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

The sky is a clear pale blue and streaked with gauzy clouds, the air cool on this bright May morning. We live on the edge of Hesslevale, a thriving and popular West Yorkshire town nestling in a lush green valley. There are numerous charming restaurants, pubs and a cinema, and the former textile mills now house artists’ studios and craft workshops. We are lucky to live here … aren’t we? At least, I always believed we were pretty happy and sorted, and that my wife thought so too.

I peer hopefully up and down our street, willing an only slightly miffed (or perhaps even contrite) Sinead to be walking towards me. There’s just Howard from next door, striding out in baggy chinos and a faded peach rugby top with Monty, their enormous labradoodle, who has a tendency to try and hump everything in sight, hence my family’s nickname for him: Mounty. While he splatters Betty Ratcliffe’s wheelie bin in a seemingly never-ending arc of pee, Howard catches my eye and waves.

Clearly, he expects us to catch up with them for a circuit around the block. He and his wife Katrina are terribly cheery and gung-ho, and we often chat over the fence that divides our adjoining back gardens. I shouldn’t moan about having friendly neighbours. However, thankfully, there’s no time for neighbourly chit-chat now, not when there’s school and work to get to, not to mention about eighty-five personality defects for me to address. I raise a hand in greeting, noticing with relief that Sinead’s silver Skoda is parked on the corner – suggesting that she hasn’t gone far – and start walking briskly in the opposite direction to where Howard is waiting. Unfriendly, perhaps, but preferable to keeping up the everything-is-normal facade.

The dogs and I trudge on. As Bella stops to pee, I glance down at Scout. He keeps looking up at me, intently, as if he knows. ‘How can she stand being married to me if I’m so awful?’ I ask him, consumed by a wave of self-pity. Scout just hunches his back in that familiar way, and squats to do his business. I’ve snatched a bag from my pocket and bagged up his deposit before it’s barely hit the ground.

As we recommence our walk, I try Sinead’s number again. Still voicemail. Where are you? I text her. What’s going on? Right now, I don’t know what else to say. I just need to get home and cajole Flynn into having a proper breakfast (i.e., not just Oreos), but then, should we really be policing these things now? Of course, if Sinead had been there, he’d have had a bowl of cornflakes, some granary toast, fresh fruit salad and his orange juice in a glass and not just slugged straight from the carton.

In a driving test, you are allowed up to fifteen faults (what we call ‘minors’). One serious fault – a ‘major’ – and you’ll fail. I’d consider the woolly boundaries thing – in fact, most of the points on her list – to be minors, but who am I to know? The main thing, I decide as the dogs and I troop back to the house, is not to panic. Sinead probably just needs some space, in order to think things over, so I won’t call her again until her break. On the rare occasions I’ve popped into the gift shop where she works – Tawny Owl, or whatever it’s called – it’s been serene and peaceful, so hopefully she’ll be in a better mood by lunchtime. In the meantime, I’ll drive Flynn to school – he doesn’t need to know anything about this – and then onwards to work.

Once I’m there, I’ll act normal and be the conscientious examiner I am paid to be, just as I have for the past decade, after a couple of years of working as a driving instructor, when it had become apparent that my playing in bands, and teaching kids to play guitar, just wasn’t bringing in enough regular cash. That was okay; I’d given music a decent shot and prolonged my adolescence more than most people manage to get away with. Flynn was just four, and I was thirty-one, and it was high time I grew up. It had always made sense for Sinead to be at home full-time to give Flynn the time and attention he needed.

Plus, I’d enjoyed driving various bands around over the years. I’d loved the banter and camaraderie and, yes, even the farty vans and interminable all-night journeys punctuated with bleary service-station stops. Gallons of bad coffee and oily sausages and eggs: it had all been huge fun, but I was ready for a change, and Sinead had often commented about what a courteous, unruffleable driver I was (looking back, could that now be perceived as a fault? Would she have preferred a screaming maniac with scant respect for The Highway Code?).

It was her encouragement that had prompted me to sign up for driving examiner training. ‘You’d be perfect for it,’ she’d insisted. ‘You’re so polite, so well behaved and law-abiding.’

Is that what’s wrong, a vital point she omitted from her list – the fact that I’m a tedious bore, lacking the nerve to break speed limits or negotiate a junction without indicating at the appropriate time? Would I seem more desirable – sexier, I suppose – if I drastically reduced my mirror usage and constantly lambasted other road users with the horn?

