FIONA GIBSON
Mum On The Run

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Fiona Gibson 2010

Fiona Gibson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook ahs been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847562494

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2011 ISBN: 9780007438532

Version: 2016-09-12

Dedication

For dearest Jen and Kath for all the laughs

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

15 Brilliant Things About Running

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘Thank you, everyone, for coming along to our Spring into Fitness sports day. Now, to round off our afternoon, it’s the race we’ve all been waiting for . . .’

No it’s not. It’s the race that makes me consider feigning illness or death.

‘. . . It’s the mums’ race!’ exclaims Miss Marshall, my children’s head teacher. She scans the gaggle of parents loitering on the fringes of the football pitch.

‘Go on, Mum!’ Grace hisses, giving me a shove.

I smile vaguely while trying to formulate a speedy excuse. ‘Not today, hon. I, um . . . don’t feel too well actually.’

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I . . . I think I’ve done something to my . . . ligament.’

Grace scowls, flicking back a spiral of toffee-coloured hair that’s escaped from her ponytail. ‘What’s a ligament?’

‘It’s, er . . .’ My mind empties of all logical thought. This happens when I’m under stress, like when a client blanches after I’ve cut in layers – even though she’s asked for layers – and insists that what she really had in mind for her ginger puffball was ‘something, y’know, long and flowing, kinda Cheryl Cole-ish . . .’

‘It’s in your leg,’ I tell Grace firmly.

‘What happened to it?’ Her dark brown eyes narrow with suspicion.

‘I . . . I don’t know, hon, but it’s felt weird all day. I must have pulled it or stretched it or something.’

She sighs deeply. At seven years old, rangy and tall for her age, Grace is sporting a mud-splattered polo shirt festooned with rosettes from winning the relay, the three-legged race and the egg-and-spoon. I’m wearing ancient jeans and a loose, previously black top which has faded to a chalky grey. Comfy clothing to conceal the horrors beneath.

‘Come on, all you brave ladies!’ cries Miss Marshall, clapping her hands together. Here they go: Sally Miggins, casting a rueful grin as she canters lightly towards the starting line. Pippa Fletch, who happens to be wearing – like most of the mums, I now realise – clothes which would certainly pass as everyday attire (T-shirts, trackie bottoms) but are suspiciously easy to run in. No one would show up at Spring into Fitness in serious running gear. That would be far too obvious. The aim is to look like you hadn’t even realised there’d be a mums’ race when you’ve been secretly training for months.

‘Come on, Laura,’ Beth cajoles, tugging my arm. ‘It’ll be fun.’

‘No it won’t,’ I reply with a dry laugh. Beth, the first friend I made on the mum circuit around here, is athletic and startlingly pretty, even with hair casually pulled back and without a scrap of make-up. I was presentable too, back in the Iron Age, before I acquired a husband, three children and a worrying habit of hoovering up my children’s leftovers. Waste not, want not, I always say.

‘Oh, don’t be a spoilsport,’ Beth teases. ‘It’s only to the end of the field. It’ll all be over in about twenty seconds.’

‘Yeah, you promised, Mum,’ Grace declares.

‘I can’t, Grace. Even if I was feeling okay, which I’m not with this ligament thing, I’m wearing the wrong shoes for running.’

Beth glances down at my cork-soled wedges. ‘Good point,’ she sniggers. ‘I’ll let you off . . . this time. But next time you forget your kit I’ll be sending a note home.’

‘Yes, Miss,’ I snigger. Beth grins and strides off towards the starting line.

‘Take them off,’ Grace growls.

‘What? I can’t run in bare feet! I might step on something like broken glass or poo or . . .’

‘No you won’t. It’s just grass, Mum. Nice soft grass.’

‘Grace, please stop nagging . . .’

‘Amy’s mum’s taken her shoes off. Look.’ Grace points towards the cluster of super-fit mums, all laughing and limbering up as if this is something one might do for pleasure. Sure enough, Sophie Clarke has tossed aside her sandals and is performing professional-looking leg stretches on the damp turf.

‘Any more mums keen to join in?’ Miss Marshall calls out hopefully. A trim thirty-something, she exudes kindness and capability. She manages to look after 270 children, five days a week. I find it an almighty challenge to raise three. I am in awe of her.

‘Anyway, I didn’t promise,’ I add. ‘I said I might . . .’

‘You did! You said at breakfast.’

Hell, she’s right. She and Toby were bickering over the last Rice Krispies, despite the fact that our kitchen cupboard contains around thirty-two alternative cereal varieties. ‘If you stop arguing,’ I’d told her, ‘I’ll do the mums’ race today.’ She’d whooped and kissed me noisily on the cheek. It’s okay, I’d reassured myself on the way to school and nursery. She’ll forget.

I’d forgotten that children never forget, unless it’s connected to teeth cleaning. I know, too, that I’m a constant disappointment to her, making promises I can’t keep. Pathetic mother with her colossal bra, non-matching knickers and carrying far too many souvenirs of her last pregnancy (stretch marks, wobbly tum), especially considering the fact that Toby is now four years old.

Across the field, Finn, my eldest, is sitting on a plastic chair between his best friends Calum and James. He, like Grace, is of athletic build: lanky with well-defined arms from drumming, and strong legs from playing football in his dad’s junior team every Sunday. Toby too exhibits signs of sporting prowess. Only this morning he bowled my powder compact across the bathroom and into the loo where it landed with a splash. Shame there’s no medal for that. And he denied responsibility. Told me that Ted, his hygienically-challenged cuddly, had done it.

Finn glances at me, then at the clump of mums all eagerly poised at the starting line. While Grace is desperate for me to do this, I know he’s praying I won’t. I don’t want to aggravate things between us even further. At eleven years old, he has become sullen and distant these past few months, and seems desperate for puberty to kick off big-time. Yesterday, I heard him bragging to James in his room that he’d discovered a solitary hair on his testicles. Other recent acquisitions are a can of Lynx and a tube of supposedly ‘miracle’ spot cream.

‘Mummy,’ Grace barks into my ear, ‘everyone’s doing it except you.’

‘No they’re not,’ I retort. ‘Look at those two ladies over there.’ Hovering close to the fence is a woman who’s so hugely pregnant she could quite feasibly go into labour at any moment, and a lady of around 107 in a beige coat and transparent plastic rain hat. ‘They’re quite happy to watch,’ I add. ‘Not everyone’s madly competitive, Grace.’

Her eyes cloud, and her lightly-freckled cheeks flush with annoyance. ‘Come on, Laura, shake a leg!’ trills latecomer Naomi Carrington. Naomi is wearing running gear. Tight, bubblegum-pink racing-back top, plus even tighter black Spandex shorts which hug her taut, shapely bottom like cling film, as if this were the sodding Commonwealth games. Her breasts jut out, firm and pointy like meringues, and she swigs from a bottle of sports drink. ‘I’m really unfit too,’ she adds. ‘Haven’t trained since last year’s Scarborough 10k. Mind you, I managed forty-nine minutes. That’s my PB . . .’

‘What’s a PB?’ I ask.

‘Personal best. Fastest-ever time.’ She throws me a ‘you are a moron’ look. ‘I know, not exactly a world record,’ she chuckles, ‘but pretty impressive for me. And I’m hoping to do even better this year.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ I growl, feeling my lifeblood seep out through the soles of my feet. If I ever attempted a 10k, the only way I’d cross the finishing line would be in a coffin.

She grins, showing large, flat white teeth which remind me of piano keys. Naomi is the proud owner of a perfect body, the whole town knows that – thanks to her stint as a life model for the Riverside Arts Society. Dazzling paintings of her luscious naked form were displayed in the Arts Centre café for what felt like a hundred years.

Perhaps I should run the race. I’ve felt spongy and wobbly for so long, maybe this is my chance to snap into action and do something about it. It could be the start of a new, sleek me, who wears racing-back tops and talks about PBs. I breathe deeply, trying to muster some courage, the way I imagine elite athletes do before world-class events. Across the pitch, Finn is poking the damp ground with the toe of his trainer. I know he’s wishing his dad were here. Jed would have entered the dads’ race and won it. He, too, would have been sporting a red rosette by now. But Jed isn’t here. He’s a senior teacher at another primary school – one far rougher than this – whereas I work part-time as a lowly hairdresser and can always take time off for school-related events. Lucky me.

Naomi is stretching from side to side, which causes her top to ride up (not accidentally, I suspect), exposing her tiny, nipped-in waist. Grace is chewing a strand of long, caramel-coloured hair, perhaps wishing she had a different mum – a properly functioning one with meringue breasts, like Naomi.

I swallow hard. ‘You really want me to do this, sweetheart?’

She looks up, dark brown eyes wide. ‘Yeah.’

‘Okay. Promise you won’t laugh?’

She nods gravely. Something clicks in me then, propelling me towards the starting line, despite my wrong shoes and bogus sprained ligament and the fact that Finn will be mortified. ‘Mum’s doing the race!’ Grace yelps. ‘Go, Mum!’ I daren’t look at Finn.

‘Well done, Mrs Swan,’ Miss Marshall says warmly. I bare my teeth at her.

‘Good for you,’ Beth says, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze.

‘You know I can’t run,’ I whisper. ‘This’ll be a disaster.’

‘It’s just for fun,’ she insists. ‘No one cares about winning.’ I muster a feeble smile, as if a doctor were about to plunge a wide-bore syringe into my bottom.

‘Your shoes, Mrs Swan,’ Miss Marshall hisses. ‘You might like to . . .’

‘Oh, God, yes.’ I peel off the lovely turquoise suede sandals which I bought in a flurry of excitement when my sister Kate came to stay. She chose snug-fitting skinny jeans; I headed for footwear because trying on shoes doesn’t involve changing room mirrors or discovering that you can’t do up a zip. As I scan the row of women, all raring to go, I realise I’m the fattest mum in the race. What if my heart gives out and I’m carted off on a stretcher? Beth grins and winks at me. Naomi, who’s set her sports drink on the ground behind her, assumes an authentic starting position like Zola-bloody-Budd. I ignore her and focus ahead. The pitch doesn’t usually look this big. Now the finishing line seems so distant it might as well be in Sweden. ‘On your marks, get set . . . go!’ Miss Marshall roars.

Christ, don’t they give you a warning, like some kind of amber alert? These aren’t women but gazelles, charging off in a blur of limbs and kicking up mud behind them. I’m running too. At least I’m slapping down each bare foot alternately and trying to propel myself with my arms like I saw Paula Radcliffe doing on TV.

The pack zooms ahead. Are they on steroids or what? They must have taken some kind of drug. If I survive this I’m insisting on tests. Right now, though, a sharp pain is spearing my side, making my breath come in agonising gasps. ‘Go for it, Laura!’ cries one of the dads, in the way that people cheer on the unfortunate child in the sack race who’s staggering behind, swathed in hessian, and finally makes it to the finishing line streaming with tears and snot after everyone else has gone home.

There’s cheering, and I glimpse Naomi punching the air in triumph at the finishing line. My bra straps have slipped down, and my boobs are boinging obscenely as I thunder onwards. I glance down to assess their bounceage, and when I look up something’s terribly wrong, because Jed is standing there. Jed, who should be at his own school, not witnessing the ritual humiliation of his wife. Worse still, he’s standing next to Celeste, that new teacher with whom he’s clearly besotted, although he acts all blasé (overly-blasé, I’d say) whenever her name pops up. Gorgeous, honey-skinned Celeste who, to top it all, is half-sodding-French.

I keep running, telling myself that they can’t be here, laughing and standing all jammed up together. It’s just some terrible vision caused by over-exerting myself. And they say exercise is good for you. No one mentions the fact that your chest feels as if it could burst open and you start hallucinating.

I glance back to check. Celeste is gazing up at Jed and fiddling with a strand of her hair. Anyone would think she’s his cute, doe-eyed girlfriend in her polka-dot skirt and sweet lemon cardi. She reaches out to pick something – a stray thread, perhaps – off Jed’s top. Grooming him, like a mating monkey. It’s sickeningly intimate. He smiles tenderly at her. Whenever I try to pick something off him, he bats me away as if I’m a wasp.

I charge on like a heifer, boiling with rage, my boobs lolloping agonisingly as I try to recall the last time Jed smiled adoringly at me. I can’t remember. It’s so horrifying to see him looking at her that way that for an instant I forget where I am. I lose my footing, skid on the muddied pitch and lurch forwards with arms outstretched, belly-flopping onto the ground with a splatter.

Dear God, kill me now.

I lie still, waiting for my life to flash before me. A lump of dirt, or possibly a live bug, has worked its way up my nose. With my eyes squeezed tightly shut, I’m poised to transcend to some heavenly Celeste-free zone, where no one is ever forced to take part in a mums’ race.

Chapter Two

For several moments, nothing happens. There are no angels, softly strumming harps; just a dull thudding sensation in my ears. Gradually, I become aware of faint drizzle on my face, and a ripple of concerned voices around me. My eyes are still squeezed shut. ‘Laura?’ comes Jed’s voice. ‘Are you all right? Can you hear me? Jesus Christ . . .’

‘I think she’s knocked herself out,’ someone gasps.

‘Laura!’ Jed exclaims close to my ear.

‘We should call an ambulance,’ comes an urgent whisper.

Don’t move. If I lie here without flinching maybe they’ll cart me away and cremate me. Jed and the children will manage fine, as long as Grace reminds him that she has gym on Tuesdays and Fridays and he doesn’t give Finn brown bread sandwiches in his packed lunch.

‘Try to stand up,’ Jed urges. ‘You’ll be okay, we’ll get you inside . . .’

‘Is Mummy all right?’ Grace cries. My eyes ping open instantly and I stagger to my feet, aware that my nostril is still packed with mud.

‘Yes, I’m okay, love. Just slipped . . .’

‘Poor Mummy!’ Grace’s eyes are glossy with concern as she grips my hand.

‘God, Laura, that was pretty spectacular,’ Jed says, shaking his head despairingly.

‘You poor, poor thing,’ Celeste witters, craning forward as if eager to witness what kind of stunt I’ll pull off next.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I snap. ‘I just slipped, that’s all.’

‘Does it feel as if you’ve broken anything?’ Beth asks gently, easing her way between Jed and Celeste. As they appear to be almost surgically attached, this is a major feat.

‘I . . . don’t think so,’ I reply, wishing everyone would melt away, apart from Beth. Then I’d spill it all out – about Celeste picking something off Jed’s top and how the sight of them together made me feel sick and disorientated.

