More Than Just Mum

More Than Just Mum

REBECCA SMITH

Published by ONE MORE CHAPTER

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Rebecca Smith 2019

Cover Design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Rebecca Smith asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © December 2019; ISBN: 9780008370169

Version: 2019-08-30

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

For Polly.

May women everywhere have a friend as supportive, strong and bloody hilarious as you. xxx

Chapter 1

The first question is stupid and illogical. It is also highly personal. I pause for a moment, unsure about whether I should really be doing this. But there’s nobody else here, and I am on a break. It’s not as if what I’m doing is illegal or anything.

Returning to the question, I chew the end of my pencil and mull over the multiple-choice answers.

A) Eight or more times a week. Well, that’s obviously ridiculous. It’s clearly been added as the amusing option. That’s more than once a day. Who on earth has the time for that? Or the inclination, when it comes to it?

B) Up to five times a week. Possibly, when I was in my early twenties and didn’t have anything better to be doing; like the laundry or preparing the next day’s packed lunches or catching up on Netflix or sleeping.

C) Two or three times a week. Now we’re moving away from the fantastical and heading into the realms of reality. But honestly, whoever wrote this question needs a good talking to. There is a world of difference between twice a week and three times a week – ask anyone. Twice a week is enough to feel smugly adequate. Three times a week is pushing it a bit, but perfectly possible if there’s been a birthday or it’s Christmas or a bank holiday.

D) Less than once a week. Again, this is impossible to answer without being more specific. Which week am I meant to be basing my answer on? If it’s the weeks after I gave birth then the answer is a resounding D. If it’s the week that Nick surprised me with a romantic trip to Devon then I can circle B with confidence. Or am I supposed to be taking a mean average over the course of one year?

I scan my eyes across the page, searching for advice. But other than the questions and the screamingly large quiz title, there’s nothing.

The end-of-break bell rings and hundreds of feet start pounding down the corridor. I’m not teaching for the next hour, but I keep my eyes fixed on the classroom door, just in case a hapless Year Seven takes a wrong turn. I don’t need anyone to catch me in the act of reading the magazine that I confiscated from Elise in Year Nine during the last lesson. And I am probably old enough to identify my own areas of sexual competence without taking a quiz entitled ‘Are You A Sex Goddess?’. But I’ve started now and I’m feeling curious about what the verdict will be.

Dissatisfied with the choices, and wishing that there was a ‘once or twice a week’ category, I recklessly break with tradition and circle both C and D. Then I move onto the next question.

Which of these positions is your favourite?

Good god. The list of answers reads like a cocktail menu. I haven’t heard of any of them, never mind having an actual preferred position. Flicking back to the front cover, I look again at the title of the magazine. Surely Elise has got her hands on some kind of black-market, top-shelf publication and I should be handing this straight to the Headteacher? This kind of question is completely unsuitable for girls of her age.

Magazines and their content have clearly moved on from my day; this is definitely aimed at the teenage market. Or maybe they haven’t moved on. Maybe it’s me. I do remember poring over magazines with sketch drawings showing the ‘Position of the Week’ and sniggering with my friends. But that seemed more innocent somehow, like it was a serving suggestion rather than an assumption that we were all getting it on at every available moment.

I ignore the second question and move onto the next, which rather intrusively wants to know how many sexual partners I’ve had. Interestingly, zero is not an option – I suppose that’s because the quiz writers assume that one needs to have actually had sex in order to identify whether one is, in fact, a sexual goddess. Answer A is a bit alarming though. I wouldn’t have thought anyone would have the energy to have that many different liaisons, and I feel a grudging respect for the sheer work ethic that must be required. I look down the list towards the more sedate numbers, while running my own experiences through my head.

It doesn’t take that long. I was a late developer, and a combination of worry about how my body looked and terror about getting pregnant meant that I waited until I’d left home and gone to university, where quite frankly, it was relief to get the whole first-time thing out of the way. And no, there were no fireworks and the earth didn’t move and the sky did not fall in. Instead, I spent the entire time wondering where I was supposed to put my legs and trying to politely ask if he could take his elbow off my hair because I thought that there was a risk of me getting scalped, which wasn’t really what I’d envisaged from the whole affair. And yes, it got better after that (or maybe I got better after that) and there were several longer-term boyfriends, one of whom I remember fondly and the other two who have been consigned to my he-whose-name-must-not-be-spoken list.

So, five if I include Nick, which of course I should, because we’ve been married forever and that counts, surely? That doesn’t seem too shoddy or too promiscuous. I can live with five.

Circling answer C (which is slightly disappointing as I’d have thought five partners would place me slightly higher up the scoreboard than that) I read on.

How good are you at undoing a belt?