I pause at the privet hedge a few doors down from our house. While Scout and Bella are tinkling in tandem, I pull that wretched note out of my pocket. I read it all again, every damn word, feeling sicker at every line. As I shove it back into my pocket, I reach for my phone for the umpteenth time. But there’s no reply to my text; no ‘Sorry, I just went a bit mad there but don’t worry – I’ll be back home very soon.’

Out of habit, I tap my email icon. As the messages roll in, I spot one from her, sent less than an hour ago at 7.40 a.m:

Nate, I assume you’ve found my note by now. At least, I hope it’s you who found it and not Flynn. I’m sorry if it’s shocking but I had to tell you how I felt. I didn’t know what else to do. It’s just got so bad and you’re not hearing me. I have tried to talk to you but you won’t listen. I’ll be in touch soon, and of course I’ll spend time with Flynn and talk things through with him. It’s important that he understands that none of this is his fault.

I know we’ll be okay eventually. We’ll still be Flynn’s parents together and do the job as well as we possibly can, just as we have always done. He knows we love him and that’s never going to change. In time, I’m sure the three of us can work out the practical issues. I know it might seem alarming right now, but when you look at Flynn’s friends, it’s hardly unusual to have divorced parents—

‘What the fuck?’ I blurt out loud.

So now you have read all my reasons, my wife concludes, I hope you’ll understand why I have been so unhappy lately, and why I am leaving you.

I’m sorry, Nate.

Sinead

Chapter Three

Sinead

I have done an unspeakable thing. I have left my child. It hadn’t been my plan to do this; at least not last night after a shitload of cheap white wine. But then, something had to happen.

Installed at my friend Abby’s across town now, I just wish I could erase the image in my mind of Nate’s horrified face when he discovered my list this morning. He had no idea how bad things were. The only person who really knew was Rachel, my therapist.

Yesterday, after work, I sat in her small, sparse room with its brown nylon carpet, trying to figure out whether my marriage was definitely over. Was it really that bad? Or, after nineteen years together, was this just what being married was like? Rachel – or ‘that Rachel woman’, as Nate tends to refer to her – tucked her shiny black hair behind her ears and clasped her hands primly. ‘You might find it helpful to write down all the aspects you’re unhappy with,’ she suggested, ‘and then all the good things too.’

‘The aspects of what?’ I asked.

‘Well, of Nate and you. Of your relationship.’

I’d first come to see her six weeks ago, having googled ‘therapist’ and booked an appointment simply because I was sort of unravelling and the voice on her answerphone sounded kind. I’d deliberately chosen someone based in Solworth, rather than Hesslevale – I didn’t want to keep running into her in our local Sainsbury’s. And so I went along, dry-mouthed and nervous, anticipating an older woman full of wisdom, with an instruction book for life. I hadn’t expected to be greeted by a chic young thing in red lipstick and a short black shift with a Peter Pan collar, who probably considered Britpop to be ‘history’.

‘Writing a list is like talking to a friend,’ she explained. ‘It can help to clarify your thoughts and work through complex emotions. It’s a way of distilling the very essence of your togetherness with Nate.’

‘I’m not sure there’s anything left to distil,’ I murmured.

‘Of course there is,’ she insisted, ‘and this exercise will help you to identify what’s still there, and worth saving, underneath the pressures and resentments that clutter up our lives.’

I nodded, trying to process this. I’d been feeling awful for the past year or so: lost and alone, as if I was just going through the motions of getting through each day. Friends had listened as I’d tried to explain how I felt – but there’s only so much you can go on before you start to imagine they’re glazing over. Anxiety, depression or whatever it was; these things happened to other people, I’d always thought. As a younger woman, I’d always been pretty happy and optimistic, the last person I’d have imagined to end up feeling this way. And so I’d seen my GP, a kindly woman who knew all about the stresses we’d been through with Flynn over the years, who said, ‘I think you need a helping hand, Sinead, just to ease you through this rough patch.’ She prescribed an antidepressant that had made me feel as if I was viewing the world through net curtains, and killed off my libido stone dead. I’d swapped pills for therapy – and so there I was, blinking back tears in front of a woman who probably has a Snapchat account.

