Mum On The Run Read online

  I smile, feeling marginally reassured. Toby’s behaviour probably is normal, at least for our family; Finn and Grace were a handful too, forever clambering all over the kitchen worktops and balancing perilously on the garden wall. However, I seemed to cope better when they were little, and fear that my reserves of tolerance have reached critically low levels.

  Beth and I perch on the windowsill and sip our coffees. I was relieved to meet her, when we’d just moved to Yorkshire. Not only did she have big-age-gap children around Toby and Finn’s ages; she also didn’t assume I was some poncey, over-precious mother just because I’d come from London, as a few women seemed to. ‘Are you still running these days?’ I ask her.

  She shakes her head. ‘No, I’ve let it slide really. All that getting up at the crack of dawn, and going out before Pete went to work . . .’

  ‘That takes dedication,’ I murmur.

  ‘Plus,’ she adds, prodding a hip, ‘I was starting to feel creaky. Age, I guess,’ she says, smiling. ‘It’s not great for the joints.’

  ‘Who cares about joints?’ I snigger.

  ‘You would, if you were an old crock like me . . .’

  ‘You know what?’ I say, filled with sudden enthusiasm. ‘I think I might give it a try. Maybe that’s what I need. Exercise I can just do, whenever Jed’s home and I get the chance to go out. It’d be a lot simpler than going to the gym, and it might shift this . . .’ I poke my belly.

  ‘Good for you,’ she says. ‘It’s brilliant actually. Great for stress levels too. I’d come with you, keep you company, but I don’t think the old knees could take it.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, laughing. ‘I’d have to go in the middle of the night anyway. Couldn’t risk being seen, could I?’

  She shakes her head despairingly as I take my ringing mobile from my pocket. It’s Jed, which is unusual. He rarely phones during the day. ‘School boiler’s broken,’ he explains, ‘so I’m coming home early. Just wondered where you were.’

  ‘At playgroup,’ I tell him, adding, as a joke, ‘Why don’t you come along?’

  ‘I, um . . . where is it?’ he asks, sounding alarmed.

  ‘St Mary’s Hall. Didn’t you know that, Jed?’ I tease him.

  ‘Well, er . . .’

  ‘It’s on until three,’ I add. ‘Come on, you’ll love it and you’ll give all the mums here a treat.’

  ‘Well, er, I was just, um . . .’

  ‘Great. See you soon, love. Bye!’ I finish the call and grin at Beth.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ve just done something I’ve been trying to do for years. I’ve persuaded Jed to come to playgroup.’

  ‘He actually agreed?’

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ I snigger.

  ‘So we’re going to meet him at last?’ exclaims Ruth, who’s dishing out bowls of chopped fruit for the children.

  ‘Yep, it’s your lucky day.’ In fact, I’m slightly embarrassed that few of these women have met Jed. I suspect that most of them don’t believe I have a man at all, and that the children were conceived by an anonymous donor.

  ‘Hey, girls!’ Ruth announces. ‘Better get your lippy on. There’s going to be a man in our midst.’

  There’s a burst of laughter, and Ruth is only half-joking. Despite claiming to prefer Coronation Street to sex, most of these women are tragically starved of male company. It’s not about wanting to sleep with random blokes. We just want to revel in their maleness.

  When Jed strolls in twenty minutes later, there’s a palpable ripple of excitement, and I catch Ruth primping her sleek auburn hair and wiping an imaginary smear from her cheek. ‘Daddy!’ Toby charges towards him, still gripping that blasted xylophone hammer.

  ‘Hey, little man.’ Jed hugs him, then looks around for me.

  ‘Everyone, this is Jed,’ I announce, a little too loudly as I go over to greet him. ‘He’s new here. Please be gentle with him.’

  ‘Like a tea or coffee?’ Rush gushes, even though the etiquette here is that adults help themselves to drinks.

  ‘Coffee would be nice,’ Jed says meekly.

  ‘How d’you take it?’

  ‘Just milk please.’ He sits gingerly on a too-small plastic chair and throws me an anxious glance. It’s not that dads aren’t welcome here; they simply don’t come. I have no idea how full-time fathers fill their days.

  ‘Biscuit?’ Ruth trills, twirling a tendril of hair.

  ‘Yes . . . er . . . great.’

  ‘Penguin, Jaffa Cake or wafer?’ Or would you prefer oral sex?

  ‘Yes please,’ Jed says. ‘I, um, I mean anything. I don’t mind.’