‘Are you sure?’ cuts in Miss Marshall. ‘That was a pretty serious fall.’

‘You might have sprained something,’ Beth suggests.

‘Yes,’ I blurt out, figuring that this is my only way to save face: to turn it into a medical situation. ‘My left ankle really hurts,’ I groan.

‘Let’s get her to the doctor’s,’ someone mutters.

‘No, I don’t need a doctor, I’ll be perfectly okay . . .’

‘Miss Curwin will take you to the office,’ says Miss Marshall firmly.

‘It’s fine, I’ll look after her,’ Jed says quickly.

Damn. I might have been able to feign a sprained ankle in front of the school secretary, but not with Jed. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ I hiss as he helps me to my feet and leads me towards the school building.

‘We’re due for a meeting about this inter-schools art competition,’ he says.

‘Oh,’ I say hollowly. We. How fantastically cosy. Flanked by Jed, Celeste, Grace and Miss Curwin, I hobble towards the main entrance. Over by the goalposts, Finn and James are locked in conversation with Beth’s daughter Kira, the golden girl of his class. I pause, waiting for Finn to charge towards me, desperately concerned about my wellbeing. Nothing happens. Anyone would assume I’m some random crazy who’s blundered onto school property. Not the woman who carried him in her womb and has tended to his every need for the past eleven years.

In the office, I lower myself onto a chair. Miss Curwin produces the first aid box, extracts a bandage and starts to bind my left ankle. It’s quite a crush with everyone packed into the tiny room. So many eyes are fixed upon me that I begin to feel like something that’s been dug up from a field and put on display in a museum. ‘You’d better go back to the playing field now, Grace,’ Miss Curwin says. ‘Your mum’s going to be fine.’

‘Okay.’ She smiles unsteadily.

‘See you at home time,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry – I feel much better already.’

‘Sorry I nagged you and made you break your foot,’ she murmurs.

‘Oh, darling, it’s not your fault. It’s mine for being such a clumsy idiot.’

‘Yeah,’ Grace brightens, turning to leave. ‘No other mums fell over, did they, Dad?’

‘Er, no, love.’ Jed clears his throat, and I catch him throwing a quick look at Celeste.

‘Are you in a hurry?’ I ask sharply. ‘Because I don’t want to keep you from your meeting.’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘we are supposed to be meeting Miss Marshall . . .’

‘Oh, I can deal with that, Jed,’ Celeste insists, widening her pale blue eyes. ‘You should take Laura home. Poor thing, she must be in agony.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say quickly, horrified now at the prospect of keeping up the bust-ankle pretence all the way home. ‘I’ll have to wait for school to finish anyway. That’s only an hour. Then I’ll pick up Toby and walk home, no problem.’ I pull myself up, gripping the edge of the desk for support.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Jed says. ‘I’ll drive you home and come back to collect the kids.’

‘That’s crazy! You don’t need to do that—’

‘Where are your shoes?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, they were just old things . . .’

‘Do call the surgery,’ Miss Curwin adds as we leave. ‘I’m sure they’ll give you an emergency appointment, get you checked out.’

‘Yes, I’ll do that.’

‘And get plenty of rest,’ Miss Curwin calls after us.

I nod gravely, wondering how I might possibly rest in our house, until I remember that there is nothing physically wrong with me.

Our car is parked in the next street. Jed and I don’t speak as I hobble barefoot towards it, having been unable to face prowling around the playing field to look for my sandals. As I lower myself onto the passenger seat, wincing with ‘pain’, Naomi saunters towards us, dangling my turquoise beauties by their straps. ‘I rescued these for you,’ she announces. They are smeared with mud, plus a curious slug-like substance.

‘Thanks, Naomi,’ I murmur, tossing them onto the back seat.

‘No problem.’ She touches her red winner’s rosette which she’s wearing as a jaunty hair accessory behind her left ear.

I shut the passenger door firmly. ‘Better luck next year!’ she mouths through the window before guffawing and cantering off down the street.

‘Spectacular,’ Jed grumbles, starting the engine. ‘Honestly, Laura, that really was one spectacular stunt you pulled off there.’

Chapter Three

‘Mum broke her foot today,’ Grace announces over dinner.

‘Aww,’ Toby says. ‘Poor Mummy.’

‘You mean she pretended to break it,’ Finn cuts in, carving grooves in his mashed potato with his fork. ‘Dad, didn’t she take the bandage off as soon as she got home and start walking normally? She was totally putting it on.’ He takes a noisy slurp of his orange juice and bangs his glass on the table.

‘Well, yes,’ chuckles Jed.

I glance down, checking that I still exist. Yep, all evidence suggests that I am a functioning human being with a beating heart and everything.

‘Why?’ Toby asks, wide-eyed, twirling a fork through his still-blond curls.

‘To make people feel sorry for her,’ Finn replies, ‘because she’s . . .’

‘Excuse me,’ I butt in. ‘I am here, you know. You don’t need to talk about me as if I’m somewhere else.’

‘Like hospital,’ Finn mutters.

I shoot him a look and push my shepherd’s pie aside, unable to face another mouthful. ‘I know it sounds stupid,’ I start, ‘but I didn’t mean for that to happen. You see, I was dizzy and confused – concussed maybe . . .’ I refrain from adding: and you know what? If it hadn’t been for the shock of seeing your darling father and that teacher woman, prodding each other on the sports field, I would never have fallen in the first place.

‘Were you really concussed?’ Jed sniggers.

‘It’s not funny, Jed. It’s one of the most embarrassing things that’s ever happened to me.’ I eye the pea which Toby has flicked off his plate, and which is now rolling steadily towards the table’s edge. It drops off, lands on the floor and trundles towards the cooker.

‘And me,’ Finn adds. ‘It was embarrassing for me as well. Everyone was pointing and laughing . . .’ He tosses his head so his dark, heavy fringe falls over his eyes.

‘Were they?’ I ask, appalled.

‘Oh, come on, honey.’ Jed smiles and reaches for my hand across the table. ‘Maybe you’re just not built for speed.’

‘What are you saying, Jed?’ I blink at him furiously. It’s okay for him; he’s still in excellent shape. Taut tummy, toned legs, infuriatingly firm butt. He even has his own hair and teeth.

‘Just that . . . your talents lie in other areas.’ He grins cheekily, trying to lighten the mood.

‘And what areas might they be?’

He pauses. I can virtually hear his brain whirring as he tries to dredge up evidence of my brilliance. ‘All the, er, stuff you do,’ he says, glancing in desperation at the children. ‘Doesn’t Mum do lots for you?’

Grace nods eagerly. ‘She packs our lunchboxes.’

‘She wipes my bum,’ Toby says approvingly, flicking another pea off his plate.

‘You should be doing that for yourself by now,’ Jed mutters.

‘He can’t wipe his bum!’ Grace titters. ‘Dirty boy with a dirty bum . . .’

‘I’m not dirty,’ Toby roars, and furious tears spring into his eyes.

‘Can I stop having cheese sandwiches in my lunchbox?’ Finn cuts in.

‘Okay,’ I say lightly, ‘but what would you like instead? You said you didn’t want ham, tuna, salami, chicken or beef . . . and didn’t you complain that the egg ones were smelly? It’s tricky to think of stuff you do like, Finn. Maybe you should start having school dinners?’

‘I just don’t like cheese, okay?’ He shudders dramatically, as if I’ve just tried to force-feed him a pilchard. ‘Ham is fine, I suppose,’ he adds, ‘but not the cheap stuff you usually buy.’

‘What on earth’s wrong with our ham?’

‘It’s kinda . . . wet. And see when you cut my sandwiches? Instead of two fat rectangles could you cut them in triangles like the ones in shops? That’s what James’s mum does.’

I hold his gaze. This is what my life has become. Not only am I not built for speed, I can’t even make an acceptable sandwich. Not like James’s mum does anyway. James’s mum who has a nanny even though she doesn’t work. ‘Would that be an isosceles triangle?’ I enquire. ‘Or would you prefer an equilateral or, um . . . that other kind I can’t remember the name of?’

Finn scowls. ‘Scalene. It’s called scalene, I learned that when I was eight, Mum. Didn’t you get that at school?’

‘No, I only got taught how to pick things up off the floor and wipe arses,’ I growl.

‘Uh?’ Finn barks.

‘I only asked because I might need to borrow your protractor to cut them really accurately.’ I smile brightly, aware of Jed’s caustic gaze.

‘For God’s sake,’ he snaps. ‘It’s time you all stopped being so fussy. Mum has enough on her plate without these ridiculous demands.’

‘Yes, she does,’ I shout, even though I feel physically ill when people refer to themselves in the third person.

‘I’m not fussy,’ Grace protests. ‘I think you make nice lunches, Mummy.’

‘Thank you, darling. I’m glad someone appreciates them.’

‘Wanna Penguin biscuit,’ announces Toby, whose dinner has congealed in unappetising brown heaps on his plate.

‘I don’t know why we do this,’ I mutter under my breath.

‘Do what, love?’ Jed asks.

‘This! These family mealtimes. I always thought, you know, that sitting down to eat together means we’re doing something right, that we’re good parents and are functioning as a family, getting on and enjoying each other’s company . . .’ I laugh hollowly.

Finn snorts through his nose.

‘But it doesn’t, does it?’ I rant. ‘It always seems to descend into bickering and shouting like this. Give me one reason, Jed, why family mealtimes are a good thing.’ He opens his mouth and decides to shut it again. ‘The whole concept’s overrated,’ I add, grabbing a dishcloth to mop up a small pool of juice from the table. ‘Sometimes I think we’d all be happier if everyone just foraged in cupboards or picked up scraps from the floor.’

‘Yeah!’ Toby exclaims, banging the table with his fist.

‘What’s foraged?’ Grace asks.

‘It’s when you go out and find food in the wild,’ Jed says quietly, casting me a frown as he gathers up the cutlery.

‘What wild food is there around here?’

‘None,’ Finn says with a smirk. ‘Mum’s just saying it ’cause she’s sick of cooking for us.’

‘No, I’m not.’ I pause, looking around at my children. ‘I’m sorry,’ I add. ‘I don’t mind cooking at all. It’s just sometimes, when everyone’s so picky and critical . . .’ My voice catches in my throat. ‘It’s just been a bit of a day,’ I add quickly.

‘Hey,’ Jed says, squeezing my waist as the children stomp out of the kitchen. ‘Why don’t you chill out for a while? I’ll clear up in here.’ I look at his handsome face: the deep brown eyes, which our three children have inherited, and the full, generous mouth which I loved to kiss, before kissing no longer seemed like the thing to do.

‘It’s okay,’ I say, glancing up at the ceiling. Finn has started drumming upstairs, causing the whole house to reverberate. I’m glad he drums, in that he clearly has musical talent, but occasionally I wish he’d chosen something gentler, like the oboe or flute. I glance at the tragic remains of Toby’s dinner which now looks like a small, collapsed volcano. For some reason, the sight of the unwanted meal – its ingredients shopped for and lovingly cooked – brings a lump to my throat. Ted is lying beside the plate with a daub of gravy on his matted ear.

‘Oh, love,’ Jed says gently. ‘Not still upset about that stupid mums’ race, are you?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Yes you are. I know you.’ He takes a plate from my hands and sets it on the worktop. I nod, because it’s easier than admitting how crushing it was to see him and Celeste, watching the races, as if she were the mother of our children. I know I’m being paranoid. They work together; they’d come for a meeting, that’s all. ‘Know what you need, darling?’ Jed says gently.

‘A diet,’ I mutter. ‘Did you see all the other mums? How lean and skinny they were? Especially Naomi . . .’

‘Well, she’s obsessed,’ Jed scoffs. ‘She’s a freak of nature.’

‘No she’s not. She’s just fit. And what about Beth? Why did I have to choose someone so athletic and sporty to be my best friend around here?’

‘It’s just the way she is,’ Jed insists. ‘She’s just made that way, love, while you’re, er . . .’

‘I feel so fat and useless,’ I cut in. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to me, why I don’t have any willpower. I try to start diets but on the first day, at the first twinge of hunger, I’m scrabbling about for a snack, a biscuit or something . . .’

‘Then have a biscuit!’ he exclaims. ‘Who cares if you’re not built like a stick? You’ve had three children, haven’t you? You’re normal. You’re fine . . .’

‘Well, I’m sorry but I don’t feel fine.’

He grabs both of my hands and squeezes them tightly. ‘You just need some time to yourself, all right? A day doing, well . . . whatever you want to do. What do you really love doing?’

‘Can’t remember.’ I glare at the floor, sounding like Finn at his most petulant.

‘What about shopping?’

‘I don’t need anything,’ I say, silently mourning my wrecked turquoise sandals.

‘I’m not talking about needing things,’ Jed insists. ‘I mean you could just go out and buy yourself something nice.’

‘Don’t you think I look nice, Jed?’ God, woman, get a grip on yourself. Stop being so damned needy.

He inhales deeply, and I detect a flicker of impatience in his deep brown eyes. ‘All I mean is, if you buy yourself something new, it might make you feel better about yourself. And you’d have a bit of time away from us lot.’

I nod, shamefaced. Jed is instructing me to cast off the shackles of motherhood and spend money on frivolities. If the playgroup mums could hear this, they’d faint with lust. ‘Maybe I’ll go into town on Saturday,’ I mutter.

‘Great.’ He smiles. ‘Celeste was talking about some new shop – some little boutiquey place by the station . . .’

My heart does a mini-thud. ‘I’d rather go into York,’ I say quickly. ‘There’s a lot more choice.’

‘It’s just, Celeste said . . .’

‘I know all the local shops inside out, Jed,’ I bark. ‘The clothes are either for teenagers or people over 150. There’s nothing in between. I’d like to go to York if that’s okay with you.’

‘Of course it is,’ he snaps back. ‘You can go wherever you like.’

I can sense him glowering as I gather up Toby’s Lego bricks from the kitchen floor and fling them into their red plastic bucket. I’m trying not to obsess over this new friendship of his. I haven’t interrogated Jed when he’s come home two hours later than expected, having stayed on to help The Celestial One with her wall display. I have even resisted reading all the texts she pings at him, perhaps scared of what I’ll find.

I march through to the living room to sort out a fracas over whose turn it is to use the remote control. Upstairs, Finn is bashing the life out of his drum kit. A day out on my own, away from all of this: I should be ecstatic. Yet I fear that my patience is stretched dangerously taut, and is about to twang like frayed knicker elastic.

