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1
The Flabalanche
My day starts the way that every other day has for the last six months: at 5.01 a.m. with Stanley’s foot wedged under my chin, Jack hysterical and demanding milk, and Ed snoring like a jackhammer smashing through tarmac. The man doesn’t flinch, even when in a moment of rage I push Stan’s foot away from my jugular, then lift Jack and press his screaming mouth up to Ed’s ear to jolt him into action. It’s his turn to feed him, after all.
Ed wasn’t this useless when Stanley was born. I remember him being pretty crap to start with, but by the end of the first year, I’d transformed him into Mary Poppins with a penis – a Gary Poppins, if you will. Under my rigorous guidance, we tag-teamed the night feeds, passing Stanley back and forth through the night to each other like he was a baton in a relentless relay race. We shared the explosive nappy changes, spurred each other on through the milky vomit attacks and embraced the crippling exhaustion together.
But now that Jack has come along, the novelty has totally worn off. Ed has developed a ‘been there, done that’ attitude, and since becoming busier at work, his enthusiasm for burping a baby in the middle of the night has waned significantly. This time around, he doesn’t hear Jack cry at all. A marching band of topless trombone-blowing models could parade through our bedroom and he probably still wouldn’t stir.
When I can take no more, I attack him repeatedly with a feather pillow until he falls out of the bed onto all fours like a startled cat.
‘Okay. I’m up. I’m up!’
‘It’s your turn,’ I say, seething. ‘Take the baby. His bottle is there ready. I need to get Stan his breakfast.’
‘Just give me a sec,’ he says, before disappearing for one of his epic twenty-five-minute-long sessions on the toilet seat, as he does every single morning like clockwork.
I am perhaps less patient with him than usual because today isn’t a regular day, but an important one: I am officially going back to work. Miguel, my agent, has been in touch with the offer of a gig and finally, for the first time since last July, I’ll get to leave the flat with just a cello on my back.
A gig for Miguel is exactly the sort of gig that I need to gently ease me back in to playing the cello again. He exclusively books what we in the music industry call ‘background gigs’, which typically involve bashing out tunes to shitfaced business men at their fancy company dinners. Such gigs aren’t exactly artistically satisfying, but they’re an easy source of income for most musicians and they’re essential if you want to keep the bailiffs from breaking down your door.
On a background gig, our job is solely to create a sophisticated ambience – to be seen, not heard. Easy-fecking-peasy! There will be no TV cameras zooming up my nostrils, no picky audiences, no brutal critics or fiendishly difficult music to prepare. And what’s more, I’ll probably squeeze a free glass of champers out of one of the waiters if I play my cards right. This particular gig will be a goodie because Charlie and Jen have been booked on violin. The ‘A Team’, as Miguel calls us, will be reunited at last and I simply cannot wait!
These past few months, I have been cooped up inside with two small kids, wading through an endless tunnel of soiled babygros, mucus showers and 2 a.m. wake-up calls. This has been taxing enough, but I’ve also had to cope with Stanley’s explosions every time I serve him his dinner with my right hand and not my left. In short, I’m ready to get back out there and remind my fingers that they’re not just skilled in smearing Sudocrem on a tiny bumhole, but they are also capable of playing some Mozart in the dark corner of a chandelier-filled ballroom.
The main concern that has kept me awake most of the night: I don’t have anything to wear. Two kids later and my formerly upstanding boobs now hang down over my belly button like a pair of deflated balloons, and my nipples are the size of helicopter landing pads.
My gut is even more troubling. An avalanche of flab (a ‘flabalanche’, as I’ve christened it) has descended over the top of my high-waisted pants, the flimsy elastic straining under the force of it. After stuffing down a three-course Christmas dinner and an entire box of Celebrations last month, I ended up in tears when I caught sight of it smiling back at me in the bathroom mirror. All saggy and misshapen, my gut has developed a wicked grimace that strongly resembles the Grinch, only not green.
In Miguel’s email, he stated in block capitals that we have to wear ‘SHORT BLACK DRESSES’ for this gig – a most unusual request, as full-length ballgowns are the norm for black-tie events. I’d banked on throwing on my trusty black maternity gown, but with that no longer being an option, I spend most of the morning wading through my wardrobe in a blind panic trying to find something suitable.
‘Ed, what does this look like?’ I say, twirling around in a tight jewelled dress that has been gathering dust in the wardrobe for the best part of three years since I last wore it. He is engrossed in an episode of Thunderbirds and doesn’t look up.
‘Ed!’ I snap. ‘I said, what does this dress look like?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean my dress! What does it look like?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘But do I look fat in it? Be honest.’
‘Um,’ he pauses, ‘a bit.’
‘No need to be so honest. Damn, taking a bullet to the heart would be less painful!’
‘What? You said be honest.’
I sigh heavily, then squeeze my flabalanche into several more sparkly garments like some sort of amateur contortionist. Puffing, panting and fearing that I may have cracked a few ribs, I return to the lounge to seek his approval once again.
