I pause and roll my eyes so far back in my head I can practically see my own brain cells depleting with frustration. Why does he insist on doing this? He calls up for no fucking reason, asking pointless things that could easily be discussed when I drop Grace off. I sigh heavily. ‘Interesting. Maybe I’m working her too hard, but that chimney won’t clean itself!’
‘Now you’re just being facetious.’
‘Peter, unless she’s coming down with something, I’m guessing she’s tired because she goes at a million miles an hour all day.’
‘Maybe, but we’ve noticed this a couple of times and we’re concerned.’
I start to giggle. Since Peter got together with Emma, he’s seemingly become unable to think for himself. Everything is ‘we’, and I’m sure it’s his way of reminding me that I now have two fuckwits to contend with instead of just one. To be honest though, I have no beef with Emma, despite the fact she’s stupidly tall with black hair and Goth make-up, the complete opposite of my five-foot three-inch blondeness. I try to avoid black, unless it’s for an evening dress or underwear. I’ll never understand all that Gothic nonsense – YOU WATCHED THE CRAFT AS A TEENAGER. WE GET IT. Put some blusher on and cheer the fuck up. I guess she probably feels the same about my taste for retro clothing (but she’d be wrong).
I decide to end the call as quickly as possible. It’s too early for this shit and I’m peeved that my tiny window for self-love has been slammed shut. So I pretend that I have another call coming in. ‘Grace is fine, Peter. I have someone else on the line, so I have to go. I’ll drop her across at two this afternoon as usual. Anything else you need to tell me?’
‘No. We’ll see Grace at two’.
He doesn’t know I’m giving him the middle finger as he hangs up, but it makes me feel better anyway. I throw my phone on the bedside table and pull the covers over my face to muffle my screams of annoyance. Quite frankly, I’d rather start my day being water-boarded than engage in an early-morning conversation with Peter.
I lie in bed for ten more minutes until I hear the paperboy shredding the weekend Tribune through the main-door letter box. It’s clear that the universe is conspiring against my downtime. Admitting defeat, I get up and yawn like a Munch painting.
Plonking myself down at my dressing table, I tie my hair back with one of Grace’s pink scrunchies before carefully examining my face for signs of decomposition. It appears to be wrinkle free, but I’m at the age now where random lines sometimes creep up on me while I sleep, and this scares the shit out of me. My skincare regime is pretty standard: cleanse, tone and moisturize with whatever is on offer at Boots. It takes me five minutes while my coffee machine makes my morning cup of conscious, and this morning is no different. Two cups later, I’m dressed and sitting at the kitchen table with a copy of the Scottish Tribune in front of me and a croissant shoved sideways into my mouth. Putting the main paper to one side, I open the Lowdown magazine and scan my Glasgow Girl column:
Recently I’ve been considering online dating, but it all seems rather bleak. After I’ve placed my advert stating that I have unruly hair, enjoy short walks into oncoming traffic and that I’m looking for a man who owns a tank and knows all the lyrics to ‘The Safety Dance’, what then? If someone miraculously responds to my pathetic need for human contact and affection, we’ll probably arrange to meet up and I’ll have to pray that he looks like his photographs. But in reality he won’t – no one ever does.
I skim down the rest of the column, then check that my editorial on stupidly expensive face creams and my interview with David Tennant are also present and correct before closing the pages, feeling entirely smug that I actually get paid for doing this. Things could have been very different.
2010
‘Any news on the job front yet? Your redundancy pay must be running low by now.’
I glance over at Helen and shake my head. Sometimes she sounds more like Mum than Mum ever did. ‘Nope. That magazine said they’d let me know, but that was two weeks ago.’
‘What magazine?’
‘The new weekend magazine that’s starting . . . remember? Part of the Scottish Tribune?’
Helen’s looking at me like this is brand-new information. In fact, she’s looking at me like she isn’t quite sure who I am or why I’m in her house.
‘Editor wanted fresh new voices . . . had the interview last week . . . you drove me there . . . seriously? You don’t remember?’
‘Of course I do,’ she replies, but it’s clear she doesn’t have a fucking clue what I’m talking about, so she changes the subject. ‘By the way, Cat, they’re looking for someone at the university. Canteen staff. Don’t think the pay is great, but it’s something and you’d get the school holidays off. Want me to get you an application form?’
My heart sinks, but I nod and tell her that would be great. As much as I’d kill for that job at the Tribune, I’m aware that my experience is limited; I was only at the South Side News for a year before it closed, so my chances of getting this are slim at best . . . but I’m a good writer! I’m sure of this. I try to imagine myself serving chips and cheese to booze-soaked students at the same university I once studied at to get my journalism degree and I want to have a little cry.
Helen frowns. I see her dark brown eyes narrow as she tries to second-guess what I’m thinking. ‘There’s nothing wrong with canteen work, Catriona. A job’s a job.’
‘Jesus, Helen, I didn’t say there was! I know I can’t afford to be too selective about where my income comes from, but unless I start making some decent money, I’m never going to be able to move out of my shitty rented flat. I need to aim high!’
‘You can still aim high while you’re putting food on the table. You’re thirty-one now and competing with writers much younger than you, who will work for pennies. Maybe it’s time to do something else? You can always move in here with me and Adam and save on—’
‘Stop right there,’ I interrupt. ‘I love you both dearly, but Grace and I need our own space, however vile it is. And I’m well aware of my position on the food chain, thank you very much. I’ll think of something.’
‘Anyway, the offer is there. You really should consider it.’
I nod, but there’s no way in hell I’m moving in with my sister. I didn’t get away from one control freak to move in with another.
At quarter to two I leave Helen’s flat and make my way to Grace’s nursery school to collect her. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk to Hillcross Family Centre, but the cold, unforgiving rain is stinging my face and making my jeans stick to my freezing thighs. It’s days like this when I miss my old blue Honda, but the five hundred pounds I sold it for came in handy for food and bills. I pull up my hood and keep my head down.
Hillcross Family Centre is a charming council-run nursery, staffed entirely by women of various ages and temperaments, with the exception of John – a nursery nurse in his twenties who delights the children and confuses the parents, simply by being male. The head of the nursery, Mrs Woods, is a passionate woman with a penchant for ponchos, dancing and coral lipstick and has taken a particular shine to Grace, it seems.
‘Your daughter is wonderful, Cat: one of my favourites.’
