The Mum Who’d Had Enough: A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for fans of Why Mummy Drinks

Only a prize arsehole would flounce downstairs like a twelve-year-old, summon Scout and Bella for a walk, and march furiously down the street. The sky is drab grey, the colour of a white T-shirt that’s been washed with the darks. The dogs plod along at my side, seemingly picking up on my gloom. There’s no excitable pulling on the leads, no reaction whatsoever when a scrawny black cat crosses our path. On a positive note, there’s no sighting of our neighbour Howard with Monty either.

My phone rings, and I snatch it from my jacket pocket, willing it to be Sinead, or even Flynn, apologising – but it’s only my mate Paolo. He lives just outside town, and is happily married to Bea, with three impossibly cute children. He leaves a voicemail message, which I don’t play. I can’t face telling him what’s happened just yet.

Back home, I apologise to Flynn through his closed bedroom door.

‘S’all right,’ he growls. Instead of pestering him any further, I head downstairs and deal with the dishes I dumped in the sink last night – not because I’m some hapless male, unfamiliar with domestic cleansing rituals, but because I couldn’t even face stacking the dishwasher after Sinead had been here and delivered her speech. And now, as I sweep the kitchen floor unnecessarily, I am aware of being poised for a call, or the sound of her coming home; I don’t think the enormity of what’s happened has truly sunk in yet. I can only liken it to when Dad died. He and his friend, Nick, would often sit together, drinking tea and chatting, on the peeling bench in front of Dad’s rented cottage. It was Nick who found Dad; he’d died of a heart attack while gardening. The reality only really hit me when I cleared out his shed.

By the time lunchtime rolls around, I busy myself by making some hearty lentil soup. Never mind that Flynn only manages half a bowlful. So chuffed am I that it’s a) edible and b) ‘balanced’ (unlike its creator right now), I call Sinead to tell her all about it.

‘Look, Nate,’ she says as I pause for breath, ‘d’you mind if we leave any contact for a few days?’

‘Er, no, of course not,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘Whatever feels best for you, I’m happy with …’ Happy! Now there’s an interesting choice of word.

‘I really need some time to get my head around things. I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, I understand that …’

‘Are you all right?’ she asks, rather belatedly.

‘Getting there,’ I fib, in a silly jovial tone as I tip the remains of Flynn’s soup down the sink.

‘I spoke to Flynn this morning,’ she adds. ‘He seems okay, I think … don’t you?’

Oh, right, so they’ve been having cosy chats without my knowledge? ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I croak.

‘I’m relieved about that.’

‘Mmm, me too.’

‘Bye then, Nate. I’d better go. Abby’s just made us some lunch …’

‘Great. Bye, love.’ I sense the backs of my eyeballs tingling alarmingly as we finish the call.

Once I’ve cleared up our lunch stuff, I find myself wondering what to do next that doesn’t involve standing in the kitchen, staring into a vat of soup on the hob. So this is what the weekends will feel like now: endless, stretching to infinity.

I walk the dogs again, trudging from street to street for a whole two hours, wondering if Scout is exhibiting signs of weight loss from all this exercise, or if Flynn will start to worry that I’ve hurled myself into the canal. Probably not.

Shortly after I return home, Flynn announces that he’s off to Max’s, and will stay there for dinner. Later, I am spooning in another bowl of soup, without bothering to heat it up, when my phone rings. Paolo again. I let it ring out. Then a text: Answer your phone mate. Saw Sinead in town so I know what’s happened. U okay? Want a pint?

Oh Lord, so the news is out there. I try to formulate a reply in my mind, but it’s useless; anything I come up with sounds either overly breezy (‘Don’t worry about me!’), or patently untrue (‘am fine’).

Twenty minutes later there’s a sharp knock at the front door.

‘Hi,’ I say dully as I let Paolo in.

He blows out air and shakes his head, looking around the hallway as if the decorators have been and made a real arse job of painting. ‘Bloody hell, mate, I am sorry. Some fucking situation this is.’

I nod and shrug. ‘Yeah. Well, there it is. She’s gone.’

‘Jesus.’ He rakes at his hair. ‘How’s Flynn taking it?’

‘Better than me, probably, but it’s hard to tell. He’s in his room most of the time, or out. He’s at Max’s right now.’

We stand and look at each other, clearly unsure of what to say next. Paolo shoves his hands in his pockets and inhales deeply; I wonder now if Bea insisted he came over to check on my mental state. ‘No pub quiz for you tonight then,’ he adds in a lame attempt to lighten the mood.

‘Oh, God. I’d forgotten that’s tonight. The final as well …’

‘Ah, sod it,’ he says. ‘They’ll have to rope in a couple of substitutes – though God knows they’ll be stuffed without us two. You know what Bazza’s like with his obscure sixties music questions …’

I raise a smile, wishing Paulo would come to the conclusion that he really should go and leave me alone now.

‘So, that rules out the Lamb and Flag for us tonight,’ he continues, while I try to figure out how to break it to him that I’m not really in the mood for going anywhere. ‘We’ll go to the Wheatsheaf instead,’ he adds.

‘No thanks,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s great of you to come over – I appreciate that – but, really, I’m not up to—’

‘So you’d rather stay here,’ he interrupts, ‘on your own, feeling like shit?’

Well, yes.

‘C’mon, get your jacket,’ Paolo says firmly. ‘We’re going out.’

Chapter Eight (#ulink_d2476d03-a47c-5d39-8e70-75bebb41ee24)

For a man who once tried to cook a potato waffle in a Corby trouser press, Paolo is actually pretty smart. He was right to drag me out of the house, to force me to drink beer and tell him exactly what had happened. And when I extract Sinead’s list from my pocket and hand it to him, it’s actually a relief to have it out there, and not just looping endlessly in my brain like some kind of torture technique.

‘Christ,’ he murmurs as he scans the lines. ‘So she actually gave this to you?’

‘Well, no – not exactly. She left it for me to find in the kitchen, after she’d gone.’

‘Bloody hell. What made her do that?’

I shrug. ‘So I’d know exactly why she’s been so unhappy, I guess. It must have all poured out. Look at her writing. It’s so messy. She’s usually much neater—’

‘Never mind the handwriting analysis,’ Paolo says brusquely. ‘You poor bugger. Jesus …’ He shakes his head and exhales.

Most of Sinead’s friends – and, I’ve always suspected, Sinead herself – fancy Paolo, and anyone can see why. He’s a tall, charming and handsome bastard, not to put too fine a point on it; of Italian parentage, which serves only to boost his appeal. We were friends in secondary school in Huddersfield, and he and his wife Bea settled here when they started their family.

‘So, where did you see her today?’ I ask.

‘Just on the high street. She’d been shopping. She didn’t say much. Just that she’d left, she was sure you’d tell me, and that she’s staying at Abby’s …’ Looking back at the list, he starts to read aloud: ‘“You don’t listen to me. You take me for granted”.’

‘Yes, okay,’ I say quickly, glancing around the pub. At just after 8 p.m., it’s already bustling; we were lucky to nab the quiet booth right at the back.

‘“You don’t consider my needs”,’ he continues. ‘“No effort made re us as a couple …”’

‘There’s no need to read it all out,’ I murmur. ‘I’ve read it so many times, I could probably recite it by heart.’

Paolo sips his beer and frowns. ‘Did you really give her the money to buy her own Christmas present?’