Mum on the Run (9 page)

Chapter Fourteen

‘Where have you been?’ Grace yells from her room as the front door clicks shut.

‘Had a meeting, love. It’s really late – gone nine o’clock. You should be asleep by now.’

‘Come up and see me!’

‘Shush, you’ll wake Toby . . .’ I head upstairs, wondering what to tell her about my mysterious ‘meeting’. I don’t feel good about lying to the children, yet nor am I happy about them knowing that I now belong to a diet club. I want them to grow up feeling at one with their bodies, blissfully unaware of low-fat ‘bakes’.

‘What sort of meeting?’ Finn asks, appearing on the landing in too-short PJ bottoms.

‘A sort of . . . health meeting.’

‘At night? In the dark?’ Grace asks from her room.

‘What kinda health meeting?’ Finn wants to know. I pause, knowing I’m not going to get away with this. It’s like being asked how babies are made and knowing that they’ll no longer be palmed off with, ‘By a special kiss with Daddy.’ ‘You’ve been to that diet club,’ Finn adds, ‘with all the fat people.’

‘How did you know?’ I frown at him.

‘Your diary was on the kitchen table. I saw “Super Slimmers, 7.30 pm” written in it. Michael Tashford’s mum goes. It’s all fat people.’

‘Diaries are private, Finn,’ I mutter.

‘It was
open
,’ he says, the swirl of adolescent hormones almost audible. I notice that he’s dotted minuscule chin pimples with white cream.

‘Mum’s right,’ Jed says, chuckling as he emerges from the steamy bathroom. ‘You shouldn’t be reading her diary. God knows what dastardly secrets you might find in there.’

With a snort, I go to tuck up Grace in her room. ‘You’re not fat, Mummy,’ she murmurs as I hug her. ‘You’re just right.’

‘Thank you, darling.’

‘Will you read to me?’

‘Not tonight. It’s really late. Toby’s been asleep for ages.’

‘Finn’s stinky,’ she growls.

‘Don’t say that. He’s your big brother and he loves you.’

‘No he doesn’t. I made a hot air balloon while you were out and he stabbed it with scissors.’

‘Did he? That’s not very kind. I’ll have a word with him.’ I kiss her goodnight and wander into Finn’s room where he’s curled up under his duvet, reading. Although I can sense he doesn’t want me there, I perch on the edge of his bed. He slams the book shut, and I see that it’s not a novel but a red notebook. ‘Everything okay?’ I ask gently. I can smell his warm skin mingling with the faint biscuity scent from his duvet. It’s emblazoned with a jaunty rocket print, which tugs at my heart a little. Finn is too old for rocket duvets.

‘Yeah,’ he murmurs. ‘Sorry, Mum.’

‘What for?’

‘For saying that about the fat club.’

‘Oh, that’s okay. It does seem a bit sad I suppose, and anyway, my diary’s not really private. It’s just a boring mum-diary full of stuff I have to remember. I don’t have any dastardly secrets in there.’

He smiles then murmurs, ‘You don’t need to go to that club. You’re not like Michael Tashford’s mum.’

‘No, but it’s all relative, isn’t it? It’s about how you feel about yourself, and I think I could feel a bit better, that’s all. Come on, hon. Time for sleep.’ He grunts and clicks off his lamp obediently, although I know he’ll sneak out the torch from under his bed the instant I’ve left his room.

Later, while Jed marks Roman projects downstairs, I curl up on our bed with my Menu Masterplan and flick to the Rules for Success.

As I toss the Masterplan aside, my mobile bleeps on the bedside table. FUN MEETING TONIGHT, the text reads, HOPE U WEAR THOSE BOOTS NXT WK. Hearing Jed on the landing, I quickly place it back on the table. ‘Coming to bed soon?’ I ask lightly as he takes his work file from our bookcase.

‘I’ll be another half hour or so,’ he says.

‘Hope you get it all done.’ I form what I hope is a normal expression.

