Bad Mother's Detox - a Romantic Comedy: Funny Romance (Bad Mother's Romance Book 2)

by Suzy K Quinn

  I nodded.

  ‘What can you do about that asking price?’ Alex barked at Clarke. ‘What’s the leeway?’

  ‘Two percent,’ said Clarke. ‘They can’t afford to go lower.’

  Alex turned to me. ‘Well, Juliette. I suggest you set up a viewing. And speaking of viewing houses, would you like to come round my house for dinner this Sunday?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ I said, surprised by the invitation.

  So will see Station Cottage next week.

  And seeing Alex at his HOUSE this Sunday.

  Thursday 13th April

  Work.

  Spent the day filling in complicated expenses sheets and ordering crates of Red Bull.

  Asked Hari about getting time off over the Easter holidays, but he wasn’t optimistic.

  ‘Charity doesn’t take holidays, Juliette. Christian festivals are some of our best collection times. We don’t say Jesus Christ here. We say Jesus ching, ching, ching!’

  Got home at 6.30pm, limp and exhausted.

  Daisy was already sleeping.

  Was awful not to be able to cuddle her or sing a lullaby.

  Cried a bit as I looked over the cot.

  Mum told me off for feeling guilty. ‘Me and your dad used to leave you kids all the time. And you turned out just fine.’

  Friday 14th April

  Good Friday

  Arrived late for work this morning due to train delays. An old lady lost her ticket and couldn’t pay the fine, so they held the train while the rail company had her arrested.

  Sprinted into the office at 9.30am and got the shock of my life.

  NICK was sitting with the collection team, drinking Red Bull and nodding his head to thumping house music.

  I have to say he looked the part – dressed in a Florence and the Machine t-shirt and eye-wateringly tight jeans. You wouldn’t have guessed he was forty.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I shrieked.

  ‘Taking up stable employment,’ said Nick, accepting a fluorescent tabard from a girl with pink hair. ‘You heard what the mediator said. I need to show I’m a provider.’

  A bearded student type whooped and gave Nick a high five.

  ‘This isn’t stable employment,’ I told Nick. ‘It’s temporary sales hell for twenty somethings who still live at home. There’s no way you can earn a proper living—’

  ‘Uh oh!’ Hari interrupted. ‘Sounds like a neg head. Team, who thinks Juliette should do twenty press-ups for being such a downer?’

  ‘I’m not doing sodding press-ups, Hari,’ I snapped. ‘Nick, you need to leave.’

  ‘But I’ve joined the collection squad,’ Nick protested. ‘And I’m going to give 110% today.’

  There were more whoops and cheers.

  ‘There are a million crappy jobs you could have taken,’ I shouted. ‘Why pick this one?’

  ‘It’s not a crappy job,’ said Nick, creaking in his black skinny jeans. ‘Hari has explained there’s an excellent career structure. Look, I’m trying. Okay?’

  He gave me his puppy dog eyes, and a pink-haired girl said, ‘Aww!’

  ‘Did Hari also tell you street collecting is a cash-in-hand job?’ I asked. ‘Unless you declare it, I can’t touch you for maintenance payments.’

  Nick waved his hand airily. ‘I don’t get caught up in all that tax nonsense. Look – I’ll pay you something once I get going, all right?’

  ‘You’re a massive shithead, Nick,’ I said.

  As I was storming off to get a Red Bull, I saw three (female) street collectors putting comforting arms around Nick’s shoulders.

  Saturday 15th April

  Am commiserating with a LOT of Easter eggs today.

  Nick did brilliantly yesterday and today.

  He was one of the top collectors.

  We all had to give the ‘new boy’ a high five, and tell him how well he’d done.

  As I left the office, stuffing mini eggs into my mouth, Nick caught up with me.

  ‘Thanks for telling me about this opportunity, Julesy,’ he said, bounding along. ‘I never considered charity my thing. But Hari has explained it’s not all about giving. I can take some for myself too.’

  ‘Just pay some sodding money for Daisy,’ I said.

  ‘When are you going to drop all this cash talk, Jules?’ Nick asked. ‘We’re collecting for kids who don’t have a thing.’

