Mum On The Run. Fiona Gibson
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before he lost the will to live, we’d go to bars and restaurants and parties all the time, and he’d tell me he was proud to be seen with me. We were perpetually skint, but he still managed to buy me sexy dresses, teetering shoes, beautiful lingerie in black silk and ivory lace. Things a man would only buy for a woman he wanted to have wild sex with.
‘I’ve been working all week,’ Jed protests. ‘I’d just like to chill out, Laura, okay?’
‘I’ve been working too,’ I start, catching myself: of course I haven’t been working like he has. While Jed’s been mentoring disadvantaged kids, I’ve been . . . cutting hair. What does that matter in the great scheme of things? If there were no hair-dressers, what would people do? Hack it themselves with the kitchen scissors. It would be fine. No one dies from having badly-cut hair. Finn would probably enjoy that – chopping at it himself – as it’s the effect he seems to be after at the piercing place.
‘Why don’t we watch a movie?’ Jed suggests, his voice softening. ‘I’ll pop down to the Spar and choose something if you like.’
Well, whoop-di-doo. ‘Okay,’ I mutter. ‘Let’s do that. Let’s stay in and watch TV.’
‘Don’t be like that, darling.’ He throws me a wounded, big-eyed look.
‘I’m not being like anything.’ I snatch Grace’s pens and scissors from the floor, unable to think of anything else to do. Once I’ve tidied the entire room, and rounded up a few stray dishes, I perch on our other armchair and peer at him.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, looking up from his book.
‘Nothing. I’m just thinking, maybe you’re right. I can’t remember the last time we were home alone together. Maybe it could be quite fun.’
Jed nods. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it? Sort of . . . peaceful.’
‘Well, it could be nice. Why don’t I pop out for some shopping and cook us a special meal? Something the kids wouldn’t like?’
‘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?