Read Online Mummy Said the F-Word by Fiona Gibson - Free Book Online Page B

available wall. There’d been teetering piles of baby equipment – walkers, cots, buggies, car seats, high chairs, activity arches, changing mats, sterilisers – which had been called in for consumer testing. So much
stuff
. It’s a wonder it didn’t put me off having kids of my own. Sometimes a few spruced-up mothers would be clutching their babies for a casting. They’d try to affect a casual air, but you could tell they were desperate for their child to be chosen for a fashion shoot or, better still, the cover.
    It’s not like that here. Radio Four burbles in a distant corner, and there’s an alluring coffee aroma, which I’d kill for right now. There are no half-assembled cots, no cries from bored babies.
    Millie once explained that
Bambino
offers an alternative, infinitely more fragrant universe to the poo-smeared reality of child-rearing. ‘We only put in parenting features to stop mums feeling guilty about buying it,’ Millie admitted, which sounded a bit screwy to me (like a man pretending he reads
Playboy
for the motoring articles). So, once you’ve read some waffle about sandcastle construction, you can get on with drooling over handbags.
    ‘So,’ I say when she returns, ‘what shall I do with all the leftover letters?’
    Millie picks up her bagel, studies it for a moment and jettisons it into the waste-paper bin. ‘I’ve no idea what Harriet does. Throws them away, I suppose.’
    All those heartfelt letters? These people are desperate. Surely you don’t spill your fears to a stranger in an unyielding white shirt unless you’re skidding towards the end of your rope? ‘You mean … put them in the bin with the rubbish?’ I ask.
    ‘Of course.’ Millie laughs. ‘If they’re emails, just delete them. What else would you do?’
    I can see her point, but it seems totally wrong. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Five letters a week. How long d’you think you’ll need me?’
    ‘Three or four months tops, I’d imagine, until the old trout’s better. Honestly, Cait, I’m so grateful for this. You’re really helping me out.’
    I know she doesn’t mean it, and that there are numerous writers who’d be far more suited to this than I am. Millie is being a friend to me, tossing me regular work as a distraction from Martin and Slapper.
    It might be just what I need. But can I really advise strangers when I’ve forgotten who I am?
    With an hour to myself before I pick up the kids from school and nursery, I rip open the bulging manila envelope that Millie pressed into my hands. There are dozens of letters to Pike, ranging from immaculately word-processed documents to barely legible scrawls. Some are blotted with food – chocolate frosting, perhaps, or runny egg. There’s an abundance of blotchy, leaking biros. I wouldn’t have thought that
Bambino
readers, with their pomegranate smoothies for babies, would stoop to using
biro
.
    I tip the letters on to the kitchen table and stare at the pile. Heck, at least I’m not the only parent who fears that they’re cocking things up. But where to begin? Closing my eyes, I let my hand hover above them, like that of a medium trying to communicate with the dead.
    My fingers find a corner of paper. I open my eyes.
    Dear Harriet,
    Ever since we’ve had our little boy, who’s now a year old, I have felt as though my husband has become a stranger. He often comes home late after work (via the pub) then settles on the sofa, where he invariably falls asleep. It’s breaking my heart. We were so close and in love before Matthew was born, and had wanted a baby so much. Now my husband won’t lift a finger to help, and I am worn out from alternately nagging and shouting and pretending I am capable of doing everything myself. And then, of course, I seethe with anger. I have turned into an embittered martyr, Harriet, and I hate it. Is it any wonder he never wants sex (mind you, neither do I) when I’m so foul-tempered?
    Sometimes I think we’re just clinging together for the