Mummy Said the F-Word

by Fiona Gibson

‘Hi,’ I say, pulling back to study his face. ‘So … are you going to tell me your name, or shall I carry on calling you “R”?’

  ‘It’s Richard,’ he says incredulously. ‘Doesn’t it come up automatically on my email?’

  ‘Um, no,’ I say, laughing. ‘I kind of liked it, though – the mysterious stranger aspect.’

  ‘Well,’ he grins, ‘I hope the reality isn’t a big disappointment.’

  ‘Of course it’s not.’ My cheeks colour.

  ‘That’s a relief. I was scared you might run screaming. Anyway, in case you’re planning to scarper, let me get you a drink. What would you like?’

  ‘Glass of wine, please.’

  I am grateful for the few minutes on my own to bask in my good fortune. Richard. I turn the name over in my head. It fits him. A sexy, handsome man, late thirties at a guess. Not a weirdo with pallid, mushroomy skin that would suggest he spends 90 per cent of his time hunched over a PC with the curtains shut. No obvious pubic-hair-snipping tendencies either.

  My heart quickens with anticipation. It’s Saturday night, and he’s lovely – not too dissimilar to the picture I’d painted in my head. Who cares about Sam and Amelia? Or Martin having the audacity to think that after one ill-advised shag, I’d be pelting over to keep him company in his oh-so-empty king-sized bed?

  Give me a break.

  Richard returns with my drink.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ I venture as he sits down. ‘In Leoni’s Larder. And you recognised me, but you didn’t say anything.’

  He chuckles, and his laughter lines crinkle fetchingly. ‘You seemed to have your hands full with the children asking for this and that. I thought I’d wait outside and introduce myself as you came out – I was dying to – but one of the children was having a tantrum …’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I snigger. ‘Travis wanted the giant salami they have hanging over the meat counter.’

  ‘Billy’s got a thing about that too! I usually avoid that shop because of that damn salami, but he’d begged me to go in that day because he loves those fancy crisps they do there. Billy’s such a ponce about crisps.’

  ‘What, no Walkers?’

  ‘God, no. It’s rosemary and roasted shallot or whatever the hell it is they do in there.’

  We laugh, but I sense a snag of unease. There’s no shyness between us, no stress of not being allowed to mention the kids. Yet … it’s almost too easy. Like chatting to any of the dozens of mothers whom I’ve sat next to at toddler groups over the years. It’s almost like … being at Three Bears, yacking to Rachel.

  Something wilts inside me.

  ‘Are your kids fussy eaters?’ Richard asks.

  ‘Um, yes, they can be.’

  He sips his beer and grins ruefully. ‘God, here I am, rambling on about children. I vowed that I wouldn’t do that tonight.’

  ‘No, it’s OK.’ I manage a broad smile, but disappointment pools in my stomach. ‘What happened with Jacqui? Has she got rid of the boyfriend?’

  ‘For the moment,’ he says. ‘She’s agreed that he won’t be there when Billy’s staying. If she goes back on that, it’ll all have to be formalised through our solicitors.’

  I touch his arm and he smiles. ‘Not easy, is it?’

  His gaze fixes on mine. ‘It’s been good having you to talk to. That’s made it easier. I have to tell you, though,’ he adds, blushing, ‘how nervous I was about this – meeting you properly at last—’

  ‘Richard,’ I cut in, ‘what made you email me in the first place?’

  He smiles. ‘I was intrigued. You came across as so caring, so sweet, and I couldn’t quite believe you were for real.’

  I blink at him. ‘I mean, what really made you email me?’

  Another sip. His eyes are hesitant. ‘Remember I told you that Jacqui had a subscription to Bambino?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘That other agony aunt, Harriet somebody—’

  ‘Pike.’

  ‘Jacqui lived by her every word. Nothing I did with Billy was right, wasn’t what Harriet had recommended. You know, one of our biggest rows was sparked off by a letter in that magazine.’

  ‘Really?’ I flick my gaze over the customers at the other tables. There are a few couples, a single guy in a tracksuit and a woman sitting on her own. She is facing away from us; I can see only her ear and cheek. I find myself wondering who she’s waiting for.

