Authors: Fiona Gibson
Mum on the Run (26 page)
The children and I are heading for the Mecca of Hair-dressing Excellence that is Cut ‘n’ Pierce. The name is alarming, suggesting that you can’t be sure which of the two the ‘practitioner’ (or whatever you call him) will subject you to. There’s a long scuffed bench with random blobs of garish paint all over it, and the small room has a basementy smell, probably due to being located under a railway arch. ‘Be with you in a minute, yeah?’ the skinny boy says, casting our assembled group a quick glance. No herbal teas or macaroons here. The boy has sharp, jutting cheekbones and an angry boil on his cheek. A rumpled grey T-shirt hangs from his lanky frame. He looks about six months older than Finn.
The kids and I perch on the bench. ‘What style are you going to have?’ I ask Finn, to break the glum silence.
He gnaws at a fingernail. ‘I thought I’d have this bit shorter and this bit longer and this bit left as it is.’
I look at him uncomprehendingly. ‘You mean you want the top and sides cut short and the back left long?’
‘Yuh.’ He glances around nervously.
‘That’s a mullet,’ I tell him.
‘What’s a mullet?’
‘A terrible haircut, short and layered on top and long at the back, like people had in the seventies. It’s sort of like two different haircuts in one.’
‘No, that’s not what I meant . . .’
‘That’s what it sounds like, sweetheart. I’m just warning you.’ I give his hand a quick squeeze and, surprisingly, he doesn’t tug it away.
Toby has ambled off to investigate a trolley laden with scruffy bottles of product. ‘Please sit down, love,’ I tell him. He ignores me.
‘It won’t be like that,’ Finn insists. ‘
He
knows what I like.’ He nods in the direction of the whey-faced teenager.
‘Right,’ I whisper. ‘Like that cut you had last time, that demented loo-brush scenario that I knew you hated but which you wouldn’t let me fix because it would have meant admitting . . .’
‘Shhh,’ he hisses.
‘It’s up to you, though,’ I add. ‘It’s your hair and you can have it however you like.’
Finn nods. ‘Yeah. I know.’ He pulls his hand away from mine.
Toby starts wheeling the trolley back and forth across the rough stone floor. ‘Please leave that,’ I murmur. He continues to wheel it.
‘Leave that alone, mate,’ the boy barks, zipping over an equally embryo-like person’s head with clippers. Toby stops obediently, probably because this so-called barber is a male – a surrogate father figure, perhaps, in these desperate times. At least the piercing and tattooing are carried out in another room. We can hear the stop-start buzz of the tattooing machine. I pray that no one will start screaming.
‘Can I have my ears pierced?’ Grace asks, swinging her legs from the bench.
‘No, love.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re too young.’
‘When can I have it done? Everyone else has pierced earrings.’
‘No they don’t, Grace. What’s got into you? You’ve never mentioned having your ears pierced before.’
‘Yes I have. I’ve mentioned it hundreds of times and you never let me. India’s had it done and it’s not fair.’ She kicks the bench in frustration.
‘Can we talk about this at home?’ I say under my breath.
‘You never let me do anything!’ Her anger shocks me, and causes the barber and his buzz-haired client to swing around in our direction.
‘That’s not true,’ I protest. ‘How many times do we have your friends over for tea? How often do we—’
‘
And
you had a fight with Daddy and he went away!’ Tears appear instantly, flooding down her furious pink cheeks.
‘Oh, Grace!’ My stomach lurches and the horrible basement smell makes me feel quite nauseous as I put my arms around her. ‘That’s not what happened, love. We’ll sort it out, I promise.’ She gulps into my chest as I hold her in my arms. How am I planning to sort it, exactly? I don’t have the vaguest hint of a plan, apart from leaving dozens of increasingly desperate messages on Jed’s voicemail and hoping he’ll just walk right back into our house and our lives. Toby is sniffing too, and I’m willing him not to burst into tears. I should have known this would happen. That they’d figure that their dad’s not just ‘working’. What kind of schools are open twenty-four hours a day, for God’s sake? I wish this barber would hurry up. Finn can have whatever haircut he likes, and I’ll leave a huge tip and we’ll get the hell out of here.
