Free The Divorce Club by Jayde Scott

world, and then there are those days when
I'm wondering if my mere existence enrages her.
    I don't want to frighten her in case she
doesn't know I'm invading her private space, so I touch her arm
gently and give it a squeeze until she can't pretend I'm just an
annoying fly. Sam rips the earphones out of her ear and glares at
me.
    "Six o'clock, remember?" I say, smiling, but
I feel intimidated. First the straightening iron and now the raging
teen. What's with me and my inability to act like any other
fear-inducing, grownup female who can silence a diner table with
the blaze in her eyes?
    "I'm not coming," Sam says.
    "Well, you have no choice because I'm not
leaving you here all by yourself." I pull her up. Granted, it's a
feeble attempt but she actually moves.
    Sam pouts. "Ever since you opened that
singles place, I've been on my own all the time."
    "It's only been twice, Sam. That's hardly all
the time."
    "It's just the beginning. Once it takes off,
I'll have to call your assistant for an appointment. You should
close that dumb club." She yanks her arm free and stomps to the
bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
    "You're being unfair," I shout so she hears
me over the sound of running water. "I need to make a living. Do
you want to sleep on the street like some hobo?"
    "We wouldn't have to if you didn't leave
Dad," Sam shouts back.
    So the divorce is what bothers her again. One
day she seems to be really mature about it, accepting it as a
necessity rather than a choice; and the other, she seems to blame
it all on me. Greg was the one who couldn't keep it in his pants
because of his lusting after twenty-year-old C cups, but my
thirteen-year-old daughter doesn't need to know about my intimate
life.
    "Get dressed. I want you to be ready in ten
minutes."
    "That's not enough time. I can't go out
looking like you do," Sam mutters.
    Groaning, I stomp out, but leave the door
open just in case I need to come back and check on her, which I
probably will. Outside, I lean back against the wall and take a
deep breath to calm my nerves. I always thought I was a good
mother, but apparently I failed with Sam just like I failed in so
many other life areas. Imperfections shape us into unique
individuals, but in my case I don't feel unique, just defeated. I
don't know what I could've done to be a better mother, but Sam
could most certainly provide a whole list if someone asked.
    It's ten to six when she emerges downstairs,
flowing hair framing her chubby face with huge eyes and soft, clear
skin. She wears a hoody top and a short skirt with flats. It's too
cold to go out dressed like this, but I'm scared of starting
another argument when she seems to hate me most of the time
already. A smile's planted on her lips, as though all the anger and
reproach were happened. I blink nervously because I don't know what
to expect.
    "Where're we going?" Sam asks.
    "To the cinema and then we're having pizza.
Ready?"
    She shrugs and peers around. "As long as
there isn't garlic on it because I hate it. And I'm picking the
movie."
    "Fine, sweetie," I say.
    "Let's go then."
    "We're waiting for a friend to pick us up."
As soon as I've said the words a car pulls up outside. Sam opens
her mouth to speak, but I silence her as I hurry to open the door,
my nerves from before multiplying by an indefinite number.
    "Who's that?" Sam whispers.
    "Just a client." I turn to face her, my eyes
imploring. "He needs my help, Sam, and he pays really well. We
can't afford to lose our income. Please promise me you'll be
nice."
    She grins and pats my shoulder. "What're you
talking about? I'm always nice, Mum."
    Jamie jumps out and heads toward us, carrying
two small flower bouquets and a pink gift bag. He wears a clean
jacket over a buttoned-up shirt. His pair of jeans looks as though
it's just been ironed. I never iron my jeans. His hair's shiny and
a tad longer than I remember. A hint of cologne wafts past as he
hands me a bouquet.
    I smile. "Thanks. This is my daughter, Sam.
Sam,