Mum on the Run (15 page)
Authors: Fiona Gibson
I wait for him to come back in and say he didn’t really mean it. But he doesn’t. The house is horribly still and quiet. A pale yellow glow spills into our living room as he turns on the caravan’s light.
I grab the duvet from the sofa bed and shroud myself in it. It smells stuffy – of sleepovers and illicit midnight feasts. A few crisp crumbs are stuck to it. Shuffling to the window, I peer out at Vitesse. In our early days, Jed would amuse me with stories of bleak caravan holidays with his parents in Southend and Bournemouth. ‘You were lucky, having Kate to hang out with,’ he said, and I realised I was, despite our eight-year age gap. It couldn’t have been much fun being an only child, trapped in Vitesse with his mum and dad.
You’d think the wretched thing would have fallen apart by now. One window is cracked and held together with thick silver tape. Mottled marks have spread up from its bottom, like a sinister rash. I feel hollow inside, staring out at it. The stark fact is that Jed would rather spend the night with mildewed curtains and a pongy chemical loo than in here, with me.
Maybe, I think, brightening slightly, Vitesse will be stolen during the night. Isn’t Pauline always keen to point out how crime-infested small North Yorkshire market towns are, compared to the serenity of Peckham? Jed could wake up with a start, realising too late that it – and he – is being towed away by dastardly thieves on the motorway. Serves him right for trying to taunt me with his cheesecake. I gaze out, trying to cheer myself up by picturing him, flailing wildly at the window and clad only in his underpants. Then the caravan’s light goes off. Great – so he really
is
sleeping out there. Brilliant end to a birthday. Pauline and Brian will come down in the morning – plus the kids, of course – and I’ll have to concoct some elaborate lie about Jed wanting to spend the night in Vitesse just for fun, as a reminder of those fabulous childhood holidays.
They’ll all know, of course. And Pauline will probably mutter something about it all being my fault, ‘because she’s going through the change and her hormones are all over the place.’ And Jed’s out there, oblivious, while I’m worrying about how to explain all of this to the children.
Perching on the sofa bed’s edge, I pull the duvet tightly around my body and try to calm my urgent breathing. Of even more pressing concern is the fact that I’m still trapped inside the Reducer. Still swaddled in duvet, I waddle upstairs to the bathroom and bolt the door firmly behind me. Despite some desperate pulling and tugging, I can’t get the Reducer to budge. I glimpse my reflection in our mirrored cabinet. I look pale and fearful, like someone on the run from the police. In the hope of achieving maximum shrinkage, I bought the smallest Reducer in the shop. Now I’ll need an operation to take it off. You hear about people going to A&E to have all kinds of household objects removed from various orifices. It can’t be more embarrassing than this.
With all my frantic manoeuvring, I manage to knock over Grace’s open bottle of Matey which was sitting on the edge of the bath and has now flooded the checked lino floor with lurid pink fluid. ‘Is someone in there?’ Brian calls out, rattling the door handle.
Yes, Brian, That’s why it’s sodding locked.
‘Won’t be a minute,’ I reply, mopping up the puddle with a bath towel.
‘Sorry, love, but are you going to be much longer? Call of nature, you know . . .’
‘When will they get a second bathroom?’ Pauline cries from our bedroom. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how they manage . . .’ Tell me about it. Once, only partly as a joke, I wrote a note entitled TEN REASONS WHY WE NEED ANOTHER BATHROOM and stuck it on the bathroom door. I was even prepared to do more hours at the salon to pay for it. ‘Maybe one day,’ Jed said. ‘But there are so many other priorities right now . . .’
‘Laura?’ Brian barks again.
‘I’m coming,’ I trill, pulling the duvet around me and opening the door.
‘Oh!’ he says, startled. ‘Sorry, Laura. Didn’t realise you were in a state of, er . . .’
‘All yours,’ I mutter, briefly glimpsing his alarmingly short dressing gown before I bolt downstairs. Right now, I need Jed. We might not be speaking, and at this precise moment I despise him intensely, but I need him to help me get the Reducer off. Then, when that’s done, we can get divorced. I also need my dressing gown but it’s hanging up in our bedroom and I can’t face going in there and explaining things to Pauline. Pulling the duvet even tighter, I open our front door a few inches and peer out, checking the street.