Chapter Four

What the jiggins is wrong with you, Laura Swan? I ask myself this question as I drive to York on Saturday morning. Usually, I’d jump at an opportunity like this. A few hours in town without Finn complaining bitterly if I dare to venture into the wrong kind of shop – i.e., one with clothes hanging neatly on rails. Grace is tolerant, as long as we schedule a visit to the fancy dress shop. As for Toby – he loves the bustling streets, for about eight seconds, after which I have to placate him with a visit to Jorvik to hang out with the Vikings.

Not today, though. This is what the glossy magazines call ‘me-time’. It’s supposed to be soothing and restorative. As I stand in a changing room cubicle, with some girl chirping, ‘D’you think this makes me look too thin?’, I suspect I might be having a jollier time sniffing the authentic Viking cesspit with Toby.

‘No, you look gorgeous,’ her companion enthuses. ‘God, I wish I had legs like yours. They go on forever.’

All right, all right. No need to over-egg it, lady. I peer down at mine, which absolutely do not go on forever. They are the colour of raw pastry and urgently require a shave. Disconcertingly, the changing room mirrors are angled in such a way that you can view yourself from every conceivable angle. They should have a warning sign outside, saying it’s unsuitable for those of a nervous disposition.

The thin girl is now in the communal changing area. She probably looks like Penelope Cruz and has a Lancôme advertising contract. Standing in my bra and knickers – once dazzling white, now a lardy pale grey – I scrutinise the garment I grabbed randomly from a rail, simply because it’s in my favourite shade of blue. Actually, I’d assumed it was a top with little pearly buttons down the front. Nothing too controversial. Nothing to make the children shriek in horror and refuse to be seen in public with me. Now, though, it’s clear that this isn’t a top – at least not for a woman with a normal-shaped body. It has some kind of bottom-scenario attached. It’s a romper suit for a grown-up. My mind fills with a picture I once saw in a Sunday supplement, showing adults who dress up as babies for kicks. Grown men in knitted matinee jackets. Has the world gone insane? This is a respectable department store. They do wedding lists and Nigella Lawson tableware. Surely they haven’t started catering for sexual freaks.

I step into the ‘thing’ and try to pull it up over my body. Jesus. I look like an unconvincing transvestite. In a sweat, I yank it off, shutting my ears to the sound of a seam ripping and a button popping off. After hastily pulling on my jeans and top, I hurry out of the changing room where the Penelope look-alike is twirling in front of the mirror. She is skinny and angular, like a foal – and is wearing the thing. The romper. It’s several sizes smaller than mine – it would fit a Bratz doll, actually – but is clearly the same style. ‘Hi,’ she says, catching me staring. ‘It’s so hard to decide, isn’t it?’

‘Um, yes,’ I say, conscious of a faint throbbing in my temples. God, it’s hot in here. Penelope doesn’t look hot, though. At least not in a flushed, sweaty way. Her abundant dark hair cascades around her bronzed shoulders. It’s not natural to be tanned in April in Yorkshire. She must have been sprayed like a car.

‘Doesn’t she look amazing?’ says her equally dainty, redheaded friend, emerging from a cubicle.

‘Yes, she does.’ My back teeth clamp together.

‘You’ve got to buy it,’ the redhead urges. ‘It’s so you.’

‘Oh, I’m not sure . . .’ Penelope leans forward, studying her cleavage in the mirror. She has perky, young-person’s breasts. It’s a fair bet that they haven’t been gnawed by three ravenous infants or leaked milk in the supermarket checkout queue.

‘I, er, hope you don’t mind me asking,’ I say, fuelled by sudden curiosity, ‘but what would you call that thing you’re wearing?’

‘It’s a playsuit,’ Penelope says, twisting round to admire her minuscule derrière. Isn’t it obvious, Granny? she adds silently.

‘A playsuit?’ I repeat. ‘Like little children wear?’

She laughs. ‘Yes, I suppose so. They’re back again. Meant to be the big thing for summer.’ The redhead throws me a curt look as if to say: ‘No, she’s the big thing for summer.’

‘Oh, you’ve got one too!’ Penelope exclaims, registering the garment scrunched up in my clammy hand. ‘Are you treating yourself?’

‘Um, I don’t think so. It’s not really my thing.’

She flares her nostrils. ‘Hmmm. Guess you’ve got to go with what suits you.’

‘Yes, of course.’ I force a grin, which I hope suggests that I’m on the hunt for some foxy little cocktail dress, and not support hose or a girdle.

Back in the sanctuary of the mall, I wonder where to go next. I must buy something sexy and completely impractical. I can’t face going home empty-handed after being awarded a day off from domestic duties by my beloved. Ignoring a burning desire to check out drum accessories for Finn, or toys for Grace and Toby, I fish out my mobile, deciding to cheer myself up by telling Jed about the playsuit incident. Our answerphone clicks on, and when I try his mobile it goes straight to voicemail. ‘Hi, love,’ I say. ‘Just thought I’d let you know I’ve bought a playsuit. It looks great, really foxy – thought I’d wear it to your next work do. Hope you’re all having a fun day. Missing you. Bye, honey.’

I glare at my phone, as if it’s responsible for my husband’s unavailability. It’s not that I’m worried that Jed is incapable of looking after our children. He works with kids, after all, in the toughest primary school in the area. He’s even had a feature in the local newspaper about him. Jed Swan, it said, has scooped a well-deserved Local Hero award for his unfailing commitment to children’s artistic and sporting endeavours in the borough. He’s not the kind of dad who needs a map of the kitchen to indicate where milk is kept. Beth told me that, on the rare occasions when she’s going away overnight, she still feels compelled to leave Pete, her husband, a list of child-related instructions which can run to five pages. What guidance could a father possibly need in order to care for his two children, I wondered? ‘Take kids to park . . . you’ll do this by first ensuring that they are adequately clothed according to climatic conditions . . . Leave house via front door remembering to take key . . . In the park you will find a large circular object. This is called a roundabout. No, not the traffic kind. The other kind. Let Jack go on it, and Kira if she wants to, then proceed to spin them as fast as humanly possible for several weeks . . .’

As I head for Starbucks, I figure that at least Jed does his fair share. In fact, he could probably survive perfectly well without me. He certainly doesn’t seem to need me. Sometimes I suspect he wouldn’t notice if, instead of sleeping beside him, I replaced myself with a cushion. I have come up with possible reasons for this:

1. Severe exhaustion (although toning down his sporting activities might help).

2. He is suffering from some kind of sexual dysfunction and is too embarrassed to talk about it, even though we have been together for fourteen years. Regarding this option, I have delved about on our computer for evidence of him trying to buy Viagra or some kind of pumper-upper penis device. So far, nothing.

3. He no longer fancies me due to my ample fleshage.

4. He is shagging Celeste, a possibility which is too horrific to contemplate seriously and makes me barge into Starbucks in a rather aggressive manner, nearly sending a man flying in the doorway.

‘Whoa, after you!’ he says, staggering back dramatically.

‘God, I’m so sorry,’ I bluster. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

‘That’s okay. You’re obviously more desperate for a caffeine fix than I am.’ He grins, and his cheeks dimple in a distinctly fetching way.

‘Guess I am. It’s just been one of those mornings.’ I smile back, pushing dishevelled hair out of my eyes, and realise I’m still clutching the playsuit. ‘Oh, hell . . .’ I shake it out and gawp at it.

‘Not your colour?’ the man asks with a smirk.

‘It’s not . . . I mean . . . it’s not even mine.’ Blushing furiously, I meet the stranger’s blue-eyed gaze.

‘So whose is it?’

‘It’s the shop’s,’ I murmur. ‘I . . . I stole it.’

Chapter Five

‘Really?’ He makes his way towards the small queue at the counter. ‘You mean you shoplifted it? That was very bold of you.’

‘I mean accidentally,’ I say quickly. ‘I tried it on in a shop and it was awful, some kind of playsuit thing that came up to here’ – I indicate thigh-length – ‘and it was so hot and stifling in there, and I was so desperate to get out I just walked off with it . . .’ My entire body tenses in preparation for a hand landing heavily on my shoulder and being named and shamed in the Collinton Gazette. Mother of Three, Wife of Local Hero, steals playsuit from city centre store . . . I glance around nervously.

‘What did you say it was?’ the man asks.

‘A playsuit. They’re the big thing for summer, apparently. I’ll have to take it straight back.’

‘Why not have a coffee first?’ He narrows his eyes and glances through the window. ‘Can’t hear any sirens out there. You should be safe for a few minutes.’

‘Think so?’ There’s a faint throbbing in my neck. Not even the sight of all the muffins and pastries can soothe me.

‘I’d say you could risk it. I’ll keep an eye out if you like.’ His blue eyes crinkle appealingly, and I notice how long and luscious his dark eyelashes are. Clients have theirs tinted at the salon to achieve a similar effect. ‘After you,’ he adds, beckoning me to join the queue.

‘Thanks,’ I say, relaxing slightly. I order my coffee, choosing a shortbread biscuit for nerve-calming purposes, and buy three giant chocolate coins for the kids. The stranger joins me at a vacant table. ‘I’m Danny,’ he says. ‘Okay if I sit with you?’

‘Laura.’ I smile. ‘Sure, no problem, as long as you don’t mind associating with a master criminal.’

He grins. ‘Think I can handle it. So, what’s the plan with the playsuit?’

‘I don’t know. How would you go about un-shoplifting something?’

Danny shrugs. ‘I might run past and throw it in through the door . . .’

I laugh. ‘I’m not running anywhere. You know the parents’ races they have at school sports days?’

‘Well, I can imagine,’ he says with a shudder.

‘Didn’t even make it to the finishing line,’ I tell him. ‘It’s a wonder my family hasn’t disowned me.’

He chuckles. ‘Well, don’t they say it’s not the winning . . .’

‘. . . but the taking part that counts. Not at my kids’ school. It’s a deadly serious business.’

He sips from his mug and wipes a little coffee froth from his upper lip. ‘So, how many mini-athletes do you have?’

‘Just the three.’

‘Whoa. Quite a handful.’

‘You could say that,’ I laugh, appraising this cute, friendly man with a cheeky smile who has lifted me from changing room despair to a far more agreeable state of mind. Danny has dark brown, slightly unkempt wavy hair, and a hint of stubble. He is chunky, like me, but it lends him an endearing quality and rather suits him. Anyway, men can get away with it. A little extra weight makes them look cuddly and cute. As they don’t have the babies, they’re not subjected to a barrage of pressure to lose their pregnancy weight in ten minutes. I nearly vomited when Naomi bragged that her body had ‘snapped back’ to pre-pregnancy tautness within ten days of giving birth to Phoebe. There was a distinct lack of snapping with mine. On particularly fat days I still wear my vast preggie knickers, and fear that they’ll still be surgically attached to my rear when Toby leaves for college.

‘Laura,’ Danny says thoughtfully, ‘I’ve got an idea.’

‘Uh-huh?’ I lick a spoonful of cappuccino froth. I should have ordered a skinny latte – or, better still, a bottle of joyless calorie-free water. What the hell.

‘You could post it back anonymously . . .’

‘Great idea. I could include a note telling them that it didn’t have a security tag on, so they’d realise there’s a fault in their system . . .’

‘. . . Which means you’d be doing them a favour,’ Danny says triumphantly. ‘Or I could take it back for you and tell them I’ve decided I don’t have the legs for it.’

We are giggling like children as we finish our coffees and step out into the bustling street. The grey April sky has brightened to a clear baby blue, and York looks sparkly and alive. ‘Think I’ll just take it back and explain what happened,’ I say, smiling.

‘Very sensible.’ We pause, then he adds, ‘Well, it was nice meeting you, Laura. You really brightened up my day.’

‘You too. And I’m sorry I barged into you like that. I’m not usually so rude.’

He grins. ‘I’m sure you’re not.’

‘Bye, then.’

‘Bye, Laura.’ As we head in opposite directions I turn, briefly, to see if he’s merged with the crowd. Danny turns too, catching my eye and giving me a little wave and a cheek-dimpling grin before disappearing around the corner. I stand for a moment, thinking, what a sweet man, and tasting sugary shortbread on my lips. I feel giddily alert, as if every cell in my body has just woken from a long hibernation and sizzled back into life.

It’s been so long, I realise with a jolt to my heart, since anyone has made me feel like that.

Chapter Six

I return the playsuit, for which I am thanked profusely (although I omit to point out the ripped seam and missing button) and saunter into my next port of call with renewed optimism. Result: they do not cater solely for shaved Twiglets, and actually stock size 16s. Grabbing a handful of dresses, I pull on the first one in the changing room. I don’t know if they have trick mirrors or lighting but I look kind of . . . radiant. As if I might have been whisked off to a spa, given a thorough all-over scrubbing and hourly shots of wheatgrass. My long, wavy dark hair looks shinier and somehow more nourished, and my normally pale cheeks have acquired a healthy glow. I no longer look like a woman who breakfasted on her children’s fried egg whites as all three decided that, from now on, they will only tolerate yolks.

The dress is a gorgeous emerald green and has obviously been designed by someone who recognises that real women have bums and hips and boobs, and knows how to make them look rather yummy. ‘Oh, yes, that’s perfect,’ the salesgirl exclaims when I step out of the cubicle. ‘It really brings out your lovely green eyes.’

‘Think so?’ I ask. ‘It’s quite bright for me. It’s not my usual shade at all . . .’

‘Oh, it’s definitely the one for you. Are you tempted?’ She smiles encouragingly.

I nod. ‘Sorely tempted.’

‘Well, I hope you’re going somewhere special to wear it.’

‘Yes,’ I fib, ‘I am.’ Back in the cubicle, I change back into my own clothes at top speed, filled with a renewed sense of purpose. Jed was right: today has done me a world of good. I no longer feel all chewed up about Celeste and all that pathetic picking-at-my-husband’s-clothes at sports day. All I’d needed was a little time on my own to put things in perspective (oh, and to have coffee with a cute, friendly man; maybe I’ve just been starved of male company lately). Trying to tame a rogue grin, I decide not to mention the coffee part to Jed. Or the accidental shoplifting, him being Local Hero, pillar of the community and all that.

As I head for the till, a small thrill ripples through me as I wonder what the kids have been up to today. I know I’m supposed to be grateful to be let off the leash, but I’m not used to being without at least Toby, when I’m not working. God knows how I’ll feel when he starts school after the summer holidays. Naomi keeps asking what I ‘have planned’, which suggests that I should have everything sorted – a PhD to get started, maybe – in readiness for this forthcoming development.

