Mum in the Middle: Feel good, funny and unforgettable. Jane Wenham-Jones
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who did it?’
‘Word was he owed money to some builders.’
‘Never a wise move’
‘But Ingrid seems to be the sort to make her feelings known with petitions, not physical damage.’ Even as I said it, I had a picture of her steely gaze.
Malcolm nodded his agreement, his eyes still intent on mine.
‘Oh! There she is.’ I felt startled again as I spotted Ingrid on the pavement outside talking to a tall man.
Malcolm did not turn round. ‘She gets everywhere,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ I said, when Malcolm had paid the bill and we were standing in the street again. ‘That was very nice – and unexpected.’ He nodded and strode off across the road.
I looked at my watch and followed. My plan to go to the butcher’s – I was not only going to use the shops but was considering going the whole Easter hog and ordering a turkey – would have to wait. Ahead of me Malcolm lifted an arm as if to silence someone and I saw Ingrid was now right outside his office. I grinned to myself as Malcolm disappeared through the door and out of view – clearly having no truck with whatever Ingrid had to say – but it was too late to pretend I hadn’t seen her.
‘Hello, how are you?’
Ingrid appeared to straighten herself. ‘Oh Tess –’ She indicated the man next to her. ‘This is my son, David.’
Ah The Wanky One. Telling myself I must keep an open mind, I stood up straight as well and held out my hand, looking directly at him, in the manner Caroline had instructed me to look at all males in her increasingly frequent collection of lectures with the umbrella title: ‘Why you still haven’t got a man’.
Even though this one would not be my type at all, being, according to Jinni, self-seeking and hypocritical with no moral scruples, but I was still momentarily shocked by how good-looking he was, with his dark hair and eyes, tall frame and defined features.
‘How do you do?’ I smiled.
He gave me a cursory glance. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said shortly, looking anything but.
There was a tense pause. I was still extending my hand. I dropped it to my side, embarrassed. Ingrid threw me an odd look, which I couldn’t quite fathom and then David grasped her arm and propelled her away from me.
‘Just leave it, will you!’ I heard him say.
I stood for some moments watching their backs go ahead of me up the street, stunned by his rudeness.
Feeling horribly, almost tear-jerkingly, alone.
‘And you’re complaining?’ Fran swept a layer of colouring books, pens, iPads and beakers from one end of the table, so I could put my coffee down. ‘The only time I ever get to be on my own is in the loo. And then one of them usually bangs on the door!’
She began to sift through sheets of paper. ‘Freya brought home a list of all the stuff they need for their wild woodland project and now I can’t find it.’ She ran an exasperated hand through her short fair hair. ‘It was right here.’
‘Is the school good?’ I asked, pulling some of the lists and envelopes towards me and beginning to flick through them too.
There was an order form for home delivery of paraben-free cleaning products, the guarantee card for a new washing machine, a programme of events put on by the Northstone Primary PTA and a letter home about head lice.
‘Brilliant,’ said Fran, distractedly. ‘Northstone is great for kids. Jonathan was going on about moving nearer to London when he got his promotion but I said, no way.’
‘Well, now there’s the new train …’
‘Precisely! And so what if the drive takes forever anyway, he should try being here. At least he could listen to the radio in peace – oh shit, the twins!’
There was a wail from above and Fran rushed from the room. Her three-year-old, Theo, appeared in the doorway and looked at me solemnly. ‘Mummy is knackered,’ he said matter-of-factly.
‘Tired,’ I corrected. I drew him towards me to give him a hug. He was wriggling away, wiping his cheek, as Fran returned with a toddler on each hip. She did look exhausted. I remembered her in her cottage near the High Street when my kids were young and she was working as a buyer for Harvey Nichols. And her expression if a sticky hand reached for any of the bright pots or crystal candle-holders she’d collected on her frequent trips abroad.
Now this stylish family house a couple of miles outside the town was adorned with fingerprints, childcare paraphernalia filled the hall and the tiles beneath the table were littered with crumbs.
‘I’ve got Bella and Silas this weekend too!’ she groaned, depositing eleven-month-old Jac on my lap and shifting his sister Georgia to her other side as she filled a red tumbler with water for Theo. He scowled. ‘I wanted juice,’ he said.
‘Too much sugar,’ said Fran, briskly. ‘You can have some chopped mango and a carrot.’ Theo scowled a bit more.
I looked at the three children and thought how gorgeous they were, with their big brown eyes and Fran’s blonde curls. Of course she was worn out, with four kids and Jonathan’s two teenagers from his first marriage staying every other weekend making six.
‘I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving those embryos in a deep freeze …’ she’d said when she’d told me she was going to have ‘just one more’ after Theo. Knowing the years of despair she’d gone through before IVF treatment and baby Freya, all the while having to be the yummy step-mummy to Jonathan’s then-small children, I got that. But I was glad I’d done it early and mine were all grown up. So I could have, according to Caroline, the time of my life.
I jiggled Jac, who was grizzling and straining away from me towards his mother, still warm and fretful from his afternoon nap. ‘Can you manage Georgia too?’ Fran plonked the little girl on my other leg and began to chop vegetables. ‘And I want a biscuit,’ said Theo darkly.
Fran ignored this and pulled out a kitchen chair. ‘Sit.’
Theo clambered on.
‘Hands.’ The small boy held them up obediently while Fran wiped them. Fastened to a blackboard behind her head was a page pulled from a magazine containing a list of the ‘best brain food for the under-fives’. One of the photographs beneath the headline looked suspiciously like a plate of liver. Good luck with that one, I thought silently, as Theo poked suspiciously at his carrot – a bunch of which were also illustrated.
‘Have you got a nutri-bullet yet?’ Fran asked me. ‘So much better for you than juicing because you get the fibre from the flesh and skin too. Slows down the fructose hit. I mix berries with frozen spinach, a pear and cherry tomatoes …’
As she rattled on about the benefits of a daily avocado, beetroot and papaya paste, I glanced around at the granite work surfaces and the various stainless-steel lumps of gadgetry and thought about my own tired-looking kitchen with its wonky cupboard doors and chipped tiles. It was going to be my first project and I’d spent hours creating beautiful designs while I was waiting to exchange.
But since I’d moved in, my budget for home improvements was dwindling rapidly. I needed to ask Jinni’s advice on where I might get a decent trade deal and find a fitter. She’d been over, in high dudgeon, when she’d discovered Ingrid had been on Twitter protesting against Jinni’s planning application, keeping up a diatribe against the whole anti-DFL thinking, for which she held Ingrid entirely responsible, while I nodded and gave the dining room its second coat of Morning Gold. Until Jinni eventually drew breath and popped home for a tiny brush – with which she expertly touched in around the light switches