When I Met You

‘Blinking heck,’ said Jack’s mum, bounding over, looking all concerned. ‘Is she OK?’

‘Oh, she’s fine,’ I replied airily, but probably not that convincingly given that Maisie had turned a startling shade of purple and was punching me hard with her fists.

I tried to shake her off.

‘She can be a bit of a madam that one,’ admitted Jack’s mum. ‘Still, someone should be here to collect her soon. You’re doing a great job.’

‘Fantastic,’ I said, trying to sound jolly, which was difficult. Maisie’s punches were surprisingly painful. Lots of parents were starting to trickle in by this point though so the hostess left me to it and went to start helping match children up with their shoes, coats and parents.

‘You’re not a nice clown,’ spat Maisie. ‘You’re an evil clown.’

Looking around to make sure no one was in earshot I bent down so that I was at eye level with Maisie and said in as menacing a tone as I could summon up, in order to really exude a ‘clown gone psycho’ sort of vibe, ‘And you’re a horrid, mean little girl, aren’t you?’

Immature I know, but worth it to see the stunned look on her face before she burst into tears. This time the tears were genuine.

With mums and dads arriving the timing wasn’t great. When it comes to bookings I pretty much depend on word of mouth so a child standing next to me wailing in distress isn’t exactly the best advertisement for my skills in entertaining. Then things suddenly took a dramatic turn for the worse, at which point Maisie’s histrionics became the least of my worries. For headed my way was someone who looked scarily identical to Simon.

What the hell?

The world seemed to tip on its head as my scrambled brain searched desperately for an explanation of any kind that might explain his presence. Maybe he had a twin? Or a clone? Maybe I was so dehydrated I was hallucinating? Swiftly however, I came to the horrific realisation that none of these things were true at all and that, of course, it was definitely him. Shortly after this revelation it also dawned upon me that I was dressed as a clown, and that I’d told him I was working on a glamorous advert today. Him seeing me dressed as Custard the freaking Clown was never the plan and what the hell was he even doing here? Panic started bubbling upwards.

Mortification flooded through my system and if I’d been capable of running in my comedy shoes I would have seriously considered fleeing the building. As it was I was trapped, fenced in by a ring of small people, so I turned around, hoping to blend into the background as much as possible. Not easy in a tailcoat and blue curly wig. Plus Maisie was still bleating on, hell-bent on creating a scene, so in desperation I bent down and buried my red nose into my bag of tricks, hoping to look like a busy clown. One who was too busy to say goodbye to any of the children. A clown who just didn’t give a shit.

Then, confirming my worst fear, I heard someone who sounded identical to the Simon I’d been flirting with last night. ‘Maisie darling, what’s wrong sweetie?’

And she said back. ‘That clown said I was a nasty little girl.’

Mind racing, I wished sincerely that the ground would open up, or that a shovel would appear so I could at least start digging and give it a helping hand. Was Simon her uncle? Of all the flipping brats he could be related to.

‘That clown there?’ he said and at this point I felt a sort of calm, defeated acceptance of the situation. I also thought his question was stupid. How many other bloody clowns could he see?

‘Yes Daddy.’

Daddy?

Suddenly I was filled with a new, quite horrid, sense of enlightenment that superseded any of the embarrassment I was suffering from. That one word had changed everything. Slowly, I turned around and without making eye contact demanded to know, ‘Is she your daughter?’ As I asked, I surreptitiously pulled my wig down a bit to obscure my face. My red nose had started to pinch a while back, but now I was grateful for it.

‘Yes,’ replied an aggrieved-looking Simon, clutching the revolting Maisie to him protectively. Knowing that ‘Daddy’ couldn’t see, she stuck her tongue out at me. ‘And I think you owe her an apology,’ Simon continued, totally unaware that I was me. ‘She said you upset her.’

I was just about to make up some bullshit excuse before making my escape when my gaze was drawn to something else. Simon was wearing a gold band on his left hand, which he certainly hadn’t been wearing in the club. And that did it. Prior to seeing that ring I had still been grappling with explanations for everything. Simon was divorced but remained devoted to his hideous daughter. Simon had adopted Maisie as a single father because her natural parents had rejected her for being so vile – let’s face it, this was a possibility. And yet that band of gold told me that this was all utter rubbish and that I had been well and truly bullshitted. What was it with these men?

