Authors: Fiona Gibson
Mum on the Run (18 page)
‘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.
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.’
‘Oh,’ Kate exclaims, ‘I can’t believe she’s eight! Seems like no time since I was her first visitor in that ward.’
‘I know. It’s terrifying really.’ Kate’s own boys, Rory and Nat, were already in their teens by then; she’d left them in Scotland with Will, their dad, when my due date approached, so she could be on standby to look after Finn. Our friends, and even Jed’s parents, had offered to step in and help, but Kate had felt it was her role and I agreed. However, Grace had her own ideas. She was fashionably late, by two weeks, choosing to greet the world on the very day I was due to be induced. As a result, Kate stayed with us in our tiny Hackney flat for three weeks. I still look back on it fondly, that time of living and waiting together, my kind, capable big sister and me.
‘How was the party?’ Kate is asking. ‘Complete mayhem, I imagine, but you’re still alive, obviously . . .’
I pause, tempted to gloss over Jed’s misdemeanour. It would be so much easier to make her laugh by telling her about Toby punching my volcano cake. ‘Kate,’ I murmur, ‘I need to talk to you. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Are you pregnant?’ she blurts out.
‘God, no. No! That would be highly unlikely.’ I laugh mirthlessly. ‘No, it’s about Grace’s party. Jed missed it. He didn’t come home.’
‘What? Was he away or something?’
‘No, just at work, then he went out.’ I glimpse him clearing the table in the kitchen and the children scattering obediently to retrieve schoolbags and gym kits.
‘He went out?’ she repeats. ‘And missed the party?’
As I clear my throat, I spot a withered balloon poking out of the watering can spout. ‘That’s about it. He went for a drink after work. That’s what he said anyway – an
impromptu
drink – and by the time he came home the party had finished.’
‘But that’s so unlike him!’ Kate exclaims. ‘He’d never do that. Deliberately miss one of the kids’ . . .’
‘I don’t think it was deliberate,’ I cut in. ‘I honestly think he just forgot.’
‘What, forgot his own daughter’s birthday? Why would he do that?’
‘It’s . . .’ I take a deep breath. ‘It’s complicated, Kate. You’re right, he would never have done that. But things have changed. There’s this woman at school, a teacher, joined the school last autumn. They became friends pretty quickly, and it was all “Celeste this, Celeste that”, and the kids all think she’s fantastic of course . . .’
‘Was he out with her?’ Kate asks.
‘Yes, and some others, he reckons. But he’s infatuated with her. Since Celeste’s been around, he hasn’t been like . . . like the old Jed at all.’
‘Hang on,’ Kate murmurs, and I sense the background tone changing as she takes her phone out of the house and into the garden. I picture her standing there, with her wild, crinkly hair pulled up on top of her head, surrounded by her hens and a huge, open sky. ‘You don’t think he’s having an affair, do you?’ she asks bluntly.
‘I don’t know what to think, Kate. It’s so hard to be rational. I mean, something’s going on, I’m sure of that. He’s never affectionate, not really, and we haven’t had sex since something like 1992 . . .’
‘Oh, come on,’ she murmurs.
‘Okay, but it’s been ages. Months, actually. I know that happens when there are young kids around and everyone’s exhausted. And I’m not expecting it to be like the old, pre-kids days. But there’s something else, I can tell.’
‘Well, you have to find out,’ she says firmly. ‘Have you asked him outright?’
‘Sort of. He denies it anyway. Gets really defensive if I even mention her name.’
‘But you need to find out, don’t you? Something must be happening to make him miss a birthday party. I’m not saying he’s sleeping with her – I can hardly believe he’d do that, not Jed – but something’s wrong, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I murmur as he appears at the back door and gives me a quizzical smile. ‘I’d better go,’ I add.
‘Want me to come down, spend a few days with you? I’m sure Will could hold the fort here . . .’
‘No, you don’t have to do that.’
‘Well,’ she says, ‘and call me anytime, okay? Come up and see me, soon as you can, and give them all a kiss from their auntie.’
‘Thanks, Kate. I will do.’
