The Single Mums’ Picnic Club: A perfectly uplifting beach-read for 2018!

George looked across at the climbing frame as she made her way further into the playground, and her heart melted a little bit when she saw Thomas giggling with one of the other boys. See, he was making friends already. He would be fine.

If only the same could be said of George, who was rooting around in her handbag for a clean-ish tissue to dab at her eyes. Thomas was taking to school like a duck to water, but his mother was very much in need of a lifejacket to keep her afloat. She wanted nothing more than to scoop up her little boy and scurry to the safety of their home together.

‘Everything okay?’

Startled, George almost jabbed herself in the eye with the tissue. She gave a quick dab to mop up the stray tears and presented the owner of the concerned voice with a beaming smile. ‘Yes, of course. Everything’s fine.’ She held up the tissue and rolled her eyes before she dropped it back into her handbag. ‘Hay fever’s playing up, that’s all.’

‘Hay fever?’ If George had been able to look at the bloke now walking alongside her, she would have seen a slight frown appearing very briefly as he took in the miserable winter morning.

‘Yep.’ George nodded as she stared down at the concrete floor, watching as her pumps trailed over the painted-on hopscotch grid. ‘Winter hay fever. Not all that common, but still as debilitating as its summer cousin.’

She cringed as the words tumbled from her mouth, willing her lips to seal themselves shut.

‘Unlucky.’

He was humouring her. Letting her get away with her phony excuse. But at least he wasn’t openly mocking her. Not yet, anyway.

‘Don’t I know you?’

George hoped not. It was one thing making an idiot out of yourself in front of a stranger, but she didn’t want to have to relive this experience again.

‘No, I don’t think so.’ She smiled politely at him and slowed her pace, hoping he’d accept her answer and move on. But he slowed his pace too, stooping so he could take a proper look at George as she returned her gaze to the concrete.

‘I do know you!’ He gave a soft, triumphant laugh. ‘It’s… um…’ He screwed up his face as he tried to conjure her name. ‘Jill? No.’ He shook his head and tapped his fingers on the handles of the buggy he was pushing. ‘Jane? Janine?’ He shook his head again and sighed. ‘Can you help a guy out here?’

George wasn’t sure she should. She wasn’t in the habit of giving out her details to random blokes. Or any blokes at all, come to think of it.

‘Got it!’ He stopped suddenly, his eyes lit up as he pointed at her. ‘It’s George, right?’

George turned and looked at him properly, taking in his height, his stocky build, his slightly too long brown hair and the beginnings of a beard lightly sprinkled with grey. There was something vaguely familiar about the eyes and the way they sparkled as he smiled down at her.

‘Sorry.’ He shook his head, the smile dimming. ‘You must think I’m some sort of mad stalker.’ He held up a hand. ‘I’m not, I promise. We – Leo, Ellie and I – used to go to the parent and toddler group at the community centre.’ He pointed first to the girl standing beside the buggy and then ahead at his son, who was charging towards a stray football with a roar. ‘It was about… three years ago?’

George bobbed her head up and down slowly. She and Thomas had attended the weekly Little Bees and Butterflies group up until a couple of weeks ago.

‘It was a fun group, and it certainly helped Leo burn off some energy.’ Ahead, Leo drew back his leg before pelting the football into the railings with another roar. ‘I wanted to take the little one…’ He turned the buggy slightly, where another small girl sat, padded out with a thick coat, woolly hat and matching mittens. ‘But I’ve had to take on as much work as I can lately so I haven’t managed to get there.’ He pushed the buggy forward and started to stroll towards his son. ‘I remember you brought in some cakes one time.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Sticky toffee, I think it was.’

George nodded. ‘It was Thomas’ birthday so I baked some little buns for the group.’

‘They were delicious.’ He laughed. ‘Must have been if I remembered all these years later.’

George felt a warm glow inside despite the chill in the air. She’d always loved to bake, though she rarely had the opportunity to receive feedback from anyone other than Thomas, who was always very enthusiastic about cake, whether it was homemade or shop-bought.

‘I haven’t seen you at the school before. Has Thomas just transferred?’

