The Single Mums’ Book Club. Victoria Cooke
that you also get rid of the mother-in-law, not that I hope she’s dying. The physical distance and absence of obligation is enough.
He sighs dramatically. ‘I can get them, it’s just that I’ve had this awful week at work and it’s only going to get worse over the next few days. I’ll probably have to work late Friday and then there will be team drinks after …’
Ding ding ding. There we have it. Twenty-one-year-old wannabe Mike fancies a night out with his work friends. Poor cherub!
‘Whatever you think is best,’ I say. Yes, I’m being passive-aggressive (one of the things he threw against me in the divorce – he just couldn’t take it anymore) but, well, I don’t care because ninety-nine per cent of my passive-aggressive instances would never have occurred if he wasn’t being such a twat in the first place.
‘Stephanie, don’t make me feel worse than I already do. It’s hard juggling a job like mine and, well, you don’t work.’
And there it is. I. Don’t. Work. Another reason for his emotional stress even though he was the one who told me to give up my job and be a stay-at-home mum because he earns a bloody fortune and the kids need a parent around. Turns out that’s not at all true in Mikelandia where kids raise themselves.
‘Yet,’ I say, and he laughs nervously. I could rant about how being a one-woman feeding, cleaning, bathing, clothing, emotional support machine is a full-time job. I don’t because he’ll come back with some retort about how he has to fund us all, then things could get quite nasty – I’ve been there before. I know plenty of single mothers work but we’ve built a life this way and unpicking it is a process.
‘So, you are looking for work?’ He sounds hopeful.
‘Of course I am,’ I say, and it’s true. I am, but who wants to hire a bookkeeper whose only bookkeeping experience in the last ten years has been neatly stacking nursery rhyme books and filling in reading logs?
‘That’s great, Stephanie.’ His voice tinkles like a fruit machine dispensing pound coins.
‘Is that everything? I’m sort of busy.’
‘Henry running rings around you is he? That’s my boy.’
Oh fuck off! ‘Something like that.’
‘See you Saturday morning then, about elevenish?’
Because we can’t do without a proper lie-in on a Saturday, can we?
‘Fine, see you then.’ I end the call and stare at my phone. I don’t even know why I have the thing because all it does is bring misery.
When Henry and I get to the Tesco local, I grab a packet of toilet roll but before I get to the till, I panic and check my purse. I paid cash at the supermarket earlier and I gave the cashier everything I had in note form. I rummage through the coins. There’s a queue behind me but I just need ten more pence. I dig deep and catch a large coin between two of my fingers. Yes! A small victory. But the victory is short-lived when I pull it out and it’s a murky brown two-pence piece.
‘Sorry,’ I say, coming out of the queue. I walk back to the toilet paper section hoping for a budget version of the normal own-brand stuff I’d picked but the only alternative is Andrex and I’m not exactly made of money. As I stare at the toilet paper that I’m eight pence away from, everything comes crashing down on me. The divorce, going it alone, juggling the kids, budgeting, my deserting friends, the fact I can’t get to sleep at night, and everything knots together in my stomach before propelling itself into my throat like a grenade. My eyes water and my chest heaves. A loud sob escapes and before I even realise it’s me making that awful wailing sound, a firm hand lands on my shoulder.
‘Stephanie?’
I turn my head and, through watery eyes, see a lady who I recognise as a neighbour from across the street. She’s a little shorter than me with frizzy brown hair that she always has tied back. She bears all the hallmarks of a frazzled mum; for starters, her white and navy striped top is inside out.
‘Janey?’ I say uncertainly. She nods and smiles warmly.
‘Are you okay?’
I nod to give myself time to recompose. ‘I’m just having one of those days and now I’ve come here for loo roll and I’m eight pence short – I should have checked my purse before I left but—’
‘Shh, hon, listen, we’ll go and pay for this and then I’m taking you home for a cup of tea.’
I don’t know what it is about the warmth and kindness of this woman who hardly knows me, but it sets me off crying again.
‘Why don’t you go and get some fresh air and I’ll sort this.’ She prises the loo roll out of my hand and I might be mistaken but I think she shoves me a little towards the door. Outside, the cold air hits me like a slap in the face. My head starts to pound like an embarrassed little man is trying to dig himself a hole in my grey matter. I contemplate scurrying off but she knows where I live and I really need that loo roll.
‘Here you go,’ she says, handing me a carrier bag. ‘Right, your place or mine?’ Despite living across the road from one another for years, we’ve never said more than a quick hello, or given knowing glances as we’ve struggled to get the kids into their impossible car seats, but here she is offering me support. I suppose I was always busy before the divorce, people-pleasing the likes of Emily, and ever since Mike left I’ve been so frazzled myself, I’ve barely acknowledged anyone. The fact she’s doing this for me sends a warmth so strong through my body, it almost sets me off crying again.
Ten minutes later we’re in my kitchen and I’m apologising for the mess whilst cursing myself for not tidying up earlier.
She bats away my comment with her hand. ‘Listen, I’ve always thought there was something suspicious about super tidy people – I mean, where do they find the time to be constantly cleaning? They’re missing out on something somewhere.’
I laugh. I like this woman.
‘Anyway,’ she says as she fills the kettle. ‘Do you want to talk about anything? I’m a good listener and have a few hours to kill.’
Something about her round face and soft brown eyes compels me to want to open up. I rarely get to speak to other adults, excluding Mike of course but he doesn’t count.
When I try to pinpoint the things that are getting to me, I can’t. It’s not the divorce – I’ve had time to come to terms with that. The hardest part of the divorce wasn’t losing Mike, it was losing the family unit I’d always yearned for. Growing up without a mum and having a dad who was always away left me longing for a proper family. I never grew up wanting to be a nurse or a pop star. I grew up wanting to be a mum and a wife. The loss of that dream is what I’m mourning for, but the version Mike and I had was far from perfect. Today I think it’s just life that’s getting to me though. It all sounds so trivial when I try to verbalise it – people struggle with so much more.
‘I’m just being daft. I’m having a bad day and too many things got on top of me at once.’
‘I know that feeling.’ She uses the teapot off the shelf by the window and I daren’t tell her it was a gift that I keep for ornamental purposes because she’s being so kind. ‘Happens to me at least once a day. The kids run me ragged and my other half is as much use as a marshmallow mallet. I love them and all, but I do cherish the time I get when they’re at school.’
When she places the mugs of tea down, she sits opposite me at the kitchen table and takes a sip. ‘The kids giving you grief too?’ She says the statement like a question.
‘Something like that. They’re not especially bad; it’s just the collective nature of them.’
‘Ahh, the many-headed beast, though I only have two – you’ve got your work cut out with three. Listen, it’s not my place to say and tell me to shut up if you wish but I heard about you and Mike splitting up and just wanted to say I’m sorry and I’m here