Mummy Said the F-Word (26 page)

We get up from the table, and Marcia looks away quickly as Martin pulls me close. The hug doesn’t make me feel better, or that I want to be his friend or his girl again, but it does suggest that we’re in this Jake business together.

‘It wouldn’t work, you know,’ I add. ‘Jake would be miles away from Harvey and the rest of his friends. Getting to and from school would be a nightmare, and changing to a new one … do we really want to put him through that, after all the upheaval he’s been through?’

‘No,’ Martin agrees, ‘but—’

‘And what about his football practice?’ I charge on.

‘Cait …’

‘It just won’t work, Martin. He thinks this is what he wants, but he’ll be miserable.’

‘Hey,’ Martin says, taking both of my hands in his, ‘he wouldn’t have to change schools. I’d do the school run on my way to and from work, and he can still go to football.’

‘But you work late. You’re
always
working.’

‘There’s the after-school club.’

‘He hates that,’ I say vehemently. ‘And you and Daisy aren’t even getting on.’ I’m grasping at straws now.

‘Whatever happens,’ Martin says firmly, ‘I’m still his dad and I’d look after him. We have to respect what he wants.’

I pull away, trying to cut Marcia and Charlene from my line of vision. However I stand, I can still feel their eyes boring into my head. ‘Of course you’re his dad,’ I murmur. ‘You’ve never stopped being that.’

Martin smiles and all the years and tension seem to drain from his face. He’s no longer the two-timing architect with 500 letters after his name, but my boyfriend again. The man I loved. I could take him in my arms and kiss him right here. That would make Marcia choke on her eclair.

‘I think we should let Jake decide,’ he says gently. ‘Don’t you?’

‘OK. Let’s do that.’ I muster a smile, confident that I know what our son’s decision will be.

I am his mother, after all.

Saturday morning. Sam and I have brought the kids to the cinema. He’s left messages the past few days reminding me that the latest child-pleasing blockbuster is due to finish, and that seeing it is essential to Harvey and Jake’s survival.

‘Have you been avoiding me?’ Sam whispers in the flickering darkness. The trailers are on; I’m praying that the film proves as enticing for Travis and Lola as it does for the older boys. I have yet to broach the moving-in-with-Dad issue with Jake. Not that I’m avoiding the subject or anything. I’ve had a cold, been snowed under with
Bambino
mail, and the right moment just hasn’t come up.

‘Of course I haven’t,’ I whisper back.

‘It’s just … you’ve been pretty elusive lately.’ He pauses, and his eyes gleam. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he adds.

‘I’ve had a bit of a week, Sam.’ I fix my gaze on the screen. Opening credits; a dragon surging across an indigo sky; fiery breath; a deafening lightning crack. Travis snuggles closer for safety. Lola, who hates to show fear, ogles the screen brazenly. I sense Sam glancing at me, trying to read my thoughts. He knows that I am never too busy to see him.

All I can think of now is Sam in a sharp suit, his usually tousled hair freshly cut. Polished shoes in place of his usual battered trainers or baseball boots. A gleaming ring on his finger. I wonder if he still has the one from first time around.

Amelia will wear … What? Not a veil, surely? There’ll be speeches, toasts, lilac sugared almonds in net bags. Jesus. I can feel a feigned illness coming on. Diphtheria, maybe, or a severe nuptial allergy. ‘I’m so sorry, Sam and Amelia, but being in the
same
room as a tiered cake brings me out in unsightly boils, and I wouldn’t wish to ruin your photos.’

After the film, we go to a diner with red Formica tables and music blaring from a chrome jukebox. My burger bun feels like a sponge in my throat. Everyone chats about the film, and Lola draws dragons all over her oily paper napkin. Travis blows noisy bubbles into his lemonade, despite my asking him not to. The restaurant bustles with children and teenagers. Free crayons, colouring books and infinitely tolerant waiting staff make it a favourite family pit-stop.

I gnaw gamely on my burger. I’m desperate to whisper to Sam that Jake wants to live with his dad, and what the hell should I do about this? But with the kids crammed round our table, it’s impossible. If it weren’t for the impending wedding, I’d have called him in an instant. And now I can’t. He has other, more important stuff on his mind, like seating plans and choosing a suit. The thought of Sam in a suit is as ridiculous as imagining Travis wearing one.

The air is rich with the aroma of hot chips. I can’t even raise the enthusiasm to sip my Coke. He’ll no longer be my friend, my Sam, my anything at all. I have lost him already.

