Bad Mother's Holiday - Hilarious Summer Holiday Reading! Page 8

  Alex arrived on my doorstep an hour later with a huge bunch of water lilies.

  We hugged.

  I think Alex is feeling depressed too.

  ‘For the first time in my life, I don’t want to work,’ he said.

  I couldn’t really empathise, since I never want to work.

  ‘You know that cruise ship holiday you were talking about,’ I said. ‘Is it still going ahead?’

  Alex said yes – theoretically. Subject to some satellite phone arrangements.

  ‘I’d like to go,’ I said. ‘Have a proper break.’

  Alex said he’d make the arrangements immediately. The next cruise leaves in mid-March, and he’s going to try and get us both on board – ‘assuming there are first-class suites available.’

  Told Alex I didn’t care about first class suites.

  ‘But I do,’ he said.

  Sunday 18th February

  Nick phoned at 9am. He wanted me to come and pick up Daisy.

  ‘Why can’t you drop her off?’ I asked.

  Nick said Helen has taken his car. Her own car is being professionally cleaned, following a Horatio vomiting incident.

  ‘Why did you let Helen take your car?’ I asked.

  Nick admitted the Volvo didn’t technically belong to him, because Helen had bought it.

  I should have known.

  When I came to pick Daisy up, Nick answered his front door looking rested and happy.

  Daisy didn’t come running out like she normally would – she was busy making glitter unicorn greetings cards for Santa Claus and Upsy Daisy.

  Apparently, Nick and Daisy, ‘the dynamic duo’, had a fabulous time doing mud painting in the garden, popping popcorn and watching movies in the ‘snug’.

  Bloody part-time parents.

  Nick accused me of being grumpy and hungover.

  ‘Actually Nick, I’m not hungover,’ I snapped. ‘I’ve had a miscarriage.’

  Nick looked momentarily shocked, then said, ‘Sadie had a miscarriage a few months after Horry was born. I mean, we weren’t planning on having another baby, but it was still really sad.’

  ‘Why didn’t you mention it?’ I asked.

  ‘People don’t talk about it, do they?’

  Monday 19th February

  Althea came over today and demanded I leave the house.

  ‘You look pale and English and your pyjamas are starting to smell,’ she declared. Which is a bold statement from Althea, who generally doesn’t mind bodily odours.

  Decided Althea was right.

  Showered. Put on my nice, new maternity clothes and accompanied Althea and Wolfgang to London.

  Althea suggested we ‘hang out’ at Wolfgang’s favourite playgroup, just down the road from Bethnal Green station.

  It seemed like a lovely idea, but once again the big-city playgroup was like an exclusive VIP nightclub, with a ‘one in, one out’ policy.

  Initially we were refused entry, but Althea kicked off, shouting about Wolfgang’s dad being in a famous punk band that liked setting fire to things. Then Althea grabbed my arm and said, ‘She’s with me.’

  It reminded me of all those festivals and gigs we used to go to, when Althea got me into the VIP areas. She always had the best technique: straightforward aggression.

  The playgroup was nice – a spotless gymnasium with sprung floors and no broken toys.

  ‘So how are you feeling?’ Althea asked, over fair-trade tea and fruit flapjacks.

  Said I was sad and probably still hormonal. Although hormones are hard to judge, because losing a baby is just really, really depressing anyway.

  ‘Why did it happen?’ I said. ‘I’m a good person. I think of others. I always recycle.’

  ‘Life can be random,’ said Althea. ‘Everything belongs to nature, at the end of the day. The universe’s great cosmic cycle means we’ll all be born again. A cloud doesn’t die. It simply transforms.’

  But I’ve never really believed Althea’s reincarnation theories. They’re full of logic holes. Even she can’t remember what the snake eating its tail is supposed to mean.

  Told Althea I’m considering antidepressants, but she shouted me down, saying they were a ‘shit buzz’.

  She speaks from experience, because the doctor prescribed her Prozac after David Bowie died.

  ‘They don’t do anything,’ Althea complained. ‘I even tried banging three at once. Fuck all happened. Anyway – you can’t medicate grief. It doesn’t work that way.’