It’s a deft hand-over of duties as Jed heads upstairs for a shower, looking beleaguered now due to complex egg preparations. ‘Mummy,’ Grace says, ‘I didn’t mind that Daddy missed my party.’
Something catches in my throat. ‘Didn’t you, love? Well, that’s good of you. You know he’d have loved to be there.’
She nods thoughtfully. ‘Did he go out with his friends?’
‘Er, yes, love. These things, um . . . come up sometimes.’ Sweat prickles my forehead. Stress-induced sweat, as if I’m the one who was quaffing booze while our daughter’s birthday cake was dished out. ‘He’s really sorry, you know,’ I add.
‘Yeah.’ She brightens, popping the last forkful of lovingly poached egg into her mouth. ‘And it’s all right,’ she adds, ‘as long as he promises to come next year.’
*
Next year,
I think as the breeze cools my face through the open driver’s side window. Who knows where we’ll be then, and what will have happened to us? It doesn’t bode well that the only party we’ve attended together this year ended up with me peeing myself and him flirting wildly then insisting, in a furious temper, that we left.
Jed and I used to be known for our parties, I reflect as I drive out of town. We’d fill our flat with our friends and assorted people we’d collected along the way, and the bath would be piled high with lagers and ice. Friends had paired off at our parties: old mates from college mingling with friends from Jed’s school, and girls I’d met at the hair salons I’d worked in. So many friends and parties. It’s not having children that’s curtailed all that; Kate and Will have an enviable social life, which never seemed to falter during their child-rearing years, even though they live in a tiny village surrounded by hills and farmland.
My phone bleeps with an incoming text. Intrigued and, admittedly, hoping it’s from Danny, I pull over at the roadside to read it. HOPE ALL OK AFTER GRACES PARTY, Beth has written. GD LUCK XX. I call her number. ‘Where are you?’ she asks. ‘Just called your land line. Jed said you’d gone out for a drive, which seemed weird . . .’
‘That’s what I told him,’ I say. ‘I’m going to Celeste’s, Beth. I need to know what’s happening and if he won’t tell me, then hopefully, she will . . .’
‘Are you sure about this?’ she says, sounding alarmed. ‘I mean . . . what are you planning to do when you get there?’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to burst in and start accusing her of anything. I’m bringing her dress back, you see, the one she lent me at her party . . .’
‘And then what?’ she asks warily.
‘Well . . . I don’t know, Beth. I’ll see how it goes.’
‘If you’re sure,’ she says. ‘Don’t do anything silly, though. It’s really not worth it.’
‘It just feels better than doing nothing,’ I add calmly. ‘It’ll be fine, whatever happens. And at least I’ll know.’
We finish the call and I glance at the posh carrier bag – the one my putty-coloured birthday dress came in – which is perched on the passenger seat. Inside it is Celeste’s dress, perfectly laundered and pressed. I turn on the ignition and pull away from the verge, following the narrow country lane. Undulating fields are punctuated by the occasional proud stone house. This is how I imagine Danny’s house. Solid and welcoming, with no volcano cake smears, but still relaxed and comfortable.
I drive on, my bravado ebbing away rapidly as I approach the mill. My chest tightens as I pull up at the parking area. Picking up the bag, I climb out of the car, shutting the door as quietly as I can. I try to stride purposefully across the gravel, the way I attempted to make a confident entrance at her party, with Jed clutching that flamboyant bouquet.
As I approach the mill’s entrance, I spot something on the grass. It’s a blue glass nugget, glinting in the sun. Licking my parched lips, I pick it up and slip it into my pocket. Then I walk slowly towards the front door.
It’s not locked and pushes open easily. By now, I’m hoping that Celeste is out so I can leave the dress at the door to her flat and forget this stupid plan to confront her. What if I’m wrong? Or if she hasn’t even noticed that Jed’s crazy about her? How stupid will I look then? I had it all worked out early this morning, having woken at 6.30 a.m. I lay there, while Jed snored softly, planning what I’d say:
What were you doing with Jed last night? Didn’t he tell you it was Grace’s eighth birthday party? How do you feel about that – him missing it because of you?
Now my script feels all wrong, and my heart is hammering urgently as I climb the cool stone stairs. I reach her landing and pause, wondering what to do next.
