by Suzy K Quinn
Still. We’re all extremely proud of him.
After losing his leg, John Boy spent a long time in hospital, having fistfights with anyone who used bad language in front of the nurses.
Mum ushered John Boy into the living room, where he pulled out presents from his rucksack:
A jumbo tin of Quality Street for ‘the ladies’ (Mum, Brandi and me).
Army-ration lamb-stew sachets for Dad’s countryside hikes.
Twenty Afghani pirated DVDs for Daisy and Callum (most of which contained moderate to frequent bad language and violence).
After distributing gifts, John Boy started doing push-ups on the floor, clapping his hands between each one. For more of a challenge, he made Callum sit on his back.
After eating all the green triangles, Mum asked, ‘Are you glad to be out of Afghanistan, John Boy?’
‘Not really,’ he said, switching to one-handed push-ups. ‘I miss the lads. The punch-ups. The ten-mile desert runs. Staying awake all night on watch. But it wasn’t meant to be. The physio said sand and prosthetic legs don’t mix.’ Then he looked sad and said, ‘They won’t have me back now anyway. Not with half my leg missing.’
‘You’ve been living with Trina, haven’t you?’ said Mum. ‘What happened? Did she kick you out again?’
‘We had a bit of a barney,’ John Boy admitted, grabbing Callum in a headlock and ruffling his hair. ‘You know what Mum’s like.’
We all exchanged ‘yes we do’ looks.
Aunty Trina works in a hospital laundry and is obsessed with germs. She has cleaning products to clean cleaning products. Also, she’s deeply religious, and carries three different bibles in her handbag.
These days, Aunty Trina wouldn’t be allowed to adopt, but she and Uncle Danny got John Boy in the 1980s, before psychological evaluations came into it. All they had to be were homeowners and non-smokers. Racial background wasn’t considered either – the fact Aunty Trina is black and John Boy is white caused no end of comment and ridicule in the small town where they live.
‘What did you fall out over this time?’ Mum asked.
John Boy said Aunty Trina had thrown away his special edition, luminous-orange Adidas trainers.
‘I admit, I shouldn’t have retaliated,’ he said.
Apparently, John Boy phoned the local curry house and told them Aunty Trina wasn’t really an OAP.
‘She won’t get free papadums with her main anymore,’ said John Boy. ‘I’m not sure she’ll ever forgive me.’
Wednesday 11th January
Just had a heated phone call with Nick, re: maintenance.
‘Daisy and I can’t live above Mum and Dad’s pub forever,’ I said. ‘I’ll be going back to work this year, and it’s time you supported your daughter.’
Nick said he was trying to be a better dad, a better person.
‘Why don’t we just get back together?’ he said.
‘Jesus Nick, you’ve just had a baby with someone else,’ I said. ‘What on earth are you talking about? Think of your son. And Sadie. Cut the bloody theatrics and send me some money.’
‘I can’t do that Julesy,’ he replied. ‘It has to be legal and shit. We need to come to a proper adult agreement.’
‘But only one of us is a proper adult,’ I said.
‘I am an adult now,’ Nick insisted. ‘Living with Sadie has changed me. You can’t have two irresponsible people in the same house or there would never be any toilet paper.’
Agreed to meet in person tomorrow to ‘sort things out’.
I know exactly how the meeting will go.
Nick will try and charm his way out of paying up.
I will shout at him.
Then we’ll have to go to court.
Thursday 12th January
Met Nick in Hyde Park.
It was FREEZING.
Luckily, I’d bundled Daisy into a snow romper suit, ski gloves and boots, thermal hat, and scarf. She was more padding than baby.
For a change, Nick was on time. He swaggered into the park wearing tight black jeans, Ugg boots, a leather jacket, Afghani scarf and sunglasses.
Baby Horatio was with him, wearing tinted sunglasses and tucked under a Mulberry blanket. He was held aloft in one of those futuristic pod prams, like an offering to the gods.
‘You’ve dyed your trendy beard,’ I said.
Nick stroked his facial hair. ‘Oh. Yeah. Someone said it looked ginger, so I used Just for Men.’
