Mum On The Run Page 19

  Danny looks up from his plate, and his gaze holds mine for a moment. ‘Um, this will sound kind of pathetic . . .’ He pauses. ‘I only joined up because of, well, after Sarah left.’

  ‘But why?’ I ask.

  ‘The builder, the guy she went off . . .’ He pulls a tight smile. ‘You know the type. Gym-obsessed fitness freak, muscles on muscles . . . and I suppose I thought, I could do with getting into better shape, because I’d let myself slide, really, being in a relationship for a long time. It happens, doesn’t it? You get comfy. You stop noticing. The years roll on and you realise, suddenly, that maybe that person doesn’t see you in – you know. The same way they used to.’ His cheeks colour slightly, and I’m seized by an urge to reach out and take hold of his hand. I don’t, though. This is a small town. Chances are, Naomi or one of the playgroup mums would ping in and I’d be the subject of scurrilous gossip.

  ‘That’s what’s happened to us,’ I murmur. ‘Me and Jed, I mean. Not that he’s run off with a builder yet . . .’ Danny smiles, and the mood lightens. ‘But yes,’ I add, ‘he doesn’t look at me like he used to, and I guess I don’t look at him that way either. Maybe it’s inevitable. Sometimes, though, I’m convinced that it could be so much better. Life, I mean. Like it was when I was young, and had just met Jed – even after we’d had Finn and were thrilled to have this baby to look after. And now we’re too busy bickering over his parents coming to stay, and he’s storming out to a rotting caravan and cutting me out of that thingie. So I guess we’re hardly at the peak of romance, at this precise moment.’

  Danny laughs, then he touches my hand, startling me. ‘I love the way you do that,’ he says.

  ‘What, trap myself in my underwear?’

  ‘No, the way you make everything – even sad things seem so . . .’ His lips twitch. ‘So funny.’

  ‘Glad I amuse you,’ I say, carefully removing my hand from his.

  ‘You do, Laura. I don’t mean I’m laughing at you. More that you . . . well, you lift my spirits, you know? It feels good, being with you. You’re different to anyone else I’ve ever met.’

  I smile, feeling warm all over. ‘We won’t see each other, though, will we? Not if you stop coming to Tub Club.’

  ‘We could still run,’ he says hopefully. ‘I thought I’d forget about the club and concentrate on that instead. I don’t think I’m really cut out for that self-denial thing.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I say eagerly, biting into my cake.

  ‘Would you do that? Would you run with me two or three times a week?’

  ‘Yes, I’d love to.’

  His face breaks into a grin. ‘Tomorrow evening good for you?’

  ‘Sorry, that’s Grace’s birthday. I could do Saturday though . . .’

  ‘Saturday morning? About eleven?’

  ‘Perfect,’ I say. ‘And I think I’ll knock Tub Club on the head too. I haven’t even looked at that Menu Masterplan properly. Just the sight of it makes me feel hungry.’

  ‘Same here.’ He pops the last crumb of cake into his mouth. I might have gained two pounds since last week, but I still float home feeling as light and breezy as dandelion fluff.

  *

  Friday, 4 p.m. Grace’s birthday tea party. The house mills with her friends, no longer decked out in pink dresses and sparkly party shoes as at previous girlie gatherings but in jeans, leggings and T-shirts, and all screeching with delight as I unveil my masterpiece: the volcano cake.

  I am extremely proud of my creation. While I’d like to report that I was up until 3 a.m., dutifully creaming butter and sifting flour, it’s actually a bought cake which I had huge fun squishing into a mountain shape and daubing with thick red and orange icing to create a dramatic lava flow effect. Grace is suitably impressed. We also have an abundant array of crisps, chocolate fingers, individual jellies and other assorted delicacies which Belinda would award an utterly disgusted face.

  The only thing missing is Jed.

  ‘When’s Dad coming home?’ Grace asks, sitting cross-legged on the crumb-strewn living room carpet amidst a sea of torn wrapping paper.

  ‘He should be here any minute,’ I tell her. ‘He must just have got held up at work or something.’

  ‘It’s just . . .’ She frowns. ‘Dad’s better at doing . . . you know. Party stuff.’

