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

by Suzy K Quinn

Those bloody brambles!

  The next few months are going to be hard work.

  I’ll be working in the pub at night, then doing what I can to the house in the day.

  Mum and Dad say they’ll help with Daisy as much as possible.

  Really appreciate that.

  Don’t know what I’d do without my family.

  Sunday 6th August

  Getting a bit panicked about STILL not having a builder. I have four months until the next court hearing, in which time I need a functioning staircase, roof, heating system, kitchen, bathroom and toilet.

  There’s a LOT to do.

  Am stressed just thinking about it.

  Have got a list together.

  Essentials

  Roof

  Kitchen

  At least one new toilet

  Bath

  Staircase

  Furniture

  Structural repairs to fire-damaged parts

  Carpet

  Kitchen flooring

  Double glazing

  Would be nice, but unlikely to afford for a few years

  Fridge with ice dispenser

  Fake antler coat stand

  Princess wallpaper for Daisy’s room

  Monday 7th August

  Have spent the morning calling roofing contractors, builders, etc.

  Everyone is on holiday in Spain, Egypt or the Caribbean.

  Dad gave me the number of an ‘all round builder’ called Alf Leake who has ‘two new hips and all his own tools’.

  Alf retired years ago, but sometimes takes on projects if they’re not too far from home.

  Tried Alf’s number.

  A crackly voice came on the line and shouted, ‘What do you want? I was just dozing off.’

  ‘I’m Juliette Duffy,’ I explained. ‘My dad gave me your number.’

  ‘For building work?’ Alf snapped.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Building and roofing. Near Hillcrest Farm.’

  The line went quiet then, and I heard a cigarette being lit and inhaled. Then an explosion of coughing.

  ‘That the bottom of the village?’ said Alf gruffly.

  I told him it was.

  ‘I’d rather not,’ Alf barked, and hung up.

  Tuesday 8th August

  Really went to town on the brambles today.

  My conclusion is – brambles are evil.

  The garden shears I borrowed from Mum and Dad broke within half an hour, and my new ‘ultra tough’ garden gloves instantly ripped to shreds.

  Thank god for Althea with her welding mask and petrol-powered chainsaw.

  It took four hours to fill seven garden bags and take them to the tip.

  I’d estimate there are another hundred garden bags to go.

  Wednesday 9th August

  Spent another morning ringing builders. Have tried every local person, and am now ringing anyone this side of London.

  I’m trying to sound professional – like a proper project manager. But it’s hard, with Daisy grabbing at the phone and shouting, ‘Mummy STINKY old dingo.’

  I wish Callum wouldn’t teach her all these new insults.

  I know they’re not technically swearing, but the sentiment is still hurtful.

  Althea has offered to help with Hillcrest House.

  She loves a DIY project.

  ‘Wolfgang can learn to use a sledgehammer,’ she enthused. ‘He saw one on CBeebies and hasn’t shut up about it. Big hammer, big hammer.’

  God.

  The thought of Wolfgang with tools is scary.

  Pub shift now. Need to down a can of Red Bull.

  Thursday 10th August

  So sick of sodding brambles.

  Althea is a good motivator, because whenever I say I need a break she shouts at me.

  I can’t believe we’ve still got so much to do. If I think about it too much I want to cry. But I can’t back out now.

  Onwards and upwards.

  Friday 11th August

  Oh god, I’m so tired.

  I HATE FUCKING BRAMBLES!

  Have to work at the pub again tonight, which I’m not looking forward to. Will just have to push on through with the aid of Red Bull.

  Was so tired this afternoon that I dozed off on the sofa, while filling in a job application form.

  Fortunately, Daisy head-butted me awake, then climbed on top of me and pulled my eyes open.

  Saturday 12th August

  Broke down in the pub last night when someone ordered a pint of Cloudy Bramble cider.

  It’s too much!

  I can’t work and renovate a house and look after a baby.

  John Boy was very nice. He sat me on a bar stool, shooed the drunks away and poured us both a quadruple vodka.

  ‘Drink that and go to bed,’ he said. ‘I’ll sort this lot out. Everything will look better in the morning.’

  Things do look a little better this morning.

  Although the brambles are still impossibly huge.

  Sunday 13th August

  John Boy told Mum and Dad about my hysterical outburst, and the whole family, plus Althea, helped clear brambles today.

  Was extremely grateful.

  I think John Boy enjoyed himself, bare-chested and swinging the giant machete he’d borrowed from Yorkie.

  Mum was supposed to be looking after Wolfgang and Daisy, but soon got annoyed with Dad’s ‘half-hearted’ bramble chopping and threw herself headlong into cutting and clearing.

  Dad was a little hurt, but on Mum’s suggestion took himself off to investigate the old heating system. He was cheered to discover my boiler is the same model he and Mum had back in the 1970s.

  ‘A Firefly HDII,’ he told me, admiringly. ‘Top of the range in its day, heating a bath load of water in under four hours. These old boilers are built to last. I wouldn’t be surprised if it still works.’

  But I don’t share Dad’s love of the past.

