Read Online The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy by Fiona Neill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Fiona Neill
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wine.
‘It’s for you,’ he says. ‘One of the dads from school.’ He raises an eyebrow and holds the phone just out of reach.
‘Tell him I’m busy,’ I whisper, but Tom pushes the phone into my hand.
‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ says Sexy Domesticated Dad. ‘Are you in the middle of eating?’
I slap my cheeks in a desperate attempt to sober up. ‘No, no, we’ve just finished dinner actually,’ I slur. ‘Some vegetable stew my husband rustled up. Delicious.’
Tom looks at me in astonishment. ‘Why are you lying? Tell him you put the wrong month on the Ocado order and there’s only an onion and a jar of marmalade in the fridge,’ he mutters bemusedly, starting to lurch towards me with lust in his eye. ‘I love it when you try to dissimulate, you are so bad at it.’
Not now, not now, I think, pondering the complex dilemma unravelling before me: to end the sexual fast of the past two months or to risk alienating Sexy Domesticated Dad at the outset of our friendship. I start to push Tom away with my foot.
‘The thing is,’ Sexy Domesticated Dad continues obliviously, ‘I put your name forward to be class rep.’ All thoughts of sex with either man fade rapidly. ‘But a competitor has already emerged, and she is phoning around other parents to warn them off you. Sort of a smear campaign.’ I struggle to digest this information. ‘In essence, she is saying that you don’t have any experience of running anything and that your exotic domestic habits are no recommendation.’
‘It’s Yummy Mummy No. 1, isn’t it? I knew she was untrustworthy,’ I say in full slur. ‘What does she know about my domestic habits?’
Tom is taking off his shirt and pointing to the sofa.
‘Look, we could talk about this another time,’ says Sexy Domesticated Dad, obviously disturbed by my tone. ‘And, actually, it’s not Isobel. It’s the one whose children are learning Mandarin.’
I hear my voice rise into a wail. ‘Alpha Mum. That’s it, the truce is over,’ I yell into the phone.
‘Look, don’t shoot the messenger,’ says Sexy Domesticated Dad shirtily. ‘I was calling to offer to be your campaign manager.’
The phone goes dead and I reconsider my options. Then the doorbell rings. It’s the Internet shopping man, looking a little worried.
‘Where do you want us to leave all these onions?’ he asks Tom. ‘We thought we were delivering to an Italian restaurant.’ He brings three large sacks into the kitchen.
Tom starts rifling through the bags. ‘Explain how this is possible,’ he asks, baffled.
‘I thought I was ordering by unit, not by kilo.’
‘But why did you want to order thirty red onions? I’m off to bed.’
5
‘The mother of mischief is no bigger than a midge’s wing’
WINTER IS DRAWING in, this much I know, because the annual war of attrition over the heating has begun. I turn up the thermostat when Tom leaves the house, and then occasionally remember to turn it down before he comes home. But even on the good days, he uncovers any subterfuge by putting a hand on the radiator that runs along the passageway from the front door.
‘We had an agreement. And the warmth of the radiator is exactly proportionate to the scale of deception,’ he says one Friday evening in late October. Downstairs in the kitchen, Emma has opened a second bottle of wine and is reluctantly nibbling Little Bear crisps for want of anything else. The children are upstairs asleep in bed.
‘I know we said November, but the weather is not subject to your will. This is going to be the coldest winter ever recorded, colder even than the great freeze of 1963, and I think we will have to suspend hostilities until spring,’ I tell him, speaking a language I know he will understand.
There is a knock at the door. As he walks along the passage to open it, I quickly turn the thermostat up a couple of notches. He turns round, I stand motionless, hand in the air a little north of the dial. We
‘It’s for you,’ he says. ‘One of the dads from school.’ He raises an eyebrow and holds the phone just out of reach.
‘Tell him I’m busy,’ I whisper, but Tom pushes the phone into my hand.
‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ says Sexy Domesticated Dad. ‘Are you in the middle of eating?’
I slap my cheeks in a desperate attempt to sober up. ‘No, no, we’ve just finished dinner actually,’ I slur. ‘Some vegetable stew my husband rustled up. Delicious.’
Tom looks at me in astonishment. ‘Why are you lying? Tell him you put the wrong month on the Ocado order and there’s only an onion and a jar of marmalade in the fridge,’ he mutters bemusedly, starting to lurch towards me with lust in his eye. ‘I love it when you try to dissimulate, you are so bad at it.’
Not now, not now, I think, pondering the complex dilemma unravelling before me: to end the sexual fast of the past two months or to risk alienating Sexy Domesticated Dad at the outset of our friendship. I start to push Tom away with my foot.
‘The thing is,’ Sexy Domesticated Dad continues obliviously, ‘I put your name forward to be class rep.’ All thoughts of sex with either man fade rapidly. ‘But a competitor has already emerged, and she is phoning around other parents to warn them off you. Sort of a smear campaign.’ I struggle to digest this information. ‘In essence, she is saying that you don’t have any experience of running anything and that your exotic domestic habits are no recommendation.’
‘It’s Yummy Mummy No. 1, isn’t it? I knew she was untrustworthy,’ I say in full slur. ‘What does she know about my domestic habits?’
Tom is taking off his shirt and pointing to the sofa.
‘Look, we could talk about this another time,’ says Sexy Domesticated Dad, obviously disturbed by my tone. ‘And, actually, it’s not Isobel. It’s the one whose children are learning Mandarin.’
I hear my voice rise into a wail. ‘Alpha Mum. That’s it, the truce is over,’ I yell into the phone.
‘Look, don’t shoot the messenger,’ says Sexy Domesticated Dad shirtily. ‘I was calling to offer to be your campaign manager.’
The phone goes dead and I reconsider my options. Then the doorbell rings. It’s the Internet shopping man, looking a little worried.
‘Where do you want us to leave all these onions?’ he asks Tom. ‘We thought we were delivering to an Italian restaurant.’ He brings three large sacks into the kitchen.
Tom starts rifling through the bags. ‘Explain how this is possible,’ he asks, baffled.
‘I thought I was ordering by unit, not by kilo.’
‘But why did you want to order thirty red onions? I’m off to bed.’
5
‘The mother of mischief is no bigger than a midge’s wing’
WINTER IS DRAWING in, this much I know, because the annual war of attrition over the heating has begun. I turn up the thermostat when Tom leaves the house, and then occasionally remember to turn it down before he comes home. But even on the good days, he uncovers any subterfuge by putting a hand on the radiator that runs along the passageway from the front door.
‘We had an agreement. And the warmth of the radiator is exactly proportionate to the scale of deception,’ he says one Friday evening in late October. Downstairs in the kitchen, Emma has opened a second bottle of wine and is reluctantly nibbling Little Bear crisps for want of anything else. The children are upstairs asleep in bed.
‘I know we said November, but the weather is not subject to your will. This is going to be the coldest winter ever recorded, colder even than the great freeze of 1963, and I think we will have to suspend hostilities until spring,’ I tell him, speaking a language I know he will understand.
There is a knock at the door. As he walks along the passage to open it, I quickly turn the thermostat up a couple of notches. He turns round, I stand motionless, hand in the air a little north of the dial. We
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