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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ hell. What made her do that?’

      I shrug. ‘So I’d know exactly why she’s been so unhappy, I guess. It must have all poured out. Look at her writing. It’s so messy. She’s usually much neater—’

      ‘Never mind the handwriting analysis,’ Paolo says brusquely. ‘You poor bugger. Jesus …’ He shakes his head and exhales.

      Most of Sinead’s friends – and, I’ve always suspected, Sinead herself – fancy Paolo, and anyone can see why. He’s a tall, charming and handsome bastard, not to put too fine a point on it; of Italian parentage, which serves only to boost his appeal. We were friends in secondary school in Huddersfield, and he and his wife Bea settled here when they started their family.

      ‘So, where did you see her today?’ I ask.

      ‘Just on the high street. She’d been shopping. She didn’t say much. Just that she’d left, she was sure you’d tell me, and that she’s staying at Abby’s …’ Looking back at the list, he starts to read aloud: ‘“You don’t listen to me. You take me for granted”.’

      ‘Yes, okay,’ I say quickly, glancing around the pub. At just after 8 p.m., it’s already bustling; we were lucky to nab the quiet booth right at the back.

      ‘“You don’t consider my needs”,’ he continues. ‘“No effort made re us as a couple …”’

      ‘There’s no need to read it all out,’ I murmur. ‘I’ve read it so many times, I could probably recite it by heart.’

      Paolo sips his beer and frowns. ‘Did you really give her the money to buy her own Christmas present?’

      ‘Well, yes,’ I reply hotly, ‘because I’d bought her a skirt for her birthday, which I thought she’d look sensational in. But she just gave it this withering look—’

      ‘So you thought it was more practical to just give her cash instead,’ Paolo concludes.

      I nod. ‘Exactly.’

      ‘But she found it unromantic.’

      ‘Yeah, okay,’ I say, prickling with defensiveness now.

      Paolo fixes me with a look across the table. ‘Right. So, you’re looking at this list as your P45? I mean, you reckon it really is over?’

      ‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘It’s not just that. There was an email as well, and then she came over last night and spelled it all out really.’

      Paolo sighs. ‘Yeah, but I don’t think it’s like that at all. What I mean is, I don’t think she thought it all through, you know? I bet it just all came out in a splurge, after a few wines. She was probably feeling a bit pissed off, and then, before she knew it, she’d worked herself up into a right old froth about being unappreciated, about life being all drudge and no fun …’

      ‘Okay!’ I cut in.

      ‘… and convinced herself that she really had no option but to leave you,’ he concludes, stopping to sip his pint.

      ‘Right. Doesn’t really help, though, does it?’

      ‘It does, actually …’

      ‘I don’t see how.’

      ‘Well, look – first thing, stop panicking …’

      ‘I’d say it’s a pretty normal human reaction,’ I remark.

      ‘Yeah, but it won’t help you in this situation because you’re going to need a clear head.’

      I frown at him. ‘A clear head for what?’

      Paolo slides the list to me across the table. ‘Listen, mate – it seems to me like she’s written down your instructions right here.’

      I pick it up and study it again. ‘What d’you mean?’

      ‘Oh, come on. Can’t you see that’s exactly why she’s done this? What she wants you to do is work your way through all the points on the list and put them right.’ He pauses. ‘She’s giving you a chance, mate.’

      I almost laugh. Paulo isn’t a therapist or a psychologist; he’s an electrician (‘Bea’s so lucky, having such a handy husband!’ Sinead has crooned more than once). However, as his own marriage seems to be extremely happy, perhaps he does know a thing or two about the workings of the female mind.

      ‘Rectify all my faults, you mean?’ I ask.

      ‘Yeah,’ he says brightly.

      ‘But …’ I stare down at it. ‘There’s a hell of a lot of points on here …’

      ‘Oh, come on,’ he exclaims, draining his glass. ‘You want her back, don’t you?’

      ‘Yeah, of course I do!’

      ‘Isn’t she worth it, then?’ he asks with a maddening glint in his eye.

      I twiddle with my glass. ‘Yes, she is,’ I say quietly. ‘But some of them …’ I pause. ‘I mean, the DIY thing, that’s easy – I’ll just get a joiner in next time, not even bother trying to save us money …’ I catch Paolo’s warning look and try to erase the bitterness from my voice. ‘But what about where she’s just written, “YOUR MOTHER!!!”? I mean, I love Sinead – I’d do pretty much anything for her – but I’m not sure I’d have my mum assassinated.’

      Paolo snorts. ‘I’m sure you can figure something out. It’s going to be a test of your ingenuity and, when you’ve got to the end, you won’t even recognise yourself …’

      I chuckle dryly. ‘Is that supposed to be a good thing?’

      He smiles and gets up to go to the bar, adding, ‘Just get to it, starting tonight. Look at it this way – you really don’t have anything to lose.’

      He’s right, of course – and after another couple of beers I find myself heading home feeling, okay, a little pissed, but also in a far more positive frame of mind. My friend’s enthusiasm for life is infectious, I decide. Maybe I should try to be more like Paolo: charming, positive, Italian. I catch sight of Howard apparently swatting a fly at his living room window and wave quickly, then hurry into my house.

      Flynn is home, and greets me with a rather subdued, ‘Hey, Dad.’ We sit together and watch some trash on the TV, which he enjoys from time to time: young people on their first dates. It all seems terribly contrived and awkward, and I start to feel as if I’m there on the dates with them, at least double their age, a sort of chaperone, stiff and uncomfortable with my hands bunched into tight fists.

      ‘Sorry about all that,’ I murmur, during an ad break. ‘The guitar thing, I mean. I was upset, but that was no reason to act that way. I just meant—’

      ‘It’s okay,’ he says lightly.

      I glance at my son as he pops strong-smelling cheesy Doritos from a family packet into his mouth. If Sinead were here, the Doritos would be in a bowl. As the dating programme resumes, I find myself spinning off, thinking now of the little things СКАЧАТЬ