Ian came over for tea tonight so we could have a brainstorm about the holidays. We’ve already agreed that he is going to have the girls for a week near the end of August so he can take them to see his mum for a bit.
Jess is very excited about this as Ian’s mum has a dog. She’s convinced that she is going to be allowed to take the dog out for walks by herself and that they will have adventures together in a haunted forest and catch ghosts and smugglers – this is what happens when you read impressionable children Famous Five books. Ian’s mum, Jacqui, lives in Hull, so I’m not sure there will be a huge amount of haunted forest action going on.
Flo is less excited as it means she has to share a bedroom with Flo for a week, plus Jacqui believes in switching the Wi-Fi off at 6 p.m. in case it gets ‘too expensive’.
So that’s one week taken care of. It’s just the other five that are starting to worry me a little. Ian is going to do his usual weekends and Wednesdays, but we agreed that with me not working I would take on the rest of the time as work is really busy for him at the moment.
Although I’m delighted to not ever have to see Steve again, the small issue of not having a job means I can’t really justify paying for nursery over the summer, which means I am likely to be sectioned around, say, mid-August? I’m genuinely terrified.
We do have a bit extra money now, thanks to Ian, but I need to save most of that to cover living expenses until I find a new job. Finances aside, though, the difficulty lies in finding activities that appeal to both a teenager and an almost four-year-old. They both like Burger King, but that isn’t really a six-week plan.
We sat down around the table, I sliced up the pizza, and discussions began. I had a corkboard (Poundland) that I’d procured especially.
I have to say I was pretty impressed by Flo’s focused negotiation skills – ‘I’ll do zoos, that’s fine,’ she started with, eyeing the corkboard suspiciously.
‘How about activities at the castle?’ said Ian.
‘No, absolutely not. Nothing that involves role play for me or actors. It’s degrading.’
‘The cinema?’ I said.
‘The cinema would be OK,’ she conceded, ‘as long as the film is a minimum PG certificate and I get a popcorn combo.’
‘Indoor trampolining centre?’ asked Ian.
Flo shrugged. ‘Sounds a bit lame.’
‘What about the Exeter Children’s Festival?’ I suggested, thinking that the word ‘festival’ might give it an edge of cool.
‘Really?’ she sighed. ‘But that’s for kids!’
‘OK, how about this nature trail?’ I asked, the picture of innocence, proffering a leaflet I picked up at the museum. This was a strategic move to make the kids’ festival seem relatively appealing.
‘NO!’ She looked visibly horrified. ‘All right, I’ll do the kids festival and trampolining, so long as I definitely don’t have to do any form of outdoor crafts.’
‘Deal.’
You might think this seems a little one-sided and that we should have consulted Jess a bit more, but, quite honestly, it makes no odds where you take her as long as she has at least three ponies with her and they sell ice cream.
I added the cinema, trampolining and the kids’ festival to the corkboard. It still looked pretty sparse.
‘I mean, obviously we can fill in a lot of these spaces by going out for nice walks and things like that,’ I said, unconvincingly. ‘And maybe playing games at home?’
Flo snorted.
‘What about one of those activity camps, Flo?’ suggested Ian. ‘You know, where you get to go away for a week and learn survival skills or something?’
‘Seriously?’ said Flo. ‘You want to pack me off to some damp, failing country house in the middle of nowhere so I can spend my time cracking codes made out of twigs with a load of nerds?’
‘I would be fun!’ I said. ‘How cool would it be to abseil down a cliff?’
‘Really? Not fun at all,’ said Flo.
‘It’s honestly not like that nowadays,’ said Ian, offering Flo his phone, ‘have a look at this one – six days of water sports in the Mediterranean – that could be fun.’
Flo sat up a little bit, her interest piqued by the word ‘Mediterranean’. To be honest, my interest was piqued. When I was at school I went on a couple of residential camps but they were both in Somerset, in exactly the kind of crumbly country house Flo was imagining. One was a four-day drama course where we wrote and staged our own play (I think it was about Take That, which was probably my idea), and the second was a whole week of Shakespeare. I loved it, but I think I could also have got on board with snorkelling off the Languedoc coast.
