Mum On The Run

‘Sounds good,’ Jed says, eyes fixed back on the book. I have to say, he doesn’t appear to be primed for an evening of hot lust.

‘And I’ll get some wine,’ I add.

‘Yeah. Great.’

‘And maybe we could, you know . . . go to bed early.’ I move over to his chair, and try to nuzzle into him, but his gaze remains fixed on the page. What’s he reading? Some American crime novel where people are bludgeoned to death every three pages. I can smell the testosterone radiating from its pages. God, it must be riveting. If he were any other straight man, in a child-free house with his wife dropping walloping hints, trying to drag him off to a hotel, for God’s sake, he wouldn’t be reading a goddamn book. What do I have to do – dress up as an air hostess? Trill ‘doors to manual’ while wearing an Ann Summers tunic emblazoned with a Lust-anza logo? A couple of years ago, Simone had a brief fling with a guy – one of her clients, in fact – who was into that kind of stuff. He even suggested buying a hostess trolley that she could wheel through her house to dispense drinks. Is that what turns men on these days?

‘I’ll go then,’ I bark, causing Jed to flinch.

‘Yeah. Um, what?’

‘You relax and enjoy your book’ – a mere smidgeon of bitterness there – ‘and I’ll nip out to Tesco.’

‘Okay, darling.’ His jaw twitches from the effort of glancing up from the page. ‘That sounds great.’

*

Before leaving I quickly scan my cookery books. I used to love cooking fancy stuff – proper grown-up food involving coriander and limes – before my culinary gene shrivelled up. The children howled in protest whenever I presented any thing with ‘weirdy green bits’ (i.e. herbs). So my confidence shrank, and my cooking acquired a distinctly retro vibe: pies, sausages, roasts. None of it terribly waistline-friendly. As I’m usually ravenous by the children’s dinnertime, I tend to pick at their clammy leftovers, then often eat again later with Jed. Double-dinner Laura. No wonder I’ve gone up from a size twelve to a sixteen since we met.

I pore over recipes, uninspired by dishes involving grilled chicken and watercress. Can’t imagine Jed getting revved up over that. He can eat like a horse, lucky sod, and not gain an ounce. My eyes land on a pasta dish with prawns, chillies and rocket. How delightfully non-fish-fingery. ‘Won’t be long,’ I announce as I head out, feeling quite the hunter-gatherer. Okay, I’m not planning to grapple a wildebeest to drag home to my beloved – I’m only going to Tesco – but it’s a step in the right direction.

I march along our neat, tree-lined street, full of purpose and bubbling excitement. What else should I buy? Something hormone-stirring to slip into Jed’s drink? The only aphrodisiacs I can think of are oysters, which I don’t know how to prepare, or essence of dried bull’s penis or something, and I don’t imagine Tesco stock it. Then, as I approach the store’s entrance, an idea hits me.

Underwear. Nothing ridiculously porno – I have neither the nerve nor the body for that. Just a new bra and knickers that actually match, and are more alluring than the saggy articles I resort to these days. Maybe stockings, suspenders. Corny, I know, but Jed would love that. It doesn’t feel quite right, buying underwear in a supermarket, but he’ll be far too excited to check labels.

I glide around the aisles, lulled by the bland music, ridiculously grateful to Mum for having the children overnight. After choosing supper ingredients, I browse the make-up section. While hardly vast, it’s still overwhelming. Are the colours I used to wear hopelessly outdated, along with my au naturelle do? I’m supposed to know what looks good. It’s my job, and I have enough regular clients to know that I’m reasonably good at it. Here, though, I’m lost in an ocean of lip plumpers and mineral face powders – make-up that didn’t exist the last time I bought any. I grab a blusher, a smoky grey eye shadow and a sheer lipstick, making a mental note to hide them from Toby. Then, on a roll, I snatch some razors and passion-flower body lotion.

In the underwear aisle the knickers seem to fall into two categories – thongs or industrial old-lady pants – neither of which I had in mind. A man with generous chin-folds sidles up next to me and gives me a slimy, wet-lipped grin. This is the kind of male attention I attract these days. Middle-aged, sweating perverts who spend their Friday nights in the lingerie aisle. I realise with horror that that’s how a stranger might describe me, lurking here, not quite knowing what to do with myself. Quickly, I grab a black lacy bra and knicker ensemble, then black stockings and any old random suspender belt and stuff them into my basket. Without checking the sizes, I hurtle towards the checkout.

My stomach rumbles as I join the queue, and I eye the king prawns in the clear plastic packet in my basket. Is it normal to lust over food the way I do? To feel constantly ravenous? The checkout boy, who looks all of twelve, is taking an age to barcode-bleep everything. Finally, it’s my turn. I place my purchases on the conveyor belt, trying to conceal the underwear by laying the bag of rocket on top of it. The boy picks up the rocket and stares at the scraps of black lace. Only, they’re not just black lace. Neatly stitched between the bra cups – and at the front of the knickers, I now realise – are tiny pink satin teddy bears stitched with the words ‘Hugga Bubba’.