  ‘Well, I can do party stuff too,’ I say brightly, having planned two hours’ worth of activities on my specially-bought clipboard which I hoped would give me an air of authority and make me feel vaguely in control. Admittedly, I hadn’t envisaged that I’d only have Beth to help me to keep thirteen children under control. In fact, I’d imagined that my beloved would be home from work by now, at 6.20 p.m. – participating. I’ve left voicemail messages, and a niggling thought keeps bothering me: that maybe something awful has happened. Otherwise, surely he’d be here?

  Beth and Kira are doing a sterling job of dishing out food and drinks. Even Finn is hanging around, joining in in a half-hearted way, perhaps due to the Kira factor. I’m ridiculously grateful to Beth for helping out. Parents rarely hang around at kids’ parties any more. They simply drop off their charges and scuttle away with barely-disguised glee.

  ‘Muuum!’ Toby screams from the kitchen.

  ‘What is it?’ I rush through to investigate.

  ‘Someone punched the volcano!’ I stare down at it. There’s an almighty crater in the middle of my cake, and further investigation reveals that Toby’s hand is daubed with red and orange icing.

  ‘Did you do this?’ I gasp.

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Toby,’ I start, ‘I really hope you’re telling me . . .’ Then I decide that now is the wrong time to challenge my youngest on behavioural issues. For one thing, it’s not scheduled on my clipboard.

  ‘I think I’d better supervise,’ Beth says, deftly squeezing her way to the table and chopping the remainder of the cake into bite-sized chunks before the children can grab handfuls. I knew, when I met her at playgroup, that we were destined to be friends. Although she exuded capability, she also lacked that simmering smugness which can be so prevalent among groups of mothers. When she told me that Jack had been a late addition – a ‘surprise’ as she put it – it was all I could do not to kiss her. Jed and I hadn’t planned Toby, either. I’d been four months pregnant when I realised that my swelling belly wasn’t solely due to my fondness for cookies.

  While I beat back the devastation in the kitchen, Beth herds everyone through to the living room for music and games. ‘Maybe something’s happened at school,’ she whispers, catching me checking my watch again.

  ‘Surely he’d have let me know. I’m getting really worried, Beth. I know he can be unreliable, but not like this – not when his own child’s birthday party’s going on.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ she says soothingly. ‘Maybe he’s got the time wrong and thinks it’s starting at seven, or . . .’

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ Finn asks, sidling past with a bowl of jelly.

  ‘Working late,’ I say quickly. ‘He’ll be here soon.’ I won’t show my irritation; I can’t, not with so many children in the house, and the distinct feeling that everything could topple into chaos at any moment. Toby and Jack scamper upstairs, chuckling. I can’t go after them; I’m needed here, as Beth’s musical bumps game is becoming rather boisterous. The doorbell rings, signalling the first parent’s arrival which means that the party is nearly over and Jed still isn’t here. Helena – an unnervingly neat mother who’s permanently kitted out in a razor-sharp trouser suit – surveys the mess. ‘Gosh, you’ve been busy,’ she says. ‘Has it gone well?’

  ‘Yes, great, thanks.’ I wipe an icing smear from my cheek.

  ‘You are brave, having parties at home. I’d never dare. But then our house is, er . . .’ She tails off, obviously not wanting to add, ‘Nice. Unlike this hovel . . .’ She steps gingerly over a crushed paper plate and looks around for her daughter.

  Toby and Jack are screeching with laughter upstairs, and I t
ry to shut my mind to the possibilities of what they might be up to. The doorbell rings again, and this time it’s Naomi, whose daughter Phoebe was last seen drinking runny jelly from a bowl. Naomi will probably put her on a strict bread-stick regime after this. ‘Hope Grace has had a lovely birth—’ she begins, tailing off as Toby and Jack dance their way downstairs, wiggling their hips and trilling some unrecognisable tune. It’s not the singing that bothers me. It’s the fact that they are wearing my underwear.

  ‘My God,’ Naomi mutters.

  ‘Boys,’ I start, ‘go upstairs, put your clothes back on . . .’

  ‘No!’ Toby guffaws. Whilst Jack is at least wearing my plain old fat knickers pulled up to his chest – plus a second pair, as a jaunty hat – my youngest is decked out in my supposedly slinky Tesco lacy pants, plus a vast, off-white and clearly over-laundered nursing bra.

  ‘Nice fashion choice,’ Beth giggles into my ear.