I had a look at the website.
‘Ian, it’s £779!’ I said. You can get a lot of wine for that.
‘But what an amazing experience,’ he argued. ‘I have some of the flat money put aside for the girls, this could be something we could spend it on if Flo was keen?’
She looked surprisingly keen. I took the phone to look again at the website. The main photo was of a tall-looking boy in a wetsuit, holding a surfboard, his curly, blond hair blowing seductively in the wind. Flo took the phone back.
‘This does look more fun than Viking brass rubbings at the castle – or whatever it was you wanted me to go on,’ she said.
‘You could always ask Sasha if she fancied going with you?’ suggested Ian.
‘Maybe, Dad,’ she said, still looking at the picture of the boy with the surfboard, ‘although it might be better actually not to have anyone I know there, to force me to make new friends?’
There were only spaces left on the first week of the summer holidays, so we booked it. She’s off to the South of France in ten days. I feel really proud of Flo. Going off to a different country with a group of strangers feels like a very brave thing to do.
I’m going to try not to look too much at the empty spaces on the corkboard.
Final swimming session of the term, so I dressed sparingly and took a seat poolside, ready to be impressed with all the progress Jess has made.
As far as I could see she has made none. I wasn’t expecting her to be doing lengths of butterfly or anything, but I thought she might at least be able to make it halfway across the width of the pool without stopping to swallow mouthfuls of water/wave at me.
It was disheartening to say the least. Perhaps swimming is one of those things that just suddenly clicks? Perhaps she will look as if she is drowning for months and months and then one day it will just happen and she’ll throw the woggle to one side and front crawl gracefully to the side.
I stopped after the class to have a word with the teacher, a bouncy young man called Gregg who looked as though he was barely old enough to buy a lottery ticket.
‘Oh, we’re so pleased with her!’ he said. ‘She’s making such good progress!’
Is she, Gregg? Is she?
I may give it a break after the summer.
When I got to Busy Beavers this afternoon there was a group of parents gathered around the noticeboard. I spotted Sierra and Lou sitting over in the far corner, so I went over.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked. ‘Has Cassie published a ranking of her favourite mums or something?’
‘Not quite,’ said Sierra, avoiding eye contact. I looked at Lou. She looked shifty.
‘Why don’t you go and have a look?’ said Lou. They were both acting very mysteriously. I walked over to the noticeboard, just as I saw Cassie coming in through the main door. A mum near the back of the group spotted her too and nudged the women in front of her. A hush fell and the parents parted as Cassie walked towards the noticeboard.
We both looked at it at the same time. Pinned across the top of the parish council notices and toilet cleaning rota was an A2 printout of a photo, showing a woman in a Disneyland Paris cap taking a four-pack of Aldi Fruit Shoot down from a shelf. The photo was a bit blurry, having been blown up so big, but it was clearly Cassie.
I looked at Cassie. She looked at the photo.
It was like watching Regina George get hit by the bus at the end of Mean Girls.
Last day of work today. I collected all of the snacks I have secreted in various cupboards and drawers around the office and set my emails to redirect to Steve. (Ha ha!) Cecilia came in with a card and Maggie brought me a tray of my favourite chocolate and orange brownies.
After lunch Steve announced that he had a meeting in Honiton for the rest of the afternoon and just walked out. Just like that! Not even a ‘good luck for the future’ or ‘thanks for all your hard work’. What an absolute dick! It was only me left, then, so I spent a happy hour in Steve’s office rearranging things in a subtle but annoying way, turning books upside down on the shelves, adjusting the height of his office chair, that sort of thing, and then I went home.
I went into Dorchester today to go to a few recruitment agencies and look around for shops that might be looking for staff. All of the main car parks were full so I ended up finding a two-hour space on a side street with a parking meter. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself until I realised that all I had in the handy change compartment of the car was twenty-seven pence in sticky coppers, a fistful of sweet wrappers, and a lip balm that had melted in the sun and not made it as far as the bin.
‘No cash?’ asked a sign on the side of the machine. ‘No problem! Just call our payment line to pay by card.’
I called the number.
