More Than a Mum Read online

  ‘So, she was worth it?’

  ‘In some ways. She taught me the power of a beautiful woman.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked, eager to move on from that topic.

  ‘Not a lot. We went to Laser Quest, I think. After we had sex, I lost interest. Boys will be boys.’ Imagining him as a callous, horny teenager made me think of my girls and the little I could do to protect them from the sinister motives of some men. I excused myself to make a call.

  ‘Why have you sent Nan to babysit me like I’m a baby?’ said Ruby when she answered the landline.

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Don’t lie. She told us you think we need looking after. She’s drunk, yunno. She’s dancing.’

  I held my breath for a few seconds. The real world was knocking and I wasn’t ready to let it in.

  ‘Where’s your father?’

  ‘Stuck in traffic.’

  ‘Get her some blankets so she can sleep in the living room, and get on with your homework.’

  ‘God, you’re doing distance nagging now.’ She yawned and I heard the thump of her landing heavily on sofa cushions.

  ‘Just get your dad to call me when he gets in.’

  ‘When will you be back?’ I looked at my watch and readjusted my plan for the evening again.

  ‘An hour, two tops.’ That gave me time for one more drink. I returned to the table. Frank asked me if everything was OK and I told him everything was wonderful, because as I watched him top up my glass, it was.

  6

  ANY GUILT I FELT HAD been replaced by frustration – could I not have two hours to myself? Two hours to be someone other than housekeeper and secretary to two children and one overgrown one? I considered the battle I would have with Ruby, forcing her to delete whatever soulless void under the guise of social connection Dylan had let her have access to, and added another measure to my glass. Frank raised an eyebrow as I drank down a large slug.

  ‘Do you know what you need?’ he asked. I shook my head. Frank removed his jacket. I watched as the muscles in his arms pushed against his sleeves. ‘A dance.’ I hadn’t been conscious of it but the music had increased in tempo and volume, and a few people were congregated on a space between the tables. Frank stood and walked to the centre of the room. He began to move without waiting for me to join him. He looked completely at ease and didn’t hold himself in that awkward, self-aware way so many men do when they dance. I could have been content watching but I knew I’d be happier beside him. I took another sip of cognac and walked over; as I approached, Frank slowed the pace of his movements, giving me a chance to fall in with his rhythm. The song playing had a sultry Spanish undertone and it seemed completely appropriate for him to grab my hand and pull me in. I twisted towards him and landed with my back resting against his body. He led our movements so that we swayed in unison as the song soared. It had been so long since I had danced, properly danced. I had jumped around with the girls in the living room and stood in drunken circles shouting lyrics at weddings, but danced? Succumbed to the will of a man and the music? Not for a century at least.

  The next track was wild, impossibly fast African beats under vibrant jazz sounds. Frank turned me until I felt dizzy, and then we held hands and did a makeshift salsa round the floor. When that track ended a slow song came on, and I became aware of the individuals around me merging into pairs. I took a step back from Frank and it was like taking a step back from everything. I could feel sweat plastering the silk of the camisole to my back; I knew I was red-faced. This wasn’t the kind of place I came to; the man looking at me questioningly wasn’t mine; none of it was real. I half ran back to the table, slung on Bettina’s blazer and gathered my bag. I returned to Frank on the dance floor and took his hands in mine.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and he nodded graciously. As I moved to the exit, I was trying to work out the best route home and determined that I would need to know where I was first. Stepping back into the ruinous hallway was sobering. I was acutely conscious of how much I had drunk and how the evening was running away from me. Before I reached the heavy outer door, Carlos blocked my way.

  ‘No one’s going anywhere for a while,’ he said sternly. I panicked. It occurred to me, far too late, that there was no one around me I could trust. I barely knew Frank; any affinity I felt for him could well be booze or hormones. I hit Carlos on the chest. He was solid, like a wall; he didn’t even flinch. He held my wrists and smirked as I wriggled maniacally like a fish on a line.

  ‘Wanna control your bird?’ I followed my captor’s gaze to Frank, now a few feet behind me.

