Фиона Гибсон – The Mum Who’d Had Enough: A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for fans of Why Mummy Drinks (страница 10)

‘Got much on?’

‘Just playing it by ear,’ I mutter, then turn and make straight for my car and climb straight in. When I glance back, Nadira is standing next to her own car, and giving me a worried look. We’re a friendly team, and usually there’s a bit of chat about our plans for the weekend ahead. Sometimes we even socialise together – Eric and I especially. We often go for a few beers, just the two of us, or get together as couples over dinner.

How am I going to explain that Sinead’s left me?

I won’t need to, I decide as I drive through the gently undulating hills. Somehow, I’ll convince her to give me – and our marriage – another chance. Hell, she has to, really. She can’t just throw in the towel on almost two decades together because she’s suddenly taken exception to my DIY efforts and I didn’t set the bloody mousetraps.

As I near Hesslevale, I make a few firm decisions. Whatever happens tonight, no matter how upset and defensive I feel, I must not let any of that out. I’ll listen to my wife, and show that I don’t intend to take her for granted ever again – not that I ever have! Why does she even think this when I love her madly? WHY? Maybe it’s sex: i.e., we’ve not been having enough lately. Perhaps she thinks I don’t fancy her anymore, which patently isn’t true. In fact, we actually did it a few nights ago, which seemed to surprise us both – and it was lovely, as it always is. But all too often, we’re too knackered to do anything other than fall asleep when we climb into bed. Should we just forget our ‘meeting’ this evening and go straight upstairs, tell Flynn we’re tired? Would that fix everything?

Stopping at red lights on the edge of town, I try to disentangle my racing thoughts. A new restaurant has opened, called Elliot’s. I know it’s eye-wateringly expensive, but Eric and his wife Sarah have raved about how lovely it is. Maybe I should suggest dinner here sometime?

By the time I pull up in our street, I’ve almost managed to convince myself that Sinead just needs a damn good rant – then she’ll feel much better. However, the very fact that she is coming around at a specified time – 8 p.m. – makes it feel less like a ‘chat’ and more like court.

Your honour, I only decided to build the shelves myself because the quote that joiner gave was frankly astronomical …

I find Flynn in his room, emitting distinct ‘do not disturb’ vibes. We eat dinner together at the kitchen table, in a rather stilted atmosphere, my slimy noodles and ageing babycorn clearly failing to delight him, even with a liberal dousing of oyster sauce. In fact, Flynn seems to be merely combing his noodles with his fork. Given the circumstances – and the fact that he is virtually a fully grown man – it doesn’t feel right to tell him to stop playing with his food.

We clear up together, although it hardly seems worth the effort with just two bowls and one wok. As Flynn disappears back to his room, I try to occupy myself in our Sinead-less home by shining up the cooker hob and emptying the kitchen bin and then, when I can think of no other tasks to attend to, pacing randomly around the ground floor.

Finally – FINALLY! – here she comes, knocking lightly on the door (why is she knocking? This is her house too!). ‘Hi?’ she calls out, stepping into the hallway now, as if she were a neighbour popping in to ask to borrow a cup of sugar. No one borrows sugar anymore, I realise as I hurry through to greet her. Everyone has plenty of sugar of their own … ‘Hi, Nate,’ she says as Scout scrambles past me in order to throw himself at her. You can’t move out. Look how much he loves you!

‘Hi, love,’ I say. I look at her, standing there in our hallway, taken aback by how normal she seems. But then, what was I expecting? That she’d blunder in with swollen eyes and smeared mascara, swigging a bottle of Jacob’s Creek?

While I wonder whether or not to hug her, she bobs down to fuss over Scout. ‘Hello, little man! You’ll soon be on your own again, ruling the roost.’ She looks up at me. ‘Is it Sunday your mum’s picking up Bella?’

‘Yeah that’s right,’ I mutter, as if it matters.

She straightens up, strides into the living room and arranges herself at one end of the sofa, where Scout jumps up and snuggles close, and Bella settles at her feet. My wife is a magnet to dogs. Larry, our lurcher who died last year, was the same with her. She’d only have to pop out to the shops and he’d sit at the front door, alternately whining and licking his genitals until she came home. At least I haven’t descended to that …

I perch next to her. For a few moments, neither of us says anything. The mood is so awful, so tense and awkward, we could be strangers sitting side by side in an STI clinic waiting room.