‘Thanks.’ He kisses me lightly on the forehead. As I click off the light, I’m still glowing inside, even though Jed’s ‘half hour’ will probably stretch to an hour, maybe two, and I’m unlikely to hear him when he finally sneaks into bed.

Tonight, I don’t care. The difference is, I no longer feel quite so alone. Danny and I will be friends, confidants, partners in crime –
and
we know twenty-seven ways with a can of tuna.

*

Saturday. Party day. Tragically, something seems to have happened to my gorgeous new dress. Instead of being a dazzling emerald, as it looked in the changing room, it now appears to be a less alluring pea soup green which has the effect of making my bare legs look paler than ever. As I rummage for tights, I spot the Body Reducer in my drawer. If any occasion requires it, it’s Celeste’s party – but when I open the box I find a sheet of instructions comprising nine steps to get the damn thing on. Who on earth has time for that?

‘Why are you putting on tights?’ Grace says, stalking in and plonking herself on the edge of the bed.

‘They’re not ordinary tights,’ I explain, hoiking them up into position. ‘They’re kind of . . . special.’

‘Why are they special?’

‘Because, um . . . they make your legs smoother.’

‘But they
are
smooth,’ she observes. ‘They’re not lumpy at all.’

‘Thanks, honey. It’s nice of you to say so.’

‘Except for up near your bottom,’ she adds, ‘where it’s kind of . . . crinkly.’

I smirk. ‘That’s the point of these tights. To smooth out the lumps and crinkles.’

‘But you’ve got your dress on! No one’ll
see
your bare bottom.’

‘No, thankfully . . .’

‘So what’s the point?’ She purses her plump, pink lips.

‘Oh, I know it’s silly, love. But I’ll feel better if I’m all smooth and, er, un-crinkly under my nice new dress.’

‘In case it blows up?’ she offers.

‘Exactly.’ I turn slowly in front of the mirror, figuring that I look okay – no, better than okay, as long as I hold my stomach in. ‘See what a difference they make?’ I ask.

Grace squints at my legs. ‘Can’t even
see
them.’

‘That’s the whole point. The colour’s called Barely There.’ I pick up the packet and read the blurb aloud: ‘Impregnated with skin-soothing extracts . . .’

‘What does impregnated mean?’

‘Um, that there’s stuff in there . . . actually
inside
the tights, that seeps through your skin and, er . . .’

‘What kind of stuff?’ Grace demands.

I scan the rest of the description. ‘It doesn’t say.’

She gives me a worried look. What kind of example am I setting, letting a seven-year-old think it’s okay to be impregnated by some mysterious substance? Fast-forward to a sixteen-year-old Grace: ‘Someone offered me a pill and I ate it.’

Me, horrified: ‘What the hell was it?’

Grace, casually: ‘They didn’t say.’

‘Are you ready, Laura?’ Jed yells from the bottom of the stairs. ‘We’ve been waiting for ages. Celeste did say it would kick off around two . . .’

‘I don’t think it’ll matter if we’re a few minutes late,’ I call back pleasantly. ‘It’s a garden party, love, not the cinema.’ Quickly smoothing my dress, I give my reflection one last fretful glance before heading downstairs with Grace bounding excitedly ahead.

Finn is lolling against the wall in the hallway, as if in capable of standing unaided. He smells freshly-showered, of pine with Lynx overtones, and his dark hair is mussed forward over his eyes. Toby, too, looks startlingly hygienic in his favourite custard yellow T-shirt and clashing purple shorts, with hair neatly combed (by Jed, obviously), as if he’s off for a casting for Gap Kids. I decide not to comment on the weird side parting.

‘New dress?’ Jed asks, raising an eyebrow.

‘Yeah, Mummy bought it for me,’ Grace says, twirling in her red-and-black stripy T-shirt dress, a dead ringer for Minnie the Minx. She even allowed me to secure her hair in cheeky bunches to complete the Minx-like effect.