  ‘I’m not his bird!’ I screeched, anxiety and feminist indignation overcoming me. ‘And I do not need to be controlled! I need to go home. You can’t stop me. This is kidnapping.’ I wasn’t sure if it was kidnapping, given that I had entered of my own volition, but I knew it was wrong. Carlos still had a hold of me. I remembered, when I was a girl, my mother telling me to ‘bite first and think later’. As I launched my head towards him, I felt Frank reach round and pull me backwards. I relaxed against his chest, too tired to do anything more.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Frank said. His voice was commanding; not threatening but with the promise of threat if the correct response was not obtained.

  ‘The squat are kicking off again.’ I twisted my head to look at Frank, who was nodding in understanding. He turned me round to face him.

  ‘Next door aren’t the most reliable of neighbours. The street will be cordoned off for a while. Is there anyone you need to call?’ I didn’t know why I felt like crying.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, and went to the ladies’. Dylan answered immediately.

  ‘They’re working you hard, babe,’ he said.

  ‘It’s over,’ I said, ‘we went for a drink.’

  ‘Well, it’s Friday.’ I heard him shift in a chair or perhaps our bed.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I wanted to say more but the words caught in my throat.

  ‘You OK, baby?’

  ‘Yeah, course. There’s something kicking off here, traffic accident I think, and the road is closed.’

  ‘I’ll come get you,’ Dylan said. I could hear him moving, preparing to leave; his lack of hesitation caused my guilt to expand.

  ‘The girls,’ I said.

  ‘Your mum’s here. She’s asleep but she’s here.’

  ‘Seriously, Dylan, you’ve been driving all evening – stay where you are. I’m with Betty and she’s close by; I’ll stay at hers if it gets too late.’

  ‘You sure? I’ve got my shoes on?’ He would have had them on. Dylan didn’t lie.

  ‘It’s fine. Thank you. I’ll be fine.’ My husband chuckled.

  ‘My strong, independent woman,’ he said softly.

  ‘You sound tired,’ I said.

  ‘I’m a bit drained. That woman shouldn’t be allowed on the roads.’ I forced a laugh. I had been hearing the same joke for fifteen years. I stayed in the toilet for a minute or two after we hung up. I felt frightened, but I was no longer frightened of Carlos or whatever was unfolding on the street outside; I was scared of myself.

  Frank was waiting for me near the toilets.

  ‘Everything good?’ he asked.

  ‘Sorry about earlier, everything’s fine.’ He handed me another drink. He didn’t ask me any more questions and I wondered briefly if he wasn’t interested or didn’t want to know the answers. The table we had been sitting at had become occupied, so we took seats on stools at the bar. The waiter was a man who looked to be in his fifties, a weathered kind of handsome, the kind that you suspect looks better now than before.

  ‘What’s Frank got you on?’ he asked, nodding towards my glass. I looked at it.

  ‘I’m not sure actually.’ He laughed and leaned in, pretending to speak only to me.

  ‘Don’t let this one boss you about,’ he said. ‘He needs to be put in his place from time to time.’ I smiled at Frank, who moved his stool closer.

  ‘Is that so?’ I asked. He shrug
ged. The barman laughed again. For some reason it made me feel proud that Frank was so well known and so clearly liked by the staff there. Of course, I could take no credit for him, but perhaps the fact that they had chosen him and he in turn had chosen me made me feel validated in some way. The barman slid my glass a few inches away from me.

  ‘Let me make you something – if it doesn’t knock your socks off it’s on the house. What do you like?’

  ‘Rum,’ I said, my earlier fear and frustration already distant. The barman whistled as he upended bottles of liquor and squeezed limes into a mixer. I rested my chin on my hands and watched him work. I always enjoyed seeing people do things with passion. I could feel Frank beside me, but I didn’t feel the need to engage him and he didn’t do anything to gain my attention. The barman placed his creation in front of me and stood with his arms folded expectantly. I took my time, holding the glass towards the light and examining it before sipping. The barman tapped his foot expectantly.

