Free Mummy Said the F-Word by Fiona Gibson Page B

In this family, everything seems to work as it should. Guy might not be the most exciting man on the planet – unlike Martin, he doesn’t cause women’s underwear to ping off as he saunters by – but at least he’s
here
.
    ‘You are lucky,’ I say quietly.
    Rachel stops turning the pasta-maker handle and tips her head. ‘Oh, Cait. I’m sorry if I sound smug. I think you’re doing a fantastic job, I really do.’ Kindness emanates from her brown eyes. By rights, Rachel should be filling in for Harriet Pike.
    ‘Thanks,’ I say, unconvinced.
    She re-feeds the dough through the machine. This time it comes out tagliatelle-shaped, just like the tagliatelle you can buy at Tesco for 98p. She tosses the anaemic ribbons into a pot of bubbling water. Herby aromas rise from a simmering tomato and basil sauce.
    ‘How’s Jake been lately?’ she asks.
    ‘The usual. All mutters and scowls. It’s as if he’s fast-forwarded to adolescence.’
    She smiles sympathetically, looking particularly auntie-ish today with her plump face flushed pink from all the winding and simmering. ‘He’s probably still adjusting to you and Martin living apart. It’s nearly nine months since he left, isn’t it? That’s not so long for a child …’
    ‘Yes, that’s what Sam reckons too.’
    Rachel grins mischievously. ‘Been spending a lot of time with Sam, haven’t you?’
    ‘Don’t you start …’
    ‘I know you’re just friends, blah, blah, but—’
    ‘It’s not like that with Sam and me,’ I cut in. ‘There’s no … sexual chemistry. He’s not interested, and I’m not interested, and—’
    ‘What’s wrong with him?’ She frowns, as if attending to an injured child.
    ‘Nothing, but …’
    ‘Shouldn’t you be open to opportunities?’
    ‘Rachel,’ I explain, as patiently as I can to someone who’s been with her man for 900 years, ‘there
aren’t
any opportunities.’
    She sighs and dishes up the pasta into jaunty striped bowls. ‘Rally the troops, would you? I think we’re ready.’
    I call the kids and they clatter downstairs and in from the garden, clamouring around the table with a frantic scraping of chairs. Everyone tucks in without fuss, even though fresh herbs are distinctly visible. (In our house, attempting to sneak greenery into a dish is a crime punishable by death.)
    ‘So much better than dried pasta, isn’t it?’ Rachel enthuses.
    ‘Yummy,’ Lola agrees.
    ‘Lovely,’ I say, thinking: sorry, but it feels like
worms
.
    ‘Who are my aunties?’ Lola asks as we walk home.
    ‘You only have one real one,’ I explain. ‘There’s Auntie Claire , Daddy’s sister. You’ve got your uncle Adam, but he’s not married any more so—’
    ‘Who’s my agony aunt?’ she cuts in.
    I laugh. ‘You don’t have one, sweetheart, and I hope you’ll never need one. It’s not a real aunt. Not someone who’s related to you. It’s a lady who works for a magazine, and if you’ve got problems you can write to her and she’ll try and help.’
    ‘Oh.’
    While Lola clutches my hand, Jake mooches several yards behind as if wishing to minimise the chance of being seen in public with me. Travis stops to examine every chunk of loose plaster in the wall, every crushed chip carton and grubby bottletop on the ground.
    ‘No, hon, that’s dirty,’ I insist, tugging him away from teeming bacteria.
    ‘Why do people write to that lady?’ Lola won’t let this one go.
    ‘Well, an agony aunt’s supposed to be clever and wise and know the answers to lots of things.’ I cringe inwardly.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Sweetie, you’re just saying “why” all the time to keep me talking. You’re not asking real questions.’ It’s Lola’s favourite game: Why? Why? Why?
    ‘I’m not,’ she huffs. ‘I just don’t understand why they write to that lady …’
    ‘Maybe they don’t have anyone else to talk to.’
    She grins, pulls her hand free and bounds towards our house. ‘I don’t need an agony aunt,’ she yells