CHAPTER oNE

It’s a dream I have almost once a week. I am in a room with the kids. The room has no windows or doors but has a strange padded quality to it. There is no Matt and Millie is almost always without a nappy. Jake notices first and declares she will pee everywhere and we will all drown. Ted is bored and picks his nose. Hannah sits quietly and asks where her father is and why I didn’t bring my phone. I am wearing jersey catalogue pyjamas that have flattering flowy bottoms and a vest which magically supports my flaccid boobs. My hair looks frigging fantastic. In my pyjama pocket is a key. But there is no door? Everyone starts shouting for help and Ted gets anxious and starts eating the fruits of his nose-picking. I beat the walls with my fists. I feel along the sides of the walls with my fingers. They are ridged and leave a fine white dust in my palms. I know this. I hold the dust to my lips. It’s sweet. The walls are spongy. Wait! Doughnuts! The room is made out of doughnuts! ‘Eat!’ I tell the children. ‘Eat your way out!’ They do as they’re told. The walls are filled with jam; raspberry, apple, some with custard, which we all agree is an abomination. All the kids tuck in, grabbing handfuls of sponge. They have sugar around their lips, jam in their hair but they all look so content, so joyful. I smile. Then from a little hole that we’ve eaten through in the wall, I see daylight. We hear Matt’s voice. I never recall what he says but he doesn’t sound too impressed. The voice always gets louder. Millie always pees on the floor. Then I wake up.

‘Jools … Jools! Get your arse out of bed.’

And I always check. No doughnuts. No jam. No fancy pyjamas. No key.

‘Seriously? Jools, c’mon!’

Is there a key? It’s happened again, hasn’t it? I pull the duvet over my head to see my regular bedroom attire: an old misshapen T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, my hair looking like small mammals have nested in there to seek refuge from a harsh winter. A muslin, dry and crispy, is stuck to my forehead. Outside, a pigeon sits on the sill, has a crap, then flies off into the drizzle. I look down at a wet patch where fatigue or doughnut lust has seen me drool into the pillow. The bed undulates as a five-year-old boy bounces in next to me. Get up. Get up. Get up. You great big state of a woman, you.

‘Jake … get your zombie mama out of bed for me …’

Jake does as he’s told and tries to prise my eyes open with his five-year-old fingers. He’s lucky zombie mama don’t bite. A bare-chested Matt appears at the bedroom door wearing just his work trousers. If I squint in the lowlight of the room, he looks a little like Richard Gere in the beginning of American Gigolo except the only dancing he seems to be doing is with the Febreze bottle. He finds a shirt on the back of the bathroom door and sprays it frenetically, smoothing it down with his hands. Jake flashes the bedside light on and off in my face.

‘Are you dead?’

‘No.’

‘Then can I go?’

‘Yes.’ He kisses me on the cheek and scoots off. I reach for my phone on the bedside table. 7.27 a.m. Matt eyeballs me with a foamy mouth. Now is not the time for Facebook, wifey. I eyeball back as he stands there with his chest on show and his flies undone. He looks over at Millie, her little pink tongue hanging out in fatigue.

‘How many times was she up last night?’

The urge here is to exaggerate to garner some sympathy so that maybe, just maybe, Matt will volunteer to take the kids to school.

‘Three.’

‘You better grab a coffee then.’

He, who slept through each episode of waking, spread-eagled across three-quarters of the bed with only his erratic night flatulence keeping me company. To be honest, I forget now if Millie wakes in the night at all, the only sign I get being if in the morning one of my boobs is hanging out. I roll up my T-shirt. True enough, the right is out – my nipple bowing its sorry head down to the floor. Matt glances over, a little disheartened as he watches me stuff myself back in my bra. Then he utters the words that no one really needs to hear.

‘We’re out of milk.’

We look at each other for five seconds to let the news wash over us. Crap. The big question though is whether it was anyone’s fault. Will we survive? How will we address the matter? Breakfast is allocated Matt time in our house. He’ll sit with the kids at the table and he has his quality time with them over Weetos and Rice Krispies while I either get fifteen minutes more sleep or tend to Millie. This sounds like some idyll of wholesome family time but no one really talks. They just stare at each other in a sleepy haze, milk often dribbles down chins, the twins will complain that someone’s got more cereal than them, and they hate the world.

‘The kids had a quarter cup each for breakfast but we are running low on everything.’

He gives me a look. This is your department: catering and beverages. Your department has underperformed.

‘I’ll go for a shop today. Is your pay in?’

‘Well, this is food. The kids have to eat. You can put something like that on credit, you know?’

‘But you told me …’

I trail off, not wanting to bring up the searing topics of finance and his casual condescension so early in the day, else my eyeballs seep out their sockets. Given I’m married to an accountant, it’s always made sense for Matt to have the last word when it comes to our finances, something I don’t necessarily fight, knowing it’s for the best. Still, being twenty-nine and having my credit card usage monitored always makes me feel like I’m an errant teenager, like I might spend Matt’s wages on Strongbow and Superdry. I salute him when his back is turned. Millie pops her little auburn head off her mattress and looks around to see where she is. There’s a rosy blush in her cheeks from naughty, hurty teeth. I pat her head and put my legs over the side of the bed.

