Mum On The Run. Fiona Gibson

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       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 СКАЧАТЬ