Fiona Gibson - Mum On The Run

‘You okay, love?’ Jed asks.

‘I’m fine.’ I muster a smile. ‘I just think the kids would enjoy the garden more if we spruced it up.’

‘There’s the park, though, isn’t there?’ He forks in some pasta and splutters dramatically. ‘God, Laura! How much chilli did you put in this?’

‘Just what the recipe said,’ I say curtly.

‘Oh, wow . . . this is bloody hot.’ He slugs his wine and starts blowing out air.

I take a tentative nibble. It tastes fine at first, if a little fiery. Then the heat builds up until an inferno tears at my throat. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it,’ I croak, my eyes streaming as I fork in an enormous mouthful to prove just how bloody fine and delicious it is.

‘I can’t eat this,’ Jed announces, lurching inside to the kitchen. I hear the tap being turned on full blast. My entire digestive system is combusting. No amount of chilled white wine can cool my throat. I slam down my fork and march into the kitchen where Jed is bent under the kitchen tap with cold water gushing directly into his mouth.

‘It’s not that bad,’ I rasp, my mouth searing. ‘You’re acting like one of the kids.’

He straightens up and dabs his face with a tea towel. ‘Oh, isn’t it? So I suppose you don’t want some water?’

‘Um, yes please.’ He hands me a glassful, which I gulp down. ‘Sorry,’ I murmur. ‘I threw in a few extra chillies to make it look colourful.’

‘Right,’ he snorts. ‘Like a little garden or something?’

‘Something like that,’ I say as he fills a second glass for me. The back door is open, and the tea lights flicker feebly on the table.

‘Hey,’ Jed says gently, sliding his arms around me. ‘I’m sorry, love. I know you went to a lot of effort.’

‘It’s okay. It was my fault.’

‘Look,’ he adds hesitantly. ‘I . . . I know I’ve been . . . wrapped up in other things lately . . .’

Like Celeste? ‘I suppose we’re just not used to being together anymore,’ I cut in quickly. It feels so good, being held by him, that I don’t want to spoil it by saying her name.

‘Of course we are,’ Jed says. ‘We just don’t have the chance very often.’ He pulls back to study my face. ‘You smell good,’ he adds. ‘ And you’re wearing make-up. It suits you.’

‘Oh, it’s just some old stuff I found . . .’

‘Well, you look lovely.’

‘Thank you.’ I smile, stretch up and kiss his soft lips. Then we’re kissing and kissing, and it doesn’t matter that I ruined our meal, or that Jed has spent the past four months in some parallel universe, because right now everything feels perfect. His hands, which were resting gently around my waist, slide down over my hips, pausing as he detects the suspender clips. He raises an eyebrow and smiles. ‘You have gone to a lot of effort.’

‘It’s amazing what you can buy at Tesco these days.’

‘Tesco?’ He laughs softly. ‘Classy.’ Then he clutches my hand, as if it’s something he’d lost and has just found and says, ‘We, um . . . we could just go to bed.’

‘Okay,’ I say, grinning. ‘If you insist.’

My heart is pounding as we climb the stairs together, the way it did the first time we kissed. We’d met at a party. Jed had just started out in teaching, and I’d vaguely known one of his housemates from college. What if? was our favourite game back then. What if your date hadn’t stood you up? he’d ask me. What if you hadn’t gone home feeling totally fed up, and played that message from Helen who you hadn’t heard from in years? What if you hadn’t rung her straight back? What if she hadn’t invited you to our party? What if my girlfriend hadn’t dumped me, and I hadn’t been sitting on the stairs, pissed off, nursing a warm bottle of Becks?

He’d known instantly, he insisted, although he hadn’t been remotely aware that I’d spied him too, the moment I’d walked in. Jed is oblivious to women’s glances and flirtations. But he’d spotted me, breezing in and brimming with confidence, as if I had no expectations of the night ahead because so far it had been crapper than crapsville. ‘And you thought I was just being friendly,’ I used to tease him. ‘You had no idea how cute you were. What did I have to do? Take you home to bed! The lengths I had to go to to make you realise I was crazy about you . . .’

‘Even then, I thought I was just a sympathy lay,’ he laughed.

Jed and I reach the landing. Hell, my unfinished chicken-shave job. ‘I’m just going to the bathroom,’ I murmur.

Disappointment flickers in his eyes. ‘Don’t be long this time.’

‘I’ll only be a minute. Honestly. There’s just, um, something I need to do.’

It takes longer than a minute as I strip naked and stand at the sink, trying to make myself symmetrical as speedily as possible without causing myself irreversible damage. My libido is ebbing away rapidly. The stockings have formed a crimped ring around the top of each thigh. In my eagerness to escape from that perv in Tesco, I must have grabbed too small a size.

I’m covered in suds, and water dribbles in rivulets down my legs as I try to wash them away. The floor is soaked, and I mop up the water with a fraying bath towel and an old T-shirt of Jed’s. By the time I’m back in my wretched underwear and padding tentatively into our bedroom, he is tucked up in bed with one arm slung across my pillow. ‘Hi,’ I whisper, slipping in under the duvet. I slide a hand across his chest which prompts him to roll away from me.

I study his broad, lightly tanned back and shoulders, which rise with each inhalation. Soft snores fill the room. It would appear that my hot date for tonight has fallen asleep.

Beth and I are unloading the toys from the playgroup cupboard. The children clamour around us, their voices echoing in the dusty hall. We lift the lid from the sandpit and fill it with mini trucks and diggers; we top up the water tray, drop in some little plastic boats and set out books in the reading area. I glance at her, my best mummy-friend looking lithe and faintly Boden-esque in her narrow jeans and snug-fitting raspberry T-shirt. ‘Beth,’ I say later, fixing us a coffee from the grumbling urn, ‘how do you do it?’

‘Do what?’ she asks.

‘Stay so slim and fit. I’ve been thinking, I really have to do something. I’m sick of being like this.’ I glare down at my body in its loose jeans and even looser black top.

‘But you’re lovely as you are,’ she insists. ‘Men are always looking at you. You must realise that. You’re sexy and voluptuous and—’

‘Voluptuous? That means fat, Beth! The other day, I couldn’t even do up the zip on my biggest jeans. They’re a size sixteen!’

‘Well, sizes vary from shop to shop,’ she says firmly, nibbling a pink wafer biscuit. ‘They’re irrelevant really.’

‘Not when you’re going up in size. Then it’s horribly relevant, I can assure you . . .’

‘Oh, Laura. You look great, honestly. Anyway, no one’s the same after having kids, are they?’

‘I bet you are,’ I say.

‘You might think so, but I’m a disaster down here.’ She pats her taut stomach. ‘But after having two children, what can I expect?’

I set down my cup and tip out boxes of building blocks for the younger children. ‘The thing is, I don’t expect to be like I was before the children,’ I add. ‘I’d just like to not be expanding, to be able to resist all the snacks and biscuits . . .’

‘What’s brought this on, hon?’ she murmurs.

‘Oh, I don’t know. That mums’ race, I suppose. Me getting all dressed up for Jed the other night, even buying new underwear, even stockings . . .’