  She’s probably right.

  There’s no quick fix.

  It’s like that Going on a Bear Hunt book.

  You can’t go over it. You can’t go under it. You have to go through it.

  Tuesday 20th February

  I think the pregnancy hormones are still leaving my body, because I’m STILL feeling tired and low.

  Daisy keeps asking me why I’m crying.

  Told her I’m sad because her little brother or sister isn’t coming.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  Told her that the baby wasn’t very well, so couldn’t be born.

  ‘Why?’ Daisy asked again.

  Realised that instead of asking intelligent, philosophical questions, Daisy was just being irritating.

  This is yet another developmental milestone.

  The ‘Why?’ question.

  WISH I could stop crying.

  Daisy is trying to be helpful. She pushes toilet roll into my eyes and says, ‘There, there babes. Dry your tears.’ But actually, the rough toilet paper is a real eye irritant.

  Phoned Mum to talk about Daisy seeing me so sad, and possible psychological implications therein.

  ‘What if I’m fucking her up for life by crying all the time?’ I said.

  Mum pointed out that two-year-olds are self-centred, and therefore oblivious to parental unhappiness.

  ‘All Daisy wants is attention,’ said Mum. ‘Happy attention, sad attention, it’s all the same.’

  Daisy has been round Mum and Dad’s quite a bit this last week. Feel guilty about that too, because Daisy gets a sausage roll and some sort of chocolate product every visit.

  Told Mum about the cruise holiday with Alex, and she went uncharacteristically silent.

  ‘Oh, that’s going ahead, is it?’ Mum said, eventually. ‘I thought it was up in the air.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘Can’t you look after Daisy?’

  ‘Oh yes, we can do that,’ said Mum. ‘It’s just I had a surprise for you.’

  ‘What sort of surprise?’ I asked.

  ‘You remember that Teletext holiday I booked back in January?’ said Mum. ‘I knew you’d regret saying no, so I booked you on with us. I told a little white lie – it wasn’t fully booked. I was going to surprise you the next time you moaned about needing a break. If you don’t want to come, we’ll understand. But just so you know, the tickets are non-refundable.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I want to come?’ I asked. ‘I’m desperate for a break. Two breaks are better than one. Thanks so much, Mum.’

  ‘So you’re off on two holidays,’ said Mum. ‘You lucky sod.’

  She’s right.

  I am a lucky sod. Time to stop moping now.

  Evening

  Alex is texting me meaningful lines from famous books.

  It’s very unlike him.

  Sometimes, he even adds heart emojis.

  Alex also sent a Harrods asparagus and serrano ham quiche by courier in time for tea, with a note:

  ‘A bit of comfort food for supper. Much love, Alex xx’

  It was a lovely thought, but we have different ideas about comfort food.

  Put the quiche in the fridge for lunch tomorrow and ordered Domino’s pizza.

  Sambuca is still here. He sleeps on my bed, and no amount of cajoling or smoked salmon bribery can move him.

  Laura says Sambuca is God’s way of showing me love, but Sambuca is too violent to be a message from God.

  He’s more likely to be fr
om the other one.

  The fire and brimstone fellow.

  Wednesday 21st February

  Althea came round last night with a bottle of homemade blackberry vodka.

  We had a drink and a chat, and I got it all out – the guilt, the sadness, the anger.

  ‘I think Alex is depressed too,’ I said. ‘He sent me a quiche.’

  ‘Men express their emotions in different ways,’ said Althea sagely.

  Didn’t realise I felt angry, until Althea made me do emotional role-playing. She told me to imagine she was God, and asked me to cry, wail and rage at her.

  Althea also knitted an orange aardvark to represent my unborn child, and we buried it together in the garden. She was right – I did feel a certain closure. I don’t know if it was the odd burial of knitted hippy items, or getting to shout and wail, but I’m more at peace today.

  After we buried the woolly aardvark in the garden, Althea made sure I got up the stairs okay.

  She didn’t need to.

  I really was fine. Not drunk at all.

  It’s just that last step was a bit slippery.

  Thursday 22nd February

  This morning, John Boy tried to fix our toilet seat that won’t stay up.