Ha! Now this is the kind of question that was written for me. I am the queen of undoing belts, thanks to the fact that my irresponsible family are constantly putting their dirty jeans and trousers in the laundry basket with the belts still attached. I can sort whites from darks and unbutton shirts and whip belts out from trouser loops with my eyes closed. I am an expert.

Except I have clearly overestimated my skills. The options suggest that there are women out there whose talents at belt removal far exceed my own pathetic offerings. No, I cannot undo a belt with my teeth. I can’t think of a single time that I would wish to do so. Doing it with my eyes closed is actually answer B, which gives me a brief thrill of achievement – but then I read on and see that it’s only eligible if I have done a sexy pole dance first. The image of me strutting my stuff as I sort through the day’s washing pile makes me snort.

I whizz through the remaining questions, revealing my most personal secrets, tot up my total points and turn the page to discover my fate. And it was just as I suspected all along. I am Hannah Thompson, Ultimate Sex Goddess: all lesser mortals bow down before my sultry and provocative nature.

I’m lying. My score puts me in the bottom league. Instead of achieving the heady heights of ‘Sex on Legs’, I am firmly placed in the ‘Could Try Harder’ category. I think the pun is intended but it’s difficult to know for sure.

Standing up, I head towards the door. If I’m quick I’ve got time to pop to the staffroom and grab a coffee before the next session of riot-control-slash-listening-to-new-and-innovative-homework-excuses.

I drop the magazine in the recycling bin as I walk past, wishing that I could abandon my slightly dented ego just as easily. Not that it matters. It’s just a stupid quiz and it doesn’t mean anything. I bet virtually every woman my age would get the same result that I did. There are far more important things in life than sex, and I’m sure that if I took a quiz called ‘How Nice Are You?’ or ‘How Efficient Are You?’ then I’d totally score in the top percentile.

I would on the efficiency quiz, anyway. I am very well organised. The jury would probably be hung on their verdict as to whether I’m nice. All they’d be able to say for sure is that since I’ve been doing this job, I appear to be getting less nice by the day.

Chapter 2

Taylor Swift is admonishing me as I stumble into the room, my arms laden with yet another load of laundry. She informs me, in her dulcet tones, that she knew I was trouble when I walked in, which I think is fairly rude when all I’m doing is attempting to navigate from the kitchen door to the washing machine while avoiding the obstacles that my youngest child, Benji, and Dogger, the dog, have kindly put in place. Clearly they both felt that I needed the extra challenge.

‘Scarlet, can you please turn your phone off and set the table?’ I step nimbly over a skateboard. ‘Benji! Clear your stuff away now.’

Taylor segues into her next song like the professional that she is, asking me why I had to rain on her parade.

It is my lot as a mother, Taylor, I tell her silently. It’s just what I do. So if you’ve organised some kind of parade, or perhaps a party, then you can be fairly sure that I’m not going to like it. Especially if there will be boys or alcohol involved. And judging from your song lyrics, Ms Swift, I believe that there is a high possibility of that.

‘Hello, people!’ Dylan bounds into the room, throwing his arms out like Hugh Jackman in The Greatest Showman. ‘I am here!’

‘Congratulations for you,’ snarls Scarlet, finally turning off the music. ‘I’ve been here for the last sixteen years but I don’t make a song and dance about it.’

She does, though. In the last six months especially, Scarlet has started behaving as if her life is some kind of dramatic theatre production. And clearly, this particular production requires a lot of tortured expressions, self-introspection and extended monologues.

Dylan strolls across to his sister and flings his arm around her shoulder. ‘That’s because you’re just not as special as I am,’ he says, pulling a sad face. ‘But don’t worry, little sis. I’m here for you.’

Scarlet gives him an almighty shove in the chest and he staggers backwards, narrowly avoiding Benji, who is attempting to remove his skateboard (as per my instructions) by putting Dogger on top and pushing her along.

I ram the washing into the machine and straighten up, sniffing the air. It smells suspiciously like burnt sausages.

‘Has anyone checked the oven?’ I politely enquire. ‘Because I’m pretty sure that I asked you all to keep an eye on the cooking while I sorted out the laundry.’

‘I’ve been revising for my Maths exam!’ Scarlet’s voice is laden with persecution. Nobody does aggrieved like my daughter.

‘I was in the bathroom.’ Dylan sits down and starts prodding at his phone.

‘Again?’ asks Benji, voicing what we’re all thinking. ‘You were in there for hours when we got home from school. Have you got diarrhoea or something?’

‘Why are you so gross?’ Scarlet glowers at him. ‘Nobody actually says stuff like that.’

Benji glances across the room at me, his face a picture of confusion.