It’s a cool, slightly misty night, and there appears to be nobody around. Quickly, barefooted, I dart to Vitesse and rattle its door. It won’t open. Must be locked from the inside. I see that Jed has inherited his mother’s fear of crazed, lawless Northerners. ‘Jed!’ I hiss, pressing my mouth against it. ‘Jed. Open the door. It’s me.’
I wait, glancing wildly around the street. A woman with a small, wiry dog has appeared from around the corner and is strolling towards me. On spotting me, she tries to look away, but her gaze is dragged back to the woman who’s wearing a duvet in the street and trying to break into a caravan. The dog emits a sinister growl. ‘Noodle!’ the woman says sharply.
‘Open the fucking door,’ I hiss with my lips pressed against the door.
‘Now, Noodle,’ the woman murmurs. I smile tightly, backing away as Noodle trots right up to me and starts sniffing around my duvet. ‘Are you . . . all right?’ its owner asks, pursing her lips.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I, um, just need to get into our caravan for something.’ Hell, now I’m having to pretend it’s
mine.
‘Are you locked out of your house? I’ve got my mobile if you need to call someone . . .’
She’s failing to register that Noodle is now snarling men acingly and tugging at the corner of my duvet with its mean, pointy teeth. ‘No, honestly, I’m fine.’
Please take your dog and go away.
‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’
‘Absolutely.’ I force another grin. Noodle cocks a leg against Vitesse’s back tyre and urinates. Good Noodle.
‘Naughty!’ the woman snaps, tugging the dog away and muttering as she hurries down the road.
I wait until she’s out of sight, then bang the door with my fist. No response. I’m freezing now, despite my thick, seven-tog wrapping. Can’t risk rearranging the duvet to cover my shoulders in case it drops to the ground and I’m exposed in Bracken Lane wearing nothing but the Reducer. ‘Jed,
please
open this door!’ I yell, no longer caring that someone might hear me. This is a national emergency. The Reducer is growing tighter by the second. Does my husband want me to drop dead right here, in front of our house, due to having my circulation cut off? Does he want our children to find me, in a pale, lifeless heap, when they set out for school in the morning?
I thump the caravan’s side, then shove it so it wobbles dangerously. ‘Jed!’ I cry, as I lean against the caravan and set it rocking until a vase of sun-bleached plastic tulips tumbles off its windowsill and Mrs Hendry comes to her bedroom window a few doors down.
The caravan door flies open. ‘For God’s sake,’ Jed barks, hair jutting up at odd angles. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘It’s my Reducer,’ I bleat.
‘Your what?’
‘Those weird pants. The sucker-inners. I need you to help me get them off.’
He blinks at me. He must have pulled on his sweater in haste because it’s inside out
and
back to front with the label poking up at his chin. ‘You’re joking,’ he says. ‘Please tell me this is a bad dream and not bloody happening.’
‘Unfortunately it is,’ I hiss as Mrs Hendry’s door opens and she starts to walk hesitantly towards us. ‘I’m sorry, okay? But there’s no other option. You’ll have to cut me out of it.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Laura. What with?’
‘Um . . . wallpaper scissors?’ I suggest.
‘Are you completely mad?’
‘Probably,’ I growl as he shuts Vitesse’s door and follows me grudgingly into the house. ‘But I’d never have bought it if they’d put a warning about this on the packet.’
Jed and I hunt for scissors. Our house has a talent for swallowing up ordinary things: plasters, Sellotape, working pens. It makes simple tasks, like wrapping a present, virtually insurmountable. ‘Where did you put those wallpaper scissors?’ he asks.
‘I didn’t put them anywhere,’ I retort.
‘Yes you did. You must have. You used them last when you papered Grace’s bedroom.’
‘That was before Christmas! Can you remember where you put things six months ago?’ Jed mutters something unintelligible. I, meanwhile, am resigning myself to spending the rest of my life trapped in the Reducer.
‘What about your hairdressing scissors?’ Jed asks.
‘We can’t use those. It’ll blunt them! They’re expensive, Jed, professional equipment . . .’