Grace pulls away from me and gulps quietly. She has never been interested in jewellery. She’s spent the past eight years tumbling about happily in whatever mismatched outfit I’ve plucked out for her. Her pink phase lasted a mercifully brief three weeks. I was wrong to think she was sailing through this Dad-free period unscathed, and I can sense what’s coming next: a phonecall from Miss Marshall at school, saying, ‘Could you please pop in at your earliest convenience, i.e. today, in the next half hour, as we have serious concerns about your daughter . . .’
My insides crumple with shame. The barber finishes his cut, and his client grunts his approval. In the back room, the tattoo needle buzzes back into life. ‘Who’s next?’ the boy asks with a disdainful glance. Finn stares, unmoving, at his shoes.
‘It’s you, love,’ I say, nudging him. He stands up and makes for the chair.
‘What d’you want?’ the barber mutters.
‘Er, I was kinda thinking . . .’ He tweaks the top of his head with his fingers. ‘I was kinda wondering, like, er . . .’
‘You wanna number one, two or three?’
Finn throws me a confused glance in the mirror. He probably thinks the barber’s asking if he needs the toilet. ‘I, er, think he wants it longer here, and shorter here, and pretty much left as it is up here,’ I babble, jabbing ineffectually at my own head.
The barber blinks at me. ‘Yeah. All right.’
I can’t watch as he starts to cut. Can’t witness him fiddling with scissors in that haphazard way when he’s used to clippering heads all day. Toby watches with rapt interest. Grace wipes her face on her sleeve and fixes her gaze on Finn. I focus on my pale knees poking out from my skirt. At least Finn will have the haircut he wants, which will be one less thing for him to be angry about. It seems to be taking ages. ‘I need a number two,’ Toby growls.
‘What, you want your hair cut too?’
‘No. I need the
toilet
.’
‘Can you hold on, hon? We won’t be long.’
‘No,’ he declares. ‘It’s gonna come out.’
‘You can’t go here,’ I whisper. ‘We’ll be home soon, or we could stop at the public loos in town . . .’
‘I need it now,’ he wails.
‘He can use ours,’ the barber says gruffly.
‘Oh, I’m sure he can hold on . . .’
‘I can’t,’ Toby says, leaping up from the bench.
‘Over there,’ the barber says, indicating a narrow door with its paint peeling off at the far end of the room.
‘Right. Thank you.’ Taking Toby by the hand, I escort him to the loo. At my salon we have gleaming new stainless steel fittings and fragrant handwash in glass dispensers. Cut ‘n’ Pierce has a decrepit loo with a pull-down chain flusher and a grubby wooden seat. Toby plonks himself on it, and the whole business takes ages; I am beginning to doubt whether he was desperate at all, or just wanted to check out the facilities. Finally, business attended to, we emerge from the cubicle.
Typical. Some man has come in and taken my place on the bench. He is sitting there, head lowered, chatting to Grace. Her head is bobbing enthusiastically. I march over to explain that I was sitting there, and that’s
my
daughter who’s been warned not to talk to strangers. ‘Um, excuse me,’ I say. The man looks up and our eyes meet. I open my mouth and realise I have no idea what to say.
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘Hello, Jed.’ When he smiles, it’s not an exasperated smile. It’s not even a humouring-me smile. It’s a hesitant, hopeful one which lifts my heart.
‘You’re here,’ I say.
He nods and flicks his gaze towards Finn. ‘Looks like our boy’s getting a mullet.’
Grace and Toby smother Jed with cuddles and chat as we leave. Even Finn cracks a broad smile. To my relief, none of them asks where he’s been, or what’s happened. ‘I got a star for my picture at nursery,’ Toby announces.
‘That’s fantastic,’ Jed says. ‘What was it of?’
‘It had to be about families,’ Toby explains, sending my heart into a spin.
Could you pop in when you have a moment, Mrs Swan? We’re a little concerned. Toby drew a picture of the four of you, without his father, and explained, ‘My daddy’s gone.’
