by Fiona Gibson
Travis and I pick up Jake’s verruca lotion from another chemist’s in Bethnal Green Road.
The laugh activates somewhere deep in Sam’s belly, bubbling up until he’s swiping tears from his eyes. He had invited us back to his house after I picked up Jake and Lola from school.
‘God, Cait,’ he manages, ‘you’re right. Should I start calling you Brian?’
I am mortified, and momentarily speechless.
‘Sorry,’ he adds, his voice wobbling with mirth, ‘but it’s just so, so … overdone. You’re so natural and pretty and don’t need all this, this … stuff on your face.’
‘All right,’ I snap.
He edges closer on his beaten-up sofa and touches my arm. ‘Haven’t upset you, have I?’
Stuff shooting-stars night. I am a laughing stock.
‘Of course not,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m just feeling a bit sensitive about it, that’s all.’
He glances at the magazine that lies open on his coffee table. ‘Maybe they could’ve gone a bit easier on the lipstick …’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And the black stuff around your eyes …’ Sam’s shoulders start quivering again.
It’s OK for him, with his thriving graphic-design business that he manages to keep rattling along without it interfering with his being a dad. He doesn’t have to snatch at crumbs of commissions that happen to flutter his way. Harvey is a cheerful, well-balanced kid who has never, as far as I’m aware, wielded a can of Mr Sheen. Sam and Amelia, his ex, are on friendly terms. (They still send each other birthday presents, for crying out loud.) To think, as we’d watched the stars, I’d dared to hope that he might feel something for me.
‘I thought it’d be a step up from the tongue-scraper stuff,’ I mutter. ‘Remember what happened last parents’ evening? When I went into Lola’s class to see her work and there, on the wall, was a picture of me at the computer. And underneath it she’d written—’
‘“My mummy writes about bum creams,”’ Sam splutters.
‘So I thought this job,’ I say hotly, ‘would be better than that.’
Sam eyes my photo. ‘Well, you might find yourself attracting a cult following.’
I grab the magazine, roll it up and stuff it into my bag. There’s only one thing for it. I’ll have to resign. My brief career as an agony aunt is over before it has properly begun. Sam is still honking away like a hysterical child and trying to snatch the magazine from my bag.
‘Just forget it,’ I bark at him.
‘Hey, I was only—’
‘Yeah,’ I growl. ‘Well.’ Now I’ve turned into a petulant seven-year-old. Fantastic. Nothing like showing yourself in your best light.
He gets up, shrugs and wanders away to the kitchen, leaving me fizzing with fury and humiliation. I hate him. I hate all men. My future life will be one of celibacy. When the children leave home, I’ll live in a manky pee-smelling attic with mangy cats.
I don’t even like cats.
On Wednesday Millie calls to check that I received my copy of Bambino with my mush in it.
‘Yes, thanks,’ I say tersely.
‘Not annoyed, are you?’
‘No, it’s just that the gender-realignment drugs are making me feel a bit weird today.’
She snorts into the phone. ‘Oh, hon, your page is fantastic. We’ve had a great response here, and there’s a pile of mail for you already.’
Mail addressed not to Pike, but to me. My responsibility. People expecting answers from me. Shit.
‘Millie,’ I say hesitantly, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know if I can pull this off.’
‘What are you talking about? You’re loads better than Harriet. Far more sensible and empathetic. Anyway, what else would you do now that arse-cream site’s gone bust?’
‘I could, er … write distinguished articles for esteemed publications.’
‘Fuck off.’ She cackles.
‘Honestly, Millie, I’m not sure it’s really … me.’
‘Of course it’s not you,’ she insists. ‘The photo’s awful. That idiot make-up artist totally wrecked you, and Adrian let it happen. I can’t believe it. Couldn’t you have said something, got her to scrape it off and make it more natural?’
‘I … I thought that’s how it went. That I needed to be caked in make-up because of the lights or something.’
‘No, darling,’ she says with exaggerated patience. ‘I want you to look like you. You’re supposed to look approachable so people will feel happy confiding in you.’
‘Right.’
‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘we’ve decided it’d be better to have your kids in the photo. Give you more authority. More kudos – you know.’