  ‘There was this letter on her page,’ Richard continues. ‘Someone had written in about their child waking up in the night and crawling into his parents’ bed. Billy does that if he’s had a nightmare, but that agony aunt was having none of it. She flew into a rage about setting firm boundaries and never backing down, and that a child should be shown who’s in charge …’

  I chuckle. ‘That sounds like Pike. So what happened?’

  ‘That became our regime. Billy would run in and I’d have to carry him back, crying and screaming. Sometimes he was so distraught he’d wet himself.’

  ‘That sounds awful.’

  ‘Or I’d refuse and Jacqui would try to take him back and we’d have a horrendous row in the middle of the night.’

  ‘And agony aunts are supposed to help people. The thing is, though, I’m not Harriet, and you still sent that aggressive email …’

  Richard shrugs. ‘I thought, Here’s another one – some perfect parent who reckons she knows it all.’

  ‘It’s just a job, Richard. It’s what I do. That’s all.’

  He frowns. ‘You really view it like that?’

  I shuffle uncomfortably. It’s as if he knows that I’ve ignored Millie’s warnings and reply to as many letters as I can manage. Sitting at my desk, at some ungodly hour, chewing over problems from Frazzled of Doncaster or Crap Mother from Leeds … as if I can possibly make a difference. ‘No, I don’t,’ I murmur. ‘I suppose I take it far too seriously. I’m thinking of asking my brother to design me a website so I can answer the problems more easily – a kind of message board – and I’ll be able to post my replies.’

  ‘Sounds like a great idea. You’re really cut out for this job, aren’t you? It seems to come so naturally.’

  I smile and glimpse that woman at the table again. The curve of her cheek looks so familiar. ‘Well, at least the work part of my life’s going OK,’ I tell him.

  ‘And the love life?’

  My splutter says it all.

  ‘How are things going on with Sam?’ he asks.

  The woman turns slightly towards us and—Oh, God, it’s Millie, keeping a watchful eye to ensure that I’m not lured down an alley by an emailing maniac.

  ‘Sam’s just a friend,’ I say firmly. ‘Didn’t I tell you that he and Amelia are getting remarried?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Richard arches an eyebrow.

  I shift in my chair. ‘Actually, I know for certain that they’re out having dinner right now and she’s going to ask him to marry her again.’ It splurges out, and I’m mortified to realise that my eyes have misted. Desperately, I try to blink the moisture back in.

  ‘But Cait,’ he persists, ‘are you really prepared to sit back and let that happen?’

  I laugh mirthlessly. ‘It’s not as if I can do anything about it.’

  He studies my face. This doesn’t make sense. An attractive man whom I regard as my friend and can offload to about anything – even Pac-a-Mac night and my tussle with Martin – a man who has always been there for me these past few months, and all I feel is …

  Millie catches my eye. I jump up from my chair. ‘Richard,’ I blurt out, ‘I’ve just spotted a friend. Would you mind if she joins us?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he says, leaning over and touching my arm, ‘but can I just ask, why do you pretend you don’t care about Sam?’

  ‘Because he’s a dad and it’s only right that he should be back with his child’s mother.’

  His eyes are teasing. ‘You really believe that? That’s how you’d advise someone in your situation?’

  I shake my hea
d, exasperated now. ‘Millie!’ I call out, waving to her.

  ‘Did you think,’ Richard charges on, ‘that if they were back together, it would force you to get over him?’

  Millie is heading towards us, thank God, looking gorgeous in a slinky spaghetti-strapped dress.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ I growl at him.

  Richard smirks, and his eyes glint knowingly. ‘Just a theory.’

  ‘I don’t need theories, thanks.’

  ‘And however you try to pretend you don’t care, you’ve got to face up to it, Caitlin.’

  ‘Millie,’ I gush, ‘this is Richard.’ She beams at him, and I can read her thoughts: Well, hello. ‘Hi, Richard. Lovely to meet you. I’ve heard lots about you.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Millie.’ He shakes her hand. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘I’ve got a drink, thanks. I’ll bring it over, if it’s OK to join you …’

  ‘Of course it’s OK,’ he says warmly. I catch him appraising her as she retrieves her glass.

