Not Quite Perfect

‘Oh hi, Mum.’

‘We just wanted to check how Alfred is.’

‘He’s fine thank you. He’s sleeping.’

‘And what about my other naughty grandchildren?’

‘Naughty.’

‘Excellent. Now darling, listen, we need to take that sister of yours in hand. I thought a spot of dress shopping might be in order.’

‘OK.’ Rachel can’t even muster any glee at the thought.

‘Super. I’ll call Emma and set a date.’

‘OK. Mum?’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘Nothing.’

‘All right. Kisses to the children.’

‘Will do. Give our love to Dad.’

‘I will if I can ever persuade him to come out from behind the Telegraph.’

Rachel replaces the receiver feeling about three years old again and wishing that there was someone to look after her. She can’t remember a time when she felt anything less than exhausted. She loves her kids and Steve but can’t always find the energy to tell them. She feels so far away from her previous life of skinny cappuccinos and dynamic, creative ad agency meetings. Life now is all about trying to leave the house in a non-stained top and asking everyone if they want ketchup with their fish fingers.

She is still angry with Steve but is too tired for an encore. Unlocking the back door she retrieves the secreted packet of Marlboro Lights kept in the shed for occasions like this. Padding a little further down the garden and she curls herself up on a garden chair tucked out of the sight of the house, behind a sickly rhododendron. She lights up and inhales deeply, shivering against the chilly evening air. Feeling herself relax she gazes out into the night but can see nothing but the molten orange glow of her cigarette.

‘Gotcha!’

Rachel shrieks and then laughs as she sees her neighbour Tom’s amused face grinning over the fence.

‘You bastard.’

‘Good evening to you too, Mrs Summers.’

‘Good evening, Mr Davies. What are you doing, creeping round the garden like a pervert?’

‘Snail patrol,’ he says flashing torchlight over the fence. ‘It’s the only way to catch them, you see.’

Rachel looks amused.

‘All right, I know. It’s a sad life but I’m a single man with only my hostas for company. And I do love my hostas.’

Rachel laughs. ‘And there was me thinking you were coming to rescue a damsel in distress.’

‘Do you need rescuing then?’ asks Tom, suddenly serious.

In the half darkness Rachel can just make out his face. At first look it could not be described as drop-dead gorgeous, in fact it is slightly pudgy at the edges, but there is a twinkle in his eye that Rachel has decided is handsome and she has always wondered why he’s never been snapped up.

Steve and she had assumed he was gay until she’d been chatting with him for a bit one day and he’d said, ‘I’m not gay by the way.’ After that she’d worried that he’d heard them through their paper-thin walls and had felt guilty for gossiping.

‘I don’t really need rescuing,’ Rachel says feeling disloyal. ‘It’s just been a bit of a day.’ She recounts the saga of Alfie but doesn’t mention her row with Steve.

‘Ahh, you love it really.’

‘Do I?’ asks Rachel. ‘Do I really love all this? When will it all end?’ She loves the kids, that’s a given, and Steve has always been her best friend: ‘Sod ‘em all!’ they used to sing when times were tough. But now they barely have time for themselves, let alone each other.

Tom is eyeing her now, looking uncertain of what to do next.

‘Well, back to your snails, saddo,’ says Rachel, trying to put him at ease.

‘If you ever need to chat, you know where I am,’ Tom says, and Rachel is touched.

‘Rach?’ Steve’s voice echoes across the garden. ‘Are you out here?’

Rachel makes a face at Tom like a scolded teenager. ‘Yeah, what?’

‘Alfie wants you.’

‘Great. I can’t even have a sneaky fag now. See you later, neighbour.’

‘Bye Mrs S and remember what I said.’

‘Thanks.’

She stalks down the garden and into the house, ignoring Steve. When she enters Lily and Alfie’s bedroom, she feels a little sheepish as her maternal role suddenly washes over her again. Their room still has that sweet scent of young children. Rachel remembers the intoxicating smell of them as newborns and although it fades over the years, she still finds breathing them in, especially after a bath when it is restored, gloriously satisfying.

Alfie is blinking at her, holding out his fat palms. ‘Want Mummy.’

‘Alfie, you should be asleep. Is your arm hurting?’

‘No. All better,’ he says. ‘I am a big boy.’

‘Yes you are darling, but you need to go to sleep.’

‘Want Mummy,’ he insists and she cannot refuse. She lies down beside him and strokes his mop of hair.

‘Poo-ee, Mummy smells.’ Rachel remembers the cigarette.

‘Alfie love Mummy?’ she asks.

‘Naaaaooo,’ croons Alfie, teasing.

‘Boo-hoo.’ Rachel feigns weeping.