A display of stockings and tights catches my eye in a display cabinet by the till. As I’m not up to flashing my sun-starved legs, I pause to choose a pair. ‘Slender Deluxe’, one packet reads. ‘Impregnated with skin-smoothing extracts. Counters cellulite and offers a silken tone.’ Hmm. The word ‘impregnated’ is a little off-putting, but I’m intrigued by the promise of ‘visibly slimmer legs, thighs and bottom after just one wearing’. Can tights really do this? If so, why does anyone bother going to the gym?

Next to the tights are things called Body Reducers which promise to ‘squeeze away inches’. I grab one of those too. In the picture on the packet, the model is wearing a curious undergarment which goes all the way from her knees right up to her boobs. It’s the colour of a digestive biscuit and quite hideous, like a sort of gigantic support bandage. Surely, though, being all bound up like that is a small price to pay to have inches squeezed away, and less hassle than being lipo-sucked. I pay up and head out, breathing in the fresh, blue-skied morning.

Even without my new fat-melting underwear on, I feel unusually carefree and light. Maybe that Body Reducer starts working in the packet. As I walk, I glimpse a woman’s reflection in a shop window, and it’s a moment before I realise it’s me. I’m striding along like someone who knows where she’s going and feels good to be alive. A besuited man heading towards me flashes a wide grin. I smile back. It’s as if a switch has been flicked and I am visible again. As I pass Starbucks, where I banged into Danny, I feel a flurry of pleasure.

After a leisurely lunch, and perusing posh make-up which I can’t afford (and which Toby would probably destroy anyway), I drive home with the windows open and music blaring. The posh paper carrier bag containing my new dress, tights and corset thingie sits perkily on the passenger seat.

Back home, Toby hurtles towards our front door to greet me. ‘Mummy’s back!’ he cries, wrapping himself tightly around me.

‘Hi, darling. Had a fun day with Dad?’ I crouch down and bury my face in his messy fair curls.

‘Yuh. Where you been?’ he asks, swinging Ted by a leg.

‘Just to York, shopping.’ He pulls away and bites his full bottom lip, as if fearing that I might desert him again very soon (unlikely). Even when he’s older, lying on the sofa in a fizzle of hormones like Finn, I can’t imagine him trying to disown me.

Jed is standing a little behind him, looking rather aimless with hands thrust into his jeans pockets. ‘Had a good day?’ he asks.

‘Yes, great, thanks. Just what I needed.’ I meet his gaze. He is sexily unshaven and horribly, irresistibly handsome. I love a grazing of dark, swarthy stubble, until it becomes needle-prickly by which point I usually ask him to shave. Correction: used to ask. Jed hasn’t bristle-grazed me in a long time. We don’t seem to kiss these days. I’m not sure at what point we stopped.

‘What did you buy, Mummy?’ Grace asks, clattering downstairs. Her caramel hair is loose and wild, and she’s wearing a huge black T-shirt with a shark on the front, baring its teeth.

‘Just a dress, love, and some tights and, er, an underwear thingie.’ I try for a hug, but she wriggles from my grasp.

‘Aw, that’s boring.’

‘Oh, and these.’ I tease her by fishing about in my bag for ages. With a flourish, I pull out the giant chocolate coins.

‘Yummy!’ she squeals. ‘Can I have one?’

‘Of course you can. They’re not for me.’ Perish the thought . . .

‘Thanks, Mummy.’

‘Fanks,’ Toby barks, ripping the foil from his gift and stuffing it into his mouth. Grace takes a huge chomp out of hers.

‘I got this for you,’ I say, brandishing the remaining coin as Finn strolls downstairs in a fug of recently-applied Lynx and hair gel.

‘Oh. Right. Cool,’ he mumbles, which causes my insides to twist a little.

‘Guess what,’ Grace announces through a full mouth.

‘What, love?’

‘Celeste was here.’

‘Was she? Why?’ Frowning, I glance at Jed.

‘She was just passing and popped in for coffee,’ he says quickly, sweeping back his hair.

‘Did she?’ I study his face, trying to read his expression and ignoring the fact that Toby is repeatedly whacking my leg with Ted.

‘Yeah, well, uh . . .’ Jed murmurs.

‘I didn’t know she knew where we lived,’ I add.

‘It’s just, she still doesn’t know many people around here,’ Jed explains, looking a little more relaxed now. ‘I just said, if she was at a loose end at the weekend she was welcome to pop round, have a bite to eat with us . . .’

‘While I was shopping,’ I add.

‘Yeah, but, uh, I didn’t realise . . .’

‘Look what I made!’ Toby interrupts, dropping Ted and burrowing into the pocket of his rumpled trousers. He extracts a clump of custard-yellow felt which has been glued to form a sort of pouch. ‘S’a present for you,’ he adds.

‘You made this all by yourself? That’s fantastic, Toby.’

He nods proudly. ‘He didn’t,’ scoffs Grace. ‘Celeste made it.’

My heart thuds to my boots. ‘She didn’t!’ Toby thunders with an ineffectual attempt to punch his sister in the chest. ‘I made it!’

‘Celeste did it all,’ Grace crows, deliberately winding him up. ‘She did the cutting and sticking. You couldn’t make a purse all by yourself, you’re only a baby . . .’

‘I’m not a baby!’ he rages. ‘I’m four . . .’

‘Only just,’ she snaps back.

‘Hey, don’t fight, you two,’ I protest, turning to Jed. ‘So you had a sort of, um . . . craft session?’ I’m trying to keep my voice light, but am aware that it sounds taut and ugly.

‘Er, yeah. Celeste had some fabric with her so the kids started making things . . .’ He shrugs. He really is overdoing the casual look.

‘Oh. That’s . . . great.’ I grin inanely, aware of three pairs of children’s eyes, dark as coffee beans, boring into me. Celeste was here. How fantastically cosy. Not only does she show up precisely when I’m grappling with an oversized romper suit, but also happens to have a wealth of child-pleasing craft materials about her person. As you do. On your way to your yoga class or to Mother Earth for your goddamn sprouting seeds or whatever it is she allows to come into contact with her precious insides.

The first time I met her, at a leaving do for Jed’s deputy head, she was eyeing the buffet with distaste. We were in the dingy downstairs room of a bar in town, and everyone else was troughing pizza and sausage rolls. I’d tried to make an effort, since Jed was obviously so taken with the newest staff member and had gone on about how much fun she was, and how the children loved her. ‘Hi, I’m Laura, Jed’s wife,’ I’d said, sensing that she looked a little lonely.

‘Oh, are you?’ she’d said with a quizzical smile, as if surprised that tall, swarthy, handsome Jed should have such a dumpy wife. There’d been a small silence, and I’d babbled something nonsensical about the hassle of booking a babysitter that night.

‘Bet it’s lovely for you to be out,’ she’d said, flicking a gaze towards Jed who was deep in conversation with Carol, his head teacher.

The way she’d said it, and looked at my husband like that – she’d made it sound as if I’d just been released from an institution. ‘It’s great,’ I’d replied, a little tiddly on cheap white wine by that point. ‘I’m only allowed out until ten, though. Otherwise they come in a van to take me back.’

‘Haha,’ she’d managed, grabbing her handbag from the greasy table and scooting towards the ladies’. I’d spotted Mickey and Duncan, Jed’s teacher mates, and been awash with relief when they’d beckoned me over and been friendly and chatty and normal.

And now, I’m clutching the felt purse she helped Toby to make, and having to pretend I love it. ‘This is great, Toby, thank you,’ I say, trying to regard it with fondness.

‘Looks more like a codpiece,’ Jed hisses into my ear. His arm snakes around my waist, and I muster a smile. Of course I’m being ridiculous. Why shouldn’t Celeste happen to be passing, and drop in? This proves that nothing’s going on between them. No one who was shagging, or even planning to shag their father, would have the gall to make codpieces with our children.

‘We had a picnic in the park,’ Grace adds.

‘That’s lovely. It’s been a gorgeous afternoon.’

‘Celeste came with us.’ She grins.

My throat tightens. Jesus, was she here the whole day? Is she planning to move in with us? Shall we build an annexe for her in the garden? Actually, you could probably fit three in our bed if I positioned myself with my arse hanging right off the edge. ‘Did she?’ I say. ‘That’s lovely. Sounds like you’ve all had a great day. Anyway, I’m just going to take my shopping upstairs.’ I glower at Jed, who looks relieved to finish this conversation.

In our bedroom, I pull out the emerald dress and hold it up against myself. It’s a little skimpy and low at the front, I realise now; my boobs are ample, to put it mildly, and I’m not used to so much creamy flesh being on display. I wonder if my powers of selection had somehow become distorted after I’d met Danny. I’d felt emboldened then, and a little flirtatious, like my old, carefree self before all this weight began to creep on. It had given me a confidence surge, just chatting to him in the café. A smile tweaks my lips as I picture his cheeky, boyish smile, the pale blue eyes fringed with long, black lashes, the slightly dishevelled, needing-a-trim dark hair. How he’d made me laugh, and feel like Laura again, not the twerp who humiliates herself at sports day.

Just a coffee with a friendly stranger. That’s all it was – nothing compared to cosy craft sessions and picnics, and therefore not worth mentioning to Jed. I didn’t even fancy him, not really. I was just flattered, that’s all. Is Jed attracted to Celeste? Of course he is. Any straight man would be. She’s beautiful, slim and creative. I am merely okay-looking if you squint at me in a dim light, and it took me two whole terms at school to make a rabbit pincushion.

The door creaks open and Grace strolls in, licking melted chocolate from her fingers. ‘Hi, bunny,’ I say.

She tilts her head, and I notice a grubby smear on her pointy little chin. She looks tired in an outdoorsy way, worn out by a day of fun. ‘Love you, Mummy,’ she says suddenly, causing my Celeste-vexation to melt away.

‘Love you too.’ I open my arms and pull her in for a hug. This time, she doesn’t wriggle.

‘Celeste can rollerblade,’ she adds.

Chapter Seven

There’s no chance to bring up the subject of Celeste in the morning as Jed and I aren’t alone for a minute. I didn’t mention it last night either, being a little unsure of what I would actually object to. The picnic? The rollerblading? The making of purses? When you look at it that way, it’s all pretty innocent, child-pleasing stuff. Even so, I feel unsettled all through breakfast, and I notice that Jed is particularly keen to dart off to work.

I must be mature about this. Mustn’t seethe as I take the children to school and nursery, or Naomi will spot me and make some spiky remark about me looking wired and suggest, ‘I always find the mornings run more smoothly if I get the children’s lunchboxes and uniforms ready the night before, don’t you?’ I’m seized by an urge to supply them with packets of Monster Munch to consume in public. That would get her neck vein pulsating.

Finn is marching ahead, all unkempt dark hair and long, gangly limbs, giving the impression that I’m some irksome stranger lurking behind him. Spotting James and Calum swaggering ahead, he hurries to catch up. I’ve tried to work out why I’m so embarrassing – so much so, in fact, that he no longer allows me to cut his hair and insists on going to some scabby place under the railway arch where they also do piercing. Surely I can’t be that mortifying. It’s not as if I walk to school in a pink bikini, singing opera songs. In fact I try to tone myself down in my extremely plain black trenchcoat and flat boots. I don’t think I look freakish. Sometimes, though, I worry that I’m not quite normal. A sensible person would take this Celeste business – the showing up at sports day, the jolly craft sessions and picnics – in her stride. Maybe I should be glad my family has a perfectly nice time without me?

Spotting her friend India across the street, Grace waves and whirls round to face me. ‘Can India come for tea?’

‘We’ll see. I’ll need to ask her mum, okay?’ For a seven-year-old Grace has an enviable social life, which I’m pleased about – but this also means our house often has the feel of an impromptu after-school club, with mass-catering expected. By the time we arrive at school, Grace has accumulated a bunch of excitable friends. ‘Bye, Mummy,’ she says sweetly, planting a speedy kiss on my cheek.

‘Bye, darling. Have a lovely day.’ I glance around for Finn, hoping to say goodbye, but he’s already sauntered into the playground with his friends.

‘Come on, love,’ I say, clutching Toby’s hand. ‘Let’s take you to nursery.’ Scamps is just around the corner from school. He charges in, flings his coat in the vague direction of his named hook and throws his backpack onto the floor. I grab him for a quick hug goodbye before he tears off into the main room, and put his coat and bag in their rightful places. ‘Hi, Laura.’ Cara, the manageress, pops her head around the cloakroom door.

‘Hi, Cara. Just tidying up after Toby as usual.’ I force a grin.

‘Hmm. Did he tell you about his little adventure last week?’

‘No,’ I say hesitantly.

She crooks her eyebrow, making me sweat. ‘Took the plug out of the water tray. Flooded the main room. The children had to sit in the library corner until we’d mopped it all up.’

‘Oh, I’d no idea. He didn’t mention that. I’m really sorry.’

‘That’s okay.’ She chuckles in a kids, eh? kind of way and flutters her eyelashes at me.

‘Bet that happens all the time,’ I add.

‘No,’ she says levelly. ‘In the fifteen years I’ve worked here, no child has ever done that.’

Good for Toby, I think, gushing further apologies as I make my escape. At least he thought of something new and different to amuse himself. Although he enjoys nursery, he will only tolerate cutting and sticking for so long (unless Celeste is involved, obviously – in which case he could probably be persuaded to fashion an entire spring/summer collection in yellow felt). As I’m not due at work until ten, I decide to have a coffee and mull over whether I should let the plug incident go, or apply the thumb screws and water torture.

Café Roma is virtually empty. It smells good in here, of delicious things baking, which is especially welcome after the breakfasty fug of our kitchen. When we moved here from London, when I was pregnant with Toby, the small North Yorkshire market town had a time-warp feel about it, and you couldn’t get a decent coffee anywhere. Jed had been offered a senior teaching position at Rosebank Primary and I’d welcomed the move. With our third child on the way, I’d looked forward to being a mere half-hour drive from my parents. Now, four years on, there’s a clutch of new cafés offering respectable bursts of caffeine to get the nerves jangling nicely. Dad’s no longer here, though. I hadn’t imagined having to face that.

Selecting one of the trashier newspapers from the rack, I take a seat at the steamed-up window. A supplement falls out; it’s called Your Complete Summer Grooming Guide. We’ve only just staggered through the Easter holidays, yet already I’m supposed to be fretting about the pallidness of my legs. I flip through it. You might adhere to the old ’70s thing of leaving your pubic hair au naturelle, is where my eyes land.