I was furious and simultaneously found myself actually wanting to be recognised, at which point I slowly slipped off my wig, pulled off my nose, stared hard and waited patiently for his pea brain to compute. Seconds later it started to happen. His face was a picture of horror as slowly the penny dropped.

‘… Marianne?’ he eventually stuttered, his face growing almost as pale as my white one.

‘Yes,’ I answered defiantly, painted face held high.

‘What are you … doing here?’

‘What does it look like I’m …’ I swallowed down the ‘f’ word. ‘What does it look like I’m doing here? Entertaining your daughter and her friends is what I’m doing here,’ I hissed, my voice livid.

‘Right, well nice to see you again,’ he lied, looking longingly towards the exit.

‘You utter pig,’ I muttered.

‘Come on Maisie,’ Simon pleaded. ‘We’re going darling, now.’

‘Where’s Mummy?’

‘Waiting in the car,’ he whispered urgently, as if whispering would cancel out the reference to the cuckolded mother of his child. ‘Go and get your party bag from Jack’s mum.’

‘So, Mummy’s in the car is she?’ I blustered, once Maisie had charged off in search of more treats she didn’t deserve. ‘Maybe I should come outside and introduce myself to Mummy?’

Simon looked terrified.

‘What, you don’t like the idea of that? Why’s that then?’

‘Just stay away from my family,’ he sneered icily, his face contorted in rage.

‘Maybe I’d be doing her a favour?’ I added, enjoying watching him squirm, though admittedly my enjoyment would have been even greater had I been wearing something more standard.

‘Look, you crazy bitch, just keep away all right?’ was his charming riposte, after which he gulped, looked around and then pegged it.

It was awful, and as I stood there trying not to cry, feeling hurt and stung, not only by Simon’s actions but by his venomous tone of voice, I felt truly gutted and absolutely humiliated.

Half an hour later and it was a rather pathetic clown that left that party, worn out, upset and mortified. As soon as I’d been paid, I left almost as hastily as Simon and Maisie had, and only once back in the safe environs of Tina did I let the true extent of my horror catch up with me. The shame of it all. Then I caught a glimpse of my clown face in the rear view mirror and despite everything had to swallow back a laugh that was in grave danger of turning into a sob.

It wasn’t meant to be like this.

CHAPTER FOUR

As I put the key in the lock, I felt fed up and dejected. My mood wasn’t improved when Mum’s voice immediately hollered through from the kitchen. ‘That you Marianne?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well hurry up and have your shower because I could do with a hand in here.’

The day was feeling more like an endurance test by the minute. I felt dreadful and the last thing I felt like doing was helping Mum get ready for a state visit from Hayley, Gary and his bloody family. Especially since I could hear that Pete was upstairs, blasting Elvis as usual. I know he’s younger. I know I should have a place of my own. I know I need to pull my weight but I also know Mum will never expect anything of Pete simply because he’s male. She’s raising a Neanderthal. My mum’s a sexist.

I heaved myself upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom, where I began the process of changing from a clown back into a normal person. As I stood under the shower, the pan-stick make-up dripped off my face and disappeared down the plughole, along with any hopes I might have been harbouring about Simon. What a bastard. Thank god nothing had happened. At least now I could still tell Andy I’d waited for him. The thought of Andy made me instantly nostalgic – and guilty – and as the water pounded my head, I wished more than anything I was miles away from here, on a beautiful beach with him. Preferably lying in a hammock eating a banana pancake at my favourite time of day, five o’clock. Although that’s only my favourite time of day when I’m on the beach, not when I’m at home. That is to say I don’t like it when everybody’s pouring out of work after a gruelling day, battling home in heavy traffic, or on the bus without a seat, head squashed into someone’s armpit. But five o’clock on the beach is another story altogether. It’s when the sun’s starting to dip and its rays are losing their intensity, but it’s still so beautifully warm that you can feel yourself drifting off into a peaceful, dreamy slumber.

‘These vol-au-vents aren’t going to stuff themselves!’ Mum shrieked up the stairs, putting paid to any more of that whimsy.