He fixes me with a cool stare. ‘D’you want to stay trapped in that thing forever?’
‘No, of course I don’t . . .’
‘So where are they?’
I sigh, feeling my fighting spirit ebbing away. ‘Top left in my chest of drawers,’ I murmur. ‘You’ll have to get them, though. I’m not going in with your parents in there.’
He shakes his head, smirking. ‘I’m not fetching them. You’ll have to go.’
‘Jed, I can’t. What if they’re . . .
you
know . . .’ I shudder involuntarily.
‘For God’s sake,’ he splutters. ‘You’ve got such a dirty mind.’
‘Well,’ I bleat, ‘you never know.’ What a galling thought: that Brian and Pauline are seeing more action than we are, in
our bed.
Come to think of it, just about everyone’s seeing more action than we are. I have the sex life of a nun without the benefit of being able to drift around a quiet building all day.
Jed and I stare at each other. I can virtually hear his brain whirring as he runs through numerous grounds for divorce: insistence on wearing appalling undergarment. Refusal to eat sorbet. Attempted vandalism of caravan. ‘Oh, I’ll get them,’ he snaps, making for the stairs as a horrible image judders into my brain: of Jed opening my knicker drawer and his eyes lighting upon Celeste’s fancy silk pants with the ribbon side-ties, and being overcome by desire.
‘No, I’ll go,’ I say firmly. Taking a deep breath, I grip the duvet around me like the pastry layer of a sausage roll and waddle awkwardly upstairs. Opening our bedroom door quietly, I creep in. While Pauline is, thankfully, huddled under the duvet, Brian is lying flat on his back, exposed and resplendent in shiny satin pyjama bottoms. His arms are outstretched, his phlegmy snores rattling the room. Bile forms in my throat as I tiptoe towards my chest of drawers.
The top drawer creaks open, making me flinch. From beneath the jumble of undies I unearth my leather scissor pouch and dart for the door. ‘Get them?’ Jed hisses from the top of the stairs. I nod, pulling him into the bathroom and thrusting my scissors at him. As the duvet falls away, I sense his scathing gaze running up and down my body. ‘Er . . . are you sure it won’t just pull off?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘I’ve tried and tried. There’s no way it’ll budge.’
He pauses, gripping the scissors with grim determination, as if he’s been asked to do something quease-making like gut a trout. ‘Er, what shall I do?’ he murmurs.
‘Just cut it, Jed. Get on with it. Surely you’re capable of slicing your wife out of a girdle . . .’ I tail off, wondering how long it’ll be before the divorce papers plop through the letterbox.
‘But how?’ Jed asks. ‘I mean, it’s so tight and I don’t want to cut your skin or anything . . .’
‘I don’t care if you do. Just get it off me.’ My heart is racing now, and I’m sure parts of my body are starting to rot due to my circulation being cut off.
Why can’t I be like the other school mums?
I think as Jed carefully inserts a scissor blade between the Reducer and my mortified flesh.
Why can’t I just be normal, like Beth?
Snip. Snip. The Reducer starts to spring apart. I glance down at the small area of newly-exposed skin. ‘Nearly there,’ Jed says gruffly.
‘Thanks,’ I breathe, nearly crying with relief as the Reducer falls to the floor. He picks it up gingerly, wincing as he dangles it momentarily between thumb and forefinger, then drops it into the bin. Then he unlocks the bathroom door, snatches our sleepover duvet from the floor, and strides out as if he’s just done something completely ordinary like floss his teeth.
I glare down at my pink, naked body. The area previously encased in sucker-inner is clammy and vaguely sick-looking, as if it’s spent several decades trapped beneath waterproof plaster. Winding a bath towel around me, I slump downstairs, relieved to find Jed tucked up on the sofa bed. At least he appears to have forgotten about sleeping in the caravan. I slip into bed, curl myself around him and tentatively stroke the back of his neck. Even touching him feels awkward these days, and he flinches, moving towards the far edge of the sofa bed, so it feels as if there are acres of rumpled sheet between us.
I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s shunning me. I know people are into all sorts, but I can’t imagine that cutting a woman out of a rubberised sucker-inner overwhelms many men with lust.