The warm glow cooled. Although Thomas was five now and had been eligible to attend school full-time for over a year, she’d kept him at home with her for as long as she possibly could. Thomas was probably going to be her only child, and she wanted to cherish every single moment with him that she could, but she did sometimes worry that she’d made the wrong decision in delaying his formal education. She looked around the playground now, at the small clusters of children, the friendship groups formed back in reception – back in nursery, even – and Thomas was the outsider. Had she been selfish in keeping him to herself for so long?

‘No. It’s his first day at school.’ George raised her chin slightly, ready to do battle about her choices if she had to. ‘He’s starting in Miss Baxter’s class today.’

‘Leo’s in Miss Baxter’s class too.’ He pointed across the playground to his son. ‘I’ll tell him to look out for Thomas, make sure he’s settling in.’

The shriek of a whistle pierced the air, ending the conversation before George could thank him, and George leapt into action, tearing across the playground to make sure she squeezed her son tight before he left her for the day.

Where was that tissue?

Thomas was already in the line before she reached him, turning to chat to the boy behind him. He didn’t seem to mind the separation, which was a good thing, obviously. Even if it did break George’s heart just a little bit more.

‘Thomas, sweetie.’ She crouched down and pulled her gorgeous boy into her arms, inhaling his smell of shampoo, Paw Patrol bubble bath and fabric softener. ‘You be a good boy, okay? And have fun. I’ll pick you up later and you can tell me all about your day. We’ll have cake, yes? And hot chocolate with marshmallows. We can go to the park. Or the beach hut. Whichever you’d like.’

There was a hand on her shoulder. It was the man with the buggy, whose name she hadn’t thought to ask. ‘He’ll be fine. Honestly.’

She managed a wobbly sort of smile before she crouched again to press a kiss to Thomas’ curls, blinking back tears as she stepped away. She waved manically as the class filed inside, stretching up on her tiptoes, watching those familiar curls disappear as her precious boy was swallowed by the school.

‘It does get easier, I promise.’ Her new companion raised a hand in farewell before he turned the buggy and headed back through the gates. George hung around for a few minutes in case she could snatch one final glimpse of Thomas, but it was no use. With a heavy heart and watery eyes, she shuffled out of the playground and made her way to work.

Chapter Three

Frankie

It still amazed Frankie that her children, who had shared a womb for nine months and were born just eleven minutes apart, could be so different. Finn was currently clinging onto her thigh, tears and snot merging on his top lip as he threw back his head and wailed, mouth surely wider than was physically possible, while his twin sister waltzed into the nursery, clumsy fingers trying their hardest to unzip her winter coat. Her hat and mittens had been discarded on the floor in her eagerness to play with the other children in the toddler room.

‘Good morning, Finn!’ The early years assistant flashed Frankie a sympathetic smile before she leaned down to pick up Skye’s abandoned garments. She secured them onto Skye’s labelled hook and turned to Finn with a toothy smile, her held a hand out to the still-wailing little boy. ‘Shall we go and play? Poppy’s already here. She’s been asking about you!’

Frankie expected Finn to unpeel himself and take Keeley’s hand. She was his favourite member of staff at the nursery, with Poppy being his play/craft partner of choice, but still Finn clung on, the wail reaching a higher pitch as he squeezed his eyes tight. It wasn’t uncommon for her son to kick up a bit of a fuss when it came to being left at nursery in the mornings, but it wasn’t usually this prolonged.

‘It’ll be the Christmas break. The holidays can sometimes set them back as they get used to being with Mum and Dad all day.’ Keeley crouched down to Finn’s level and injected more cheer to her ever-bright voice. She didn’t spot Frankie’s flinch at the ‘and Dad’ addition. ‘Shall we go and do some painting? You can paint Mummy a beautiful picture to take home later!’

Finn wasn’t convinced, but Frankie really had to get going. She was already behind on her work schedule due to the nursery closing for Christmas, so she couldn’t afford to stand around, no matter how much the guilt jabbed as she peeled Finn’s little fingers from her thigh.

‘Good boy!’ Keeley scooped Finn up before he could grab hold of Frankie again, avoiding his flailing arms as he frantically reached for his mum. ‘Give Mummy a big kiss and then we can go and have some fun!’