  ‘Too true man,’ said one of the bearded young collectors, cycling past us on a rusty old bike. ‘This job isn’t about the money. I mean, how can it be? It pays like nothing.’

  Evening

  Feeling a bit funny about dinner round Alex’s tomorrow.

  His house is VERY posh, from what I remember of it. And of course, there are bedrooms there. Which invites the question … are we finally going to sleep together again?

  Seems a bit unladylike to ask.

  So will just wait and see.

  Mum is very happy to babysit overnight if needs be, saying it’s about time I let my hair down.

  Sunday 16th April

  Dinner with Alex.

  It was a ten-minute walk to Alex’s front gate, and a further fifteen minutes up the driveway to his front door.

  The air was warm, and the sun still bright when I arrived.

  Alex was waiting for me on the porch, hand resting casually on a pillar.

  He’d made a nod to informality by taking off his tie and loosening his shirt collar.

  ‘You walked,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Why not?’ I replied. ‘You’re only up the road.’

  ‘I thought you’d come in that old car of yours,’ Alex said, showing me inside.

  ‘My car isn’t that old,’ I said. ‘It’s just not a Rolls Royce.’

  ‘I don’t have a Rolls Royce any more. I sold it, remember? One of my better exchanges, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Well if you ever want to borrow my Fiat …’

  Alex’s house was immaculate, but there were no personal touches like books or photos. It felt more like a hotel, really.

  Lots of things were in pairs, I noticed. Two stone owls on the mantelpiece, next to a pair of brass candle holders and two leather bibles. A pair of tables stood in the hall, with matching flower vases on them. There were even two brass umbrella holders.

  Alex had laid out veal steak, fresh pasta, pesto and various French cheeses he’d picked up in Paris (‘a light supper’) in his showroom kitchen.

  Everything was duplicated there too, including two identical vases of white roses.

  Alex completed the ‘Home and Garden’ look by offering me red wine in a huge balloon glass. He had a matching one, of course.

  There was a maid to help clear up, but other than that we were totally alone.

  ‘Where’s Jemima?’ I asked, realising I hadn’t seen Alex’s cute little sister in forever. ‘I thought she came home at the weekends.’

  ‘No. Not this weekend. It’s her birthday tomorrow, so she’s been summoned to London.’ Alex raised an eyebrow. ‘My mother is taking her shopping.’

  ‘Won’t she have a birthday party?’ I asked.

  ‘My family aren’t big on birthday parties,’ said Alex. ‘They always end in arguments.’

  ‘I don’t even know when your birthday is,’ I said. ‘You never had parties when you were at school.’

  ‘It’s November the fifth,’ said Alex. ‘Firework Night. The date my family home nearly burned down.’

  I glanced at Alex’s arm then, seeing the twisted scar tissue under his rolled-up shirtsleeve. God. For something like that to happen on your birthday …

  ‘We can eat outside,’ said Alex, gesturing to the bi-folding doors and extensive grounds.

  I was happy with that, knowing that any mess I made would be far less conspicuous.

  ‘It’s a massive garden,’ I said, helping the maid carry everything outside.

  Alex helped too, ensuring everything was arranged symmetrically.

  Halfway through our alfresco mea
l, I dropped the ‘Nick working at Give a Damn’ bombshell.

  The clink clink of expensive cutlery cutting veal steak was chilling.

  ‘Look, it won’t last forever,’ I said, breaking the silence. ‘Nick has no work ethic.’

  ‘How reassuring,’ said Alex. ‘Perhaps he’ll be fired.’

  Clink, clink.

  ‘It’s pretty hard to get fired from Give a Damn,’ I admitted. ‘Actually, Nick’s doing quite well. He’s already been promoted.’

  ‘Every dog has his day,’ said Alex. ‘It won’t be long until he shows his true colours.’

  I asked if he had any more clichés to throw on the pile.

  He said, ‘A person is known by the company they keep.’

  Alex called a taxi to take me home.

  Mum was surprised to see me back.

  ‘I thought you were staying the night,’ she said.

