Any Way You Want Me (7 page)

The next morning, I dropped in to see my mum. She and my dad still lived in our old family home, a three-bedroom semi in Tooting, with its spotless net curtains and gleaming ornaments arranged neatly on every surface. Everything was just as it had been when I’d grown up there. Same carpets, same curtains, same layout of the furniture. The only difference I noticed whenever I came back, fifteen years after moving out, was the change of soundtrack. No more thumping music from Cat’s stereo. No more low giggles from Lizzie, sitting on the stairs, twiddling the phone cord around her fingers as she chatted to her mates. Nowadays I walked in and heard the kettle hissing, the Hoover rumbling or – if my mum was in a frivolous mood – Frank Sinatra.

Molly went to play with the jangly bead curtain and fridge magnets in the kitchen, as always, while I plopped Nathan on the floor to practise rolling, and sipped my scalding tea.

‘I take it you’ve heard about Mrs Green,’Mum said, perching on the edge of an armchair. My mum never seemed to sit comfortably in her own home. She always perched, as if she was ready to fly up and knock together a cauldron of savoury mince at any moment. I knew she’d be thinking of all the things she had to do before going to the school for dinner-lady duty, like ironing my dad’s socks or getting out the chicken to defrost for tomorrow’s tea. Even in her late fifties, she was every inch the diligent housewife, the domestic goddess of Fernwood Terrace.

‘Mrs Green?’ I frowned, wondering who the hell Mrs Green was. ‘No.’

She clucked her tongue. ‘Did Lizzie not tell you? Well!’ She put her cup down on the saucer. ‘It’s lung cancer. They’re devastated, of course. Six months, the doctors are giving her.’

‘That’s terrible,’ I said, racking my brains for some memory of the poor woman I was obviously meant to know.

‘Isn’t it just? With her Leanne almost eight months gone, and the father nowhere to be seen as well.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to, I really don’t.’ I saw her looking down fondly at Nathan, who was trying to get over onto his front. ‘’Course,
you’re
all right, aren’t you, bubs?’ she said. Down went the cup and saucer on a polished side table, and there she was, hoicking him up in the air to nuzzle his hair. ‘I said, you’re all right, aren’t you, eh? Got a smile for your grandma, then?’

Nathan beamed at her and batted a fat hand in her vague direction.

‘Isn’t he Grandma’s little pickle, then? Isn’t he Grandma’s little darlin’?’ Then her tone changed. ‘Ooh, is that a tooth he’s got coming there?’ She squinted into his mouth. ‘Is that a toothy-peg, my little chubkin?’

I got to my feet in interest. ‘I hadn’t noticed anything,’ I said. ‘Where?’

‘Oh, I think it is,’ she said, expertly running a finger along his lower gums. ‘Right here. My Nathie-wathie got his first little toothy coming, hmmm?’

My hands twitched. ‘Can I see?’ I asked.

She passed him over. ‘’Course, you’ll want to put some clove oil on that, if it starts bothering him,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘Shall I see if I’ve got some? Your dad uses it on his teeth sometimes.’

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’ve got some homeopathic stuff for teething back at home.’

She stopped in her tracks. ‘Right,’ she said doubtfully. There was a pause. ‘Because I used clove oil for you three, and it was wonderful. That and a dab of brandy if you were screaming your heads off!’

‘I’ll see how he goes,’ I said. ‘He might not be too bothered by it. Molly’s teeth came through without too much palaver.’

My mum was still on her feet, poised to make a dash for the clove oil at the slightest sign of encouragement. ‘Well, it’s here if you want it,’ she said in the end. She resumed her perch on the arm of the chair. ‘Although I daresay you’ve got your own brandy.’

I stroked Nathan’s back. ‘Mmmm,’ I replied. I didn’t bother telling her that health visitors weren’t so encouraging on the babies/alcohol idea these days. In fact, I steered off the subject of babies altogether. Somehow it was easier that way.

Back home, tempted though I was by the tower of washing up and a bout of Hoovering, I couldn’t resist making the most of a ten-minute breather. Nathan was dozing and Molly was amusing herself by getting all of the saucepans out of the cupboard, so I got out Alex’s laptop again, and booted it up.

I found that my heart was beating fast. My mouth was dry.

This is crazy, I told myself, he won’t have replied already. He won’t even have
seen
it. But Danny Cooper had been spreading through my subconscious like oil on water ever since my phone call with Becca. Things kept coming into my mind when I wasn’t expecting them.