‘Millie smells.’

‘So do you.’

I stick my tongue out at Matt, who doesn’t get the joke. But hell, he’s right. I wrestle Millie on to the change table, pinning her down with one elbow as I fiddle with the wipes, praying there has been no spillage. No wipes. Bollocks. I take her into the bathroom and try to her wipe her down using some cosmetic pads and lukewarm water. Her face in the mirror says it all. This is undignified, Mother. I then pop her down on the floor as I put the seat down to have a wee. The door swings open. There are no boundaries in this house. I haven’t peed on my own since 2006.

‘Mum, can I have that white stuff in the fridge?’ Ted stands by the entrance to the bathroom in that half-jog stance he always seems to favour; places to go, has our little Ted. He doesn’t seem too perturbed by the fact I am mid-stream. I bend over to stop Millie going through the contents of the under-sink cupboard.

‘It’s in the measuring jug with the cling film.’

‘No, hon – that’s coconut milk.’ I’m half glad he asked my permission, as I think that might have been in there since at least last Friday.

‘What, coconut like in Bounty bars? I like them. Please?’

‘This isn’t a negotiation, Ted. If you drink that, you’ll be sick.’

‘But …’

‘She’s right, buddy.’

Matt nods and gives me another look. Look at our children scavenging in the fridge! Ted, like all the others, takes Matt’s validation over my authority – slightly disheartening but at least it means I can wipe in peace. Or not. As I’m half hovered over the loo, half pulling up my pants, the door swings open again.

‘Can you see my nipples through this shirt?’

Matt turns on the main bedroom light and I flinch from the light like a 1930s vampire. Matt stands by the door – no longer Richard Gere, but looking like a pastel blue Shar Pei.

‘Kind of.’

‘Shit.’

He looks over at the mountain of clothes in the corner of the room then looks to me. He knows better than to mess with it; one false move and it’d be like a house of cards. I wash my hands then give him Millie while I sift through it. Go on, dance or something. I’ll be Smokey Robinson. This has to be funny. Nothing. I find him a vest and retreat to the bathroom to brush my teeth, staring at the woman in the mirror. She looks familiar. I look down at the old T-shirt I’m wearing and the lovely wet patch over my left breast. I forgot to swap sides again. I take off my T-shirt and bra and grab a vest, shirt, and jeans from the top of the laundry hamper. I slowly pull up my jeans, breathing in to do up the button, and let my ricotta cheese mummy tummy relax over the waistband. Today’s look is pale, uninteresting, and braless. It will have to do. I hear Matt’s scowling from next door.

‘Shit, I’ve missed the 7.47. Remember the Sky man is coming today. You need to pay the Vodafone bill and there was something else …’

‘Milk?’

‘No. But yeah. I’ll text you.’

I watch Matt as he swears at his socks then stands at the mirror and smoothes down his ruffled blond hair, exhaling loudly into a resigned sigh as he studies his badly fitting white collar uniform. He then turns to me and there’s a moment between us – we don’t have to say it any more – no goodbyes, no kisses. We just look: a look which kind of says good luck. Let’s go do this.

By the time I get downstairs, Matt is gone and it’s 7.55 a.m. Time to move this up a gear. It’s a school dinner kind of day, so I frantically count change, wrangle book bags, and scan the calendar for important events/deadlines I’ve probably missed. There is no time for coffee so I down some warm lemon squash, bundle Millie into her jacket, then rally the troops. Hannah sits on the last but one step doing her shoes while her topless brothers use the sofa as some sort of high jump mattress.

‘But the question is, will Ted clear three metres?’

I then watch as he jumps from coffee table to sofa, twisting his body around until his head gets wedged in between the sofa cushions. Hannah rolls her eyes while I balance Millie on my hip and grab his ankles, trying to dislodge him. Jake sits to the side, laughing hysterically.

‘A bit of help, Jake?’

‘That was … awesome!’

Ted re-emerges, hair covered in old sofa lint but looking no worse than most mornings.

‘Boys! Shirts! Shoes!’

They shuffle to the front door as I slip on my Converse. No time for socks.

‘My shoes aren’t here, Mum.’

‘Well, where are they?’

Jake does what he does best, which is to shrug nonchalantly as he slips a sweatshirt over his head. I go into search mode, jogging between different areas of our small downstairs space, reaching under sofas and into black hole cupboards only to be assaulted by the vacuum cleaner and to find the remote for the DVD player which has been missing for three months. Then I go in the garage. Shoes! Yes! But … shit.

Seriously?

Bloody bastard shitty bollocks fuck.

‘WHY IS THERE PAINT ALL OVER THE GARAGE FLOOR?’

