Mummy Said the F-Word

by Fiona Gibson

  Darren flashes into my mind. Young, carefree Darren, who was under the illusion that he and I might have fun together. That seems laughable now.

  In the carriage, an elderly man is filling in a crossword, and a bunch of backpackers are checking guidebooks and maps. On the opposite seat, to the left, a woman sits with her head bent, her glossy black hair hanging around her face, engrossed in the contents of the file on her lap. She’s wearing a grey pinstriped trouser suit and is plugged into her iPod.

  ‘Want biscuit,’ Travis murmurs.

  ‘We’ll be home soon. You can have a snack before we pick up Lola and Jake.’

  ‘Want biscuit with ’ole in the middle.’

  ‘I think there’s some in the tin.’ I’m so done in after the shoot that I’ll let him hog as many as he wants. He can have the whole bloody packet. And Fanta, if there’s any left in the fridge.

  ‘WANT. BISCUIT.’ His voice blasts down the carriage. The man with the crossword rustles his newspaper irritably. The woman coughs. One day, in a parallel universe, maybe I’ll enjoy Tube journeys with an iPod.

  ‘Biscuit!’ Travis screams.

  ‘Yes, when we get home, but not if you have a tantrum.’ Breathe deeply, hold it in and release. Breathe. Breathe. ‘Avoid eye contact,’ Pike advised on last week’s problem page. ‘Never, EVER pay attention to a tantrum in a public place. As long as your child is safe, simply ignore him until the tantrum subsides. I might add that parents who over-indulge their children are merely encouraging these outrageous displays.’ Crossword man regards Travis disapprovingly. Bet his children never behaved like this.

  ‘Don’t like Mummy,’ Travis declares. ‘Mummy not my friend.’

  ‘Good.’ I stare fixedly at the file on the woman’s lap. She closes it and my gaze rests upon the teardrop-shaped logo on the front.

  Purity Springs. Personal Service Always.

  She glances up and our eyes meet. Something spins between us in the carriage, a ball of horror. I inhale sharply.

  ‘Hello, Daisy,’ I croak.

  She yanks out her headphones. ‘Oh, hi! Sorry, Caitlin, I didn’t see you.’ Her voice is high-pitched, and she giggles uneasily. At least she has the decency to look mortified. Her face is immaculately made up, although she looks bleary around the eyes. She’s probably been up half the night shagging the pants off my husband.

  ‘Finished work for the day?’ I ask curtly, although at 2 p.m. it’s unlikely.

  ‘I – I’m on my way to see clients at Liverpool Street.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Are you planning to shag them? I want to ask.

  She straightens the file on her lap. Crossword man folds up his newspaper noisily.

  ‘Settled into your new flat?’ I venture.

  ‘Um, yes, it’s lovely. Er, I mean … you know. It’s quite ordinary really, but it’s, um … fine.’

  ‘I hear it’s a penthouse,’ I add.

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that.’ Her laughter tinkles out like shards of glass. ‘There’s no room to swing a cat. We call it the penthouse as a joke.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bloody hilarious.

  ‘What’s a planthouse?’ Travis asks, mercifully distracted from his biscuit craving.

  ‘A very expensive flat,’ I explain loudly, ‘on top of a big building. Only very rich people can afford them.’ I regard her coolly, hoping that if I stare hard enough, my gaze will penetrate her frontal lobe and cause irreparable damage.

  ‘Really,’ she insists, ‘it’s quite tiny.’

  ‘Size isn’t everything,’ I reply.

  Daisy nods mutely and glances around the carriage, settling her gaze on the emergency handle. What a cow, she’ll be thinking. Is it any wonder that Martin left her for me? Look at her poor, starving child, desperate for a biscuit, and her face all caked in—

  Shit. I’d forgotten my face. What am I thinking, trying to freak her out? Daisy’s the one with the penthouse and architect boyfriend and nicely done make-up. I am the ladyboy with bouffant hair and lips dripping with grease.

  ‘Well, see you around.’ She leaps up and stuffs her folder into her bag.

  ‘Bye,’ I manage, as the train pulls into Liverpool Street.

  ‘Nice seeing you both.’ She grins broadly, any hint of nervousness gone.

  ‘Bye-bye!’ Travis says with a cheery wave.

  Daisy waves briefly and swoops off the train, her heels clacking on the platform. I swipe my oily lips against the back of my hand. They leave a scarlet smear, like a wound.