Ten minutes later I’d shoved on some black leggings and was just about to pull an oversized sweater over them when suddenly I pictured Hayley’s look of outraged disapproval. Off they slid again and I selected instead a dress and belt that I didn’t think even she could take umbrage with. I dragged a brush quickly through my hair, another reason to love having short hair, along with the fact I no longer feel like a poor man’s Hayley. We both used to have long, straight, blonde hair, only hers was that bit blonder and straighter. Since going for the chop, I feel more like I have my own identity and less like people are constantly comparing us when we’re together.

I hoped my outfit would keep her happy today. Not because I gave a shit whether she approved or not, but because I couldn’t be bothered with any more scenes. Still rattled by my confrontation with Simon, I slapped on a bit of mascara and some blusher and then went downstairs to help stuff Mum’s ruddy vol-au-vents.

‘You need to give your eyebrows a rub,’ said Mum, who was in full flap mode. ‘You’ve still got black make-up on them. Other than that though, you look nice.’

I was surprised. I don’t usually get many compliments from Mum – they’re usually all reserved for Hayley or Pete and, on occasion, Martin – and when I had my hair cut short she acted as if I’d mutilated myself. Today Mum was wearing too tight white capri pants with perspex wedges and a v-neck fuchsia sweater that matched her lipstick. Her ash blonde hair was looking bouncy. She’d obviously tonged it to within an inch of its life and her eyes and cheeks were plastered with shimmery make-up. She’s good looking my mum, attractive for her fifty-one years, though her sweet tooth contributes towards what she calls her muffin top. Last year, Martin bought her an exercise bike, which she keeps in the bedroom and goes on religiously every day. She likes to watch Loose Women while she’s on it and has been known to devour an entire packet of biscuits as she pedals.

As I rubbed my eyebrows viciously with a bit of kitchen towel she rushed around the kitchen, making sure it looked pristine. ‘When Wendy and Derek get here, I want to fill them in about Sing For Britain,’ she said. ‘You know how much your sister looks up to Wendy, so if we can just get her on side.’

I sighed.

‘The forms have come through, so now I’ve got all the dates for the London auditions. You will back me up about what a good idea it is, won’t you?’

‘I’m not backing you up Mum,’ I said wearily. Having heard about nothing else for months the subject was starting to wear rather thin, especially since she wouldn’t listen to reason. Going on the show would spell disaster for my sister. Sad but true I’m afraid. I flicked the kettle on for a much-needed cup of tea. ‘I’ve told you already Mum, I don’t think Hayley should audition. The judges will crucify her. She can’t sing.’

Mum narrowed her eyes at me, outraged. ‘Marianne Baker, how can you say such a thing? Don’t be jealous, it’s not attractive. Just because you have no idea what you’re doing with your life.’

I despaired. Ultimately it was pointless trying to say anything because the fact that I don’t have my own life particularly well sorted out – thanks for pointing that out Mum – means she wrongly assumes I’m jealous. This really upsets me because I certainly am not and am only saying anything because I’ve got Hayley’s best interests at heart. It’s hurtful that she thinks I’m so selfish. She won’t listen to reason though and it’s just such a shame her enthusiasm is so misguided.

Mum is the living definition of a pushy stage mum, or at least she is when it comes to Hayley. In fact, if you were to look up pushy stage mum in the dictionary you might find a picture of her with a frenzied look in her eye, which is the look she gets whenever Hayley opens her mouth to strangle a tune. Ideally it would be an animated picture so you could also see her mouthing the lyrics without realising she’s doing so.

Mum and Martin sent Hayley to stage school when she was about thirteen. At the time they did ask me if I wanted to go too, but fairly half-heartedly and I can still remember the relief on their faces when I declined. They simply couldn’t have afforded two sets of fees and that was fine. I’d never been interested in singing or dancing, only violin, so it probably wouldn’t have been the place for me anyway, although I did sometimes wonder why they never encouraged my passion as much. Maybe if they had, I would have got further with it? Who knows?

