Mummy Said the F-Word Read Online Free PDF Page B

pan.
    ‘So stop obsessing. She’s an idiot and they deserve each other. She’s probably caught pneumonia by now.’
    ‘Hope so.’ I hate myself for caring, for imagining Martin helping Daisy to peel off her wet things, running her a hot bath, bringing her a glass of wine and administering a post-soak massage …
    More than any of that, I hate it that I’ve turned into a sexless android at the age of thirty-five.
    Later, after reading Lola and Travis’s bedtime stories, I step into Jake’s room to say goodnight. He has taken the books off his shelf and is wiping it with a yellow duster.
    ‘Why are you doing that?’ I ask faintly.
    ‘’Cause I want to,’ he murmurs.
    Inhaling deeply, I sit on the edge of his bed. Instantly, I’m shrouded in guilt. I should be helping, not sitting watching him; I should have cleaned the shelf, so he doesn’t have to. At ten years old, he shouldn’t fret about dust.
    ‘Jake,’ I venture, ‘I’m really pleased that you’re helping around the house, but you needn’t spend so much time, you know … polishing and stuff.’
    ‘’S’all right,’ he mumbles.
    ‘What was wrong with your bookshelf anyway? You keep your books so tidy these days. Sam couldn’t believe it last time he came into your room and—’
    ‘There was a spider,’ Jake snaps, gripping the duster. ‘It ran over the top of my books.’
    A nervous laugh crackles out of me. ‘Not scared of spiders, are you, hon? You’re always collecting bugs in the garden …’
    ‘It means it’s dirty in here. There’s probably webs and stuff.’
    I open my mouth to speak, but he turns away and gives the shelf another squoosh of Mr Sheen. I feel so empty, watching him rubbing vigorously with the duster. All I want is my old Jake back, who not so very long ago would clamber on to my lap and demand kisses. Jake whose room featured pyjamas strewn on the floor , faintly whiffing of pee, and ancient juice cups left festering on his windowsill.
    Right now, I could
kiss
a festering juice cup.
    ‘Then he followed me to the bathroom,’ Millie enthuses next day over lunch, ‘and honestly, Cait, you wouldn’t believe it, the size of—’
    ‘Shhh!’ I indicate Travis, who is merrily rapping the table with a teaspoon.
    We’re in Marco’s, a cramped and bustling Italian restaurant close to Millie’s office near Leicester Square.
    ‘What?’ She blinks at me. ‘He’s a baby. He doesn’t understand.’
    ‘Of course he does! He can hear, you know. And talk and repeat things …’
    ‘I’m not a baby,’ Travis retorts.
    ‘How old
is
he again?’ Millie asks, as if he is incapable of comprehension or speech.
    ‘Three.’
    I manage not to add, ‘You’re his godmother, remember? The chosen one. Surely his birthday is indelibly printed on your brain?’
    She frowns, knitting her immaculate brows, as if I have come up with some startling theory regarding infant development. Despite editing
Bambino
, Britain’s so-called ‘weekly parenting bible’, Millie seems to know stuff-all about children. She has none of her own – her relationships tend to fizzle out after a few heady weeks – and I suspect she resents the ones she’s forced to encounter, as if anyone under eleven years old should only be allowed to eat at McDonald’s. On spying a small child in a restaurant, she reels back, as if their nappy is likely to spontaneously combust in her face. In fact, none of Millie’s editorial staff are parents, ‘Although we all
know
people with children,’ she once told me, rather hotly.
    She continues to rave breathlessly about her new man, who’s a motorcycle courier (at the moment) but really a sculptor who does amazing things with rusting window frames. ‘Incredible legs,’ she breathes. ‘You know that lovely muscle men have on the inside thigh, just below the crotch …’ She runs a finger down her inner thigh.
    ‘Cotch!’ Travis chirps, laughing.
    I nod, even though I am unfamiliar with said muscle and