Bad Mother's Holiday - Hilarious Summer Holiday Reading! Read online

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Alex. ‘I’ve had a lot to think about. There’s always a lot to think about with us, isn’t there?’

  Daisy said, ‘Bacon!’

  ‘I was wondering,’ said Alex. ‘If I could move back to Great Oakley next year, would it make a difference?’

  ‘A difference to what?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, would you consider living with me?’ Alex asked. ‘In Great Oakley.’

  ‘You’d move to our backwards village?’ I said. ‘With its low-quality olives?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alex. ‘I would move back. If I thought it would give us a chance.’

  ‘I mean … I suppose, well it would give me something to think about.’

  ‘So you’d consider living with me?’ Alex asked.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  By the time we got back, Mum’s fluffy, pink head was emerging from the caravan, toothbrush in mouth.

  Dad was already outside, hands on hips, taking in big lungfuls of countryside air.

  John Boy, Brandi and Richie were slumped in camping chairs nursing enamel coffee cups, looking pale and hungover.

  ‘Good morning, everyone,’ Alex announced. ‘I’d like to ask something.’

  John Boy lifted his tired face and said, ‘If you want to know who accidentally pissed on your mess tins, it was me. Sorry.’

  Alex frowned. ‘No. It’s not that. First of all, I wanted to ask if anyone wants a bacon sandwich.’

  There were agreeable noises.

  ‘And there’s something else.’ Alex put the bacon on Dad’s tripod camping stool. ‘Something more important. I have a question for Juliette.’

  Alex turned to me, dropped to one knee and pulled a jewellery box from his pocket. He took my hand, brown eyes serious.

  I stared at him. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’ve asked your father’s permission,’ said Alex. ‘I have a ring with me.’

  ‘Alex.’ I shook my head, tears coming. ‘You just can’t ask me this.’

  ‘I can,’ said Alex, flicking open the ring box.

  Inside sat a beautiful antique-looking ring with a small square diamond.

  ‘This belonged to my Irish grandmother,’ said Alex. ‘She said I should give it to someone lovely. I’m keeping that promise. Juliette, will you marry me?’

  I looked at my family.

  Dad and John Boy were grinning at us, John Boy giving a thumbs up. Brandi seemed confused, like when she has to add numbers in her head. Mum was alternating between surprise and frustration, trying simultaneously to watch and open a pack of bacon.

  Daisy was smiling.

  I thought about Alex. How, despite his occasional coldness and jealousy, he never gives up on me. And how he cares about Daisy and made a real effort this weekend with my family. I thought about Alex moving back to Great Oakley, and what a sacrifice that would be for him.

  Blurted out, ‘Alright. Yes – yes, I’ll marry you.’

  Alex’s lips twitched.

  ‘Alright?’ he said. ‘Or yes? Which one is it?’

  Yes,’ I said, nodding. ‘Yes. I will. I’ll give it a go.’

  Alex slipped the ring on my finger, and we smiled at each other.

  John Boy started singing, ‘We’ve got to fight fight fight fight, fight for this love. Because heaven is worth fighting for.’

  Then Dad cleared his throat and said, ‘You’ve got the wrong hand there, Alex. It should be the left ring finger, not the right. The Roman’s believed the vein on the left hand ran straight to the heart, so that’s where the tradition –’

  ‘Belt up, Bob,’ said Mum. ‘Now what about this bacon sandwich?’

  Thank you for finishing my book

  If you have a minute, please review.

  I read all my Amazon and Goodreads reviews (yes, the bad ones do make me cry) and good reviews mean everything.

  Reviews don’t have to be fancy. In fact, just one word is great (as long as it isn’t ‘shit’ …). And they do more good than you could ever imagine.

  Suzy xx

  What to read next?

  The Bad Mother’s Christmas, by Suzy K Quinn

  I’d do anything for my little girl. Even spend Christmas with her father …

  Turn the page for your seven-minute sample:

  The Bad Mother’s Christmas

  Saturday 30th June

  Late Evening

  So I’m engaged to be married.

  Again.

  I wonder how many marriage proposals happen on family campsites with coin-operated showers?

  Am guessing very few.

