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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СКАЧАТЬ the living room, last weekend’s newspapers are still strewn messily across the coffee table. ‘Honey?’ I call out. ‘Where are you?’

      No reply. I go through to the kitchen, expecting to find her there, sipping coffee and explaining that she just woke up stupidly early and couldn’t get back to sleep. But there’s only Bella, my mother’s sleek and regal collie, whom we are dog-sitting while Mum scales some Cumbrian mountains with her new bloke. Still dozing in her own basket, Bella wouldn’t dream of jumping onto anyone’s bed. Mum thinks it’s appalling that Scout is allowed onto ours. Judging by her reaction, you’d think we allowed him to sit on the table and lap at our soup.

      ‘Sinead?’ I call her more loudly this time, then place a hand on the kettle. It’s cold. Detective Nate Turner surmises that his wife has not yet made coffee. I fill it and, as I switch it on, I spot a sheet of lined A4 paper lying on the worktop.

      It is entirely covered with my wife’s rather charming, elegant handwriting – albeit a little scrawlier than usual – and looks like some sort of list. A to-do list, I assume, giving it a cursory glance. Sinead is fanatical about writing things down; she reckons it’s the only way she can ‘keep on top of this family’.

      I look at the list again, properly this time. At the top of the sheet, she’s written a heading and underlined it several times:

       Everything That’s Wrong With You

      I frown and stare at it. She can’t mean me. As far as I know, she sat up pretty late last night, probably working her way through that second bottle of Blossom Hill, judging by the empty sitting by the bin. It must be some kind of stream-of-consciousness thing, maybe triggered by yesterday’s session with Rachel, her therapist. Although Sinead is loath to tell me what goes on between them, I’d imagine Rachel gives her various mental exercises to do. She probably told Sinead to list all the things she thinks are wrong with herself.

      I look down at Scout, who is staring up at me with unblinking brown eyes. ‘Is that what she pays all that money for?’ I ask him, at which he tilts his head. As far as I’m concerned, Sinead is pretty much all-round-brilliant just as she is. I have always believed this, from the night I first spotted her at the All Saints gig in Leeds (we often joke that we wish we could say it was Oasis or Blur) and she was dancing in her vest top and combats, long blonde hair swooshing around her finely boned face. My belief in her wondrousness has only increased over the years.

      I look back at the list, suspecting now that I probably shouldn’t even read it, if it’s meant to be part of her therapy …

      Unable to resist, I start to read:

       You don’t listen to me.

       You take me for granted.

       You don’t consider my needs …

      I frown. Who is this ‘you’ she’s talking about? Surely, it’s not me. Could it be Flynn? No, of course not. The most she ever complains about is the state of his room and his lackadaisical attitude towards homework. So who else could she mean?

      I continue to read:

       No effort made re us as a couple …

      Christ, so it is me! I glance around, half-expecting her to be standing there in the doorway with her arms folded and a bemused look on her face. It’s just a joke, Nate! Can’t you take a joke? Of course she’s not there. I can’t even start to wonder where she is right now. On a walk, probably, although that would be weird at this time in the morning – and doubly weird that she hasn’t taken the dogs with her. She probably just needed to clear her head, I decide. Maybe she had a restless night.

      Okay, so this is far from ideal, this list of my apparent shortcomings – but perhaps there’s a positive side to it. At least now I can start to understand why she’s been unhappy lately, and what made her start seeing that Rachel woman in the first place. If it’s about me making more of an effort – well, that’s something I can easily put right.

      Trying to ignore the tight ball of anxiety that’s growing inside me, I read on:

       You leave too much to me.

       You belittle my job and show no interest in it.

       No spontaneity in our lives …

      Well, this seems a pretty spontaneous gesture, this summary of my crapness, but perhaps she’s been planning to write it for weeks?

       Your bloody record collection …

      What the hell!? Okay, I have a lot, probably something like a thousand or more, I don’t know – I haven’t counted them since about 1992 – with a definite bias towards Bruce Springsteen, his influencers and contemporaries. However, they are neatly stored in alphabetical order. Is that it? Is she sick of being married to ‘the kind of man who alphabetises his albums’ (as I once heard her remark to her friend Michelle in a somewhat scathing tone, followed by gales of derisive laughter)? No – it can’t be that. No one could object to a superb collection housed on custom-built shelves …

       Your terrible attempts at DIY …

      … If I say so myself, I’m pretty handy with my Black and Decker Combi cordless drill!

      … and your blank refusal to get the professionals in.

      Yes, to save us a fortune!

       Handing me a wodge of tenners to buy my own Christmas present …

      … I had no idea she was mad about that. I’d just assumed it was the most practical solution, given that I’d apparently ballsed it up on her last birthday with what she termed ‘that terrible skirt’ (i.e., the leopard print one I’d thought she’d look wonderful in).

       Woolly boundaries re Flynn …

      Ah, so now we’re getting to the nub of things: my ineffectiveness as a father. Clearly, I am a disaster as a human being—

      ‘Dad.’

      I mean, what kind of boundaries is she talking about?

      ‘DAD!’

      My head flicks round. ‘Flynn! Hi.’ I scrunch the note in my fist, like a teenager caught in class with an obscene drawing of his naked French teacher.

      ‘What’s that?’ Flynn peers at me through uncombed, wavy light brown hair. He is wearing the baggy grey T-shirt and black tracksuit bottoms he insists on for bed (proper PJs having long been deemed unacceptable).

      ‘What’s what?’ I ask in a weirdly high voice.

      ‘That thing there.’

      ‘Oh, just a bit of scrap paper …’ I sense myself sweating and tighten my grip.

      ‘Can I see it?’ His gaze seems to bore into my skull.

      ‘No!’ I shout, cheeks blazing.

      ‘All СКАЧАТЬ