  ‘It’s not bad,’ I said. He looked crestfallen. I laughed and he wagged his finger at me. ‘Fine. I’m lying – it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.’ He did a little tap dance before walking up the bar to serve someone else. Frank dragged his stool even closer.

  ‘Calmer now?’ I couldn’t meet his eye.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m having a bit of a moment.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s lasted about two years.’

  ‘Wanna talk about it?’ he said. And I found that I did.

  Three years ago, things were sort of coming together. The girls were both in school and I knew it was time to elbow my way back into the rat race. I’d had nine years of trying and failing not to let motherhood curtail my career, but largely it had been unsuccessful. Projects and promotions went to younger, less encumbered colleagues; my requests for feedback were largely dismissed. My employers treated me like an ugly ornament from a relative after a holiday – useless but not acceptable to throw away.

  As soon as the girls were settled in their new classes, I applied for an internal managerial position. Two of us went for it: Caris and me. Caris had been my friend since the day I started. She had big brown curls and an even bigger laugh. I gravitated towards her immediately. We often took lunch together, and shared problems from both inside and outside the office. Caris and her husband had completed several rounds of IVF, and more than once I’d had to cover for her when another failed attempt had resulted in several tearful trips to the ladies’.

  When, over Pret sandwiches, we learned we were both applying for the role, she went uncharacteristically quiet. Caris suggested it was best that we didn’t talk about it, and that agreement seemed to extend to offering me congratulations after I was given the job. Technically, I became my friend’s superior, but I trusted Caris and I never made a point of highlighting my seniority. The trust, it seemed, didn’t go both ways. We stopped meeting for lunch; I’d catch her organizing after-work drinks and quickly shutting down the conversation when I entered the room. Other than the demise of our friendship, I enjoyed my new role. I think I was good at managing people, certainly better than managing myself.

  I tried with Caris; I missed her and I wanted to do a good job of supporting her. I talked it through with Dylan most evenings, until he told me that he felt like he was married to her and not me. After that I decided we should clear the air; I invited Caris for dinner. We went to the mid-range Italian near the office and shared a bottle of wine; it was stilted but polite. I thought I had broken ground.

  A couple of days later I was called to a meeting. Caris had accused me of bullying her. The dinner, she claimed, was used as an opportunity for mockery by lording my status as a mother over her. It was true I had talked about my children, but only because I had nothing else to talk about.

  When whispers of redundancies circulated the office, I made clear I would be open to it. No one fought me. Dylan told me to do what made me happy, but I was choosing between a crappy situation at work and the crappy situation of being unemployed. In the end I decided to leave before I was pushed, like a teenage girl scrambling to be the dumper and not the dumped. On my last day, I worked late and left when the office was empty. I climbed into bed and stayed there for a week. Caris messaged me a month or so later to wish me well. I broke my laptop throwing it across the room.

  Frank listened without much response. I felt a spike of panic that I had bored him, but then he tucked a piece of hair behind my ear and said, ‘Will you make me a promise?’ I nodded. ‘Chase your own joy. You will only get hurt if you try and create it for someone else.’ Tears sprang to my eyes and Frank wiped them away quickly without fuss, and then we danced again. I accepted his embrace when the music dictated I should; I allowed myself to lean in to him and stopped worrying about what it might mean. The whole evening had taken on an otherworldly quality; it was so removed from my everyday life, I sort of decided that it didn’t count.

  After an hour of dancing and drinking more of the greatest ever cocktail, I was happy but weary. Frank asked me if I was OK and although I replied I was fine, I had to think about it for a few seconds. He deposited me at the bar and disappeared for a few minutes. Whilst he was gone, I asked the barman his name.

  ‘Patrick,’ he said.

  ‘I bet you’ve seen some stuff, Pat? Can I call you Pat?’ I asked.

  ‘You can call me whatever you like,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen everything.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve seen Frank in here with a string of women.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Only you.’ I felt a little explosion in my stomach and I berated myself for the involuntary reaction. I had no right to be excited but sensed that excitement might be the piece of the puzzle I was searching for. Frank returned and took hold of one of my hands.

