The Woman Who Upped and Left: A laugh-out-loud read that will put a spring in your step!. Fiona Gibson
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‘Your birthday’s not till next month. Why are you giving me your present list now … in my birthday card?’
‘Oh, it’s not my birthday list,’ he says with a shrug. ‘It says at the top. It’s just stuff I need.’
I stare at him. ‘Have you gone completely crazy? I don’t have the cash for all this—’
‘You’ve got that prize money coming, Mum. It’s just a few things, not that much …’
I’m conscious of breathing slowly, trying not to lose my rag. I keep staring at the note in the hope that I’m just experiencing a mental blip, perhaps triggered by all the prosecco I guzzled earlier, and that the messy scrawl will rearrange itself to read: Sorry I couldn’t afford to get you a present, Mum, just wanted to say how much I love you. But it doesn’t.
‘You mean,’ I say carefully, ‘I’ve sometimes bought you the wrong kind of jelly beans?’
He nods. ‘Occasionally, yeah. Some of the flavours are really weird. The cinnamon ones are horrible.’
I glare at him, then back at the note. If I had a lighter to hand, which I don’t, having given up smoking twenty years ago – although now might be the time to re-start – I’d show him what I think of it. Is it normal, this urge to burn things? I never used to be like this. I’m becoming increasingly less keen on the person I’ve become. ‘So,’ I venture, ‘you’re seriously expecting me to buy you all this? Not for your birthday but just … for no real reason at all?’
He nods. ’Yeah, but please don’t choose my clothes, Mum. Not after that shirt you got me last Christmas …’
‘Don’t be so ungrateful,’ Jenna splutters, nudging him.
‘That perfectly nice one from River Island?’ I remark, arching a brow.
‘Er, yeah.’ At last, he has the decency to look nervous.
‘What was wrong with it?’ I ask, genuinely bewildered.
‘C’mon, Mum,’ he says, blushing now, ‘it was kinda like an old man’s shirt …’
Something shrivels inside me as I stare down at them: two beautiful people with their futures ahead of them – if they can muster the energy to do something. And I know how they view me: as a sour, middle-aged woman, who doesn’t understand that a guitar would be ‘cool’, and who seems to believe that careers should be planned and worked towards, rather than just expected to land in their laps. Even Jenna seems unwilling to grab opportunities presented to her. As she’s studying beauty therapy, I’d assumed she might enjoy assisting Kim on a job. ‘I’ve checked with her,’ I explained, ‘and she really could do with the help. It’ll be great experience for you.’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ Jenna winced, as if I’d arranged work experience at the local abattoir, rather than patting powder onto bridesmaids’ faces.
In my bedroom now, I perch on the edge of my bed and try to figure out whether I’ve been perfectly reasonable or overreacted terribly. Maybe Vince was right, and I’m drunker than I realise; after all, Morgan’s not that bad as teenagers go. He has never written off my car or – to my knowledge – inflicted pain upon a small animal. No, it’s the slow drip-drip of barely significant things that’s making me feel as if I am beginning to ever-so-slightly lose the plot: the mocking of a perfectly acceptable shirt. The perpetual canoodling that makes me feel as if I’m trapped in a sex education film and that any moment, a voiceover will warn, ‘Remember to always use a condom.’ Is it any wonder I find it so hard to relax? Right now, in my tiny, gloomy room, I’d give anything to be in that swanky hotel where the cookery course is happening. Not to cook especially – I mean, I wouldn’t dream of foisting my bland soup on anyone – but just to be.
To take my mind off the note, I unpack my presents from Kim, Ellie and Cheryl from my voluminous shoulder bag. Gorgeous perfume, a posh palette of lip colours and tiny bottles of bath oil with soothing properties. And here, still in its torn-open envelope, is the letter about my competition win, including a contact number for the organiser: Shirley Michaels, whom I’ve already spoken to about the cash prize.
I lie back on my bed. My room really is tiny: suitable only for a small child, or possibly just coats. There’s space only for a three-quarter bed – no wonder Stevie rarely stays over, he’s six-foot-two – plus a small, rickety bedside table and a chrome rail for clothes. God, that lovely hotel. I can’t get it out of my mind. Lifting my laptop from my bedside table, I Google Wilton Grange. Judging by the pictures on its website, it’s extremely fancy. Without wanting to sound as if I struggle to use cutlery politely, it is far posher than anywhere I’ve ever stayed. We’re talking old-style glamour; all plump sofas, twinkling chandeliers and enormous stone fireplaces decked with the kind of fragile-looking vases you’re scared to walk past in case you create a gust and blow them off. There are oil paintings of glowering old men and galloping horses, and in the restaurant the food comes with little blobs and swirls of sauce. Imagine having your food decorated.
There’s a spa, in which guests are lounging around in white dressing gowns, giving the impression that their lives are totally sorted. While they might stop off at Charnock Richard for petrol or a coffee, it would never occur to them to stay overnight. Their pulses wouldn’t quicken at the prospect of a £5 all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. They have never endured obsessive voucher collecting to buy their child a perfectly acceptable checked shirt which, it turns out, he hates. A son who, rather than buying his mother a small birthday gift – just a token, a pack of sodding Hello Kitty hair clips would have sufficed – presents her with an extensive list of stuff he wants.
I should have chosen the cookery course prize, I decide, undressing and pulling on my pyjamas. But it’s too late now.
*
Or is it? That’s the thought that spears through my brain when I wake, dry-mouthed from the prosecco, just after nine. I scramble out of bed and grab the letter from my bag and stare at the contact numbers. There’s an office number, and a mobile. I shouldn’t call on a Sunday but what the hell? I tap out the number on my mobile, my heart rattling away as it rings.
‘Hello?’
I clear my throat. ‘Hello Shirley, it’s Audrey Pepper. I’m so sorry to call you at the weekend …’
‘Audrey Pepper? I’m sorry, I don’t think I know—’
‘We, um, spoke a few days ago about the Dinner Lady of the Year award …’
‘Oh, yes, of course. If you’re calling about the transfer, I have all your bank details and was planning to put through payment first thing on Monday …’
‘Um, actually, I just wondered,’ I cut in, ‘could I change my mind? I mean, if it’s at all possible?’
Small pause. ‘You mean you’d like to do the cookery course instead?’
‘Er … yes. Yes, I would.’ Another pause as she clears her throat.
‘Umm … I think it’s pretty booked up, and I’m not sure if I can get hold of anyone today … could you hold for a moment please?’
‘Sure,’ I say, licking my parched lips.
I wait and wait and wait. I glance up at the mottled ceiling; it needs a coat of emulsion, the whole place does. I’ve suggested to Morgan that he might paint it for me, thus acquiring some decorating skills – there’s a line of work that’s always in demand – but he flatly refused to do it without pay. How would he react, I wonder, if I presented him with an invoice for meals cooked, laundry serviced and cleaning undertaken?
‘Audrey? Sorry to keep you waiting.’
‘That’s okay, that’s fine …’
‘Now, I’m afraid the week where we had a place reserved for you is all fully booked …’
‘Oh, I see.’ My heart