Фиона Гибсон – The Mum Who’d Had Enough: A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for fans of Why Mummy Drinks (страница 7)

‘I’ve no idea,’ he replied. ‘I just wish I knew what you and Rachel talked about, that’s all—’

‘It’s not about a well-behaved collie coming to stay!’ I blurted out.

‘What is it, then? Why can’t you just tell me what’s wrong?’

Pink patches had sprung up on his cheeks. What did he think was wrong? He knew about my visit to the GP, and the antidepressants – although he hadn’t taken the trouble to talk to me then, to try and find out why I was so down, so close to tears much of the time. Depression: a taboo word, as far as Nate’s concerned. Brush it under the carpet, that’s his stock response to anything remotely uncomfortable. Three-point turns, emergency stops: he’s fine with that kind of stuff. But emotions are messy and scary and he prefers not to have to deal with them. It was clearly bothering him that I’d been sharing my own feelings with someone else. It happened every week, this post-Rachel probing.

He still wouldn’t let it drop, even as we cleared up after dinner. ‘How long d’you think you’ll carry on with this?’ he asked, washing up with unnecessary vigour.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I mean, there’s no grand plan—’

‘And you won’t share any of it with me? The stuff you discuss with this stranger, I mean?’

‘Well, it’s kind of private.’ I was doing my best to remain calm.

‘So private you can’t even tell me?’

‘Nate, the whole point is that it’s not you …’

‘Whoah, great, thanks a lot!’

I stared at him, almost laughing in disbelief. ‘If it was you I needed to talk to I’d just, well – talk to you …’

‘At least that’d be free,’ he thundered. ‘You wouldn’t have to drive over Solworth either—’

‘Oh, right, so I’d save the petrol money as well!’

‘Yes, you would. Have you checked our bank balance lately?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake …’ I stared at the man I’d once loved to distraction, and who was now glaring at me, his face mottled red, his T-shirt splashed with dishwater. ‘You begrudge me the four pounds fifty or whatever it costs to get there and back?’

‘Of course I don’t—’

‘What’s wrong with you two tonight?’ We both swung around to see Flynn standing in the doorway.

‘Sorry, son,’ Nate blustered, looking away.

Flynn snorted. ‘What were you shouting about?’

‘We weren’t shouting, honey,’ I said quickly.

He blinked at us. ‘Yes, you were. And what’s four pounds fifty?’

‘Nothing,’ I exclaimed, looking at Nate for confirmation.

‘Nothing’s four pounds fifty,’ he said with an exaggerated shrug, while our son exhaled loudly and strode away, as if concluding that his parents really had lost it this time.

Nate and I fell into a sullen silence, and only much later, when we were watching TV, did he attempt to make conversation with me.

‘I meant to tell you, I got her again today,’ he remarked.

‘Which one?’ I asked.

‘You know. The one with a tiny fringe that stops above the eyebrows, like your old college mates used to have?’

Ah, the art-school-mini-fringe. ‘You mean Tanzie? The one who’s failed, what, ten times now?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one. And it’s eleven, actually.’

‘Poor thing,’ I murmured. ‘I can’t believe she hasn’t given up by now. If I were her, I’d resign myself to a life of blagging lifts and using public transport—’

‘No, you wouldn’t,’ he insisted. ‘Anyway, that would never happen to you. You passed first time! You’re so capable, nothing fazes you—’

‘That’s right,’ I said bitterly. ‘I just soldier on, never needing any care or looking after—’ Without warning, my eyes welled up. I turned away before Nate could see.

‘Tanzie usually just accepts that she’s failed,’ he went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘Nadira and Eric say the same – we’ve all had her, over and over. But this time there were floods of tears. Inconsolable, she was …’ He sighed loudly and shook his head. ‘Anyway, I’m shattered. Coming up to bed?’

‘In a little while,’ I replied. ‘Could you set the mousetraps before you go up? I saw another one this morning …’

‘That’ll be the same one as before,’ Nate remarked.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Well, what did it look like?’

I shrugged. ‘Small, furry, greyish-brown …’

‘Yeah, that’s the one I saw.’