  I’m from the disposable generation. We like things new and shiny.

  Monday 14th August

  Thank GOD.

  We’ve cleared the brambles.

  Now I can see the wreck of a house I’ve bought.

  It’s not pretty, but at least my lacerated skin will have a chance to heal.

  Tuesday 15th August

  Alex phoned from Dubai.

  ‘Juliette,’ he said, ‘How’s the house renovating going?’

  ‘Hard,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realise it would be so hard.’

  He laughed and said, ‘It’s only one house. Do you know how many hotels I’m renovating right now?’

  Which I didn’t think was very sympathetic, and told him so.

  ‘Well, what needs doing?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Everything,’ I said. ‘Roof. Stairs. Walls. Furniture – and possibly an antler coat stand for the hall.’

  He laughed and said, ‘The last one sounds easy enough. Unless you want real antlers.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘That would be barbaric. Bambi won’t lose another parent on my account.’

  ‘You eat meat, don’t you?’ said Alex. ‘Wear leather shoes?’

  ‘Please don’t tell me you go hunting,’ I said.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Alex curtly. ‘My father always wanted me to go, but I point-blank refused.’

  Which I thought was sort of nice.

  Wednesday 16th August

  I’m getting increasingly frantic now, re: finding a builder.

  I’ve made so many phone calls that my ear is suffering from heat rash.

  Have abandoned feeding Daisy healthy food, and gave her fish fingers with a Dairylea dip for lunch and tea today.

  Again.

  ‘What are you fussing about?’ said Mum, when I told her I was feeling guilty. ‘You and your sisters had breaded stuff every day. And you turned out just fine.’

  Thursday 17th August

  Just told Mum about the builder situation, and she said, ‘Haven’t you tried Alf Leake yet? I thought your dad gave you his numb
er.’

  I told her Alf had refused the job.

  ‘Give me your phone,’ said Mum, hefting her boobs up.

  She dialled Alf’s number and shouted, ‘Alf, you old bugger. It’s Shirley Duffy. If you want to drink in my pub again, you’ll do this job for my little girl.’ Then she covered the phone and said, ‘He wants to know when you’d like him to start.’

  Friday 18th August

  Met Alf at Hillcrest House today.

  He was a tiny, wizened figure with crew-cut white hair and paint-splattered overalls, and arrived on a rattling old pushbike, pulling a trailer of rusty tools.

  I have to say, Alf moved well for someone with two new hips.

  ‘It’s a bleddy mess,’ Alf told me, looking over the house. ‘I’d better get cracking.’

  And off he went.

  I’ve never seen such a tiny person carry heavy loads like that.

  It was like watching an ant dragging a tree.

  Offered Alf tea and sandwiches from the pub, but he refused, saying he had condensed milk and four cans of pilchards in his trailer.

  Alf is cracking on with structural repairs, but says he needs written planning permission before he can do the roof.

  ‘I thought all I’d have to do was phone the council,’ I said. ‘The estate agent said the planning stuff was a formality.’

  ‘When have you known the council to do anything by phone?’ Alf barked. ‘It’s always by letter.’

  ‘How long will it take?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the council,’ said Alf. ‘How long’s a piece of string?’

  Saturday 19th August

  Mum and Callum’s birthday today.

  They both wanted to go go-karting.

  It was fun, but Mum was a very bad loser, moaning about ‘unfair’ cornering and ‘why can’t you all let me win on my bloody birthday?’

  She calmed down when we got to Pizza Hut, after the first round of cheesy garlic bread.

  Callum is now six and the oldest in his class. He could have started school aged four and ended up the youngest, but August children are allowed to start late these days.

  Brandi was against it at first. She wanted an extra year of free childcare. But the headmistress persuaded her, explaining about all the extra reading Brandi would have to do if Callum got behind.

  Sunday 20th August

  Have downloaded LOTS of paperwork, and am struggling to interpret the council’s planning website.

  Was hard doing all the official stuff with Daisy around.

  She kept bashing the computer keyboard and making weird symbols appear like ®©†^ø.

  May have accidentally symbol sworn on my planning application.

  Monday 21st August

  Planning application done.

  Now I just have to wait, and periodically nag the council with phone calls.

  Right.

  Time to don my barmaid’s apron and drink a super-strong coffee.

  Tuesday 22nd August

  Stress!

  Work at Hillcrest House has come to a standstill, because there’s no running water.

  I offered to bring Alf cups of tea from the pub while the problem was sorted, but apparently he needs water to mix cement and so forth.

  Alf says the water board must have cut off the water – probably because I’ve failed to pay a bill.

  ‘You’ll have to get in touch with them quick,’ Alf said. ‘Send your letter first class, if I were you.’

  ‘It’ll probably be quicker to phone,’ I replied.

  Alf scratched his bristly head and said, ‘The water board use phone lines these days? That’s a new one.’

  Wednesday 23rd August

  Phoned my local water company, Amigo Water.

  They confirmed the water has been cut off, and said I’d have to make a full application before they’ll re-supply Hillcrest House.

  This means tracing the pipes and working out where water should come in, then sending diagrams.

