Something Old, Something New

He glances up from his rather intimate grooming of Fairy Princess and eyes the lollipop stick in my right hand. He knows. He knows damn well what he’s done.

He’s been eating my post again.

****

‘That’s just disgusting!’

I glance from the dirty lollipop stick to the horrified face of seventeen-year-old Janis. There’s no look as scornful as that of a teenage girl; they just have this way of combining venom with distaste in a way that can make even a grown man tremble. I’ve seen it firsthand, believe me. Take Mr Watford-Browning who used to be employed at the school where I work. That man – once the dynamic and enthusiastic Head of Art – turned to drink because of a group of girls who terrorised him during their time at high school. It’s not funny, not at all, but I see those girls around now and they’re all grown-up with children of their own; you wouldn’t think that they were once so mean. They tormented him on a daily basis until he locked himself in his cupboard. It culminated in him being prised out of there by the caretaker and a burly PE teacher during a fire drill. They couldn’t find him at first, then one of the girls confessed and the deputy head sent the two men in to find him. It was dreadfully sad to see the quivering wreck he’d become. I heard recently that he now has his own gallery in Camden and that he’s very successful. It gives me hope, that life can continue after teaching and that people can achieve their dreams, even if the road is a rocky one at times.

‘Mother!’ Janis snarls and I stiffen. I do wish that she wouldn’t call me Mother. It’s like being called by your full name, surname and all, in gym class. You know you’re not going to get off lightly and the humiliation is made worse by the fact that your jiggly pubescent thighs are encased in totally unflattering navy gym shorts. Painful. Degrading. Best left in the past.

‘Um… morning Janis. Nice to see you up so early.’

‘What do you mean early?’

‘Well… it’s not even nine yet.’

Janis glances from me to the kitchen clock then back again.

‘That clock has stopped. Don’t you remember you were going to buy a new battery for it? It’s gone eleven.’

My heart speeds up and I feel last night’s Shiraz recycle in my veins. Oh no! Henry has a football match this morning and I promised I’d be there. I must have slept for longer than I realised. Sometimes my responsibilities overwhelm me and I live in fear of being found inadequate at the only thing I’ve ever really been good at: being a mum.

I peer at the poopy thread of letter hanging off the lollipop stick, then back at Janis.

Everything freezes for a fraction of a second. In that moment, I could change what is about to happen but I do not move. Why don’t I move? The fates are against me as time begins again, and Dragon and Fairy Princess bound over to the doorway, eager to beat each other to greet my daughter. In that stubborn bulldog way, they pay no heed to the fact that I’m in their path. Dragon knocks my legs from under me and I am hurled backwards, landing with a thump on my back.

I lie still, surprised and winded, staring into the sky, vaguely registering that slate-grey clouds are gathering like ominous puffs of smoke.

Can’t put the washing out today.

‘Mum?’ Janis appears at my side, leaning over me to look at my face. Her perfectly arched brows are knitted together above her beautiful green eyes. ‘Mum… are you okay?’

I blink at her, suddenly tearful at her change of tone. Mother has been replaced with Mum. She does still love me.

‘Mum, sit up.’

I do as she tells me, shaking my head to clear the fuzzy feeling. I can almost hear the cartoon birds twittering as they flutter around me. From the kitchen doorway, Dragon and Fairy Princess hang their heads guiltily, tongues dripping glutinous dog saliva over the wooden floor.

‘Oh Mum.’

‘What… what’s wrong, Janis?’

I peer around me, wondering if I’ve actually hurt myself but the shock has prevented me from feeling the pain.

I move cautiously, wiggling fingers and toes but nothing seems to be broken. Nothing hurts.

‘Mum you fell into the dog poo.’ Janis backs away from me, wrinkling her cute little nose and folding her arms over her chest.

The lollipop stick lies next to me, sticking up in the grass, and the paper waves free like some kind of soiled flag, held in place by one sticky end. I can just about make out two words that have survived a trip through Dragon’s digestive system.

Two words that will change my life forever.

Two words I once thought… hoped… I’d never read again.

Decree absolute.

Chapter Two (#ulink_0c8bcb3b-72af-558a-b98f-ef4f2370728b)

Bed Hop

My first thought on waking is that my divorce has been finalised.

It is over. Finished. My second marriage crumbled to dust.

Irreparable. Gone. Forever.

However many times you say it, in whatever way, it means the same thing.

I failed. Twice.

Of course, this wasn’t entirely my fault and the main reason we’re getting divorced now is because Dex intends to marry again, but growing up I never thought I’d be divorced once – let alone twice. In fact, I had no intention of getting married at all but life often holds a few surprises. I had such big dreams of travelling the world and being an acclaimed photographer, of attending swanky parties and winning awards for my work featured in National Geographic or the Sunday Times supplement. But none of it happened that way.