  I choke out a laugh as the boys strut on the stairs. More parents are arriving, and congratulating me on managing such a boisterous affair in our own home – ‘So brave! But then you do have a comfortable family house’. Some point and laugh at the boys, while others, perhaps trying to afford me a shred of dignity, pretend not to notice. Even as I’m dispensing goodbyes and party bags, all I can see, in the periphery of my vision, is that tragic mummy-bra, modelled by my four-year-old son.

  Big, old and washed out. Like its owner. The party guests mill around me, grabbing coats and jackets from the vast pile in the hall, and clatter out into the cool, still evening.

  ‘Isn’t Jed here, Laura?’ Naomi asks, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘He’s working late,’ I say firmly.

  ‘Oh, that’s a pity. Casper always takes the day off. We make a big thing of birthdays in our family.’

  ‘Well, Jed’s got a lot on at the moment,’ I murmur, wondering why I’m even bothering to lie for him. ‘Something unexpected came up.’

  ‘He’s very dedicated,’ she observes. ‘I saw him in the paper, amazing what he’s done for all those kids . . .’ I try to appear in agreement whilst wondering if Toby is exhibiting early cross-dressing tendencies. Not that I’d be worried. Compared to Jed, ducking out of our daughter’s birthday celebrations, I’m sure I’ll cope with any quirks our children care to fling at me.

  The house empties remarkably quickly, as if a herd of wildebeest have stampeded through leaving a flurry of streamers, spilt jelly and ripped wrapping paper in their wake. I realise I’m still gripping my clipboard. ‘Aw, why did everyone have to go?’ Grace complains, looking a little berserk around the eye region.

  ‘They were here for two hours, love,’ I explain. ‘That’s the usual time for a party.’

  ‘India’s mum took us to the Water Palace. We stayed there all day.’ Yes, and India’s dad was probably there too, throwing himself down flumes, being a seal and all that dad-type stuff.

  ‘We’ll stay and help clear up,’ Beth says firmly, ‘won’t we, Kira?’

  ‘Honestly, it’s okay,’ I tell her. ‘It won’t take me too long, and the kids will all help me.’ I catch Finn’s wilting expression as he lurks by the TV. Of course he wants Kira to stay a little longer. Perhaps, if I encourage their blossoming friendship, her pleasant, cooperative nature might rub off onto him.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Beth insists. ‘I’m not leaving you with all of this.’ I catch her eye, and I know she’s really offering to stay to keep me company, to buoy me up and to try and stop me worrying. The front door opens, and we both turn towards it as Jed strides in.

  ‘Hi, Jed.’ Beth smiles brightly and quickly retreats to the kitchen.

  ‘Er, hi, Beth.’ He looks around, taking in the devastation, his eyes lighting upon a daub of volcano cake on the living room door. ‘Er . . . Grace’s party,’ he adds, slowly clasping a hand to his cheek. ‘Jesus, Laura. I . . . I totally forgot.’

  ‘I think maybe we should get back,’ Beth murmurs, scuttling towards me and beckoning Kira and Jack. ‘You’ve got tons of homework, haven’t you, Kira?’

  ‘Mum, it’s Friday,’ Kira says, rolling her eyes. ‘I’ve got all weekend for that.’

  ‘Still, it’s getting late. Bye, Laura. Great party.’ She bundles her children to the front door.

  ‘Thanks for all your help,’ I whisper. ‘You’ve been a lifesaver today.’ She smiles briefly and kisses my cheek, and they’re gone. I look at Jed, who appears to be transfixed by the icing daub.

  ‘Laura . . . I . . . I’m so sorry.’ His gaze drops to the floor.

  ‘It’s all right, Daddy,’ Grace chirps, biting a chocolate finger as she stalks into the hall. ‘It was a great party, except Toby punched a hole in my cake.’

  ‘Did he?’ Jed says faintly. ‘That was mean, wasn’t it?’ He turns to me as Grace snaps off a piece of chocolate finger, pops it into her mouth and skips happily upstairs.

  ‘I . . . I thought we were having it tomorrow,’ Jed murmurs. ‘On Saturday, like we usually do.’

  ‘Grace wanted a tea party on her actual birthday,’ I say coolly.

  ‘I know, I realise that now. Honestly, Laura. I know it’s stupid. I . . . I can’t believe I missed it.’

  ‘I did tell you, Jed. We planned this ages ago.’