‘I meant Mum actually,’ Jed says quickly, ‘though yours is lovely too.’

‘Oh, I bought it in York,’ I tell him. ‘Like it?’

‘It’s lovely. Really suits you. You look great, Laura. Very sexy.’ On hearing the ‘s’ word, Finn shudders.

Grinning, I kiss Jed lightly on the lips. Finn turns away, as if the sight of his parents expressing the merest
smidge
of affection might cause him to hurl all over the floor. God knows how he’d react if Jed and I kissed properly – really snogged, I mean, with tongues. We should try it sometime, shock the hell out of him. ‘You look good too,’ I tell him, appraising the dark jeans and cream linen shirt. ‘You’re still handsome, you know. For an old duffer.’ He laughs and playfully slaps my hip. ‘Come on,’ I add. ‘Let’s go. I’ll drive if you like.’

‘Seriously? You don’t mind?’

‘Not at all,’ I reply truthfully. What I don’t mention is that, in being designated driver, there’s no chance of me drinking too much to quell my nerves and making a twit of myself. ‘I bought some exciting sparkling grape juice,’ I add.

‘Great,’ he says, clearly delighted as we usher the children out to the car. ‘Stop at the florist’s in the high street, would you? We should get Celeste some flowers.’

‘Of course,’ I say graciously, glancing at Jed. His dark eyes are gleaming, and he’s flushed with excitement at the prospect of a proper adult party, in a garden, with alcohol. Pity my Tesco underwear didn’t have the same effect.

Chapter Fifteen

The blurb on the packet didn’t say, ‘WARNING: driving whilst wearing anti-cellulite tights feels disgusting.’ But it’s horrible – clammy and sweaty. In fact, if it wouldn’t freak out the children, I’d pull over right now, stagger out of the car and rip the things off at the roadside. Where does the cellulite go anyway? Will it bubble up over the waistband, or liquefy and ooze through the tights and onto the floor of the car? ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ Toby demands from the back seat.

‘Yep, nearly,’ Jed murmurs, studying the slip of paper bearing Celeste’s directions. I peeked at it earlier, wincing at her curly-wurly writing with little circles for the dots on her i’s.

‘Are we nearly there
now
?’ Toby pipes up three seconds later.

‘It’s round the next corner,’ I mutter, wishing we were heading off on a family day out to somewhere like Whitby or Scarborough with a picnic in the boot. Even a trip to B&Q would be more enticing than this. The outlandish bouquet of red and yellow roses, plus salmon-coloured carnations (chosen and assembled, rather bossily, by Grace) lies across Jed’s lap.

‘Looks like this is it,’ he announces, virtually
panting
, for God’s sake.

‘Hurrah!’ Grace exclaims. ‘Celeste’s house!’ I pull off the narrow country lane and into a gravelled parking area, wishing my family would dampen their enthusiasm a little. Everyone bounds eagerly out of the car.

‘Wow,’ Finn declares, gazing at the building. ‘This is
so
posh.’

‘Yeah,’ agrees Grace. ‘Why don’t we live somewhere like this?’

‘It’s lovely,’ I murmur, choosing to ignore her question and surveying the converted mill surrounded by beautifully landscaped gardens. The stout, creamy-toned building sits proudly on a vast, clipped lawn, and the row of cherry trees is heavily laden with pale pink blossom. Party guests have already gathered in clusters. My gaze skims the well-stocked borders bursting with lilac, lemon and blue. It’s so similar to Dad’s garden, exploding with colour in the soft early May sunshine, that for a moment it dampens my nervousness. Bunting has been strung between trees, and an oval-shaped table set out with a dazzling array of goodies. Grace and Toby scamper across the grass towards it. ‘She must be loaded,’ Finn murmurs.

‘It’s divided into flats,’ Jed explains. ‘Celeste doesn’t live in the whole building.’

‘A flat? Cool.’ He grins, flips back his fringe and makes for the table.

