M is for Mummy Read online

  Last year, she stumbled upon my Rampant Rabbit in the drawer of my bedside table and couldn’t look me in the eye for weeks after. Thankfully, when she snooped into Ed’s drawer on her next visit and found the leopard-print thong and pink fluffy handcuffs that I’d bought him as a joke for his birthday, I felt an explosion of joy within.

  I’d gone down, but I’d dragged him along with me, all the way to the gutter.

  2

  The Model Mother

  Ed leaves for work at 4.30 p.m. He lifts his guitar, opens the door and walks out of it. Just like that.

  Judith arrives a few minutes later and, against every natural instinct that I have for self-preservation, I buzz her up to the flat.

  ‘Hi, Judith. Thanks so much for this. You’re really saving me,’ I say with the most enthusiastic tone that I can muster. ‘Hello, Lucy.’ She strides into the hall and dumps a large box on the floor, which misses my toes by millimetres. ‘I’ve had a big clean-out of the garage.’

  Stepping backwards, she slowly scans my body from top to bottom, then opens her skinny arms and leans in to give me a brief, stiff hug. ‘Lost a few pounds, I see.’ She smiles wryly.

  As usual, I have no words. I simply shake my head and fake a slight smile.

  She pats me on the arm. ‘Well, keep at it, Lucy. I’ve read that it’s harder to lose the weight the second time around, which is why I stuck to having just the one.’

  I quickly steer the conversation towards something else before I give in to the temptation to headbutt her. ‘So, what’s in the box?’

  ‘Books mainly. Most of Edward’s schoolbooks, his drawings and his collection of Spiderman comics. Oh, and wait till you see this.’ She delves into the box and pulls a painting out of a plastic wallet. ‘He did that when he was Stan’s age!’

  ‘Wow,’ I say, staring down at an immaculate picture of an aeroplane that was blatantly drawn by a teenage Ed … perhaps even Leonardo da Vinci.

  ‘It’s such a shame that it’s been in the garage for thirty-odd years. I thought you might like to hang it somewhere?’ A squeaky giggle escapes her lips before she slips it back in to the box. ‘Anyway, here. Take it all. It’s for you to enjoy now. My new exercise bike is arriving next week and I need the extra space in the garage for it.’

  ‘No problem, I’ll find somewhere for it,’ is all I say. I lift the box and dump it in the corner of the hall where it will no doubt stay for the next year.

  ‘Anyway, Judith, thanks again for tonight. I really appreciate it. I just need to quickly run through the routine with you before I head off.’ I hand her a list detailing exactly what she needs to do to ensure that her evening runs smoothly.

  She nods. ‘Yes, yes. I do know how to look after children, Lucy. I did raise your husband, don’t forget.’

  ‘But Stan is very particular. You have to stick to the list or else he will get upset and make your evening a misery.’

  She rolls her eyes dramatically, then folds up my list and puts it in the back pocket of her burgundy cords before heading to the kitchen to survey the inside of the cupboards. ‘So, what’s for supper?’

  ‘Jack is having one of his pouches and a yoghurt,’ I say, ‘and he’ll need an 8-ounce bottle at around 7.30 p.m. before bed. Stan is having fish fingers and waffles, but make sure you cut them into equal-sized rectangles or he won’t touch them.’

  ‘And what about vegetables?’

  ‘Nope. I’ve tried everything, Judith, trust me. He won’t go near them. He gags.’

  ‘Gags? Lucy, you really should—’ I stand back and brace myself for one of her lectures but something more distressing catches her eye. ‘Whose is this?’ She pulls a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle out of the cupboard and holds it up in the air as if it’s a dead rat.

  I jump in first. ‘It’s Ed’s.’

  ‘It isn’t!’ She tuts and then pushes it to the back of the cupboard where she doesn’t have to look at it.

  I know now that my list will not leave her pocket. She is going to spend her evening researching the carcinogenic effects of Pot Noodle, and Stanley won’t eat a morsel of his dinner because she will not serve it in the shape required.

  Despite the bitterly cold January frost, I skid up to the venue in a sweaty mess after lugging my cello for the best part of a mile across the icy pavements from Old Street station. My recently straightened hair is now a ball of frizz. Sweat is running down my back and my foundation has melted into globules in the creases around my eyes – classic side effects from transporting such a large instrument during rush hour on the tube.