‘But it says on the page that I have three kids.’
‘That’s not the same as seeing them,’ she insists.
‘Millie, I’m not sure they’ll cooperate. Travis can’t sit still for more than a minute, and Jake …’ I picture him scowling into the lens – if he even agreed to come to the studio in the first place.
‘Come on, they’re so cute and they’ll love the attention. Can we re-shoot next week? There’s not much time on this.’
‘Jake and Lola are at school,’ I remind her, ‘so it’d have to be late afternoon or at the weekend.’
‘Couldn’t they have a day off?’
‘To have their photo taken?’ I bluster. ‘Of course not.’
Millie sighs. ‘It’ll be educational. They’ll learn about, um, the photographic process. Lighting and composition and all that. They’ll be the talk of the school!’
Sure, that’d go down a treat with Miss Race. Having first assaulted her elder son, mother then interrupts her offspring’s education with the sole purpose of furthering her poxy career. Millie doesn’t seem to understand that kids of Jake’s age don’t want to be the talk of the school.
‘Sorry, but they’re not taking time off,’ I insist. ‘I’ll ask them, and if they’ll agree to do it, maybe we could arrange something for a Sunday.’
‘No good. Photographers charge double time on Sundays.’
Fantastic. Bambino can afford to send the fashion team to Kenya and hire elephants as ‘props’, yet Millie baulks at slinging her photographer a few extra quid.
‘Saturday’s a bit cheaper,’ she adds.
‘This Saturday is Mum’s birthday …’
‘But she’s in an old folks’ home,’ Millie reminds me.
‘They do let them out occasionally, you know. I’ve promised to have her round for a special birthday lunch.’
Millie pauses. ‘Will she … know it’s her birthday? I mean, she’s got dementia, hasn’t she? Doesn’t she think the Blitz is still happening?’
‘Sometimes, yes, but—’
‘So you could pretend that the following Saturday’s her birthday …
‘I can’t lie to Mum about that! I’m not rescheduling her birthday, Millie. Not for a photo shoot.’
‘Why not?’ she asks calmly.
‘Because … on her proper birthday she’ll get cards from the carers and they’ll have a sing-song and a cake.’
I can virtually hear Millie’s brain whirring, like the tiny motor inside Travis’s toy train.
‘They could postpone the sing-song and cake,’ she suggests.
Great! Let’s add ‘forces care staff to reschedule confused elderly mother’s birthday’ to my fast-growing list of misdemeanours. ‘No, Millie. We’ll have to do it some other day.’
‘Please. We’ve got to sort this as soon as possible. I want to stop using your trannie picture as soon as we can.’
‘So do I,’ I say witheringly.
‘OK, I know what we’ll do. Let’s say Saturday afternoon at your place. Your mum can sit in the corner and watch. It’s just a quick shot – ten minutes max. It’ll be more interesting for her than all that singing and crochet they do.’
‘All right,’ I mutter.
‘It’ll be fine, Cait.’ Millie’s voice softens. ‘A little ol
d lady sitting in the corner will hardly get in the way.’
Martin shows up when we’re home from school. It’s not an official Daddy Visit, but he’s been doing this lately – squeezing in extra get-togethers during the week. Since his trip to Sardinia, in fact, but who am I to suggest that they’re guilt-induced?
This time, the devoted angel has even left work early in order to be with them. He has booked tickets for a six o’clock film, which will make Travis horribly late for bed. He has also brought presents. This is a new one, dispensing small gifts each time he sees them, and not something I approve of at all.
‘Thanks, Dad!’ Grinning, Jake holds up the Tin Tin T-shirt to his chest.
Lola snatches the mirrored brush, sweeping it through her hair theatrically.
‘A blowy-up ball!’ Travis cries.
‘Well,’ Martin says, glowing now, ‘I heard Mummy burst your other one in the garden.’
‘Yeah, on purpose.’
I start to protest, then clamp my trap shut. The children are pleased to see him and I musn’t spoil it. Good parent bestows presents. Bad parent neglects son’s verrucas, causes head injury and allows lamb cutlets to go rancid on camping trip. Wasteful Mummy!