  12

  Carmen’s warpaint is an absolute swine to get off. I haven’t worn mascara since Jake was born – due to the fact that it’s the only item of make-up that doesn’t magically melt away while you sleep – so I don’t possess any remover or even cotton wool to wipe the wretched stuff off. (Daisy, I’d imagine, has pastel-coloured cotton-wool balls in a pretty glass jar from Liberty. And probably has her eyelashes dyed.)

  In the sanctuary of our bathroom I moisten a wad of loo roll and rub my eyelids. Although the mascara is smearing nicely on to the under-eye zones, there’s still a ton of it stuck to my lashes. What’s this stuff made from – creosote? Maybe Guy and his mates would be able to offer assistance with its removal or suggest a non-gunky substitute. I fear that I’ll never blink normally again My eyeballs will wither up through lack of lubrication.

  I make another loo-paper wad and scrub at the charcoal patches under my eyes. Now my skin looks raw and is stinging like buggery. Great. Now I look like I’ve been sobbing for weeks. With no time for further face-scouring, I set off with Travis to collect Lola and Jake from school, conscious of everyone checking out my stressed, puffy face.

  There’s nothing like the school-gate cluster to heighten your unease if you’re not feeling 100 per cent.

  ‘Hi, Cait!’ chirps Bev Hartnett, bastion of the PTA, in disastrous drapey blue trousers that might possibly hail from the New Romantic era.

  I grin tightly and turn away, but there’s no escape.

  ‘What’s happened to your face?’ she asks, feigning concern.

  ‘I, er, had my photo taken.’

  ‘What, for your passport or something? Are you going away?’

  ‘No, it was for, um, a work thing. A magazine thing.’

  She gives me a curious look. I will the school bell to ring and the children to rescue me from Bev’s unfaltering gaze.

  ‘Went to a horrible place,’ Travis announces. ‘Lady put fing on Mummy.’ He jabs a grubby finger at my lips.

  ‘Caitlin,’ cries Rachel, beetling over to join us, ‘you look terrible! Have you been crying?’

  ‘I was assaulted,’ I explain, ‘with a mascara wand.’

  ‘Really? Oh, come on. You’ve had one of those department-store make-overs, haven’t you?’

  ‘God,’ Bev chips in, ‘I never let them anywhere near my face, even when they’re giving out free samples.’

  Yet more mothers drift towards us, all focusing intently on my ravaged face. I feel naked and glance around desperately for Sam.

  Millie texts me: HOPE SHOOT WENT WELL BET U LOOKED GORGEOUS LOVE MX.

  ‘You owe me one,’ I growl at my phone.

  Sam waves from across the street and arrives by my side as the children surge from the building. While he raises an eyebrow, and is clearly studying my swollen eyes, he refrains from quizzing me in public. For that I could hug him, if Bev wouldn’t interpret it as evidence of our rampant affair. Can’t wait for the Easter holidays for a break from all this.

  Over the next few weeks I crack on with my page, grateful for regular work to temper my rage when Martin announces that he, Daisy and Poppy are going to Sardinia for the Easter holidays. ‘It was only a cheap deal,’ Martin mutters. ‘One of those last-minute things.’ What’s ‘only’ about whizzing off to Sardinia? There’s no only about it.

  I’ve heard nothing from Darren since our date. Even he didn’t want to meet up again, he could have called to see if I’d managed to find Mum. Clearly, he’s too
young to comprehend what it’s like to have an aged parent. His own mother is probably around forty-five. I feel hurt, and vaguely cross; after all, he’d called me and made all the moves. When I’m out shopping locally, I try to avoid passing the TV shop. If I can’t avoid it, I walk on the opposite pavement with my head twisted unnaturally to one side.

  Newsagents, too, are challenging. Every time I glimpse a copy of Bambino I’m reminded that time is ticking away to the dreadful day when my first problem page appears. Then I’ll be outed as a man, and life as I know it will be over. It makes Darren, and even Sardinia, pale into insignificance. Perhaps I could buy up every copy and have a gigantic bonfire in the garden. Or at least relocate to another country.

  In early April, the Easter break arrives finally and I wait at the school playground railings as Marcia and Bev discuss their forthcoming jaunt to southern France. A two-family holiday. How very jolly. I once suggested to Martin that we might consider going away with Rachel and Guy, and he’d given me a look to suggest that he’d rather saw off his own penis than holiday with another couple and their child.