  From the exterior, the venue in Hoxton looks like an abandoned warehouse, but when I’ve dragged all of my stuff through the graffitied wooden door, I discover that it’s actually slick and impressively high-spec on the inside. Standing behind the bar are beautiful shirtless men wearing tight tuxedos, the jackets of which are gaping open just enough to expose their waxed, muscular torsos. Several waiters are dotted around the place, carefully laying out plates of baby-pink cupcakes on tables draped in black velvet cloth. Down the centre of the full length of the room is what looks like a stage, with chairs laid out on either side of it, and directly in front of it stands a short woman, wearing a chunky headset.

  ‘You! I need more candles here. Stage left is too dark,’ she snaps, ‘and get Jules over here to sort the orchid display. It’s patchy! Patchy … Jason, I said PATCHY! We’ve only got half an hour, people. Let’s pull it together. Come on, now!’

  It’s only when I look to the back of the stage and notice a gathering of tall, flat-chested girls and muscular men in skin-tight leggings that I realise where I am.

  It’s not a stage, but a runway.

  I’ve brought my flabalanche, my frizzy ball of hair and my four-pound beach dress to play in a fucking fashion show!

  Charlie strides over, all dolled up in her strapless black dress and her Jimmy Choo-esque stilettos (which are actually convincing copies from eBay). Her long, glossy dark hair hangs in thick ringlets down her bare back, her lips are a piercing red and her complexion radiant. As always, she looks stunning and exactly as pictured in our publicity photos on Miguel’s website. Our act – the Vixen Trio – is marketed on the site as ‘Three glamorous and highly talented ladies who play for some of the world’s most esteemed artists on TV and stage’. We’re supposed to be young and sexy – a ‘must have’ for your exclusive event – but now the Vixen Trio is missing a sultry fox and has acquired a hippo instead, which isn’t quite what the client booked.

  ‘Luce! You’re here. Fuck me, what’s with the ’fro?’ Charlie teases. ‘Rough trip was it?’ She hugs me tightly.

  ‘Charls … What. The. Fu—’

  ‘What the fuck, what?’ she interjects.

  ‘What kind of gig is this? I thought it was just background shizzle. Tell me it’s not a—’

  ‘Duh! It’s a fashion show, baby. Hot men wearing next to nothing … and there’s loads of free gin. Cushdy one, eh?’

  ‘Well, it’s the first I’ve heard of it. If I’d known I would’ve turned it down. I’ve got a shit dress here and about eighteen extra kilos of flab under this coat. I’ll look like a whale.’

  ‘Calm down. Let’s get some GHDs on that head, pronto, and maybe stick a pair of suck-in pants on you and you’ll be back to your beautiful self,’ she says. Then, after lifting my cello, she takes me by the elbow and drags me backstage to hair and make-up.

  In truth, I’d rather have been dragged off for a smear test.

  ‘Babe, what’s going on with your eyebrows?’

  There’s nothing more demoralising in life than having to sit next to a bunch of supermodels and explain why I look like I’ve been yanked out of a ditch. Zoe, the freelance make-up artist, is taking no prisoners. She doesn’t have time for pleasantries, having made it clear that she has to be at the O2 arena within the hour.

  ‘Um, I don’t know,’ I reply sheepishly. ‘I haven’t really thought much about them lately.’

 
‘Well, trust me, you need to, babe,’ she says, her face a mixture of horror and pity. She leans in so close to my face that I clock a whiff of her fruity chewing gum. Running her manicured fingers slowly over my eyebrows, she yanks out a few errant hairs then sighs heavily, blasting me in the face with a hot burst of Hubba Bubba air. ‘Look, I haven’t got time to really get stuck in. I’ve got to do Ronan at eight forty-five. He’s on at nine thirty, so time’s tight.’

  ‘What, Ronan Keating? Wow!’ I say, my eyes still watering from the brief assault. ‘My sister would go nuts to meet him. Is he a nice guy?’

  ‘Gawd!’ she interjects, pulling back abruptly. ‘Your bags are so dark! Tell me, babe, what product do you normally put on them?’

