Mum On The Run. Fiona Gibson
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‘Why are you cross, Mummy?’ Grace calls from her room.
‘I’m not cross, love. I’m fine . . .’
‘You are. You’ve got a cross voice on.’
‘Well, that’s probably just because I’m a bit tired,’ I call back, trying to sound light and perky and distinctly un-cross. I prick up my ears.
‘Yeah, that’d be great, I’d love that,’ Jed warbles downstairs. Anyone would think he’d called one of those pervo sex lines.
‘Night, honey,’ I murmur. Toby flicks his head away as I try to kiss him, as if I’m the one who’s abandoned him in favour of a natter with Fancy Pants.
‘Want Daddy,’ he bleats as I click off his light.
‘So do I,’ I murmur, stomping downstairs.
Jed is standing in the kitchen, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. Almost post-orgasmic, in fact. ‘What’s up?’ he asks brightly.
‘It’s just . . . Toby was upset that you didn’t finish the story.’
‘Oh, God, was he? I’ll pop up right now.’
‘I mean he was really upset.’ I fix him with a fierce stare. ‘Did you have to do that? Rush down like your life depended on it, to speak to . . . her?’
Jed stares at me. ‘Laura . . .’ He pauses. ‘What is this about exactly?’
‘Dirty Bertie. You were halfway through reading—’
‘But it’s not, is it? It’s about me, taking a call from a friend, which you suddenly seem to have some kind of issue with . . .’
‘I don’t have an issue!’ I protest. ‘You seem obsessed, that’s all. Celeste this, Celeste that . . . oh, we had a picnic and a little craft session and look! Here she is in her lemon cardi at our kids’ sports day for a supposed meeting . . .’
‘A supposed meeting?’ Jed repeats, blinking at me.
‘Yes. Why did she have to be there?’
Jed shakes his head despairingly. ‘Do you have a problem with Celeste?’
‘Yes. No,’ I bark, feeling my entire chest area glowing hotly.
‘Are you saying I shouldn’t have friends at work? Is that what you want?’
‘No, of course not . . .’
‘Or that they shouldn’t phone me? Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?’
‘All I’m saying is, one minute you were reading Dirty-bloody-Bertie . . .’
‘Mummy,’ comes Toby’s voice behind me. ‘It’s Dirty Bertie. Not Dirty-bloody-Bertie.’ I turn around to see our youngest standing there, with his pale curls sticking up in matted tufts, clutching the book to his chest.
‘I’m sorry, Toby,’ I mutter. ‘It just sort of slipped out.’
‘That’s a swearing word, Mummy. Cara said it’s naughty to say that bad word.’
‘Yes, I know, and I shouldn’t have said it. It was . . .’ My mouth seems to shrivel. ‘A . . . mistake.’
‘Will you finish it now, Daddy?’ Toby asks levelly.
‘Yes, of course I will, Tobes,’ Jed mutters.
‘You got to the bit about bogies.’
‘Yes, I remember.’ He rakes a hand through his hair, as if trying to brush off the bad feelings that have been flying around our kitchen. Throwing me a stony look, he takes Toby by the hand and the two of them head upstairs.
My bottom lip trembles as I stand in the kitchen doorway. So he took a phonecall. Anyone would think I’d walked in and found him and Celeste having wild sex on the table. I perch on a chair, listening to Jed upstairs, chatting jovially in Toby’s room. Our children love their dad. I do too, yet I’m making myself completely unlovable. The thought of losing him tears at my insides.
The house phone rings. I answer it; it’s Kate, my sister, sounding distant and crackly even though she’s only calling from Scotland. ‘How’s it going?’ she asks.
‘Good,’ I say. ‘Everyone’s fine. How about you?’
‘Oh, the usual chaos. Untrainable dog, terrorising sheep, lost a couple of chickens to a fox last night . . .’
‘Oh, God.’ Kate had her kids young – my two nephews are in their early twenties – and she and Will, her childhood sweetheart, have moved neatly from domestic mayhem to running a smallholding and B&B in the Scottish Borders. Which sounds like another kind of chaos entirely.
‘When are you coming up?’ she’s asking me. ‘The kids would love it. We’ve just got a couple of pigs. You’d better get yourselves up here soon if you want to see them before they’re bacon and sausages.’
‘You’re right,’ I say, smiling. ‘Toby and Grace would love that. Finn would too – although these days, he reckons he’s far too cool to like animals.’
‘Oh, he’s still your baby really,’ Kate says. ‘Anyway, stranger, I just thought I’d catch up. You never call me these days . . .’
‘It’s just hectic. You know what it’s like . . .’
‘What are you up to tonight?’
‘Um, nothing much. Grace and I made some cookies and I’m kind of tempted to curl up with a plateful and a DVD.’
‘Domestic goddess,’ she laughs, before ringing off.
Feeling boosted – Kate’s motherly tone always lifts me somehow – I eye our freshly-baked offerings. If you were being unkind you’d say they looked like chunks of moon rock but we decided they were ‘rustic’. I nibble one, relishing its comforting sweetness. Another won’t hurt. I nibble and nibble, soothed by Jed’s distant murmurs as he reads not just Dirty Bertie but a whole bunch of other stories too, judging by the time he’s been up there. He’s probably putting off having to come downstairs.
I blink down at the plate. How did I manage to plough through so many cookies? I must stop doing this – cramming my face when I’m not even hungry. Emotional eating, I think you call it. All that’s happening is that my clothes are getting tighter and I know that Jed must look at me and think . . . ew. Kate would say not to worry; she’s always telling me I’m the ‘gorgeous curvaceous one’.
But I don’t feel gorgeous and I don’t think Jed shares her view of me.
Desperate measures are called for, I decide, putting away the flour and eggs and wiping