The boy smirks. I grimace back, willing him to bleep everything at breakneck speed so I can get out before my head bursts. ‘No price on this,’ he announces, dangling the suspender belt delicately between thumb and forefinger.

‘I can get another one if you like,’ I blurt out, blood swirling in my ears.

‘No, it’s okay . . . Cathy! Can you get another one of these? What size is it?’ He turns to me.

‘Um, medium, I think.’ I wonder what might be the most efficient way of committing suicide in Tesco. Impaling myself on a cooking utensil? Or hiding until closing time, then shutting myself in a freezer? A woman with her lips pressed into a prim, scarlet line stands behind me in the queue. Her eyes meet mine. Medium? she’s obviously thinking. A little optimistic, aren’t we, love? I glance down at her basket. It contains soya milk, porridge oats and a punnet of raspberries. No pervo underwear. No desperate woman trying to perk up her disinterested husband on a Saturday night. Bitterly, I wonder if he’s finished that book yet.

Somehow, though, by the time Cathy returns with another suspender belt, I’m beyond embarrassment and decide to just brazen it out. ‘Thanks,’ I say grandly, giving it a little twirl before dropping it into my shopping bag. ‘Have a great evening.’

‘You too,’ the checkout boy says, grinning. As I leave, making a supreme effort to walk tall and proud – with a slight sashay, actually – I feel the scarlet-lipped woman’s eyes boring into the back of my head. Who cares what she thinks? I am Laura Swan, a mother of three but also a woman, dammit, who is reclaiming her sexuality.

I march home, swinging my bag and breathing in the cool, soft air of a perfect April evening. Tonight will bring Jed back to me, I can feel it.

Chapter Ten (#ulink_d2480440-34ab-5539-8b44-f3eb88cf3db4)

As I stride home, I figure that maybe Jed was right. Who needs a hotel room when there’s a child-free house on offer? Lighting some candles and playing our music – without Finn thrashing his drum kit above our heads – will create a romantic ambience. I picture the two of us, snuggled up on the sofa, in a flattering candlelit glow. I won’t bring up the Celeste stuff – not tonight. Anyway, I’m sure Simone’s right. What’s wrong with having a friend of the opposite sex? I should lighten up, learn to keep things in perspective.

I let myself in, pleased that I’ve cunningly concealed my saucy new lingerie at the bottom of the bag. However, I needn’t have worried about Jed spotting it and the surprise being ruined. Clearly beside himself with lust at the prospect of my return, he’s asleep in the armchair. His head has lolled to one side, and his bottom lip reverberates slightly with each soft snore. Hardly alluring, but at least he’ll be nice and rested for later.

I creep through to the kitchen and unpack the shopping, plotting what to get up to later in bed. Will it be wild, like in the old days, or affectionate and gentle? I don’t mind either way. Hell, I’ll take whatever I can get. Just a kiss and a cuddle would be fine, if he’s too tired for anything else. I do worry, though, that it’s not normal to think about sex as often as I do, and that I’m having some kind of hormonal breakdown. Whenever the subject comes up among the playgroup mums, the others start cackling that they’d rather have a quiet lie down with no one pawing at them, or a DVD and a box of chocolates. ‘Give me Coronation Street any day,’ I heard Ruth groan last week. The difference is, their men actually want to do it. Yet these women talk about sex as something to be got over and done with, like having a wasps’ nest removed from the loft.

Gathering up my saucy undies and beauty accoutrements, I tiptoe upstairs to the bathroom, ashamed at how surly I’ve been with Jed these past few months. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s a fantastic dad with endless time and patience for the children. It’s not just sport, either: he thinks nothing of spending hours working on incredible Lego constructions, which Toby finds hilarious to smash up into pieces. He’ll even set up foul-smelling science experiments in the kitchen. As for our lack of bedtime action, he’s probably worn out, that’s all. Aren’t I knackered most of the time? Maybe we’re just out of practice – plus, I’m hardly comfortable prancing around in the nude with my body looking so mournful and collapsed.

So what if he has a silly, schoolboy’s crush? It’s natural to fancy other people. It doesn’t mean anything. Didn’t I experience a distinct flickering of – well, not desire exactly, but something for Danny in Starbucks? It was the attention, that’s all. I picture my male friends from college and wonder if it might be possible to ever have a man friend again. Would Jed mind? No, of course he wouldn’t. He’d be glad to see me all cheered up and perky.

I undress in the bathroom and step into the shower’s steamy blast. As I run the cheap plastic razor over my legs and underarms, I start wondering if I should extend my endeavours elsewhere. What did that supplement say about au naturelle? I’m probably the last woman in Britain not to have a Brazilian. What is a Brazilian exactly? Is it as important to have one in Yorkshire as it is in Brazil?