  A hot rush of blood hits my cheeks when the entire row of models sitting next to me turns to have a gander at my baggage. I briefly consider diving under the table for cover, but instead squeeze out an ‘Um’ and follow it with an awkward chuckle.

  ‘Right,’ continues Zoe, ‘well, I haven’t got my full kit here to sort it, so I’ll have a go with the Touche Éclat, babe. It’s good stuff but there’s only so much it can do, if you know what I mean.’

  The woman tries her best but she’s right: all the luxurious concealer in the world isn’t going to cover my dark circles, which look like they’ve been scrawled on with a black Sharpie. She slathers all sorts of lotions and potions across my face, tutting at regular intervals as she interrogates me about my skincare regime. Telling her that I moisturise with E45 and use Jack’s Sudocrem on my zits isn’t going to go down well with this woman, so I keep schtum and let her get on with it.

  ‘These roots!’ she exclaims loudly when she moves on to my hair. ‘When did you last get these done, babe?’

  Before I have a chance to invent an elaborate excuse as to why I have totally let myself go, Charlie pops her head around the door with a much-welcome treat in hand.

  ‘Gin, Luce?’ she chirps. ‘Got you a double.’

  I’m not breastfeeding, and even if I was, Jack is on the other side of London and my useless boobs are here, flatpacked in a cheap beach dress that is at least two sizes too small.

  ‘Hand it over and grab me a straw, will you?’ I say, just as Zoe scrapes a brush through my fringe, pulls it back off my forehead and twists it up to form a towering bubble.

  Jen arrives shortly after and is sat at the end of the dressing table wincing in pain as Zoe’s assistant drags a comb through her tight blonde curls. An entire can of hairspray is being offloaded onto her lumpy bubble when I glance behind her and clock a massive unopened multipack of crisps sitting on the table. The only benefit of working with supermodels that I’ve seen so far is that they survive solely on a diet of electric cigarettes and sparkling water, so the crisps are up for grabs.

  Three packets of crisps each and two double gins later, the Vixen Trio are ready for showtime. Reeking of vinegar and gin and caked in thick, dramatic black eyeliner, we clamber past the queue of svelte supermodels with our instruments and take our seats at the top of the runway.

  Miming expressions of sophistication, we serenade lines of beautiful people with Mozart trios as they glide up and down the stage like swans draped in chiffon. Photographers flash their cameras and the audience claps gently in that upper-class we-are-so-rich kind of way as they sip elegantly on their complimentary gins. When the show is over, we immediately dismount from our stilettos, stick on our trainers and head straight to the bar to sedate ourselves from the pain of blistered feet with as many free gins as possible. Not surprisingly, the trays of cupcakes, like the crisps, are totally untouched, so we stuff down a few of those too.

  Once Charlie has eaten her fill, she disappears to the loo and returns with a full bottle of Molton Brown soap and a bog roll stuffed in her tiny bag.

  ‘Charls! You can’t take those.’

  ‘Nah, Luce. They shouldn’t leave this stuff lying around if they don’t want us to take it,’ she garbles as she shoves another cupcake into her mouth. ‘There’s another one in there if you want me to get it for you?’

  ‘No way. I’m not going to prison for a bottle of pretentious soap. I’ve got kids to raise now. A slab of soap from the pound shop will do me just fine, thanks.’

  ‘Your loss,’ she says, then wraps up another two cakes in a serviette and squashes them into her already bulging handbag.

  Pert, scantily clad models stand around networking with agents; beautiful and flawless, they look as though they’ve been airbrushed, and the hot barmen flock around them like dogs on heat. It doesn’t take long for one to come sniffing around Charlie and Jen.

  ‘Move on, mate. It’s a girls-only table tonight,’ Charlie says playfully, ‘but we’ll get some more drinks if you’re pouring?’

  And off the man scampers to the bar, returning moments later with a tray full of drinks and his phone number scribbled on a pink napkin for Charlie.

  I’m invisible: totally invisible in a crowd of stunning people. My gut, my big forehead, my tired baggy eyes, the mono-boob: I have nothing worth looking at, nothing to say, nothing to contribute at all and, honestly, I just want to go home. So, I make a lame excuse and leave my friends behind to drink the free bar dry.