  ‘So did I.’

  Monday 17th April

  Easter Monday

  Long day at work.

  Nick got promoted to ‘Gold Collector’, because he recruited an eighteen-year old student girl silly enough to believe she’ll make a career out of charity street collecting.

  We all had to high-five Nick, and cheer, ‘Nick, Nick, he’s our man, if he can’t do it, no one can’, while Hari played GOLD! by Spandau Ballet.

  Then Nick won today’s bonus – a Wispa Gold Easter Egg with special edition mug.

  Tuesday 18th April

  Nick has been promoted again.

  He’s now a ‘Platinum Team Leader.’ It means he can build his own team of naïve students.

  I have to admit Nick is doing pretty well. He got thirty sign-ups today (all women), which put him in the top five collectors. And he’s recruited two new collectors (both women).

  I suppose it’s not a bad job for him, really.

  Nick isn’t afflicted with moral decency.

  Wednesday 19th April

  Email from the estate agents. They’re doing a ‘block viewing’ on Station Cottage tomorrow, so I have to see it with a load of other people.

  Althea says this is to make the house look popular.

  ‘They did the same thing when my place was on the market,’ said Althea. ‘It was like a bloody theme park. Luckily me and the estate agent bonded over Gypsy punk music, so I got first refusal.’

  ‘But what if I don’t bond over anything?’ I said.

  ‘You’ll have to try other tactics,’ said Althea.

  I think she was hinting at prostitution, but I’m not that desperate.

  Yet.

  Thursday 20th April

  Woke at 6am for house viewing.

  Was probably the first time I’ve EVER woken up before Daisy, and yet I still managed to be late.

  Daisy refused to eat porridge, refused to drink water and refused to wear socks.

  After breakfast, I wrestled Daisy to the floor, trying to grab her flailing feet.

  She wiggled free, flung off her nappy and threw it onto the kitchen lino.

  Unfortunately, somewhere in the struggle, she had pooed in her nappy.

  I was running late at this point, so shouted, ‘Mum! Daisy’s thrown poo on the floor, can you help? I have to go out. I’ll owe you a massive favour.’

  ‘No I bloody can’t,’ Mum shouted back. ‘My parenting days are over. I’m a grandma now. My role is provider of ice creams and toys.’

  ‘Dad!’ I shouted. ‘Can you help? I promise I’ll make it up to you.’

  But Dad was doing some delicate calculations, on suspicion that the brewery was ‘diddling’ him out of half a pint per barrel.

  So I cleared up the poo and ended up being late.

  Station Cottage was lovely – exactly like the pictures.

  There were LOTS of people at the viewing, though. Mostly young couples. Double incomes. But I got the estate agent’s name (Janice) and mobile number, and rang her immediately after the appointment.

  ‘I’d like to offer on Station Cottage please!’ I said, breathless with excitement.

  Janice was very coy, refusing to tell me if anyone else had made an offer.

  She just said, ‘I’ll put your offer forward.’ In the same way she might say, ‘Madonna has received your fan mail.’

  I’m just going to try and forget about everything now.

  Nothing to do but wait.

  Friday 21st April

  Launching a new product at work today – Refugee Flash Sale.

  Nick turned up late, vaping from a flashing neon pipe.

  When Lloyd tried to explain the new product, Nick said, ‘Yeah yeah, look I’m an actor, right? I can play any part.’

  But Lloyd warned Nick that street collectors get a lot of abuse on refugee projects.

  ‘Why do they get abuse?’ I asked.

  ‘Cause refugees take our jobs,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I said. ‘We’re desperate for people to work at Give a Damn. People quit every day.’

  ‘Foreigners take the good jobs,’ Lloyd clarified. ‘And leave us with the shit. We should send everyone who ain’t British home.’

  ‘But half our doctors are poached from overseas,’ I insisted. ‘If we sent foreigners home, the NHS would crumble.’

  ‘Oh my days,’ Lloyd laughed. ‘Refugees aren’t doctors.’

  Couldn’t be bothered to argue.

  Wonder how Nick will cope if he gets abuse? He has a very fragile ego.