So, what are you in for?

‘So, how was work today?’ I ask stiffly, showing an interest in her job.

‘Okay, I suppose,’ she replies flatly.

Well, I’m not okay, I want to shout. I’m not fucking okay at all. I rake back my hair from my clammy forehead.

‘Where’s Flynn?’ she asks.

‘Upstairs. I thought maybe we could have a chat first, just so we can work out what we’re going to say—’

‘Nate, I told you already, I really want him to be here too. I think that’s fairer. Don’t you?’

‘Yes, all right.’ Just agree to everything she says and maybe this’ll blow over.

She turns towards the living room door. ‘Flynn?’ she calls out pleasantly. ‘Could you come downstairs please, love?’

‘Darling, I just want to say, we don’t have to do this,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry for, well, whatever it is, but—’ I break off. Flynn’s footsteps are audible on the stairs, and he appears, hair rumpled, eyes rather sore-looking and pink. Oh, God, he’s been crying. No one likes seeing a small child upset – but it’s worse when they’re older, as it’s generally rarer and suggests something more serious.

Flynn and his mum fling their arms around each other and hold each other tightly. ‘Oh, darling,’ she murmurs.

‘Mum,’ he croaks. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, sweetheart, as long as you are …’ There’s no awkward ironing-board hug this time.

After what feels like a week they peel apart, and both settle on the sofa, jammed together, while I perch on the far end and stare at my shoes. And out it all comes:

‘The thing is, Flynn, love, I’ve decided me and Dad aren’t right together anymore. I know this is so hard for you to hear, but I want you to understand that it’s nothing to do with you. It’s about me and Dad …’

Flynn nods mutely. He is actually letting her hold his hand. I haven’t been allowed to do that since he was about eight years old.

‘We’ve, I don’t know – grown apart over the years, I suppose,’ she continues, with only the slightest tremor in her voice, ‘and I haven’t been happy for quite a long time. I’ve thought about it long and hard, and I could stay, pretending everything’s fine, until you leave home and have your own independent adult life.’ She stops, blinking rapidly, and clears her throat. ‘But that would be dishonest, wouldn’t it? To you, me and Dad?’

She addresses Flynn throughout all of this. I might as well not be here. I am just a passive observer.

‘Yeah,’ Flynn murmurs, ‘I s’pose it would.’

‘So I need to be true to myself,’ she goes on, ‘which means I’ll be staying at Abby’s for a while, then I’ll probably look around for a flat of my own …’

Oh, Jesus God. My heart is banging so hard it feels as if it could burst out of my chest.

‘… which of course you’ll be welcome to stay at any time. You’ll have your own room there, it’ll be your home too …’

Our son nods, lips pressed together, as Sinead continues: ‘I hope you understand why I’m doing this, honey. I’m sorry I won’t be here with you all the time, but this is your home, it’s where you belong – with Dad and Scout.’

‘Yeah,’ Flynn says in a gravelly voice. He’s being brave, so bloody brave it rips at my insides. Even braver than when he went for surgery when he was nine, to improve his gait, and lay there with one hand tightly clutching mine (maybe that’s the last time we held hands?), the other stuffed into his beloved Mr Fox glove puppet, just before he was given the general anaesthetic. Although he’d long since given up on taking Mr Fox everywhere, on this occasion I’d suggested the puppet might like to come along too. Flynn had agreed that that was an excellent idea. I knew he was scared about ‘going to sleep’, although he was determined not to show it. His jaw was set firm, the small hand gripping mine slick with sweat. Sinead had waited outside the operating theatre as she couldn’t face seeing him go under.

‘Nothing’s going to change, Flynn,’ she explains now. ‘You can still phone or text me any time, and come over every day if you like – after school, maybe? Or pop into the shop and we’ll get a milkshake from that cafe across the road?’

‘That’d be nice,’ he mumbles.

A milkshake! If I’d suggested that, he’d have laughed in my face. I try to rub at my eyes surreptitiously. Actually, the two of them are so locked in their exchange, his tousled head resting on her shoulder now, I could probably have a cardiac arrest without worrying either of them unduly.