‘I was only asking,’ he says. ‘Because we’ve been learning about germs in Science and I was just going to say that Dylan should probably wash his hands a bit better after he’s been to the toilet. Then he won’t keep needing to go.’

‘The supper?’ I ask, but nobody hears me. Dylan is exclaiming his disbelief that Benji could be so hypocritical as to talk to him about personal hygiene when we all know that Benji runs the tap and pretends to put his hands underneath but for some ungodly reason refuses to actually get them wet, and Scarlet is furiously slamming knives and forks onto the table and muttering loudly that she is the only person in this family to actually do anything helpful ever, while Benji is repeating the word ‘diarrhoea’ over and over again like some kind of hideous mantra.

So it is left to me to rescue the sausages and chips and heat up a tin of baked beans before screaming at them all to shut up and sit down.

‘I’ve cooked you a delicious meal and the least you can do is have enough respect to eat it nicely,’ I roar, slamming the charred contents of the oven onto three plates. ‘I’ve been at work all day listening to Year Nine mutilate the English language, which is enough to send the sanest teacher over the edge, and I’ve got lessons to plan and your dirty pants aren’t going to clean themselves and Dad won’t be home until late and we’ve run out of wine.’

They all pause for a moment and I see Dylan eyeing me warily.

‘It looks great, Mum,’ he says.

‘Yeah, thanks for cooking for us,’ says Scarlet. ‘We’ll do the washing up.’

‘Thank you for everything,’ adds Benji, passionately. ‘Like, thanks for making our food and doing the shopping and washing our clothes and making our packed lunches, and also thank you for giving birth to us and driving us to places and just for being our mum.’

He pauses for breath and gives me a big, ten-year-old beam.

‘You are such a suck-up,’ mutters Scarlet. ‘And I think you’ll find that it’s me who makes the packed lunches, actually.’

‘You’re all very helpful,’ I say, sinking down into a chair. ‘It’s why people have children in the first place, you know? For an easy life and for all the extra help that they get.’

Dylan laughs and starts squirting tomato ketchup copiously over his plate. I would normally make a cutting remark about the ratio of sauce to food but today I keep quiet. The sausages and chips have been cremated almost to the point of ash and I think a little extra moisture is acceptable in this case.

For a few moments, the only sound is that of knives attempting to ineffectually carve their way through several layers of pyrolysed pork. I lean back and start to relax. Nick was going out with a couple of mates after work but hopefully he won’t be home too late. We’ll eat pasta in front of whatever American crime series we’re currently working our way through on Netflix and it’s Wednesday, which means no school for me tomorrow. If I use my imagination and powers of delusion, I can almost make myself believe that it’s the weekend.

‘I started following Zoe on Instagram today,’ says Scarlet, giving up on her knife and picking up the sausage with her fingers. Her voice is casual but the look she shoots at Dylan is distinctly shifty.

‘Why did you do that?’ Dylan rounds on her, his face screwed up in displeasure. ‘You don’t even know her!’

‘So?’ Scarlet shrugs, her grin stretching from ear to ear. ‘That’s what social media is for, Dylan. Getting to know new people.’

‘But you know that I—’ he stops and gestures wildly at Scarlet, before slamming his hands over his face.

‘I know that you what?’ purrs Scarlet. This is her favourite game. ‘I know that you fancy Zoe? Is that what you were going to say?’

Dylan groans. A good mother would probably stop this but there’s no chance of me doing that. This is the first thing I’ve heard about any Zoe character, and if Dylan is interested in her then I want to know everything that there is to know. And fortunately for me, Scarlet is an excellent source of information.

‘Dylan’s got a girlfriend!’ crows Benji, his eyes sparkling with delight. ‘Are you going to get married? You’re allowed, you know. You can do that when you’re eighteen. And you can also vote and get a tattoo and be sued.’

‘I do not have a girlfriend!’ snaps Dylan. ‘So shut up!’

‘You are not allowed to get a tattoo,’ I say, but even as the words come out of my mouth, I’m wondering why I’ve never thought about having one.

Maybe something tasteful, like a small butterfly or a daisy? Maybe something that would prove I’m not old and past it. Or perhaps I could get my eyebrows shaved off and perfectly arched brows tattooed in their place? That could be worth looking into. I think I could achieve a lot more in life if I had eyebrows that were on fleek, as Scarlet would say. It sounds quite French. I wonder if it’s actually spelt en flique? I must remember to ask her.

‘But you’d like to have a girlfriend, wouldn’t you?’ says Scarlet, resting her chin on her hands. ‘And fortunately for you, my Instagram stalking would suggest that Zoe is currently boyfriendless and looking for luuuurve.’

