Bang Gang (9 page)

Don’t think about Trent. Don’t think about Trent. Don’t think about Trent.

I herded the kids through bath and bedtime, and made sure Nanna had taken her tablets before I sat with her to finish up her evening TV.

“Well?” she said during the advert break. “Did you sort things out with your Darren?”

I shrugged. “Nothing to sort, Nanna. We just… I said thanks for the washing machine.” I gave her my
don’t-be-ridiculous
eyes. “He’s not mine to sort.”

She chuckled to herself. “So I keep hearing…”

I held my breath — half expecting to field gigolo questions raised by over-the-fence gossip — but she let out a sigh at the end of her crime-drama and made her way to bed. Maybe she didn’t know… I could hope.

Once Nanna was tucked up for the night, I resumed my regular schedule. I wiped down the kitchen worktops, fed the cat for the twentieth time, sorted school lunchboxes and cleared the scrubbed-out baking pans away. It was late when I finally dragged myself to the machine to sort out the Trent-washed laundry. I did this while totally not thinking about him and his five man gigolo outfit, of course.

I sorted the kids’ blouses, then the socks, then the miscellaneous whites before I faced the inevitable, embarrassing confrontation of my underwear pile.
Oh Lord
. I cringed afresh as the full horror of the granny pants hit home, and it seemed so much worse now, now that I’d seen
him —
the one I was definitely not thinking about. Definitely not thinking about
at all
.

I definitely
wasn’t
thinking about how kind the years had been to the man I was definitely, definitely over.

Definitely.

Totally over.

Anyhow, it wasn’t just the passage of time that had served Trent well. No. It was the gym — sweat and time and effort. That and a fat wedge of cash from a string of loaded women like
Porsche-bitch, no doubt. I bet
she
had nice knickers. I bet she had nice
everything.

I looked through my pitiful pants collection. Some had holes. In at least one pair the elastic had snapped. One pair was still vaguely blood-stained. All of them were grey and tatty and thoroughly unattractive. That’s when it occurred
to me that I might be too…

Ouch.

Super ouch.

Was
I grey and tatty and thoroughly unattractive?

I scoffed the thought aside. Porsche-bitch has
time
to look great. Porsche-bitch probably has nothing better to worry about
than
looking great.

I could look great, too. If I really wanted to. I had makeup, I could put a face on any time I felt like it…

I fished my cosmetics bag from the odds-and-sods drawer. My heart dropped to find the situation was worse than expected…

One cruddy foundation — congealed around the top. Lid missing.

One blunt eyeliner pencil.

One
neutral glow
palette of eyeshadow — half of the colours missing, the other half broken and crumbly having been stabbed with an applicator.
Thanks, Ruby
.

Two lipsticks. One was just a paltry stub left in the bottom. One was so red I’d never even tried it.

Had it really been that long..?

Yes. It had been that long. The occasional night out down the local with Tonya had turned into a Christmas-only event. Ladies-who-lunch had become a makeup-less affair, hair scooped up in a pony after the school run.

Brian hadn’t cared a toss about my makeup through the two piss-poor years of our relationship… Hadn’t cared about my hair, either… or sex, in fact…

Or me…

Big pants had become a thing of comfort — bumper packs of five with standard white bras were easy-peasy. They covered my baby podge nicely. And who was there to worry about now, anyway? Who would ever see them? Not even Brian… not since I’d ditched the loser last winter.

Trent
.
He’d seen them.

And it smarted. The embarrassment prickled my chest. Shit.

He’d seen my ugly, stained knickers and now he was off fucking some rich bitch who probably had stylists to choose her panty-stash for her.

In a moment of madness I crumpled up those gross knickers and tossed them straight into the outside bin. My makeup bag followed soon afterwards.

I slammed the lid with a satisfying thump.

Good fucking riddance.

Late night shopping at the 24-hour supermarket was surprisingly calming. The aisles were empty and the music was loud, and I wandered freely through the clothes and makeup section without hindrance. A strange sense of guilt washed over me as I contemplated my purchases — some irrational mantra that said if I wasn’t buying it for the kids it wasn’t worth buying at all. But
I
was worth it. Surely I had to be worth it?