Now Hayley’s ‘career’ is pretty much Mum’s reason for being, which is a shame for a few reasons. Firstly, because I strongly suspect Hayley only goes along with Mum’s obsession because she’s never been allowed to consider for a moment what it is she might actually like to do herself, and secondly because even if she did want to be a star I can’t see how it would ever happen because she’s simply not that good. She’s already thirty-three and all her showbiz ‘career’ amounts to so far is one fleeting appearance in an advert for a cruise company, a few shit modelling jobs, panto, and wearing hot-pants at events where she gives out leaflets. It doesn’t help that other people egg Mum on because Hayley’s so beautiful. Though just because someone’s beautiful doesn’t mean they have what it takes to become the next Elaine Paige. Singing in tune helps for a start. Still, this small detail has never bothered Mum or Hayley, or at least it hadn’t until a few years ago when Hayley grew utterly sick of never having Christmas off because of panto. She’d had enough. She was starting to get too old to play one of the villagers anyway and was sick of failing every audition she went to. By now she was settled and married to Gary, so shifted her focus from becoming a star, to bearing his children, which personally I think is wonderful. When she told me she wanted to try for a baby it was the first time I’d ever seen Hayley speak truly passionately about anything. Her entire face lit up in a way it never does when talking about performing. I could see then how caring for someone else could be the making of her. Plus, becoming a parent would take the pressure off as Mum would surely, finally, have to back off.

‘Guess who I bumped into last night?’ I said now, determined to avoid a row, so deciding to change the subject.

‘Who?’ she asked, still looking huffy.

‘Teresa.’

‘Oh did you?’ she exclaimed. ‘How is she?’

‘All right,’ I replied. ‘It was really nice to see her actually.’

‘Well of course it was,’ said Mum. ‘You two were such good friends.’ She looked at me with a knowing expression. ‘Didn’t I tell you something significant would be happening now that Mercury’s in retrograde?’

‘Er, I don’t know, did you?’

‘Yes,’ she insisted. ‘I did. It’s also the reason you’re being so bloody bolshy. Still, don’t worry, Venus will be rising soon and things will start going your way. Now, get the bowls out for the crisps and nuts will you? Then, when you’ve filled them up, take them through to the lounge.’

Being treated like a child makes you feel like a child. I wished I could go to bed and fester there for the remainder of the day but got up wearily to do her bidding.

‘How was work today anyway? Nice little kiddies were they?’

‘All right,’ I muttered, not wanting to talk about it.

‘Ah there you are,’ said Mum through the hatch as Martin walked into the lounge, laden with bags from the off-licence. ‘I was starting to think you’d run off and left me.’

On the left of our lounge is an enormous leather suite that rests against a wall, which acts as a partition between the lounge and the kitchen. This wall has a hatch in it, meaning if someone’s busy cooking in the kitchen, by opening it they can still keep an eye on the telly. Quite often I’ll be fully engrossed in a programme when suddenly I’ll glance up only to find Mum’s head hanging out of the hatch directly above me. This can be quite disconcerting.

‘As if,’ said Martin, rounding the partition to enter the kitchen and sidling up behind Mum as she re-wiped the surfaces for the thousandth time.

Mum met Martin when I was ten and Hayley was twelve. Their eyes had met across the big McDonald’s in Romford. I remember it clearly because we’d gone there for my birthday treat and they’d got chatting in the queue. It was a chat that had descended pretty quickly into saucy innuendo about whoppers, which were easy even for a child to decipher. Still, I hadn’t minded too much because I remember it was the first time in ages I’d seen Mum smiling. When we’d left, Martin had taken Mum’s number, and Mum had continued to be in a perky mood for the rest of that evening. Seeing her spirits lift that day was the best birthday present she could have given me.

Dad had left six years previously, which was when we’d had to move out of our house in Hackney and into a damp council flat in Romford. My memories of that time are grim. Mum was depressed and totally unmotivated to find work, as a job would have meant losing her benefits. It was weird though. We were so poor, yet she still owned fur coats and jewellery, left over from her old life with Dad. When she wore them they used to look quite grotesque against the backdrop of our life of penury.

As awful and heart breaking as this period was, looking back, I think it was the last time Hayley and I were really close. Our grief united us for a while I suppose. And I don’t think grief is too strong a word. To have your father in your life one day, a man who adored us and who was, as far as I can remember, a safe, big bear of a figure, our protector, to have him just up and leave was beyond devastating. All I know is that he was a pilot and one day he simply flew to Australia and never returned, abandoning his family without so much as leaving a note. The pain is less raw but I don’t think it will ever truly go away. Then Martin came along, Martin who was as working class as us, but who had done well for himself and had his own business. The only thing missing in his life at that time was someone to share it all with.

