Free Mum on the Run by Fiona Gibson Page B

Is it any wonder I’m a little unkempt? Naomi has not one but two ensuites, like bloody royalty – one for her, one for buffed-up hubby. Switching off the shower, I wrap myself in a towel and unlock the door.
    Although clearly on the point of combustion, Jed still manages to fling me a disdainful look as if I’m something he’s narrowly avoided treading in on the pavement. He strides to the loo and starts to pee, emitting a groan of relief which I find enormously off-putting. I glare at the back of him as he sploshes noisily, deciding that it doesn’t matter if I’m poultry-like down there as I’ll never be intimate with him again. I’ll grow fatter and hairier with many cats.
    For one brief moment, I wish I was playing with the children and the train set at Mum’s.
    In the sanctuary of our bedroom, I examine my handiwork as Jed pads downstairs. Although I look freakish, I don’t have it in me to jump back into the shower and finish off the job. I pull on my new underwear and survey my reflection in our full-length mirror on which Toby has crayoned a person with stick legs and stick arms and a brick-shaped torso. I assume it’s supposed to be me. My face is pink from the shower, my hair straggly and dripping down my chest. The new bra is a little baggy in the cups. The knickers are cut lower than my preferred style, and lack the reinforcements required to hold in my tummy. I don’t look like a woman who’s on the brink of making her husband faint with desire. I look like a clappedout mother who buys her underwear two aisles along from the gherkins.
    Gamely, I pull on the suspender belt – remembering too late that the knickers are supposed to go on top of it – then the stockings. The suspender belt’s clips are a devil to snap on. Every time I manage to get one done up, another pings off. It’s even more fiddly than Finn’s old Meccano set. Why didn’t I buy hold-up stockings? Because I planned to go for full-on foxery, haha.
    I dart into Grace’s room, rummage in her craft box for scissors and snip the Hugga Bubba teddies off my underwear. As a joke, I place them on her pillow. I’m overcome by a surge of longing, wishing she were here, wishing all the children were here, and that this was an ordinary family evening with bedtime stories and tucking in and Jed and I watching a movie together. Our normal life isn’t so bad. I want too much, that’s the problem. My expectations have shot off the scale, like would-be Angelina Jolie’s at the salon. I should be content with the way things are. Look at Mum, with her art classes and volunteering, trying to fill the void where Dad used to be.
    Why didn’t he tell anyone he was ill? Because he didn’t want to worry us, not even Mum. Then he had to tell her, of course, and then they told Kate because she’s eight years older than me and far more sensible and capable. It was Kate who called, when I was trying to coax Toby onto the potty, and said, ‘Laura, I’m sorry to tell you this, but I think you should know. Dad’s really ill.’
    I’d known he’d been for tests, and Mum had implied that it was something to do with cholesterol or blood pressure and that a change of diet would fix everything. She didn’t mention the cancer that had spread to his spine. ‘It’s the shock,’ I told Jed, tears pouring down my cheeks. ‘If they’d warned me, I might have been ready. I might have been prepared.’ He’d kissed and held me and, for a moment, he was my boyfriend again, who always managed, somehow, to make things better. Jed knew how close I’d been to Dad.
    In our bedroom, I hold up my new emerald dress. I don’t have the courage to carry it off – not with the shaving disaster lurking beneath. Instead, I pull on a more demure polka-dot sundress which used to be one of Jed’s favourites but is faded and must be at least five years old. It’s an improvement, though. I definitely look better clothed than naked. I dab on my new make-up and try to