The Mum Who’d Had Enough: A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for fans of Why Mummy Drinks

Still, I can’t fall apart. I’m still Flynn’s dad and, if nothing else, I’m going to prove that I can run this home, this family, by myself.

Things start off pretty well, considering. Flynn emerges from his room a little before 10 a.m. There are no visible signs of tears or anger; on the contrary, he utters a gruff, ‘Morning’ as we pass on the stairs. I even dish up a proper breakfast – not that I’m expecting some kind of World’s Best Dad accolade for scrambling some eggs. However, we are coping, in that we are dressed, and nourished, and I have only checked my phone a handful of times to see if Sinead has been trying to contact me.

Of course she hasn’t. Idiot, I chastise myself.

Aware of behaving a little manically – in order to prove just how fucking fine I am – I suggest to Flynn that he fetches his guitar and we have a go at some new techniques. ‘Okay,’ he says warily. Minutes later, we’re sitting together in the living room while I show him a new take on the traditional twelve-bar blues he knows already.

He’s strumming away, albeit rather mechanically, as if he’s keen to get on with something else.

‘Hang on,’ I say, motioning him to stop. ‘It’d be good to change your emphasis, give it some whack on the second and fourth beat …’

‘What?’ he asks crossly, brow furrowing.

‘Let me show you.’ On my own guitar, I start to play a riff, aware of Flynn’s gradually flattening expression, his mouth setting in a firm line. I stop and look at him. ‘That was Chuck Berry. You can hear how he played about with the timing, the emphasis – that’s what gave him that unique sound—’

‘Dad,’ Flynn interrupts, placing his own guitar carefully on the sofa beside him.

‘Hang on, Flynn …’ I start playing some more. It’s helping a little, focusing on the music. Helping me to not fixate on Sinead, just for a few moments …

‘Dad!’ he barks. I stop, taken aback by his abruptness. ‘Look, um …’ He shuffles uneasily. ‘D’you mind if we don’t do this?’

I look at him. ‘You mean, try out this Chuck Berry riff?’

Flynn’s eyes seem to harden. ‘Well, yeah. I mean, why would I want to play like Chuck Berry?’

‘Because he’s one of the greats,’ I reply with a frown. ‘A big influence on Springsteen, actually. He even covered some of his songs. Hang on a sec …’ I place my guitar to one side, and get up with the intention of fetching my laptop.

‘Dad, please,’ Flynn cries after me. ‘No YouTube clips of old dead guys!’

I swing round to face him. ‘He not just any old dead guy. He was a major innovator—’

‘Yeah, I know who he is. I mean, was. Max’s dad’s got a record of his, that awful song … what’s it called again?’

I shrug, genuinely confused.

Flynn smirks. ‘I remember. “My Ding-a-Ling” …’

‘Oh, that,’ I retort. ‘That was just a stupid comedy record—’

‘Yeah, about his dick—’

‘Flynn!’

My son’s gaze meets mine, challenging me. Was he ever so belligerent when Sinead was here? I’m sure there were occasions, but I can’t recall any right now.

‘What’s up with saying “dick”?’ he asks, clearly pushing boundaries.

‘Nothing, I suppose,’ I mutter. ‘But it’s a bit unnecessary. Okay, shall we try that Stones riff instead—’

‘Well, that’s what the song’s about, isn’t it?’ he rants on. ‘Max’s dad was playing it when he was drunk one night. He was a pervert. He put spy cameras in women’s loos—’

‘Max’s dad?’ I exclaim.

‘No, Chuck-fucking-Berry!’

‘Okay, okay,’ I exclaim, deciding not to tick him off about unnecessary language on this occasion, although it’s definitely out of order, coming straight after ‘dick’ a few seconds ago. I have a swearing limit and he’s definitely topped it. However, things are heated enough as it is. Pick your battles, I’ve always believed, and I know everyone swears these days. The c-word seems to be as commonly used as ‘hello’ or, ‘how are you?’, not that I’m a fan of it being tossed about like confetti. But I try to be easy-going and liberal, often thinking, Christ – hasn’t my son had enough to deal with in life without me lambasting him over trivialities?

‘C’mon,’ I add, ‘we can play something else. This is supposed to be fun, not an ordeal for you.’ He wrinkles his nose at me, as if I have suggested a game of Ludo. ‘How about trying that finger picking again?’ I soldier on. ‘You were doing really well with that …’ He was too, by which I mean no onlooker would even guess he had any issues with his fine motor movements.

