Mum on the Run (13 page)

I clutch the hair dryer in mid-air. ‘You’re joking.’

‘Unfortunately not.’ He shrugs.

I grip the dryer, unsure of what to say next. It doesn’t seem right, switching it on after his shock announcement, but I can hardly send him out without finishing properly. I turn it on at the slowest setting. ‘Would it be cheeky,’ he says over its roar, ‘to ask you to come running again?’

‘Oh, I’m not sure I’m really cut out for it, Danny. I mean, look what happened last time.’

‘Yes, but if we went out on our own, without Naomi, we could take it at our own pace and do without all that hamstrings and fartleks stuff. Don’t need to kill ourselves, do we?’

‘No,’ I snigger, removing his cape, ‘we don’t. So, anyway, what d’you think?’

He checks his reflection and his face breaks into a smile. ‘It’s great. Thank you. It was long overdue.’

‘Ooh, yes, very nice,’ Simone declares, sweeping past us with a more pronounced sashay than usual.

Danny looks at me. ‘Was I a complete disgrace before?’

‘Of course you weren’t. You just needed a little . . . sprucing.’

‘Well, I’m glad you’ve spruced me.’ He follows me to the till and pays. ‘So,’ he adds, ‘see you Thursday night?’

‘Yep, I’ll be there.’

‘Great.’ He gives me a quick backwards glance and a grin as he leaves the salon.

I stand for a moment, watching the door, willing him to hurry back and say he’s forgotten something. Clients leave things all the time: gloves, scarves, bags of shopping. This is crazy. He’s just a friend, and not remotely my type. ‘So, seeing him on Thursday night, are you?’ Simone murmurs into my ear.

‘Oh, it’s nothing. We go to this club, that’s all.’

‘What kind of club?’

‘Just a slimming club. A load of overweight women, plus Danny, in St Mary’s Hall on a Thursday night. We learn twenty-seven ways with a can of tuna.’

‘He goes to
that
?’ she splutters.

I nod. ‘All sorts of people go.’

‘Well,’ she says, arching an eyebrow, ‘if he’s the kind of person you hang out with there, I can totally see why you joined.’

I laugh off her remark but it stays with me all morning. Finn’s face flashes into my mind: glowing red when I spotted him glancing at Kira in the garden. Clearly the symptom of a crush. The difference is, I’m too old and gnarled to have crushes. I’m a married mother of thirty-eight whose mother-in-law wants to buy her a bread maker.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Thursday, May 22nd. I am thirty-nine today, and beyond getting fired up about birthdays. I don’t wake up expecting breakfast to materialise at my bedside, and I certainly haven’t been rummaging in Jed’s wardrobe, hoping to glimpse something beautifully wrapped with my name on it.

So far I have been given:

- An extremely sweet, wobbly clay dish with sequins stuck all over it, created by Toby at nursery.

- An exuberant bunch of buttercups from our back garden, tied with hairy brown string from Grace.

- One of those free postcards you get in cafés from Finn. It depicts a red phonebox looking stranded in a colourless landscape. On the reverse he has written: ‘To Mum from Finn.’ I need to have a little chat with him about his over-emotional tendencies.

As yet, there’s been nothing from Jed. As I dish out the kids’ breakfasts, he chomps his customary toast slathered thickly with peanut butter. Peanut butter, I might add, is deemed so naughty by Tub Club, it doesn’t even
have
a face.

Throughout breakfast, I keep casting sly glances in his direction, amazed that my beloved has made no reference to the day’s significance. My gifts are set out on the table so he must realise something’s going on. Yet . . . nothing. Still, exciting times lie ahead. Tonight, Belinda might announce that my best friend is celery.

Jed grabs his wallet and keys from the table. ‘Doing anything later?’ he asks.

‘Just Tub Club,’ I say bleakly, caressing the peanut butter jar.

‘What’s Dub-Dub?’ Toby asks.

‘Just a place I go to,’ I say vaguely.
On my birthday. Because I have nowhere better to go.
Remember, when you’re a grownup, that when a woman says she doesn’t care about celebrating her birthday, she doesn’t actually mean it.

