I smirked, watching her pull her grey fur hat down over her ears, while simultaneously pushing her daughter Ruby towards the nursery entrance. Ruby is a sweetheart. A small ginger girl who looks exactly like her small ginger dad. If Molly wasn’t so fond of her, I’d have no reason to speak to this awful woman. She’s a mixture of aloof and sneaky, like a dastardly villain from a black and white movie. Most of the mums call her Lord Wilson because of her superiority complex. Including me.
Oliver arrived home late, moaning about his workload and annoyed that he’d missed saying goodnight to Molly. He came into the kitchen where I stood washing the dinner plates.
‘Did she have a good day?’ he asked, picking at the leftover chicken on the worktop. ‘I can’t believe she’ll be starting school this year. How the hell did that happen?’
‘I know,’ I replied, accidentally knocking a glass against the mixer taps. ‘It’s like she’s getting older but I haven’t aged at all. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘I’m bushed,’ he said, completely ignoring my joke. ‘I’m going to get my head down.’
‘It’s only half nine!’ I protested. I reached into the fridge to get the two custard doughnuts that I’d bought earlier. ‘Have some tea with me first! I bought those dough—’
But he was already halfway up the hall before I could finish my sentence. It was then that I decided things really had to change. And that I’d eat his fucking doughnut, too.
Thursday January 12th
Dropped Molly with Maggie at a quarter past eight, accompanied by my usual pang of guilt whenever I have to leave her to go to work. It’s fucking ridiculous. How long will this last? Until she’s a teenager? I mean, I’m not leaving her to waltz off and enjoy myself for the day, I’m doing it so we can eat, but fuck me, I still have that little voice saying‘She’d rather be with you. She should be with you. Hideous parenting. 1/10. Should not breed again.’
Maggie pulled open the door and Molly shouted ‘Hi!’ as she ran towards the sounds of the other two kids that had been forced to come by their parents who probably feel as guilty as I do. Maybe not. I even feel guilty when I leave Molly at Hazel’s house, and she’s one of my closest mates. I think there’s just a part of me that’s scared that – even for a second – Molly won’t feel wanted.
‘Busy day ahead?’ Maggie asked, wiping her hands on her apron. She wore an apron. I looked at her in admiration. She was a proper house-person. She had a tidy blonde hairdo, her tops always matched her trousers, she bakes, and even with three kids to look after, her house is always more orderly than mine will ever be. Here is a woman who has her shit together; maybe I’m just scared that one day Molly will start to question why I don’t.
‘Oh, you know; same old!’ I politely replied. I waved bye to Molly but she didn’t notice. It looked like she was either cuddling a small boy or she had him in a headlock. ‘Her dad will collect her at four, if that’s OK?’
Maggie’s eyes light up at the sheer mention of Oliver. It’s obvious she fancies him. It used to bother me slightly – not enough to make a fuss but enough to neurotically make me wonder if the feeling was mutual.
Work wasn’t horrendous. I manage to arrange a few appointments for next week, dealt with old emails and listened politely to my boss Dorothy’s holiday woes when the romantic all-inclusive couples break she’d booked for her and her boyfriend in Gran Canaria turned out to be the package holiday from hell.
‘They had bingo one night, Phoebe. BINGO. And several children pissed on the floor during the kid’s disco. Honestly, I didn’t sit on a plane for five hours to slip on piss in my Choos.’
Friday January 13th
Day #fuckknows in the Webb/Henderson household.
I tried to gauge whether Oliver might be feeling amorous this evening but as soon as I said, ‘Shall we have an early night?’ I felt like a 1950s housewife and cringed. His response was, ‘Nah, there’s a documentary on Netflix I’ve been meaning to watch’.
I used to be good at demanding sex but, bloody hell, I’m out of practice. Fuckssake, this man has been inside every one of my holes and yet I’m finding it difficult to talk to him about sex! Maybe I’m just scared there’s something else going on . . . what if he’s had enough of my holes?
Saturday January 14th
Hazel texted me this morning to let me know they were all back from their New Year trip to Disneyland Paris.
Finally home. Grace has a present for Molly. When are you free for coffee?
I arranged to take Molly over tomorrow to catch up. Hazel’s daughter is two years older than Molly but they get on like a house on fire, even calling each other ‘sister’ in a slightly creepy way. It’s handy though since Molly is happy to sleep over when Oliver and I have plans.
The rest of the day was spent doing bugger all. I had a nap while Oliver played Pie Face with Molly and I yelled at them both when whipped cream got on the rug. Fucking hell, I’m becoming a bore. If this continues, they’ll need to stage an arsehole intervention and force-feed joy into me intravenously.
Sunday January 15th
I took Molly over to Hazel’s house, where she was presented with a Disneyland mug and a tiny Jungle Book elephant plush toy. Delighted, she went off to play with Grace while Hazel pointed me in the direction of the kitchen, pushing the door closed behind her.
‘So how was—’ I began, but Hazel quickly interrupted me.
‘Never again,’ she blurted out, whacking the kettle switch on. ‘Overpriced, freezing and mobbed. Kevin wasn’t keen either. He said that Gaston “sighed” at him. Tea or coffee?’
‘Tea, thanks,’ I replied. ‘Gaston’s an arsehole. I bet Grace enjoyed it though.’
Hazel shrugged. ‘She announced on the second day that she was a bit old for Disney. We’re standing in the middle of the fucking Magic Kingdom, up to our arse in Disney and she’s all “whatever”. She enjoyed the New Year fireworks though.’
