Mummy Said the F-Word (16 page)

‘Dishing out advice like a proper expert!’ Bev cuts in. She throws back her head and guffaws, startling an elderly customer who’s hovering by the massage oils.

‘It’s no different to any writing job, really,’ I say firmly.

‘Except you’re influencing people’s lives,’ Bev says dramatically.

Marcia frowns. ‘Hope you don’t mind me saying, Caitlin, but it’s not what I’d have said. You know, that letter from the woman whose husband falls asleep on the sofa—’

‘Yeah,’ Charlene interrupts, ‘I thought you were too hard. On the man, I mean. He’s been working all day, hasn’t he, and he comes home to a trashed house—’

‘Does she expect him to come home from a hard day at the office and be Mr Entertainment?’ twitters Marcia.

‘I wrote what I felt was right,’ I mutter. ‘And it’s the woman who wrote in, remember. She’s the one who’s asking for advice.’

‘Yes, but shouldn’t you give a balanced view?’ Marcia’s eyes glint mischievously.

To my relief, Rachel saunters into the shop. She might shame me with her impeccable mothering skills, but at least she’s on my side.

‘Saw your first page!’ she announces, grinning. ‘It’s fantastic, Cait. Isn’t she good? Doesn’t she sound sympathetic, like someone you’d want to confide in?’ She glances round at the assembled group.

‘Um, yeah,’ Marcia says. ‘Actually, Caitlin, I have a problem myself …’

So have I. How to extract myself and get the hell out.

‘I wanna toothbrush!’ Travis sings.

‘You don’t need one …’

‘I do,’ he insists. ‘It’s chewed up.’

Marcia’s smile has set. ‘Could I write to you about Genevieve?’ she asks.

‘You can write about anything you want,’ I say sweetly.

‘It’s school stuff. She’s not being stretched. Would you answer a letter about what to do with a gifted child? How to encourage her to achieve her full potential?’

‘Oh, d’you think she is?’ Bev trills. ‘Have you had her assessed by a psychiatrist?’

‘Psychologist,’ Marcia corrects her, and the ensuing psychiatrist-psychologist debate allows me to detach myself and barge towards the counter.

In defiance of Harriet Pike, I buy Travis the singing toothbrush he’s been clutching. (‘By giving into nagging, you’re fuelling a child’s greed!’) It’s only when we’ve stepped outside, leaving the others chuckling merrily by the thrush remedies, that I realise I have forgotten the one thing I went in for.

Travis and I pick up Jake’s verruca lotion from another chemist’s in Bethnal Green Road.

The laugh activates somewhere deep in Sam’s belly, bubbling up until he’s swiping tears from his eyes. He had invited us back to his house after I picked up Jake and Lola from school.

‘God, Cait,’ he manages, ‘you’re right. Should I start calling you Brian?’

I am mortified, and momentarily speechless.

‘Sorry,’ he adds, his voice wobbling with mirth, ‘but it’s just so, so … overdone. You’re so natural and pretty and don’t need all this, this … stuff on your face.’

‘All right,’ I snap.

He edges closer on his beaten-up sofa and touches my arm. ‘Haven’t upset you, have I?’

Stuff shooting-stars night. I am a laughing stock.

‘Of course not,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m just feeling a bit sensitive about it, that’s all.’

He glances at the magazine that lies open on his coffee table. ‘Maybe they could’ve gone a bit easier on the lipstick …’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And the black stuff around your eyes …’ Sam’s shoulders start quivering again.

It’s OK for him, with his thriving graphic-design business that he manages to keep rattling along without it interfering with his being a dad.
He
doesn’t have to snatch at crumbs of commissions that happen to flutter his way. Harvey is a cheerful, well-balanced kid who has never, as far as I’m aware, wielded a can of Mr Sheen. Sam and Amelia, his ex, are on friendly terms. (They still send each other birthday presents, for crying out loud.) To think, as we’d watched the stars, I’d dared to hope that he might feel something for me.

‘I thought it’d be a step up from the tongue-scraper stuff,’ I mutter. ‘Remember what happened last parents’ evening? When I went into Lola’s class to see her work and there, on the wall, was a picture of me at the computer. And underneath it she’d written—’

‘“My mummy writes about bum creams,”’ Sam splutters.

‘So I thought this job,’ I say hotly, ‘would be better than that.’

Sam eyes my photo. ‘Well, you might find yourself attracting a cult following.’

I grab the magazine, roll it up and stuff it into my bag. There’s only one thing for it. I’ll have to resign. My brief career as an agony aunt is over before it has properly begun. Sam is still honking away like a hysterical child and trying to snatch the magazine from my bag.