It still feels odd watching Martin pottering about in our house with the kids hopping excitedly around him (even Jake – especially Jake). It’s almost as if Water-Cooler Slapper, and the subsequent disintegration of our family, never happened.
‘Dad,’ Jake announces, ‘I hurt my head on Monday. They made me wear a stupid sticker at school.’
Oh, no. Verruca-gate. I’d hoped that this wouldn’t come up.
‘Did you?’ Martin says. ‘What happened?’
‘Mum was fighting with me and hit my head on the door—’
‘Jake!’ I protest. ‘It wasn’t like that.’
Martin flings me a filthy look, then delves through Jake’s hair. ‘This is an awful, serious-looking bump,’ he murmurs. ‘Did it bleed?’
‘Yeah,’ growls Traitor.
‘No it didn’t!’ I cry.
‘Even so,’ Martin soothes, ‘I can see it must have been terribly painful. I hope you had Monday off school.’
‘No. Mum made me go for the whole day.’
Martin glares at me.
‘I … I was trying to check his verrucas,’ I protest, ‘and Jake wouldn’t let me take his sock off—’
‘Verrucas?’ Martin repeats. ‘Haven’t they gone yet?’
Apparently fucking not.
‘We’re treating them,’ I snap.
Lola stops brushing and observes me with wide, fearful eyes.
‘Has he been to the doctor?’ Martin asks.
Anger sizzles in my stomach. ‘Have you taken him to the doctor lately?’ I want to yell. ‘Or the dentist? Have you been to a school parents’ meeting or tried to erect a tent in a fucking force-nine gale?’
‘I don’t think he needs the doctor,’ I reply in a strangled voice.
‘Well,’ Martin guffaws, ‘with the verrucas and lump on your head, you’re not exactly in the best of health, eh, Jake!’
Jake smiles ruefully. To stop myself from losing it completely, I grab the tub of sea-monkey food and scatter some into the tank. Too much, probably. Overfeeding is the commonest cause of sea-monkey deaths.
‘Are you staying for tea, Daddy?’ Lola asks in a timid voice.
‘Um, if it’s OK with Mummy I’ll just have a quick coffee, then we’ll get off to see this film.’
‘There’s some in the pot,’ I murmur. Which will be lukewarm by now, and muddy at the bottom. Good.
Martin pours himself a mugful. ‘I saw you on that problem page,’ he ventures.
I frown at him. ‘Wouldn’t have thought Bambino was your sort of magazine.’
‘Daisy buys it sometimes. I think it’s quite good actually. Plenty of ideas for interesting stuff to do with the kids.’ Immaculate kids frolicking in designer frocks? Yes, I can see it would be right up her street.
‘They’re re-shooting that photo of me,’ I add.
‘That’s good.’ Martin manages a smile and I grimace back.
‘They want the kids in it this time.’
‘Do they? Why?’
‘To prove that I know what I’m talking about.’ I laugh hollowly.
Martin frowns. ‘And you think that’s … OK, do you?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Can I be in the photo?’ Lola asks, tossing her freshly brushed hair.
‘Of course you can, sweetheart. Um … d’you have a problem with this, Martin?’
He shrugs. ‘I just think it’s something we should … be careful about. Parading them like that …’
‘I’m not parading them! It’ll be just like, like … a holiday snap.’
Martin sniggers. ‘It’s a bit different from holiday snaps, Cait. It’s a national magazine. But I suppose it’s your decision.’
On your head be it, is what he means, when they’re screwed up and in therapy, you child-beater, you.
To avoid further conversation, I start cracking eggs for the kids’ supper.
Jake peers into the glass bowl. ‘What are we having?’
‘Omelette.’
‘I don’t like them. I can’t eat eggs.’
‘Neither can I,’ Lola announces, frowning. ‘I’m allergic.’
‘Lola, you’re not! You love eggs. What about pancakes? They have eggs in—’
‘But they’re not eggy,’ Jake cuts in.
‘Tell you what,’ Martin says, ‘why don’t I take them to Pizza Express seeing as you don’t have much in? There’s still time before the film.’
‘Yeah!’ Lola yelps. ‘Can Mummy come too?’
