Read Online The Year of Taking Chances by Lucy Diamond - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lucy Diamond
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good intentions. Oh, she would be a saint this year, she really would. She’d be kind and patient, her house would be transformed, she’d do tons of voluntary work and be everyone’s
best friend, not to mention the most devoted and wondrous wife, mother and daughter that ever lived.
She hadn’t got very far with her plans for a new job yet, though. It had been so long since she’d worked anywhere, other than her own kitchen and ironing board, that she
couldn’t help feeling apprehensive at the prospect. After an extended maternity leave with Will, she’d gone back to work at Pop, the fashion label, but it hadn’t been easy. Returning as a part-timer, she found herself falling down the hierarchy and shunted sideways, away from the really funky front-page-of-the-catalogue end of the brand, into the less-glamorous
ranges: swimwear for a while, and then knitwear, neither of which she felt particularly passionate about. Plus Will took a while to settle into nursery, and then came down with bronchiolitis the
first winter and was quite poorly; and then, whenever she did actually make it into the office, she’d often find herself unable to think of anything but his sad little
You’re-leaving-me?
face as she’d said goodbye.
Even though she loved working with clothes, she could never quite lose the breathless pain of being away from her child, the tension she felt whenever the train juddered to a halt halfway home
and she started to panic that she’d be late to pick him up. Mercifully Spencer had realized just how anxious the juggling act was making her and stepped in, telling her he was happy for her
to stay at home and look after the children if that was what she wanted. Her boss was understanding and said she’d keep Gemma on file as a freelance, but the work had dried up pretty quickly. So that was that.
Gemma hadn’t really minded back then, especially as her daughter Darcey came along soon afterwards and she threw all her energies into making both children happy. But now that Darcey was
nine and Will thirteen, motherhood no longer had the same manic urgency of the early years. The children showered and dressed themselves, they could make their own breakfast, they could work half
the household gadgets a million times better than she could . . . they needed her less, basically. And she was starting to feel – well, not
redundant
exactly, she thought, tossing some
Playmobil people and a naked, pouting Barbie into a cardboard box, but maybe a little bit worthless. And just the tiniest bit bored, if that didn’t make her sound too ungrateful.
She’s just a mum,
she heard Darcey say again in that dismissive voice and felt herself cringe.
It was all right for Spencer, with his job on the building site. He had a whole other world outside the home – a world of bacon sarnies and banter, nipping to the bookies in his lunch hour
and to the pub on his way home. He’d come back covered in plaster dust and a muck sweat, glowing with the satisfaction of a hard day’s work. Meanwhile, what had she done? Ambled round
the supermarket and sorted piles of laundry, maybe had a coffee with some of the other mums. It didn’t feel enough any more.
Her mobile rang just then. She was in the playroom, cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by half-clothed Sylvanian Family creatures who appeared to be having some kind of woodland orgy (maybe
that was just her dirty mind), the dressing-up box from which a single Buzz Lightyear leg dangled (Will hadn’t worn that costume since he was four years old!), board games and jigsaws,
unfinished craft projects and half-built Lego spaceships. Ripe for an overhaul, she thought distractedly, reaching to answer her phone. She should have ditched half of it when they moved, but now
was her chance. She could turn this room into a proper teenage den, with beanbags and maybe a little TV . . .
‘Hello?’ she said, imagining a pinball machine in one corner, a dartboard perhaps. No,
best friend, not to mention the most devoted and wondrous wife, mother and daughter that ever lived.
She hadn’t got very far with her plans for a new job yet, though. It had been so long since she’d worked anywhere, other than her own kitchen and ironing board, that she
couldn’t help feeling apprehensive at the prospect. After an extended maternity leave with Will, she’d gone back to work at Pop, the fashion label, but it hadn’t been easy. Returning as a part-timer, she found herself falling down the hierarchy and shunted sideways, away from the really funky front-page-of-the-catalogue end of the brand, into the less-glamorous
ranges: swimwear for a while, and then knitwear, neither of which she felt particularly passionate about. Plus Will took a while to settle into nursery, and then came down with bronchiolitis the
first winter and was quite poorly; and then, whenever she did actually make it into the office, she’d often find herself unable to think of anything but his sad little
You’re-leaving-me?
face as she’d said goodbye.
Even though she loved working with clothes, she could never quite lose the breathless pain of being away from her child, the tension she felt whenever the train juddered to a halt halfway home
and she started to panic that she’d be late to pick him up. Mercifully Spencer had realized just how anxious the juggling act was making her and stepped in, telling her he was happy for her
to stay at home and look after the children if that was what she wanted. Her boss was understanding and said she’d keep Gemma on file as a freelance, but the work had dried up pretty quickly. So that was that.
Gemma hadn’t really minded back then, especially as her daughter Darcey came along soon afterwards and she threw all her energies into making both children happy. But now that Darcey was
nine and Will thirteen, motherhood no longer had the same manic urgency of the early years. The children showered and dressed themselves, they could make their own breakfast, they could work half
the household gadgets a million times better than she could . . . they needed her less, basically. And she was starting to feel – well, not
redundant
exactly, she thought, tossing some
Playmobil people and a naked, pouting Barbie into a cardboard box, but maybe a little bit worthless. And just the tiniest bit bored, if that didn’t make her sound too ungrateful.
She’s just a mum,
she heard Darcey say again in that dismissive voice and felt herself cringe.
It was all right for Spencer, with his job on the building site. He had a whole other world outside the home – a world of bacon sarnies and banter, nipping to the bookies in his lunch hour
and to the pub on his way home. He’d come back covered in plaster dust and a muck sweat, glowing with the satisfaction of a hard day’s work. Meanwhile, what had she done? Ambled round
the supermarket and sorted piles of laundry, maybe had a coffee with some of the other mums. It didn’t feel enough any more.
Her mobile rang just then. She was in the playroom, cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by half-clothed Sylvanian Family creatures who appeared to be having some kind of woodland orgy (maybe
that was just her dirty mind), the dressing-up box from which a single Buzz Lightyear leg dangled (Will hadn’t worn that costume since he was four years old!), board games and jigsaws,
unfinished craft projects and half-built Lego spaceships. Ripe for an overhaul, she thought distractedly, reaching to answer her phone. She should have ditched half of it when they moved, but now
was her chance. She could turn this room into a proper teenage den, with beanbags and maybe a little TV . . .
‘Hello?’ she said, imagining a pinball machine in one corner, a dartboard perhaps. No,
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