A jam jar of shrivelled flowers sits on the floor in the corner. Must be left over from the party. And she’s in, dammit, because faint music is filtering through the door to her flat. I rehearse my lines:
I need to talk to you. It’s really important. I need you to tell me what’s going on between you and Jed.
And I raise my hand, ready to knock, poised for my life to change forever.
The door flies open and slams against the wall. I stagger back, kicking over the jam jar of flowers and taking a moment to realise it’s not Celeste but a younger girl who’s stormed out of the flat, her finely-sculpted face shiny with tears. ‘I don’t want to talk to you!’ she screeches over her shoulder. ‘I’m not your
friend
. I don’t have to listen to anything you say . . .’
She stops momentarily, registering my presence. Fury blazes in her wide blue eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ I blurt out, ‘I just came by to—’ I jiggle the carrier bag. ‘I have something to give back . . .’
‘Celeste!’ she yells, pushing chaotic dark hair out of her face. ‘Someone here to see you.’ She wrinkles her freckled nose and glowers at me.
‘Sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘If it’s not a good time, it really isn’t important . . .’
‘It’s okay.’ She chokes back a sob. ‘I’m leaving anyway . . .’
‘Please, don’t go because of—’ I start as she storms away, clattering downstairs in her flip-flops, one of her vest top straps dangling from a pale, bony shoulder. I stare through the open door into Celeste’s flat. No sign of life. Just faint music coming from a radio, and a fizz of tension in the air.
I don’t know what to do next. Knocking on the open door seems wrong, and it’s obviously not the best time to try and have a reasonable conversation with her about Jed. Yet if Celeste spots me creeping back downstairs, she’ll assume I’ve been loitering about on her landing for no apparent reason, and how would I explain that? It would get all around school:
Poor Jed, his wife was hanging about on my landing, you know. She obviously has issues
. . .
I stand dead still, gripping the bag, trying to formulate an emergency exit plan. As quietly as possible, I shuffle across the landing. I could be outside in seconds and she’d never know I’d been there. At least I’m wearing trainers. I could
sprint.
My stomach growls ominously, echoing around the stark landing.
I edge a little closer to the stairs.
Just go for it. Run.
‘Wait!’ comes her voice as my foot hits the step. ‘Please don’t go. Look, I’m sorry, I know I’m a terrible person, I really don’t deserve . . .’
I freeze, swivelling my eyes towards the door. Celeste appears, looking even more distraught than the younger woman. Her eyes are swollen, and her nose and lips are red and sore-looking. She’s wearing a blue fluffy dressing gown and is barefoot. ‘Laura?’ she says faintly. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I . . . I was passing and thought I’d return your dress.’ My arm springs out like a robot’s as I hand it to her.
‘Oh. Thanks.’ She takes the bag from me.
‘Your, erm, knickers aren’t there,’ I babble. ‘I couldn’t find them but I’m sure they’ll turn up . . .’
She smiles tightly. ‘Don’t worry.’
We look at each other. ‘Well, I’d better go,’ I add quickly.
‘No, it’s okay. Come in, have a coffee with me.’ Her voice wobbles again.
‘Really, I’m in a bit of a hurry . . .’ I’d actually rather drink one of the soil-and-puddle potions Toby concocts in the garden.
‘Just a quick one then?’
I nod. ‘Okay. I’m due to meet someone for a run later. Could probably do with the caffeine shot.’
She smiles and beckons me in. ‘I’m sorry about that . . . that
scene
you saw there. Don’t know what you must have thought . . .’
‘It’s fine. I’m sure it was just . . .’
‘It blew up out of nothing,’ she cuts in. ‘You know how it is.’
I nod, not knowing how anything is as Celeste pours me a coffee from the percolator jug. It’s disconcerting, seeing her red and raw-faced, with her bare feet and chipped toenails and her honey-coloured hair hanging in loose tangles around her face. If she were Beth, I’d hug her, try to find out what’s wrong. I have no idea what to do with a distraught Celeste.
‘D’you take sugar?’ she asks.