Keeley was very good at shutting out the screams emitting from the toddler, but the forlorn sound broke Frankie’s heart. She wanted nothing more than to succumb to her young son’s needs, to take him in her arms and soothe away his tears with cuddles and kisses.

‘He’ll be absolutely fine in a couple of minutes, I promise.’ Keeley was already backing away towards the toddler room, as though sensing Frankie was about to crumble. Finn started to thrash his little legs, but she held on tight. ‘He’ll be running around with Poppy in no time. Happens all the time.’

Frankie gave a slight nod of her head, but she made no attempt to leave. Every instinct was telling her to grab hold of her son and reassure him. What must be going around his little head? Did he feel abandoned? Rejected? She could take him home. Fit her work around his needs, even though this had been virtually impossible over the Christmas holidays. She’d been so exhausted after running around after two two-year-olds that she hadn’t been able to work in the evenings as planned. She’d attempted to, fighting against the urge to flop down on the sofa with the tub of Quality Street and a glass of wine, but her brain was too frazzled to do much more than check her emails. This was the very reason the twins went to nursery in the first place.

‘Seriously, Frankie.’ Keeley smiled serenely at her, as though she wasn’t struggling to keep hold of a very wriggly toddler. ‘He’ll be fine. You can always give us a ring to check later.’

Frankie nodded again, and this time she took a step back. A teeny step, but a step all the same. She did need to crack on with her work, especially with a deadline looming. She’d phone the nursery when she got home – it was only a ten-minute walk away – and if he was still upset, she’d rush back and collect him.

‘Bye, Finn. I’ll see you soon.’ She pushed a smile onto her face and somehow managed not to break down in tears herself. She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of Skye as Keeley pushed open the door to the toddler room, but her daughter had marched off to play without a backwards glance. From one extreme to the other. ‘Love you.’ She raised her hand in a quick wave before she turned and hurried away from the nursery and the heartbreaking sounds of her son’s sobbing.

Nobody warned you about this bit. They told you all the gory details of labour and birth. The horror stories of night feeds and teething and the terrible twos (doubled, when you had twins). But they didn’t prepare you for the gut-wrenching moments when you had to leave them in the care of somebody else. They didn’t prime you for the guilt of being anything other than the child’s mother.

Finn was perfectly fine when Frankie phoned the nursery six-and-a-half minutes later. She’d run all the way home, taking a short-cut through the park, and hadn’t even bothered to ditch her coat before she dialled Parkside Day Nursery, panting and slightly sweating despite the bleak, early January chill.

‘Are you sure he’s okay?’ Frankie had been told that Finn was now happily splatting paint with bestie Poppy, but Frankie couldn’t seem to quell the nagging doubt that she was doing Something Wrong, a feeling that had plagued her for the past year. She could never quite shake off the feeling that she was failing her children, that she wasn’t good enough despite her best efforts. She’d moved to Clifton-on-Sea for a fresh start, but the feelings of inadequacy had moved with her. Most notably, and the concern Frankie could easily identify, was the worry about her poor babies’ lack of a two-parent family. Perhaps this was the reason Finn was so clingy now? Did he feel abandoned? Rejected?

‘He is absolutely fine.’ Keeley’s voice was upbeat, but then it always was so it offered little consolation. The lack of screaming in the background, however, was definitely a comfort. ‘He cried for, like, another minute. Two, max. And now he’s having a brilliant time with Poppy.’

‘Good.’ Frankie swallowed the urge to ask if the paint Finn was using was toxic-free and nudged the front door – which she hadn’t paused long enough to close – with her foot and unzipped her coat as she moved through to the kitchen. The breakfast dishes were still piled in the sink – another Something Wrong. ‘You’ll phone me if he needs me, won’t you? Because I work from home. I can be there in ten minutes. Less.’

‘Of course, but there’ll be no need. Finn was just thrown off kilter because of the Christmas break.’

‘Yes, I’m sure that’s all it is.’ Frankie didn’t necessarily agree, but she didn’t like to come across as a neurotic mum, even if she felt like one a lot of the time. She’d been horrified the first time Skye had marched out of the nursery, her wrist held in the air as she showed off her crafting skills. She’d created a bracelet by threading a mishmash of buttons and large wooden beads onto a length of elasticated cord. Where the nursery saw the opportunity to experiment and unleash the children’s creativity while practicing those all-important motor skills, Frankie had spotted a choking hazard the embellishments could have caused.