  In that instance, perhaps he was right. A fortnight of creosote conversations, and no means of escape, is quite horrifying.

  The school bell rings shrilly and Jake appears at my side, dumping his schoolbag at my feet as if it’s my duty to carry it home. ‘What we doing for the holidays?’ He meets my gaze defiantly.

  ‘I haven’t planned anything, Jake. I thought we’d just play it by ear.’

  He looks disgusted. ‘You mean we’re not going away?’

  ‘Not everyone goes away at Easter,’ I explain hotly as Lola pelts to my side. ‘I’ll take you somewhere in the summer, and Daddy will too, so you’ll have two holidays.’ What a lucky, lucky boy from a broken home he is.

  Sam and Harvey weave their way through the throng towards us. ‘Heading straight home?’ Sam asks.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, eager to escape the Easter-holiday chatter.

  ‘Everyone goes away at Easter,’ Jake mutters, falling into step beside me.

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say. ‘Like everyone’s got an Xbox, and everyone takes Starbursts for playtime snack.’ I’d fallen for that one when Jake had started school, stocking up on so many multi-packs that it was a miracle his teeth hadn’t crumbled to dust by the end of the first week. I soon learned that most parents around here send their children to school with apples, raisins or bite-sized rice cakes.

  ‘Eve isn’t going away,’ I remind him.

  ‘Yes she is,’ Lola announces. ‘She’s going to Center Parcs.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Damn, I remember now that Rachel booked it at the last minute. I start to explain that Center Parcs costs a fortune, and that most families go there for their main holiday – not a tiddly extra at Easter – but tail off as it’s clear that no one believes me. ‘What about you, Harvey?’ I ask. ‘You’re staying at home, aren’t you?’

  ‘We’re going to Cornwall,’ he says brightly.

  ‘Are you?’

  Sorry, Sam mouths.

  ‘We’re staying at my auntie Julie’s hotel,’ Harvey enthuses. ‘Dad says if it’s warm enough I can learn to surf. It’s gonna be brilliant.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I say, dripping with disappointment. I’d envisaged lots of Sam-time over Easter. ‘Is Bryony Ellis going away?’ I ask hopefully.

  ‘Canary Islands,’ Lola chirps.

  ‘Jamie Torrance?’

  ‘Corfu,’ Jake mutters darkly. ‘Where’s that? Can we go?’

  ‘No,’ I snap. When did this start, this taking several holidays a year? This jetting off to the Canaries or Greece every time there’s a bloody bank holiday or in-service day? The only holidays we had during my entire childhood were to boarding houses in Lyme Regis or Littlehampton. No doubt Jamie Torrance’s parents will be taking the Romanian au pair, in order to minimise contact with their son. I’ve heard his mother bragging that on their last holiday, they’d only had to deal with him at lunch and bedtime. My kids should realise how damned lucky they are to have a mother who enjoys their company, at least some of the time, and wants to be with them.

  ‘Well,’ I muster, ‘we’ll have just as good a time at home. We can go to the cinema and swimming pool and the park and—’

  ‘The park!’ Jake repeats bitterly. ‘I hate the park. It’s cold and boring.’

  ‘You didn’t used to say that. You used to love it.’

  He sighs dramatically. ‘Yeah, when I was about four. I’m ten years old, Mum.’ As if my suggestion is as inappropriate as taking him to a Thomas the Tank Engine fun day.

  ‘There’s loads on over Easter,’ Sam cuts in, but Jake isn’t having any of it.

  ‘Sadie Bloom’s going to Disneyland Paris,’ he mutters.

  ‘You think I can afford to take you to Disneyland Paris?’ I say, aghast. ‘You don’t even like Disney! All those films you used to love – Peter Pan and The Jungle Book and The Lion King – didn’t you ask me to take them to the charity shop? Aren’t they babyish too, like … like the park?’

  ‘No!’ protests Lola. ‘They’re mine.’

  ‘I like Peter Pan,’ Travis murmurs.

  ‘I don’t want Peter Pan to go to the charity shop!’ Lola wails, and a tear slides down her cheek.

  ‘Well, Mum says it’s going,’ Jake gloats. ‘You’re too old for it. Poor children can have it.’

  ‘I hate you,’ Lola sobs. ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘Honey,’ I say, squeezing her hand, ‘I’d never give your things away without asking you first.’