Flynn gets up and grabs his guitar by the neck, and for one split-second I wonder if he is going to bash me on the head with it. ‘Look, Dad, what I’m trying to tell you is – if you’d listen – I don’t want to do this anymore.’

You don’t listen to me. Will I soon be presented with a list of my faults from my son, too? Well, why not? Might as well make it a family game.

‘What are you saying?’ I ask hollowly. ‘You can’t just give up, Flynn. You’re so good!’

‘No, I mean—’

‘I know it gets frustrating,’ I barge in, ‘and you can feel like you’re not making much progress. But honestly, you have real talent—’

‘Dad,’ he says firmly, shaking his head, ‘what I mean is, I want to stop playing guitar with you.’

I blink at Flynn. Something cold and hard seems to clamp itself around my heart. He stands there, glaring at me in disdain, as if he can hardly believe I was fifty per cent responsible for his existence. He is gripping his favourite instrument, the one that cost us a fortune for his fifteenth birthday, after I’d managed to persuade Sinead that it really was the best choice for him. But he only tried it out for ten minutes, she hissed, as the three of us left the music store in Leeds.

Sometimes, I told her, it’s instant. You just know.

Love at first sight? she said with a laugh.

I clear my throat and try to pull myself together. ‘So, you, uh, don’t want me to teach you anymore?’

‘Yeah,’ he says, with a tone that borders on the callous. ‘I mean, no. No, I don’t. Is that all right, Dad?’

‘Er, yes, of course it is,’ I reply, ‘if that’s what you’ve decided. So, er, d’you want to learn from someone else?’

‘No, I just want to play,’ Flynn says emphatically. ‘I just want to do my own thing with Max, Luke and Si and the others, know what I mean?’

‘But you do your own thing now … ’

Flynn’s nostrils seem to flare. ‘Yeah, but that’s all I want to do. I don’t want to sit here, learning your things …’

‘They’re not my things!’

‘Dad, you know what I mean. It’s not a big deal, is it? C’mon.’ He hoists a small smile, as if I am a child whose balloon has just slipped from his hand and floated away. Then he shrugs and saunters off to his room.

I know I should leave it at that. I should accept that, at sixteen years old – with his mother recently departed from our home – he is fully entitled to continue to progress, or not progress, however he pleases. He can never learn another damn thing, if that’s what he wants! But instead, I follow him upstairs and loom in his bedroom doorway.

‘What is it?’ he asks.

I clear my parched throat. ‘So, er, you really don’t want me to teach you anymore? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yeah. I explained that already, Dad.’

I shrug, feeling ridiculous. ‘But I mean … isn’t it quite handy that I’m here, and available, and we can just do stuff whenever you’re in the mood?’ And I can adapt techniques according to your abilities? I want to add, but of course, I don’t.

‘I don’t really want to anymore.’

‘But why not? I thought you enjoyed it. I thought, you know, it was our thing …’ My voice wavers. Oh, God. How needy do I sound now?

‘Just leave it, would you?’ Flynn mumbles, picking at his fingernails.

And then I must really lose it, as I snap at my beloved boy: ‘Suit your bloody self then. But don’t come running to me when you can’t figure out a G minor seventh!’

What a jerk.

Only a prize arsehole would flounce downstairs like a twelve-year-old, summon Scout and Bella for a walk, and march furiously down the street. The sky is drab grey, the colour of a white T-shirt that’s been washed with the darks. The dogs plod along at my side, seemingly picking up on my gloom. There’s no excitable pulling on the leads, no reaction whatsoever when a scrawny black cat crosses our path. On a positive note, there’s no sighting of our neighbour Howard with Monty either.

My phone rings, and I snatch it from my jacket pocket, willing it to be Sinead, or even Flynn, apologising – but it’s only my mate Paolo. He lives just outside town, and is happily married to Bea, with three impossibly cute children. He leaves a voicemail message, which I don’t play. I can’t face telling him what’s happened just yet.

Back home, I apologise to Flynn through his closed bedroom door.

‘S’all right,’ he growls. Instead of pestering him any further, I head downstairs and deal with the dishes I dumped in the sink last night – not because I’m some hapless male, unfamiliar with domestic cleansing rituals, but because I couldn’t even face stacking the dishwasher after Sinead had been here and delivered her speech. And now, as I sweep the kitchen floor unnecessarily, I am aware of being poised for a call, or the sound of her coming home; I don’t think the enormity of what’s happened has truly sunk in yet. I can only liken it to when Dad died. He and his friend, Nick, would often sit together, drinking tea and chatting, on the peeling bench in front of Dad’s rented cottage. It was Nick who found Dad; he’d died of a heart attack while gardening. The reality only really hit me when I cleared out his shed.

By the time lunchtime rolls around, I busy myself by making some hearty lentil soup. Never mind that Flynn only manages half a bowlful. So chuffed am I that it’s a) edible and b) ‘balanced’ (unlike its creator right now), I call Sinead to tell her all about it.

‘Look, Nate,’ she says as I pause for breath, ‘d’you mind if we leave any contact for a few days?’

‘Er, no, of course not,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘Whatever feels best for you, I’m happy with …’ Happy! Now there’s an interesting choice of word.

‘I really need some time to get my head around things. I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, I understand that …’

‘Are you all right?’ she asks, rather belatedly.

‘Getting there,’ I fib, in a silly jovial tone as I tip the remains of Flynn’s soup down the sink.

‘I spoke to Flynn this morning,’ she adds. ‘He seems okay, I think … don’t you?’

Oh, right, so they’ve been having cosy chats without my knowledge? ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I croak.

‘I’m relieved about that.’

‘Mmm, me too.’

‘Bye then, Nate. I’d better go. Abby’s just made us some lunch …’

‘Great. Bye, love.’ I sense the backs of my eyeballs tingling alarmingly as we finish the call.

Once I’ve cleared up our lunch stuff, I find myself wondering what to do next that doesn’t involve standing in the kitchen, staring into a vat of soup on the hob. So this is what the weekends will feel like now: endless, stretching to infinity.

I walk the dogs again, trudging from street to street for a whole two hours, wondering if Scout is exhibiting signs of weight loss from all this exercise, or if Flynn will start to worry that I’ve hurled myself into the canal. Probably not.

Shortly after I return home, Flynn announces that he’s off to Max’s, and will stay there for dinner. Later, I am spooning in another bowl of soup, without bothering to heat it up, when my phone rings. Paolo again. I let it ring out. Then a text: Answer your phone mate. Saw Sinead in town so I know what’s happened. U okay? Want a pint?

Oh Lord, so the news is out there. I try to formulate a reply in my mind, but it’s useless; anything I come up with sounds either overly breezy (‘Don’t worry about me!’), or patently untrue (‘am fine’).

Twenty minutes later there’s a sharp knock at the front door.

‘Hi,’ I say dully as I let Paolo in.

He blows out air and shakes his head, looking around the hallway as if the decorators have been and made a real arse job of painting. ‘Bloody hell, mate, I am sorry. Some fucking situation this is.’

I nod and shrug. ‘Yeah. Well, there it is. She’s gone.’

‘Jesus.’ He rakes at his hair. ‘How’s Flynn taking it?’

‘Better than me, probably, but it’s hard to tell. He’s in his room most of the time, or out. He’s at Max’s right now.’

We stand and look at each other, clearly unsure of what to say next. Paolo shoves his hands in his pockets and inhales deeply; I wonder now if Bea insisted he came over to check on my mental state. ‘No pub quiz for you tonight then,’ he adds in a lame attempt to lighten the mood.

‘Oh, God. I’d forgotten that’s tonight. The final as well …’

‘Ah, sod it,’ he says. ‘They’ll have to rope in a couple of substitutes – though God knows they’ll be stuffed without us two. You know what Bazza’s like with his obscure sixties music questions …’

I raise a smile, wishing Paulo would come to the conclusion that he really should go and leave me alone now.

‘So, that rules out the Lamb and Flag for us tonight,’ he continues, while I try to figure out how to break it to him that I’m not really in the mood for going anywhere. ‘We’ll go to the Wheatsheaf instead,’ he adds.

‘No thanks,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s great of you to come over – I appreciate that – but, really, I’m not up to—’

‘So you’d rather stay here,’ he interrupts, ‘on your own, feeling like shit?’

Well, yes.

‘C’mon, get your jacket,’ Paolo says firmly. ‘We’re going out.’

Chapter Eight

For a man who once tried to cook a potato waffle in a Corby trouser press, Paolo is actually pretty smart. He was right to drag me out of the house, to force me to drink beer and tell him exactly what had happened. And when I extract Sinead’s list from my pocket and hand it to him, it’s actually a relief to have it out there, and not just looping endlessly in my brain like some kind of torture technique.