‘So, what should I do with this list, once I’ve made it?’ I asked. ‘I mean, should I show it to Nate?’

Rachel tipped her head to one side. ‘What do you think?’

She often does this, batting a question straight back at me.

‘I don’t know,’ I murmured. Sixty pounds an hour, I paid her. Couldn’t she tell me what to think?

She cleared her throat; my time was nearly up. Age-wise, I’d put her at thirty tops. What could she possibly know about marriage and love? ‘The important part is putting it all down,’ she replied, ‘in writing.’

And that was that. As far as Rachel was concerned, as long as I’d written the darn thing, it didn’t matter what I did with it: I could use it to line a budgie’s cage – if we had one – or set it on fire. I handed her my debit card, which she popped into the slot of her little machine. In went my pin number, as if I’d just done a grocery shop. I almost expected her to ask if I had a Nectar card.

That was hard-earned money I’d just spent. A whole day’s earnings in the shop, come to think of it. It could have bought new trainers for Flynn, the ingredients for a week’s worth of dinners or – what the hell – several bottles of industrial cheap white wine from Londis, the kind Nate calls ‘lady petrol’. ‘Fancy a fine vintage from L’Ondice tonight, darling?’ he used to ask in a faux-plummy voice, in the days when we still joked around …

When we still laughed and had fun …

When I still loved him madly and regarded him as my best friend in the world. Nate Turner, my soulmate: the brightest, kindest, funniest – and sweetest – man I had ever met.

And now?

I know he’s a hardworking man, and a good dad; we function together, but that no longer feels like enough. How can I be expected to love him when he barely registers my feelings?

Rachel had turned to her laptop and tapped something quickly. ‘Gosh, I’m busy next week. Could you do Thursday, Sinead? Same time?’

‘That’d be great,’ I replied, flashing a smile as I trotted out of the therapy room in her warehouse flat, as if we’d just got together for our regular coffee and it was the highlight of my week.

It was Flynn I was thinking about on my drive home, and what he’d make of me seeing a therapist (I still can’t quite believe I have one. It feels as bizarre as if I were to say ‘my butler’). I’ve been vague about it, muttering about staying late at the shop to help out Vicky, my boss – not that he’s particularly interested in what I get up to. But I know he’d be shocked if he knew where I’d really been going.

I realise it’s indulgent, and that when I describe my life, it seems like I have everything I could possibly want. I am forty-three years old, with a husband, a son and a job that doesn’t stress me terribly – and of course people have it far worse than I do. Hesslevale is a popular, family-oriented town – the kind of place where people get together and create vegetable gardens on waste ground, for anyone to enjoy. You can barely move for artisan roasted coffee and poetry readings, and I’ve found myself being wrestled into screen-printing workshops and giant community knitting projects, virtually against my will. Thankfully, our town still retains a slightly shabby edge, which prevents it from toppling into unbearable tweeness; there’s a couple of burger joints, and a noodle bar (‘Canoodles’) that no one I know has ever ventured into. It’s been a wonderful, supportive and friendly place in which to raise our son.

The trouble is, somewhere along the way I have stopped loving his dad.

Write down all the aspects you’re unhappy with …

Did Rachel really mean all of them, or just the big stuff? I’d switched on the car radio in my temperamental Skoda, trying to decide whether the whole therapy business was a colossal waste of time and money. I’d spent £360 so far, and she’d basically told me to make a list. The whole drive home, I started to think of specific reasons why I was unhappy, and where on earth I’d start if it came to writing it all down.

As I’d parked up, another disturbing thought had hit me: my mother-in-law, Judy, was dropping by that evening. The realisation caused me to leap out of my car, hurry to L’Ondice at the end of our road, and virtually hurl myself at the wine fridge at the back.

‘Oh, you’re lucky to have caught me,’ Judy announced, eyeing my clinking carrier bag as I strode into our hallway five minutes later. ‘I’m just leaving, love. What a pity …’

‘Such a shame,’ I agreed. ‘I’m so sorry!’ We hugged briefly, and my gaze met Nate’s over her shoulder. He was wearing the nervy expression I’d become accustomed to seeing after I’d had a session with Rachel. I caught him scanning my face for clues. ‘I thought you were staying for dinner?’ I added, greeting Scout as he hurtled towards me.

