Janet Jackson Superhost: Warmth, humour and romance for a gorgeous heroine forced to reinvent hersel

7. Laura Bloody Watson, Part One

Laura Bloody Watson, Part One

I’m regretting the decision to let Laura stay in the cottage about forty minutes after she arrives.

‘Janet sweetie, I’ll replace the bedding if you don’t mind? Oliver’s so used to 400 thread, anything else scratches.’

‘The television, Janet, it’s very small. Oliver’s going to bring up the flatscreen– is that OK?’

‘Janet sweetie, I can’t manage with a polyester throw. I hope you don’t mind but I’m going to bring up our wool ones.’

‘Isn’t the kettle slow? I suppose I’m just used to our Quooker tap.’

‘I’ve found three chipped plates. They’re good for plant-pot crock, should I put them outside?’

‘Janet, does the vacuum cleaner need a new bag? I’ve started on the upstairs and it’s very slow going.’

‘Janet, have you tried Method cleaning products? They smell so good, are carbon neutral and actually work. I’ve managed to shift the stains on the shower door using my daily shower clean, I’ll keep them here now.’

It goes on and on, all morning. I’m gutted I’m not in work. To think I’d spent last night blasting through the place. It was immaculate. Only a Laura would think it acceptable to tell another woman that she’s cleaning, when she knows damn well that the other woman has bust a gut to get the place ready. Are these the little tyrannies middle-aged women inflict on one another? Your house stuff isn’t very good quality, is it? Your cleaning’s not up to scratch, is it? The awful thing is, mean comments like that hurt. They really bloody sting.

By now, I’m so wound up my tummy’s chewing bile. I need to find some zen because she’s here for a month and I can’t let her get to me. Not when I’ve persuaded everyone it’s going to be fine, and everyone’s relying on me to keep everything and everyone pleasant.

I decide I need a walk and make the unusual decision to reach out to Miles on text. He’s usually free after 2 p.m. anyway; he doesn’t take on many patients on a Monday so he can catch up on paperwork. I feel quite vulnerable, taking the risk to treat him like a confidant and a friend, and know I need to keep it light.

Hey, the dreaded Laura Watson has arrived and it’s as bad as I imagined. In need of dental emergency rescue

I get up onto the hills above the valley for a bit of fresh air and to enjoy the wonderful view up there. It immediately feels better to escape the house. Clomping about in old boots through mud and puddles, wind blowing a hooley, my hair all over the place, I lean over a wall to watch some cows as they tug at the grass and gently nuzzle each other, and memories crowd into my mind.

I was born on a farm. The thing I miss the most is the long views, letting the eyes rest on distant places. The huge patchwork spread of fields, criss-crossed by a snake of walls dividing up the mini-kingdoms. It’s been a while since I’ve climbed up here, and it helps to remind myself I’ve come an awful long way from my farm days. Mum and Dad, what a pair, rough as houses, not many gentle loving moments from either of them. It’s as if they were scared they’d make us soft. Well, that backfired, didn’t it? I’m a bloody pushover. I’d do anything for anyone really. I suppose it leaves you needy when you don’t get nourished as a kid. Ever afterwards, you’re always on the look-out for a cuddle or grateful for scraps of affection. Or desperate to give all the love and affection you’ve got in your heart to anyone who will have it.

I reach over and give a curious calf a scratch on the head. Seeing this, his mum is over sharpish, but I don’t panic, just reach down and pull her a handful of juicy grass up from the verge and feed it to her. Feeling much calmer, I realise that by the time this calf is a few weeks older, Laura and all her irritating ways will be well gone out of my life. In the meantime, I decide I’ll come up here as often as possible to watch the calf’s progress, knowing that this will help me through the ordeal. I take in big, deep breaths, flooding my lungs and filling up my heart.

I’m a different woman by the time I head down the drive– good job, because all hell’s broken loose.

*

‘He’s only gone and broken the bloody telly.’

Laura, her arms full of cushions and blankets, is rolling her eyes at Oliver who is vainly attempting to gather up the remnants of a large TV that lies in a smashed pile on the drive. He yanks in anger at the cable, and when the screen smashes into more dangerous fragments, he swears, ‘For fuck’s sake!’

Carl’s head pops out through the patio door. ‘Do you need a hand there, Oliver?’