I survey my soft, pale body as the water gushes down it. To be fair, it’s not a total disaster. My boobs are quite enviable, I guess. My stomach and bum . . . no, let’s gloss over those. As for my legs, they are reasonably shapely, even if things start to go horribly wrong around the thigh region.

I glare down at my pubes. They certainly need a little tidying, but I’m worried I’ll mess this up. At least with head hair, if you’re given a botched cut, you can derive faint pleasure at switching allegiance to a new salon. Thankfully, Simone always cuts mine, always praising its abundance and shine. That’s one part of my anatomy I don’t have to worry about. With this, I’d have no one to blame but myself. ‘Laura, are you okay?’ Jed calls from downstairs. Ah, the beast awakens.

‘I’m in the shower,’ I shout back.

‘Shall I start cooking? I’m starving.’

‘No, I’ll do it, won’t be long.’ The razor hovers at the tops of my thighs. Just do it. You’re a grown woman at the helm of family life. How can you be scared of a little light pruning, for God’s sake? Naomi probably has hers ripped off with hot wax.

As the razor rasps across my skin, I wonder how far to take this. I tinker around gingerly until one side seems done. It certainly looks, whilst not better exactly, decidedly tidier. ‘Laura!’ Jed yells again. He’s upstairs on the landing now. It feels weird, just the two of us here in our echoey house. I turn down the shower to a dribble so I can hear him properly.

‘What is it?’

‘Will you be much longer?’ He raps loudly on the bathroom door. ‘I need the loo.’ He waggles the handle and will be wondering why on earth I’ve locked the door. We usually do all that bathroom stuff in front of each other, which might be another factor in the demise of our sex life.

‘Hang on,’ I call out, still gripping the razor, rapidly losing my nerve. The shaved bit doesn’t look tidier. It looks scalped and chickeny, like something you’d see in the chill cabinet with a barcode slapped on it.

‘Could you let me in?’ he demands.

‘I, um . . .’ I glower down. One side still requires attention, and looks even more au naturelle when compared to the bald region. It’s like when I wallpapered Grace’s bedroom before Christmas. The fresh new spotty design made the rest of the house look condemned.

‘Laura!’ Jed thunders. ‘I’m desperate.’

‘Just a minute—’

‘Let me in!’ He raps on the door.

Jesus, it’s like having a fourth child. Haven’t I been saying, since we had Toby, that we urgently need a second loo? It drives me insane, this constant hammering every time I’m in here for more than a second. Is it any wonder I’m a little unkempt? Naomi has not one but two ensuites, like bloody royalty – one for her, one for buffed-up hubby. Switching off the shower, I wrap myself in a towel and unlock the door.

Although clearly on the point of combustion, Jed still manages to fling me a disdainful look as if I’m something he’s narrowly avoided treading in on the pavement. He strides to the loo and starts to pee, emitting a groan of relief which I find enormously off-putting. I glare at the back of him as he sploshes noisily, deciding that it doesn’t matter if I’m poultry-like down there as I’ll never be intimate with him again. I’ll grow fatter and hairier with many cats.

For one brief moment, I wish I was playing with the children and the train set at Mum’s.

In the sanctuary of our bedroom, I examine my handiwork as Jed pads downstairs. Although I look freakish, I don’t have it in me to jump back into the shower and finish off the job. I pull on my new underwear and survey my reflection in our full-length mirror on which Toby has crayoned a person with stick legs and stick arms and a brick-shaped torso. I assume it’s supposed to be me. My face is pink from the shower, my hair straggly and dripping down my chest. The new bra is a little baggy in the cups. The knickers are cut lower than my preferred style, and lack the reinforcements required to hold in my tummy. I don’t look like a woman who’s on the brink of making her husband faint with desire. I look like a clappedout mother who buys her underwear two aisles along from the gherkins.

Gamely, I pull on the suspender belt – remembering too late that the knickers are supposed to go on top of it – then the stockings. The suspender belt’s clips are a devil to snap on. Every time I manage to get one done up, another pings off. It’s even more fiddly than Finn’s old Meccano set. Why didn’t I buy hold-up stockings? Because I planned to go for full-on foxery, haha.

I dart into Grace’s room, rummage in her craft box for scissors and snip the Hugga Bubba teddies off my underwear. As a joke, I place them on her pillow. I’m overcome by a surge of longing, wishing she were here, wishing all the children were here, and that this was an ordinary family evening with bedtime stories and tucking in and Jed and I watching a movie together. Our normal life isn’t so bad. I want too much, that’s the problem. My expectations have shot off the scale, like would-be Angelina Jolie’s at the salon. I should be content with the way things are. Look at Mum, with her art classes and volunteering, trying to fill the void where Dad used to be.