Judy shook her head. She wears her silvery hair in a pixie crop, and was kitted out in her go-to attire of chambray shirt and navy chinos. As rangy as a racehorse, she exuded no-nonsense chic. ‘I’d love to, but I really don’t have the time. Still so much to do before the trip.’ She frowned. ‘Shame I’ve missed seeing Flynn …’

‘Yes, he’s out at the cinema with friends.’ I paused. ‘I hope you have a fantastic trip. Has Raymond been hill-walking before?’

‘No – but he’ll be fine,’ she said firmly. Having divorced Nate’s late father when Nate was a teenager, Judy is partial to setting tough physical tests whenever she starts seeing anyone new. You’d never guess she is seventy-two; her face is virtually unlined, her blue eyes bright, her figure enviable. ‘Anyway, how was your … appointment?’ she asked as she pulled on her jacket.

‘Appointment?’ I frowned, confused. Surely Nate hadn’t told her about Rachel?

‘Nate said you had an appointment after work.’ She studied me, unblinking. ‘Nothing … worrying, I hope?’

‘Oh, no, not at all!’ I felt the blush whoosh up my face.

‘Not … ill are you?’ She tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a glimmer of hope.

‘No, no – I’m absolutely fine.’

Her stare was piercing. Right up to retirement, Judy was a science teacher, and I bet no one lit their farts with a Bunsen burner in her classes.

‘I, er, just had a massage,’ I fibbed.

‘A massage?’ she gasped, as if I’d said ‘colonic irrigation’.

‘Yes, just a little treat for myself …’

‘Oh, I do admire you, Sinead. I really do …’

‘Why’s that?’ I asked, genuinely perplexed.

Her mouth flickered with amusement. ‘Putting yourself first like that. It’s very commendable, I have to say …’

‘Well, er, I—’

‘… Although I could never justify spending that sort of money on myself. I’d feel so guilty, so decadent, that it would cancel out any enjoyment I’d gained from the massage …’

What would she have thought if she knew I’ve been forking out – weekly – to have my head examined?

‘Er, Mum,’ Nate cut in belatedly, ‘a massage isn’t that big a deal, you know.’

‘Ha. Isn’t it? I wouldn’t know. Never gone in for those pampering scenarios myself – but each to their own.’ She flashed a bemused smile. ‘Anyway, I’d really better go. Bye, Bella, darling!’ But Bella was far too interested in gnawing Scout’s disgusting fluorescent rubber hamburger to even glance in her owner’s direction.

A stillness settled over us after Judy had gone.

‘Well, that was nice, as usual,’ I muttered.

‘Oh, you know what she’s like.’ Nate adjusted his wire-framed specs. At forty-three, with wavy caramel hair and intensely brown eyes, my husband still manages to fall into the ‘cute’ category. Due to his height and long, long legs – he’s six-foot-four – there’s something endearingly gangly about him. If he were in a film, he’d be the kindly teacher who helps a colleague carry her unruly heap of books and box files – and bingo, they’d fall in love.

While he started to make dinner, I went to investigate the bathroom, which I meant to tackle the previous night. As expected, it had still been strewn with socks, pants and several T-shirts belonging to Nate and Flynn. Both of them are phenomenally untidy. Nate’s music magazines were piled messily on the bathroom scales, and the washbasin was daubed with toothpaste and shaving gel. Of course, none of that needed to be dealt with there and then. What I should have been doing was hanging out with Nate, chopping parsley and chatting companionably, instead of moving on to hoover our bedroom and prickling over a massage I’d never had.

‘Ready, love!’ he called from the kitchen.

I trotted downstairs to see he’d poured our wine and set out our bowls of pasta very prettily, with salad in a glass bowl and a fresh loaf. Although I have always done the lion’s share of the cooking, Nate had started to make dinner on Rachel days. It was as if he was trying to make things right.

‘This looks great,’ I said, at which he muttered something I didn’t catch. We started to eat in silence. I heard the front door fly open; Flynn was home. I jumped up and bounded over to hug him as if he’d just traversed the Himalayas, rather than sat in the Odeon for two hours.

‘Hey, Mum.’ He laughed and bobbed down to greet Scout and our visiting hound. ‘Hi, Bella-baby. You always smell so good! No anchovy breath on you. Not like our stinky old Scout. You look blow-dried as well. Does Gran blow-dry you?’ Flynn adores animals and nagged for a dog until we finally gave in. Scout is our second, acquired to help us over the heartache when Larry, our beloved lurcher, died last year.

