Fiona Gibson - Mum On The Run

‘A diet,’ I mutter. ‘Did you see all the other mums? How lean and skinny they were? Especially Naomi . . .’

‘Well, she’s obsessed,’ Jed scoffs. ‘She’s a freak of nature.’

‘No she’s not. She’s just fit. And what about Beth? Why did I have to choose someone so athletic and sporty to be my best friend around here?’

‘It’s just the way she is,’ Jed insists. ‘She’s just made that way, love, while you’re, er . . .’

‘I feel so fat and useless,’ I cut in. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to me, why I don’t have any willpower. I try to start diets but on the first day, at the first twinge of hunger, I’m scrabbling about for a snack, a biscuit or something . . .’

‘Then have a biscuit!’ he exclaims. ‘Who cares if you’re not built like a stick? You’ve had three children, haven’t you? You’re normal. You’re fine . . .’

‘Well, I’m sorry but I don’t feel fine.’

He grabs both of my hands and squeezes them tightly. ‘You just need some time to yourself, all right? A day doing, well . . . whatever you want to do. What do you really love doing?’

‘Can’t remember.’ I glare at the floor, sounding like Finn at his most petulant.

‘What about shopping?’

‘I don’t need anything,’ I say, silently mourning my wrecked turquoise sandals.

‘I’m not talking about needing things,’ Jed insists. ‘I mean you could just go out and buy yourself something nice.’

‘Don’t you think I look nice, Jed?’ God, woman, get a grip on yourself. Stop being so damned needy.

He inhales deeply, and I detect a flicker of impatience in his deep brown eyes. ‘All I mean is, if you buy yourself something new, it might make you feel better about yourself. And you’d have a bit of time away from us lot.’

I nod, shamefaced. Jed is instructing me to cast off the shackles of motherhood and spend money on frivolities. If the playgroup mums could hear this, they’d faint with lust. ‘Maybe I’ll go into town on Saturday,’ I mutter.

‘Great.’ He smiles. ‘Celeste was talking about some new shop – some little boutiquey place by the station . . .’

My heart does a mini-thud. ‘I’d rather go into York,’ I say quickly. ‘There’s a lot more choice.’

‘It’s just, Celeste said . . .’

‘I know all the local shops inside out, Jed,’ I bark. ‘The clothes are either for teenagers or people over 150. There’s nothing in between. I’d like to go to York if that’s okay with you.’

‘Of course it is,’ he snaps back. ‘You can go wherever you like.’

I can sense him glowering as I gather up Toby’s Lego bricks from the kitchen floor and fling them into their red plastic bucket. I’m trying not to obsess over this new friendship of his. I haven’t interrogated Jed when he’s come home two hours later than expected, having stayed on to help The Celestial One with her wall display. I have even resisted reading all the texts she pings at him, perhaps scared of what I’ll find.

I march through to the living room to sort out a fracas over whose turn it is to use the remote control. Upstairs, Finn is bashing the life out of his drum kit. A day out on my own, away from all of this: I should be ecstatic. Yet I fear that my patience is stretched dangerously taut, and is about to twang like frayed knicker elastic.

What the jiggins is wrong with you, Laura Swan? I ask myself this question as I drive to York on Saturday morning. Usually, I’d jump at an opportunity like this. A few hours in town without Finn complaining bitterly if I dare to venture into the wrong kind of shop – i.e., one with clothes hanging neatly on rails. Grace is tolerant, as long as we schedule a visit to the fancy dress shop. As for Toby – he loves the bustling streets, for about eight seconds, after which I have to placate him with a visit to Jorvik to hang out with the Vikings.

Not today, though. This is what the glossy magazines call ‘me-time’. It’s supposed to be soothing and restorative. As I stand in a changing room cubicle, with some girl chirping, ‘D’you think this makes me look too thin ?’, I suspect I might be having a jollier time sniffing the authentic Viking cesspit with Toby.

‘No, you look gorgeous,’ her companion enthuses. ‘God, I wish I had legs like yours. They go on forever.’

All right, all right. No need to over-egg it, lady. I peer down at mine, which absolutely do not go on forever. They are the colour of raw pastry and urgently require a shave. Disconcertingly, the changing room mirrors are angled in such a way that you can view yourself from every conceivable angle. They should have a warning sign outside, saying it’s unsuitable for those of a nervous disposition.

The thin girl is now in the communal changing area. She probably looks like Penelope Cruz and has a Lancôme advertising contract. Standing in my bra and knickers – once dazzling white, now a lardy pale grey – I scrutinise the garment I grabbed randomly from a rail, simply because it’s in my favourite shade of blue. Actually, I’d assumed it was a top with little pearly buttons down the front. Nothing too controversial. Nothing to make the children shriek in horror and refuse to be seen in public with me. Now, though, it’s clear that this isn’t a top – at least not for a woman with a normal-shaped body. It has some kind of bottom-scenario attached. It’s a romper suit for a grown-up. My mind fills with a picture I once saw in a Sunday supplement, showing adults who dress up as babies for kicks. Grown men in knitted matinee jackets. Has the world gone insane? This is a respectable department store. They do wedding lists and Nigella Lawson tableware. Surely they haven’t started catering for sexual freaks.

I step into the ‘thing’ and try to pull it up over my body. Jesus. I look like an unconvincing transvestite. In a sweat, I yank it off, shutting my ears to the sound of a seam ripping and a button popping off. After hastily pulling on my jeans and top, I hurry out of the changing room where the Penelope look-alike is twirling in front of the mirror. She is skinny and angular, like a foal – and is wearing the thing. The romper. It’s several sizes smaller than mine – it would fit a Bratz doll, actually – but is clearly the same style. ‘Hi,’ she says, catching me staring. ‘It’s so hard to decide, isn’t it?’

‘Um, yes,’ I say, conscious of a faint throbbing in my temples. God, it’s hot in here. Penelope doesn’t look hot, though. At least not in a flushed, sweaty way. Her abundant dark hair cascades around her bronzed shoulders. It’s not natural to be tanned in April in Yorkshire. She must have been sprayed like a car.

‘Doesn’t she look amazing?’ says her equally dainty, redheaded friend, emerging from a cubicle.

‘Yes, she does.’ My back teeth clamp together.

‘You’ve got to buy it,’ the redhead urges. ‘It’s so you.’

‘Oh, I’m not sure . . .’ Penelope leans forward, studying her cleavage in the mirror. She has perky, young-person’s breasts. It’s a fair bet that they haven’t been gnawed by three ravenous infants or leaked milk in the supermarket checkout queue.

‘I, er, hope you don’t mind me asking,’ I say, fuelled by sudden curiosity, ‘but what would you call that thing you’re wearing?’

‘It’s a playsuit,’ Penelope says, twisting round to admire her minuscule derrière. Isn’t it obvious, Granny? she adds silently.

‘A playsuit?’ I repeat. ‘Like little children wear?’

She laughs. ‘Yes, I suppose so. They’re back again. Meant to be the big thing for summer.’ The redhead throws me a curt look as if to say: ‘No, she’s the big thing for summer.’