  Listening to him do DIY was like hearing an emotionally charged radio drama.

  Disaster: ‘Oh FUCKING hell! How does that … NO! NO! NO!’

  Redemption: ‘Ah HA! That’s how it goes in. Cheeky bastard.’

  Conflict: ‘GET IN YOU BAD BUGGER!’

  Unbridled anger: ‘YOU STUPID BLOODY TOILET SEAT. YOU STUPID BLOODY THING!’

  Dramatic tension: World-weary sigh.

  Redemption: ‘I’ve only gone and bloody done it!’

  The toilet seat is a little better. It now falls down half the time, so it’s a game of Russian roulette, wondering if it’s going to close on you and or not.

  I suppose John Boy’s right – it has brought a bit of excitement to an otherwise mundane activity.

  Afternoon

  Catrina Dalton has sent me a scarf and a tiny leather folding thing of uncertain use, both boxed and wrapped in logo-embossed tissue paper.

  The gifts came with a little hand-written note saying, ‘Sorry for your loss. I have been through this and it is hard. We will have fun on the cruise. Catrina xxx’

  Very thoughtful and kind.

  Although bad news about the cruise – I didn’t realise Catrina was still coming. Should have specified to Alex that I wanted just the two of us, but I suppose Catrina was already booked in.

  Phoned Catrina to say thank you.

  Catrina barked, ‘Who is this?’

  I told her my name, and she said, ‘Juliette who? I don’t know a Juliette. Juliette Binoche? You don’t sound French.’

  I said, ‘Alex’s FRIEND. Juliette who came to LUNCH at your APARTMENT. Remember? You made GOULASH and we went SHOPPING.’

  ‘Oh!’ Catrina exclaimed. ‘Oh yes. Juliette.’

  ‘I JUST CALLED TO THANK YOU FOR THE PRESENT,’ I shouted.

  ‘What present?’

  ‘THE SCARF. AND THE … LEATHER … ITEM.’

  ‘The Paco Rabanne coin purse,’ said Catrina. ‘It’s nothing, my dear. I’m just sorry for what you’re going through. I’ve been there myself. Miscarriage … it’s a very sad thing. Devastating. You question yourself as a woman.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, feeling tearful again. Bloody crying. I’m so bored of it now – it’s been endless.

  ‘Harold was very callous when I miscarried,’ Catrina continued. ‘He blamed the cocktails. Can you imagine? Women all over the world smoke and eat rubbish. You know, I do so love to smoke, but I didn’t touch a cigarette when I was pregnant, not one. And I ate wonderful, nourishing food – smoked salmon, caviar, goulash. Wear the scarf, won’t you?’

  Promised I would.

  Hung up and cried.

  Daisy said, ‘Mummy sad. Again. Why?’

  Said I was still sad about the baby. Told her that grief takes a long time. That it comes in waves. That I may never feel totally okay about losing the baby, but the sadness is passing.

  Daisy said, ‘Why?’

  Asked her to stop bloody saying, ‘Why’.

  Friday 23rd February

  In my grief, I’ve been neglecting my motherly duties.

  Obviously, I make sure Daisy has the basics, but I’ve let a lot slip. Clothes I wouldn’t have dreamed of letting Daisy wear outside the house, like her favourite pyjamas teamed with patent leather shoes, have become totally acceptable. And her ponytail is now always wonky, with shark’s fins of hair sticking up because I don’t have the energy to brush everything neat and tidy.

  The house is an absolute mess – especially the front garden.

  Aside from the weeds, there are two car seats on the lawn now, because John Boy bought an old Land Rover from Yorkie last week. Yorkie sold him the car for £100, because the annual insurance, tax and petrol cost ten times what the car is worth.

  John Boy sees the car as a project, and is replacing the old, battered stained seats. He managed stage one (pulling the seats out), without realising that the new red-leather seats are coming from China and will take six weeks to arrive.

  Some ladies from the Catholic Church came to visit last week, and I could tell they viewed the unkempt garden and discarded car parts as room for improvement. Still – they were good Christians and didn’t judge me, asking instead if I wanted to visit their church.

  Said I didn’t have a faith as yet, because I could never make up my mind.