‘You are a hideous sister,’ Dylan tells her, but I can see that he’s keen to hear more.

‘I’m never going to get married,’ Benji informs us while attempting to surreptitiously feed the rest of his sausage to Dogger. Clearly my youngest child does not have a future in espionage. ‘And I’m definitely not having any kids.’

This distracts my attention from the Zoe situation for a second.

‘Why not, darling?’ I ask. ‘Having children is wonderful and fulfilling and life-affirming and …’ I trail off, aware that all other conversation has ceased.

‘Are you kidding us?’ says Scarlet. ‘You’re constantly knackered and you’re always saying that you’ve got no money because we’re so expensive.’

‘Well, yes, but you see, that’s all—’

‘And you and Dad are always talking about the holidays you could have if it was just the two of you,’ adds Dylan. ‘You could be going to Mauritius this summer and not having two weeks camping in France.’

Scarlet shudders. ‘God. It’s a no-brainer. Dirty nappies and crying babies and never losing your baby belly. I’m never having kids.’

I instinctively suck in my tummy. ‘Those things are true, but—’

‘I’m going to live with Logan,’ Benji tells us. ‘We’re going to live in this house and go to work on quad bikes and play on the Xbox and eat pizza every night.’

‘Are you both going to live with Dad and me?’ I smile, momentarily warmed by my youngest child. ‘That’ll be nice.’

He loads up his fork and rams it into his mouth.

‘No. You’ll both be dead by then,’ he mumbles through a mouthful of masticated beans, which takes the wind out of my sails just a little bit.

‘I don’t even know why you had kids,’ says Scarlet. ‘I’ve seen photos of you from before and you look way younger.’

‘That’s because I was way younger,’ I retort. ‘And people get older regardless of whether they’ve had kids or not.’

‘It’s not the same though, is it?’ Scarlet is on a roll. ‘Like, you’re always moaning that you’ve lost all sense of your own identity and that you have no time for yourself.’

‘I’m not,’ I protest feebly.

I am.

‘Okay.’ Scarlet raises her eyebrows at me. ‘So that wasn’t you earlier, telling Jennifer Aniston to piss off?’

‘Who is Jennifer Aniston and why were you telling her to piss off, Mum?’ asks Benji. ‘That was a bit rude of you.’

‘Language!’ I say automatically. ‘And I didn’t tell Jennifer Aniston to piss off.’

‘You did!’ crows Scarlet. ‘I heard you! You were on your laptop and Jennifer Aniston was on the screen, going on about how important it is to have some “me time” every day and you said, “Oh, piss off, Jennifer Aniston and get back to me about ‘me time’ when you’ve spent all day sprinting around after other people.” Or something like that.’

‘I’d rather have a dog than a kid,’ says Dylan. We all automatically look at Dogger who, embarrassed by the attention, starts licking her vagina.

‘Well, at least none of you guys ever tried to do that,’ I gesture towards her. ‘Although Benji did once manage to wee in his own ear when he was a baby.’ I remember exhaustedly cleaning him up at three o’clock in the morning and trying to sob silently so that he’d go back to sleep. Happy times.

Scarlet smirks smugly. ‘I bet I never did anything as disgusting as the boys, did I, Mum?’

I smile back at her. ‘Oh, sweetheart. I don’t think a mealtime is the right occasion to talk about all the foul things that you got up to when you were little.’ I pause. ‘And also, not so little.’

Dylan and Benji laugh and Scarlet pulls a face at them.

‘So, are you going to ask Zoe out, then?’ she asks Dylan, retreating to safer ground.

‘None of your business,’ he snarls. ‘And if I were you, I’d be too busy worrying about the identity of my mystery online boyfriend to be bothered with my brother’s love life.’

‘What mystery online boyfriend?’ I ask.

‘So you’re admitting that you have a love life!’ screeches Scarlet. ‘Ha! A loveless life, more like it.’

‘So you’re not denying that he exists, then?’ returns Dylan.

‘What mystery online boyfriend?’ I repeat, louder this time. ‘Will someone please tell me what you’re talking about?’

‘Scarlet’s got a boyfriend but she’s only met him online,’ says Dylan, not breaking eye contact with his sister.

‘He’s just a friend and it’s nothing to worry about,’ Scarlet says, glaring back at him.

‘Nothing to worry about as long as he isn’t actually a fifty-six-year-old weirdo, you mean?’ Dylan grins at her.

‘Scarlet?’ I tap my hand on the table to get her attention. ‘Who is this person? Is he actually fifty-six? Because you are aware that would not actually be okay?’

Scarlet gives Dylan a withering look, which manages to concisely convey that she will be having words with him at a later date, before turning to me and putting on her reassuring face, which only serves to make me more wary.