‘Where’s Sadie?’ I asked.
‘Doing Instagram shots back at the apartment,’ said Nick. ‘You know – trying to get into mummy modelling.’
‘Doesn’t she need Horatio for that?’ I asked.
‘He throws up too much to get a good picture,’ said Nick. ‘We’ve nicknamed him Regurgatron.’
‘How can Sadie do mummy modelling without a baby?’ I asked.
‘She photoshops him in afterwards.’
Nick looked so tired. Drained. Like life had beaten him. He certainly wasn’t glowing with new fatherhood, and the excitement of Horatio’s massive balls had obviously worn off.
I suppose anyone would be tired, living with Sadie.
Nick watched Daisy with tears in his eyes.
‘She’s walking,’ he whispered. ‘And I missed it. Daddy wasn’t there.’
‘She’s not walking,’ I corrected. ‘She’s just hanging onto the pram. It’s called cruising.’
‘Isn’t that what gay men do outside nightclubs?’ said Nick.
Daisy took one look at Nick’s brown, beardy face and started crying.
‘I love you, Daisy boo,’ Nick simpered. ‘It’s Daddy.’
‘Nick, you’re a stranger to her,’ I said. ‘You hardly ever visit. How would you feel if a beardy stranger picked you up?’
‘That’s very hurtful,’ said Nick. ‘There’s no need to knock the beard.’
Then Horatio started crying and threw up cottage-cheese sick over his Mulberry blanket.
Nick went white. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Sadie’s going to kill me.’
He ran off in search of a dry cleaners.
I told him I’d text over my bank details.
Friday 13th January
Woke up this morning to find little Callum hiding under my bed wearing a gremlin mask.
I nearly screamed the house down.
I have a love–hate relationship with my mischievous nephew.
Callum is a great kid, but he can also be ‘challenging’. In other words, a little shit. Some people say he lacks a father’s firm hand, but my little sister Brandi is pretty strict, screeching at him morning, noon and night.
Anyway, Callum said he was playing a ‘Friday the 13th trick’.
‘You’re getting confused with April Fool’s Day,’ I told him, when my hysterics had worn off. ‘Friday the 13th is just unlucky.’
Callum thought about that. ‘I won’t bet on the footie today then,’ he said.
‘You’re betting on football matches?’ I asked. ‘How? You’re five years old.’
Apparently, Callum’s primary school has its own highly sophisticated bookmaking system, using Match Attax cards and keepie uppies as gambling currency.
Saturday 14th January
Told Dad I’m meeting Alex and his mother at Westminster Cathedral tomorrow.
Dad’s eyes filled with happy tears and he said, ‘I always dreamed you’d discover the true meaning of love.’
Mum said, ‘I’ll say this for religion. It wears you down the nearer you get to dying. But if it’s Mass, at least you’ll get free biscuits.’
Daisy perked up at this. ‘Biscuit! Biscuit!’
Dad looked stern. ‘It’s not only about biscuits, Daisy. It’s about Jesus. Anyway, you get wafers at Mass.’
‘Jesus biscuit?’ Daisy asked.
Mum said, ‘They probably sell Jesus biscuits at Aldi, Daisy. You get all sorts of weird confectionery there.’
Sunday 15th January
Mass at Westminster Cathedral.
After half an hour of screaming, scratching and biting, Mum said, ‘Oh let her wear all that weird stuff, love. She’s going to church. Judge not lest ye be judged.’
So, I took Daisy to our nation’s most famous cathedral dressed as a lunatic.
Met Alex outside Westminster Cathedral at 10am, in a swirling crowd of well-dressed Londoners and wide-eyed tourists.
Alex wore his Sunday best, which was basically the same crisp, black suit and white shirt he wears all the time, teamed with a wool coat and leather gloves.
He pulled me into a long, serious hug, and told me he’d missed me. Then he held my face and looked right into my eyes with that intense stare of his.
When Alex noticed Daisy, he smiled and knelt down to the Maclaren.
‘That’s a very fetching cap you’re wearing,’ he said, shaking Daisy’s hand. ‘My mother always says that ladies should wear hats to church.’
