Mum in the Middle: Feel good, funny and unforgettable. Jane Wenham-Jones

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      ‘Not anymore.’

      ‘I’m divorced,’ I offered, immediately feeling hot with embarrassment in case he thought I was making some sort of offer. ‘I wouldn’t get married again,’ I added hastily, to show I wasn’t in search of a husband.

      ‘Neither would I,’ he said with feeling. ‘They were all mad.’

      By the time we were on coffee, I’d learned he’d had two wives and a fiancée – the latter had left him because of his drinking and the fact that he was exceptionally rude to her mother. ‘Dreadful woman,’ he explained. ‘Always “popping in” for something. I was relieved when that one packed her bags.’

      ‘What happened to the other two?’

      ‘One died and one went off with a woman she played badminton with.’ Before I could express sympathy at his bereavement, he leant forward with a sudden wolfish grin. ‘I always knew there was something not quite right about her.’

      I shook my head, knowing there was little point in protesting. And there was something quite refreshing about someone who didn’t care what he said or how politically correct it was. I could see why he and Ingrid clashed.

      He startled me by mentioning her name as I was thinking it. ‘So what do you really think about this so-called hate campaign?’ he asked, suddenly serious again. ‘Coincidence or someone really so upset with incomers they’ll resort to vandalism?’

      ‘I like to think it’s coincidence,’ I said. There were some boys about that night – could have been them messing around and they broke it by accident.’

      ‘Like you do,’ said Malcolm dryly. ‘Accidentally throw a stone …’

      ‘They might have been throwing something at each other,’ I said, ‘and one of them ducked and whatever it was sailed past the intended victim and straight through the window.’

      Malcolm looked amused. ‘Sailed past the intended victim, eh? Want a job?’

      I laughed, feeling more comfortable with him now. ‘You know what I mean. And the slashed tyres, well they were the other side of town, weren’t they, and a couple of weeks ago? These things happen.’ I shrugged. ‘My next-door neighbour in Finchley got paint stripper poured all over his car.’

      ‘And who did it?’

      ‘Word was he owed money to some builders.’

      ‘Never a wise move’

      ‘But Ingrid seems to be the sort to make her feelings known with petitions, not physical damage.’ Even as I said it, I had a picture of her steely gaze.

      Malcolm nodded his agreement, his eyes still intent on mine.

      ‘Oh! There she is.’ I felt startled again as I spotted Ingrid on the pavement outside talking to a tall man.

      Malcolm did not turn round. ‘She gets everywhere,’ he said.

      ‘Thank you,’ I said, when Malcolm had paid the bill and we were standing in the street again. ‘That was very nice – and unexpected.’ He nodded and strode off across the road.

      I looked at my watch and followed. My plan to go to the butcher’s – I was not only going to use the shops but was considering going the whole Easter hog and ordering a turkey – would have to wait. Ahead of me Malcolm lifted an arm as if to silence someone and I saw Ingrid was now right outside his office. I grinned to myself as Malcolm disappeared through the door and out of view – clearly having no truck with whatever Ingrid had to say – but it was too late to pretend I hadn’t seen her.

      ‘Hello, how are you?’

      Ingrid appeared to straighten herself. ‘Oh Tess –’ She indicated the man next to her. ‘This is my son, David.’

      Ah The Wanky One. Telling myself I must keep an open mind, I stood up straight as well and held out my hand, looking directly at him, in the manner Caroline had instructed me to look at all males in her increasingly frequent collection of lectures with the umbrella title: ‘Why you still haven’t got a man’.

      Even though this one would not be my type at all, being, according to Jinni, self-seeking and hypocritical with no moral scruples, but I was still momentarily shocked by how good-looking he was, with his dark hair and eyes, tall frame and defined features.

      ‘How do you do?’ I smiled.

      He gave me a cursory glance. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said shortly, looking anything but.

      There was a tense pause. I was still extending my hand. I dropped it to my side, embarrassed. Ingrid threw me an odd look, which I couldn’t quite fathom and then David grasped her arm and propelled her away from me.

      ‘Just leave it, will you!’ I heard him say.

      I stood for some moments watching their backs go ahead of me up the street, stunned by his rudeness.

      Feeling horribly, almost tear-jerkingly, alone.

       Chapter 6

      ‘And you’re complaining?’ Fran swept a layer of colouring books, pens, iPads and beakers from one end of the table, so I could put my coffee down. ‘The only time I ever get to be on my own is in the loo. And then one of them usually bangs on the door!’

      She began to sift through sheets of paper. ‘Freya brought home a list of all the stuff they need for their wild woodland project and now I can’t find it.’ She ran an exasperated hand through her short fair hair. ‘It was right here.’

      ‘Is the school good?’ I asked, pulling some of the lists and envelopes towards me and beginning to flick through them too.

      There was an order form for home delivery of paraben-free cleaning products, the guarantee card for a new washing machine, a programme of events put on by the Northstone Primary PTA and a letter home about head lice.

      ‘Brilliant,’ said Fran, distractedly. ‘Northstone is great for kids. Jonathan was going on about moving nearer to London when he got his promotion but I said, no way.’

      ‘Well, now there’s the new train …’

      ‘Precisely! And so what if the drive takes forever anyway, he should try being here. At least he could listen to the radio in peace – oh shit, the twins!’

      There was a wail from above and Fran rushed from the room. Her three-year-old, Theo, appeared in the doorway and looked at me solemnly. ‘Mummy is knackered,’ he said matter-of-factly.

      ‘Tired,’ I corrected. I drew him towards me to give him a hug. He was wriggling away, wiping his cheek, as Fran returned with a toddler on each hip. She did look exhausted. I remembered her in her cottage near the High Street when my kids were young and she was working as a buyer for Harvey Nichols. And her expression if a sticky hand reached for any of the bright pots or crystal candle-holders she’d collected on her frequent trips abroad.

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