  By the time she’s back, Richard has positioned a vacant chair so she’s right next to him, and the pair of them fall into conversation instantly. I try not to think about La Rose and wine bottles dribbled with wax.

  They don’t talk about crisp varieties. They don’t mention faddy eaters or fixations on giant salamis. They laugh and they chat, and although I try to pitch in occasionally, my heart’s not in it, because it’s snuck off somewhere else.

  ‘How did you get here so quickly?’ I hiss to Millie when Richard goes to the loo.

  ‘Couldn’t bear the idea of staying in. What kind of sad fuck stays at home on a Saturday night?’

  ‘I do,’ I point out.

  ‘But not tonight. I was halfway over town when I phoned you, and when you said you were meeting your weirdo stranger, I thought I’d come too, just to make sure you were safe.’

  ‘Liar,’ I say, laughing. ‘You wanted to see what he was like. You couldn’t help yourself.’

  She shrugs. ‘Well, yes. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s … OK.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Her frown upturns into a beaming smile as Richard returns to our table.

  Suddenly, I feel as if I don’t belong here, that being stuck at home with the sea monkeys would be preferable to this. ‘Millie, Richard,’ I announce, ‘I’m going to head off, OK?’

  No one looks particularly devastated. Millie is on full-on flirt mode and Richard is lapping it up. There’s so much I don’t know about him, but maybe Millie will fill me in at a later date.

  It’s almost as if I have ceased to exist. I hug her goodbye, quickly kiss his cheek and head home, where there’s no one to analyse me, because sea monkeys aren’t capable of that.

  So Richard thinks he knows me, and how I feel about Sam? I remember the first email I ever sent to him, which said simply, ‘What the hell do you know about my life?’

  41

  As I march home, I figure, Well done, Caitlin Brown. Top marks. Only a seriously deluded twit-head would have assumed that there’d be some spark – something real – between herself and an emailing stranger. I must get a grip. Be a proper grown-up who inhabits the real world. My expectations have burst, like the giant bubbles from Travis’s soap-blower machine.

  I’m nearly home when my mobile bleeps. I fish it out of my bag; it’s a text from Sam. Funny, I’d assumed he’d be otherwise occupied right now in La Rose. Unless … he’s texting good news. Like, GUESS WHAT! WE’RE GETTING MARRIED. Rather than read it and subject myself to further torment, I stuff my mobile back in my bag and quicken my pace. Right now, I have no wish to be confronted by the gory details.

  I let myself into the house. It feels eerily still, as it always does when the kids are at Martin’s. Sometimes I feel as if I’d give anything for a few hours’ peace; yet when the kids are away, I crave noise and commotion.

  The thing I do that I have never told anyone – not even R – is check all the kids’ rooms, even though they’re not here. Travis’s bed is unmade, his floor an explosion of Sticklebricks, which I’d loved as a child and had thought were extinct, but which Sam managed to find at a car-boot fair. Lola’s room is unusually tidy, and I wonder if she’s been influenced by her stays at Martin’s. I don’t know if Daisy has gone for good or if Martin will slink back to her now he knows it’s truly over with us. I really don’t care either way.

  It really is over now, which feels OK. It might seem rather tragic, prowling around an empty house on a Saturday night, but it’s far preferable to waking up with Martin’s face on the pillow beside me.

  Last of all, I peek into Jake’s room. It’s not a war zone, and not anally tidy either – just lived in, with a selection of books about pirates and Greek myths strewn over the bed, and his art stuff scattered on the carpet. It looks like a kid’s bedroom should be. His football boots lie in a corner, untouched since he came back to me. He now goes to the chess and book clubs at school. Travis is furious that Jake’s boots don’t fit him.

  I head down to the kitchen and play my messages. ‘Hi, Cait, it’s me, just wondering how things are, how Mum is …’ Adam. His bi-monthly call to enquire after our mother’s well-being.