  Have enlisted Dad for help with this.

  He has an engineering background, and likes nothing better than strapping on his head torch and exploring dark spaces.

  Thursday 24th August

  Big problem.

  Not only does Hillcrest House not have running water, it has also been blocked off from the sewage outlet.

  Dad found the problem while we were arguing over the 1970s bile-yellow bathroom suite. (‘Look at the quality of that ceramic. You just don’t get scalloping like that these days. Why in heaven’s name would you want to replace it?’)

  Dad pulled the fish-shaped flush handle to demonstrate the longevity of 1970s craftsmanship, and we discovered a worrying truth.

  The flush worked. But the black toilet water didn’t go anywhere.

  ‘Everything was plumbed in before,’ I said. ‘The estate agent tried one of the taps.’

  After a quick trip home for his waterproof overalls, Dad strapped on his head torch and climbed into the nearest drain.

  He discovered the waste pipe has been blocked off.

  ‘It’ll be to do with privatisation,’ said Mum, when we got back to the pub. ‘Life was much better when everything was state-owned. You went to the dentist, they fixed your teeth. You shat in the toilet, they took it away.’

  Have made lots of panicked calls to Amigo Water, but keep being transferred to different departments and promised call-backs that don’t happen. No one wants to take responsibility.

  Tried to phone Alex, but I think he was flying because the call wouldn’t connect.

  DESPERATE for advice, re: sewage.

  Not very romantic, but this is my life right now.

  Maybe I can ask the pub regulars for sewage advice during my shit … I mean shift tonight.

  Very tired.

  Friday 25th August

  Have spent the day phoning various officials, literally talking shit.

  Of course, I used polite terms like ‘waste material’ and ‘sewage’.

  But we all know what I meant.

  Got passed around to twenty different people, and left messages with several others.

  Am really panicking about this.

  My life so far has been one of privilege.

  I’ve always had access to toilets and running water (except one time at the Reading festival, when drunk people were pushing the portaloos over and I was too scared to go).

  Phoned Althea for advice, and she shouted at me for ‘overthinking’ and ‘mental female worrying’.

  ‘What are you stressing about?’ she said. ‘Just live off grid.’

  Apparently, a friend of hers shits on a compost heap and pisses directly on his vegetables.

  Told the pub regulars about this, and Yorkie said he did the same thing when his toilet was broken. Except he doesn’t grow vegetables or have a compost heap. And he doesn’t have a back garden. So he pretty much just shat on the weeds in his front garden.

  Saturday 26th August

  In all the house stress, I forgot to take Daisy round Nick’s today.

  It was like a weird role reversal, having Nick phone and ask what was happening.

  Rushed Daisy to our agreed meeting spot at the local library, and found Nick waiting anxiously with a load of art and craft materials.

  Told Nick about the sewage disaster, and he was very sympathetic, giving me a hug and telling me it would all be all right.

  Was nice.

  Wish he’d been more like that when we were together.

  Nick asked if he could see Daisy again, mid-September, to make up for the ‘half visit’.

  Agreed.

  We’ll meet at Nick’s house then, which I’m not all that happy about. I think mainly out of jealousy, because I know he’ll have at least two flushing toilets, and maybe even an en suite.

  Sunday 27th August

  Have been Googling, ‘How to make your own cesspit’.

  There are some biological toilet options that don’t seem too bad.

  Yes – I wou
ld have to shovel shit at some point. But it’s better than carrying poo up the lane in a carrier bag.

  Monday 28th August

  Summer Bank Holiday

  Did a shift in the pub yesterday, and chatted to Polish Malik about relationships.

  According to Malik, Alex is a good man, but we have a ‘lifestyle conflict’.

  I can’t cut Nick out of my life, and I don’t think Alex can stop being jealous. Which leaves us nowhere.

  Along with relationship advice, Malik gave me some good news, re: Hillcrest House.

  Apparently, I don’t need a specialist kitchen fitter.

  ‘I will save you some money here, Juliette,’ he said. ‘Because you can fit your own kitchen very easily. When you think about it, it’s only hanging cupboards.’

  This cheered me up, as the kitchen fitter Mum recommended is on a Royal Caribbean cruise.

  Sent Alex a text just before closing time:

  ‘Can you really see us working? Juliette. xx’

  Alex replied immediately:

  ‘If I didn’t see us working, I wouldn’t be trying.’

  I texted back: ‘I don’t see you trying all that hard, Alex.’

  Then he replied: ‘If that’s what you think, then perhaps we’re too different after all.’

  No kisses or anything.

  Texted back: ‘You think we’re different?’

  He replied: ‘Certainly we’re different. Our journey won’t be easy.’

  I wrote back: ‘I don’t want challenges right now, Alex. I want a proper relationship, where we see each other every day and you don’t go all cold and angry because I’ve seen Daisy’s father.’

  Alex texted: ‘You’re asking for more than I can give.’

  I texted back: ‘I’m not going to ask for less. If you can’t give more then we’re over.’

  He replied: ‘If that’s what you want.’

  Feel really, really sad, but what can I do?