  ‘I’ll bring you a selection,’ Ruth says, fanning an array of snacklets on a plate and slinking across the scuffed parquet floor towards him. As Keeper of Biscuits she must have a secret supply of chocolate varieties which she brings out once a decade when a handsome man happens to walk in. We mothers are lucky to get a stale fig roll.

  ‘You’re a brave man, Jed,’ Beth laughs, ‘joining us rowdy lot for the afternoon. Bet school’s a walk in the park compared to this.’

  He grins, taking his coffee and biscuit (chocolate Hobnob, damn him) from a drooling Ruth. ‘Oh, it’s not so bad,’ he chuckles. ‘I could probably get used to this.’

  ‘Well, you’re welcome any time,’ Ruth simpers.

  Jed smiles unsteadily. After downing his drink, he helps a bunch of children to construct a train track with a myriad of bridges and sidings. By the time we’re ready to leave, I suspect that several of the women are on the verge of climaxing. ‘You’ve never mentioned how gorgeous he is,’ Ruth hisses. ‘God, Laura. He’s an absolute darling. You’re so lucky.’

  ‘Oh, he’s all right,’ I snigger. Even the vexed mother – whose daughter is now sporting an impressive forehead egg – is regarding us more kindly now that Jed’s in our midst.

  The three of us leave playgroup and head towards school with Toby skipping ahead on the pavement. I’m startled when Jed takes my hand and curls his fingers around mine. ‘Did I mention,’ he says lightly, ‘that Celeste’s having a party on Saturday?’

  ‘Is she? What for?’

  ‘It’s her thirtieth.’

  ‘Thirty? She’s only thirty?’ I clamp my mouth shut. I’d realised she was younger than me, but hadn’t realised there’s almost a decade between us. Now I feel prehistoric.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Jed says. ‘Well, twenty-nine at the moment.’

  ‘I . . . I’m not sure we’ll be able to get a babysitter at such short notice,’ I say quickly.

  ‘We don’t need one. It’s an afternoon thing. A garden party.’

  ‘What, like the Queen has?’

  Jed lets my hand drop. ‘It’s just a party, Laura. You know – people chatting, having fun . . . it’s really not a big deal.’ He rolls his eyes at me.

  ‘And Celeste’s okay with children, is she?’ What am I saying? She’s a primary school teacher. Of course she’s okay with children. It’s like asking a surgeon if he’s okay with blood.

  ‘Of course she’s fine. We’re all invited and she said there’ll be loads of kids there. Don’t you want to go? You were complaining that we never go out.’

  ‘Of course I want to go,’ I say shrilly. ‘It’s just . . .’

  ‘Can I come to Celeste’s party?’ Toby spins round delightedly.

  ‘Yes, darling,’ I say, keeping my voice perky. ‘Of course you can. We’ll all go.’

  ‘Will there be cake?’

  ‘I’m sure there will,’ Jed chuckles as we approach school and join the cluster of parents all gathered around the gate. I spot several mothers checking Jed out – like an exotic bird, he’s rarely spotted around these parts – and instinctively slip my hand into his. He squeezes mine back, triggering a surge of warmth in me. Hell, why shouldn’t we all go to Celeste’s party? It’ll be a prime opportunity to show how together Jed and I are – how close and in love, despite his infatuation. It might even be a chance to get to
know her properly. We hardly got off to a good start at the pub, when I made that terrible joke about being taken back to the institution. She’s probably a very nice person, if only I’d give her a chance.

  I should lighten up. The old Laura loved a party, and I could wow Jed by wearing my new emerald dress. I glance at my husband, proud that he stepped into my funny, daytime playgroup world and passed with flying colours. It’s time I dipped my toe into his world too. But first, drastic action is required.

  Chapter Twelve

  I walk quickly, head bent against the rain, wishing I’d con sidered wearing some kind of disguise. A balaclava, perhaps, or Santa’s beard and moustache from the kids’ dressing-up box, although that might look bizarre at the end of April. Only Jed knows where I’m going. When the children asked, I just said, ‘I’m popping out to a meeting’, as if that’s something I’m prone to doing on a Thursday evening.

  Outside St Mary’s Hall, a cluster of women are laughing rowdily as they make their way in through the door. I bring Toby here for playgroup two afternoons a week, but tonight the place has a very different vibe. You’d think they were going to a party. No one looks remotely depressed, which must be a good sign. ‘Hi, Laura,’ exclaims Kirsty, a statuesque auburn beauty who’s one of my regular clients at the salon. ‘Are you joining us tonight?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say hesitantly. ‘Thought I’d take the plunge. Not too scary, is it?’