  ‘But Jake said—’

  ‘Never mind what Jake said.’ I glower at him. How did my adorable little boy turn into a mean brat? ‘Well done,’ I growl, ‘for starting the Easter holidays on such a positive note.’

  ‘What did I do?’ He throws out his arms.

  Under my breath I mutter, ‘Happy fucking Easter.’

  ‘I heard that!’ Jake crows. ‘Mum swore. She said eff.’

  ‘So what?’ So fucking what? is what I really want to say.

  ‘Jake,’ Sam starts, ‘I think what your mum means is—’

  ‘What I mean,’ I snap, ‘is that I can’t help it if every other person in your class gets whisked off abroad every time there’s a—’

  ‘Cornwall’s not abroad,’ says Jake. ‘It’s in England.’

  I know where Cornwall is, smartarse.

  ‘Can we go to Cornwall?’ Lola asks through her tears. ‘Can we go to Sardine-a like Daddy?’

  ‘Want my hook,’ demands Travis.

  I feign deafness. I want to be home now, with the duvet pulled over my head, hidden from clusters of mothers across the street who are pretending not to tune in. Silly Caitlin, with no plans for Easter. Wouldn’t you think she’d have arranged something? At least a trip to California? Poor little mites.

  ‘Where’s my Captain Hook hook?’ Travis whines.

  ‘No idea,’ I mutter as we round the corner into our street.

  ‘Did you take it to the charity shop?’ asks Lola.

  ‘My hook! No parity shop!’

  Jesus H- Christ.

  ‘Why can’t we go to Cornwall?’ Lola wants to know.

  ‘Can Harvey come for tea?’ Jake asks.

  ‘No!’ I roar, causing Sam and Harvey to murmur hasty goodbyes and flee for the sanctuary of their own home, when in fact I’d planned to ask them to come in and hang out with us for a bit. Maybe even stay for supper.

  I stab my key into the lock.

  ‘How many Easter eggs are we getting this year?’ Jake asks as we tumble into the house.

  Over the next few days, spurred on by images of the kids’ schoolfriends zipping across the Med on inflatable bananas, I work my backside off to pack every second with excitement and fun. We visit the Natural History Museum, where Travis skids delightedly on the polished wooden floors, Jake mooches with a face as flat as a slab of concrete, and we calculate that it would take 1,697 Lolas to fill a blue whale. We have dim sum in Ch
inatown, see a movie, go to TGI Friday and Hampstead Heath, where Travis skids on dog poo … Who needs sodding Sardinia?

  Despite our packed schedule, I realise with alarm that I miss Sam. Perhaps it’s not Sam per se, but adult company. London – at least my corner of it – has virtually emptied. By the end of week one, I’m so shattered after our myriad of activities that I fall asleep while reading Travis’s bedtime story, lurching back into consciousness as he pokes my face.

  A postcard arrives from Martin depicting a turquoise sea shot through a crumbling stone arch.

  Hi, folks!

  Having a great time in Sardinia. Beaches are amazing. We’ve been snorkelling and to the amphitheatre and eaten some incredible food. (You’d love the seafood, Jake!) Hope you’re having a great Easter hol!

  Lots of love,

  Daddy xxx

  I glare at his stunted handwriting, his infuriating fondness for exclamation marks and kisses. Then I rip up the card into tiny pieces, fling it into the pedal bin and dump the kids’ leftover pasta on top of it.

  Dear Daddy,

  Are you trying to rub it in, you stupid arse? You could have taken our kids, or would that have unbalanced your precious one-to-one?

  Without love,

  Your ex-wife

  P.S. Are there man-eating sharks in Sardinia? I do hope so.

  I also pray that his skin, prone to sunburn, has lifted off in one angry, lobster-hued sheet. Bitter and twisted? Moi?

  * * *

  By the start of week two, my missing Sam has developed into a full-blown ache. Passing his house makes me feel scratchy and glum. I’d have thought he might have texted or phoned, but he’s probably too busy charming Cornish surf babes to think about us.

  And I wonder why this makes me feel a little bit strange.

  I want him here, sharing stuff like the blue whale and dim sum – even the poo on the heath. The only adults I have spoken to are Mum and assorted inmates and staff at Mimosa House, plus the girl in the café on the heath who charged me something like £200 for a coffee and three fizzy oranges. (Fizzy oranges, Martin! Stick that in your snorkle and smoke it!)