Page 13 of A Good Mother
He looked at me like he did when he conned me into lending him the deposit money for that stupid boy-racer car that takes up half the drive. And you know what? I just couldn’t be bothered. Arguing, pandering, standing up on my aching legs for one second longer, so I gave in. Owt for a quiet bloody life. And I also had an idea.
‘Of course, she can stay… I’m only teasing, but you’ll need to sort out some kind of rota for the bathroom.’ I turned to Fiona. ‘And you’ll have to do your bit with the housework, too. In fact, from now on, you can be responsible for Isaac’s laundry. It’ll give me a break and good practice for whenever you both finally bugger off and get a place of your own.’ I added a cheeky wink and a smile, the same one that Pete does when he thinks he’s being funny, when he’s really not.
You can get away with anything if you make out you’re being jovial, and Fiona fell for it. ‘What are you like, Babs. You do make me chuckle and of course, I’ll do my bit. You won’t know I’m here.’ Fiona had perked up and the tears had miraculously dried, so while I was on a roll…
‘Tell you what. Let’s start as we mean to go on. You can do the tea, Fiona, and you’ll need to put some oven chips in as there won’t be enough pizza. And will you do me a nice side salad while I go for a quick shower.’ I’d already decided that Pete was not getting eggs and chips. He could suffer and eat the same as everyone else or lump it.
And my final demand, ‘Oh, Isaac, be a love and bring that washing in, will you.’ And with that, I left them to it and headed upstairs, the word touché accompanying a very satisfied smile.
That was yesterday. Today is the first day of my new way of life. The one I came up with while I ate the biggest slice of spicy chicken pizza, and then watched everyone else grimace through the spinach and ricotta, then argue about washing the pots. I’m still ignoring Pete.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m totally crapping myself over this virus and I hate watching the news because of the horror stories on there. Then again, this is the first time in bloody ages I’ve not been up at stupid o’clock to make packed lunches and drop Demi at school before I go to work. Sunday is my only real day off and now I have six more.
To add further to my silent enjoyment, if that’s the best word for this strange phase in our lives, the rent money from Fiona will compensate a bit for my loss of earnings. You see, there is an upside to being married to a tight arse, and that’s the fact that Pete has told Isaac that his live-in-lover has to pay her way. I heard this thirdhand from our Sasha who isn’t best pleased about our new housemate, I can tell you.
I know I’m going to get earache from Pete, about me not bringing in a wage. It’s not like I make a fortune because Pete always preferred me to work part-time, so I was here for the kids when they were little. And he likes his tea on the table at 6pm and the house to run nice and smooth. What I bring in pays for the extras, like our family holidays, Christmas and birthdays, stuff like that. Not a dishwasher though!
I’ve been thinking a lot, over the past few days and this morning as I had a big lie-in and listened to the kerfuffle for the bathroom, about life, my life really.
Let’s face it, you can’t help but take stock when you see what’s going on all over the world. Maybe on some deeper level – and yes, despite what my lot say Icanthink beyond Finch Towers and the goings on inEmmerdalebut I realise I’ve been unsettled for a while.
I haven’t had time to analyse it, so I pushed it to the back of my mind rather than face facts. However, last night during another bout of menopausal insomnia and a hot flush, I allowed my thoughts out of their cage, to roam free. Talking of cages, as Pete snored away, I was reminded of the petting section at Appleton Garden Centre and that smothering someone in their sleep is a crime. I was sorely tempted though.
Now, where was I? Oh yes. First, I need to stop blaming everything on the menopause and accept that I’m unhappy; but that actually makes me feel sad. Are they the same thing? I’m not really sure but it’s the only way I can describe it.
I’ve realised I’m not happy with my life that consists of a decent if annoying husband, and three kids who are basically good, but can also be very bloody annoying in their own way. And that I’m not sure if I love my husband anymore, although I am sure, if not positive, that I love my kids.
And this has kind of rocked my world.
Then another shockwave hit.
Is it possible you can be too good at being a mum?
Because I am good at it; those kids are my whole life and I threw myself into being the best mother, albeit in limited circumstances.
What I couldn’t provide them in a material way, I made up for in love and attention, always being here. In some ways my kids wanted for nothing, not where being cared for and nurtured is concerned. In fact, I overdosed them emotionally and now I realise I might not have done them a favour. And…
Have I made a rod for my own back?
Am I the reason why Isaac hasn’t the merest inclination to move out – I mean why would he? And I know he’s stalling, using saving up for a mortgage deposit as an excuse. Renting is dead money you see, but seriously, he’s a grown man!
Okay, so I was never forced into having three kids. Or being a nursery nurse. It was easy and paid enough for a nineteen-year-old to have fun. I loved the little ones and my colleagues. But I was coasting, until my best friend Lynda burst into work one chilly February morning with the most exciting news,ever.
Her last name was Checkley, so we called her Cheeky Checkers because she was such a laugh and always up for a bit of mischief. I was Bubbles, Bubbly Babs. I know – kill me now!
I didn’t mind the name back then, it was between us girls, until last year, at Pete’s Christmas do he introduced me as his other half, the one and only ‘cuddly bubbly Babs’. I excused myself and cried in the toilet, hating myself and my stupid party frock that was three sizes bigger than my size ten wedding dress. So, if anyone dares call me bubbly again, I swear I’ll punch them. Anyway, I’m wandering. I do that a lot.
So, Lynda’s aunty had opened a bar in Costa Blanca and offered Lynda a job for the summer season and, this was the best bit, she could bring a friend. Imagine. March through to September. Free lodgings. Getting paid to serve beer and cocktails in the sun. Then spend our days off on the beach. And the best bit – there would be hot, sexy meneverywhere.
How could I resist the chance of a lifetime? Swap changing nappies for sun, sea and sangria. That lunchtime we raced to the travel agent on the high street to check out flights and grab some glossy brochures so we could gaze at Playa Flamenca. The name alone made us giddy never mind the photos of miles and miles of beaches and the bluest skies you’ve ever seen.
There was only one problem, my boyfriend, Pete.
CHAPTERTEN
Me and Petehad been going out for five and a half months and I did like him. I liked having a boyfriend and saying, ‘Pete’s going to pick me up in the van after work,’ or ‘I’m going to Pete’s for tea.’ I liked to fit in.
So, after kidding myself that honesty was the best policy and that he’d find someone new once I was gone, I plucked up the courage to end things, nice and gently, then leg it to Manchester Airport with Lynda – until I realised I’d missed my period and you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to guess what happened next.
