Fiona Gibson - The Mum Who’d Had Enough - A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for fans of Why Mummy Drinks

I stride into the office and greet Liv, the manager, and Eric, one of the other examiners, who’s also a good friend.

‘Hey, Nate. Everything all right?’ He peers expectantly over a chipped Liverpool FC mug.

‘Yeah, fine, thanks,’ I say briskly and turn to Liv. ‘Sorry about this morning …’

Concern flickers in her green eyes. Liv is a glamorous Canadian with big, bouncy chocolate-coloured hair and a youthful face that belies the fact that her fiftieth birthday is approaching. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘We had a cancellation, so Nadira’s taken your first candidate. They should be back any minute now.’ As she studies my face, I am conscious of Eric going through the motions of organising paperwork at his desk, all the while wondering what the hell’s wrong because I am never late for anything. That’s one thing Sinead could never accuse me of.

‘Nothing serious, was it?’ Eric asks.

‘No, not at all.’ I sit down to prepare my own paperwork, aware that an explanation is required. ‘Just a bit of a situation at home,’ I add. Liv frowns in my direction and gets up to click on the kettle. They are behaving as if I have come to work minus my trousers, and no one quite knows how to bring it up.

‘Is Flynn okay?’ Liv asks.

‘Yeah, he’s great, thanks,’ I reply.

‘Did he get on all right with that assessment the other day?’ Eric wants to know.

‘Yeah, everyone was really pleased …’ I catch him studying me whilst sipping his coffee. ‘Just one of those mornings,’ I add. ‘Annoying domestic stuff, y’know …’ I clear my throat and turn my attention back to my forms, hoping they’ll assume I’ve been delayed due to heroically attending to a blocked drain, or a malfunctioning hairdryer, rather than marital disaster.

‘Okay, well, your 9.45’s here,’ Liv remarks brightly.

‘Great. I’ll get to it, then.’

I catch her giving me another worried look as I stride towards our office door. ‘You know, Nate, if you’re feeling a bit off colour—’

‘No, honestly, I’m good, thanks,’ I say with exaggerated chirpiness. Apart from being a shabby excuse for a husband and father, I’m just dandy!

I pause for a moment, trying to gather myself together in order to exude calmness and capability. Through the glass panel in the door between our office and the waiting room, I can see my candidate, whom I have tested before. The weaselly young man with straggly blond hair is sitting, deep in muttered conversation, with his instructor.

We know most of the instructors by name as we see them regularly. This one, Karl, looks as if he is trying to calm the lad down, but perhaps failing as, when I push open the door, my candidate barks, ‘Hope I’m not getting that lanky fucker with the glasses again. I know he’s got it in for me.’

*

In fact, he drives extremely competently this time, and remarks, ‘So, I did all right today, did I?’ with a distinct sneer as we part company ( yes, and that’s why you damn well passed! ). Somehow, I manage to cobble together a facade of normality and work my way through the rest of the morning’s tests. However, a particular point on Sinead’s list keeps pulsing away in my brain:

You don’t make me feel special.

Was she referring to a lack of meals out? I wonder, as my current candidate collides with the kerb whilst reversing around a corner. The way things appear at the moment, I suspect it’d take more than dinner for two on Steak Night at the Wheatsheaf to rectify my numerous shortcomings.

Having explained to my candidate why she failed, I make my way back to the office. At least Sinead has now texted – twice – which surely indicates that she still loves me? Okay, the first time was to say, Please stop bombarding me with calls, will phone when I can. The other one was equally devoid of sentiment: Don’t worry, will let dogs out at lunchtime as usual. But it did suggest she still cares, I decide, as I pace the shabby streets around the test centre in lieu of eating any lunch.

With just five minutes left of my break, I finally manage to get her on the phone.

‘Nate,’ she says distractedly, ‘I’m in the shop.’

‘I know, I know. But we need to talk—’

‘Excuse me,’ says a shrill voice in the background, ‘will you be stocking those pomegranate-scented candles again?’

‘I have a customer here,’ Sinead hisses, then clicks neatly into her shop lady voice: ‘Erm, they were just in for Christmas, but there’s a new bergamot and lime fragrance coming in next week. It’s lovely and fresh for early summer—’

‘Ah, yes, but I was really hoping for something fruitier …’

‘Sinead!’ I bark. ‘Could we please talk, just for a minute?’

‘I’m-at-work.’ There’s a pause, then the shop voice again: ‘Sorry about that. I could call our supplier, if you like?’

Sure – go ahead! Call the candle people and chat away to your customer as if you haven’t just pulled the plug on our marriage. I stomp past a car wash where two young men are hosing down a BMW, with tinny music blaring. Alarmingly, tears appear to be falling out of my eyes. I haven’t cried properly since I took Flynn to see Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs , and that wasn’t because of the film; it was the fact that my dad had died a few days before.

‘Nate?’ Ah, she’s remembered I’m here, that I still exist.

‘Where are you staying?’ I ask, frowning. ‘I mean, where were you last night?’

‘At Abby’s …’

‘Cosy!’

‘Don’t be like that …’

‘Did that Rachel woman put you up to this?’

‘Nate, stop this, stop saying that-Rachel-woman …’

‘I need to see you,’ I exclaim. ‘You can’t just send me an email like that and then be unavailable—’

‘Yes, I know, and I’m sorry. But I can’t see you today, okay? I just need time—’

‘Why?’

‘Stop shouting—’

‘I’M NOT SHOUTING.’

‘You are! Look, I’ve got to go, okay?’ How can she sound so calm and neutral? How?

‘All right,’ I growl, stomping back towards the test centre now. ‘Can I just ask, what about Flynn? I mean, does he know anything about this?’

I hear her inhaling deeply. ‘No, I haven’t told him yet …’

‘Are you intending to?’

‘You’re shouting again. Yes, of course I am. Look, I’m going now …’

‘I’m demented here! Can you imagine what it was like for me to find that note? I mean, a bloody note! Why couldn’t we just talk, like normal people?’

‘Hang on,’ she murmurs.

‘It really is the pomegranate fragrance I’d like,’ her customer explains, as if her world will crumble if she doesn’t get one.

‘Yes, it is a lovely homely scent,’ Sinead agrees. Then, back to me: ‘I’ll come over tomorrow evening, okay? But I want the three of us to sit down together and talk – not just you and me—’

‘But we need to talk things through on our own,’ I protest, despite being aware that arguing is futile right now.

‘Not tomorrow,’ she murmurs. ‘You’ll try to persuade me to come back, Nate, and I can’t handle that right now. I want Flynn to be there …’

‘But he’s only sixteen!’

‘Yes, and he’s a smart boy. He deserves to know everything. There’s nothing I’m going to say to you that I can’t say in front of him. So, I’ll see you at the house about eightish, okay?’ And with that, she’s gone.

So it’s already ‘the house’. Not our house anymore. But at least she’s agreed to see me, I remind myself over and over as the afternoon crawls on. Not today, but tomorrow – and I’ll just have to make do with that.