What ’70s thing? What do they mean?

A little light grooming is common courtesy, it thrills on. Are they implying that it’s rude not to? I glance around the café. A group of four women of around my age has drifted in, chatting and laughing and smelling of light, floral perfumes. They are all smartly dressed with their hair freshly blow-dried, and I vaguely recognise them from the few times I ventured into the gym. An awful thought hits me: I’m probably the only woman in here who doesn’t have her bikini line waxed. Heck, even the chef, who I can see bobbing about in the kitchen through the circular window, probably keeps himself nice and tidy down there.

I glower down at it. Not at my own pubic hair – that wouldn’t be fitting in Café Roma – but at the damn magazine. Is this why Jed has un-synchronised our bedtimes? He isn’t really staying up marking jotters, planning lessons or even indulging in lurid fantasies starring Celeste. He’s simply appalled by my lack of personal grooming. I’ve been so wrapped up in looking after the children that I’ve missed a significant cultural shift. Closing the grooming guide, I sip my coffee morosely. That’s it: my ‘au naturelle’ do is as outmoded as a poodle perm or culottes. Jed has to fight the urge to retch every time he glimpses it. He’s just been too polite to tell me.

The café door opens, and Naomi flounces in, flushed with rude health. ‘Hi, Laura,’ she says. ‘Day off today?’

‘No, I’m working at ten.’ I check my watch. ‘Thanks for rescuing my sandals, by the way. And well done with the mums’ race.’

‘Oh, it was nothing. No one cares about these things, do they?’

‘Of course not,’ I say with a chuckle.

‘Ankle okay now?’

‘Couldn’t be better, thanks.’ I glance at her. Of course, she’s naturally neat down there – or so it appeared in those paintings of her at the Riverside Arts Centre. It was quite off-putting, trying to eat an apple Danish with all those naked Naomis gawping at me. I’d made a speedy exit, and avoided the place until they took her paintings down and replaced them with landscapes.

Her gaze drops to the table. ‘Cute purse. Very homespun.’

‘Oh, thanks. Toby made it actually.’

‘Really? You’re good, doing that sort of thing. Our au pair does all the artsy-crafty stuff . . . Hi, could I just have a dandelion tea?’ she calls out to the girl at the counter, who nods.

‘It was nothing really,’ I witter.

Naomi smirks. ‘Who was that girl at sports day? The one standing with Jed?’

‘Oh, just a colleague of his from school,’ I say lightly. ‘They’d come over for a meeting.’

‘Pretty, wasn’t she?’ she chirps, almost as if she knows, and is hell-bent on torturing me. ‘All the dads were checking her out, did you see? James Boland’s dad virtually had his tongue out!’

‘Yes, haha,’ I croak, scrambling up from my seat and stuffing Toby’s purse into my bag. Naomi picks up the grooming guide.

‘Mind if I read this?’

‘Go ahead. I’m running late actually.’

She flips it open at the au naturelle page as the waitress brings her a steaming mug of dandelion witch-brew. It looks like puddle water. ‘Oh, Laura?’ she calls after me as I head for the door. ‘Miss Marshall’s looking for parent volunteers to set up a junior athletics club.’

I blink at her. ‘That sounds good.’

‘She asked me to help to run it. You know, coaching the kids, motivating them, that sort of thing . . .’

‘Great.’ I try to look excited.

‘Thought you might be interested,’ she adds, ‘in the fund-raising side. Maybe you could do some home baking or something.’

I force a wide smile, hoping it’s the smile of a woman who is dynamic, perky and firmly at the helm of family life. ‘Love to,’ I say. ‘Count me in.’

*

‘I’d like something like that,’ my first client says, thrusting me a snipped-out photo from a magazine. The woman has over-bleached hair which peters out to fine wisps at her shoulders. The photo is of Angelina Jolie.

I take time to study her hair, feeling its coarseness and trying to figure out a diplomatic approach. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer something that works with your hair’s natural colour and texture?’ I suggest, slipping easily into hairdresser-speak. It’s not that I loathe my job. Far from it: I enjoy the steady routines, the companionship, and knowing that most clients walk out feeling far happier than when they came in. I especially enjoy the dramatic transformations, when the right cut heightens a woman’s bone structure, and she emerges a real beauty. I still preferred it, though, before our grand relaunch as Shine Hair Design, when we were plain old Snipperz. More realistic expectations. Install a bubbly water feature and butter-soft leather sofas and people think you can transform them into Hollywood actresses. It’s like the time I joined Bodyworks, the fancy gym over the road, in the hope that I’d somehow be magically transformed by simply wafting around the building.

As I show my client sample hair shades, the magazine photo appears to have been forgotten. She leaves, not as Angelina, but thoroughly de-frizzed and happy.

‘Lovely colour you did there,’ remarks Simone, my boss, as I check my appointments.

‘Thanks. She was pleased, I think.’

‘Fancy a quick coffee? I’ll make one.’

‘That’d be great. I’ve got a fifteen-minute gap, then I’m booked up pretty much all day.’

In the kitchen, Simone hands me a mug. ‘So, good weekend?’ she asks.

‘Yes, I actually managed to get out on my own and do some shopping.’

‘Sounds great . . .’

‘Celeste popped in,’ I add, ‘while I was out.’

‘Oh.’ She frowns. ‘Were the kids there?’

I nod. ‘I know – nothing was going to happen while they were around, and I’m probably being ridiculous and reading far too much into it. But still. I felt kind of . . . uncomfortable.’

Simone regards me with striking blue eyes. Everything about her – the flawless skin, perfect nails, the fact that she looks around 500 years younger than I do – screams ‘child-free’. ‘You know what I think?’ she says, raising an eyebrow. ‘I reckon they’re just friends and that’s all there is to it. Maybe he’s just enjoying hanging out with a woman. You know – having a female friend instead of just the guys from football and school. Good for the ego and all that.’

‘Yes but—’ I stop myself. Simone’s probably right, and what’s wrong with having a close friend of the opposite sex? I used to, at school and college and in suburban hair salons on the fringes of North London. But they all drifted into relationships, as I did, and since we left London four years ago, we seem to have lost touch. I’ve never made any new male friends to replace them.

‘Know what you and Jed need?’ Simone adds, swilling her cup in the sink. ‘A weekend away, just the two of you. Something to put the spark back.’

‘Impossible,’ I say. ‘Mum’s brilliant with the kids, but having all three for the whole weekend would be too much for her.’

‘What about Jed’s parents? Or your sister?’

I laugh darkly. Pauline and Brian live a five-hour drive away in South London and are, more to the point, beyond clueless. Kate would be willing to come down, but since she’s just set up her B&B in Scotland it seems far too much to ask. ‘I really don’t think—’ I start.

‘Why not?’ she cuts in. ‘A weekend in, I don’t know – Paris or somewhere would do you the world of good. It might even perk up your . . .’ She tails off and grins.

‘Simone,’ I say, sniggering, ‘anyone’s sex life would perk up if their children were in another country.’ She laughs her throaty laugh, and tosses her gleaming chestnut curls, as we go through to attend to our next appointments.

Although I barely come up for air between clients, our conversation niggles at me all morning. A weekend away, I keep thinking as I cut, colour, blow dry and create an up-do for a party. It’s obvious that Jed and I desperately need time together but, even if I could arrange it, would he want to go away with me?

Grace has three friends for tea after school, involving an impromptu cookie-making enterprise. One young visitor decides to liven up the proceedings by taking my dressing gown off the radiator in order to wipe her sticky hands on it, then places it on the hob and inadvertently turns on a gas ring. A sleeve is singed black, the gown is extinguished under the cold tap and the kitchen fills with bitter fumes, cancelling out the delicious biscuit aroma which has been teasing my nostrils. By the time Jed shows up, I’m scraping dough off the kitchen floor, a husk of my former self.

‘Don’t want to put pyjamas on,’ Toby screams, as if they were made not from the softest brushed cotton but laced with barbed wire. His cheeks are flushed, his dark eyes wet with furious tears.

‘You look exhausted,’ Jed points out, taking over with Toby. ‘Here, I’ll sort out the kids.’

‘Thanks,’ I mutter, sinking onto the sofa with a large glass of wine. As a parent, my husband is far more effective than I am. With Jed, the kids snap into action, whereas my voice drifts ineffectually around the house, no more significant than a light breeze.

As I sip my wine, a mobile starts ringing on the coffee table. I pick it up, realising too late that it’s not mine but Jed’s. ‘Hello?’ I say.

‘Oh! Um, is that Laura?’ Celeste asks.

‘Yes, it is,’ I say lightly. Why is she calling him now? Hasn’t she heard of kids’ bedtime?

‘Is Jed there? Don’t worry if he’s busy, it’s nothing urgent . . .’

‘He’s just reading Toby a story upstairs. I’ll ask him to call you back when he’s finished—’

‘No, it’s okay,’ Jed cries, bounding downstairs all bright-eyed and smiley. ‘I’ll take it . . .’ With a ridiculous guffaw, he snatches his mobile from my grasp and marches through to the kitchen. I stare after him. I have never seen Jed move so fast, not even on the football pitch. Anyone would think Nicole Kidman was on the line.

‘Daddy!’ Toby roars from upstairs. ‘What are you doing? Come and finish my story. Come back!’

Chapter Eight

I stand dead still, still clutching my wine glass, fury fizzing through my veins as I try to make out what Jed’s saying. Ooh, yes, ma petite French angel, you can slather me all over in chocolate sauce as soon as I can get away from the dumpy old wife . . . zut alors, I’m sure the old trout’s listening . . . Okay, he doesn’t say that exactly, but he’s chuckling, yacking about God knows what. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he murmurs, adoration spilling from his lips. ‘That sounds fantastic.’ Perhaps we could extend the chocolate-sauce slathering a little lower, Angelcakes . . . ooh yes, just there . . . perfect . . .

‘Daaaad!’ Toby screams. ‘I want my story!’ I scamper upstairs to find him sitting up in bed, gripping his battered copy of Dirty Bertie and glaring at me. ‘Daddy was reading it,’ he says, jutting out his bottom lip.

‘I know, sweetheart, but Dad’s busy with a terribly important phonecall right now. I’ll read the rest, okay?’ I squeeze onto the bed beside him and pop Ted on my knee.

‘Don’t want you to do it.’ He shuts the book and tosses it onto the floor.

‘Tobes, don’t be like that. Don’t be so sulky. I told you Dad’s—’

‘I want DAD!’ he snaps, exhausted tears springing from his eyes.

‘Okay, okay.’ With a sigh, I climb out of bed and tuck in Ted next to Toby. ‘I’m going to say goodnight and put your light off now, okay? And if you’re still awake when Daddy gets off the phone, maybe then he’ll come up and finish your story . . .’

‘Why are you cross, Mummy?’ Grace calls from her room.

‘I’m not cross, love. I’m fine . . .’

‘You are. You’ve got a cross voice on.’

‘Well, that’s probably just because I’m a bit tired,’ I call back, trying to sound light and perky and distinctly un-cross. I prick up my ears.

‘Yeah, that’d be great, I’d love that,’ Jed warbles downstairs. Anyone would think he’d called one of those pervo sex lines.

‘Night, honey,’ I murmur. Toby flicks his head away as I try to kiss him, as if I’m the one who’s abandoned him in favour of a natter with Fancy Pants.

‘Want Daddy,’ he bleats as I click off his light.

‘So do I,’ I murmur, stomping downstairs.

Jed is standing in the kitchen, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. Almost post-orgasmic, in fact. ‘What’s up?’ he asks brightly.

‘It’s just . . . Toby was upset that you didn’t finish the story.’

‘Oh, God, was he? I’ll pop up right now.’

‘I mean he was really upset.’ I fix him with a fierce stare. ‘Did you have to do that? Rush down like your life depended on it, to speak to . . . her?’

Jed stares at me. ‘Laura . . .’ He pauses. ‘What is this about exactly?’

‘Dirty Bertie. You were halfway through reading—’

‘But it’s not, is it? It’s about me, taking a call from a friend, which you suddenly seem to have some kind of issue with . . .’

‘I don’t have an issue!’ I protest. ‘You seem obsessed, that’s all. Celeste this, Celeste that . . . oh, we had a picnic and a little craft session and look! Here she is in her lemon cardi at our kids’ sports day for a supposed meeting . . .’

‘A supposed meeting?’ Jed repeats, blinking at me.

‘Yes. Why did she have to be there?’

Jed shakes his head despairingly. ‘Do you have a problem with Celeste?’

‘Yes. No,’ I bark, feeling my entire chest area glowing hotly.

‘Are you saying I shouldn’t have friends at work? Is that what you want?’

‘No, of course not . . .’

‘Or that they shouldn’t phone me? Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?’

‘All I’m saying is, one minute you were reading Dirty-bloody-Bertie . . .’

‘Mummy,’ comes Toby’s voice behind me. ‘It’s Dirty Bertie. Not Dirty-bloody-Bertie.’ I turn around to see our youngest standing there, with his pale curls sticking up in matted tufts, clutching the book to his chest.

‘I’m sorry, Toby,’ I mutter. ‘It just sort of slipped out.’

‘That’s a swearing word, Mummy. Cara said it’s naughty to say that bad word.’

‘Yes, I know, and I shouldn’t have said it. It was . . .’ My mouth seems to shrivel. ‘A . . . mistake.’

‘Will you finish it now, Daddy?’ Toby asks levelly.

‘Yes, of course I will, Tobes,’ Jed mutters.

‘You got to the bit about bogies.’

‘Yes, I remember.’ He rakes a hand through his hair, as if trying to brush off the bad feelings that have been flying around our kitchen. Throwing me a stony look, he takes Toby by the hand and the two of them head upstairs.

My bottom lip trembles as I stand in the kitchen doorway. So he took a phonecall. Anyone would think I’d walked in and found him and Celeste having wild sex on the table. I perch on a chair, listening to Jed upstairs, chatting jovially in Toby’s room. Our children love their dad. I do too, yet I’m making myself completely unlovable. The thought of losing him tears at my insides.

The house phone rings. I answer it; it’s Kate, my sister, sounding distant and crackly even though she’s only calling from Scotland. ‘How’s it going?’ she asks.

‘Good,’ I say. ‘Everyone’s fine. How about you?’