  ‘It’s still cordoned off outside. There’s rooms here; I’ve booked one for myself. You can come and rest for a while.’ I didn’t say yes but I didn’t actually say no.

  7

  BELOW THE CLUB was a warren of suites, and Frank led me to a room at the end of a silent corridor. He opened the door with a small black electronic device and, as I entered, I was hit with the scent of freesias. The walls were pale grey and the floors covered in thick creamy carpets; I immediately removed my loafers to feel the softness. I was wiggling my toes into the floor when Frank removed his jacket, shoes and tie before settling on to the huge bed, and it struck me how quickly things can turn. The man who, for reasons unexplored, I had viewed as my protector all evening no longer made me feel safe. I felt anxious and angry – had this charming man been a wolf wearing Grandmother’s expensive suit? I backed away. It was one thing to be next to each other on the dance floor, with witnesses and clothes on, but quite another to do so on a bed in the semi-darkness of a bedroom. I was so disappointed with Frank for falling this easily into a sad stereotype of a bloke, and with myself for getting swept up in all his shininess. Still, I didn’t want to tell him I was angry. I didn’t want to risk the negative repercussions of a rejection. I thought back to the cocktails and the cab ride, expenses that I had failed to understand were payments in advance. Surely as a marketing manager I could find the words to extrapolate myself without too much fallout. Frank reached for something on the bedside table. It was the remote control.

  ‘I loved this one,’ he said, after turning on the television. He watched for a few seconds and then let out that disarming laugh and that was it; no pressure, no words of seduction. I went over to the bed. It was so wide I had to crawl across it to sit next to him. The images on the screen looked familiar, but I couldn’t place them and looked to Frank.

  ‘Adventures in Babysitting,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes!’ I had forgotten about the film’s existence, yet it was in the rotation of movies that I would watch through the long, hot summers of childhood. From the age of eleven, July meant being a surrogate mum to my brother Henry, eleven years my junior. Eddie was busy building his business and Mum wasn’t there, even when she
was. I made a big show of feeling encumbered by Henry’s presence, but actually I adored having him around. I swear he was born smiling – they said it was wind but I knew differently. By some magic he grew up without the weight I always carried, and I wanted to protect him from that. We never got bored; we were so present. There weren’t a million and one things to do so we invested in the few joys we had. We would build complicated Lego castles and chase squirrels on the common around the corner. When he got tired I would carry him on my hip like he was mine, and in many ways he was. In the afternoons I’d put in a video, always an adventure film, something that could carry me away from Essex for a couple of hours. Henry curled up next to me and quietly sucked on the first two fingers of his right hand.

  I quoted a line at the same time as one of the characters. Frank looked at me, his face contorted in pleasure and surprise. ‘Impressed?’ I asked.

  ‘Very,’ he said, and paused just long enough to create tension. ‘I thought you’d be too young to know this one.’ I know many women are flattered by assessments like that, but I’ve been getting it my entire life and concluded that people often confuse height and age.

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ I said softly. ‘You thought I was this young, impressionable ingénue that you could bring to this den of sin and corrupt.’ Frank laughed.

  ‘Perhaps I hoped you were, but it’s good for the soul to be wrong. See, you challenge me without even trying.’ It was this, the idea of being challenging and therefore, I concluded, complicated and intriguing, that had me completely hooked. Generally, I felt so uncomplicated – bill payer, ham sandwich maker, launderer. I wanted to be interesting and layered and Frank made me feel that way. We watched the rest of the film in silence, except for laughter when it was called for. I was aware that we reacted to exactly the same parts and also of his arm, pressed firmly against mine. As the credits rolled Frank sighed, a comfortable, satisfied sound that I accepted responsibility for evoking. He patted my forearm gently as he said, ‘I don’t think I’ve relaxed properly in years. Thanks for giving me this.’ I placed my hand on top of his and told him he was welcome. He looked at my hand and then to my eyes and said, ‘You are very cute.’ It wasn’t elegant but it was enough. I’m ashamed to say any emotional defences I had left fell away. I turned to the side and feigned annoyance.