Daisy said, ‘Church. Biscuit?’
‘Well I don’t have any biscuits,’ said Alex. ‘But I did bring you one of these – if it’s okay with your mummy.’
He pulled a packet of fruit yoyos from his suit pocket and turned to me for approval.
‘She loves those,’ I said. ‘How did you know?’
‘I asked,’ said Alex. ‘My PA has young children. Come on. Let me introduce the pair of you to Anya.’
‘Anya?’ I said. ‘Your mother’s called Catrina, isn’t she?’
‘Anya is what Zach and I call her,’ Alex explained. ‘It’s the Hungarian word for mother.’
He stood then, and pushed the Maclaren towards the cathedral.
Catrina Dalton was by the steps, laughing gaily and shaking hands with tourists, like she was a visiting dignitary.
She wore a fitted pencil skirt, black high heels and a ruffled white blouse with a jewelled brooch at the collar.
Her white-blonde hair was in its usual French pleat under a swooping black hat, and her gleaming skin was stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Heavy kohl lined her eyes, and her lips were bright pink with gloss.
I must admit, Catrina looks great for fifty-something, even if she does dress like someone out of Dallas. But then, she’s had a lot of work done – including a fairly disastrous nose job that’s given her Michael Jackson nostrils.
Alex waved at her. ‘Anya. This is Juliette. The girl I’ve been telling you about. And her daughter, Daisy. You’ve probably seen her at our New Year’s Eve balls and around the village.’
Catrina gave me a celebrity smile and a little gloved wave, then turned on high heels and glided into the cathedral.
I felt like a rejected autograph hunter.
‘I wouldn’t swap her,’ said Alex, ‘most of the time. Come on. Let’s get you two inside – it’s cold.’
Alex parked the Maclaren, then led us into the magnificent cathedral.
I ended up squeezing onto a pew beside Catrina Dalton, hemmed in by Alex on the other side.
Catrina gave me another benevolent smile, eyes glazed and unseeing.
I smiled back, clutching Daisy.
Soon, the singing started.
I mumbled along where I could.
Alex didn’t sing at all, which made me feel better.
‘Why aren’t you singing?’ I whispered. ‘Don’t you know the words either?’
‘I don’t sing in public,’ Alex said, taking my hand and squeezing it.
‘Do you sing in private then?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘But you have a piano at your house.’
‘I haven’t played that in a long time.’
After the singing and some prayers, everyone lined up for wafers and Ribena from the priest.
I blurted out to Alex, ‘We’re not baptised or anything.’
Alex laughed. ‘Nor is Anya. You don’t have to go up if you don’t want to.’
Behind me, I felt Catrina Dalton bristle. ‘Alex! Vhat are you saying? Of course I am baptised.’ She pushed past us then, and joined the sacrament queue.
Alex whispered, ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Anya has a certain image to uphold. It doesn’t necessarily link to reality.’
Daisy noticed the wafers in the golden communion bowl then, and pointed excitedly at the priest, shouting, ‘MUMMY! BISCUITS! BISCUITS!’ Then she tried to clamber over Alex.
Alex held Daisy to stop her falling. ‘It looks like Daisy wants to take the sacrament. Shall we go up?’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘But we’ve never been blessed before.’
‘You’re blessed every day of your life,’ said Alex, handing me Daisy. ‘You have this little one. Look – just bow your head, hold out your hand and say Amen, then take a wafer for Daisy. It’s not strictly allowed, but otherwise I think you’ll have a riot on your hands.’
‘Okay.’
As we approached the huge-nostrilled priest, I threw on my best religious smile. ’Good morning, Father.’
The priest looked down at Daisy. ‘What colourful clothing!’
I bowed my head and held out a hand for the wafer, but while my attention was on the stone floor, Daisy grabbed five wafers from the priest’s golden bowl and stuffed them into her mouth.
Then she reached for his giant cup of Ribena.
‘Oh no, little one,’ chuckled the priest. ‘You can’t have that.’
‘Mine?’ Daisy enquired.
‘No, my child.’