‘Oh.’ Jed frowns. ‘I’d forgotten about that. Would it be okay to skip it this week? Or do they fine you or something?’

‘Of course they don’t. Why d’you want me to skip it, though? Worried I’m getting too skinny?’ I laugh hollowly.

‘No, um, it’s just, er . . . I thought I’d take you out for dinner.’

‘Oh, I’m not really bothered about going out,’ I say quickly. ‘And I doubt if we’d manage to get a babysitter at such short notice.’

‘It’s all sorted,’ he says, smiling. ‘I’ve booked Joelle
and
a restaurant table.’

‘Have you?’ I’d be no less shocked if he told me he’d successfully performed a triple heart bypass.

‘Don’t look so surprised,’ Jed chuckles. ‘I am capable of organising a birthday night out, you know.’

‘Yes, I know you are. It’s just, you hadn’t mentioned anything so I thought you’d forgotten.’

He smiles and kisses me lightly on the lips, and I inhale the faint smell of peanut butter. ‘Of course I didn’t forget, silly girl.’

‘So where are we going?’ I ask eagerly.

‘Rawlton House.’

‘Oh Jed, that’s so posh! Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’

I grin at him. ‘Thanks.’ I’m so delighted, I don’t have it in me to stop Toby from slurping milk from his cereal bowl.

‘There is, um . . . a
small
catch,’ Jed adds, nudging a small pile of toast crumbs along the table with a finger.

‘What’s that?’

‘My, er . . . parents are coming too.’ His mouth sets in a firm line.

‘Tonight?’ I exclaim. ‘What – here? For God’s sake, why didn’t you warn me?’

‘Are Granny and Grandpa coming?’ Grace asks delightedly.

‘Yes, love,’ Jed murmurs.

‘Great! Does that mean we can sleep in the caravan?’

Jed throws me a panicky look. ‘I don’t know, Grace,’ I say quickly. ‘When are they coming, Jed? Are they bringing that caravan with them this time?’

Jed nods. ‘Of course they are. They’re on a tour – only found out yesterday and I forgot to mention it last night. I’m sorry, but I’m sure it’ll be okay. They said they didn’t want to put us to any trouble, that they’ll only stay for a night and drop off your birthday present . . .’

‘Oh yes,’ I bark. ‘The famous bread maker.’

‘Well, I don’t know if they actually bought you one . . .’

‘You know what’ll happen,’ I charge on. ‘Grace and Toby will insist on sleeping in the caravan, and I’ll have to sleep out there with them with that stinking chemical toilet.’

‘It’s not stinkin’,’ Toby shouts, stomping into the kitchen.

‘It’s not that bad,’ Jed insists, ‘so long as you keep the lid down.’

‘Isn’t it?’ I bark. ‘
You
do it then. You have a lovely dinner at Rawlton House, then sleep outside on your birthday on that tiny narrow bed with the bobbly nylon cover.’

‘Can’t we have the beds?’ Grace grumbles.

‘Ok. Sure you can. I’ll sleep on the floor like last time . . .’

‘Mum, I’ll sleep out there with them,’ Finn says, wandering in with his schoolbag looped across his body.

‘Thank you, love,’ I murmur, ‘but you’re not old enough to be in sole charge of your brother and sister in a dangerous fibreglass structure.’

‘Jesus,’ Jed mutters under his breath. ‘I thought it’d be a treat. I thought you’d
like
to go out to dinner.’

‘I would,’ I say, following him to the door, ‘if it was just me and you on a night out, like
normal
couples have. But this is a bit different, isn’t it?’

‘I’m off to work,’ he says huffily. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’ With that, he steps out, slamming the front door behind him.

‘Happy birthday,’ I murmur into the tense air.

‘Are we normal?’ Toby pipes up from the kitchen.

‘Yes, darling, of course we are,’ I call back. ‘I can’t think of anyone more normal than us.’

‘Mummy, don’t you like Granny and Grandpa?’ Grace asks as we head out to school and Finn, as is his habit these days, tears ahead of us.

