The Mum Who’d Had Enough: A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for fans of Why Mummy Drinks. Fiona Gibson
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Mum announces.
‘Okay. See you soon, Grandma.’ He gives her a brief kiss on the cheek.
We leave him alternating between chomping on bread and swigging milk as I carry out Bella’s basket and see Mum to her car.
She frowns at me as Bella jumps obligingly into the boot. ‘Oh, Nate. That poor, poor boy, with a broken home now …’
‘He’s all right, Mum. Really …’
‘He didn’t look all right, stuffing dry bread into his mouth!’
Despite everything, I can’t help laughing. ‘That’s not because of Sinead leaving.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ She bangs the boot shut.
‘Because,’ I say, in an overly patient voice, ‘he has dry bread all the time. It’s not a broken-home thing – it’s a teenage thing. Toasting or buttering it is just too much effort—’
‘That’s because of his condition—’
‘No, it’s not,’ I exclaim. ‘You know Flynn, what he’s capable of. Of course he can make toast. He can cook an entire dinner, actually. Peel spuds, roast a chicken, make one of those terrible microwave cakes—’
‘If you say so …’
Christ, is she always as maddening as this? Probably, I decide as she climbs into her car. Until now, I’ve allowed her to breeze in and say pretty much whatever she likes without challenging her. On and on she went, about Sinead’s non-existent massage, and all I said in her defence was, ‘A massage isn’t that big a deal’, effectively putting my mother’s feelings before my wife’s. It wasn’t just that, either. There was the, ‘Your turkey’s always quite dry, isn’t it?’ comment last Christmas, when Sinead had been up at 6 a.m. to cram the damned bird into the oven, and then that remark about the shimmery red dress my wife chose – and looked sensational in – for Flynn’s solo guitar performance at the school concert. ‘It looks quite nice,’ Mum had remarked tersely, ‘from the back.’ Years and years of spiky comments, which Sinead has remarked upon now and again, only for me to try and placate her with an, Oh, you know what Mum’s like …
She winds down her driver’s side window and peers at me. ‘Well, you take care, Nate.’
‘Thanks, Mum. You too.’
She pauses, her lips set in a thin line, her hands gripping the steering wheel unnecessarily, seeing as she hasn’t even turned on the engine yet. And then out it comes: ‘You know, I don’t think Sinead has ever appreciated all you’ve done for this family.’
I gawp at her, unable to respond for a moment.
‘All those years,’ she continues, ‘not having to go out to work while you gave up your career in music—’
‘Career in music?’ I retort. ‘It was just a few crappy bands …’
‘… and went through that gruelling driving examiner training, just to ensure she had the lifestyle she wanted …’
‘Mum!’ I snap. ‘What on earth are you talking about? What “lifestyle”?’
She blinks at me, clearly startled by my response. ‘Well, Sinead’s never wanted for anything, as far as I can see.’
I look at my mother, fury rising in my chest now, but knowing there’s no point in explaining that Sinead buys most of her clothes from charity shops, drives a car that’s on its last legs and probably has her hair done around twice a year. There’s no point, because Mum would never listen. ‘I won’t have you running her down,’ is all I say, taken aback by the calm but firm voice that seems to be coming out of my mouth.
Mum’s eyes widen. ‘I’m only saying—’
‘Well, just don’t, okay? I mean that, Mum. That’s my wife you’re talking about. I know we’ve separated, but I won’t have it, all right? And I don’t want to hear anything like that again—’
‘Joe never speaks to me like this!’
Ah: the spectre of my perfect younger brother rears its head. We stare at each other, invisible horns locked. ‘No, well, you don’t have a go at his wife, do you?’
‘No, because Lorraine would never walk out on their kids …’
‘Stop this, Mum. Stop it right now—’
‘Stop what? I haven’t done anything!’ She looks aghast, then clamps her mouth shut and closes the window. With just a quick backwards glance towards Bella, who is sitting demurely in the rear – and who we look after every time Mum goes away – she switches on the engine.
There’s no goodbye, and no wave; just a jutted-out chin and her cool gaze fixed determinedly ahead. But I know she’s rattled as she pulls away, as her failure to mirror-signal-manoeuvre correctly causes an oncoming taxi driver to toot at her. Guilt snags at me as she gestures angrily, then disappears from sight.
*
Despite his Victorian-street-urchin diet, Flynn does seem okay as the day progresses. Max and Luke come over, and they all hang out in the living room, chatting away and playing guitars. Understanding that I am required to keep out of their way, I tackle the laundry, then head out to the back garden to mow the lawn and gouge out weeds from between the patio paving stones. Whilst not exactly joy-making, these tasks at least prove useful in stopping me pacing about, obsessively trying to work out who Sinead’s new boyfriend might be, not that I think for one second that she is sleeping with someone else. But then, even if she isn’t yet, at some point in the future she will be, unless I can make myself truly worthy of her.
As I empty the mower’s grass container, a particularly unsettling image forms in my brain: of some dashing bloke – Hugh Grant at his peak – sauntering into the gift shop and being overwhelmed by the confusing array of candles on offer. Gosh, he really can’t decide! He glances over at the woman sitting at the till, registers her gorgeousness and falls instantly in love.
Meanwhile, at my work, I have people referring to me as ‘that lanky fucker with the glasses’.
Back indoors, as I wipe down the entire upstairs’ skirting boards – so much dust! How come I’d never noticed before? – it occurs to me that I really should have stood up to Mum years ago, whenever she was offhand or downright rude to my wife. Mum was never like that with Kate Whickham, the girl I was seeing just before I met Sinead. Kate who’d been to Oxford and whose family ‘owned land’, and was working as a consultant, which seemed to impress Mum hugely, even though she didn’t fully understand what a consultant actually did. Meanwhile Sinead, who was awash with orders for her jewellery, was regarded with suspicion right from the start. ‘She seems nice enough,’ Mum said coolly, after their first meeting.
Frozen pizza and oven chips aren’t exactly top-quality fare, but it’s what the boys want for dinner and, anyway, we can eat whatever we want now and to hell with it. I walk Scout in the rain, which seems to suit the new weekend mood. Back home, soaked to the bones, I run a bath and clamber into it, convincing myself that of course Sinead isn’t out on a date right now, canoodling in some bar with her tongue in someone’s mouth, but merely watching a box set with Abby.
I mean, she left me on Wednesday night and it’s only Sunday evening. Surely no one could meet someone that quickly, unless … she’s been seeing someone else all along?
I eye my phone, which I have placed on the side of the bath in case she wants to talk to me. A text pings in from my mother: Very upset after the way you snapped at me today. Spoke to Joe. We are both v worried. He thinks you might be having some kind of breakdown?
Let them think what they want, I decide, placing my phone back on the side of the bath and reclining into the warm water. Let them discuss my mental health and the fact that I was a little offish with Mum today. However, I know the truth. My first weekend without my wife is,