‘Shouldn’t you be down at the house sorting out the pilings?’ is the furious response.

Now Carl looks annoyed. ‘Look, mate, I’ve been on site since seven-thirty this morning when I was hoping to talk to you about the drive materials, only you weren’t up. So now three hours later I’m having my fifteen-minute break. That all right with you, boss?’

Oliver growls acknowledgement, but without looking up. The atmosphere is all very feisty. I need to get involved. Blimey. And it’s only Day One.

‘Morning, Oliver,’ I say calmly, and give him a smile. ‘What do you think if I bring a blanket? We can wrap it all up in that and I’ll drive it straight to the tip.’

‘Thanks, Janet,’ Laura replies savagely. ‘Take these, Oliver.’

When she throws a cushion that lands him full in the face, Carl smirks and I push him into the house through the patio door to avoid the bloke’s pride being hurt any more than it already is.

‘Oliver is such a prick.’ Carl paces the room. ‘I’m doing them a bloody favour and his attitude stinks.’

My sister is in the kitchen making herself a coffee. Her eyes flick to me and for a moment we register then move on.

‘Can you put that kettle back on, please,’ I say. ‘I’m in need of a very strong tea. And Carl, would you like a sausage butty? I’ve extras and they need eating.’

‘Yeah, go on then, if there’s one going, ta. I’ll take my time to eat it an’ all.’

If I could pass one piece of advice to Mitzi, it would be that food makes people happy. She avoids it, which is why she’s so slim whereas I love it and have the figure to prove it. A lifetime of cake abstinence to fit in a size eight dress is not my idea of a life well lived.

The to-ings and fro-ings continue all day over at Lavander Cottage. Laura’s flashy BMW screeches up and down the drive, and she jumps out and stomps into and out of the cottage with endless amounts of stuff. Chloe is watching her antics whilst she cuddles a huge marshmallow-topped hot chocolate, her comfort drink before a shift.

‘Exactly how long is she staying for?’ my daughter asks, licking her chocolate moustache.

‘We agreed a month,’ I tell her. ‘Carl said that would definitely cover it.’

‘Looks more like six, all that stuff she’s bringing in,’ Chloe humphs.

‘No way.’ Mitzi swishes past in a Scottish Widows advert-type cloak combo. ‘Carl wants it over and done with as soon as possible. He’s agreed a fixed price, so he’s going to be working all the hours God sends to try to get it finished in three weeks. He’s even organised for Planning to come early, so he’s definitely going to hit that date. Just don’t tell them.’

We all watch as Laura marches ahead with Oliver trailing behind her, both carrying piles of bedding and pillows, and what looks like a rug and possibly a foot bath.

‘He’s a broken man,’ Chloe says thoughtfully, as she slurps up the dregs of her drink.

‘He’s married to Laura Watson,’ Mitzi puts in, ‘and she’d break Genghis Khan. She’s got chronic perfectionism issues and is so uptight she squeaks when she walks.’

‘Oh come on,’ I feel I have to say. ‘She’s not that bad.’

‘Don’t defend her, Mum! She’s currently turning your cottage upside down with all her stuff that’s more perfect than your stuff– or hadn’t you noticed?’

Yes, of course I’d noticed.

‘She can’t have kids.’

I don’t know why I decide to throw in this emotional grenade, but I suppose it’s something I’ve always been aware of with Laura and it pretty much mitigates anything negative I feel for her.

‘Really? But did she want them?’ Chloe asks.

‘Yes, she did. I was walking back from taking you to school one day. I’d forgotten your PE kit and was annoyed with myself and was telling her so and she came out with it. Three rounds of IVF and three miscarriages.’

‘Oh, I feel sorry for her now.’ Chloe gets up and comes over to me and offers herself up for a hug, the simple act of a hug from a daughter that poor Laura was never going to get. I’m so lucky.

‘That’s why we shouldn’t be too judgmental about other people, as everyone has their burden to carry.’

‘Ugh. Save me from the bleeding-heart bollocks. Everyone has a burden? That doesn’t mean they have to become one to everyone else they ever come into contact with. That woman is a pain in the arse, and she’s living right on our doorstep.’

That’s Mitzi, ruthless as ever, chomping her way through a breadstick. She’s so tough, I think, then I remember she has her own issues with childlessness to deal with.