‘Hi, guys.’ Celeste strides towards us, pecking first Jed, then me, on the cheek. I fix a determined smile on my face.

‘Happy birthday,’ Jed says, handing her the bouquet.

‘Wow, thanks! These are gorgeous.’

‘Grace chose them,’ I explain. ‘She has a very unusual colour sense.’

Celeste laughs. ‘What a sweetie. But you needn’t have bothered, you know . . .’

‘Well, it is your birthday,’ Jed says with a smirk.

‘Yes. God. Don’t remind me! I feel so old . . .’

‘Can we have some cake?’ Grace yells from the table.

‘Of course you can,’ Celeste calls back. ‘Help yourselves to anything you like. That’s what it’s there for.’ She fixes her blue-eyed gaze on me. ‘You look fantastic, Laura. That green really suits you. Really brings out your, er . . .’ She trails off and beams adoringly at Jed.

‘Um, thanks,’ I manage. ‘You look great too.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been running around, baking and getting everything ready all morning. Must be mad, right?’ She throws back her head and guffaws.

‘You made all that yourself?’ I say, gesturing towards the table.

‘Yeah. It was nothing really. Anyway, how rude am I? Come over and I’ll get you some drinks.’

Jed and I trail after her across the lawn. Her short blue dress swishes fluidly around her slender thighs, and her wavy hair ripples in the light breeze. It’s a sunny, golden shade, reminiscent of Sugar Puffs. No wonder my family is enchanted by her. I fear now that the greenness of my dress is making me look rather queasy around the gills, and realise that all of the female guests are lusciously tanned, as if moulded from toffee. A kernel of shyness fizzles in my stomach.

Still, at least she’s being friendly and welcoming. I try to pitch myself back into my pre-mummy days, when our weekends in London would involve at least one gathering, and Jed and I would head out with our bottle of cheap wine, fizzling with anticipation.

‘Did you bring the wine, Laura?’ Jed asks.

‘Of course, hon,’ I say, whipping the tissue-wrapped bottle from my bag. Still nestling in there is my pretend wine.

At the table, Grace and Toby and Finn are already filling their faces with pastel-iced cupcakes and sugared cookies in a myriad of intricate shapes. ‘Let me pour you kids some lemonade,’ Celeste says, filling three polka-dot cups from a jug. ‘It’s home made,’ she adds.

‘Wow,’ murmurs Jed.

‘Oh, it’s easy. Anyway, what would you like? Wine or champagne?’

‘Champagne please,’ Jed says eagerly.

‘I’ll have some of this, thanks,’ I say, extracting my lukewarm bottle and pouring myself a glass of grape juice. I sip it with mock enthusiasm.

‘That’s such a fantastic project you started last week,’ Celeste enthuses, turning to cut me from her line of vision.

‘Well, let’s see if we can pull it off,’ Jed says.

‘What is it?’ I ask lightly. He hasn’t mentioned a fantastic new project.

‘Oh, it’s amazing,’ Celeste enthuses. ‘Didn’t Jed tell you about the lottery grant he managed to get for the school? It’s enough to turn a whole wall of the playground into an amazing mosaic,
and
pay for a specialist art tutor to visit all the primaries in the region. It’s going to be brilliant, isn’t it, Jed?’ He nods, and I detect a faint glow of pride.

‘That’s great,’ I manage. ‘Will all the kids be involved?’

‘Of course,’ Celeste explains. ‘It’s all about releasing their creative energy.’

‘Oh,’ I murmur. There’s a pause, and they both glance at me as if I’m some irksome stranger who’s burst into Celeste’s garden to snaffle her cakes. Although I’m clutching one – chocolate with raspberry icing – I am no longer confident about eating it tidily in such a public setting. ‘Come and meet the others,’ Celeste announces, clearly addressing Jed and not his socially inept wife.