  Feel weirdly nervous, which I’m sure isn’t the usual reaction of a blushing bride. I want to marry Alex, but, but …

  Somewhat ominously, Alex and I are sleeping apart on our first night as an engaged couple because my ‘two-man’ tent doesn’t fit two people.

  I’m sleeping with Daisy, who is flailing in her dinosaur sleeping bag like an interpretive dancer.

  Alex is lying on cold, grey boarding-school blankets in the back of his Land Rover a few metres away.

  Does he know I’m freaking out?

  I sort of broached my feelings over the campfire.

  ‘Let’s hope we can build a happy family together,’ I said. ‘Despite our differences.’

  Alex said ‘hope’ was a pointless word. ‘We won’t hope,’ he said. ‘We will succeed because we make every effort to do so.’

  That freaked me out even more.

  It’s not marrying Alex that’s the problem, it’s the ‘building a happy family’ part.

  How can we do that when Alex’s mother and I don’t get along?

  Sunday 1st July

  Morning

  Woke at 5am to find Mum and Dad arguing in hushed voices over a whistling kettle.

  Their sticky-up morning hair made them look like angry punk rock stars – Dad the white-haired scarecrow guitarist and Mum the pink-haired lead singer.

  ‘It’s consumerism gone mad, Shirley,’ Dad whispered. ‘Camping is about downsizing. Appreciating nature. The simple things.’ He jabbed a knobbly, sunburnt finger at a nearby luxury motorhome. ‘A big van like that is an utter waste. Who needs a dishwasher on a campsite? And an electric juicer is ridiculous.’

  ‘You’re being selfish Bob,’ said Mum, hands on hefty hips. ‘Not everyone enjoys nature. All I’m asking for is somewhere to watch Netflix when it rains.’

  As Mum and Dad argued in hissy voices, the motorhome’s hydraulic door whooshed open and a deeply tanned, white-haired lady popped her head out.

  ‘Would anyone like some homemade hollandaise sauce?’ she asked. ‘We can’t store it – Paul went a bit mad at the farmers’ market and filled the fridge with oysters, crab and English sparkling wine.’

  Behind her, an elderly man delicately snipped parsley over buttered kippers.

  ‘A spot of hollandaise sounds wonderful,’ said Mum. ‘It’ll go a treat on our bacon sandwiches.’

  Within five minutes, Mum had befriended the white-haired lady and invited herself on a grand-tour of the luxury motorhome.

  Mum then clumped back down gleaming metal steps with the couple’s life story.

  ‘Rita and Paul bought that van with Paul’s redundancy money,’ Mum told us. ‘They’re touring the UK right now, but they’ll be off to Holland soon. Their daughter just won a football scholarship in the US so they’ve got an empty nest. Rita has a grown-up son from a previous marriage; he left the army to move in with an older woman – she has two kids from a previous marriage and a drinking problem. They live in a bungalow with bad damp and last year they had mice.’

  Mum went on to describe the motorhome in detail: its shower room, fridge freezer, two king-sized double beds, fully-stocked kitchen etc.

  ‘Rita’s offered to make you a celebration cake for your engagement, Juliette,’ said Mum. ‘She’s got a little baking pantry on board with four sizes of tin. Do you want a three-layer cream Black Forest gateaux with kirsch cherries?’ />
  ‘Who on earth needs a cake to celebrate getting engaged?’ Dad demanded. ‘Isn’t love enough?’

  None of us said anything, but we were all thinking the same thing.

  A three-layer cream Black Forest gateaux sounded very nice.

  Mid-morning

  Just finished breakfast. Alex has gone for a run in his black-ninja jogging gear.

  Still freaking out about being engaged.

  I thought a good night’s sleep might sort me out, but I didn’t have a good night’s sleep because Daisy cartwheeled in her sleeping bag all night.

  Was too unsettled to finish my egg and bacon sandwich this morning, and also turned down Mum’s ‘brunch’ offer of tea and biscuits.

  Mum gets worried when people don’t eat and kept shoving her hand on my forehead, asking if I had a temperature.

  ‘Your curls have gone all flat,’ she said, tugging at my limp blonde-brown strands. ‘That’s a sure sign of illness in your case. Unless you’ve over-bleached it again. You didn’t let Brandi do your highlights did you?’