*
For the rest of my in-laws’ visit, I’m on exemplary behaviour. I cook, I tidy up after everyone and I smile so much my jaw aches. I even invite Beth and her kids over for a relaxed, rowdy dinner – in truth, to dilute the chilling effect Jed’s parents seem to have on our household. Tears stream down her face as I tell her about my Reducer trauma as we load the dishwasher together. ‘Did he film you, trying to get it off?’ she asks, choking back laughter.
‘Film me? No, why would he do that?’
‘To put on YouTube,’ she splutters. ‘It’d probably be an underground hit.’
‘Can you imagine what Naomi would think, though, if she saw it? After the mums’ race fiasco? She tagged along when Danny and I went running, you know. Fartleks this, Fartleks that.
Ooh, Danny, you need to stretch before a run – here, let me position your thigh correctly
. . .’ I mime her grappling with various bits of Danny’s anatomy and we peal with laughter. Even Pauline marching into the kitchen and insisting on being given a brush to sweep the floor (our
disgusting
floor, obviously) doesn’t dampen my mood.
I meet Beth during my lunchbreak the next day. She texted to tell me about a half-price sale at the sports shop, and as Finn has banned me from borrowing his trainers again, I need a pair of my own. What Beth failed to mention is that, in order to choose the right pair, I’d first have to run on the shop’s treadmill. ‘What kind of brand d’you prefer?’ the assistant asks, transfixed by my thudding feet.
‘I’m just starting out,’ I pant, ‘so I don’t really have a preference.’ In truth, I just want to get this part over, select my trainers and enjoy my lunch with Beth. I have an irrational fear of treadmills, suspecting that they’ll speed up unexpectedly and ping me off into a heap on the floor.
The young, athletic-looking man is peering at an image of my soles on the treadmill’s screen. Thank God it’s only my feet and not my stomach or arse. He turns off the machine, and I stumble back onto the floor as he selects an array of blisteringly expensive trainers.
All look roughly the same. There’s a bit of blue piping here, a fluorescent lace there. Nothing to get over-excited about. ‘With these,’ the man enthuses, ‘you’re paying for added cushioning which protects your hips and groin.’
‘Groin?’ I repeat.
He nods. ‘You can really twang yourself down there if you’re not careful.’
I don’t fancy any hideous twanging, not when I’m sprinting, gazelle-like, with Danny this evening. ‘You should get the best pair you can afford,’ Beth adds. ‘Look what happened to me, with my creaky old knees. That was from wearing duff trainers.’
‘Okay,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ll take these.’
‘Wise choice,’ the man says. ‘They’ll really benefit your running.’ I like that:
my
running, as if one day it might belong to me. Encouraged by Beth, I also buy a proper runner’s bra which guarantees zero bounceage. Now all I have to worry about is not blinding Danny with my dazzling new trainers tonight.
‘So,’ Beth says, as we linger over our lunch beneath the beech tree in the park, ‘you survived the outlaws’ visit,
and
the Reducer trauma. I reckon you deserved that little spending spree.’
I nod, savouring the melting brie in my baguette, despite knowing that I should have gone for plain chicken salad on rye with the smiley Tub Club face. ‘Well, if I’m going to stick with this running thing, I can hardly wear Grace’s T-shirt.’
Beth wipes crumbs from her lips and pushes back glossy black hair from her face. The sky is searingly blue, and the park hums with office workers enjoying the sunshine. ‘Have you told Jed about Danny?’ she asks.
‘No, not yet.’
‘Why not?’ she asks. ‘I mean, he is just a friend, isn’t he? It’s not as if you have anything to hide.’
I pause, gathering up our paper wrappers from the grass. ‘I know. But I should have mentioned it the first time, when we went running together. And because I didn’t, it almost feels too late now, as if I’m hiding something and it’s some kind of
thing
. . .’
‘Is it a thing?’ Beth asks gently. ‘I mean . . . d’you want it to be? I know it hasn’t been easy with Jed lately, and he’s behaved pretty badly, but . . .’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m not looking for a fling or anything. Definitely not. Life’s complicated enough as it is.’
She nods and lets the subject drop. But I have the distinct feeling that she doesn’t believe me one bit.