  The ladies gave me a nice leaflet and a mini bible and told me about love and Jesus.

  Asked if Jesus knew why I’d lost my baby.

  The women looked embarrassed and didn’t know what to say. It’s true about miscarriage – it is one of the last taboos.

  Saturday 24th February

  Althea just phoned.

  She’s making a mermaid fancy dress costume, but is struggling to find big enough seashells.

  ‘I need more clay,’ said Althea. ‘An extra five pounds at least – enough to make twelve-inch shells. Do you have any?’

  ‘I don’t have any clay,’ I said. ‘Why would you think I had clay?’

  ‘For Daisy to mess around with,’ said Althea. ‘Every house with kids should have clay.’

  Cried.

  Told Althea that, not only do I not have clay, but I’m also slipping in other motherly duties.

  ‘I gave Daisy Frosties for breakfast and lunch,’ I blubbed.

  Althea shouted at me about over-striving for perfectionism. Then she offered to bring over some tubs of paleo cereal.

  Thanked her, but declined. It would be a waste of dehydrated beetroot and sprouted seeds. Daisy is way too fussy.

  Am finding it so hard to give Daisy a balanced diet right now. Partly, this is due to my own current unhealthy habits. I can’t very well be scoffing chocolate bars, then telling Daisy to eat a balanced meal.

  This morning, Daisy caught me hiding behind the fridge door, stuffing a wagon wheel into my mouth.

  ‘What’s that Mummy?’ Daisy asked.

  Told her it was something unhealthy and that sometimes mummies ate things they shouldn’t.

  Daisy threw a perfectly reasonable tantrum because I wouldn’t share the Wagon Wheel. But honestly, it would be terrible to give her chocolate at seven am.

  Sunday 25th February

  Mum and Dad went to the garden centre this morning.

  They came back with a present for me – a little apple tree.

  ‘The branches are bare now,’ said Dad. ‘But when spring comes, they’ll be covered in glorious, pink blossom.’

  We pulled up weeds, mowed the lawns – front and back – and planted the tree right outside the kitchen patio doors. Then Mum helped me tidy the house.

  We dusted, hoovered and threw out clutter, including Daisy’s stash of Happy Meal and Kinder Surprise toys.

  Once the house and garden were tidy, we made cheese salad
sandwiches and a big pot of tea. Then we sat in the kitchen, looking at the apple tree.

  ‘We choose a pink blossoming tree,’ said Mum, putting her hand over mine. ‘Because I think the baby would have been a girl. And anyway, they don’t do blue blossom trees.’

  This evening, when I went to bed, Sambuca wasn’t there.

  Phoned to check he was back at the pub.

  Mum confirmed that, ‘The little bastard is here, scratching the cereal boxes to bits.’

  I suppose Sambuca knew it was time to leave.

  Finally starting to feel better.

  Monday 26th February

  Decided to buy carpet for upstairs today.

  The downstairs and staircase were carpeted last year, but I ran out of money to do the landing and bedrooms.

  It’s an expense, but the insulation will help lower our gas bill. The rushes of air up my pyjama legs late at night confirm the bare bedroom floorboards let in a lot of cold air.

  The drafts, combined with the creaky floorboards, also create a haunted house atmosphere, which creates stress and anxiety – both of which are bad for women in vulnerable emotional states. Especially now John Boy has caught onto my paranoia and makes ‘woooo’ noises when I walk along the landing.

  Took Daisy to the huge shopping ‘village’ outside of town to browse new carpets.

  It’s the best place to shop for flooring, because there are so many carpet places there: Carpet Right, All for Floors, Allied Carpets, Carpets for Less, the Carpet People, Cost-co Carpets and Carpets R Us.

  After a lengthy browse, I selected a special offer Saxon twist carpet remnant.

  It was a heavy roll, so the carpet shop manager bullied an assistant into carrying it to the car for us.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember where I’d parked.

  We walked around the huge car park for twenty minutes, while the carpet assistant muttered about unrealistic workplace expectations and the fact his coffee was going cold.

  Daisy found our car in the end.

  She recognised the bird poo on the bumper.