  ‘Oh, we’re all friends here,’ she laughs. ‘It’s great – I’ve lost a stone in six weeks. Couldn’t have done it on my own. Come on, you can sit with me.’

  I grin stoically and follow her inside, still worrying that, despite her reassurances, I’ll have my weight boomed out through a megaphone and my fat bits measured with a sinister pincer device. Jed couldn’t believe I was going tonight. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he’d asked, furrowing his brow. ‘It sounds a bit . . . desperate.’

  ‘I am desperate,’ I’d replied.

  ‘Well, I think you’re fine as you are,’ he’d added, although recent evidence suggests the contrary.

  ‘Quite a scrum this week,’ Kirsty observes as we squeeze into the hall’s entrance area. Everyone seems to be clustering outside the loo. I’m surprised to see so many familiar faces: an elderly lady from down our street, a couple of girls who work at Scamps nursery, and the woman who sold me a highchair after Grace had somehow managed to dismantle hers at three years old. All greet me as if this were a perfectly ordinary evening out.

  ‘That can’t be the queue for the loo,’ I whisper to Kirsty.

  ‘Afraid so. Everyone goes before weigh-in,’ she explains.

  ‘Why? Are they nervous?’

  ‘No,’ she says, sniggering. ‘So they’re lighter.’

  ‘You mean it really makes a difference? Surely a teeny amount of wee can’t alter your weight . . .’

  ‘Oh yes it does. Every ounce counts, our great leader says. Hope you’re wearing something heavy tonight – that way, you’re bound to lose for next week.’

  I unbutton my trenchcoat and hold it open. ‘Does this look heavy enough to you?’

  Kirsty frowns, scrutinising my outfit. ‘Your jeans are fine. Sweater’s a bit on the light side, maybe you should’ve gone for a chunkier knit . . .’

  ‘My boots are heavy, though . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ she snorts, ‘but you take those off for weigh-in.’ Damn. There was no mention of heavy clothing on the Super Slimmers flier I saw in the newsagent’s window. ‘Embrace the new you!’ was all it had said, plus a phone number and the promise of a ‘fun, supportive atmosphere’ and an idiot-proof eating plan. If I’d known, I’d have worn several outfits on top of each other.

  My stomach churns nervously as Kirsty and I step into the main hall. Despite Ruth’s stinginess with the biscuits, I’m yearning for the familiar turf of playgroup. A girl with a waist measurement of around twenty inches takes our money. ‘First time?’ she asks, flashing large, gleaming teeth.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Here you go. This is your Menu Masterplan’ – she thrusts me a glossy booklet depicting a woman grasping a banana in a rather phallic manner – ‘and your membership card. Fill in your name and address but not your weight, as we’ll have to weigh you accurately.’ She smiles encouragingly, and I smile back, wondering if she’s implying that I might fib on the card, thus guaranteeing a gargantuan loss next week. If I come next week. I wasn’t intending to carry on with this after Celeste’s party. A quick fix – that’s what I want. A short, sharp shock. Kirsty pounces on two vacant seats at the back of the hall, for which I am hugely grateful.

  I glance around the room. It’s filled with row upon row of chairs with a makeshift stage at the front. There’s a table on the stage, laden with foil-covered plates, and the air is thick with excitable chatter. So where do I fit in in the fat stakes? Several woman are hugely, almost heroically fat, and are bantering jovially as if this is somewhere they come for fun rather than because they ought to. The majority, though, are around my size – women who might once have given their weight little thought until pregnancy and child-rearing made them rounder and softer and added a stone or two. I wonder if their husbands still find them attractive and go to bed without the protective armour of pyjama bottoms. There’s no reason why not. They are all well dressed, with make-up and hair nicely done. They are perfectly presentable, and seem happy with life.

  Further perusal reveals that several women are decidedly thinner than me. That doesn’t seem right. ‘Claire Holloway’s lost three stone,’ Kirsty whispers, as if reading my thoughts. ‘She’s hoping to reach her target this week.’

  ‘What happens then?’

  ‘Everyone claps,’ Kirsty says.

  ‘Is that all? God, I’d want more than that! I’d want cake and champagne at the very least.’

  Kirsty giggles, and the woman in front spins round to throw us an irritated look. ‘The thing is not to regard food as a reward,’ Kirsty adds, lowering her voice. I nod, mulling this over. Do I do that? I don’t think so. I eat to cheer myself up, sure, but mostly because I’m hungry, or because food is there and it tastes bloody fantastic. How am I supposed to think myself out of that?