  Message two: ‘Caitlin, Ross here. Sorry to call you on a Saturday, but I’ve been out of the country setting up a deal, talking to suppliers and such … Wondered if you might be interested in getting involved in a new site we’re setting up? It’s similar to Vitalworld, but we’re aiming for the upper end of the market, your Bambino-reader type. Love your page, by the way. I gather you’ve attracted quite a following. Give me a call, would you, when you get a minute? Oh, and your outstanding payment should be with you in a couple of days.’ Back to tongue-scraper world? I don’t think so.

  I pull up a chair at my desk to check my emails. Apart from the usual deluge of Viagra-related spam, there’s just one:

  Dear Caitlin,

  I read your page avidly every week and hope you can help with my problem. I am a single father to a ten-year-old son and have a close female friend who happens to be a single mother to three children. We have hung out together for some months now, and at first it was one of those casual school-gate friendships in which neither of you gives much away. However, our friendship has deepened and we now spend a great deal of time together. We gossip and chat as any friends do, but for me at least there is much more to it than that.

  For one thing, she’s gorgeous. (There, I’ve said it.) When she walks into my house, everything feels brighter. I might have had a terrible day, having argued with my son about getting his homework done, or not tidying his bombsite of a bedroom; then in she walks and I feel amazing.

  I stop reading for a moment. My heart pounds frantically.

  Sometimes I wonder if she might feel something more than friendship for me. At other times, especially recently, she can be rather cold and distant and not return my calls. It’s so hurtful and confusing. I drive myself mad trying to analyse her every move and gesture – the way she looked at me, or didn’t look at me. (I sound worryingly like a fifteen-year-old here. I have to point out that I am old and ugly enough to know better.)

  Which brings me to the crux of my problem. Do I come out with how I feel about her, and risk embarrassing her, and myself, and ruining our friendship, or do I carry on the way I am, driving myself demented? Can you perform a risk assessment for me, Caitlin? Or at least tell me to get over myself and get a life?

  I’m sure you receive hundreds of emails a day, flooding into your PC, which sits on the desk in your kitchen, next to the sea-monkey tank …

  My hand flies to my mouth. Tears spring up instantly.

  I had intended to go out to dinner tonight with my ex, but decided that I couldn’t go through with it. I had a hunch of what she was planning and I knew it wasn’t right and never will be. I guess I’m not her favourite person right now. In fact, I suspect that it’s because of this friendship that she was so determined for me and her to try again. Befor
e I met this person, my ex showed no interest in any reconciliation, and she certainly knows how I feel about my friend, although any fool could spot it a mile off.

  That is, except her. And that’s why I love her.

  Demented, Bethnal Green

  42

  My hands are shaking as I type:

  Dear Demented,

  Your problem is an interesting one, as I have been burdened by similar myself. You see, I have a friend too. A special friend. He has helped me through some extremely difficult times, but our friendship means more to me than that. He is the only person who can make me laugh when seconds before, I was on the verge of slamming my head in a door.

  My feelings have caused me much confusion and anguish lately. I can now confess how gutted I was to spot an unfamiliar purple toothbrush in his bathroom and a woman’s scarf draped across a chair. I tried to avert my eyes, but I couldn’t. I hoped my feelings would go away, as to me they seemed foolish and were certainly getting in the way of our friendship. But of course they didn’t.

  I have to add that he is also completely gorgeous.

  So, Demented, my advice to you is to put some wine to chill in the fridge and see what happens.

  C x

  I’m about to log off when another email pops in. It’s from R. Richard. I almost don’t read it. I hope he and Millie have arranged to meet again, but my head is too full of other stuff to dwell on that now.

  I do open it; I can’t resist.

  Hi Cait,

  Well, I’m just back from the pub. It was lovely to meet you after all this time. Sorry to write such a brief email, but your friend Millie has decided to come to my place for a coffee and I feel rude clattering away on my keyboard.

  So I just wanted to say thanks. For everything. Especially for making me laugh and for allowing me into your life when I was so rude and obnoxious at the start.

  You are lovely, Caitlin, and whatever you choose to do next, I hope that all works out for you.

  With love,

  R x

  I know we won’t email again. Once you’ve met someone, everything changes – and, anyway, someone real is waiting for me. I can barely make my fingers behave as I type: