The Woman Who Upped and Left: A laugh-out-loud read that will put a spring in your step!

‘That was amazing,’ he murmurs, pulling me close. I glance at my phone, which is sitting beside my empty champagne glass: 10.17 p.m.

‘It really was.’ My stomach growls as I kiss his delicious-smelling neck.

‘You hungry, babe?’

‘Yes, I am a bit.’

He smiles, and plants a tender kiss on my forehead before swivelling out of bed. ‘No problem, I’ll nip out and get us something …’ I glance at his lean, taut body as he pulls on his jeans and shirt, wondering – as I always do – how I managed to get so lucky.

In his absence I stretch out in bed, enjoying the coolness of the sheets against my skin. From a laminated card on the bedside cabinet, I learn that the all-you-can-eat breakfast is just £5. I doze a little, then check my phone, to reassure myself that my darling son hasn’t plunged his finger into an electrical socket or exploded the TV. No texts, which could signify that he’s lying in a fried heap, although I know I’m being ridiculous. No contact from Morgan is completely normal – he tends to message me only when he needs to know where he might find money for late-night chips. And I can’t bring myself to text Jenna to ask if he’s okay; he’d be mortified.

My worries fade as the door opens, signifying that my hunter-gatherer has returned from the service station shop – open 24 hours, another benefit of conducting our sex life on the motorway – with a carrier bag of treats. ‘Hey,’ he chuckles, undressing swiftly and clambering back into bed, ‘imagine finding you here.’ I laugh as he tips out our provisions, which, I happen to notice, contains one of those Fuzzy Brush toothbrushes that come in a little plastic ball from a dispenser in the loos. ‘Forgot my toothbrush,’ he says with a grin.

‘Another great thing about service stations,’ I snigger, which he chooses to ignore. We kiss, and we eat, and then, fuelled by a couple of Ginsters Meat Feast Slices and a tub of Pringles, we fall back into each other’s arms.

It’s lovely, as always. But I still can’t shake off the feeling that this isn’t quite right.

Chapter Three

School Dinners

Thursday, 10.35 a.m, and I’ve just arrived home. The kitchen is littered with empty tuna tins – Morgan is prone to forking canned fish straight into his mouth, but has yet to master the art of depositing the tins in the bin – and an array of crumb-strewn plates. There’s a spillage of pink juice (apple and raspberry?) on the table, plus a scattering of shattered Twiglets, like the components of some primitive game. I pick one up and bite it. It lacks freshness. I stare at the mess, dithering over whether or not to lose my rag, and deciding that I can’t face a confrontation the minute I’m home.

Anyway, there’s no one to be annoyed at as the rare nocturnal mating pair has yet to appear. Of course: it’s not yet 11 a.m. As my darling boy is currently neither in employment nor further education – unless you count a weekend course in beginner’s circus skills, foolishly paid for by me, as he fancied ‘a go at street theatre’ – he has no real reason to get up. While Jenna is reputedly studying beauty therapy, the course seems to have an awful lot of leisure time built in. I find it hard to comprehend how two people can do so little with their time.

‘I’m off to work now,’ I call up from the hallway. ‘You might think about hoovering the stairs, Morgan? And get some shopping in, would you? We need bread, cheese, fruit … remember fruit? Does that sound familiar? Apples, pears, stuff like that. They grow on trees, reportedly good for you …’

An unintelligible response. At least I know he’s alive.

‘Or oranges? How about some of those? Full of vitamin C, darling, handy if you want to avoid rickets or scurvy …’ His bedroom door creaks open and he appears on the landing in his oversized stripy dressing gown. He looks pale – light-starved and faintly sweaty – yet is still handsome in his rather malnourished, hair-untroubled-by-comb sort of way.

‘What d’you say?’

I muster a brisk smile. ‘Fruit, darling. Get some, please. There’s money in the jar. Oh, and clear up all that mess you left. I don’t know who’re you’re expecting to do it for you. A team of magic elves?’

He peers at me, as if trying to process my incomprehensible request, then shuffles off back to his room.

‘Even some canned pineapple would do,’ I trill, a little manically, as I step out into the street.

My daytime job is at the local primary school. The brisk ten-minute walk is just long enough for me to shake off domestic irritations and slip into the cheery persona required for working in the canteen. Our home town is definitely a proper town, although Morgan would term it a village as he reckons nothing of any interest ever happens here. ‘What am I s’posed to do exactly?’ he moaned recently, when I complained about his lack of activity. ‘I’m dying in this place. It’s crushing my soul. Why did we ever leave York?’ That’s where he spent his first seven years until Vince, his father, and I broke up. It made sense then to move to the house my friend Kim had just inherited from her mum and offered to let to me at a ridiculously low rent. Although Morgan welcomed the move – and made friends here immediately – he now views it as unforgivable on my part.

School is an imposing Victorian red-brick building, with part of the playground given over to wooden troughs crammed with pansies and marigolds planted by the children. Although being a dinner lady didn’t exactly feature on my plans, I had to find something – a stopgap – to fit around looking after Morgan when we first moved here. I try not to dwell upon the fact that it’s been a very long time since his school hours have been a factor in my life.

In the kitchen, Amanda, the cook, is stirring an enormous pot of fragrant chicken curry. It’s the last day of term, and there’s a lightness in the air, a palpable sense of anticipation. ‘So what are you and Morgan up to this summer?’ she asks, briefly looking round from the stove.

‘Me and Morgan?’ I laugh. ‘Nothing. God, can you imagine him wanting to come away with me?’ I pause, then add, ‘I think me and Stevie might book a last-minute thing …’ Why did I even say that? We have never discussed going away for more than a night together, and certainly nowhere other than a motorway hotel.

I pull on my blue school apron and set out plastic cups and water jugs on the tables. My proper job title is an MSA, a Midday Supervisory Assistant. I don’t exactly look like your classic dinner lady – the stern auntie type with a perm – but then nor do my colleagues. Whippet-thin Amanda has a diamond nose stud and a bleach-blonde crop, while Delyth is all raucous laughter and glossy red lips, possibly the vampiest woman to ever grace a school canteen. However, she can be rather formidable when crossed; she takes no nonsense from the children. Me, I’m a bit of a pushover where kids are concerned – languid teenagers also, obviously.

‘You mean you’d leave your poor boy home alone?’ teases Delyth, who finds it endlessly amusing that I fuss over Morgan so much.

‘I’m sure he’d survive,’ I say with a grin.

‘Have you taught him to cook yet?’

I shrug. ‘Well, he can just about fry an egg without setting his hair on fire.’

‘God, Aud,’ Amanda remarks with a smirk, ‘you’ve treated that boy far too well. He doesn’t need to figure out stuff for himself. He’s never had to.’

Although I shrug this off, something gnaws at me: because that’s what Vince says too. He reckons I’ve pampered our boy, and that it’s my fault Morgan seems to think it’s fine to undertake nothing more taxing than wobbling about on his unicycle and half-heartedly tossing a couple of beanbags about. Can I add that Vince is the one who started it, by buying our boy a juggling kit last Christmas ‘for a laugh’. He was a bright, sparky kid until the teenage hormones kicked in: excellent at maths, science and history, forever huddled over a book. We’d watch movies and play board games together; it felt as if we were a little gang of two. I can no longer remember the last time he read anything – apart from the Chinese takeaway menu – and these days he seems allergic to my company.

But never mind that because the children are surging in now, the younger years first, jostling into a straggly line at the counter while Delyth and I dish out their meals. It’s an Indian banquet today, to celebrate breaking up for summer. The queue has already disintegrated into an unruly gaggle. There are shrieks and giggles and much pushing in. ‘Calm down, everyone,’ I exclaim, stopping Joseph from grabbing a handful of mini naans.

‘Please, Miss Pepper!’

‘No, Joseph, only one naan each.’

‘Miss, please, they’re only tiny—’

I glance at Delyth, expecting her to lay down the law. But no, she’s smirking while doling out curry and rice from the stainless steel containers. ‘Go on, let him have two,’ she hisses.

‘It’s a special day, Miss Pepper!’ giggles Holly, clutching her tray.

I frown, deciding it must be the fierce July heat that’s making the children so giddy today. Fleetingly, I wonder whether Morgan has managed to draw his bedroom curtains yet, and picture him staggering back, half-blinded by the sudden exposure to sunlight. Delyth and I finish serving the younger ones, and I deal with a small altercation between a bunch of girls at a table – ‘I’m saving a place for Shannon!’

‘You’re not allowed to save places, Lily, you know that …’

‘Please, Miss Pepper …’ And off they go again, dissolving into splutters of laughter.

Delyth and I serve the older years, who are no less hyped up than the little ones, then it’s on to wiping tables as the children begin to congregate at one end of the hall. Normally they’d have surged out to the playground by now. Today though, they’re sort of loitering. I’ve never seen this happen before. ‘Off you go,’ I prompt them. ‘Your lunchtime’s ticking away. Don’t you want to be outside in the sunshine?’

‘Not yet, Miss Pepper!’ someone blurts out. There’s a ripple of sniggered asides. I frown at Delyth, then catch the eye of Moira, the head teacher, who’s glided into the canteen, as regal as the figurehead on a ship with her magnificent bosom and glossy black hair piled high.

‘Everyone!’ she calls out, waving a large white envelope above her head. ‘Boys and girls, gather round and remember what we said at assembly this morning …’ Another burst of laughter. ‘… Now, all quieten down while I make a very important announcement …’

‘What’s going on?’ I whisper to Delyth.

She shrugs. ‘No idea.’

‘Not leaving, is she?’

‘Maybe. I haven’t heard anything …’ She clears her throat and studies her fingernails. I glance around the crowded canteen. It feels as if the children, who are clearly having trouble containing their excitement, know exactly what’s going on. And it dawns on me, slowly, that everyone does – even Delyth, who’s clearly trying to suppress a grin – apart from me.

‘Shhhh!’ Moira hushes everyone as only a head teacher can. As the chatter fades, I realise the entire staff is here – teachers, secretaries and classroom assistants; even Greg, the janitor. Stranger still, everyone is staring at me. I sense my cheeks glowing hot and sweep my hands over my ponytailed hair.

Moira raps a table with a plastic teaspoon. The room has fallen silent. ‘Today,’ she starts, in her authoritative tone, ‘is a very special day. Yes, I know it’s the last day of term and you’re all desperate to get out of here and have fun. But before that, I have in my hand a very special letter …’

‘We know what it is!’ Joseph pipes up.

‘Joseph, you don’t know,’ Delyth reprimands him, waving a finger.

‘We do. We all guessed!’

Moira grins. ‘You might remember, a few months ago, I secretly asked you all to write a couple of sentences about one of our dinner ladies who’s been here for such a long time, and has seen so many of our children grow up through the school …’

Oh, my lord. Delyth only joined us last year, and Amanda’s only been here a couple of terms. She means me.

‘… Ten years, she’s been here,’ Moira goes on. ‘That’s even longer than me, which is saying something …’ Everyone laughs, and I think: yep, I arrived in the era of jam roly poly and now it’s all chopped mango and kiwi. And it hits me: I’m getting some kind of long service award, a carriage clock for the dusty old retainer of the school canteen. Which would be lovely, of course. I do need a properly working clock. But Christ, do I feel old …

‘… Always been so kind and wonderful,’ Moira goes on as my cheeks blaze. She turns to me. ‘I’d like to read out a few of the things the children said about you, Miss Pepper …’

I swallow hard as she pulls a sheet of A4 from the envelope. What the heck have they said? ‘“Miss Pepper is a lovely smiling lady …”’ It feels like something has caught in my throat. ‘“She’s my favourite dinner lady in the whole world,”’ Moira reads on. ‘“She’s always kind and she never gets cross, even when we spill water or drop food on the floor …”’

My vision fuzzes as I remember the bad thoughts I had yesterday, beaming hatred at Morgan’s boxers and kicking Jenna’s thong into the corner of the bathroom to fester with the dusty old bottles of floor cleaner and bleach. When did I become so intolerant? What happened to the fun, perky woman who blithely stepped over the odd dropped item of underwear, and who never seethed over a dressing gown dumped on the stairs, and who was certainly never seized by an urge to set it alight? They see only the good side of me here: the woman who runs off to find a plaster for a cut knee, and takes the time to chat to a little girl who’s crying because there was no room for her to sit with her friends.

Sure, I’m good with other people’s kids. I love their enthusiasm for life. If only they knew what a colossal grump I am at home, fizzling with irritation over scattered trainers and the forever elusive remote control … ‘“Miss Pepper is like a kind friend to me,”’ Moira continues, and there’s more, so much more: about the time I ‘helped’ Ailsa Cartwright (she means when I spotted a remarkably fat nit crawling in her hair and quietly whisked her to the office and called her mum without anyone else ever finding out). Now Moira is talking about some kind of prize I’ve been awarded, but I’m not paying full attention. Instead, I’m thinking, what would anyone have done, in that situation? Produced a loud hailer and boomed, ‘Back off, everyone, Ailsa’s crawling with lice?’

‘Our incredibly kind, hard-working, long-serving dinner lady,’ Moira booms across the hall. ‘So here’s to another ten years with the wonderful Miss Pepper, dinner lady of the year!’

‘What?’ I blurt out as the room fills with applause.

‘You’re dinner lady of the year!’ Delyth exclaims, throwing her arms around me. ‘What did you think this was about?’

I laugh, shaking my head in amazement. ‘I had no idea. I mean, I didn’t even know there was one …’

‘Well, there is,’ she laughs, ‘and you’re it.’

‘Bloody hell …’

‘Language, Miss Pepper,’ Joseph giggles.

I smile, tears forming as quickly as I can blink them away. ‘But what is it? What does it mean?’

‘It means,’ Moira says with exaggerated patience, ‘there’s a national competition to find a dinner lady who does far more than her usual duties …’

‘Like helping us build that massive snowman,’ Joseph pipes up.

‘And washing the netball team kit,’ Amanda adds with a grin.

‘And you let us throw wet sponges at you at the car boot sale!’ shrieks someone from the back, somewhat overzealously.

‘So we put you forward,’ Moira adds, ‘and, well, the judges agreed that you’re pretty amazing …’

‘Really? I don’t know what to—’

‘Speech!’ Delyth calls out, and the children’s chatter melts away into a respectful hush.

I give her a quick, alarmed glance and push back a strand of hair that’s dangling at my boiling cheek. ‘I, er, I mean … I can’t begin to …’ Oh no. Hot tears are spilling now as I try to scrabble together an intelligible sentence. I have never made a speech in my life; I’m not even keen on being the centre of attention. ‘I’m delighted,’ I start, blotting my face with my apron. ‘This means so much to me. I love my job here, you’re all such wonderful people …’ I tail off, fazed by the sea of expectant faces all turned towards me. ‘… And all I can really say is … this is totally unexpected and completely wonderful. Thank you so much …’ There’s a cheer as I am handed a huge bouquet – an explosion of red and orange blooms – then a cake appears, carried towards me on a silver board by a grinning Amanda. The outlandish creation is swirled with creamy icing, with Congratulations Miss Pepper Dinner Lady of the Year!!! in wobbly pink piping on top. Clearly, one of the kids has had a hand in the decorating. There’s more cheering, and paper plates appear, and the cake is cut up and distributed to the children who stuff it into their mouths before rushing outside, icing smeared, to play.

‘You really deserve this, Audrey,’ Moira says, hugging me.

‘Thank you, I’m still trying to take it in …’ I swipe the last remaining piece of cake. It’s tiny; no more than a mouthful.

‘So which prize are you going to choose?’

‘Oh, er …’ I lick a sticky smear from a finger. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t actually catch—’

‘You weren’t listening?’ Moira laughs with mock indignation. ‘You’re worse than the kids, Audrey. Mind always elsewhere.’

‘Well, er, I was quite overwhelmed …’

She chuckles. ‘Okay, there’s a prize of a French cookery course – classic cuisine and patisserie in a fancy hotel down south somewhere. Buckinghamshire, I think. I can’t quite remember. Come on, I have all the details in my office …’ We retreat to the tiny, cluttered room where she hands me a glossy brochure depicting the hotel. Wilton Grange is a grand, turreted affair with landscaped gardens and a lake, surrounded by rolling hills and woodland.

‘Wow,’ I murmur. ‘I’ve never stayed anywhere like that.’

Moira smiles.‘I know, it’s incredible …’ She has the decency to flick through a sheaf of paperwork as I pore over the brochure. The oval lake is flat as glass and edged with swathes of yolk-yellow flowers. There are four-poster beds in the traditional rooms, and sunlight streams in through enormous bay windows. Recently, I felt obliged to move out of my own bedroom, which is next to Morgan’s, due to being woken up to the toe-curling soundtrack of my son’s energetic sex life.

I just couldn’t bear it. I tried sleeping on my side and stuffing a pillow corner into the exposed ear, but the terrible noises still forced their way through. Ditto with many types of earplugs: foam, silicone, even wax. ‘Snoring husband?’ asked the woman in the chemist with a snigger, the third time I went in. Apart from the utter wrongness of hearing your own child at it – a child whose Action Man still resides in the house, along with his spy’s fedora hat and the code-cracker’s kit he was obsessed with – it also highlighted how dismal my own love life had become. This was before I’d met Stevie. At that point, I hadn’t been to bed with anyone for almost two years. While I vaguely remembered the various anatomical parts, I couldn’t actually picture a naked man in any kind of realistic way. If this went on any longer, I feared I’d have to study Action Man just to remind myself. But then, Action Man doesn’t have a penis – just an eerie plastic slope – so that wouldn’t have been any help. Anyway, I moved into the box room at the far end of the landing. It’s tiny. That’s fine. I’d rather sleep in a drawer than be subjected to the ecstatic gruntings of a boy who is still barely able to operate a toaster.

Moira is clutching the paperwork to her chest. ‘So there’s that,’ she remarks, ‘a five-day residential course with some fancy chef, what’s his name …’ She peers at the brochure. ‘Brad Miller. Never heard of him …’

‘Neither have I.’

‘But it does sound incredible …’

‘It really does.’ I nod.

She pauses. ‘… Or there’s a cash prize of £5000.’

I stare at her. ‘Really? So I could choose that instead?’

She nods. ‘I’m so proud of you, Audrey …’

‘Thank you,’ I say, folding the brochure and placing it on her desk. Five thousand pounds! Perhaps not an earth-shattering amount to some, but to me? Pretty life-changing. Seriously, I cannot remember a time when I wasn’t utterly broke. My Charnock Richard date shoes were from the PDSA charity shop and I’m forever stretching yesterday’s food to cobble together another meal today. I don’t blame Vince for no longer bankrolling our son, because I shouldn’t either; by rights, Morgan should be making his own way in the world. But the reality is that he’s not, and some months I struggle to make even our perfectly reasonable rent, although I’d never tell Kim this (she’d probably let me off, which would be mortifying).

‘The course is worth twice that,’ Moira adds.

‘Really? I can’t believe anyone would pay that kind of money to learn to cook …’

‘Me neither,’ she laughs. ‘Guess some people have more money than sense. So … have you decided which prize you’ll take? Or d’you need time to make up your mind?’

I muster a wide smile and give the brochure one last, lustful glance. ‘Oh, I’ll take the money of course,’ I say firmly. ‘I mean, I’d be crazy not to.’

Chapter Four

Disappointing Soup

I leave school with my outlandish bouquet propped over one shoulder, like a toddler, wondering what to spend my prize money on. Not because there’s nothing I need, but because there’s so much: a new car, perhaps – one that starts every time? I could upgrade our furniture – most of it is quite pitiful, and our kitchen table has a gouge out of it from when Morgan rammed into it on his unicycle. Or maybe I should stash away the cash to avoid further rent panics?

I call Kim to share my news. ‘You can’t spend it on something sensible,’ she declares. ‘For God’s sake, it’s prize money. It’s for something treaty and fun, not a bloody kitchen table or curtains or—’

‘Yes, but—’

‘That’s the law,’ she cuts in, forthright as usual. Kim is a make-up artist: renowned for her ability to beautify not only the bride, but battalions of bridesmaids in record time. ‘You should have fun with it,’ she adds. ‘You’re long overdue a shopping spree, Aud. Why don’t we have a day out?’

‘I’d love to,’ I fib, remembering our last trip to York together, which culminated in her virtually manhandling me into a spray tan salon. My milky-pale skin turned an alarming shade of terracotta, like a plant pot. ‘God, Mum,’ Morgan exclaimed on my return. ‘I hope that’s gonna scrub off.’

‘Sure you don’t want to take the hotel prize?’ Kim asks. ‘Do something for yourself for a change? Or take the cash and blow the lot on a holiday, surprise Stevie …’

I laugh, shaking off a twinge of regret that my boyfriend isn’t the type who’d allow himself to be whisked away. ‘He doesn’t do surprises, you know that. He operates on a strict schedule.’

‘Oh, of course,’ she says dryly. ‘I forgot.’

‘I’ll think about it, okay? And I’ll see you tomorrow …’

‘Can’t wait, birthday girl,’ she says warmly as we finish the call. I quicken my pace, deciding it’s not really about the money, although a spree would be fun; it’s the fact I won it at all. Dinner lady of the year! I still can’t figure out what I did to deserve it. This sets me thinking, as I stop off to pick up a few groceries for Mrs B’s: how much longer am I planning to work in a school canteen? Sounds churlish, I know, after the children wrote such lovely things about me. But something about Moira’s speech has lodged in my brain: ‘… Our incredibly kind, hard-working, long-serving dinner lady … here’s to another ten years!’ Bloody hell: I’m 44 tomorrow. Do I still want to be dishing out potato wedges at 54?