I’d remembered his laugh – his loud, staccato ha!-ha!-ha! that sounded so ridiculous, it always made me giggle.

I’d remembered his handwriting – straight up, girlishly rounded, no curl on his ‘g’s and ‘y’s.

I’d remembered how he loved it when I went on top. The wild look of abandon on his face as he’d come.

And what about the quickie we’d sneaked in the boys’ toilets one afternoon when school was out? We’d so nearly been caught by the caretaker. Sssshhhh ssssshhhh ssssshhhhh, his broom had gone in the corridor outside. I remembered how desperately we’d tried to stop sniggering as we kissed in the cubicle, smells of pine disinfectant and schoolboy piss all around us.

I tried to ignore the metallic crashes from the kitchen as I waited for the internet connection to start up. It wasn’t possible for a child of two to actually
break
a saucepan, was it? Click . . . click . . . whirr . . . the computer went.

Right. Here we go. I went straight to my email account.
Inbox: 0 new messages
, it said.

None. Curses.

I went to the Friends Reunited website again, just to see if I was on there. Maybe there’d been some technical glitch, maybe they hadn’t transferred my details yet. Maybe . . . Oh.
Sadie Morrison
, there I was.

I felt deflated. It was ridiculous of me. What had I been expecting? Honestly, I was such an idiot. Had I really thought that . . .?

I pulled back from the path my mind was taking, not sure if I wanted to spell out the hopes that had been stealthily building up since the day before. A first love was just that, after all. The first love before you went on to the second, third, fourth, however many it turned out to be. Just because someone was your first love didn’t mean they were your best love. Of course it didn’t.

I went back to the website. I would look up
Alex
, I decided, and see how he had portrayed his life to the watching world. After a few clicks, I found his Leeds comprehensive school and quickly scrolled down to his year. Ahh. There it was. And there
he
was. Alex Blake.

It was strange to see such a familiar name in a list of unknown people, some of whom had known him as a teenager, sat in assembly with him, played in the same football team as him, maybe smooched at the Christmas disco with him . . . I clicked on his link.

Went down south to study at UCL, and never made it back up the M1. Working as a sub-editor now, and loved up with a gorgeous Cockney bird who’s kindly given birth to my two beautiful children, so had better stay put for a while. Up the United!

Gorgeous Cockney bird, eh? Was he talking about ME?

I stared at the words. He’d really put that. He’d really described me as a bird. Me, the supposed love of his life. The cheeky bloody sod.

I read it again. My first thought was to hack into his message and rewrite it, make it sound more . . . well, more serious, for starters. More committed to me and the kids. The ‘loved up’ bit could stay, I supposed, although I would have liked something a
tad
more long-term-sounding, instead of making me sound as if he’d picked me up in a club a few nights before on an E-fuelled bender.
I fell in love six years ago and remain deeply committed to this amazing woman
. That sort of thing.
Oh, and I’m planning to propose to her any day soon
. Yeah. That, too.

The gorgeous bit . . . well, that could stay. That could definitely stay. Had he been pissed when he’d written it? WHEN had he written it? Obviously before the late nights with Nathan had really started kicking in and ravaged my face so cruelly. And the bit about the beautiful children – yes, well, of course I agreed with that wholeheartedly.

It was that ‘bird’ word . . . it sounded too casual. It sounded like he was laughing at me. And the bit about having to ‘stay put for a while’, too. For a
while
? Then what was he planning to do, after the ‘while’ was up? It made him sound such a wanker!

I sat back, considering. It could have been worse, I supposed. At least I got some kind of a mention, even if it was in a macho, posturing sense. And at least he still thought I was gorgeous – or had he just put that to show off to the other blokes from his school?

I stared at the words until they started jumbling up into nonsense before my eyes. If he was being absolutely truthful, strapped to a lie detector, what would he have written then?

Am settled down in a tired relationship with Sadie. She was a right minx when I first met her, but she moans a lot these days. Goes on and on about how hard it is to look after our kids – when she was the one who wanted them in the first place! And it’s not like she does anything else – I mean, the house is always a pigsty, and nothing ever gets ironed . . .

There were tears in my eyes. Stop it, stop it, I scolded myself. He wouldn’t think that, would he? I was just beating myself up after the morning visit to Supermum. Comparing myself with my own mother got me nowhere. She always seemed to win.