I think then of the invitation that’s sitting downstairs in my kitchen, an innocuous looking cream envelope with my name written on it in spidery calligraphy. I tucked it between a council tax bill and a reminder from the vet about the dogs’ boosters. Even though the invitation is out of sight, I know it’s there, a pregnant rectangle of card, an invitation to a wedding yes, but also to accept that yet again, my life is about to change. The wedding will be a clear sign that we’re all moving on, that we’re all being very mature and accepting about things, and that I’ve given Dex and Trevor my blessing. It will also, I suspect, bring Evan back to England and this thought makes my stomach flip.

I sigh. I should get up and begin the first Monday back at work after Christmas but I’m reluctant. It’s dark and cold. The heating should have come on but the timer must be playing up again. Unless I forgot to reset it. It means I’ll probably have to call a plumber out and it will cost the earth and I can hardly afford that right after Christmas. All these little things mount up and can become big things if I let them. But I won’t let them. I’m the responsible adult here and I have to stay strong for the kids. Have to get up, get them up, get myself ready, get them ready, go out and be presentable then earn a wage so that I can keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. I have to set my children a good example. I have to provide them with security and stability. I have to be their centre, their role model, their guide.

Gah…

Sometimes… just sometimes, it all seems too hard. Especially on a chilly January morning right after Christmas. The worst time of the year.

To be alone.

I pull the duvet over my face and breathe in the sweet, comforting – yet scientifically fabricated – essence of jasmine and honeysuckle. It helps a little bit.

My thoughts drift, as they sometimes do – in spite of my repeated vows not to indulge myself because this behaviour really is ridiculous and helps no one – to that first Christmas with Evan when life seemed so full of excitement and potential. Meeting at university in our shared major class of communication studies, we’d quickly become inseparable. Growing up, I’d sworn that I’d never fall in love, never get married or have children, vowed that I would be self-reliant and never allow a man to hurt me. However, one kiss from Evan and I was hooked. As hard as I tried to remain rational about him, it was impossible. With his bright blue-green eyes and long, curly black hair, he was like a singer from a rockband. But unlike an unreachable celebrity, he was real, right there for me to love. And he loved me too.

I shouldn’t do this; but sometimes it’s nice to think about the good times. Before I was even divorced once, before I knew how painful love can be. But I did love him and life seemed so full of hope when we first got together. We were both going to be successful at our chosen careers – Evan wanted to be a music journalist and work for Kerrang or NME, while I wanted to be the next David Bailey. We planned on travelling the world and meeting all sorts of people. In my head, it was a dream I could enjoy because it meant that I’d get to keep my independence and earn a good wage whilst being in love. We knew we’d be separated on occasions, but that was all right too, as we’d be saving for our future and building a life together. In my bohemian undergraduate haze, I never thought much beyond the initial days of our life together after graduation. I didn’t fine-tune the marriage or family details because I just didn’t want to face those scary hurdles, not even in a daydream. But life has a way of making you face your fears even when you try very hard not to.

Just before Christmas, in the final year of my studies, I applied to do a Masters of the Fine Arts in Photography following graduation. Then things took an unexpected turn. I had to admit that I was feeling unwell, but for a while I tried to blame the pressure of my studies and my part-time job. I was exhausted and felt quite faint a lot of the time, even after a good night’s sleep. Things smelt funny, my breasts grew tender and coffee made me heave. I was, of course, pregnant. We were being careful and using condoms but nothing is 100% and we got caught out. I was terrified because it seemed to mean the end of our hopes and dreams. Evan was shocked when I told him but he swore that he’d support me, stay with me and care for the baby.

So we gave it a shot. For the baby. For us. For the dreams we’d shared.

I wonder now, with hindsight, if I was destined to destroy my own relationships; if my father bowing out as he did shaped who I would become. I’ve watched enough TV to know that it probably did. I desperately didn’t want to become a product of my upbringing, a kind of clichéd stereotype, but perhaps it was inevitable.

Ironically, in spite of my beliefs that releasing Evan from domesticity would allow him to realise his dreams, he didn’t become the rock journalist he thought he’d be – following an uncertain career where the income would have been unstable, a career that wouldn’t have suited parenthood. Instead, being an ICT whizz, he made his fortune in CGI for movies and games, and now, although he has one main employer, he travels all over the world to work with different gaming organisations and on movie sets. This means that he’s often invited to attend movie premieres that feature his work and, likewise, promotional events surrounding the release of new computer games. He makes regular and impressive maintenance payments for his daughter. I sometimes wish he could give her more of his time, instead of so much money, but she seems okay with it and besides, I’m not sure how the dynamics would work if he lived nearby.

Janis was an accident but one I cannot regret, even though having her changed the course of my life forever. I don’t think that Evan regrets her either but he also lives his own very busy life. I just sometimes wish Janis had come along a bit later on, when I was more prepared. That’s why having Henry then Anabelle was like a second chance; for me and for Janis, because it gave me the opportunity to build the family unit for her that I felt she deserved.