I stared at him, aware of my anger starting to bubble up again. I suspect it’s permanently there, simmering just below the surface. ‘I didn’t spot any distinguishing features,’ I retorted, ‘and it wasn’t wearing a T-shirt with its name on. I think we must have quite a problem – an infestation, actually – seeing as they’re appearing pretty much every day …’

‘No, what I mean is, it’s probably just the same one that keeps reappearing,’ Nate declared, with a trace of smugness.

My chest was tightening, and I was aware of veering dangerously close towards what’s commonly known as ‘overreacting’. At least, that’s what it’s called when it’s a woman. When it’s a man, he is merely ‘making a point’. ‘I’d say it’s more likely that we have dozens,’ I went on, ‘and they’re all shagging away behind the fridge …’

‘Now you’re being ridiculous,’ he snapped.

‘Am I? Shut up for a minute and listen.’ I put a finger to my lips.

‘I do not want to hear mouse-sex happening …’

‘Neither do I! And I’ve told you I can’t bear to deal with mousetraps. I know it’s silly, but I just can’t bring myself to do it—’

Nate stifled a yawn. ‘I’ll sort it tomorrow, all right, love? It’s been one hell of a day. Did I tell you my last candidate of the day called me a wanker?’

‘Really?’ I looked at him. ‘That’s terrible. I can’t imagine why anyone would do that. Now, could you please just set those traps?’

Chapter Four

Nate

Somehow, I manage to drive our son to school as if I am just a normal bloke, fully in charge of his faculties.

‘What are you doing?’ Flynn barks as I pull up outside the main school gate.

‘Dropping you off,’ I reply, affecting a cheery tone.

His eyes narrow, beaming displeasure. ‘Mum never stops here. She always parks round the corner, by the church.’

‘God, yes, of course – sorry. Don’t know what I was thinking—’

‘God …’ Swivelling only his eyes, Flynn scans the vicinity to assess whether any of his associates have spotted us. Luckily, we appear to be too late for that. Muttering something I don’t catch, he grabs his beloved but terribly shabby leather rucksack from by his feet and clambers out of the car, banging the door behind him.

With the engine still running I watch him loping up the wide stone steps. Skinny and tall – he’s well over six feet – he still walks with a slight twist to his hips. His left side is weaker than the right, although these days you can barely tell, as years of therapy have helped immeasurably. He tires easily, that’s the main thing – although he’d rather carry on regardless, out and about with his mates, than admit it.

He glances back, looking appalled that I am still sitting there, as if I am wearing a fluorescent green comedy wig. What would he make of that terrible email, which effectively signals the end of family life as we know it? Although I’m not quite sure why, I have brought his mother’s list out with me; I can sense it, glowing radioactively in my trouser pocket, virtually burning a hole in my hip. Perhaps it’s in the hope that I’ve merely imagined this morning’s events, and when I check it later it’ll read:

Ketchup

Loo roll

Milk

Outside school, a couple of other latecomers are shambling up the wide stone steps behind Flynn. It’s a proud and well-kept Victorian building, a state school with a broad cultural mix. Flynn has always gone to mainstream school, with extra support when needed, all closely monitored by Sinead; she’s fought his corner all the way. ‘She’s a powerhouse,’ her old college friend Michelle reminded me once, and of course I agreed. There was a pause, and Michelle added, rather belated, ‘And you are too, of course!’

I watch as the other boys scamper up the last few steps to catch up with my son. How carefree they look, how breezy and laid-back, unencumbered as they are by tax returns and remembering to put the bins out. Sure, they might have flunked the odd maths test – but they haven’t yet failed at anything terribly important, anything that might mark them out as poor excuses for human beings. The boys stop and laugh loudly at something (thank God Flynn can still laugh – for now) and disappear into the building together.

I should have been a better, more proactive and useful man, I realise now. Sinead has deserved more from me. No matter how challenging it’s been bringing up Flynn, she has never once moaned or expressed a jot of self-pity. She adores being his mother – considers it an absolute privilege – and has often said that, where our boy is concerned, she would not change a single thing—

Bang-bang!