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Authors: Deborah O'Connor
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gone through a phase of lighting up a sneaky fag every night before bed. I’d fancied myself as Madonna in
Desperately Seeking Susan
and used to blow the smoke out the side of my mouth, taking care not to inhale too deeply as it made me feel sick. We’d lived in a modernist, seventies bungalow, the same bungalow occupied to this day by Mum and Dad, and my bedroom window, facing out onto the back garden, had been perfectly positioned, or so I’d thought, for acting out my Madonna fantasies.
‘Don’t be so naïve,’ said Mum, registering my surprise. ‘You used to reek of fags. Thank God you grew out of it. Disgusting habit.’
I smiled at the memory. I used to hide the butts in a pencil case, depositing them in the rubbish bin at the end of our street on my way to school. That street. That bungalow. I’d spent more time living there then I cared to admit.
I’d moved back in when I was six months pregnant. It had seemed to make sense. People ask about Lauren’s dad, but I only ever knew the bloke’s first name: Shaun. Lost to the blurry memories of stand-up sex in a nightclub toilet – unsurprisingly, I never saw or heard from him again. And so, my meagre salary barely able to support myself, let alone a child, I’d jumped at the chance when Mum and Dad had suggested the idea. Still, after nearly a decade of renting with friends, living back with my parents had taken some getting used to. Lauren had spent her first few months in the Moses basket in my room, below the same window I used to smoke out of. Then, when she was old enough, she’d moved into a cot in the bungalow’s third, smaller bedroom. Situated down the hall, it had once been earmarked by Mum and Dad for a sibling that never came. The day I claimed it for Lauren, Mum had been thrilled.
The last sliver of sun disappeared from sight. The park was cast into a thick, purply dusk. I looked at Mum. She was staring at the darkening sky, the nub of her chin tucked into the top of her polo neck.
‘I like your hair.’
She reached up and, misjudging her new length, found herself grabbing at her jacket collar.
‘I thought it more befitting a woman of my age.’
‘Don’t be silly. You looked great; you still look great,’ I said, nudging her gently.
She smiled and nudged me back.
‘I had the radio on during the drive up.’ Her voice was bright, as though she’d sensed an opportunity and was glad to act on it. ‘They were talking about how long women leave it to have a baby these days.’
I stiffened.
‘They said once you get to forty your chance of getting pregnant in any given month is just five per cent.’ She stopped and turned to face me. Her thoughts seemed to have jack-knifed in some other direction. ‘Did you have to go into work today?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘When I couldn’t get hold of you …’ She tailed off. ‘It was like last year all over again.’
‘When are you going to stop obsessing about that? I was away, at a sales conference. You couldn’t get hold of me because I was busy.’
‘They had to break down the door.’
‘I have a bad back. I took one too many painkillers on an empty stomach.’ I slapped my chest. ‘I’m fine. As fine as I can be. Just like you and Dad.’
She slunk a little lower into her polo neck.
‘Look,’ I said, dropping my voice an octave. ‘It’s been a hard few weeks and today is always difficult but Jason takes good care of me.’ I searched for something I could use to reassure her. ‘We’re going on holiday soon.’
‘Oh?’
‘Gran Canaria. The hotel is lovely. It overlooks the beach. We’ll be there out of season so it should be nice and quiet.’ I imagined the blue seas and sand to come. I realised I wasn’t just saying it to make Mum feel better. Jason and I needed this holiday. It would give us a chance to relax and get back on track.
I reached for her hand.
‘Stay tonight. I don’t want you driving all that way here and there in one
Desperately Seeking Susan
and used to blow the smoke out the side of my mouth, taking care not to inhale too deeply as it made me feel sick. We’d lived in a modernist, seventies bungalow, the same bungalow occupied to this day by Mum and Dad, and my bedroom window, facing out onto the back garden, had been perfectly positioned, or so I’d thought, for acting out my Madonna fantasies.
‘Don’t be so naïve,’ said Mum, registering my surprise. ‘You used to reek of fags. Thank God you grew out of it. Disgusting habit.’
I smiled at the memory. I used to hide the butts in a pencil case, depositing them in the rubbish bin at the end of our street on my way to school. That street. That bungalow. I’d spent more time living there then I cared to admit.
I’d moved back in when I was six months pregnant. It had seemed to make sense. People ask about Lauren’s dad, but I only ever knew the bloke’s first name: Shaun. Lost to the blurry memories of stand-up sex in a nightclub toilet – unsurprisingly, I never saw or heard from him again. And so, my meagre salary barely able to support myself, let alone a child, I’d jumped at the chance when Mum and Dad had suggested the idea. Still, after nearly a decade of renting with friends, living back with my parents had taken some getting used to. Lauren had spent her first few months in the Moses basket in my room, below the same window I used to smoke out of. Then, when she was old enough, she’d moved into a cot in the bungalow’s third, smaller bedroom. Situated down the hall, it had once been earmarked by Mum and Dad for a sibling that never came. The day I claimed it for Lauren, Mum had been thrilled.
The last sliver of sun disappeared from sight. The park was cast into a thick, purply dusk. I looked at Mum. She was staring at the darkening sky, the nub of her chin tucked into the top of her polo neck.
‘I like your hair.’
She reached up and, misjudging her new length, found herself grabbing at her jacket collar.
‘I thought it more befitting a woman of my age.’
‘Don’t be silly. You looked great; you still look great,’ I said, nudging her gently.
She smiled and nudged me back.
‘I had the radio on during the drive up.’ Her voice was bright, as though she’d sensed an opportunity and was glad to act on it. ‘They were talking about how long women leave it to have a baby these days.’
I stiffened.
‘They said once you get to forty your chance of getting pregnant in any given month is just five per cent.’ She stopped and turned to face me. Her thoughts seemed to have jack-knifed in some other direction. ‘Did you have to go into work today?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘When I couldn’t get hold of you …’ She tailed off. ‘It was like last year all over again.’
‘When are you going to stop obsessing about that? I was away, at a sales conference. You couldn’t get hold of me because I was busy.’
‘They had to break down the door.’
‘I have a bad back. I took one too many painkillers on an empty stomach.’ I slapped my chest. ‘I’m fine. As fine as I can be. Just like you and Dad.’
She slunk a little lower into her polo neck.
‘Look,’ I said, dropping my voice an octave. ‘It’s been a hard few weeks and today is always difficult but Jason takes good care of me.’ I searched for something I could use to reassure her. ‘We’re going on holiday soon.’
‘Oh?’
‘Gran Canaria. The hotel is lovely. It overlooks the beach. We’ll be there out of season so it should be nice and quiet.’ I imagined the blue seas and sand to come. I realised I wasn’t just saying it to make Mum feel better. Jason and I needed this holiday. It would give us a chance to relax and get back on track.
I reached for her hand.
‘Stay tonight. I don’t want you driving all that way here and there in one
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