‘Mine,’ Daisy decided, clamping both hands around the cup.
‘Daisy!’ I said. ‘Daisy! NO Daisy! Naughty!’
‘MINE!’ Daisy shouted, so the word rang around the stone walls.
The priest pulled.
Daisy pulled.
Then Daisy, sensing she was losing the battle, sank her teeth into the priest’s kindly fingers.
In slow motion, the chalice shot up into the air, splashing vivid purple Ribena over the stony floor.
The cup rolled noisily down the stone steps, coming to a stop by a frightened-looking old lady.
There was a stunned silence.
Beside me, I noticed Alex holding back a smile.
Then I heard Catrina Dalton’s distinctive Hungarian accent: ‘Good God.’
Daisy erupted into angry tears, landing a few well-aimed punches on the priest’s arm before I could carry her away.
‘NO man. BOLLOCKS man!’
I hurried down the aisle and out of the cathedral, with Daisy howling over my shoulder.
On the hard, grey steps, I sat Daisy on my lap and dabbed her teary cheeks.
Then I heard Alex’s leather shoes hitting concrete, and felt him sit down beside me.
‘Juliette,’ said Alex, eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘How was your first holy communion?’
‘Awful,’ I said. ‘I’m so embarrassed.’
‘Don’t be.’ Alex took my hand. ‘You were wonderful.’
‘Something tells me your mother doesn’t think I’m wonderful.’
‘My mother doesn’t usually pay much attention to other people. But I think you’ve made your mark.’
‘By bringing a swearing child into her place of worship?’
‘Anya’s not as devout as she makes out. She wasn’t brought up Catholic. She converted when she met my father. Come on – let me take you for lunch.’
After sandwiches and soup at a nearby deli, Alex bought us takeaway coffees and we pushed Daisy along the Thames.
Late afternoon, as darkness fell, Alex called a driver to take us home. He spent ages checking Daisy’s car seat, and even made sure I was strapped in properly too.
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I know how to work a seatbelt.’
Alex looked serious. ‘I like to make sure. I’d hate it if anything happened to you.’
We held hands the whole way home.
When we reached Mum and
Dad’s pub, Alex kissed me goodbye.
‘We’ll try again with my mother another time. Okay?’ he said.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Thanks for today.’
We smiled at each other.
Then Alex kissed me again and said, ‘See you soon.’
Monday 16th January
Just checked my bank account.
Predictably, there was no money from Nick.
Have arranged a ‘last chance’ meeting with him.
Alex has been texting from New York.
I get all giddy and excited when a new message arrives.
Alex always asks questions:
Where are you? What are you doing? Are you okay?
So different from Nick’s former ‘romantic’ messages, which were usually pictures of himself in various ‘amusing’ poses.
Alex isn’t happy that I’m meeting Nick tomorrow. He referred to Nick as ‘Nick Spencer’ and wrote he was ‘disappointed’ with my choice of companion.
But what can I do? I don’t have a choice of companion. I’m stuck with Nick, for Daisy’s sake.
Can Alex and I really work past one amazing night? I mean, really? I suppose anything’s possible.
Will have to reread Cinderella.
Tuesday 17th January
Met up with Nick again, this time at Taylor St Baristas near our old flat in Canary Wharf.
Correction, my old flat.
Now Nick and Sadie’s current flat.
Nick started with the usual theatrics – sobbing that Daisy barely recognised him.
‘If you want Daisy to recognise you, make a proper visitation schedule,’ I said. ‘No more of this “as and when” business. Think of your daughter for a change.’
‘And how do I do that?’ Nick demanded. ‘Sadie keeps my balls in the bedroom drawer. The only reason she let me out today was because I’m wearing a geo-tracker.’
‘Let’s talk about maintenance,’ I said.
‘I offered you fifty quid a month—’
‘No,’ I snapped. ‘You can afford more than fifty quid a month.’
‘My income is complicated,’ Nick wheedled.
‘We can always prove your income in court,’ I said.
‘Can’t we just get back together, Jules?’ said Nick, sounding tired. ‘I know I screwed it up. But I can’t turn back the clock.’