‘I painted us all at Auntie Kate’s,’ he says grinning.
‘Great idea,’ Jed enthuses.
‘You weren’t there,’ Toby reminds him, ‘but I put you in anyway.’
Jed’s smile looks slightly strained. ‘Thanks, Tobes. I wouldn’t have wanted you to leave me out.’
‘I’ve finished my project on Granddad!’ Grace chips in.
‘Have you?’ Jed asks. ‘How did it go?’
‘Miss Forest said it was the best ’cause I’d got loads of old pictures and asked Gran questions about him.’ Jed catches my eye as Grace skips ahead. No begging for ear piercings now. I realise how much they’ve missed Jed, how aware they were of a Dad-shaped hole.
The sky darkens, and we quicken our pace as it starts to drizzle. The excitement subsides, and Grace looks back and sniggers, ‘Your hair looks weird, Finn. Like a pineapple plant.’
‘Shut up.’ He flattens the top of his head self-consciously. Ah, business as normal. Jed and I lag a little behind the children.
‘How did you know where we’d be?’ I ask him.
‘Finn told me.’
‘Right. He called you, then.’
Jed nods.
‘And you took his call . . . I mean, of
course
you would, I just . . .’ I tail off.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs. ‘I should have returned your calls.’
‘Of course you should,’ I say softly. ‘I’ve been worried sick about you. Two nights, Jed, and I’ve had no idea where you’ve been . . .’
‘I know. I’m sorry, Laura. I just needed some time . . .’ He looks at me, and I’m shocked to see his brown eyes glossy with tears. ‘I need to explain a few things,’ he adds, taking my hand in his.
I glance at him as we walk, taking in the strong jaw and handsome profile. He’s wearing a slightly creased white T-shirt and his favourite soft, old jeans, the ones he was wearing when he left.
I need to explain a few things.
What does that mean?
I need to explain that I’m disgusted with you, sneaking off to your so-called running partner’s place for a cosy photo shoot . . .
We walk home in silence, and I’m so desperate for him to tell me, I can hardly breathe.
*
I go through the motions of making and serving up dinner. No one quizzes me on the provenance of the pork chops, or demands a detailed breakdown of the pigs’ diet. Plates are cleared away without fuss. Finn even helps to carry them to the dishwasher. It’s as if everyone’s being terribly careful not to trigger another butter row. Later, after bath and bedtime, I find the kids’ dirty clothes in the laundry basket instead of strewn all over the bathroom floor. Rather than being dumped in the washbasin, caked in toothpaste, their brushes have been replaced in the tooth mug on the shelf.
It’s a little eerie. As there’s no clearing up required upstairs, I spin out Grace and Toby’s bedtime stories with Ted tucked in between us, wondering if the matted bear will accompany Toby to school when he starts in autumn. I can sense Grace reading ahead of me, fidgeting impatiently, and make a concerted effort not to over-do the characters’ voices which she once complained about. ‘Read it
normal,
’ she’d instructed me.
‘Mum,’ she says now, stifling a yawn, ‘are you and Dad friends again?’ I look at her, wondering what a bona fide mother like Beth would say. But Beth would never find herself in a situation like this. Despite her extensive childcare instructions, she and Pete are rock solid. ‘
Are
you?’ Grace asks again.
The house is so silent, I can hear the beat of my heart. ‘Of course we are,’ I say.
*
Jed and I are sitting side by side on the sofa. Anyone glancing in from the street might surmise that we don’t know each other very well. There are at least two feet of brown upholstery between us, and a tiny yellow spear, which must have snapped off Toby’s Lego warrior, sticks up between the cushions. ‘You said you wanted to explain,’ I say.
Jed nods.
‘Where did you stay, when you left?’ I hold my breath, almost wanting Toby to charge downstairs, demanding a drink or complaining that he can’t find Ted.
‘I stayed at a hotel,’ Jed says.
‘A hotel? Why?’
‘Because . . . I needed to be away.’
‘Were you . . . on your own?’
