Bad Mothers United (7 page)

‘There used to be this sitcom on TV,’ said Daniel as we climbed the stairs to his first-floor flat, ‘called
My Wife Next Door
. About this couple
who’d split up only to find they’d accidentally bought adjoining semis.’

‘I don’t remember that.’

‘It was ages ago, right back in the Seventies.’

‘How come you’ve seen it, then?’

‘My dad had it on video. We used to watch it when I was little. Wishful thinking on his part, probably.’

We stopped on the landing and he fumbled for his key. Music boomed down through the ceiling, some wailing female vocal.

‘And your point is?’

The key turned, and Daniel cast a nod towards the ceiling. ‘I could probably write some kind of hilarious sequel.
My Mum Upstairs
.’

It was a slightly weird set-up. When Daniel’s parents had divorced last year his dad had got rid of the family pile and invested in this three-storey Victorian terraced house, installing
his ex-wife on the top floor and Daniel in the middle, plus some Ukrainians on the ground floor. Meanwhile Dr Gale himself moved into a flat across the other side of the city. The idea was sold
to Daniel as rent-free student accommodation plus on-site domestic support – his mum could help with cooking, cleaning, shopping and washing, leaving Dan free to concentrate on his studies.
He’d have his independence, but as a sort of, ha ha, payback he could keep half an eye on his mum. Provide her with a bit of company from time to time, make sure she was coping. Everyone a
winner. Dr Gale walking away, dusting his hands and smiling. We all knew the real score, but none of us was saying.

Daniel pushed open the door cautiously. His mother has a key; I suppose he’s never quite sure what he’s going to find on the other side.

But the flat, when we walked in, was tidy and freshly hoovered. The cushions on the sofa were square and plumped, and the window open to air the room. Evidently Mrs G hadn’t been necking
Chardonnay the whole day. Upstairs, the music rolled on in sentimental waves.

‘What
is
that?’ I asked, pointing upwards.

‘Rita Coolidge.’

‘Who?’

‘Mum filched the CD off Dad before she left. It’s one of his favourites.’

‘Why would she do that? To annoy him? Doesn’t it upset her, listening to it?’

‘Yup.’

‘So why doesn’t she put a sock in it?’

Dan sighed. I know I should keep my mouth shut. The thing is, though, Mrs Gale was such a prize cow to me after Will was born. Like, I’d bring the baby round and she’d bugger off
into a different room, out of the way. Once we were in the kitchen and I asked if she wanted to hold him and she actually shuddered, a big dramatic shiver. I mean, for fuck’s sake, my
little baby. Then these thought bubbles started appearing over her head:
Don’t forget, that child’s got nothing to do with this family. Why don’t you go and see his
biological dad’s mother and foist your infant on
her
? Or perhaps you aren’t even sure who the father is.

To which I could have replied:
OK, first off, I DO know who the father is, and second, he was the only boy I’d ever slept with, and third, we did try and use contraception, and
fourth, it wasn’t my fault he turned out to be a git. Also, Daniel’s free to choose who he goes out with – do I look as though I’ve got him in an armlock? Anyway, it was
your affair ruined your marriage so you’re hardly in a position to preach to anyone. Look to your own house, Mrs G, look to your own house.

Obviously I never said any of this out loud, which makes me some kind of saint.

From time to time Mrs G and I did manage an ordinary civil conversation – we saw each other too much not to – but always she’d find a way to turn the topic onto
Daniel’s university place, Daniel’s glittering career path. Like I was just destined for the gutter. As far as she was concerned, I was some council-estate slapper out to snare the
first sap who wandered past. ‘It’s not that she’s against you personally,’ Daniel had once said. ‘She worries about me, that’s all.’ But I knew that even
without Will on the scene, she’d have been anti. Essentially I was just too common.

So, now that life had brought her down, some devil in me couldn’t resist prodding, drawing attention to the fact she was struggling. Because it’s supposed to be us young mothers
who screw up our lives, isn’t it? Feckless teenage mums perpetually on the scrounge, draining the economy. We’re the root of all evil: morally corrupt, educationally impoverished,
greedy, casual, selfish. Slated in the papers every day (or at least the papers Mrs G reads). Yet here, in front of me, was this doctor’s wife – smart, middle-aged, wealthy,
Oxbridge-educated – threshing around in a total fuck-up because she couldn’t keep her hands to herself and the screw cap on the bottle.

‘Right, here you are,’ said Daniel, reaching behind the sofa for a plastic bag.

‘You genius. Is it purple?’

‘As you ordered.’

I opened the bag and drew out the velvet jacket, unrolled it, shook it by the shoulders. The colour was rich and gorgeous.

‘Ooh, smart. How much do I owe you?’

‘Twenty-five. You can give it to me later. It’s a nice jacket, no flaws in the pile that I could see. The lining’s frayed near the collar but I didn’t think that
mattered.’

I turned the jacket this way and that. The light caught the velvet in a wavy sheen down the sleeve.

‘Eew, though, it’s not her size.’

‘The measurements are exactly what you told me.’

‘But it’ll be too big. Wait.’ I pulled off my jumper, dropped it on the sofa, and slipped the jacket on over my shirt. It hung loose on me but it wasn’t completely
enormous. ‘Hmm. Actually, I think it will be OK. If you’ve got some scissors handy, I can cut the label out.’

‘Sorry, no can do. My mother borrowed them last week and now she can’t remember what she did with them.’

‘Oh well. Have you got the photo?’

‘Uh-huh.’ He took the bag off me and rooted round. ‘Here.’

The picture still made me smile. Mum, about fifteen, in a jacket almost the spit of this one plus a gypsy-style skirt and wedges, her hair all flicked and lacquered. With her were two girls,
one plump and one skinny. The plump one was wearing a checked shirt and jeans and the skinny one was kitted out entirely in black. They were standing against a brick wall – could be the
side of our coal shed – smiling self-consciously.

I’d found the photograph stuck between the pages of one of Nan’s ancient books,
The Altars of Sacrifice
. Mum had screeched when I showed her, then she’d gone quiet,
studying the detail for ages. I’d asked her who the other girls were and she said the thin one was Dee, her best friend who’d moved away straight after O levels, and the plump one was
Donna. ‘Works for the Halifax in Exeter now, does Donna. Getting on very well, her mother says.’ And she’d pulled a strange face, half-wistful, half-jealous.

But staring at the photo afterwards I’d felt sorry for her because once upon a time, before me, she was oblivious to the future, and hopeful. ‘I did love that jacket,’
she’d said. So I thought, her birthday’s coming up. Get Daniel down to Affleck’s Palace in Manchester, he might be able to root around the vintage clothes stalls there and dig
me out a reasonable substitute. And he had. Good man.

‘Brilliant, you’re brilliant. Thanks,’ I said warmly. He looked surprised and pleased.

‘No problem. Though the leather and bondage stall right next door was a touch intimidating.’

‘Really? I was going to ask if you could pop in there next week and get me a new gimp mask.’

He reached round and gave me a light smack on the bum. Then he kissed me. I kissed him back. I stroked his hair and traced his jawline with my finger while he closed his eyes. Above us Rita
warbled on.
We’re all alone, we’re all alone.

I’d have gone on with the kissing, but after a few moments Daniel broke away. ‘Sorry, do you mind if we just nip up and see Mum before we go?’

That’s the problem. Just as I think I’m into him again, he does something to break the spell.