‘Um, d’you want to come, Cait?’ Martin’s face softens and something snags in my throat. I can’t go through with this. Can’t sit at our usual round table by the window. It had seemed ordinary then, with Jake always choosing the pizza with the egg on top (see, he does like eggs) and Lola asking yet again why Venice is in peril. Travis and I would share the salami one; he’d peel off the oily discs, sliding them into his mouth like coins. I can almost smell oregano and Peroni beer.
‘No thanks,’ I say brightly. ‘It’ll be good for the kids to have some time with you on their own.’ Without Slapper and Pink Princess is what I mean.
‘Sure?’
‘I’ve got some work to get on with anyway.’ I muster a broad smile.
They all head out together, babbling over each other and barely remembering to say goodbye, except Lola who grins bravely. ‘I’ll bring you some pizza back if they’ll let me,’ she says.
‘Thanks, sweetie, but don’t worry about me. It’ll have gone cold. You tuck in and finish it all up.’
She nods. Jake is already musing that a cartoon movie that’s suitable for Travis will be too babyish for him.
‘Hey.’ Martin turns and meets my gaze. ‘Look, I don’t want you to think I’m blaming you for Jake’s bump …’
‘It’s OK,’ I murmur from the doorway. ‘I suppose it was my fault, in a roundabout way.’
They pile into the car, and Martin plugs in everyone’s seat belts, even though Jake can do it by himself. He’s about to climb into the driver’s side when he stops again and looks at me. ‘I’m sorry, Cait,’ he adds.
Sorry for what? For implying that I’m an unfit mother, or for screwing up our lives? I fake a smile, but only because Lola is staring out at me. ‘Nothing to be sorry for,’ I say lightly.
He shrugs and gets into the car. As they drive away, I remind myself that they’re as much Martin’s children as mine, and that they love him desperately. I must try to be mature enough to remember that.
But he’s still a self-satisfied bastard with a fondness for snug-fitting pants.
16
In the day room with the other inmates, Mum looks normal-sized. Here in the passenger seat of my car, she has assumed the dimensions of a tiny, startled bird.
‘I don’t know where you’re
taking me,’ she mutters. ‘I was having a nice time with them old people eating cake and in you come and spoil it.’
‘You’re coming to our house for lunch, Mum,’ I say brusquely. ‘I thought you’d like to spend some time with the kids on your birthday.’
Her milky eyes bore into me. ‘What kids?’
‘Your grandchildren: Jake, Lola and Travis. Look how excited they are to see you.’ I glance into the rear-view mirror. Three doleful faces gawp from the back seat.
‘Will that doctor be there?’ Mum asks.
‘No, Mum, there’s no doctor. There will be a photographer, though – he’s called Adrian and he’s a really nice man. He’s coming after lunch to take our photo for a magazine. I told you about him, remember?’
‘Don’t want no photo taken.’ She fluffs up the back of her perm. ‘My hair’s never been right since they did it.’
I breathe slowly and deeply. Breathe. Breathe. ‘It’s just me and the children who are having our picture done, Mum. You can sit and watch. It shouldn’t take long. It’ll be fun.’
Mum nods, digesting this, as I park outside our house. Taking her arm, I ease her out of the car. Mum seems to be having a frail day. Not a clambering-over-railings-to-play-poker day.
‘Where are we going?’ she barks as I guide her downstairs.
‘To the kitchen, Mum, for lunch. It’s OK. I’m here to look after you.’
She blinks at me as if my being here is quite the opposite of reassuring. Lately, I’ve become nervous about taking Mum out of the home. There are no capable nurses, no Helenas with their pastel-blue tunics and soothing words. So many things could go wrong, and I’d be fully responsible. She could fall, or fly into an unprovoked rage. (Only this morning she tried to whack another inmate with a teaspoon at breakfast.) And what if she needs help on the toilet? It doesn’t bear thinking about. I have never seen Mum naked and now doesn’t feel like the right time to come over all free and relaxed with each other.
Lunch is tortuous. I have cooked the plainest, most World War Two-esque food I could think of – stew and dumplings – but it’s not going down well.
‘What is this?’ Jake asks.
‘It’s steak.’