  I suppose we’ll find out tomorrow.

  Saturday 22nd April

  Nick threw in his tabard before lunchtime yesterday.

  He sent Lloyd an email citing ‘psychological abuse’ and ‘corporate bullying’ as reasons for failing to complete the afternoon shift. But a friend of Althea’s saw him in Soho with a whisky sour, flicking through the pages of Stage.

  Nick says he’ll return to work as soon as we start collecting for third-world children again. So I have that joy to look forward to.

  Am encouraging Hari to run the refugee project for as long as possible.

  Sunday 23rd April

  Mum’s adopted a mangy cat she found outside the Spar shop.

  She’s named the cat ‘Sambuca’.

  I’m pretty sure Sambuca is bi-polar. One minute he’s friendly as anything, sitting on your lap and purring. The next, he turns on you, scratching for no reason.

  He’s the cat equivalent of Sadie.

  ‘Isn’t the pub crowded enough?’ I asked Mum.

  ‘Rubbish,’ Mum said. ‘You and Daisy will be off soon. You’ll get that nice little house by the station, I’m sure of it.’

  The estate agents still won’t tell me if there have been other offers on Station Cottage, though.

  Mum has a plan to keep other buyers away.

  Putting cat poo in the front garden.

  Monday 24th April

  WOOOOOOWWW!

  Totally unexpected phone call today – my house offer has been accepted.

  I honestly can’t believe it.

  Swung Daisy round and round.

  ‘We’re getting a house!

  Feels very unreal. But GOOD unreal.

  Have spent the day looking at pictures of Station Cottage, working out where I’m going to put things.

  Daisy will have her own room.

  I’ll never miss another train.

  No garden, but I have to be realistic. Single mums don’t live in mansions.

  I asked Mum how long it takes for a house sale to go through.

  ‘Will you be using a solicitor?’ she asked.

  I told her yes, of course. The estate agents recommended a local firm called Badger Partridge.

  ‘Imagine the longest time you can think of, then double it,’ Mum advised. ‘Solicitors are stuck in the Victorian age. If it were down to them, they’d send their post by horse and cart.’

  Phoned Alex, and he gave me muted congratulations. He couldn’t talk long – something about the on-going Amtico-flooring crisis.

&nb
sp; Tuesday 25th April

  Will be SO good to move house.

  Callum has joined the big dining table, and Mum still takes up one and a half chairs, despite her half-hearted dieting. So meal times are a tight squeeze. Also, all our food now tastes of bleach.

  But it won’t be long before I have a dining table of my own. Well, a half-sized one, anyway.

  Wednesday 26th April

  I walked past Station Cottage on my way home.

  The SOLD sign is up.

  It’s sold to me.

  ME!

  Thursday 27th April

  Badger Partridge Solicitors are doing ‘searches’ right now.

  Asked Mum what that meant, and she said, ‘They’ll be wasting time, sending letters back and forth to the local council, asking bloody obvious questions and charging you for the privilege.’

  Friday 28th April

  Nick was back at work today, downing Red Bull with the other charity collectors.

  ‘Come on, team,’ he was shouting. ‘Let’s give it 110% today. Woo! Yeah!’

  I miss Daisy at work. It hurts so much it’s almost physical.

  If someone had told me how much pain motherhood would bring, I may have thought twice about it.

  Saturday 29th April

  Got back from work to see the sweetest thing – Callum and John Boy singing Daisy a lullaby:

  Twinkle twinkle little star, my Dad drives a rusty car ...

  John Boy’s voice went quite falsetto in parts.

  When he saw me watching, he went all red and said, ‘Callum wanted to sing her a song. You know – for a laugh.’

  He’s a big softy really, despite the Rambo II survival knife he keeps in his underpants.

  Sunday 30th April

  Shopping at Lakeside with Mum, Dad and Brandi.

  We couldn’t all fit in one car, so I took my Fiat and Mum and Dad drove their Honda Civic Shuttle.

  When we reached Lakeside, Brandi and Mum went straight to New Look and bought as much neon lycra as they could lay their hands on.