‘So, how was it?’ I asked eagerly.

Flynn’s lazy grin stretched across his face as he straightened up. He has inherited his dad’s features: the full, wide mouth and dark-chocolate eyes, plus the light brown hair with a defiant wave. ‘I was only at the cinema, Mum. Not sitting an exam.’

‘No, I know that. What was the film again?’

He mumbled the name of an action thriller I’d never heard of. Nate and I haven’t been to the cinema since something like 1926.

‘Was it good?’ I enquired.

‘Uh, yeah?’ He shrugged.

‘What was it about?’

He peered at me as I sat back down at the table. ‘You don’t want to know the whole plot, do you?’

I laughed. ‘No, of course not … so, have you eaten?’

‘Yeah, we got pizza …’

‘School okay today?’ Nate asked stiffly.

Flynn threw him a baffled look. ‘Have my real mum and dad been abducted?’

‘What d’you mean?’ Nate frowned.

‘The two of you, grilling me like you’re distant relatives instead of my parents. Shall we sit down and talk about what I’d like to be when I grow up?’

Nate and I laughed uncomfortably, and Flynn sniggered and escaped to his room, away from his weird, quizzing parents.

I tried to tuck into the pasta I’d barely touched. ‘You’re not upset about Mum, are you?’ Nate ventured.

‘No, it’s fine,’ I said quickly, gaze fixed on my bowl.

‘You know what she’s like. So bloody sanctimonious. God forbid anyone should enjoy themselves—’

‘It’s fine, Nate.’ I looked up. Tension flickered in his eyes.

‘You don’t mind having Bella to stay, do you?’

‘Of course not,’ I exclaimed. ‘Why would I?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ he replied. ‘I just wish I knew what you and Rachel talked about, that’s all—’

‘It’s not about a well-behaved collie coming to stay!’ I blurted out.

‘What is it, then? Why can’t you just tell me what’s wrong?’

Pink patches had sprung up on his cheeks. What did he think was wrong? He knew about my visit to the GP, and the antidepressants – although he hadn’t taken the trouble to talk to me then, to try and find out why I was so down, so close to tears much of the time. Depression: a taboo word, as far as Nate’s concerned. Brush it under the carpet, that’s his stock response to anything remotely uncomfortable. Three-point turns, emergency stops: he’s fine with that kind of stuff. But emotions are messy and scary and he prefers not to have to deal with them. It was clearly bothering him that I’d been sharing my own feelings with someone else. It happened every week, this post-Rachel probing.

He still wouldn’t let it drop, even as we cleared up after dinner. ‘How long d’you think you’ll carry on with this?’ he asked, washing up with unnecessary vigour.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I mean, there’s no grand plan—’

‘And you won’t share any of it with me? The stuff you discuss with this stranger, I mean?’

‘Well, it’s kind of private.’ I was doing my best to remain calm.

‘So private you can’t even tell me?’

‘Nate, the whole point is that it’s not you …’

‘Whoah, great, thanks a lot!’

I stared at him, almost laughing in disbelief. ‘If it was you I needed to talk to I’d just, well – talk to you …’

‘At least that’d be free,’ he thundered. ‘You wouldn’t have to drive over Solworth either—’

‘Oh, right, so I’d save the petrol money as well!’

‘Yes, you would. Have you checked our bank balance lately?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake …’ I stared at the man I’d once loved to distraction, and who was now glaring at me, his face mottled red, his T-shirt splashed with dishwater. ‘You begrudge me the four pounds fifty or whatever it costs to get there and back?’

‘Of course I don’t—’

‘What’s wrong with you two tonight?’ We both swung around to see Flynn standing in the doorway.

‘Sorry, son,’ Nate blustered, looking away.

Flynn snorted. ‘What were you shouting about?’

‘We weren’t shouting, honey,’ I said quickly.

He blinked at us. ‘Yes, you were. And what’s four pounds fifty?’

‘Nothing,’ I exclaimed, looking at Nate for confirmation.

‘Nothing’s four pounds fifty,’ he said with an exaggerated shrug, while our son exhaled loudly and strode away, as if concluding that his parents really had lost it this time.