‘You looked the thinnest in that one,’ he says, pointing to an off-black beach dress that cost four pounds in Primark a few years earlier. It’s a casual cotton slip designed to go over a bikini and has clearly been tumble-dried over a hundred times, given that it’s greyish and has small fuzzy balls stuck all over it.
‘But that’s a beach dress. Is it posh enough?’
‘Yep.’
‘But do I look nice in it?’
‘Yep.’
All other options have been exhausted. I don’t have the patience to compete with Lady Penelope for his attention, so I chuck it in a bag along with my stilettos and devote the rest of the day to preparing to leave the flat.
This solitary gig has caused me to lie awake several nights in a row in an anxious mess, thinking about everything that needs to be done before leaving the kids for just a few hours. I put Jack’s nappies, wipes and bum cream in a neat pile on the changing table. I lay out clean pyjamas for both of them, then sterilise bottles and dummies and type out Stan’s meticulous routine in bullet points so that it’s easy to follow. Then, most importantly, I double check that all the pieces to Stan’s new Russian alphabet puzzle are in place and put it safely on the kitchen counter so he can find it with ease. Only when all of this is done can I even consider setting foot out of the door.
What has fuelled my anxiety the most about working tonight is the thought of leaving the boys with Ed’s mother, Judith, who is due at 5 p.m. From experience, I just know that I’ll get home from work and have to spend the whole night rocking Jack back to sleep after the woman has ignored all of my instructions. It’s a definite that she won’t do what I’ve asked because she’ll be too busy rummaging through our cupboards, searching for more evidence to justify why her beloved son should never have married me.
Last year, she stumbled upon my Rampant Rabbit in the drawer of my bedside table and couldn’t look me in the eye for weeks after. Thankfully, when she snooped into Ed’s drawer on her next visit and found the leopard-print thong and pink fluffy handcuffs that I’d bought him as a joke for his birthday, I felt an explosion of joy within.
I’d gone down, but I’d dragged him along with me, all the way to the gutter.
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2
The Model Mother
Ed leaves for work at 4.30 p.m. He lifts his guitar, opens the door and walks out of it. Just like that.
Judith arrives a few minutes later and, against every natural instinct that I have for self-preservation, I buzz her up to the flat.
‘Hi, Judith. Thanks so much for this. You’re really saving me,’ I say with the most enthusiastic tone that I can muster. ‘Hello, Lucy.’ She strides into the hall and dumps a large box on the floor, which misses my toes by millimetres. ‘I’ve had a big clean-out of the garage.’
Stepping backwards, she slowly scans my body from top to bottom, then opens her skinny arms and leans in to give me a brief, stiff hug. ‘Lost a few pounds, I see.’ She smiles wryly.
As usual, I have no words. I simply shake my head and fake a slight smile.
She pats me on the arm. ‘Well, keep at it, Lucy. I’ve read that it’s harder to lose the weight the second time around, which is why I stuck to having just the one.’
I quickly steer the conversation towards something else before I give in to the temptation to headbutt her. ‘So, what’s in the box?’
‘Books mainly. Most of Edward’s schoolbooks, his drawings and his collection of Spiderman comics. Oh, and wait till you see this.’ She delves into the box and pulls a painting out of a plastic wallet. ‘He did that when he was Stan’s age!’
‘Wow,’ I say, staring down at an immaculate picture of an aeroplane that was blatantly drawn by a teenage Ed … perhaps even Leonardo da Vinci.
‘It’s such a shame that it’s been in the garage for thirty-odd years. I thought you might like to hang it somewhere?’ A squeaky giggle escapes her lips before she slips it back in to the box. ‘Anyway, here. Take it all. It’s for you to enjoy now. My new exercise bike is arriving next week and I need the extra space in the garage for it.’
‘No problem, I’ll find somewhere for it,’ is all I say. I lift the box and dump it in the corner of the hall where it will no doubt stay for the next year.
‘Anyway, Judith, thanks again for tonight. I really appreciate it. I just need to quickly run through the routine with you before I head off.’ I hand her a list detailing exactly what she needs to do to ensure that her evening runs smoothly.
She nods. ‘Yes, yes. I do know how to look after children, Lucy. I did raise your husband, don’t forget.’
‘But Stan is very particular. You have to stick to the list or else he will get upset and make your evening a misery.’
She rolls her eyes dramatically, then folds up my list and puts it in the back pocket of her burgundy cords before heading to the kitchen to survey the inside of the cupboards. ‘So, what’s for supper?’
‘Jack is having one of his pouches and a yoghurt,’ I say, ‘and he’ll need an 8-ounce bottle at around 7.30 p.m. before bed. Stan is having fish fingers and waffles, but make sure you cut them into equal-sized rectangles or he won’t touch them.’
‘And what about vegetables?’
‘Nope. I’ve tried everything, Judith, trust me. He won’t go near them. He gags.’
‘Gags? Lucy, you really shoul...