‘To park your blue Seat, registration number WR05 SKO at location number 2179, press one,’ said the robot. This threw me for starters, as I’ve never owned a Seat. I waited for more options.
‘To park the same vehicle at a different location, press two.’
‘To park a different vehicle, press three.’
I pressed three.
‘To park your silver Skoda, registration KY64 KRR, press one,’ the robot instructed me. I think that was a hire car Ian and I had a couple of years ago to go to a wedding in Scotland.
‘To register a new vehicle, press two.’ I pressed two.
‘To register a new vehicle, please say the registration now.’
‘TV05,’ I said in my loudest, clearest voice, ‘YVU.’
‘Please say the vehicle make now.’
‘Renault,’ I said.
‘In one word, please say the colour of your vehicle,’ said the robot.
‘Grey,’ I said, wondering if it wasn’t perhaps more of a silver but keeping quiet so as not to confuse things.
‘This may take a moment,’ said the robot. Why?
‘Please confirm that the registration of the vehicle you wish to park is T … P … 0 … 5 … Y … V … N … If this is correct, say yes.’
‘No!’ I shouted at the robot. The P for a V I could kind of the understand, but since when has a U sounded like an N?
‘There seems to have been a problem,’ said the robot, ‘please press one to return to the main menu.’
Talk about a modern parable. That’s the story of my life right there.
Job-hunting was a washout. All of the retail jobs are full of students back for the summer and, according to the recruitment agencies, the summer holidays are not really the ideal time to look for a new job. Had I thought of postponing the move until later in the year, they asked? Bit late for that now. Most of the vacancies seemed to be either in call centres or driving HGVs.
(Question: I wonder if you could earn double the money by answering calls remotely on a headset while driving a lorry?)
Last day of term today and I feel a weird kind of tiredness.
On the one hand I’m looking forward to not having to make packed lunches and rush around in the morning getting everyone ready. The last few weeks have been like a three-legged race where the person you’ve got your ankle tied to has sort of given up, and you’re having to do most of the work, dragging them over the finish line.
But then, at the same time, I feel exhausted in anticipation of six weeks of summer holidays. Six weeks of trying to balance the needs of two children who seem insistent on sleeping at completely opposite times of the day. Six weeks of ‘I’m bored’ and ‘I’m hot’ and ‘I don’t want to go to bed’.
In town at lunchtime I saw not just one but two open-top buses full of Year Sixes from a local primary school. The top decks were each full of ten- and eleven-year-olds, shouting and waving at people in the street. Each group had a couple of terrified-looking teachers standing in the middle.
Now, I don’t want to be a Scrooge about it, because I know that finishing primary school is a big deal when you’re young, but it’s hardly winning the World Cup, is it? When I left primary school we just had a big assembly where the head looked over his glasses and gave us a lecture about doing our best. Even when Flo left a few years ago it wasn’t that much of a thing. One of the teaching assistants brought in a job lot of Calipos, and they each got a class photo, rolled up like a scroll. Then everyone said goodbye and went home.
As much as I want my kids to feel like they’re special, they’re not that special.
Tonight was meant to be child-free for me, but Mamma Mia 2 has just come out and Ian said he was going to take the girls to see it. Jess has never been to the cinema before and so, when he asked if I wanted to come along as well, I came over all nostalgic and agreed. It didn’t start until 6.15 so he gave them tea at home and then came to pick me up.
I was sitting on the front step, waiting for them, but Ian came up the path carrying a large cardboard box.
‘The girls are in the car,’ he said, ‘but I just wanted to drop this off for you.’
‘What is it?’ I asked, unlocking the door so that he could put it down in the hallway.
‘It’s just something for the summer holidays,’ he said, ‘to help keep you entertained.’
‘It’s not anything too messy, is it?’ I asked, imagining a box full of glitter and glue sticks. ‘You know I’m not great with crafts.’
‘It’s not messy, I promise,’ he said. ‘It’s no big deal, you can look later.’ He shut the front door before I had chance to protest and we walked to the car.
Ian has always been the sensible one, so obviously he had come to the cinema prepared. ‘No, no, no!’ he chorused as the girls requested popcorn, pick-and-mix and overpriced drinks. ‘We’re covered,’ he said, patting his backpack.