  A tall, slim-hipped woman in an elegant grey trouser suit strides onto the stage. ‘Hello, ladies,’ she says grandly, scanning the hall. ‘And gentlemen of course . . . do we have our male member here?’

  At this, everyone laughs. ‘No?’ she enquires. ‘Well, let’s get started anyway. Any newcomers, I’m Belinda, your group leader. As you came in, you’ll have been given our Menu Masterplan. You’ll see that there are no tricks here, no miracle solutions’ – aren’t there? Damn – ‘as slow and steady is our motto at Super Slimmers. It’s all about willpower, ladies, and making the right choices in life. It worked for me, and it can work for you too.’ She grins expectantly. My heart slumps to my boots.

  ‘Slow and steady?’ I whisper to Kirsty. ‘That’s not what I want. I’ve got a party to go to in two days’ time.’

  ‘You’ll have to be strict then,’ she hisses back.

  I waggle my Menu Masterplan at her. ‘Maybe I’ll stop eating altogether and just nibble the corner of this.’ She snorts through her nose and directs her attentions to our Leader. God, I’m starving. Couldn’t face dinner before I came out, and now my stomach is rumbling ominously. I wonder what’s on those foil-covered plates on the table, and when Belinda will get around to sharing it out. On my other side, a woman in a shiny floral dress is texting urgently on her mobile. Bet it says WILL PICK UP FISH & CHIPS ON WAY HOME.

  Hmmm, I can almost smell vinegary chips.

  ‘Now,’ Belinda announces, ‘let me explain what we do here.’ We make you thin, I will her to say. You’ll waltz into that garden party and be wondrous. ‘I start with a short talk every week,’ she explains, ‘which I hope you’ll find inspiring. There’s time for questions and answers, then we do weigh-in at the end.’ She scans the room expectantly. ‘So, if we’re all ready, this week I’
m going to talk about tuna.’

  An aura of rapt interest descends. ‘Tuna,’ Belinda says gravely, ‘is a slimmer’s best friend – but it’s vital that we choose the right type. Can anyone tell me which type that is?’ Her dramatically arched eyebrows shoot up.

  ‘It should be in water or brine,’ someone pipes up. ‘Never oil.’

  ‘That’s right!’ Belinda exclaims as if a child of Toby’s age has explained the theory of relativity. ‘Now, let’s look at the ways we can use it . . .’

  I start to faze off, wondering why I’m here on a damp Thursday night, being told that my best friend is tuna. Maybe it’s the club aspect that’s the problem. I’ve never been good at belonging to things. I paid an astronomical amount to belong to Bodyworks gym and didn’t shift an ounce. I felt obliged to leave the new mums’ book group after Grace vomited over the hostess’s glass coffee table, ruining a hand-crocheted doily. It was a relief, really, as it had become apparent that I was incapable of reading anything more taxing than Dirty Bertie.

  ‘. . . Try to work out if you’re really hungry or just thirsty,’ Belinda chunders on. ‘You can often quell hunger pangs with a refreshing glass of water . . .’

  No, sorry. I have never confused hunger with thirst, although I could murder a drink right now – a proper one, I mean. A nice glass of chilled pinot and a packet of posh crisps or maybe some mixed nuts. ‘You can make water more interesting with ice and a squeeze of lemon juice,’ Belinda adds. Jesus, how difficult can her job be? She doesn’t have to deal with clients with sparse, mousy hair expecting to walk out looking like Keira Knightley. Here, all people want is to be thinner. Maybe I should consider becoming a leader as a way of boosting my earnings. Surely I’d be capable of informing a hall full of women that they should opt for the rocket salad instead of the sausage roll seeping lard.

  I eye the foil-covered plates greedily, wishing Belinda would hurry up and get to the eating part. The texting woman has snuck out. I hope she’s gone to the chippie. ‘We all know about mayonnaise, don’t we?’ Belinda continues. There’s a ripple of knowing laughter. Oh yes, I know about mayonnaise. It’s bloody delicious. Occasionally, I’ll treat myself to a spoonful with cheese on toast. You could probably be shot for that in here. ‘Try mixing your tuna with lemon juice instead,’ she chirps, ‘and save yourself a whole bunch of cal ories. And remember that we’re all friends here, and our job is to support each other . . .’ I check my watch. How long will this go on for? We’ve been here for a quarter of an hour. It feels like seventeen weeks.