voice.
“That’s a pity,” the caller said. “Because it’s Clark Kent here.”
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Anyone for Me? Page 35