Inside Screen 3, Jess’s voice took on a new echoey quality as she settled on her booster seat.
‘Daddy, why is it dark?’
‘Mummy, has the film started yet?’
‘Daddy, why have you got all those sweets in your bag?’
‘Mummy, why are you shushing me?’
Snacks were distributed. Ian and I were sitting at opposite ends, the girls sandwiched between us. He reached around the back of their seats and handed me a can. I peered at it in the semi-darkness – it was 200ml of sparkling pinot grigio.
Who knew you could get wine in a can? This could be a game changer. Sent a picture to WIB.
Ian dropped me home after the film. (I may have cried a teeny bit. At the film, not at being dropped home.) When I got inside I saw the holiday cardboard box. I wasn’t sure I could quite face a job lot of coloured cardboard and lollipop sticks, but then I do like opening parcels. I sat down on the floor in the hallway and pulled off the Sellotape.
Inside was a layer of scrunched-up tissue paper with an envelope on the top. Inside was a card – one of those awful ones with a cartoon picture of a glass and a naff slogan – ‘My head says go to the gym,’ it said, ‘but my heart says drink more prosecco!’ Ian knows I hate those. I bet he thought he was being hilarious.
He’d written inside.
‘I’ve thought a lot about everything that has happened to us over the last couple of years and I know that neither of us were as happy as we could be – you were right to make us face up to it, even if I didn’t especially want to see it. What makes me saddest now is feeling like I’ve lost my best friend. I hope that one day we can go back to how we once were. No matter what happens I will always think that you’re an amazing mum. I know you think that it doesn’t come as naturally to you as it should, but that’s exactly why you’re so good at it – you think about it and you want to be the best mum you can be.’
I may have had another little cry at this point. Probably just Mamma Mia 2 playing on my mind.
‘That said,’ he continued, ‘I know the summer holidays are tough, especially this year. I’m so proud of you for making the change and I know you’re going to make it work. For now, though, here’s a little something to help you get through the next six weeks. Xxx’
I pulled off the tissue paper. Underneath were six bottles of prosecco, six double packs of Jaffa Cakes and a six-pack of Wotsits.
I read the card again and then held it, sitting on the floor in the hallway, until it got dark around me.
Flo has to be at Exeter bus station by 8 a.m. tomorrow so today was mainly taken up by packing. I got it into my head that I had to label everything, which is ridiculous as we’ve managed fourteen years so far and I don’t think I’ve ever labelled anything.
We have lost of lot of PE kits, though. Perhaps it’s finally starting to sink in.
Message on Tinder this evening from Stefan, a thirty-nine-year-old landscape gardener who wanted to know if I would be interested in meeting him and his wife in a hotel one afternoon to ‘explore possibilities’. He was actually very nice about it, almost apologetic, so I did send a polite no thank you. Then I deleted the app. Maybe just for the summer holidays. I don’t think I have the mental space for dating alongside the holiday corkboard.
We dropped Flo off at the bus station this morning. Ian came too, to say goodbye.
I could tell she was nervous because she was looking a bit cross and aloof. She shrugged me off when I tried to put my arm around her shoulders as we waited for the coach, but she stood close to me and kept glancing down at Jess, who was making her ponies do a death walk along the edge of the kerb.
Other teenagers were gathering around us and, to be honest, they looked like exactly the kind of kids who would relish a twig-based code-breaking challenge.
I hoped Flo wouldn’t notice.
‘Ian,’ I said, after we’d packed Flo off and waved at the coach until it was out of sight, ‘I wanted to say thank you for the box you left me. It was so kind of you.’
‘Not a bit cheesy?’ he asked.
‘Well, the Wotsits, maybe,’ I said, ‘but apart from that. It was such a lovely thing to do, and lovely things to say. I feel just the same. I really want us to be able to be friends again one day. Properly, like we used to, without it feeling weird.’
He smiled and pulled me in for a hug. ‘We will, Frankie,’ he said, and I believed him.
This is all totally fine. Summer holidays going very smoothly.
Is it over yet?