It’s not that they hurry away from me exactly, but I feel so awkward – so out of place among these golden strangers – that I remain frozen at the table. My skin prickles uncomfortably, constricted by my tights. I wonder how much cellulite has melted away, and when I’ll start to see a difference.

Chatting and laughing, Jed and Celeste glide towards a group which has formed a loose circle beneath a cherry tree. Elsewhere in the garden, people are locked in conversation and sprawled on blankets. They are relaxed. They are
normal.
Even my children, who are now investigating a hammock at the bottom of the garden, seem perfectly happy. What should I do now? Surely there’s someone I know here. I glance around in mild panic, looking for any of Jed’s teacher friends.

Three immaculate little girls in floral dresses wander over to sample Celeste’s goodies as their mothers watch from a distance. ‘Not too many now, Maisie,’ one calls out.

‘Okay, Mummy,’ the child replies sweetly, selecting a heart-shaped cookie.

I’m awash with relief when Toby charges towards me and skids to a halt. The girls teeter back, clearly alarmed by this scruffy boy with his parting askew and grass poking out of his hair. ‘Hi, love,’ I say. ‘Have you tried these cakes with hundreds and thousands on? They’re delicious.’

He doesn’t reply. Even my own child is blanking me, after I carried him in my womb for nine months and allowed him to gnash his baby teeth on my nipples. He extracts a white plastic horse from the pocket of his shorts and makes it canter between the plates. The table is littered with glasses of wine and champagne. The potential for spillage is immense.

‘Careful with all these glasses, honey,’ I murmur.

Toby slams his horse onto the cake stand’s top tier and sends it skidding through a daub of lilac icing. ‘He’s skating,’ he says. ‘He’s an ice skater. Look!’

‘Toby, that’s a cake stand, it’s made of glass, be care . . .’

‘What’s a cake stand?’

‘It’s
this
, a thing to put cakes on and it’s very delicate and breakable . . .’ I try to snatch the horse from his grasp, but he spins away deftly and makes it perform a dramatic leap over a dish of strawberries. One of the girls’ mothers flicks her ash-blonde bob and throws me a look of disapproval. How uncouth I sound, having to explain to my child what a cake stand is. In her house, they probably use one every day.

Toby has now slithered under the table, and I don’t have it in me to coax him out. At least there’s nothing to break down there. I catch Ash-blondie staring as he emerges with damp, filthy patches on his bare knees, and he laughs and rubs his nose on his forearm.
Good,
I think defiantly.
This is how children are supposed to be. Messy and at one with nature.

At the bottom of the garden, Grace is swinging exuberantly in the hammock. Speedy risk assessment: the hammock could ping off the trees or – more likely – she could simply tumble out. There’s grass beneath, so injury is unlikely, and it’s probably not worth me haring down there and leaving Toby unattended by the cakes. ‘Leave them alone, Toby,’ I hiss as he picks off sugared violets.

‘But Celeste said we could have everything.’

I glance round and meet Ash-blondie’s infuriating smirk. ‘He’s just excited,’ I explain. ‘We don’t go to many parties.’

Christ, what made me say that? I might as well add:
no one invites us because we’re completely dysfunctional.
‘Don’t you?’ she asks with a small frown before swishing off to join the group under the trees. My legs are throbbing now, probably due to extracts of God-knows-what seeping into my skin. How can I relax and join in when I’m being impregnated?

Across the lawn, Jed and Celeste are laughing uproariously. He places a hand on her bare upper arm. Tears prickle my eyes as I realise that anyone would assume Jed and Celeste are a couple, and that I’m some weird stalker person who should be frogmarched out of the garden. Well, I can’t have that. I will
not
allow that to happen. I shall reclaim my husband and show everyone that I have as much right to be here as they do. ‘Come on, Tobes,’ I announce, grabbing his sticky hand.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Over there by those trees.’

‘Why?’ He looks longingly at the cakes.

‘Because it’s a party, darling, and the whole point of parties is to have fun and be friendly and meet people. Come on. We’re going to make some new friends.’