He turns to face me. ‘Yes, of course I was.’ I sense him closing up, like a clam.
Outside, a bunch of girls pass our house, giggling and in high spirits. ‘I know you think I’ve slept with her,’ he adds.
‘Slept with who?’ I whisper.
‘Celeste, of course. I haven’t, you know. But I can understand why you’d think . . .’ He stops, looking tired and stressed. ‘She needed someone to talk to,’ he adds.
‘Why, Jed?’
He pauses. ‘She seemed to have the idea that me, you and the kids . . . we’re some kind of perfect family. She thought I’d be able to help her out of the mess she found herself in.’
‘I can’t imagine Celeste being in any kind of mess,’ I mutter.
Jed glances at me. There’s still a cool distance between us, as if both of us know that he can’t make everything right just by sauntering into Cut ‘n’ Pierce and making a mullet joke. And now, I don’t know if it’ll
ever
be right. At least, not how it used to be. I can’t even load all the blame onto Jed. My kiss with Danny still happened, and there’s no undoing that.
Jed clears his throat. ‘Celeste likes you, you know. She admires the way you look after our kids, hold down a job and keep the family together . . .’ I laugh witheringly, which he chooses to ignore. ‘It’s what she wants,’ he adds. ‘She says it’s all she’s ever wanted.’
‘What, a family?’ Now I get it. She doesn’t have her own so she plans to steal mine, as if it’s as simple as waltzing out of a department store with a playsuit.
‘Well, she does have a child,’ Jed says quietly.
‘Does she?’ I frown, remembering the crying girl at her flat. ‘Why didn’t you mention . . .’
‘Agnes lives in France,’ he cuts in, ‘apart from a brief trial period at Celeste’s, of course, which ended up in disaster . . .’
‘You mean . . . that girl who stormed out when I went round there? That’s her daughter?’
‘Well, it sounds like it. Their relationship was pretty fiery . . .’
‘But I told you about that!’ I cry. ‘And you knew all along who it was. Why didn’t you say?’
‘I’d promised I wouldn’t. No one knows at school. She didn’t want to be the subject of gossip . . .’
‘But I’m not someone at school, Jed! I’m your
wife.
Who the hell would I tell anyway? The women at playgroup? My clients at work? That’s the problem with us, don’t you see? Your loyalties are all messed up. She decides you’re her new best friend, her confidant or whatever, and you put that before any of us . . .’
To my amazement, Jed doesn’t disagree. He doesn’t even fling my secret running trysts back at me. He just nods and twists his hands together and runs a thumb over his fingernails. ‘You’re right,’ he whispers, shaking his head. ‘I’ve been completely sucked in.’
‘But why, Jed?’ I say softly.
‘I felt . . . sorry for her at first. There was something vulnerable about her . . .’
‘And beautiful, of course,’ I snap.
‘Well, yes. But it wasn’t that, not really. She started telling me things, finding excuses to be together and always making sure she was next to me if we were out in a group. Everyone noticed,’ he adds, fixing me with dark eyes. ‘Mickey, Duncan, the others from school – they all reckoned she had a thing for me.’
‘Great,’ I say witheringly.
‘Honestly, Laura. I wasn’t interested. But it was flattering, the way this young, kind of exoticwoman chose me to confide in . . .’ I nod, remembering how flattered I felt, every time Danny texted or confided in me. ‘She told me all about having Agnes when she was still at school,’ he adds, ‘and how furious her parents were . . .’
‘So what happened to Agnes?’ I ask, the word
exotic
shimmering in the air between us.
‘After they’d calmed down,’ Jed continues, ‘her parents decided to bring her up in France, where they live. And Celeste hopped from job to job, finally coming to England and doing her teacher training. Her parents bought the flat for her, probably to keep her out of the way, she thinks. They’ve always reckoned Agnes was happier and more settled when she wasn’t around.’ Despite everything, I sense a sharp prickle of sympathy.
‘They were embarrassed by her,’ Jed adds. ‘Remember Finn and Grace’s sports day?’
‘Unfortunately, yes . . .’