  Assured her that I wouldn’t be that stupid. At least, not again.

  My platinum blonde, hair-extended little sister aspires to turn everyone into a men’s magazine pin-up. Turn me into slutty Barbie once, shame on you. Do it twice, shame on me.

  ‘My hair is flat because I couldn’t rinse it properly,’ I said. ‘I ran out of 50 pences in the shower. I’m fine Mum. Honest.’

  But I wasn’t honest because I’m not fine.

  Feel really nervous.

  Late morning

  A minor argument over lunch.

  Althea is my best friend and a welcome camping companion, but no one likes aggressive veganism. Softly, softly is a better approach.

  True – Mum has bought obscene quantities of meat. A whole pig, plus five polystyrene rafts of beef-burgers is ridiculous for one long weekend, even for a big family. And it was silly of Mum to argue that red meat is a health food.

  When Mum brought out three buckets of sausages, Althea went into a full activist rant.

  ‘Who needs seventy sausages for one long weekend?’ Althea demanded, black hair tumbling over her Che Guevara t-shirt. ‘Have you ever seen a commercial pig farm? It’s piggy Auschwitz for innocent animals.’

  Mum looked every bit the guilty meat-eater in a red chef’s apron, giant BBQ fork held aloft.

  ‘There are a lot of us here, love,’ Mum protested. ‘I only brought ten sausages per head. Anyway, all this meat is free-range. The pigs had a good life before their intestines were pulled out and stuffed with their own flesh. I bought them from a farmer friend, Porky George. He’s a lovely fellow; very kind to his livestock.’

  ‘No meat farmer is truly kind,’ said Althea. ‘Do you know how he slaughters his pigs?’

  Mum said the pigs were read bedtime stories, then cuddled to death.

  Afternoon

  It started thundering and raining after lunch, so we’re all holed up in our tents or caravans, sleeping or reading until the storm passes.

  Dad is in his element, wearing all his hiker waterproof gear and talking about survival skills and the great outdoors.

  The rest of us are wishing we were Rita and Bob, snug in a motorhome, drinking tea from real china mugs and watching MasterChef.

  8pm

  We’re supposed to be barbecuing sausages for our evening meal, but Dad still hasn’t managed to start the BBQ because the coals are damp.

  Rita and Paul were kind, offering to share their red wine from real glasses, Quattro Formaggi pizza, garlic bread and green salad.

  Sadly, Dad declined for all of us, saying we’d rather do real camping thank you very much.

  We’re all still furious with him.

  Evening

  Separate beds again for Alex and I. Am still freaking out.

  I want to marry Alex, but I’m also scared.

  When Nick and I broke up, I thought my world had ended. But I stayed strong for my little girl and, through grit and determination, bought a house with two flushing toilets and a fridge full of cash-and-carry cheesecake.

  Life isn’t perfect, but it’s stable. Stable isn’t bad, given the last few years I’ve had. Nick and his mother will be in my life forever, but they’re at arm’s length – which is bearable.

  If I marry Alex, his mother will move from arm’s length right into my personal space. This could be unbearable if we’re not getting along.

  There’s a lot to get my head around. And a stomach full of sausages to digest.

  Monday 2nd July

  At last!

  A good night’s sleep.

  I moved Daisy to Mum and Dad’s caravan last night due to excessive windmilling. It was for Daisy’s benefit too: if I got accidentally slapped in the face again, I would have lost my temper.

  Alex crept into my tent in the early hours of the morning, saying he wanted to watch my face as the sun came up.

  ‘Do you remember when we were growing up?’ he said. ‘And you overheard me in the woods singing the Sun Has Got His Hat On?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You were a charming falsetto.’

  ‘Bloody embarrassing,’ said Alex. ‘I thought no one was listening.’

  ‘I already knew tough Alex Dalton had a sensitive side.’

  ‘Yes, you always knew,’ Alex smiled. ‘Then and now.’ He looked very handsome in the dawn light, with his glinting brown eyes and tousled black hair. However, due to my tiny tent, Alex had elbows and knees in uncomfortable places. When he finally left, it was a huge relief. His elbow had been on my boob the whole time.