‘Christ,’ he murmurs as he scans the lines. ‘So she actually gave this to you?’

‘Well, no – not exactly. She left it for me to find in the kitchen, after she’d gone.’

‘Bloody hell. What made her do that?’

I shrug. ‘So I’d know exactly why she’s been so unhappy, I guess. It must have all poured out. Look at her writing. It’s so messy. She’s usually much neater—’

‘Never mind the handwriting analysis,’ Paolo says brusquely. ‘You poor bugger. Jesus …’ He shakes his head and exhales.

Most of Sinead’s friends – and, I’ve always suspected, Sinead herself – fancy Paolo, and anyone can see why. He’s a tall, charming and handsome bastard, not to put too fine a point on it; of Italian parentage, which serves only to boost his appeal. We were friends in secondary school in Huddersfield, and he and his wife Bea settled here when they started their family.

‘So, where did you see her today?’ I ask.

‘Just on the high street. She’d been shopping. She didn’t say much. Just that she’d left, she was sure you’d tell me, and that she’s staying at Abby’s …’ Looking back at the list, he starts to read aloud: ‘“You don’t listen to me. You take me for granted”.’

‘Yes, okay,’ I say quickly, glancing around the pub. At just after 8 p.m., it’s already bustling; we were lucky to nab the quiet booth right at the back.

‘“You don’t consider my needs”,’ he continues. ‘“No effort made re us as a couple …”’

‘There’s no need to read it all out,’ I murmur. ‘I’ve read it so many times, I could probably recite it by heart.’

Paolo sips his beer and frowns. ‘Did you really give her the money to buy her own Christmas present?’

‘Well, yes,’ I reply hotly, ‘because I’d bought her a skirt for her birthday, which I thought she’d look sensational in. But she just gave it this withering look—’

‘So you thought it was more practical to just give her cash instead,’ Paolo concludes.

I nod. ‘Exactly.’

‘But she found it unromantic.’

‘Yeah, okay,’ I say, prickling with defensiveness now.

Paolo fixes me with a look across the table. ‘Right. So, you’re looking at this list as your P45? I mean, you reckon it really is over?’

‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘It’s not just that. There was an email as well, and then she came over last night and spelled it all out really.’

Paolo sighs. ‘Yeah, but I don’t think it’s like that at all. What I mean is, I don’t think she thought it all through, you know? I bet it just all came out in a splurge, after a few wines. She was probably feeling a bit pissed off, and then, before she knew it, she’d worked herself up into a right old froth about being unappreciated, about life being all drudge and no fun …’

‘Okay!’ I cut in.

‘… and convinced herself that she really had no option but to leave you,’ he concludes, stopping to sip his pint.

‘Right. Doesn’t really help, though, does it?’

‘It does, actually …’

‘I don’t see how.’

‘Well, look – first thing, stop panicking …’

‘I’d say it’s a pretty normal human reaction,’ I remark.

‘Yeah, but it won’t help you in this situation because you’re going to need a clear head.’

I frown at him. ‘A clear head for what?’

Paolo slides the list to me across the table. ‘Listen, mate – it seems to me like she’s written down your instructions right here.’

I pick it up and study it again. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Oh, come on. Can’t you see that’s exactly why she’s done this? What she wants you to do is work your way through all the points on the list and put them right.’ He pauses. ‘She’s giving you a chance, mate.’

I almost laugh. Paulo isn’t a therapist or a psychologist; he’s an electrician (‘Bea’s so lucky, having such a handy husband!’ Sinead has crooned more than once). However, as his own marriage seems to be extremely happy, perhaps he does know a thing or two about the workings of the female mind.

‘Rectify all my faults, you mean?’ I ask.

‘Yeah,’ he says brightly.

‘But …’ I stare down at it. ‘There’s a hell of a lot of points on here …’

‘Oh, come on,’ he exclaims, draining his glass. ‘You want her back, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, of course I do!’

‘Isn’t she worth it, then?’ he asks with a maddening glint in his eye.

I twiddle with my glass. ‘Yes, she is,’ I say quietly. ‘But some of them …’ I pause. ‘I mean, the DIY thing, that’s easy – I’ll just get a joiner in next time, not even bother trying to save us money …’ I catch Paolo’s warning look and try to erase the bitterness from my voice. ‘But what about where she’s just written, “YOUR MOTHER!!!”? I mean, I love Sinead – I’d do pretty much anything for her – but I’m not sure I’d have my mum assassinated.’