Bloody hell, this day feels like a minefield. And Mitzi hasn’t finished.

‘Right, Janet, I’ve three white witch trainees coming into the shaman room tonight, so just for this evening can you please not disturb us by asking me if I want a cuppa or shout up about turning off the incense.’

‘What’s a white witch?’ Chloe raises an eyebrow.

‘It’s pagan philosophy, it’s all about living in harmony with nature.’

‘Thank you, David Attenborough. What’s the witch bit about?’

My sister is on a roll. ‘It’s about understanding what nature has to offer us, what nature can do for us.’

Chloe grows impatient. ‘Forget the nature bollocks– what’s the witch bit?’

I giggle at that and even Mitzi has a smirk.

‘Look at it this way: I’ve been practising as a shaman, healing, using crystals and doing earth mystic stuff since I was what, Janet– thirteen?’

‘Er . . .’ I am lost for a moment.

‘You know, remember the perfumes we used to make and the stone circles and that time I set fire to the gorse bush as a warning to Thingamajig’s mum?’

‘Oh yes.’ It’s all coming back. ‘The straw doll up the chimney.’

‘God yes, I’d forgotten about that.’ She guffaws. ‘When Dad lit that fire for a treat on Christmas Eve and nearly burnt the house down.’

‘Yep.’ Boy, is it coming back.

Mitzi turns to Chloe to explain further. ‘The thing is, Chloe, I’m inclined this way. I carry a weight of experience of the alternative universe. I’ve spent decades immersed in this way of life and what I’ve recently realised is that lots of people can benefit from my wisdom.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

‘Like who, for instance?’

My sister’s not having any cheek from Chloe. She says sternly, ‘Shamanism, I’ll have you know, is the fastest-growing religion. People want answers to life’s mysterious questions.’

‘Right.’

Mitzi is in full flow now; the cape is flapping around her and her arms are raised as she projects her voice, staring into a dreamy distance.

‘And I, Chloe, am very well placed to teach them. The fact is, I am on the cusp of a breakthrough career moment.’

Oh my Gawd, I think– not another.

‘You mean, lots of gullible idiots want to sit around in a circle and learn about dried fruit and nuts?’

I start laughing at this point. Mitzi is unapologetic.

‘Exactly. And you might be interested to know, Little Miss Cynic, they are very willing to pay a reasonable amount of money for the experience.’

‘If you can get people to pay you for that stuff, you are a genius, Auntie Mitzi.’

‘Thank you, Chloe, it’s time you realised.’

Out of the window I see Laura walking down the drive with her arms full of jars. She does a right turn and heads towards the patio door.

‘Bye bye, you two.’ Mitzi pulls a sprig of healing lavender from somewhere and waves it around liberally as she hastily backs out of the room.

‘My shift starts in forty minutes.’ Chloe hands me her empty mug, opens the patio door and walks out of it as Laura arrives.

‘Morning, Chloe,’ Laura says stiffly.

‘Morning, Laura. Hope you get settled in. Bye.’

‘Janet, you don’t have any oat milk, do you? I’m desperate for a coffee.’

‘I don’t think so, sorry. I could do you a black coffee.’ I look though the cupboard and pull out a jar of cheap supermarket instant coffee and hold it up for her to see.

She looks horrified. ‘No, no, I won’t, thank you, Janet. I’ll ask Oliver to get the machine going. We’re both so fussy when it comes to coffee.’

She scurries out of the kitchen at high speed, and I giggle to myself. That’s one way to get rid of someone like Laura: cheap supermarket standards. It’s like I’ve been gifted a key. I’ll cling on to that for when I need it. Thanks, Universe. Maybe this Mitzi stuff is wearing off on me.

I pretend I’m not, but the reality is I spend the night hanging around my phone. No message from Miles. Not a text not a smiley emoji, nothing. All the usual emotions make an appearance: anger, embarrassment, jealousy. They’re like mini-menopausal hot sweats as they sweep through, flaring up and down as I try to rationalise the hurt I feel. I’m not worth an acknowledgement? What am I doing, seeing this guy?

I go to bed early, berating myself for having anything to do with him. Though I regret it ten minutes later when the bells start chiming and the incense billows into my room. I can hear Mitzi chanting and her followers repeating whatever she says loudly and out of tune. After what feels like ten piercing and repetitive chants I’ve had enough. I go downstairs and find Carl in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal. He looks shattered.