‘Just forget it,’ I bark at him.

‘Hey, I was only—’

‘Yeah,’ I growl. ‘Well.’ Now I’ve turned into a petulant seven-year-old. Fantastic. Nothing like showing yourself in your best light.

He gets up, shrugs and wanders away to the kitchen, leaving
me
fizzing with fury and humiliation. I hate him. I hate all men. My future life will be one of celibacy. When the children leave home, I’ll live in a manky pee-smelling attic with mangy cats.

I don’t even
like
cats.

On Wednesday Millie calls to check that I received my copy of
Bambino
with my mush in it.

‘Yes, thanks,’ I say tersely.

‘Not annoyed, are you?’

‘No, it’s just that the gender-realignment drugs are making me feel a bit weird today.’

She snorts into the phone. ‘Oh, hon, your page is fantastic. We’ve had a great response here, and there’s a pile of mail for you already.’

Mail addressed not to Pike, but to me. My responsibility. People expecting answers from
me
. Shit.

‘Millie,’ I say hesitantly, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know if I can pull this off.’

‘What are you talking about? You’re loads better than Harriet. Far more sensible and empathetic. Anyway, what else would you do now that arse-cream site’s gone bust?’

‘I could, er … write distinguished articles for esteemed publications.’

‘Fuck off.’ She cackles.

‘Honestly, Millie, I’m not sure it’s really … me.’

‘Of course it’s not you,’ she insists. ‘The photo’s awful. That idiot make-up artist totally wrecked you, and Adrian let it happen. I can’t believe it. Couldn’t you have said something, got her to scrape it off and make it more natural?’

‘I … I thought that’s how it went. That I needed to be caked in make-up because of the lights or something.’

‘No, darling,’ she says with exaggerated patience. ‘I want you to look like
you
. You’re supposed to look approachable so people will feel happy confiding in you.’

‘Right.’

‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘we’ve decided it’d be better to have
your
kids in the photo. Give you more authority. More kudos – you know.’

‘But it says on the page that I have three kids.’

‘That’s not the same as seeing them,’ she insists.

‘Millie, I’m not sure they’ll cooperate. Travis can’t sit still for more than a minute, and Jake …’ I picture him scowling into the lens – if he even agreed to come to the studio in the first place.

‘Come on, they’re so cute and they’ll love the attention. Can we re-shoot next week? There’s not much time on this.’

‘Jake and Lola are at school,’ I remind her, ‘so it’d have to be late afternoon or at the weekend.’

‘Couldn’t they have a day off?’

‘To have their photo taken?’ I bluster. ‘Of course not.’

Millie sighs. ‘It’ll be
educational
. They’ll learn about, um, the photographic process. Lighting and composition and all that. They’ll be the talk of the school!’

Sure, that’d go down a treat with Miss Race. Having first assaulted her elder son, mother then interrupts her offspring’s education with the sole purpose of furthering her poxy career. Millie doesn’t seem to understand that kids of Jake’s age don’t
want
to be the talk of the school.

‘Sorry, but they’re not taking time off,’ I insist. ‘I’ll ask them, and if they’ll agree to do it, maybe we could arrange something for a Sunday.’

‘No good. Photographers charge double time on Sundays.’

Fantastic.
Bambino
can afford to send the fashion team to Kenya and hire elephants as ‘props’, yet Millie baulks at slinging her photographer a few extra quid.

‘Saturday’s a bit cheaper,’ she adds.

‘This Saturday is Mum’s birthday …’

‘But she’s in an old folks’ home,’ Millie reminds me.

‘They do let them out occasionally, you know. I’ve promised to have her round for a special birthday lunch.’

Millie pauses. ‘Will she …
know
it’s her birthday? I mean, she’s got dementia, hasn’t she? Doesn’t she think the Blitz is still happening?’

‘Sometimes, yes, but—’

‘So you could pretend that the
following
Saturday’s her birthday …

‘I can’t lie to Mum about that! I’m not rescheduling her birthday, Millie. Not for a photo shoot.’

‘Why not?’ she asks calmly.

‘Because … on her proper birthday she’ll get cards from the carers and they’ll have a sing-song and a cake.’

I can virtually hear Millie’s brain whirring, like the tiny motor inside Travis’s toy train.

‘They could postpone the sing-song and cake,’ she suggests.

Great! Let’s add ‘forces care staff to reschedule confused elderly mother’s birthday’ to my fast-growing list of misdemeanours. ‘No, Millie. We’ll have to do it some other day.’