  One hour and three tube journeys later, I drag my cello down the full length of Windsor Road, my cheeks sore and my teeth chattering percussively from the vicious sting of the icy wind. Within arm’s reach of my front door and mere seconds away from collapsing onto my cosy bed, I’m suddenly accosted by my annoying neighbour Alan, who – clothed in a tartan dressing-gown and matching slippers – is standing on his driveway organising his recycling bins. Naturally, I have to stand and listen to the man rant about the ‘ghastly hooligans’ that have been speeding down our street, then to shut him up, I agree to sign a petition to persuade the council to lay speed bumps before one of us gets ‘mowed down in our prime’.

  After aging the best part of ten years, I eventually escape and head upstairs to discover, to my utter delight, that Judith has left. Stanley is fast asleep in our bed clutching his Russian puzzle, which suggests that he’s had another bout of nocturnal anxiety. I gently kiss his forehead and lay his puzzle down on the bedside table, then wander through to the lounge to find Ed snoozing in the recliner with Jack in his arms, his tiny hand resting on his daddy’s hairy chest.

  It’s beautiful.

  Not supermodel beautiful, but a beauty that far transcends anything one would ever see on a runway.

  3

  Starfucks

  My body confidence is low, and working alongside models with waists barely wider than the circumference of a toilet roll has done nothing to help it.

  The flabalanche is officially out of control, and if I’m ever going to get out of my maternity jeans and back into regular ones, then drastic action needs to be taken! No more sneaking packets of crisps at 4 a.m. as I feed Jack. No more double dinners where I scoff Stan’s leftovers and then make my and Ed’s proper dinner two hours later. I have to control myself, and must stop giving in to the squeaky voices of the double-stuff Oreos that call out to me all day long from the cupboard. Pick me! And me! Screw it, pick us ALL!

  Although I don’t want a ribcage that can grate cheddar, it would be nice to shave my bikini line without having to lift my gut up with one hand to reach it first. I’ve done the maths and I estimate that my current body mass is composed of 40% Stan’s leftovers, 20% Big Macs, 20% cake and 20% crisps, and if my blood was ever analysed, the lab would probably report the results as being 10% plasma, 50% instant coffee and 40% Pinot Grigio. These figures are shameful and need addressing if I want a figure that’s worth undressing.

  Therefore, the day after my encounter with London’s most-emaciated, I put myself on a strict diet and I have been slowly starving to death ever since.

  At the start of the week, I did pretty well.

  Monday

  Breakfast: Fat-free natural yoghurt with granola and berries

  Lunch: Chicken and beetroot salad br />
  Dinner: Steamed salmon and fresh vegetables

  Dessert: A bottle of wine, two packets of Cheetos, a Snickers bar and four rounds of toast with real butter

  Tuesday

  Breakfast: Fat-free natural yoghurt with just the berries

  Lunch: A remorseful salad

  Dinner: Overcooked chicken seasoned with an abundance of misery

  Dessert: Two packets of Cheetos, three double gins (but with slimline tonic) and only two rounds of toast with real butter (progress?)

  Wednesday

  Breakfast: Three cups of coffee and a bowl of air

  Lunch: A McDonald’s salad, Diet Coke, six fries and a lingering sniff of Stanley’s hamburger

  Dinner: A boiled egg and dry toast … followed by the remainder of Stan’s fish fingers, three ‘BURNT!’ Smiley Faces, seven double-stuff Oreos and a long hard look in the mirror

  Dessert: An early night where I dreamt of Hugh Jackman force-feeding me jam doughnuts – he was wearing nothing but a leather thong

  I carried on in pretty much the same pathetic way until Friday when I summoned the courage to weigh myself. Before breakfast and just after my morning poo, I stripped naked, removed all jewellery and hair accessories then climbed on to the scales with hope in my heart. The crushingly disappointing result? I hadn’t lost a gram; not a single one. So …

  Friday

  Breakfast: Yoghurt – not with berries or granola, but with salty tears

  Lunch: Tuna salad with water (whilst watching some guy icing a three-tiered cake on the Great British Bake Off)

  Dinner: Vegetable chilli and a pot of Jack’s pureed cauliflower that he threw at me.