‘Of course I do,’ I tell her. ‘It’s just . . . a bit of a surprise, that’s all. But it’ll be fine. And you like it when Joelle comes round, don’t you?’

She nods enthusiastically as I take her hand in mine. Of course I’ve lied, but what else could I do? I couldn’t tell her that I’ve had an aversion to Jed’s parents ever since they came up from London a week after Toby was born, and his mother said, ‘I never thought you’d go for a third baby. But I suppose, with your child-bearing hips . . .’ As if to produce less than three children would have been a waste of my generous proportions.

All day at work, I try to raise my spirits by imagining the Rawlton House menu and how a mouthful of gooey chocolate dessert will dissolve on my tongue. I attempt to conjure up visions of lemon tart and oozing cheeses and glasses of lovely wine. Yet I can’t shake off the gloom over their impending visit. I’m so tense that, by the time I leave the salon for Toby’s nursery, I don’t have any appetite at all.

Their car pulls up as I’m clearing up after the children’s dinner. I spot the caravan too, which goes by the optimistic name of
Vitesse.
As I let them in, Pauline allows me her customary mechanical hug, then stands back and gives me a speedy up-and-down look as if trying to ascertain how much weight I’ve gained since we last saw each other. ‘You’re looking . . . well,’ she manages, meaning,
at least five or six pounds at a guess. Even though she’s trying to disguise it by wearing black. God, what made Jed ditch that slim Natasha girl he went out with at college?
Pauline, who’s of wiry build, is wearing a floaty button-up dress in a pansy-patterned fabric. Her copper hair is set in tight, brittle curls, and her face is liberally dusted with bronzing powder. The effect is oddly metallic, like Hammerite paint. Hovering beside his wife, Brian regards me with a faint smirk, as if bemused that their darling Jed – sorry,
Jeremy
– has wound up with such a substandard wife. ‘So, how are you both?’ I ask. ‘Journey up okay?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ Pauline says.

‘Oh, yes,’ Brian adds, lips wet and shiny beneath a neatly-trimmed silvery moustache. ‘Smashing drive up. Awful impatient, though, drivers today.’

‘What, on the roads around here?’ I ask.

‘No, on the motorway.’

‘Right,’ I say carefully, ‘but I suppose that’s the idea. To be able to get to places quickly.’

‘Well, we like to take things at our own pace, don’t we, Brian?’ Pauline says, lowering her gaze. ‘We like to enjoy the scenery.’

‘Quite right. Otherwise, what’s the point of it?’ I force a smile. ‘Jed should be home soon,’ I add, ‘and the kids are having a snack in the garden. I’ll just let them know you’re here.’

Pauline nods, and I see her eyeing the messy pile of newspapers and drawings and half a Lego galleon teetering on the coffee table. ‘Granny and Grandpa are here!’ I announce at the back door. Grace shrieks in delight and shoots indoors, closely followed by Toby and Finn. As is their custom, Pauline and Brian are armed with a gigantic plastic sack of unbranded, neon-bright sweets. If they were analysed, they probably wouldn’t even be classified as food.

‘Just one or two each,’ I say ineffectually as Toby plunges a grubby hand into the sack and rams a fistful of sweets into his mouth. In order to pick out her favourites, Grace tries to gain control of the sack, while Finn’s mouth is already sloshing with molten, chemical-smelling jelly.

‘It’s your birthday today, isn’t it, Laura?’ Pauline says.

‘That’s right. In fact, Jed’s taking us all out for dinner tonight to a lovely country hotel.’

‘Oh, isn’t that Jeremy all over?’ Pauline gushes, clasping her hands to her neat bosom. ‘So generous, treating us all.’

‘Yes, isn’t he?’ I force a smile, and am overcome with relief when the door opens and he saunters in, greeting his parents warmly. He’s clutching a small, posh-looking carrier bag which he hands to me.

‘Is that for me?’ Grace demands, her teeth bouncing off a jelly snake.

‘No, love,’ Jed chuckles. ‘It’s for Mummy.’ He turns to me. ‘I knew you’d say you have nothing to wear tonight, so I thought . . .’