Mum and Martin had only been seeing each other for a few months when he asked us all to move into his house in posh Chigwell, the one he had before buying this place, and I don’t think Mum needed long to make up her mind. I believe he saved her in many ways, and Hayley and me for that matter. We’re very different but he’s very kind and the closest thing I’ve had to a dad since mine left. In fact, often I’ve wished he’d made more of his role as ‘stepdad’ but his nature means he prefers to stay in the background and not to interfere, so my mum’s always been in charge of the important stuff. Still, I’m not knocking him, any man who takes on a woman who comes complete with two young daughters has got to be not only reasonably kind but brave, too.

He still gets on my nerves sometimes though.

I watched now as he grabbed Mum’s love handles and gave them a good squeeze.

‘Oi you, don’t grab my extra bits, makes me feel fat,’ she squealed.

‘You are not fat my angel,’ said Martin predictably. ‘You’re built as a woman should be and besides, it just gives me more to love.’

I tried not to shudder and, as Mum untangled herself from Martin’s grip, concentrated on putting crisps into bowls. My hangover was so bad my hands were shaking, so half of them ended up on the floor. Mum frowned at me on her way to the fridge where she got out a bowl of tuna mix, which she handed to me along with a tray of pastry cases.

‘What time are they coming?’ I asked, removing the cellophane and getting to work spooning the gunky mixture into them. I was starting to feel quite nauseous and realised then I desperately needed some food to restore my blood sugar levels. I bent down to pick the dropped crisps up from the floor and shoved them in my mouth along with a bit of fluff from the carpet.

‘Three o’clock,’ Mum replied, the soles of her feet padding against her wedge heels as she bustled around.

‘Why are they coming again?’ enquired Martin, putting bottles away.

‘Good question,’ I remarked, stealing a spoon of tuna mix for myself and cramming that in my mouth, too.

‘Do they need a reason? They are family,’ replied Mum. ‘Although I must admit, Hayley was so adamant we were all here I have got my suspicions.’

‘What?’ I asked, wondering if they matched my own. Personally I was hoping Hayley might finally be pregnant. She and Gary had been trying for two years now and the stress of being disappointed every month had only heightened her already neurotic behaviour. But maybe this get together meant it had finally happened? Gosh I hoped so. It would just be lovely, but Mum had other ideas.

‘Well,’ she said now, her eyes wide with excitement. ‘The other day I told her about an open audition that I saw in The Stage. What’s the betting she went and got it?’

Not for the first time I felt the urge to query her psychic powers but resisted. The irony of the fact she never knew anything in advance was always lost on Mum and Martin.

Martin wandered next door into the lounge, where the TV was blaring. ‘Oof,’ he said, collapsing heavily and gratefully into his favourite armchair before putting his feet up on the leather pouffe. ‘What was the audition for?’

‘Les Mis,’ stated Mum. At this point they were conversing through the hatch in the wall.

‘Mum if you wipe those surfaces any more you’re going to make a hole in them,’ I said a bit impatiently, though what I was really thinking was; Do you honestly think your daughter, who has no real rhythm and sings sharp, is going to make the chorus of one of the most famous West End shows? Are you out of your mind?

‘You’re right love,’ laughed Mum. ‘Look at me getting myself into such a lather. They can take us as they find us can’t they? Martin, why don’t you switch off the telly and stick on a bit of music instead? Help me to relax.’

‘Sure,’ said Martin, who’d just that second picked up the newspaper but happily bounded into action, ready to please as ever. ‘What do you fancy?’

‘Ooh, bit of Mariah?’

Mariah Carey has always been Mum’s ultimate hero.

As Hero came on, Mum abandoned her cleaning and started dancing round the kitchen, using a tube of Primula cheese spread as a microphone. As she sang tunelessly and gyrated her hips Martin came over and stood watching through the hatch, nodding his head and clapping, with a delighted look on his face, as if he were being treated to a private audience with the world’s greatest performer. Thankfully, this ridiculous scene was interrupted by the doorbell and the arrival of Wendy, Derek, Hayley and Gary.