She’d managed to push down the fear and panic, but it had been there, and continued to present itself on a daily basis.

‘I’ll see you this afternoon then. About three?’ Frankie didn’t usually pick the twins up until at least five, but she needed to ease herself back into their routine. And to be honest, three o’ clock – almost six hours away – seemed like a stretch.

‘We’ll see you then. Have a good day!’

Frankie was about to ask after Finn one last time, just to really put her mind at ease, but the phone line was dead. She stared at her phone for a moment, contemplating ringing back – just for a super-quick call – but she came to her senses and shoved the phone into the pocket of her jeans before whipping off her coat and flicking the kettle on. She washed the dishes while she waited for the kettle to boil. There wasn’t actually a lot, just a couple of bowls and spoons, two plastic beakers, and a small plate – she really needed to stop beating herself up. She took her cup of tea into the office. Her office was actually a desk and a set of shelves squeezed into an alcove in the corner of the dining room, but it served its purpose and gave Frankie the space she needed to work as a freelance brand designer. Before the twins, she’d worked in a swanky office in the centre of Manchester, but she couldn’t face the long hours and the commute once her maternity leave was over, so she’d decided to set up on her own. It had been a risky decision, but one that was paying off, especially since the move away from her home town. She had a healthier balance between her work and home life, and it gave her more of a sense of ease being so close to her children. Of course, on days like these, it took a great effort to switch from mum mode to professional, but she managed to push aside her worries over Finn and concentrate on her latest task of designing a new website for her client. It was almost half past one before she came up for air, her shoulders and lower back aching, cup of tea cold. She winced as she stood, one hand massaging her back while the other reached for the cup. Her work had been largely neglected while the nursery had been closed over Christmas and the New Year, and she’d forgotten quite how stiff her body became as she hunched over her desk. She normally counteracted this with yoga and regular runs along the beach, but she pushed the thought away as she headed across to the kitchen. She’d placed her young children in nursery so she could work, so the thought of wasting that time on such frivolous acts when her son had been so miserable at being left that morning made her stomach knot with guilt.

No. She’d simply have to put up with the discomfort for now. Perhaps she’d do a bit of yoga once the twins were in bed tonight. Or a long, hot bath might do it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d allowed herself anything more than a quick shower; there was always something more important to be getting on with than lazing in the bath.

She flicked the kettle on and poured the forgotten tea down the sink before opening the fridge in search of something to eat for lunch. There wasn’t much inside, apart from a few wrapped segments of a Chocolate Orange, the Chomp from Skye’s selection box, and half a bag of limp-looking Brussel sprouts. There was butter, but she groaned when she remembered she’d used the last of the bread for her toast that morning. And the cupboards were in a worse state than the fridge. She’d used up everything over the festive period (including a slightly out-of-date tin of Spam) as she couldn’t be bothered going to the effort of getting herself and the twins washed, dressed and bundled up in winter coats. They’d spent the past week surviving on non-perishables and she hadn’t faced the shops to stock up yet.

‘Bugger.’ Frankie closed the cupboard and sighed. It looked like she was going to have to venture out after all. And if she was heading out anyway, what was the harm in killing two birds with one stone and going for a little run as well? The fresh air would do her good and help to keep the creative cogs turning.

She raced up the stairs before she could allow the guilt of indulging in a bit of self-care to set in, changing into a pair of leggings, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and the hoodie her brother had bought her for Christmas. After shoving her trainers on her feet and making sure she had her purse, keys and phone (just in case Finn needed her), she was ready to set out. She started off at a gentle pace as she jogged down to the seafront, easing herself back into the exercise after a week or two of excess eating, and she immediately felt her shoulders loosen. It was hard work after holing herself up for the past couple of weeks, and there was a definite danger of rain as the grey clouds darkened, but it was so freeing being out in the open, the sounds of the waves growing closer with each step. She was soon on the promenade, the wind whipping at her hot cheeks, her mouth stretched into a smile despite her exertions. She loved this feeling. She wished she could bottle it up for those times she felt trapped in the house with two mischievous toddlers rampaging around the rooms. Not that she would ever admit this out loud. Motherhood was precious. A gift. She knew she was incredibly lucky to have two happy, healthy children. That she was there to witness them growing up. Not everybody had that luxury.

