Mum On The Run. Fiona Gibson
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about him. Jed Swan, it said, has scooped a well-deserved Local Hero award for his unfailing commitment to children’s artistic and sporting endeavours in the borough. He’s not the kind of dad who needs a map of the kitchen to indicate where milk is kept. Beth told me that, on the rare occasions when she’s going away overnight, she still feels compelled to leave Pete, her husband, a list of child-related instructions which can run to five pages. What guidance could a father possibly need in order to care for his two children, I wondered? ‘Take kids to park . . . you’ll do this by first ensuring that they are adequately clothed according to climatic conditions . . . Leave house via front door remembering to take key . . . In the park you will find a large circular object. This is called a roundabout. No, not the traffic kind. The other kind. Let Jack go on it, and Kira if she wants to, then proceed to spin them as fast as humanly possible for several weeks . . .’
As I head for Starbucks, I figure that at least Jed does his fair share. In fact, he could probably survive perfectly well without me. He certainly doesn’t seem to need me. Sometimes I suspect he wouldn’t notice if, instead of sleeping beside him, I replaced myself with a cushion. I have come up with possible reasons for this:
1. Severe exhaustion (although toning down his sporting activities might help).
2. He is suffering from some kind of sexual dysfunction and is too embarrassed to talk about it, even though we have been together for fourteen years. Regarding this option, I have delved about on our computer for evidence of him trying to buy Viagra or some kind of pumper-upper penis device. So far, nothing.
3. He no longer fancies me due to my ample fleshage.
4. He is shagging Celeste, a possibility which is too horrific to contemplate seriously and makes me barge into Starbucks in a rather aggressive manner, nearly sending a man flying in the doorway.
‘Whoa, after you!’ he says, staggering back dramatically.
‘God, I’m so sorry,’ I bluster. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘That’s okay. You’re obviously more desperate for a caffeine fix than I am.’ He grins, and his cheeks dimple in a distinctly fetching way.
‘Guess I am. It’s just been one of those mornings.’ I smile back, pushing dishevelled hair out of my eyes, and realise I’m still clutching the playsuit. ‘Oh, hell . . .’ I shake it out and gawp at it.
‘Not your colour?’ the man asks with a smirk.
‘It’s not . . . I mean . . . it’s not even mine.’ Blushing furiously, I meet the stranger’s blue-eyed gaze.
‘So whose is it?’
‘It’s the shop’s,’ I murmur. ‘I . . . I stole it.’
‘Really?’ He makes his way towards the small queue at the counter. ‘You mean you shoplifted it? That was very bold of you.’
‘I mean accidentally,’ I say quickly. ‘I tried it on in a shop and it was awful, some kind of playsuit thing that came up to here’ – I indicate thigh-length – ‘and it was so hot and stifling in there, and I was so desperate to get out I just walked off with it . . .’ My entire body tenses in preparation for a hand landing heavily on my shoulder and being named and shamed in the Collinton Gazette. Mother of Three, Wife of Local Hero, steals playsuit from city centre store . . . I glance around nervously.
‘What did you say it was?’ the man asks.
‘A playsuit. They’re the big thing for summer, apparently. I’ll have to take it straight back.’
‘Why not have a coffee first?’ He narrows his eyes and glances through the window. ‘Can’t hear any sirens out there. You should be safe for a few minutes.’
‘Think so?’ There’s a faint throbbing in my neck. Not even the sight of all the muffins and pastries can soothe me.
‘I’d say you could risk it. I’ll keep an eye out if you like.’ His blue eyes crinkle appealingly, and I notice how long and luscious his dark eyelashes are. Clients have theirs tinted at the salon to achieve a similar effect. ‘After you,’ he adds, beckoning me to join the queue.
‘Thanks,’ I say, relaxing slightly. I order my coffee, choosing a shortbread biscuit for nerve-calming purposes, and buy three giant chocolate coins for the kids. The stranger joins me at a vacant table. ‘I’m Danny,’ he says. ‘Okay if I sit with you?’
‘Laura.’ I smile. ‘Sure, no problem, as long as you don’t mind associating with a master criminal.’
He grins. ‘Think I can handle it. So, what’s the plan with the playsuit?’
‘I don’t know. How would you go about un-shoplifting something?’
Danny shrugs. ‘I might run past and throw it in through the door . . .’
I laugh. ‘I’m not running anywhere. You know the parents’ races they have at school sports days?’
‘Well, I can imagine,’ he says with a shudder.
‘Didn’t even make it to the finishing line,’ I tell him. ‘It’s a wonder my family hasn’t disowned me.’
He chuckles. ‘Well, don’t they say it’s not the winning . . .’
‘. . . but the taking part that counts. Not at my kids’ school. It’s a deadly serious business.’
He sips from his mug and wipes a little coffee froth from his upper lip. ‘So, how many mini-athletes do you have?’
‘Just the three.’
‘Whoa. Quite a handful.’
‘You could say that,’ I laugh, appraising this cute, friendly man with a cheeky smile who has lifted me from changing room despair to a far more agreeable state of mind. Danny has dark brown, slightly unkempt wavy hair, and a hint of stubble. He is chunky, like me, but it lends him an endearing quality and rather suits him. Anyway, men can get away with it. A little extra weight makes them look cuddly and cute. As they don’t have the babies, they’re not subjected to a barrage of pressure to lose their pregnancy weight in ten minutes. I nearly vomited when Naomi bragged that her body had ‘snapped back’ to pre-pregnancy tautness within ten days of giving birth to Phoebe. There was a distinct lack of snapping with mine. On particularly fat days I still wear my vast preggie knickers, and fear that they’ll still be surgically attached to my rear when Toby leaves for college.
‘Laura,’ Danny says thoughtfully, ‘I’ve got an idea.’
‘Uh-huh?’ I lick a spoonful of cappuccino froth. I should have ordered a skinny latte – or, better still, a bottle of joyless calorie-free water. What the hell.
‘You could post it back anonymously . . .’
‘Great idea. I could include a note telling them that it didn’t have a security tag on, so they’d realise there’s a fault in their system . . .’
‘. . . Which means you’d be doing them a favour,’ Danny says triumphantly. ‘Or I could take it back for you and tell them I’ve decided I don’t have the legs for it.’
We are giggling like children as we finish our coffees and step out into the bustling street. The grey April sky has brightened to a clear baby blue, and York looks sparkly and alive. ‘Think I’ll just take it back and explain what happened,’ I say, smiling.
‘Very sensible.’ We pause, then he adds, ‘Well, it was nice meeting you, Laura. You really brightened up my day.’
‘You too. And I’m sorry I barged into you like that. I’m not usually so rude.’
He grins.