  After breakfast (coffee and more sausages), Alex was a gentleman and helped everyone pack up. He and cousin John Boy made a good team, tossing tents and sleeping rolls into the back of vehicles. But then John Boy’s leg stump swelled up, and we had to force him to sit on Mum’s deluxe padded camping chair.

  John Boy didn’t want to rest – he usually carries on with physical activity until he’s in agony, then unstraps his prosthetic leg and anaesthetises himself with vodka. But with the sun out, he was happy to take off his shirt and tan his tattoos, while Callum and Daisy decorated his metal leg with Disney stickers.

  My tent was easy to take down but getting it back into the bag was trickier. Alex spent a red-faced half-hour trying to wrestle armloads of slippery dinosaur fabric into an umbrella-sized bag.

  Callum and Daisy got a chant going.

  ‘Rex, Rex, Rex!’

  It was quite cute seeing the two cousins getting along because they’ve been fighting a lot on this trip.

  Callum is getting the blame, which is unfair. My seven-year-old nephew may look like a ne’er-do-well in his skull t-shirt, black jeans and bright-orange trainers, but he’s very gentle with Daisy, and she did ask him to squirt the water gun.

  Daisy plays the sweet and innocent two-year-old card with her adorable blonde-brown curls and big, blue eyes, but she is a silent assassin, scratching, biting and stamping Callum whenever adults aren’t looking.

  As Callum rightly puts it, it’s age and gender prejudice – something he’ll use his public profile to tackle when he’s a premier league football player.

  Eventually, Alex used his ‘Landie’ to drive over the crumpled tent fabric, squashing the puffy nylon into neat, flat folds. He looked heroic in the Land Rover, with muscular arms spinning the wheel back and forth.

  Callum was very impressed by ‘Rex and his Monster machine’. He enjoys adults who scare him and started following Alex around calling him ‘mate’ and ‘lord’.

  Alex offered to come back to the cottage and help me unpack, but I said no – I wanted to spend a bit of time alone to process this huge life change. Although, I didn’t say ‘process’. I said ‘celebrate’.

  ‘I’d rather hoped we’d celebrate together,’ said Alex.

  ‘Just give me time,’ I told him. ‘It’s a lot to think about.’

  I’m freaking out, freaking out!

  Tuesday 3rd July


  Back at the cottage. Should unpack the camping stuff but too tired right now. Daisy is napping, and cousin John Boy is in his bedroom also, changing his bedsheets and scrubbing the wooden floor with a wire brush and soap.

  John Boy offered to change my bedsheets and scrub my floor too, but I said no. He pays me rent, so shouldn’t have to do my domestic chores. Anyway, a wire brush would ruin my carpet.

  Too tired to cook tonight, so phoned Mum and suggested a family Chinese.

  ‘I’m not walking up to your house,’ said Mum. ‘I’ve been camping all weekend.’

  ‘It’s only five minutes away,’ I said.

  ‘But it’s uphill,’ said Mum. ‘You should come to us.’

  The country track between the cottage and Mum and Dad’s pub isn’t really uphill. It’s just a slight gradient. But I didn’t bother arguing because I’m happy to do a takeaway at the pub. It means I can have a pint of Guinness with my egg-fried rice and cashew chicken.

  John Boy is coming for the takeaway too. This is good because he’ll carry Daisy on his shoulders there and back.

  I know it’s only a five-minute walk, but it is a little bit uphill on the way home.

  10pm

  Back at the cottage after the Chinese takeaway.

  I toyed with asking Alex over but decided against it. I do need thinking space. Also, takeaway Chinese isn’t Alex’s thing. He regularly flies to Shanghai, Beijing and Hong Kong, and gets annoyed at English attempts to ‘ruin’ tasty cuisine.

  I was in a world of my own as Mum unloaded the silver-foil takeaway cartons and endured a telling off for not selecting egg or special fried rice.

  ‘Juliette Duffy,’ Mum snapped. ‘Would you pay attention before these spring rolls get cold?’

  Embarrassingly, I started crying. This was unexpected for everyone – me included.

  Mum felt bad then and emptied all the spring rolls on my plate. Everyone hugged me and asked what was wrong.