Gill Sims - Why Mummy Doesn’t Give a ****

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollins Publishers 2019

FIRST EDITION

© Gill Sims 2019

Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers 2019

Cover illustration © Tom Gauld/Heart Agency

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Gill Sims asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Find out about HarperCollins and the environment at

www.harpercollins.co.uk/green

Source ISBN: 9780008301255

Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008340476

Version: 2019-04-03

For Rona … the avalanche

1 Cover

2 Title Page

3 Copyright

4 Dedication

5 Contents

6 JANUARY

7 APRIL

8 MAY

9 JUNE

10 JULY

11 AUGUST

12 SEPTEMBER

13 OCTOBER

14 NOVEMBER

15 DECEMBER

16 Acknowledgements

17 By the Same Author

18 About the Publisher

Landmarks CoverFrontmatterStart of ContentBackmatter

List of Pages iii iv v 1 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 83 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 209 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273 274 275 276 277 278 279 280 281 282 283 285 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303 305 307 308 309 310 311 312 313 315 317 318 319 320 321 322 323 324 325 326 327 328 329 330 331 332 333 334 335 336 337 338 339 341 342 ii

Wednesday, 3 January

The first day back at work after Christmas and New Year is always a bit of a slog. The sudden realisation that foodstuffs exist other than Toblerone and Quality Street and cheese, and that it’s now frowned upon to start on the white wine at 2 pm, is always a shock to the system, let alone remembering that you’re a functioning adult with a responsible job and clothes with non-elasticated waists. When your first day back is followed by your first relationship counselling session after what could be described as a ‘difficult’ Christmas, it’s even less fun.

Christina, our counsellor, came highly recommended. Well, Debbie in HR at work said that Christina had saved her sister’s marriage after it turned out her sister’s husband had been having it off with their twins’ first teacher since they started primary school, and said twins were in Year 10 when this all came out, and he also had a thing for being spanked while covered in PVA glue and glitter (hence his attraction to a primary school teacher and their easy access to such things), so I thought that if Christina could wave her magic wand and sort out that little peccadillo, then surely Simon and I would be an easy fix – a walk in the park, practically!

After all, no peculiar kinks had come to light. He hadn’t betrayed me with a woman I’d bought several ‘World’s Best Teacher’ mugs and bottles of wine for, someone I’d sat across from while she outlined the importance of reading every night with my precious moppets, all the while having a life-size model of my husband’s penis on her bedside table, made from the scraps of clay left over from making Mother’s Day presents with her class and decorated with his favourite glitter, had he? I mean, when you put it into context like that, the fact that he had had a one-night stand with some sexy señorita that he met while on a business trip to Madrid really wasn’t that bad, was it? Or at least, it could have been so much worse.

That is what I keep telling myself. ‘Chin up! It could have been worse!’ He could have had a predilection for dressing up as Ann Widdecombe. He could have had a thing about bonking someone dressed as Ann Widdecombe (I’m really not sure which would be more disturbing). He could have followed in the footsteps of Perfect Lucy Atkinson’s Perfect Daddy who left Lucy’s Perfect Mummy high and dry when he ran off with Lucy’s Mummy’s sidekick and wannabe, Fiona Montague, leaving Lucy’s Mummy to face Fiona (whom I never liked, very smug and always just a bit too try-hard – though clearly Lucy’s Perfect Daddy liked how hard Fiona tried, even though he’s got very fat since moving in with her and is obviously overindulging in Fiona’s bloody endless cupcakes that she was forever posting on Instagram) at the school gate every morning. Of course, the kids are now too old for the school gate as they’re at Big School, so I suppose I wouldn’t have had to do that anyway. And Simon doesn’t like cupcakes.

But on the other hand, it was really quite bad enough. When Simon told me a couple of months ago, I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. Literally winded. I still don’t know what possessed him to tell me. Guilt, he said.

I’d heard people talk about a ‘maelstrom of emotions’ before, but I didn’t honestly know what that meant until then, as I veered wildly between rage and despair and a really quite strong desire to kill him, and periods of calm during which I convinced myself we were mature adults with two children and we’d been together for twenty-five years, give or take, we loved each other and we could get through this – only to have the whole cycle start again. I felt so sick I couldn’t eat for three days, which has never ever happened to me before; periods of high emotion normally lead to relentless comfort eating for me. I did lose ten pounds, so one must look on the bright side when one can.

After a couple of weeks of Simon looking hangdog and saying he was sorry, and me finding the rage wasn’t really abating at all, and all our attempts to discuss it like mature adults generally ending in me shouting something about ripping his bollocks off if he told me one more fucking time that it didn’t mean anything, because if it didn’t mean anything, then why the fuck had he done it in the first place, and yes, yes, I realised it was ‘just sex’ but didn’t he think that was quite e-bloody-nough, it was clear we weren’t really getting anywhere and perhaps we needed some sort of professional help.

I heard Debbie in HR holding forth on the wonders of Christina (she was describing the clay-modelled knob ornament at the same time) and discreetly asked for Christina’s number – ‘for a friend’, obviously, as one does not tell Debbie anything one does not want the entire office to know. In some ways this trait of hers is useful if you want word of something circulated quickly – you can guarantee that if you tell Debbie something and stress it’s in ‘the strictest confidence’, every single person in the building will know about it by close of business.