‘Oh, the usual chaos. Untrainable dog, terrorising sheep, lost a couple of chickens to a fox last night . . .’

‘Oh, God.’ Kate had her kids young – my two nephews are in their early twenties – and she and Will, her childhood sweetheart, have moved neatly from domestic mayhem to running a smallholding and B&B in the Scottish Borders. Which sounds like another kind of chaos entirely.

‘When are you coming up?’ she’s asking me. ‘The kids would love it. We’ve just got a couple of pigs. You’d better get yourselves up here soon if you want to see them before they’re bacon and sausages.’

‘You’re right,’ I say, smiling. ‘Toby and Grace would love that. Finn would too – although these days, he reckons he’s far too cool to like animals.’

‘Oh, he’s still your baby really,’ Kate says. ‘Anyway, stranger, I just thought I’d catch up. You never call me these days . . .’

‘It’s just hectic. You know what it’s like . . .’

‘What are you up to tonight?’

‘Um, nothing much. Grace and I made some cookies and I’m kind of tempted to curl up with a plateful and a DVD.’

‘Domestic goddess,’ she laughs, before ringing off.

Feeling boosted – Kate’s motherly tone always lifts me somehow – I eye our freshly-baked offerings. If you were being unkind you’d say they looked like chunks of moon rock but we decided they were ‘rustic’. I nibble one, relishing its comforting sweetness. Another won’t hurt. I nibble and nibble, soothed by Jed’s distant murmurs as he reads not just Dirty Bertie but a whole bunch of other stories too, judging by the time he’s been up there. He’s probably putting off having to come downstairs.

I blink down at the plate. How did I manage to plough through so many cookies? I must stop doing this – cramming my face when I’m not even hungry. Emotional eating, I think you call it. All that’s happening is that my clothes are getting tighter and I know that Jed must look at me and think . . . ew. Kate would say not to worry; she’s always telling me I’m the ‘gorgeous curvaceous one’.

But I don’t feel gorgeous and I don’t think Jed shares her view of me.

Desperate measures are called for, I decide, putting away the flour and eggs and wiping jammy smears from the worktop. I’ll start a diet tomorrow and get into shape – make myself minxy again like in the old days. I’ll show Jed that the woman he fell in love with – whom he could barely keep his hands off, if I remember rightly – is still here, right under his nose. I refuse to allow size-eight Fancy Pants to lure my beloved away from me.

In the meantime, though, there’s one cookie left. Where diets are concerned, there’s no time like tomorrow.

Chapter Nine

By Saturday afternoon I’m quivering with anticipation. This is combined with mild dizziness, due to substituting lunch with a glass of hot water with a dusting of cinnamon in it. I read somewhere that this combination helps to melt away wrinkles as well as being a miracle fat cure. I know it’s ridiculous, but with my Big Surprise looming, these are desperate times.

‘I’ve arranged a special treat,’ I blurt out as Jed, the children and I head home from the park.

‘What is it?’ Grace demands, gripping her ice cream which I have been eyeing ravenously. ‘What kind of treat?’

‘I’m taking you, Toby and Finn to Granny Heather’s. You’re staying over tonight, and me and Daddy will come and collect you in the morning.’

‘Yeah!’ she cries, delighted.

‘Today?’ Toby asks eagerly.

‘Yes, honey, a bit later today.’ I glance at Finn. ‘You okay with that, darling?’

He shrugs. ‘Yeah. What are you and Dad going to do?’

‘It’s up to Dad,’ I say, my stomach whirling with anticipation. ‘What would you like to do, Jed?’

‘Don’t know,’ he says, guiding Toby away from a ferocious-looking dog he wants to pat. ‘It’s all a bit sudden, Laura . . .’

‘How much notice do you need?’ I ask, teasing him.

‘None, I just . . .’

‘Did you have any other plans for tonight?’

He stops and frowns at me. Grace pauses mid-lick, her tongue thickly coated in strawberry ice. ‘No, of course not. Are you sure it’s all right, though? It’s a lot to ask of your mum. And Finn has football in the morning, and I’m meant to be taking the junior team . . .’ My heart slumps. Oh no, he’s thinking. A whole night alone with Laura and her hideous au naturelle do . . .

‘Actually,’ I say, more subdued now, ‘she was delighted. She hasn’t seen the children for ages. And I’ve spoken to Calum’s dad, and he’s happy to stand in for you at football this week. You don’t mind missing footie just this once, do you, Finn?’

‘Nah,’ he says with a shrug.

‘Please, Dad,’ Grace blurts out. ‘Let us have a sleepover at Granny Heather’s.’

‘We’ll be fine, Dad,’ Finn says airily.

‘Um . . . okay then,’ Jed murmurs.

‘So tonight,’ I add cheerfully, ‘we can do whatever we like.’

‘Great,’ Jed says flatly. I grin broadly at him. He grimaces back, looking for all the world as if he’s about to have a bunion removed. Still, I won’t let him dampen my mood. The problem is, Jed won’t realise how much we needed this night by ourselves until we’re actually having it. I don’t mean having sex necessarily – although that would be pleasing – but time together without the children. Is it any wonder, I reflect later as I drive us all to Mum’s, that our sex life has withered up? If I so much as try to cuddle Jed, Finn looks as if he might vomit and Toby starts shouting for a biscuit. They are allergic to adults showing each other affection. It’s a miracle anyone manages to produce more than one child.

‘Come here, my darlings,’ Mum says, emerging from her red-brick cottage as we all tumble out of the car. She hugs me and the children in turn – even Finn, who reserves a soft spot for his granny, allows it – while I unload the kids’ overnight bag. ‘Hi, Heather,’ Jed says, kissing her cheek. He hovers uncertainly as if about to deliver a particularly stressful public speech.

‘We’re so grateful for this,’ I tell Mum, trying to blot him out of my vision.

‘Yes, er, thanks, a lot,’ Jed adds feebly.

‘My pleasure,’ she says as we follow her inside. ‘You know I’m happy to have them any time.’ Since Dad died nearly four years ago – just after Toby was born – Mum has lived here alone in the smart, touristy town of Kittering. I know she still misses Dad terribly, despite filling her days with art classes and volunteering for every community group in the area. There are no tears as we prepare to leave. ‘Say bye to Mum and Dad,’ she prompts the children, but all three – even Finn – are engrossed in Dad’s old Hornby train set which still works, amazingly, and which Mum has painstakingly laid out on her living room floor.

‘So what d’you want to do?’ I ask Jed we drive away.

‘I don’t really mind,’ he says vaguely, gazing out of the passenger window. I wonder now if he’d have preferred this not to have been a surprise, and to have had some input into the planning. Maybe then he’d be quivering with excitement.

‘Well,’ I say lightly, ‘we could go to York, have dinner . . .’ My mouth waters at the thought of tucking into a meal I haven’t cooked. Stuff the calories. I’ll even have dessert. Something chocolatey with a molten interior. Gooey cheese. Lashings of wine. Sod the water-and-cinnamon regime. It was starting to make me feel ill anyway and I don’t even like cinnamon. ‘We could even stay at a hotel,’ I add, munching some Quavers from an open packet I found in the car. ‘Fancy breakfast in bed? That would be lovely, wouldn’t it, having it brought up to our room with the papers and . . .’

‘A hotel?’ Jed repeats. ‘Why would we do that?’

‘God, Jed! You don’t have to sound so horrified. You’d think I’d suggested booking us into an abattoir.’

‘It just seems, I don’t know . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘Unnecessary.’

‘Of course it’s unnecessary,’ I exclaim. ‘That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To do something exciting and different and a little bit decadent. I thought it’d be fun, Jed. Anyway, I packed your overnight bag in case you fancied it.’

‘Did you? You packed my pyjamas?’

‘Yes, Jed. They’re in the boot, travelling in this very car with us.’ And I stuffed in your cast-iron chastity pants too, I want to add.

‘It just seems extravagant,’ Jed murmurs.

‘It wouldn’t have to be, would it? I don’t care about posh. We could find a tawdry little place, somewhere nice and sleazy . . .’ I grin at him, and try for a saucy eyebrow wiggle, but the joke falls flat.

‘I’m not sure I’d fancy that, love.’

‘Oh, come on,’ I say, crunching a stale Quaver impatiently. ‘It’ll be a change, won’t it?’

‘A change from what?’

‘From boring old domesticity. Putting the bin out and wondering why there’s a weird smell coming from the drain. Loading the dishwasher. All that stuff we never used to think about before we had the kids . . .’ By now I’m feeling rather manic and driving a little too fast.

‘I thought I’d fixed that drain,’ he says tetchily. ‘And could you slow down? You took that corner a bit too fast.’

I exhale loudly. It’s a long time since I’ve read anything about reigniting passion, but I’m sure they never recommend talking about drains. ‘Just an idea,’ I say flatly. ‘I was trying to think of something different to do, but if you don’t fancy it, that’s fine.’

Mustering a smile, Jed nicks a Quaver from the packet on my lap. ‘Tell you what, love,’ he says, patting my leg. ‘Shall we just have a cosy night in?’

*

Despite my plummeting spirits, I’m determined to make this work out and for us to have an unforgettable evening. Jed and I hardly ever go out. He seems to have forgotten that emerging from our house after dark – just the two of us – is a real possibility. I see couples heading out at night, holding hands or with the girl kind of tucked under the guy’s arm, being hugged as they walk. It squeezes my heart to see that. We used to walk that way, although doing that now would feel ridiculous. Jed would assume I felt faint and couldn’t stand up properly. Yet sometimes it feels as if the whole world is out there, hugging and kissing in public, and that Jed and I have somehow slipped off its edge.

The first year we were together, I don’t think we saw a single DVD right through to the end. We’d put one on, when he’d taken a minicab over to my tiny Archway flat, or we’d plan to watch one when I’d cycled over to see him in his maisonette in Bethnal Green. The credits would start, and we’d have a little kiss – and before we knew it we’d be tangled on the floor together, kissing and laughing that that was another movie we’d never know the end of.

And now, I can’t imagine how Jed would react if I pounced on him while he was watching a movie. He’d probably think I’d lost my mind.

I unload our overnight bag from the boot – a gesture which seems particularly tragic – and let us into the house. It feels too still and quiet without the children. The carpet is littered with components from Toby’s Lego fort, and I almost tread on a partially-constructed rocket which he and Grace had been making out of a plastic water bottle and a mangled toothpaste tube. ‘One of my regulars told me that new Moroccan place is good,’ I tell Jed, pacing the living room. It’s a downside of being a hairdresser. You hear every detail of your clients’ glittering social lives. You make them look gorgeous for nights out you’ll never have.

Jed looks up from the armchair. ‘I don’t really fancy it tonight, love. I thought we’d agreed to stay home.’

‘Oh, come on!’ I snap. ‘We can stay home any night we want. What’s the point in arranging for the kids to stay over at Mum’s if we’re not going to do anything? It seems crazy. Such a waste. Let’s, let’s . . .’ I flounder for words. ‘Let’s do something spontaneous.’ Jed blinks at me and looks rather tired. He didn’t used to be like this – a boring fart in an armchair who can’t even muster the wherewithal to take his wife out for a drink. Back in the old days, before he lost the will to live, we’d go to bars and restaurants and parties all the time, and he’d tell me he was proud to be seen with me. We were perpetually skint, but he still managed to buy me sexy dresses, teetering shoes, beautiful lingerie in black silk and ivory lace. Things a man would only buy for a woman he wanted to have wild sex with.

‘I’ve been working all week,’ Jed protests. ‘I’d just like to chill out, Laura, okay?’

‘I’ve been working too,’ I start, catching myself: of course I haven’t been working like he has. While Jed’s been mentoring disadvantaged kids, I’ve been . . . cutting hair. What does that matter in the great scheme of things? If there were no hair-dressers, what would people do? Hack it themselves with the kitchen scissors. It would be fine. No one dies from having badly-cut hair. Finn would probably enjoy that – chopping at it himself – as it’s the effect he seems to be after at the piercing place.

‘Why don’t we watch a movie?’ Jed suggests, his voice softening. ‘I’ll pop down to the Spar and choose something if you like.’

Well, whoop-di-doo. ‘Okay,’ I mutter. ‘Let’s do that. Let’s stay in and watch TV.’

‘Don’t be like that, darling.’ He throws me a wounded, big-eyed look.

‘I’m not being like anything.’ I snatch Grace’s pens and scissors from the floor, unable to think of anything else to do. Once I’ve tidied the entire room, and rounded up a few stray dishes, I perch on our other armchair and peer at him.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, looking up from his book.

‘Nothing. I’m just thinking, maybe you’re right. I can’t remember the last time we were home alone together. Maybe it could be quite fun.’

Jed nods. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it? Sort of . . . peaceful.’

‘Well, it could be nice. Why don’t I pop out for some shopping and cook us a special meal? Something the kids wouldn’t like?’

‘Sounds good,’ Jed says, eyes fixed back on the book. I have to say, he doesn’t appear to be primed for an evening of hot lust.

‘And I’ll get some wine,’ I add.

‘Yeah. Great.’

‘And maybe we could, you know . . . go to bed early.’ I move over to his chair, and try to nuzzle into him, but his gaze remains fixed on the page. What’s he reading? Some American crime novel where people are bludgeoned to death every three pages. I can smell the testosterone radiating from its pages. God, it must be riveting. If he were any other straight man, in a child-free house with his wife dropping walloping hints, trying to drag him off to a hotel, for God’s sake, he wouldn’t be reading a goddamn book. What do I have to do – dress up as an air hostess? Trill ‘doors to manual’ while wearing an Ann Summers tunic emblazoned with a Lust-anza logo? A couple of years ago, Simone had a brief fling with a guy – one of her clients, in fact – who was into that kind of stuff. He even suggested buying a hostess trolley that she could wheel through her house to dispense drinks. Is that what turns men on these days?

‘I’ll go then,’ I bark, causing Jed to flinch.

‘Yeah. Um, what?’

‘You relax and enjoy your book’ – a mere smidgeon of bitterness there – ‘and I’ll nip out to Tesco.’

‘Okay, darling.’ His jaw twitches from the effort of glancing up from the page. ‘That sounds great.’

*

Before leaving I quickly scan my cookery books. I used to love cooking fancy stuff – proper grown-up food involving coriander and limes – before my culinary gene shrivelled up. The children howled in protest whenever I presented any thing with ‘weirdy green bits’ (i.e. herbs). So my confidence shrank, and my cooking acquired a distinctly retro vibe: pies, sausages, roasts. None of it terribly waistline-friendly. As I’m usually ravenous by the children’s dinnertime, I tend to pick at their clammy leftovers, then often eat again later with Jed. Double-dinner Laura. No wonder I’ve gone up from a size twelve to a sixteen since we met.