  He nods. Toby and Finn hover in the kitchen as if unsure what to do next. ‘Could you two do me a big favour and grab a bin bag,’ I say quickly, ‘and clear all the paper plates off the table?’

  With a disgruntled sigh, Finn opens a drawer and rips a black bag off the roll. I turn back to Jed and beckon for him to follow me into the living room, out of earshot of the children. ‘So you actually forgot?’ I murmur.

  ‘I do remember now, you saying something about it . . .’

  ‘You forgot her party, Jed. How could you? We gave Grace her presents this morning, or have you forgotten that too?’

  ‘I just made a mistake,’ he mutters. ‘I’m sorry, okay? I’ll make it up to her . . .’

  ‘Where were you anyway?’

  ‘Just out for a drink after work. It was nothing. Just sort of impromptu.’

  ‘What d’you mean,’ I hiss, ‘sort of impromptu?’ I beam hatred at him. So while I was dishing up jelly, and having two little boys parade in my underwear in front of Naomi and all those perfect mums, he was laughing, chatting and tipping alcohol down his throat.

  ‘I . . . I mean it wasn’t planned.’

  ‘I know what impromptu means,’ I snap. ‘Who was there? Celeste, I suppose?’

  ‘Um, yeah. And some others. Just a group of us . . .’

  ‘Great. How cosy . . .’

  ‘Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. I’m going to help the boys clear up, okay?’ And he marches away to the kitchen where I hear him encouraging Toby and Finn as they tidy up, trying to make everything all right. ‘Great, guys,’ he’s saying, all light and jovial. ‘We’ll have this place sorted in no time. Toby, could you pass the dustpan and brush please? And Finn, you could start washing those dishes.’ They’re chatting now, the three of them: Dad and sons, all happy and relaxed and busying away together. Grace, too, will forgive and forget, if she even minds at all. We’ll carry on with our lives and say no more about it. Right now, though, I can’t wait to get out of this house, pull on my spanking new trainers and run around Lyedale Park tomorrow night. And I never thought I’d say that.

  Chapter Thirty

  Jed’s contrite act continues through breakfast the next morning. Unusually bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for 9.15 a.m. on a Saturday, he serves up eggs according to each of our children’s individual preferences. I almost point out that it’s a little unnecessary, producing one boiled, one poached and one fried egg, and that I’m concerned it might set a precedent. The kids might even think that our house has morphed into a café and start demanding menus. But I think better of it. I’m still simmering with annoyance over Grace’s party, and don’t think I can trust myself to discuss anything in a rational manner.

  The icing smear, I notice, is still
stuck to the living room door. In a senseless act of rebellion, I decide to leave it – perhaps forever, so it sets rock hard and has to be sanded off – and head out to the back garden. Here, I gather up stray paper plates and semi-deflated balloons. Someone has left a shiny red ballet slipper, I notice. A birthday card lies damp and floppy in the weed-infested border.

  From here, through the kitchen window, I can see Jed’s eager face as he swoops back and forth via toaster, table and fridge. Anyone watching – Ruth, say, or any of the other playgroup mums – would faint at such fabulous fathering skills and have to restrain themselves from festooning him with underwear. I know, though, that those are guilty eggs, guiltily boiled, poached and fried because he knows that this time, he’s gone one almighty step too far.

  I pull out my mobile from my pocket and dial my sister’s number. ‘Laura?’ she says. ‘I was going to phone you yesterday, wanted to wish Grace a happy birthday. But the day ran away with me, you know what it’s like, we had some last-minute guests arriving . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘She wouldn’t have had much chance to talk anyway. Her party was straight after school. I just wanted to thank you for her present . . .’ I realise now how bizarre this must seem, thanking Kate when Grace is quite capable of conducting a phone conversation with her auntie herself. ‘Sorry,’ I add, ‘is it a bad time? You’re probably in the middle of breakfast . . .’

  ‘No, the guests we’ve got staying this week are early risers, keen to get up those hills. I’ve been up starting breakfast at half-six every morning so Will owes me big time.’ She sniggers. ‘Anyway, what about you? Did Grace like her present?’

  ‘Loved it. She’s been nagging for a science set like that for ages. Wanted to get it all out yesterday and start making foul smells and a big mess in the kitchen, but we haven’t had a chance yet.’