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 Six

       Sinead

      ‘So, how did it go?’ Abby has arrived home from her shift as manager of the Lamb and Flag, one of Hesslevale’s most popular pubs.

      ‘Bloody awful.’ I pour a glass of wine from the bottle I picked up on my way home, and hand it to her. We settle on the sofa in her immaculate newly built home.

      ‘Oh, love,’ she murmurs. ‘It was never going to be easy, explaining it all face-to-face. But at least you’ve done it now, and he knows exactly how you feel. So maybe the worst part’s over.’

      I grimace. Was that the worst part? I have no idea. All I know is that, two nights ago, it felt as if I had no choice but to leave him. With my heart rattling furiously, I’d glared at the packet of three wooden mousetraps I’d bought a week previously, knowing it would happen soon.

      Flynn’s music had stopped upstairs, and all was quiet at 83 Allison Street. I poured myself a huge glass of wine and sat sipping it at the kitchen table, then refilled it. Drinking alone, on a Wednesday night – but no wonder. I sipped, and I waited, on high alert now – just like Nate must be every time he conducts a driving test. Then out one popped from under the microwave – a grey blur. I leapt up and screamed, knocking over my glass as the mouse darted across the worktop, skirting the packet of traps and disappearing behind the toaster.

      Shaking, I snatched a ring-bound notebook from the cookbook shelf and hurried through to the living room. I’d bought the notebook for collecting recipes that both Nate and Flynn would appreciate because, God knows, it’s hard to please both of them. It even had divided sections for soups, mains, desserts. However, food was the last thing on my mind right then.

       You might find it helpful to write down all the aspects you’re unhappy with …

      I grabbed a pen, and opened the notebook which I’d bought with the intention of being a good wife and mother; a provider of wholesome fare.

      Well, fuck that.

      I started to write, and out it all poured, fuelled by L’Ondice lady petrol: all the minor faults, the major faults and everything in between. Of course, this wasn’t really about mousetraps, the occasional dog poo left on the lawn or any of that. It was years’ worth of stuff, tumbling out – about how Nate, who was supposed to love me, viewed me now. I used to be a person, supposedly with talent and an identity of my own, way back in some previous life. Jewellery was my passion; I was a silversmith. Things had taken off quickly after I’d graduated from art college; I’d been featured in glossy magazines and my pieces were being stocked by several major stores. I was, as one journalist put it, ‘a shining star of the jewellery world’. But not anymore. I was just there, keeping things going, invisible to the man I’d once loved.

      ‘How was Flynn, when you explained everything?’ Abby asks now.

      ‘On the surface, he took it pretty well,’ I reply. ‘I just sort of rattled it all out and he sat there in silence, taking it in. You know how he is, Abs. He puts a brave face on everything. And as for Nate …’

      ‘He’ll be okay eventually,’ she says gently, squeezing my hand. ‘But it’s going to take time. It’ll be tough on all of you, but you did what felt right.’

      I nod. ‘Yes, but I’m a bloody idiot …’

      ‘What d’you mean?’

      ‘The way I tried to make things seem better for Flynn, you know? With promises of a room in the home I have yet to find—’

      ‘He’s always welcome here, you know that …’

      ‘Thank you. I do know, and I appreciate it so much.’ I pause and sip my wine. ‘I suggested we could get together over a milkshake. A milkshake!’ I repeat, sensing my cheeks burning. ‘What was I thinking? He’s sixteen years old!’

      ‘Hey,’ Abby says gently. ‘I bet he won’t mind what you do as long as you spend time together.’

      ‘That is, if he doesn’t hate me …’

      ‘Of course he won’t hate you,’ she exclaims. ‘Flynn adores you. Come on, this isn’t making you feel any better …’

      ‘I’m sorry, I just seem to offload to you all the time …’

      ‘Offload away,’ Abby says, smiling now. ‘You’ve done the same for me, plenty of times.’

      I muster a smile too. ‘Well, I’m so grateful, Abs. You are brilliant, you know that?’

      She shrugs off the compliment and pushes back her long blonde hair. Dressed in a simple black shift, with minimal make-up, her brand of pub manager is sleekly groomed rather than OTT glamour. Although she is very much my friend – the one she confided in during those failed rounds of IVF, and then her divorce – I first got to know her through Nate, when he and a big bunch of mates shared a house.

      We channel-hop now, finally settling on a soothing nature documentary about seals. We share the rest of the bottle of wine and, by the time we say goodnight at around 1 a.m., I am slightly light-headed – yet again.

      What kind of mother am I? I reflect as I climb into bed in Abby’s spare room. I drink too much. Worse still, I have abandoned my lovely boy who needs me. And I can’t even bring myself to set a mousetrap, for goodness’ sake! How can that be, when I’ve dealt with the numerous challenges of raising Flynn? But that’s just me. Recently, I seem to have become fearful of quite a few silly things. I don’t know whether it’s age, or hormones, or what. Maybe Rachel might have some ideas?

      At our last session, I’d told her how I’d tried to keep my business going as a new mum. However, Flynn was a terrible sleeper and my determination to graft away into the night soon proved impossible. Even when he finally learnt to distinguish night from day, his early years were filled with medical and therapeutic appointments. Although Nate and I never discussed it, the person to take charge of such matters – and accompany him on virtually all of these – was me.

      And so orders fell away, and Sinead Hogan, so-called shining star, was replaced by Sinead Turner in ratty old jeans and a faded sweatshirt, fringe home-cut, face devoid of make-up and frankly knackered. I once СКАЧАТЬ