‘Isn’t that lovely, Brian?’ Pauline swoons before I’ve even opened the bag. ‘Isn’t he so
thoughtful
?’

‘She’s a lucky woman,’ Brian observes, as if I’ve melted into the ether. I turn away to pull out my present, conscious of all eyes boring into my back. It’s a putty-coloured wrap dress in a fine, silky fabric. ‘This is lovely,’ I murmur truthfully. What I really mean is: this would look lovely on someone else.

‘You’ll wear it tonight, won’t you?’ Jed asks hopefully.

‘Yes, darling. Of course I will.’ I turn and smile at him, picturing myself in the restaurant, the silky material clinging to every ripple and bulge. I’ve driven past Rawlton House countless times, and the place reeks of refined elegance. They probably don’t even let fat people in. Or, if they do, they are handed a ‘special’ menu with those darn Tub Club faces plastered all over it.

‘Now that
is
a stunning dress,’ Pauline goes on. ‘Think it’ll fit you, Laura?’

‘Um, I hope so.’

‘Why don’t you try it on?’ Jed suggests. ‘We really should get ready anyway. I thought, if we set out early we can have a glass of champagne in the bar first.’

My stomach twists, and I smile at him. ‘That’s a lovely idea, Jed. And thanks for arranging all this.’

‘Hey, go and get ready, birthday girl,’ he says, planting a kiss on my lips.

‘If it’s too tight,’ Pauline calls after me, ‘I’m sure they’ll take it back.’

‘Mum, just leave it, okay?’ I hear Jed mutter as I head upstairs.

‘It’s just, that sort of silky material can be very unforgiving, love . . .’

I clatter across the landing, trying to quell murderous urges and wondering how I might possibly get through the evening ahead with my dignity intact. In our bedroom, I strip and hold the dress up against myself. It
is
lovely, and the putty colour is surprisingly flattering against my pale skin. It’s just the fabric that’s the problem. Pauline was right: it
is
unforgiving. Some sturdy undergarment is required. Not Celeste’s Coco de Mers. Not even my Tesco ensemble. Something unyielding to suck everything in, like the stomach reducer girdle thingie I bought in York. Surely it’ll be more effective than those anti-cellulite tights.

I retrieve the packet from my bottom drawer. As I’m scanning the blurb, I hear Joelle, our babysitter, arriving and Grace chatting excitedly to her. Joelle is a nineteen-year-old student. She has a nipped-in waist and certainly doesn’t require fierce undergarments. ‘Drop a dress size,’ it says on the packet. Ooh, yes please. There are ‘before’ and ‘after’ photos of a model on the packet, and the contrast is astounding. I check the instructions which comprise nine steps:

‘Laura!’ Jed calls up. ‘Are you ready? Joelle’s here, we’re all waiting to go . . .’

‘Just a minute,’ I call back. Jesus. Hasn’t he the faintest idea what it’s like to be a woman? How long it takes to make ourselves alluring for the outside world?

‘What are you doing, Mummy?’ Toby saunters in and stares at the Reducer which is still only half on. I try to tug it upwards and snatch the sheet of instructions from the bed. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks again.

‘I’m, um, trying to put these special pants on.’ He regards me with intense, dark eyes, taking this in – his first lesson about the curious habits of femalekind. The fact that we need an entire manual in order to put on an undergarment. Glancing down, I note with dismay that wodges of flab have squished out below the leg bits. I hadn’t realised those parts were fat. It’s like suddenly realising you have podgy eyebrows.

Toby cocks his head to one side. ‘What’s that?’ he asks, pointing at the weird-looking gusset. It’s actually a
double
gusset which, apparently, enables the wearer to pee without taking the whole thing off. But I can’t tell him that. Don’t want him getting ideas about it being okay to go to the toilet through his underwear. Besides, at his age, I don’t want him even
knowing
the word gusset or he’ll be shouting about it at Scamps and Cara will ask me to come in for a ‘little chat’. After the water tray incident, I’ve been trying to keep a low profile at nursery. Toby stares as I yank the thing up.