Breathe, Jools. Just breathe. I squint my eyes and read ‘gloss’ on the side of the paint tin. My shoulders slump down so hard I swear my boobs bounce off my stomach. Jake grabs his shoes and is ushered out of the house by his sister. Silence. Why, little people? Why why why? I look at myself in the mirror. Don’t scream and go hysterical and make your eyes bulge. Don’t scream. It adds wrinkles and sounds horrible. They are but very little people. Your little people. I lock up the house, strap Millie in, and go and take my place in the car. Don’t scream. Hannah turns her head around from the front seat, gesturing to her brothers in the back.

‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

I don’t respond. Ted’s eyes glaze over.

‘I’m sorry too.’

‘They’re both learning about road safety at school so we thought we needed a zebra crossing,’ adds their big sister.

‘IN THE GARAGE?’

I turn around to give the last authoritative word on the matter. No going in the garage! Stop devaluing our house! The only paints you’re allowed to use in the house are the crappy Crayola ones that wash out! But as I lurch my head around, I notice Jake’s hand clawed around something contraband, something pink. Ted chewing. Silence must be broken.

‘What the … where did you get those?’

‘We found them in the back of the seat.’

I grimace. Now I must also clean the car, must throw up a little in my mouth, must get to school. I grab at half-eaten sweets and start the engine. I sigh heavily. I run over the recycling crate, hearing shards of plastic crunch under the wheels. Don’t scream. I rub sticky sweet hands down my jeans and notice a tyre of flesh poking out where two buttons are supposed to be on my shirt. Pray Millie hasn’t eaten them. I turn on the radio. Hannah sings along to a One Direction song which makes my heart break a little. School. Just bloody get to school.

‘Sweets are not breakfast, guys.’

‘Well, we were hungry,’ Ted informs me. ‘There was no bread this morning. Or cereal, so we had Nesquik.’

Bet Matt was thrilled by that.

‘Daddy was going to make Choconana shakes but the blender was being a bastard,’ pipes up Jake.

I swivel my head around.

‘So in the end he just gave us the bananas and told us to dunk them in the milk.’

The b-word still out in the open, and me just being too tired and speechless to deal with it, I miss a gap in the traffic and a car behind flashes me. Someone else is being a bastard this morning. I swivel round and shout something I shouldn’t. Millie laughs.

We pull up outside school with four minutes to spare and I stand by the car until all three are safely deposited, nipples on end in the drizzly cold as I forgot to wear a coat. And a bra.

‘Jools? Hi! Good weekend?’

Paula Jordan leaps in front of me wearing head to toe hot pink Nike with toned abs and a thong on show. All our kids are in the same classes so it means a friendship has been forced upon us. She peers into the car. Millie has a moist Percy Pig covered in fuzz stuck to her forehead.

‘Not bad. You?’

‘Are those sweets for breakfast? That can’t be good – all those refined sugars.’

I try to put my body in between her and the window.

‘Oh no, it’s one of those Play-Doh thingymajigs. You look well for a Monday morning.’

Her ponytail swishes with the compliment.

‘Yogalates. Amazing class in the park. You get to breathe in that morning air, reset your chakras, really sets you up for the day.’

It’s like she’s speaking a different language. I scan down to her abs to inspect if they might be real or those spray on ones I’ve seen in magazines. The real test surely would be to punch her in the stomach. But I don’t.

‘The kids do it too. Actually, it has really focussed Harriet and Toby’s energies – maybe it’s something your twins could benefit from.’

Hidden insult #1. I nod, thinking how they usually focus their energy by running around in circles until they pass out and the energy ceases to exist. ‘Maybe.’

‘So I’ll get to yours for 6.30?’

I nod again. It’s my night for entertaining the Jordan children at my house, post-swimming club. Not that I mind, but I await the inevitable.

‘Just to remind you again, the kids are allergic to gluten and dairy. But you knew that, right?’

I go into auto-pilot smile and nod mode. I know because you tell me every week, it’s engraved into keyrings on their school bags, and you’ve even written me a laminated list for my fridge detailing everything they’re not allowed to consume.

‘It’s just when they come to your house – no offence or anything but they always come back a bit … giddy. It’s just things like food colourings, flavourings – even cocoa. They just don’t agree with those things.’

Hidden Insult #2. She has the habit of making it sound like I pour bottles of tartrazine down their necks when they come over. The fact is, she goes around school telling everyone how delicate her kids are, how the gluten we’re giving them is poison, but little Harriet once came round telling me their dad lets them secretly feast on Peperami and Wagon Wheels in the shed when their mum’s having her weekly colon cleanse.

‘I mean, if you have nothing in, I have a bag of millet in my car. The kids love it steamed with red chard.’

I nod again. A bag of grain in your car. I look down at Millie who’s found a lightsaber on my back seat. Different languages, different planets.

‘We’ll be fine. I’m just popping to the supermarket now.’

‘Waitrose?’

‘Sainsbury’s.’

Then silence. I should have said Lidl.