‘She was telling me all this while I was trying to watch the races. I mean, I could hardly just walk away from her . . .’ I picture the two of them, heads together at the fringes of the sports field, before my dramatic collapse into the mud. ‘Then,’ Jed adds, ‘at her garden party, remember that . . .’
‘I do have a working memory,’ I exclaim. ‘All these things, the Celeste incidents – every detail is burned into my brain, Jed.’
‘Right,’ he murmurs. ‘Well . . . I know I was awful with you that day. She was telling me that Agnes had decided she wanted to live in England, and was due to move in . . .’ When he looks at me, Jed’s brown eyes are wide, imploring me to believe him. ‘She was telling me how she’d redecorated the spare room for her. Then there was that, um . . .
incident
in the bathroom, and it was all so intense and embarrassing that, really cleverly, I decided the best thing to do would be to tip as much champagne as possible down my throat.’ He laughs hollowly.
‘I saw that room in her flat,’ I tell him. ‘It was perfect – the ideal girl’s room. Though a little young for a teenager maybe . . .’
‘That was the problem. Celeste didn’t really know her. They’d had short times together when she went to visit, but living under one roof . . .’
‘I can imagine. And what about that time you met at that pub?’
‘It was a sort of crisis meeting. Celeste didn’t want us to run into anyone from school. She wanted me to help her to figure out a way to get Agnes to come back.’
‘But . . . why didn’t you tell me any of this? I’d have understood, you know. I’d have listened . . .’
‘Would you?’ he asks. ‘These past few months, with your running, all this weight loss, getting fit and becoming so much stronger and more confident, a completely different person really . . .’ He tails off and narrows his eyes at me. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d even
want
to know.’
I look at him, wondering how the two of us could possibly have thought we were doing the right thing. ‘Oh, Jed,’ I murmur. ‘I’m still the same old Laura underneath.’
Jed shrugs. ‘Anyway, she’s leaving.’
‘What, you mean leaving her job?’
‘No, everything. She’s selling the flat and moving back to be with Agnes in France. And I have to say, it’s sort of a relief, really.’
‘Really? She’s giving up everything to be with her daughter?’
He nods. ‘And what about you? What do you want?’
‘I don’t know,’ I whisper, yearning to hold him in my arms, to know he’s really back with me. But there is still an entire cushion, with a lone Sugar Puff stuck to it, between us.
He fishes a scrap of paper out of a pocket and uncrumples it. Startled, I recognise the late-night list I wrote at Kate’s.
Reasons to stay with Jed. Reasons to split.
‘Where did you find that?’ I gasp.
‘It was lying on the bathroom floor.’ He’s studying it with a detached air, as if he’s just discovered a rude note scribbled by one of his pupils.
‘I . . . I didn’t mean any of that,’ I say quickly, plucking the Lego sword from between the cushions and digging its tip into my palm.
‘“He wouldn’t go to a hotel with me”,’ he reads. ‘“He hates my food”. Actually, Laura, I’ve never hated anything you’ve made . . .’
I squirm uncomfortably. ‘Well, apart from the chilli thing . . .’
‘Okay, apart from that. What else? Um . . . no sex since Jurassic era.’
‘Well, that’s kind of true.’
‘I know.’ His fingers wrap around mine.
‘It’s made me feel so . . .’
‘I’m sorry,’ he cuts in. ‘The longer it went on, the less I felt like . . .’
‘Was that because of Celeste too?’ I whisper. ‘You can tell me, Jed, if you wanted to be with her . . .’ My voice trembles.
‘You’re right,’ he murmurs. ‘I think I was a little obsessed. And then it all felt too much, sort of claustrophobic, by which point she was relying on me to talk to, to share every tiny development . . . and yes, I suppose that pushed me away from you.’ He holds my hands tightly. ‘I’m sorry, Laura.’
‘Oh, Jed. I am too . . .’ I don’t finish because, suddenly, there’s no cushion between us. He puts his arms around me and holds me so fiercely, I can feel the thud of his heart.
‘I think we just lost each other,’ he says, kissing me.