‘Hey,’ he says as we leave, ‘you’re awfully quiet today. Don’t say those problem letters are getting you down.’

‘No,’ I say, mustering a smile. ‘Nothing cheers you up like other people’s angst.’

‘Were you scared of the film, Mummy?’ Lola asks, grasping my hand.

‘Um, yes, sweetheart,’ I tell her.

‘Silly Mummy.’ She giggles. ‘Grown-ups shouldn’t be scared of anything.’

It’s 9.25 p.m., and I’m on the threshold of Jake’s room. ‘Hon, don’t read for much longer. I know you’ve got your torch on under the covers.’

He extracts it and shines its blueish beam in my face.

‘Did you enjoy the movie?’

‘Yeah,’ he replies, ‘it was cool.’

I step gingerly towards the torchlight. ‘Jake,’ I venture, ‘can I come in? I need to talk to you.’

‘What about?’ he asks airily.

‘You seem so … so angry with me these days.’

He flicks off his torch, but an image of its beam still glows on the back of my eyeballs. ‘You don’t keep promises,’ he growls.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘That photographer. Those embarrassing pictures for that magazine. You said you’d buy us an enormous wonderful thing.’

‘Actually,’ I correct him, ‘the photographer said that. But, yes, I suppose I agreed. We’ll choose something … Could you put on your bedside light for a minute? I can’t talk properly in the dark.’

‘Why not?’

‘I need to see your face.’

He sighs, flicking on the switch. We stare at each other like strangers. ‘Jake,’ I murmur, ‘I know you’ve said to Dad that you want to live with him.’

He swallows and nods. I detect a smidgen of shame.

‘You know it wouldn’t be like your Daddy weekends. Going to exciting places like the Science Museum and the zoo all the time. It would just be … ordinary. It would be homework and light off when Dad says.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ He fiddles with the edge of his duvet. The spaceman pattern seems silly – too young for him now. I should have bought him a new one ages ago.

‘Have you thought about Poppy?’ I ask. ‘Having a little girl pestering you who’s not even your sister? Wanting your toys and books?’

‘Uh-huh.’

I delve for something, anything, to make him change his mind. Pancakes every damn day of the week. Unlimited refined sugar. ‘Do you … like Daisy?’ I ask hesitantly.

‘Uh?’

‘D’you really want to live with her instead of us?’ The ‘us’ comes out as a squeak.

‘She’s all right. It’s not really to do with her.’

‘So what
is
it to do with? Why d’you want to do this?’ A tear plops down my cheek and I bat it away furiously. Damn my uncontrollable tear ducts. If only
vitalworld.com
had marketed some kind of anti-blubbing device.

Jake’s mouth crumples, and he shocks me by reaching out with his arms. I hurry to him, and he hugs me so tightly I want to stay that way for ever.

‘What is it, darling?’ I whisper.

‘It’s just,’ he croaks into my neck, ‘I miss Dad.’

12.07 a.m.

Oh, Cait. I’m sorry to hear what you’ve been going through with Jake. It must be awful for you. Billy and I had a similar situation. He spent a short time last summer with his mother, having assumed that life with her would be filled with sunshine and chocolate instead of being trapped with his grumpy father and nagged to eat his greens.

Unfortunately, Jacqui’s new boyfriend had just moved in. He’s a kind of male Harriet Pike, from what I can gather – a strict, no-nonsense, show-kids-who’s-boss type (having no children of his own, naturally!).

For us, as I hope it is for you, it turned out to be a trial separation. I think Billy had wanted to flex his muscles and kick against me. Three weeks in the love nest proved more than enough. Believe me, Jake wanting to live with his dad doesn’t mean he loves you any less. You are brave for letting him go and I’m sure in time that he will respect that. It might even bring you closer in the long run. And he’ll probably find that he misses you more than he expected.

Heck, what do I know? You’re the agony aunt!

Your friend,

R x

I’m poised to type that I’ve changed my mind, that I would like us to meet after all. Just for coffee. It won’t mean anything. I’m
just
curious, that’s all. I need to figure out how he manages to say the right things.

No one makes me feel better the way he does. Millie doesn’t get it, Sam’s out of bounds now, and it doesn’t feel right to share Jake’s imminent departure with Rachel. ‘We’ve never had any problems with Eve,’ she admitted. How could she possibly understand?

R knows what it’s like, and I want to make him real.

I remember Millie’s words: ‘Harriet had email stalkers desperate to be her friend.’