‘Yes, two please.’ A tense silence descends as I glance around the kitchen. It’s less pristine than it was on party day. No vase of tulips today. Clothes are strewn over chairs, and a scruffy make-up bag has spilled its contents all over the table. There’s a mangled concealer stick with its lid off, an abandoned mascara wand and a small circular mirror with fingerprints all over it.
Celeste gestures for me to sit at the table, and takes the seat opposite. ‘You’re looking good, you know. All this running obviously suits you.’
‘Well, I’ve only just started really . . .’ She blows into her coffee and a small silence descends. This is ludicrous. We have nothing to say to each other. I don’t feel I should ask about the girl who virtually knocked me over as she flew past, yet we can hardly pretend she wasn’t there. The real reason for my visit burns urgently in my brain. I sip my coffee, hoping its sweetness will soothe me, but all I do is scald my tongue.
‘She’s . . . very emotional,’ Celeste murmurs.
‘Yes. I could see that.’ I’m now conscious of the ticking wall clock, heightening the tension in the room. I slip a hand into the pocket of my tracksuit bottoms, running a fingertip over the cool glass nugget. ‘Celeste,’ I begin, ‘you know, um, a bunch of you had a few drinks last night?’
‘Er, Jed and I did, yes. Just a couple.’ She meets my gaze and forms a bright smile.
‘It’s just . . . it was Grace’s birthday party. It was happening, I mean, when you were in the pub.’
‘Was it?’ She looks aghast. ‘Are you sure?’
I laugh dryly. ‘Oh, it was happening all right. I’ve got the war wounds to prove it.’
‘But why didn’t Jed say? I’d never have asked him to come out if I’d known. Honestly, Laura, I had no idea . . .’ She tails off and stands up to rinse out her mug under the tap. Two small plates sit side by side on the drainer. Nothing else. No mad tumble of beakers and paint jars or any of the clutter that threatens to explode out of our house.
‘He says he forgot,’ I murmur, sensing the lines I rehearsed earlier becoming blurry and impossible to read.
‘Well, I . . .’ She clears her throat. ‘I don’t know what to say. Jed’s been a good friend to me – you know that. He’s a lovely, generous guy. I’ve been through some tough times lately and, honestly, I don’t know what I’d have done without him sometimes. Not everyone at school’s as understanding, you know.’
I nod wordlessly.
‘God, you must be furious with me,’ she adds, ‘stealing your husband on his daughter’s birthday. I’m so sorry . . .’ She rakes a hand through her hair, and I wonder why he lied, why he told me a bunch of them had been to the pub.
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s not your fault. It was
his
daughter’s birthday, not yours. Anyway,’ I add, ‘I’d really better get going, Celeste, or I’ll be standing up my friend for our run.’
‘Okay,’ she murmurs, smiling stoically as she sees me to the door. ‘Oh, and thanks for returning the dress. You needn’t have, though. To be honest, it doesn’t fit me.’
*
My head swims as I drive back to town. Of course it wasn’t her fault. That seems obvious now from the way she reacted, and how mortified she was. She might have suggested the drink, being such great buddies with Jed and him being so incredibly
understanding
, blah-blah, but she didn’t deliberately set out to wreck Grace’s birthday. And what about him, telling me that a group of them had gone out for some impromptu thing? It was a small lie, but a lie all the same.
Pulling in at the street beside the park, I climb out of the car and glance around for Danny, keen to expend some energy and hopefully straighten out my thoughts. Spotting him waiting at the gates, I wave and quicken my pace. ‘You drove here?’ he says. ‘Trying to conserve your energy for the run, were you? Or – don’t tell me. You’ve only just got out of bed.’
I laugh. ‘Hardly. I just had somewhere else to go first.’
‘None of your excuses,’ he teases. ‘So, are you ready?’
‘Guess so,’ I say. It all spills out so easily as we fall into a jog: my intention to confront Celeste, using the dress as an excuse, and it turning out to be just the two of them who’d been out together.
‘Are you even madder at him?’ Danny asks.
‘Of course I am, but you know what? After this morning, seeing her sitting there all upset and, well,
ordinary
in her flat, obviously having just had some huge row with that girl, whoever she was . . . well, I don’t know. It’s grown to be such a big thing in my life and I’m sick of it all, to be honest.’