‘Please. We’ve got to sort this as soon as possible. I want to stop using your trannie picture as soon as we can.’

‘So do I,’ I say witheringly.

‘OK, I know what we’ll do. Let’s say Saturday afternoon at your place. Your mum can sit in the corner and watch. It’s just a quick shot – ten minutes max. It’ll be more interesting for her than all that singing and crochet they do.’

‘All right,’ I mutter.

‘It’ll be
fine
, Cait.’ Millie’s voice softens. ‘A little old lady sitting in the corner will hardly get in the way.’

Martin shows up when we’re home from school. It’s not an official Daddy Visit, but he’s been doing this lately – squeezing in extra get-togethers during the week. Since his trip to Sardinia, in fact, but who am I to suggest that they’re guilt-induced?

This time, the devoted angel has even left work early in order to be with them. He has booked tickets for a six o’clock film, which will make Travis horribly late for bed. He has also brought presents. This is a new one, dispensing small gifts each time he sees them, and not something I approve of at all.

‘Thanks, Dad!’ Grinning, Jake holds up the Tin Tin T-shirt to his chest.

Lola snatches the mirrored brush, sweeping it through her hair theatrically.

‘A blowy-up ball!’ Travis cries.

‘Well,’ Martin says, glowing now, ‘I heard Mummy burst your other one in the garden.’

‘Yeah, on purpose.’

I start to protest, then clamp my trap shut. The children are pleased to see him and I musn’t spoil it.
Good parent
bestows presents.
Bad parent
neglects son’s verrucas, causes head injury and allows lamb cutlets to go rancid on camping trip. Wasteful Mummy!

It still feels odd watching Martin pottering about in our house with the kids hopping excitedly around him (even Jake –
especially
Jake). It’s almost as if Water-Cooler Slapper, and the subsequent disintegration of our family, never happened.

‘Dad,’ Jake announces, ‘I hurt my head on Monday. They made me wear a stupid sticker at school.’

Oh, no. Verruca-gate. I’d hoped that this wouldn’t come up.

‘Did you?’ Martin says. ‘What happened?’

‘Mum was fighting with me and hit my head on the door—’

‘Jake!’ I protest. ‘It wasn’t like that.’

Martin flings me a filthy look, then delves through Jake’s hair. ‘This is an awful, serious-looking bump,’ he murmurs. ‘Did it bleed?’

‘Yeah,’ growls Traitor.

‘No it didn’t!’ I cry.

‘Even so,’ Martin soothes, ‘I can see it must have been terribly painful. I hope you had Monday off school.’

‘No. Mum made me go for the whole day.’

Martin glares at me.

‘I … I was trying to check his verrucas,’ I protest, ‘and Jake wouldn’t let me take his sock off—’

‘Verrucas?’ Martin repeats. ‘Haven’t they gone yet?’

Apparently fucking not
.

‘We’re treating them,’ I snap.

Lola stops brushing and observes me with wide, fearful eyes.

‘Has he been to the doctor?’ Martin asks.

Anger sizzles in my stomach. ‘Have you taken him to the doctor lately?’ I want to yell. ‘Or the dentist? Have you been to a school parents’ meeting or tried to erect a tent in a fucking force-nine gale?’

‘I don’t think he needs the doctor,’ I reply in a strangled voice.

‘Well,’ Martin guffaws, ‘with the verrucas and lump on your head, you’re not exactly in the best of health, eh, Jake!’

Jake smiles ruefully. To stop myself from losing it completely, I grab the tub of sea-monkey food and scatter some into the tank. Too much, probably. Overfeeding is the commonest cause of sea-monkey deaths.

‘Are you staying for tea, Daddy?’ Lola asks in a timid voice.

‘Um, if it’s OK with Mummy I’ll just have a quick coffee, then we’ll get off to see this film.’

‘There’s some in the pot,’ I murmur. Which will be lukewarm by now, and muddy at the bottom. Good.

Martin pours himself a mugful. ‘I saw you on that problem page,’ he ventures.

I frown at him. ‘Wouldn’t have thought
Bambino
was your sort of magazine.’

‘Daisy buys it sometimes. I think it’s quite good actually. Plenty of ideas for interesting stuff to do with the kids.’ Immaculate kids frolicking in designer frocks? Yes, I can see it would be right up her street.

‘They’re re-shooting that photo of me,’ I add.

‘That’s good.’ Martin manages a smile and I grimace back.

‘They want the kids in it this time.’

‘Do they? Why?’

‘To prove that I know what I’m talking about.’ I laugh hollowly.