Obscene missives. Cling-filmed packages of pubic hair. R isn’t like that. He can’t be. Surely I’d know by now?

My index fingers twitch as one of the kids – Lola, I think – calls out softly in her sleep. All I type is:

Thanks, R. I knew you’d understand.

C x

So many times I’ve imagined the scene as one by one my children flee our family nest. Jake would be first. We’d have packed his belongings in boxes, and I’d have assembled all manner of essentials: bed linen, pans, crockery, one of those studenty cookbooks that details the importance of vitamins and minerals and includes ‘Twenty-Five Ways With a Jacket Potato’, as if this would insure him against rickets and scurvy. I would drive him to his student accommodation and meet his roommates: boys who’d look as if they’d be up for plenty of larking about, but not so far as distracting Jake from his studies or forcing class-A drugs on to him. We’d have had a little chat about dope being OK-ish, but that anything else was seriously scary. He’d roll his eyes in a ‘Yeah, Mum’ kind of way.

I would drive away feeling sad – probably weeping gently, picturesquely – yet find comfort in the fact that my first-born had blossomed into a bright, independent young man.

That’s
how it’s meant to be. Not like this. For one thing, it’s happening around eight years too soon.

‘Cait, are you there?’ Sam’s voice is dulled by the answerphone. ‘Haven’t seen you all week. Hope you’re OK … Bit worried … Look, Amelia’s coming up for the weekend. She wondered –
we
wondered – if you’re not doing anything, maybe we could all get together, have a picnic in the park or something if the weather holds out, maybe drive over to the heath … Anyway, call me.’

I fold Jake’s freshly washed football kit and place it in one of the boxes I cadged from the corner shop. Although he’s insisted that he’ll need it, he clearly despises the sport. Every time I have
watched
him play, he has mooched around the edge of the pitch, gazing at clouds or biting the raggedy skin around his fingernails. Yet when I’ve suggested that he doesn’t have to go – that he can give it up whenever he likes – he brushes me off.

The phone trills again.

‘Cait, hon, it’s me. Are you there?’

This time I pick up. ‘Millie, hi.’

‘You sound harassed, sweetie. Everything OK?’

I’m surrounded by boxes containing Jake’s precious things. There’s still tons of stuff in his room. He said that he’ll sort through it some other time, which offers a fragment of hope.

‘You know Jake’s decided to live with Martin?’ I tell her. ‘Well, I’m just packing up his stuff. It feels so weird, Millie.’

‘Oh, Cait.’ She sighs, allowing a respectful silence, as if I have announced the death of a pet. ‘Still, at least he won’t be too far away.’

‘That’s not really the point …’

‘And you’ll still see him at weekends, won’t you, like Martin does now? It’ll just be the other way round.’

Such empathy. And what will those weekends be like? R has advised me to play them down, not to cram every second with fun. ‘I hated the idea of being one of those Saturday dads,’ he told me, ‘who bustles his kid from football match to theme park but doesn’t make time for normal stuff, like sharing a baguette in the park. So we fell into a pattern of doing simple things – just being ordinary father and son – and I think that brought us closer again.’

‘Millie,’ I say, ‘I really need to get finished here …’

‘I’ll be quick,’ she announces. ‘Just wanted to say I’m so pleased with your pages and I was thinking you could maybe do more stuff for us.’

‘Yes, fine, can we talk about it another—’

‘What I want to do is
exploit
you.’

‘Huh?’

She laughs, having the decency to sound embarrassed. ‘Not horribly. Not in a bad way. I mean, make the most of your talents …
To
be honest, you’re just what we’ve needed: a writer who actually has children and understands what it’s like.’

Well, hello!

‘What d’you want me to do?’ I ask, as Lola saunters into the kitchen, drops her ancient teddy into one of Jake’s boxes and plonks herself on a chair, swinging her legs idly.

‘Just a few little soundbites,’ Millie explains. ‘Words of wisdom that we can scatter through the magazine with a dotted line and little scissor thingies.’

Dotted lines and scissor thingies. Millie is paid vast wodges of cash to come up with such ground-breaking concepts. ‘You mean for readers to cut out and keep?’

‘Yeah! That’s it exactly. And stick on their fridge or whatever. We could call them something like, like … “Caitlin’s Nuggets”. And whenever they’re having a stressy moment with the kids, like a tantrum or something, they can glance at your soundbite and it’ll make them feel instantly better. Does that sound OK?’