did! You said at breakfast.’
Hell, she’s right. She and Toby were bickering over the last Rice Krispies, despite the fact that our kitchen cupboard contains around thirty-two alternative cereal varieties. ‘If you stop arguing,’ I’d told her, ‘I’ll do the mums’ race today.’ She’d whooped and kissed me noisily on the cheek. It’s okay, I’d reassured myself on the way to school and nursery. She’ll forget.
I’d forgotten that children never forget, unless it’s connected to teeth cleaning. I know, too, that I’m a constant disappointment to her, making promises I can’t keep. Pathetic mother with her colossal bra, non-matching knickers and carrying far too many souvenirs of her last pregnancy (stretch marks, wobbly tum), especially considering the fact that Toby is now four years old.
Across the field, Finn, my eldest, is sitting on a plastic chair between his best friends Calum and James. He, like Grace, is of athletic build: lanky with well-defined arms from drumming, and strong legs from playing football in his dad’s junior team every Sunday. Toby too exhibits signs of sporting prowess. Only this morning he bowled my powder compact across the bathroom and into the loo where it landed with a splash. Shame there’s no medal for that. And he denied responsibility. Told me that Ted, his hygienically-challenged cuddly, had done it.
Finn glances at me, then at the clump of mums all eagerly poised at the starting line. While Grace is desperate for me to do this, I know he’s praying I won’t. I don’t want to aggravate things between us even further. At eleven years old, he has become sullen and distant these past few months, and seems desperate for puberty to kick off big-time. Yesterday, I heard him bragging to James in his room that he’d discovered a solitary hair on his testicles. Other recent acquisitions are a can of Lynx and a tube of supposedly ‘miracle’ spot cream.
‘Mummy,’ Grace barks into my ear, ‘everyone’s doing it except you.’
‘No they’re not,’ I retort. ‘Look at those two ladies over there.’ Hovering close to the fence is a woman who’s so hugely pregnant she could quite feasibly go into labour at any moment, and a lady of around 107 in a beige coat and transparent plastic rain hat. ‘They’re quite happy to watch,’ I add. ‘Not everyone’s madly competitive, Grace.’
Her eyes cloud, and her lightly-freckled cheeks flush with annoyance. ‘Come on, Laura, shake a leg!’ trills latecomer Naomi Carrington. Naomi is wearing running gear. Tight, bubblegum-pink racing-back top, plus even tighter black Spandex shorts which hug her taut, shapely bottom like cling film, as if this were the sodding Commonwealth games. Her breasts jut out, firm and pointy like meringues, and she swigs from a bottle of sports drink. ‘I’m really unfit too,’ she adds. ‘Haven’t trained since last year’s Scarborough 10k. Mind you, I managed forty-nine minutes. That’s my PB . . .’
‘What’s a PB?’ I ask.
‘Personal best. Fastest-ever time.’ She throws me a ‘you are a moron’ look. ‘I know, not exactly a world record,’ she chuckles, ‘but pretty impressive for me. And I’m hoping to do even better this year.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ I growl, feeling my lifeblood seep out through the soles of my feet. If I ever attempted a 10k, the only way I’d cross the finishing line would be in a coffin.
She grins, showing large, flat white teeth which remind me of piano keys. Naomi is the proud owner of a perfect body, the whole town knows that – thanks to her stint as a life model for the Riverside Arts Society. Dazzling paintings of her luscious naked form were displayed in the Arts Centre café for what felt like a hundred years.
Perhaps I should run the race. I’ve felt spongy and wobbly for so long, maybe this is my chance to snap into action and do something about it. It could be the start of a new, sleek me, who wears racing-back tops and talks about PBs. I breathe deeply, trying to muster some courage, the way I imagine elite athletes do before world-class events. Across the pitch, Finn is poking the damp ground with the toe of his trainer. I know he’s wishing his dad were here. Jed would have entered the dads’ race and won it. He, too, would have been sporting a red rosette by now. But Jed isn’t here. He’s a senior teacher at another primary school – one far rougher than this – whereas I work part-time as a lowly hairdresser and can always take time off for school-related events. Lucky me.
Naomi is stretching from side to side, which causes her top to ride up (not accidentally, I suspect), exposing her tiny, nipped-in waist. Grace is chewing a strand of long, caramel-coloured hair, perhaps wishing she had a different mum – a properly functioning one with meringue breasts, like Naomi.
I swallow hard. ‘You really want me to do this, sweetheart?’
She looks up, dark brown eyes wide. ‘Yeah.’
‘Okay. Promise you won’t laugh?’
She nods gravely. Something clicks in me then, propelling me towards the starting line, despite my wrong shoes and bogus sprained ligament and the fact that Finn will be mortified. ‘Mum’s doing the race!’ Grace yelps. ‘Go, Mum!’ I daren’t look at Finn.
‘Well done, Mrs Swan,’ Miss Marshall says warmly. I bare my teeth at her.
‘Good for you,’ Beth says, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze.
‘You know I can’t run,’ I whisper. ‘This’ll be a disaster.’
‘It’s just for fun,’ she insists. ‘No one cares about winning.’ I muster a feeble smile, as if a doctor were about to plunge a wide-bore syringe into my bottom.
‘Your shoes, Mrs Swan,’ Miss Marshall hisses. ‘You might like to . . .’
‘Oh, God, yes.’ I peel off the lovely turquoise suede sandals which I bought in a flurry of excitement when my sister Kate came to stay. She chose snug-fitting skinny jeans; I headed for footwear because trying on shoes doesn’t involve changing room mirrors or discovering that you can’t do up a zip. As I scan the row of women, all raring to go, I realise I’m the fattest mum in the race. What if my heart gives out and I’m carted off on a stretcher? Beth grins and winks at me. Naomi, who’s set her sports drink on the ground behind her, assumes an authentic starting position like Zola-bloody-Budd. I ignore her and focus ahead. The pitch doesn’t usually look this big. Now the finishing line seems so distant it might as well be in Sweden. ‘On your marks, get set . . . go!’ Miss Marshall roars.
Christ, don’t they give you a warning, like some kind of amber alert? These aren’t women but gazelles, charging off in a blur of limbs and kicking up mud behind them. I’m running too. At least I’m slapping down each bare foot alternately and trying to propel myself with my arms like I saw Paula Radcliffe doing on TV.
The pack zooms ahead. Are they on steroids or what? They must have taken some kind of drug. If I survive this I’m insisting on tests. Right now, though, a sharp pain is spearing my side, making my breath come in agonising gasps. ‘Go for it, Laura!’ cries one of the dads, in the way that people cheer on the unfortunate child in the sack race who’s staggering behind, swathed in hessian, and finally makes it to the finishing line streaming with tears and snot after everyone else has gone home.
There’s cheering, and I glimpse Naomi punching the air in triumph at the finishing line. My bra straps have slipped down, and my boobs are boinging obscenely as I thunder onwards. I glance down to assess their bounceage, and when I look up something’s terribly wrong, because Jed is standing there. Jed, who should be at his own school, not witnessing the ritual humiliation of his wife. Worse