Paolo snorts. ‘I’m sure you can figure something out. It’s going to be a test of your ingenuity and, when you’ve got to the end, you won’t even recognise yourself …’

I chuckle dryly. ‘Is that supposed to be a good thing?’

He smiles and gets up to go to the bar, adding, ‘Just get to it, starting tonight. Look at it this way – you really don’t have anything to lose.’

He’s right, of course – and after another couple of beers I find myself heading home feeling, okay, a little pissed, but also in a far more positive frame of mind. My friend’s enthusiasm for life is infectious, I decide. Maybe I should try to be more like Paolo: charming, positive, Italian. I catch sight of Howard apparently swatting a fly at his living room window and wave quickly, then hurry into my house.

Flynn is home, and greets me with a rather subdued, ‘Hey, Dad.’ We sit together and watch some trash on the TV, which he enjoys from time to time: young people on their first dates. It all seems terribly contrived and awkward, and I start to feel as if I’m there on the dates with them, at least double their age, a sort of chaperone, stiff and uncomfortable with my hands bunched into tight fists.

‘Sorry about all that,’ I murmur, during an ad break. ‘The guitar thing, I mean. I was upset, but that was no reason to act that way. I just meant—’

‘It’s okay,’ he says lightly.

I glance at my son as he pops strong-smelling cheesy Doritos from a family packet into his mouth. If Sinead were here, the Doritos would be in a bowl. As the dating programme resumes, I find myself spinning off, thinking now of the little things she hates, mostly food-related: people licking their fingers and running them around the inside of a Doritos packet in order to collect the orangey powder residue; witnessing anyone piercing a fried egg yolk with a fork.

The programme ends, and Flynn and I say a companionable goodnight. Leaving him strumming his acoustic guitar on the sofa, I manage not to comment or even compliment his technique. Instead, I escape to our bedroom (no, my bedroom now – Christ!) where I change into pyjamas and sit up in bed with Sinead’s list to my side and my laptop in front of me.

The list is becoming rather raggedy now from being carted around in various pockets and re-folded numerous times. So I open a new document and start to type it out, line by line, each and every one of my heinous shortcomings.

Only now, bolstered by Paolo, the sight of it no longer triggers a great wave of panic and dismay. I glance up for a moment, my gaze resting upon Sinead’s red and white spotty dressing gown hanging from the hook on our bedroom door. I look back down quickly and resume typing, taking care to copy the list exactly, even her flamboyant usage of exclamation marks. And when I’ve finished, and it’s all there in a Word document, I can see that Paolo was right.

It’s not really a list. At least, that’s not all it is. It’s a challenge to be a better person; my instruction manual on how to be the sort of husband Sinead needs me to be. I will be that person – for her, for my family – and I will win her back.

Chapter Nine

‘She’s left you? You mean, she’s just walked out on you – and Flynn?’

‘No, not on Flynn, it’s not like that …’

‘She’s gone and left her own son, with everything he has to deal with in life?’

I jab a finger at the kitchen ceiling. ‘Shhh! He’s upstairs in bed. He’ll hear you …’

My mother shakes her head and looks pointedly around the room, as if it has fallen into terrible disrepair since Sinead’s departure. In fact, it is gleaming. I was up two hours ago, at 7 a.m., scrubbing and shining, eager to get started on working my way through the list.

You leave too much to me, she’d written. Perhaps I did. But not anymore. The bathroom dazzles; the kitchen bin smells like a summer rose; even the fridge has been wiped out and reorganised, with Sinead’s wilting spinach disposed of and all the jar labels facing the right way. It’s just a pity my wife isn’t here to see it.

Mindful, too, of Sinead’s YOUR MOTHER!!! point, I also decided to tell Mum precisely what had happened as soon as she arrived, rather than staggering through some terrible, ‘Oh, Sinead’s just popped out’ kind of charade.

‘I have to say, you seem remarkably … calm,’ she acknowledges now.

‘Well, I can’t just fall to pieces,’ I say, as if I have been the epitome of composure since my wife left me.

‘This must be terribly tough for you, though. Humiliating, too …’ Mum perches on a kitchen chair, and I hand her a coffee. Sunshine streams in through the newly-cleaned kitchen window on this bright Sunday morning.

‘Hmmm,’ I reply non-committally.

She sips her coffee. ‘This is very milky, Nate.’

Yes, because I have sloshed in extra cold milk so it’s drinkable right away. ‘Is it? I’ll make you another …’