I picked up a handful of frilly knickers and a couple of matching bras. I grabbed a tight little teal V-neck that showed off the dip of my waist and a smaller pair of jeans to go along with them. A pair of low heels that wouldn’t totally destroy my feet through the day at the cafe. Some foundation, and an eyeliner that worked. A decent lipstick, too. A new eyeshadow palette, with green and gold and blue. It was a start.

My heart was thumping as I went through the self-scan checkout, shoving my card in the reader before I could change my mind.

It felt exhilarating, and indulgent and strangely naughty. It felt
good
.

I sang along to the radio on the way home, hoping that everyone had slept through my late night disappearance. They had. Of course they had. They weren’t babies anymore, weren’t glued to me 24/7. They had Nanna, and Mia was almost old enough to babysit herself. It was only me who worried about leaving them, worried about going out for five minutes and not being there.

Only me who worried about
everything
all the time.

Back at home, I tried on my new undies and scoped myself out in my wardrobe mirror. Sure, I had a belly podge, but show me a mother of two kids who doesn’t. The rest of me looked pretty alright. I’d lost weight without realising it, and admittedly I didn’t have the ass I’d had a decade earlier at sweet nineteen — but it was still fairly pert and curved in the right places. My waist dipped in enough to give me a half-decent shape. My thighs were a little wobbly but who really cares? And my tits… well… they looked so much better in a decent push-up bra.

I’d pass. Whatever passing even means. It wasn’t hideous… it was certainly a lot better than the shape I’d been presenting in plain, comfortable — yeah, ok, over-sized — clothes.

By the time I went to bed I’d managed to turn a full 180, convincing myself I’d wasted a pile of money for nothing, and nobody would even notice the difference. Convincing myself I was running a fool’s errand just because some salon-perfect woman had crossed my path down the garage. But despite all the self-talk, I couldn’t shake off this little pang of something. Excitement? Relief?

Hope?

I don’t know what it was, but it sure felt good. Underneath the resignation and the embarrassment and the fear, there was something alive and kicking. It was so alien I could hardly fathom it.

I wondered when I’d written myself off. From being a woman, I mean — because that’s what it felt like, ultimately. Like somehow, somewhere along the path, I’d traded in my female identity for some all-encompassing idea of motherhood and a minimum wage job down the cafe. It had happened so slowly, I guess. Losing myself just a tiny little piece at a time; a busy schedule, not enough sleep, a lousy boring boyfriend like Brian…

He’d never fucked me like he wanted me. Not like Darren used to.

With Darren it was raw, and tempestuous, and exciting. In the early days, when we were still good together, he’d fuck me like I was the only woman in the world, the only woman he’d ever want. He’d fuck me with a wildness that I’d never found since — something so real… so unapologetic…

Figures —
unapologetic could be Darren Trent’s middle name.

Sleep didn’t come easy. The early hours came and went and I was still wide awake, just thinking — stewing life around in my head. So many questions, so few answers…

Had I really lost myself with Brian? Was that when my life went stale?

No. It wasn’t, and I knew it.

It had started long before that. Long before Darren and I called time out. Long before we even
considered
calling time out.

It had started when I first had Mia and realised the whole universe had shifted on its axis. That I was no longer just Jodie, Trent’s girlfriend, but Mum, too.

Somewhere along the line I stopped being me and Darren stopped being Darren. We were just… I dunno… two people stuck in a rut together. One long, painful, sour rut.

Oh how it had fucking hurt to let it go.

But we were good with the time out now, had been for years. So many years. It was the right decision for both of us,
all
of us… we knew that… we both knew that… of course we did…

It was
still
the right decision. Definitely.

Absolutely one million percent definitely.

I didn’t want him at all, no way. Not even in a tux. Never. Not even a consideration… Not even a fleeting thought in my mind…

I definitely didn’t want Darren Trent…

Especially
not in a tux…

And definitely, definitely not enough to reach under my bed for my bodywand…