Oh, but sometimes she missed the old Frankie. The fun Frankie who could drink her brother and his mates under the table at the pub. The Frankie who would meet her friends in town for endless afternoons of coffee, cake and gossip. The Frankie who could go to the toilet without being followed and quizzed about what she was doing. She loved her children so much, but she couldn’t help mourning the loss of the woman she was before, if only from the privacy of her own thoughts, and only briefly before she felt like a complete monster.

She picked up her pace, enjoying the scream of pain from her thighs as it overtook all thoughts and emotions. The old Frankie was gone, never to return, and there was no point dwelling on it.

Chapter Four

Katie

Helen Robinson clasped her hands together and lay them down on the file on the desk in front of her as she observed Katie, her lips pressed tightly together, her eyebrows pulled down low. She emitted a barely-audible sigh as Katie gave a firm shake of her head.

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry, Katie. I really am.’ Helen offered a half-smile. ‘But at least we know what we’re dealing with now.’

‘No.’ Katie shook her head again and shifted forward in her seat, slapping the palms of her hands down on the desk. Helen didn’t even flinch at the sudden sound. ‘He’s not getting it.’

The half-smile was back on the solicitor’s face. ‘Why don’t we get you a nice cup of tea?’

Because a cup of tea – nice or otherwise – wasn’t going to help the situation? Because Katie would very much like something with a bit more oomph than a mug of PG Tips, even if it was half past nine in the morning? Because she was so angry her hands were starting to tremble, and she suspected she’d end up with more of the tea down her front than in her mouth?

Katie said none of this. She simply sat back in her seat, shoving her hands under her thighs to mask her agitation while the solicitor rang through to the receptionist to organise refreshments. She fixed her eyes on the wall behind Helen’s chair, her eyes seeing but not reading the framed certificates above her solicitor’s head. She swallowed against the huge lump in her throat, willing herself not to cry.

‘I know this isn’t the news you wanted to hear.’ Helen had done the sympathetic bit, but she was back in business mode now, her back straight, tone firm. She waited until Katie caught her eye – however briefly – before she continued. ‘But I’m afraid your husband has a right – by law – to request half of the marital assets. Including the property on Carter Lane.’

Katie’s eyes widened, the burning anger she felt rising to the surface evaporating any notion of tears. ‘That property is my childhood home! It belonged to my parents. My mum left that property to me. Why should they get half of it?’ Katie leaned forward, her palms back on the desk. ‘Rob left me for another woman. Abandoned me with two children. And he didn’t even like my mum. Said she was overbearing. Stuck her nose in. Thought she always knew best.’ Katie was gasping for breath by now, but she powered on, the heels of her hands digging into the edge of the desk. ‘Why should they profit from my mum’s death? Why should they get to live happily ever after?’

It wasn’t fair. Katie hadn’t asked for any of this; the heartache, the upheaval, the having to explain to her children that their father was starting a new life with another woman. It felt like she was losing everything and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

‘I know it doesn’t seem fair.’ Helen’s tone was gentle again, and she passed a box of tissues across the desk as Katie swiped at her eyes with the back of a quivering hand. ‘But I’m afraid your assets will be split. Of course, it isn’t up to me. The courts will decide how those assets will be split if you and your husband can’t come to an arrangement between you, but you should be prepared for any outcome.’

Katie tugged a tissue out of the box and mopped up her tears. ‘I don’t want to lose my parents’ house. Mum and Dad worked so hard for it. And I can’t afford to buy Rob’s share.’ Rob’s share. The words made her stomach turn. ‘I’m unemployed, with two kids to feed and clothe. It’s okay for him. They have two incomes.’

Helen nodded. ‘And the courts will take both your circumstances into consideration.’ She smiled her thanks as the receptionist arrived with a tray of tea and individually-wrapped biscuits, waiting until she’d placed the tray on the desk and left again before continuing. ‘There is an alternative, if you’re really set against selling the Carter Lane property.’