I pore over recipes, uninspired by dishes involving grilled chicken and watercress. Can’t imagine Jed getting revved up over that. He can eat like a horse, lucky sod, and not gain an ounce. My eyes land on a pasta dish with prawns, chillies and rocket. How delightfully non-fish-fingery. ‘Won’t be long,’ I announce as I head out, feeling quite the hunter-gatherer. Okay, I’m not planning to grapple a wildebeest to drag home to my beloved – I’m only going to Tesco – but it’s a step in the right direction.

I march along our neat, tree-lined street, full of purpose and bubbling excitement. What else should I buy? Something hormone-stirring to slip into Jed’s drink? The only aphrodisiacs I can think of are oysters, which I don’t know how to prepare, or essence of dried bull’s penis or something, and I don’t imagine Tesco stock it. Then, as I approach the store’s entrance, an idea hits me.

Underwear. Nothing ridiculously porno – I have neither the nerve nor the body for that. Just a new bra and knickers that actually match, and are more alluring than the saggy articles I resort to these days. Maybe stockings, suspenders. Corny, I know, but Jed would love that. It doesn’t feel quite right, buying underwear in a supermarket, but he’ll be far too excited to check labels.

I glide around the aisles, lulled by the bland music, ridiculously grateful to Mum for having the children overnight. After choosing supper ingredients, I browse the make-up section. While hardly vast, it’s still overwhelming. Are the colours I used to wear hopelessly outdated, along with my au naturelle do? I’m supposed to know what looks good. It’s my job, and I have enough regular clients to know that I’m reasonably good at it. Here, though, I’m lost in an ocean of lip plumpers and mineral face powders – make-up that didn’t exist the last time I bought any. I grab a blusher, a smoky grey eye shadow and a sheer lipstick, making a mental note to hide them from Toby. Then, on a roll, I snatch some razors and passion-flower body lotion.

In the underwear aisle the knickers seem to fall into two categories – thongs or industrial old-lady pants – neither of which I had in mind. A man with generous chin-folds sidles up next to me and gives me a slimy, wet-lipped grin. This is the kind of male attention I attract these days. Middle-aged, sweating perverts who spend their Friday nights in the lingerie aisle. I realise with horror that that’s how a stranger might describe me, lurking here, not quite knowing what to do with myself. Quickly, I grab a black lacy bra and knicker ensemble, then black stockings and any old random suspender belt and stuff them into my basket. Without checking the sizes, I hurtle towards the checkout.

My stomach rumbles as I join the queue, and I eye the king prawns in the clear plastic packet in my basket. Is it normal to lust over food the way I do? To feel constantly ravenous? The checkout boy, who looks all of twelve, is taking an age to barcode-bleep everything. Finally, it’s my turn. I place my purchases on the conveyor belt, trying to conceal the underwear by laying the bag of rocket on top of it. The boy picks up the rocket and stares at the scraps of black lace. Only, they’re not just black lace. Neatly stitched between the bra cups – and at the front of the knickers, I now realise – are tiny pink satin teddy bears stitched with the words ‘Hugga Bubba’.

The boy smirks. I grimace back, willing him to bleep everything at breakneck speed so I can get out before my head bursts. ‘No price on this,’ he announces, dangling the suspender belt delicately between thumb and forefinger.

‘I can get another one if you like,’ I blurt out, blood swirling in my ears.

‘No, it’s okay . . . Cathy! Can you get another one of these? What size is it?’ He turns to me.

‘Um, medium, I think.’ I wonder what might be the most efficient way of committing suicide in Tesco. Impaling myself on a cooking utensil? Or hiding until closing time, then shutting myself in a freezer? A woman with her lips pressed into a prim, scarlet line stands behind me in the queue. Her eyes meet mine. Medium? she’s obviously thinking. A little optimistic, aren’t we, love? I glance down at her basket. It contains soya milk, porridge oats and a punnet of raspberries. No pervo underwear. No desperate woman trying to perk up her disinterested husband on a Saturday night. Bitterly, I wonder if he’s finished that book yet.

Somehow, though, by the time Cathy returns with another suspender belt, I’m beyond embarrassment and decide to just brazen it out. ‘Thanks,’ I say grandly, giving it a little twirl before dropping it into my shopping bag. ‘Have a great evening.’

‘You too,’ the checkout boy says, grinning. As I leave, making a supreme effort to walk tall and proud – with a slight sashay, actually – I feel the scarlet-lipped woman’s eyes boring into the back of my head. Who cares what she thinks? I am Laura Swan, a mother of three but also a woman, dammit, who is reclaiming her sexuality.

I march home, swinging my bag and breathing in the cool, soft air of a perfect April evening. Tonight will bring Jed back to me, I can feel it.

Chapter Ten

As I stride home, I figure that maybe Jed was right. Who needs a hotel room when there’s a child-free house on offer? Lighting some candles and playing our music – without Finn thrashing his drum kit above our heads – will create a romantic ambience. I picture the two of us, snuggled up on the sofa, in a flattering candlelit glow. I won’t bring up the Celeste stuff – not tonight. Anyway, I’m sure Simone’s right. What’s wrong with having a friend of the opposite sex? I should lighten up, learn to keep things in perspective.

I let myself in, pleased that I’ve cunningly concealed my saucy new lingerie at the bottom of the bag. However, I needn’t have worried about Jed spotting it and the surprise being ruined. Clearly beside himself with lust at the prospect of my return, he’s asleep in the armchair. His head has lolled to one side, and his bottom lip reverberates slightly with each soft snore. Hardly alluring, but at least he’ll be nice and rested for later.

I creep through to the kitchen and unpack the shopping, plotting what to get up to later in bed. Will it be wild, like in the old days, or affectionate and gentle? I don’t mind either way. Hell, I’ll take whatever I can get. Just a kiss and a cuddle would be fine, if he’s too tired for anything else. I do worry, though, that it’s not normal to think about sex as often as I do, and that I’m having some kind of hormonal breakdown. Whenever the subject comes up among the playgroup mums, the others start cackling that they’d rather have a quiet lie down with no one pawing at them, or a DVD and a box of chocolates. ‘Give me Coronation Street any day,’ I heard Ruth groan last week. The difference is, their men actually want to do it. Yet these women talk about sex as something to be got over and done with, like having a wasps’ nest removed from the loft.

Gathering up my saucy undies and beauty accoutrements, I tiptoe upstairs to the bathroom, ashamed at how surly I’ve been with Jed these past few months. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s a fantastic dad with endless time and patience for the children. It’s not just sport, either: he thinks nothing of spending hours working on incredible Lego constructions, which Toby finds hilarious to smash up into pieces. He’ll even set up foul-smelling science experiments in the kitchen. As for our lack of bedtime action, he’s probably worn out, that’s all. Aren’t I knackered most of the time? Maybe we’re just out of practice – plus, I’m hardly comfortable prancing around in the nude with my body looking so mournful and collapsed.

So what if he has a silly, schoolboy’s crush? It’s natural to fancy other people. It doesn’t mean anything. Didn’t I experience a distinct flickering of – well, not desire exactly, but something for Danny in Starbucks? It was the attention, that’s all. I picture my male friends from college and wonder if it might be possible to ever have a man friend again. Would Jed mind? No, of course he wouldn’t. He’d be glad to see me all cheered up and perky.

I undress in the bathroom and step into the shower’s steamy blast. As I run the cheap plastic razor over my legs and underarms, I start wondering if I should extend my endeavours elsewhere. What did that supplement say about au naturelle? I’m probably the last woman in Britain not to have a Brazilian. What is a Brazilian exactly? Is it as important to have one in Yorkshire as it is in Brazil?

I survey my soft, pale body as the water gushes down it. To be fair, it’s not a total disaster. My boobs are quite enviable, I guess. My stomach and bum . . . no, let’s gloss over those. As for my legs, they are reasonably shapely, even if things start to go horribly wrong around the thigh region.

I glare down at my pubes. They certainly need a little tidying, but I’m worried I’ll mess this up. At least with head hair, if you’re given a botched cut, you can derive faint pleasure at switching allegiance to a new salon. Thankfully, Simone always cuts mine, always praising its abundance and shine. That’s one part of my anatomy I don’t have to worry about. With this, I’d have no one to blame but myself. ‘Laura, are you okay?’ Jed calls from downstairs. Ah, the beast awakens.

‘I’m in the shower,’ I shout back.

‘Shall I start cooking? I’m starving.’

‘No, I’ll do it, won’t be long.’ The razor hovers at the tops of my thighs. Just do it. You’re a grown woman at the helm of family life. How can you be scared of a little light pruning, for God’s sake? Naomi probably has hers ripped off with hot wax.

As the razor rasps across my skin, I wonder how far to take this. I tinker around gingerly until one side seems done. It certainly looks, whilst not better exactly, decidedly tidier. ‘Laura!’ Jed yells again. He’s upstairs on the landing now. It feels weird, just the two of us here in our echoey house. I turn down the shower to a dribble so I can hear him properly.

‘What is it?’

‘Will you be much longer?’ He raps loudly on the bathroom door. ‘I need the loo.’ He waggles the handle and will be wondering why on earth I’ve locked the door. We usually do all that bathroom stuff in front of each other, which might be another factor in the demise of our sex life.

‘Hang on,’ I call out, still gripping the razor, rapidly losing my nerve. The shaved bit doesn’t look tidier. It looks scalped and chickeny, like something you’d see in the chill cabinet with a barcode slapped on it.

‘Could you let me in?’ he demands.

‘I, um . . .’ I glower down. One side still requires attention, and looks even more au naturelle when compared to the bald region. It’s like when I wallpapered Grace’s bedroom before Christmas. The fresh new spotty design made the rest of the house look condemned.

‘Laura!’ Jed thunders. ‘I’m desperate.’

‘Just a minute—’

‘Let me in!’ He raps on the door.

Jesus, it’s like having a fourth child. Haven’t I been saying, since we had Toby, that we urgently need a second loo? It drives me insane, this constant hammering every time I’m in here for more than a second. Is it any wonder I’m a little unkempt? Naomi has not one but two ensuites, like bloody royalty – one for her, one for buffed-up hubby. Switching off the shower, I wrap myself in a towel and unlock the door.

Although clearly on the point of combustion, Jed still manages to fling me a disdainful look as if I’m something he’s narrowly avoided treading in on the pavement. He strides to the loo and starts to pee, emitting a groan of relief which I find enormously off-putting. I glare at the back of him as he sploshes noisily, deciding that it doesn’t matter if I’m poultry-like down there as I’ll never be intimate with him again. I’ll grow fatter and hairier with many cats.

For one brief moment, I wish I was playing with the children and the train set at Mum’s.

In the sanctuary of our bedroom, I examine my handiwork as Jed pads downstairs. Although I look freakish, I don’t have it in me to jump back into the shower and finish off the job. I pull on my new underwear and survey my reflection in our full-length mirror on which Toby has crayoned a person with stick legs and stick arms and a brick-shaped torso. I assume it’s supposed to be me. My face is pink from the shower, my hair straggly and dripping down my chest. The new bra is a little baggy in the cups. The knickers are cut lower than my preferred style, and lack the reinforcements required to hold in my tummy. I don’t look like a woman who’s on the brink of making her husband faint with desire. I look like a clappedout mother who buys her underwear two aisles along from the gherkins.

Gamely, I pull on the suspender belt – remembering too late that the knickers are supposed to go on top of it – then the stockings. The suspender belt’s clips are a devil to snap on. Every time I manage to get one done up, another pings off. It’s even more fiddly than Finn’s old Meccano set. Why didn’t I buy hold-up stockings? Because I planned to go for full-on foxery, haha.

I dart into Grace’s room, rummage in her craft box for scissors and snip the Hugga Bubba teddies off my underwear. As a joke, I place them on her pillow. I’m overcome by a surge of longing, wishing she were here, wishing all the children were here, and that this was an ordinary family evening with bedtime stories and tucking in and Jed and I watching a movie together. Our normal life isn’t so bad. I want too much, that’s the problem. My expectations have shot off the scale, like would-be Angelina Jolie’s at the salon. I should be content with the way things are. Look at Mum, with her art classes and volunteering, trying to fill the void where Dad used to be.

Why didn’t he tell anyone he was ill? Because he didn’t want to worry us, not even Mum. Then he had to tell her, of course, and then they told Kate because she’s eight years older than me and far more sensible and capable. It was Kate who called, when I was trying to coax Toby onto the potty, and said, ‘Laura, I’m sorry to tell you this, but I think you should know. Dad’s really ill.’

I’d known he’d been for tests, and Mum had implied that it was something to do with cholesterol or blood pressure and that a change of diet would fix everything. She didn’t mention the cancer that had spread to his spine. ‘It’s the shock,’ I told Jed, tears pouring down my cheeks. ‘If they’d warned me, I might have been ready. I might have been prepared.’ He’d kissed and held me and, for a moment, he was my boyfriend again, who always managed, somehow, to make things better. Jed knew how close I’d been to Dad.

In our bedroom, I hold up my new emerald dress. I don’t have the courage to carry it off – not with the shaving disaster lurking beneath. Instead, I pull on a more demure polka-dot sundress which used to be one of Jed’s favourites but is faded and must be at least five years old. It’s an improvement, though. I definitely look better clothed than naked. I dab on my new make-up and try to adopt an expression of hope.

Downstairs, Jed is engrossed in his book. In the kitchen, I set the pasta to boil and follow the recipe with the prawns, rocket and chilli. The chillies look so pretty, flecking the prawns with deep red, that I sling in a few extra. Maybe my culinary gene is reawakening. I’m actually enjoying myself, creating a meal from scratch that doesn’t involve sausages or the potato masher. I might not be able to make felt purses, or be half-French, but I can knock together a delicious supper and make myself look presentable (at least, half-presentable).

I carry our supper, cutlery and glasses of wine from the kitchen to the back garden. Our ancient iron table looks far too rusty and unhygienic to eat off, so I place everything on the garden wall while I hurry back in for a tablecloth. The only one I can find has an indelible orangey stain, but it’ll do. Grabbing a bunch of tea lights, I set the table, placing my plate over the stain. ‘Ready!’ I call from the back door.

