had time for that.
This kitchen though, it’s spotless. From the floor, to the surfaces, to the windows (which, truth be told, I don’t even remember cleaning), everything looks great.
What really catches my attention though, is the man in the back garden. I didn’t know this place had a gardener, but I suppose it makes sense, with all the beautiful plants, the neatly trimmed lawns and the pond to take care of.
The shirtless gardener is reaching up and plucking apples from the tree. I can’t help but stare at his bulging biceps, watching them flex as he extends his arm to grab an apple, before tossing it into the basket on the ground.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve stepped outside the backdoor and called out to him.
‘Good morning,’ I say brightly.
The man turns around and if he wasn’t picking apples in my back garden, in the arse-end of nowhere, I would swear it was Daniel Craig, with his chiselled good looks, his blond hair and his buff Bond-worthy body.
The man doesn’t reply. He reaches up, plucks a bright red apple from the tree and tosses it over to me, which I catch with an unusual ease. I’m not usually this coordinated…or confident, for that matter.
I raise the apple to my mouth to take a bite, stopping just before it touches my lips. Bizarrely, it doesn’t smell like I was expecting it to; in fact, it smells like lemons. I take another big whiff, only to wake up suddenly, in my new bed, with my Marigold-clad hands wrapped around a can of lemon Pledge. So not only did I fall asleep cleaning, but I dreamt the whole sexy gardener thing! I suppose it all makes sense now. I don’t approach men or have a perfectly tidy kitchen, and, now that I think about it, Daniel Craig trimming my bushes in his iconic blue swimming trunks doesn’t sound all that realistic.
Disappointed, I place the Pledge and the gloves down on my (half-polished) bedside table and stretch out my neck and my back before unplugging my phone. I’m just about to mindlessly scroll social networks for a few minutes, like I do every morning, when I see the time. Shit! I’ve overslept! And not only am I going to be late for my first day on the job, but Frankie is going to be late for his first day of school.
I dash to the kitchen and, although it is clean, it’s not as sparkling as it was in my dream and stupidly I can’t help but feel a little disheartened. I grab a glass from the cupboard and fill it with milk from the fridge before charging into Frankie’s room. He’s sleeping so peacefully, I almost don’t want to wake him up. I hope it’s because the bed is comfortable and not because I blitzed his room with too many cleaning products before I put him to bed last night.
‘Wake up, kiddo, we’re late,’ I babble as I place the milk down next to him. ‘Drink milk, brush teeth, put clothes on and meet me in the kitchen.’
‘What?’ Frankie asks, rubbing his eyes.
‘We’re going to be late,’ I tell him. ‘Quick, quick.’
‘Fine,’ he says, sounding a little too much like a moody teenager for my liking.
I dash back into the kitchen, grab his lunchbox and quickly fill it with a ham and cheese bagel, a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and one of those little Freddo chocolate bars – his favourite three things, to make him feel as comfortable as possible on his first day. Frankie has never been through anything like this before and I can tell he’s nervous because he’s been asking me a lot of questions about his new school since he found out he was going there.
Next, I dash into my bedroom, hurry off yesterday’s clothes and quickly wipe off as much of yesterday’s make-up as I need to, before carefully applying copious amounts of all the things that make me look awake and alive. Then I hop into the white shirt and the black pencil skirt that I’m so glad I set out ready for myself last night, step into a pair of heels and hurry on some accessories before heading back to the kitchen, where a sleepy-looking Frankie is waiting.
‘Aw, look at you,’ I can’t help but pause to say. ‘But where’s your tie?’
‘I don’t wanna wear it, Mum,’ he replies. ‘I didn’t have to wear a tie at my old school.’
‘Kiddo, they didn’t care if you wore trousers at your last school – remember that day Sam turned up in his Minion swimming shorts?’
‘Yeah,’ Frankie cracks up. ‘That was funny.’
‘Bring me your tie, I’ll fasten it for you,’ I tell him.
My son reluctantly does as he is told.
‘OK, so we just wrap this bit around a couple of times, pull it through and…there we go. My God, you look cute.’
‘I look stupid,’ he corrects me.
‘Stand by the fireplace, I want to take your picture,’ I insist.
‘Mum,’ he whines.
‘Please?’
Oh God, I’m that mum.
Frankie, knowing that sometimes it’s better to just do as I ask than to fight it, slowly walks over to the fireplace and stands, sort of slumped, with a glum look on his face.
‘Smile.’
Frankie forces a big, dumb smile.
‘When you turn 21 I’m going to put this picture on your birthday cake, and you’ll regret pulling that face,’ I laugh as I look at it on my phone.
I dash back to the kitchen and grab my handbag, Frankie’s lunchbox and a variety pack-sized box of Frosties before hurrying for the door. I hand Frankie the lunchbox and the Frosties.
‘Go wait by the car, I’ll just lock the door,’ I instruct.
I pause for a split second before I lock up. I’m pretty sure everything is turned off that should be turned off, and everything that should be locked is locked. Back home, I had my morning routine down. In fact, I just did most stuff on autopilot, like locking doors and turning appliances off, but here everything is strange and new. Still, we weren’t up long enough to turn things on, so I’m sure everything is fine.
I fasten Frankie into the back of the car, climb into the front seat and set the destination on my phone. Acorn School isn’t too far away but I don’t know the area yet, so better to be sure of where we’re going than to explore and hope we find it.
Marram Bay is a strange combination of coastal town and countryside. The seafront is the touristy part, with the pretty views and the cute little shops. Then, as you travel further inland, you approach the homes where the locals live. Finally, you reach the part of Marram Bay that is mostly farmland and fields, with the occasional cottage or school dotted in the middle of nowhere.
At the end of the road where our cottage sits, is a huge, contemporary house. I glance at the sign outside which reads ‘Westwood Farm’, though it doesn’t look much like any farm I’ve ever seen.
‘Whoa,’ Frankie says. ‘That’s a cool house.’
‘It is,’ I reply, a pinch of salt in my words, given our current living situation. Obviously the closest thing we’ve got to a next-door neighbour lives in a house that was most likely on