‘You sound different,’ he says. ‘Stronger, more determined . . .’
I glance at him, realising how evenly-paced we are. It feels good, being in step with each other, in the soft sunshine with the ducks drifting lazily across the lake. I don’t even care that those snogging teenagers are there on the bench again, watching us. ‘Well, I feel it,’ I say. ‘I feel good doing this, don’t you?’
‘It’s definitely getting easier,’ he says as we swerve out of the park, following the narrow path which runs alongside the river. ‘I never imagined I could enjoy running, to be honest.’
‘Neither did I.’ When I glimpse the church clock, I’m astounded to see that we’ve been running for twenty minutes without having to walk, or anything terrible happening at all.
‘Want to take a rest?’ he asks as we approach a bench.
‘Shall we see if we can manage another five minutes?’
‘God,’ he laughs, ‘you’re a ruthless woman.’ We run and run, taking the steps back up to the road and following the shortcut alleyway until we’re back in the park where we started. We stop abruptly, both of us laughing and gasping for breath. ‘You were challenging me, weren’t you?’ he pants. ‘You wanted me to suggest stopping first.’
‘No,’ I fib, allowing myself to drop onto a bench. ‘But I could sense you were struggling there so maybe we’d better have a rest. I mean, I don’t want you keeling over or anything.’
He sits beside me and catches his breath. ‘We must have run three miles, Laura. Three miles! A couple of lapsed old Tub Club members like us.’
I giggle and look at him.
‘We’re brilliant, aren’t we? Belinda would be proud.’
A solitary duck catches my eye, and I watch it, enjoying the stillness.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Danny says.
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘Could I take some pictures of you sometime? I’d really like to. Remember I told you I really love to do portraits? Well, I’ve let it slip lately. Focused on commercial work instead of taking pictures just for myself, the kind of shots I really want to do. And I thought you’d be perfect. Would you mind, or am I being horribly cheeky?’
‘Of course you’re not,’ I say. ‘You really think I’d be perfect, though? Are you sure about this?’
‘Oh yes. Don’t tell me you hate having your photo taken . . .’
I laugh, trying to work out whether I do or not. ‘You know, I don’t know how I feel about it because no one ever takes any pictures of me.’
‘Seriously?’ he says, frowning. ‘Like, never?’
‘Well, Jed used to. Hundreds, actually, and we’re talking years back – pre-digital – so, somewhere in our house, there are stacks of prints of me in various states of inebriation at parties.’ I snigger.
‘Then what happened?’
‘Well, then we had the children and it stopped.’
‘Did it? Why?’
I smile, realising that of course he doesn’t understand. ‘Danny,’ I say patiently, ‘something happens when you have kids. Suddenly, they’re the ones everyone takes photos of. Which is understandable, given the sleep-deprived general knackeredness of the parents and the cuteness of the children. I mean, they’re far more photogenic than we are.’
‘Right, I get it. But what about holidays? Surely you’re in family holiday shots?’
‘We haven’t had a family holiday for four years,’ I explain. ‘Last one was to a damp cottage in Northumberland which had other people’s toenail clippings in the bath. We came home with about 300 photos of the children, and Jed was in a few, but there was only one of me. And I was bending over in the background with my bum in the air, picking something up off the floor.’ Danny is choking with laughter. ‘I could dig that out for you if you like,’ I add, ‘if you need creative inspiration.’
‘Well, um, I was thinking of something a bit more . . . dignified actually. In fact, this could be your reintroduction into the dazzlingly glamorous world of photography. What d’you think?’ He gives me such an open, hopeful look that I want to hug him.
‘Where would you do the shots?’ I ask.
‘Just at my place. There’s plenty of space there.’
‘Oh. Um, I think . . .’ I hesitate. ‘I think I need to think about it, okay?’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘No pressure at all.’
I smile, and we sit in easy silence, watching the ducks paddle across the lake. Then his hand touches mine, and my heart turns over. I don’t move or look at him. I just sit in the milky sunlight, with a handsome man’s hand over mine, thinking that whatever happens I’ll never forget this weird, but strangely perfect morning.