Jed appears, still clutching his book. ‘We’re eating outside?’

‘Yes, why not? It’s a lovely evening.’ With a flourish, I light the tea lights and survey the scene.

‘Oh . . . okay. I’ll need a jacket though.’

‘Get one then,’ I say sweetly. It is a bit chilly, but I’m not going to spoil the effect of the dress with a jacket or even a cardi. I shall freeze my arse off instead.

Jed reappears in an Arctic-worthy jacket, thankfully devoid of book, and perches on a wobbly metal chair. I wait for him to register my new make-up and exclaim, ‘Wow, Laura, you look gorgeous tonight. Let me kiss you, irresistible wife!’ Nothing is forthcoming. Next time Jed and I have a hot date, I may wear a boiler suit.

I glance around our garden. The bleak rectangle is bordered by brick walls all shedding their white paint skins. The borders are already sprouting weeds. ‘You know,’ I murmur, ‘we really should do something with this place.’

‘Like what?’ Jed prods a pasta quill. He looks so good, so strong-jawed and handsome in the yellowy flicker of the tea lights, even with his big fat jacket on.

‘Get some pots,’ I suggest, ‘or hanging baskets. Maybe even some turf to make a proper lawn.’

‘Feel free,’ he says with a chuckle, ‘but I don’t imagine it’d stay perfect for long. The kids would soon mess it up.’

‘It wouldn’t have to be perfect,’ I insist. ‘It could be wild, full of colour like, like—’

‘Like . . . your dad’s garden?’ he says gently.

I nod. Dad lived for his garden. Finn would help him to plant things, when he was still eager to please. He even had a notebook in which he’d document what he’d planted and when the first shoots appeared. ‘My cornflowers came up!’ Finn wrote carefully, and Mum let us cut some to bring home. As Dad grew sicker, the borders ran wild. ‘He’ll knock it back into shape when he’s better,’ Mum would say as the exuberant colours blurred beneath a blanket of weeds. I could have helped, if I’d known. After Dad had gone, Mum had the whole garden turfed over.

‘You okay, love?’ Jed asks.

‘I’m fine.’ I muster a smile. ‘I just think the kids would enjoy the garden more if we spruced it up.’

‘There’s the park, though, isn’t there?’ He forks in some pasta and splutters dramatically. ‘God, Laura! How much chilli did you put in this?’

‘Just what the recipe said,’ I say curtly.

‘Oh, wow . . . this is bloody hot.’ He slugs his wine and starts blowing out air.

I take a tentative nibble. It tastes fine at first, if a little fiery. Then the heat builds up until an inferno tears at my throat. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it,’ I croak, my eyes streaming as I fork in an enormous mouthful to prove just how bloody fine and delicious it is.

‘I can’t eat this,’ Jed announces, lurching inside to the kitchen. I hear the tap being turned on full blast. My entire digestive system is combusting. No amount of chilled white wine can cool my throat. I slam down my fork and march into the kitchen where Jed is bent under the kitchen tap with cold water gushing directly into his mouth.

‘It’s not that bad,’ I rasp, my mouth searing. ‘You’re acting like one of the kids.’

He straightens up and dabs his face with a tea towel. ‘Oh, isn’t it? So I suppose you don’t want some water?’

‘Um, yes please.’ He hands me a glassful, which I gulp down. ‘Sorry,’ I murmur. ‘I threw in a few extra chillies to make it look colourful.’

‘Right,’ he snorts. ‘Like a little garden or something?’

‘Something like that,’ I say as he fills a second glass for me. The back door is open, and the tea lights flicker feebly on the table.

‘Hey,’ Jed says gently, sliding his arms around me. ‘I’m sorry, love. I know you went to a lot of effort.’

‘It’s okay. It was my fault.’

‘Look,’ he adds hesitantly. ‘I . . . I know I’ve been . . . wrapped up in other things lately . . .’

Like Celeste? ‘I suppose we’re just not used to being together anymore,’ I cut in quickly. It feels so good, being held by him, that I don’t want to spoil it by saying her name.

‘Of course we are,’ Jed says. ‘We just don’t have the chance very often.’ He pulls back to study my face. ‘You smell good,’ he adds. ‘And you’re wearing make-up. It suits you.’

‘Oh, it’s just some old stuff I found . . .’

‘Well, you look lovely.’

‘Thank you.’ I smile, stretch up and kiss his soft lips. Then we’re kissing and kissing, and it doesn’t matter that I ruined our meal, or that Jed has spent the past four months in some parallel universe, because right now everything feels perfect. His hands, which were resting gently around my waist, slide down over my hips, pausing as he detects the suspender clips. He raises an eyebrow and smiles. ‘You have gone to a lot of effort.’

‘It’s amazing what you can buy at Tesco these days.’

‘Tesco?’ He laughs softly. ‘Classy.’ Then he clutches my hand, as if it’s something he’d lost and has just found and says, ‘We, um . . . we could just go to bed.’

‘Okay,’ I say, grinning. ‘If you insist.’

My heart is pounding as we climb the stairs together, the way it did the first time we kissed. We’d met at a party. Jed had just started out in teaching, and I’d vaguely known one of his housemates from college. What if? was our favourite game back then. What if your date hadn’t stood you up? he’d ask me. What if you hadn’t gone home feeling totally fed up, and played that message from Helen who you hadn’t heard from in years? What if you hadn’t rung her straight back? What if she hadn’t invited you to our party? What if my girlfriend hadn’t dumped me, and I hadn’t been sitting on the stairs, pissed off, nursing a warm bottle of Becks?

He’d known instantly, he insisted, although he hadn’t been remotely aware that I’d spied him too, the moment I’d walked in. Jed is oblivious to women’s glances and flirtations. But he’d spotted me, breezing in and brimming with confidence, as if I had no expectations of the night ahead because so far it had been crapper than crapsville. ‘And you thought I was just being friendly,’ I used to tease him. ‘You had no idea how cute you were. What did I have to do? Take you home to bed! The lengths I had to go to to make you realise I was crazy about you . . .’

‘Even then, I thought I was just a sympathy lay,’ he laughed.

Jed and I reach the landing. Hell, my unfinished chicken-shave job. ‘I’m just going to the bathroom,’ I murmur.

Disappointment flickers in his eyes. ‘Don’t be long this time.’

‘I’ll only be a minute. Honestly. There’s just, um, something I need to do.’

It takes longer than a minute as I strip naked and stand at the sink, trying to make myself symmetrical as speedily as possible without causing myself irreversible damage. My libido is ebbing away rapidly. The stockings have formed a crimped ring around the top of each thigh. In my eagerness to escape from that perv in Tesco, I must have grabbed too small a size.

I’m covered in suds, and water dribbles in rivulets down my legs as I try to wash them away. The floor is soaked, and I mop up the water with a fraying bath towel and an old T-shirt of Jed’s. By the time I’m back in my wretched underwear and padding tentatively into our bedroom, he is tucked up in bed with one arm slung across my pillow. ‘Hi,’ I whisper, slipping in under the duvet. I slide a hand across his chest which prompts him to roll away from me.

I study his broad, lightly tanned back and shoulders, which rise with each inhalation. Soft snores fill the room. It would appear that my hot date for tonight has fallen asleep.

Chapter Eleven

Beth and I are unloading the toys from the playgroup cupboard. The children clamour around us, their voices echoing in the dusty hall. We lift the lid from the sandpit and fill it with mini trucks and diggers; we top up the water tray, drop in some little plastic boats and set out books in the reading area. I glance at her, my best mummy-friend looking lithe and faintly Boden-esque in her narrow jeans and snug-fitting raspberry T-shirt. ‘Beth,’ I say later, fixing us a coffee from the grumbling urn, ‘how do you do it?’

‘Do what?’ she asks.

‘Stay so slim and fit. I’ve been thinking, I really have to do something. I’m sick of being like this.’ I glare down at my body in its loose jeans and even looser black top.

‘But you’re lovely as you are,’ she insists. ‘Men are always looking at you. You must realise that. You’re sexy and voluptuous and—’

‘Voluptuous? That means fat, Beth! The other day, I couldn’t even do up the zip on my biggest jeans. They’re a size sixteen!’

‘Well, sizes vary from shop to shop,’ she says firmly, nibbling a pink wafer biscuit. ‘They’re irrelevant really.’

‘Not when you’re going up in size. Then it’s horribly relevant, I can assure you . . .’

‘Oh, Laura. You look great, honestly. Anyway, no one’s the same after having kids, are they?’

‘I bet you are,’ I say.

‘You might think so, but I’m a disaster down here.’ She pats her taut stomach. ‘But after having two children, what can I expect?’

I set down my cup and tip out boxes of building blocks for the younger children. ‘The thing is, I don’t expect to be like I was before the children,’ I add. ‘I’d just like to not be expanding, to be able to resist all the snacks and biscuits . . .’

‘What’s brought this on, hon?’ she murmurs.

‘Oh, I don’t know. That mums’ race, I suppose. Me getting all dressed up for Jed the other night, even buying new underwear, even stockings . . .’

‘Whoa,’ she says with a grin. ‘Lucky Jed.’

‘Well, he wasn’t. By the time I climbed into bed, he was already asleep.’

‘You should’ve been quicker,’ she sniggers. ‘What took you so long?’

I smirk, deciding that playgroup isn’t the place to tell Beth about my chicken-shave job. ‘I was getting ready,’ I murmur.

She rolls her eyes. ‘Well, make sure you’re quicker next time. He was probably just knackered. You should see Pete, falling asleep virtually every time he sits down. It’s a man thing. They come home and switch off and, next thing, it’s full-on REM sleep. Next time, give him a sharp prod and wake him up, especially if you’ve gone to all the bother of wearing stockings. I mean, what a bloody waste!’

I laugh, thinking, if only it was that simple. ‘I can imagine how he’d react if I rudely interrupted his beauty sleep,’ I murmur.

As the session progresses, the noise level increases to earsplitting levels. Jack, Beth’s three-year-old, grabs a scooter and hurtles recklessly across the gleaming wooden floor, bellowing out a shrill siren noise. Meanwhile, Toby proceeds to bang the metal xylophone furiously. ‘Not so loud!’ I call over.

‘I’m playing music,’ he yells back.

‘Yes, I know, but—’

‘No, it’s mine!’ he screams as a pig-tailed blonde tries to wrestle the hammer from his grasp.

‘Toby, it’s not yours.’ I rush towards him, but not fast enough to stop him whacking the girl on the forehead with the hammer. Screaming, she tears across the hall to be scooped up by her furious, red-faced mother. It’s their first time here. I doubt if they’ll ever come back.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I witter, scuttling over to check on the damage, as if I’m responsible for the throbbing pink splodge on the weeping child’s forehead. In a way, I guess I am. I’m Toby’s mother, his prime carer who’s supposedly in charge of teaching him how to behave nicely and kindly to others. Although he still demands to come to playgroup, and clearly enjoys it, he’s one of the oldest kids here and has really outgrown it. Maybe these violent outbursts are due to the fact that I’m not stimulating him enough.

‘It’s okay,’ the girl’s mother says, her eyes steely. ‘I don’t think she’s concussed or anything.’

‘God, I hope not. I’m so, so sorry. I think he was just, er, overexcited.’

The woman pulls in her lips and turns away from me. ‘Come on, Emily, darling. Let’s find you someone else to play with.’ Someone who’s not intent on causing GBH, is what she means.

‘You must never hit anyone like that,’ I bark, marching back to the music corner where Toby looks totally unconcerned. ‘That was very, very naughty and you’ve made a big pink mark on that little girl’s head. I want you to go over and say sorry.’

‘No!’ he yells, haring off to play with the doll’s house at the far end of the hall. He doesn’t play gentle games with it. The miniature people don’t sit around having quaint tea parties. If Toby’s involved, there has to be a fire, a burglary or some dreadful natural disaster. ‘It’s my xylophone,’ I hear him muttering.

Beth hands me another polystyrene cup of insipid coffee. ‘I can’t control him,’ I murmur, trying to steady my breathing. ‘God knows what he’ll be like when he starts school.’

‘Jack’s just the same. He drives Kira crazy, always trying to barge in and trash her room. And this morning he pulled down one of the living room curtains to wear as a cape . . .’

I smile, feeling marginally reassured. Toby’s behaviour probably is normal, at least for our family; Finn and Grace were a handful too, forever clambering all over the kitchen worktops and balancing perilously on the garden wall. However, I seemed to cope better when they were little, and fear that my reserves of tolerance have reached critically low levels.

Beth and I perch on the windowsill and sip our coffees. I was relieved to meet her, when we’d just moved to Yorkshire. Not only did she have big-age-gap children around Toby and Finn’s ages; she also didn’t assume I was some poncey, over-precious mother just because I’d come from London, as a few women seemed to. ‘Are you still running these days?’ I ask her.

She shakes her head. ‘No, I’ve let it slide really. All that getting up at the crack of dawn, and going out before Pete went to work . . .’

‘That takes dedication,’ I murmur.

‘Plus,’ she adds, prodding a hip, ‘I was starting to feel creaky. Age, I guess,’ she says, smiling. ‘It’s not great for the joints.’

‘Who cares about joints?’ I snigger.

‘You would, if you were an old crock like me . . .’

‘You know what?’ I say, filled with sudden enthusiasm. ‘I think I might give it a try. Maybe that’s what I need. Exercise I can just do, whenever Jed’s home and I get the chance to go out. It’d be a lot simpler than going to the gym, and it might shift this . . .’ I poke my belly.

‘Good for you,’ she says. ‘It’s brilliant actually. Great for stress levels too. I’d come with you, keep you company, but I don’t think the old knees could take it.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I say, laughing. ‘I’d have to go in the middle of the night anyway. Couldn’t risk being seen, could I?’

She shakes her head despairingly as I take my ringing mobile from my pocket. It’s Jed, which is unusual. He rarely phones during the day. ‘School boiler’s broken,’ he explains, ‘so I’m coming home early. Just wondered where you were.’

‘At playgroup,’ I tell him, adding, as a joke, ‘Why don’t you come along?’

‘I, um . . . where is it?’ he asks, sounding alarmed.

‘St Mary’s Hall. Didn’t you know that, Jed?’ I tease him.

‘Well, er . . .’

‘It’s on until three,’ I add. ‘Come on, you’ll love it and you’ll give all the mums here a treat.’

‘Well, er, I was just, um . . .’

‘Great. See you soon, love. Bye!’ I finish the call and grin at Beth.

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