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

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       Chapter Five

      Never before have I been so grateful to reach the end of a Friday afternoon. Although this has been one of the shittiest weeks of my life – up there along with Sinead’s miscarriage and Dad dying – I have somehow managed to muster a smudge of optimism, because tonight is my opportunity to put everything right.

      ‘Bye, then,’ I say, pulling on my jacket and already propelling myself towards the door.

      ‘See you, Nate,’ says Liv, still emitting an air of concern. ‘Try and rest up this weekend, love, will you?’

      ‘Yeah – you look awfully tired and pale,’ Nadira remarks.

      ‘Just been a bit of a week …’

      ‘Sarah was saying we hadn’t seen you and Sinead for ages,’ remarks Eric. ‘You should come over for dinner sometime soon.’

      ‘Sounds great!’ My hand is clamped on the door handle now.

      ‘This weekend? Or maybe next?’

      ‘Um, this weekend’s not so good,’ I mutter. Something of an understatement …

      ‘And next Saturday’s my barbecue,’ Liv reminds us. ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten that!’

      ‘Oh, yeah, the big half-century!’ Eric beams at her, then turns back to me. ‘So you’ll check with the boss, will you?’

      ‘Huh?’

      He frowns bemusedly. ‘Sinead. Your wife. So we can arrange a night?’

      ‘Oh yes, of course,’ I reply as I leave the building, flanked by Nadira, who’s by far the youngest examiner in our team.

      ‘Well, have a good weekend, Nate,’ she says with a smile.

      ‘Thanks. You too.’

      ‘Got much on?’

      ‘Just playing it by ear,’ I mutter, then turn and make straight for my car and climb straight in. When I glance back, Nadira is standing next to her own car, and giving me a worried look. We’re a friendly team, and usually there’s a bit of chat about our plans for the weekend ahead. Sometimes we even socialise together – Eric and I especially. We often go for a few beers, just the two of us, or get together as couples over dinner.

      How am I going to explain that Sinead’s left me?

      I won’t need to, I decide as I drive through the gently undulating hills. Somehow, I’ll convince her to give me – and our marriage – another chance. Hell, she has to, really. She can’t just throw in the towel on almost two decades together because she’s suddenly taken exception to my DIY efforts and I didn’t set the bloody mousetraps.

      As I near Hesslevale, I make a few firm decisions. Whatever happens tonight, no matter how upset and defensive I feel, I must not let any of that out. I’ll listen to my wife, and show that I don’t intend to take her for granted ever again – not that I ever have! Why does she even think this when I love her madly? WHY? Maybe it’s sex: i.e., we’ve not been having enough lately. Perhaps she thinks I don’t fancy her anymore, which patently isn’t true. In fact, we actually did it a few nights ago, which seemed to surprise us both – and it was lovely, as it always is. But all too often, we’re too knackered to do anything other than fall asleep when we climb into bed. Should we just forget our ‘meeting’ this evening and go straight upstairs, tell Flynn we’re tired? Would that fix everything?

      Stopping at red lights on the edge of town, I try to disentangle my racing thoughts. A new restaurant has opened, called Elliot’s. I know it’s eye-wateringly expensive, but Eric and his wife Sarah have raved about how lovely it is. Maybe I should suggest dinner here sometime?

      By the time I pull up in our street, I’ve almost managed to convince myself that Sinead just needs a damn good rant – then she’ll feel much better. However, the very fact that she is coming around at a specified time – 8 p.m. – makes it feel less like a ‘chat’ and more like court.

       Your honour, I only decided to build the shelves myself because the quote that joiner gave was frankly astronomical …

      I find Flynn in his room, emitting distinct ‘do not disturb’ vibes. We eat dinner together at the kitchen table, in a rather stilted atmosphere, my slimy noodles and ageing babycorn clearly failing to delight him, even with a liberal dousing of oyster sauce. In fact, Flynn seems to be merely combing his noodles with his fork. Given the circumstances – and the fact that he is virtually a fully grown man – it doesn’t feel right to tell him to stop playing with his food.

      We clear up together, although it hardly seems worth the effort with just two bowls and one wok. As Flynn disappears back to his room, I try to occupy myself in our Sinead-less home by shining up the cooker hob and emptying the kitchen bin and then, when I can think of no other tasks to attend to, pacing randomly around the ground floor.

      Finally – FINALLY! – here she comes, knocking lightly on the door (why is she knocking? This is her house too!). ‘Hi?’ she calls out, stepping into the hallway now, as if she were a neighbour popping in to ask to borrow a cup of sugar. No one borrows sugar anymore, СКАЧАТЬ