I was just about to shut down the connection when a creeping sense of guilt came over me. Hang on a minute, I thought. Here I was, complaining about his terminology but I hadn’t even
mentioned
him in my message. I’d pretended he didn’t exist. So who was I to make a fuss about being called a gorgeous Cockney bird?

I went back to find my entry, fingers feeling clumsy on the keys. I’d delete it, I vowed. I’d put in the truth. Why on earth had I lied about my life like that? As if I was ashamed of it or something!

‘Mummy, I hurt my finger. Mummy!’

Molly’s voice from the hall made me jump. God, and now I’d let my child injure herself while I was faffing around spying on my partner. I closed down the connection at once, put the laptop out of trashing range and ran to find her.

Two beautiful children, Alex had said, and a gorgeous Cockney bird. That wasn’t so bad, was it?

Was it?

There was nothing from Danny the next day. Still nothing the day after that. By the time Wednesday evening had rolled around and I was frantically trying to pluck some of the werewolfishness out of my eyebrows ready for my night out with the girls, Danny Cooper had started to fade from my mind again. What had I been playing at? It had been a silly mind game. A fantasy. And as for that job . . . it was ridiculous. I must have had too much sun. In February. Either that, or I was losing the plot.

‘What you doing, Mummy?’

A little nudie imp had appeared behind me. Alex had come home early so he could bath the children and put them to bed for me, and Molly had obviously spirited herself out of the bathroom, because here she was, all pink and shiny, hair wet and sticking up absurdly, chubby bare legs scrabbling their way up onto my and Alex’s bed.

‘Hello, lovely,’ I said, tears welling in pain as I pulled out a clump of wayward eyebrow hairs. ‘Ouch. Do you want to run back and get your pyjamas on?’

‘You draw on your eyes now, Mummy?’

She was gazing at me with great interest, head on one side. I barely wore make-up these days, but on the rare occasions she’d seen me putting it on, she had been fascinated by the eyeliner application – indeed, had tried to copy me by putting pink felt-tip along her own eyelids.

‘Maybe in a bit,’ I said. ‘Quick, go and get those jim-jams on with Dad. Quick!’

She bounced a few times on our bed and then scrambled down and vanished as quickly as she’d materialized. I smiled as I rolled on my lippy. I was really looking forward to seeing Becca and Cat. Just a quick pint, we’d all agreed previously, but then, a couple of hours ago, Becca had phoned me to say that she’d booked us a table at some glam new restaurant in Battersea.

‘It’s been ages since we did something nice. And this is my treat. No arguments,’ she’d said.

‘Bec, you don’t have to do that,’ I’d replied automatically, calculating how much money I could reasonably cadge off Alex. Becca had expensive taste and was used to her men paying for it most of the time.

‘I said, no arguments,’ she repeated. ‘My treat. Call it an early birthday present if it makes you feel better. I’m going to cab it over there, I think. Shall I pick you up about half-seven?’

‘Yeah, great. See you later!’

I smacked my lips together and smiled at my reflection. Although I wasn’t given to gratuitous shameless boasting, I had to say, I was looking pretty good by my usual bare-faced hasty-ponytailed standards. I was wearing a bell-sleeved powder-blue top that showed a good inch of cleavage, black kick-flare trousers and my favourite old stack-heeled boots. My hair was piled up on my head with just a few loose tendrils curling around my face. My eyebrows were plucked, my skin was looking perkier than it had done for months, thanks to three goodish nights’ sleep on the trot, and I had treated myself to a new hazelnut lipstick.

‘Phwooarr,’ Alex said, running an appreciative hand over my bottom when he saw me. ‘Can I come with you?’

I air-kissed him and the kids so as not to smudge my lips. ‘No chance. Girls only.’

‘Molly a girl,’ my daughter said at once. ‘
I
come, Mummy?’

The taxi beeped and I laughed, checking my face one last time in the hall mirror. ‘Nice try, Molls. Girls over three only. Night night. Bye!’

Becca hugged me when I got into the cab. Her perfume smelled exotic and musky; my own squirt of Green Tea had to struggle not to be smothered by it. She was wearing a grey trouser suit and a shocking-pink shirt. ‘Just come from the office,’ she explained, seeing me glancing at her briefcase. ‘We’ve been all heads down on this new campaign before it launches next week.’