‘How’s it going?’ I ask. ‘Are you hungry? I can do you a sandwich.’

‘Well yeah, if you’re doing one, Janet, I’m starving.’ He takes another huge spoonful of Frosties. ‘We’re getting there. I’ve stabilised the foundations, which is the main issue. Another concrete load tomorrow and the groundwork’s done.’

I am frying some bacon when Mitzi sweeps in. She gives Carl a cuddle and a sloppy kiss I’d prefer not to have to witness.

‘The attic space is amazing for teaching– they’re loving it,’ she tells him. ‘Mind, we could do without the smell of bacon percolating up there, Janet. It’s not exactly conducive to concentration. I’ve left them up there meditating but I heard more than one tummy rumble as I came down.’ She turns back to Carl. ‘You had a good day, love?’

I present Carl with the sandwich and hear him say, ‘It’s getting better now.’ He wolfs it down and I stick another couple of slices in the pan.

‘You know, I’m not sure we can use the attic as a bedroom and a bathroom.’

‘You what?’ Carl explodes. ‘We’ve done half the bloody prep.’

Mitzi puts her hands on his shoulders and kisses him on top of his head. ‘Darling, after some minor tweaks, you will also have created an amazing zen space.’

Carl growls.

‘We can talk about it later,’ Mitzi says. ‘Give me five minutes and we’ll be done.’

*

True to her word, five minutes later, there’s a clatter of feet down the metal spiral staircase and Mitzi leads three women, one in her twenties and two women closer to my age through the kitchen. They are all decked out in an arrangement of scarves and beads and floaty skirts that wouldn’t look out of place in 1973. Carl and I give each other a look and watch them trail through the patio door and out to the lawn. Once there, Mitzi leads them on some sort of spin-dance thing whilst chanting, ‘Om...’

She is in her element and when she returns without her group fifteen minutes later and plants sixty quid in notes on the table, she is chuffed to bits.

‘That was their first session. They loved it.’

‘Well done.’ Carl grabs her round the waist and pulls her to him. ‘Cash in hand too, that’s great.’ Mitzi glows from his approval. It’s lovely to see.

‘That’s for you, Janet. Rent for this week. I’ve upped it a tenner.’

‘Thank you.’

I don’t blink or do any fake modest ‘no, really I couldn’t’ type of thing, I just take it. I put it in my pocket because I don’t want anyone to know where I keep the cash. The brown pot egg hen clucks at me and I give her a wink in return. Laters, chuck. I’m pretending this is normal– that Mitzi gives me money rather than the other way round– and decide I can cope with a bit of incense if it means I get some help with the bills.

I suddenly recognise how tired I am. The shock of Mitzi giving me money must have tipped me over the edge. I go back upstairs and collapse into bed, promising myself I’ll change the bedding tomorrow. There’s a pair of Miles’s boxers screwed up at the bottom of the bed and what feels like a faint layer of builder’s dust on top of the duvet cover. I don’t care– well, I do care, but I’m too tired to do anything about it. Standards are definitely slipping.

*

I wake next morning to a message from Miles.

Hey. On the slopes for the week. Good luck.Followed by a little ski emoji and a wine-glass emoji. I look at it and feel as if I’ve been high-fived across the face. Though of course I know I’m not really allowed to feel anything. I’m not Miles’s partner. He owes me zero explanation and zero invitation. It hits me hard though. I feel like an idiot. A needy desperate idiot.

Zombie-like, I get ready for work. I decide to walk in to try to clear my brain but I’m clumsy and struggle to fasten my trainers without getting into a tangle with my laces. My face looks grey with stress and I’m sure I can feel a breakout on my lip of a cold sore– the sort of thing I only get when I’m run down.

At Valley Dental I hurry behind the reception desk, throwing my coat and bag down under it to avoid the social areas. I feel so humiliated and embarrassed. I can’t help it. I assume everyone at work knows he’s away, everyone except me, the woman he’s been sleeping with. With no proper conclusion about what’s appropriate to feel, think or say in these circumstances I make a decision to confide in Judy. She’s the longest-serving dental nurse here, works exclusively for Miles and knows everything without ever really saying anything. Plus she’s a friend. There’s absolutely no point pretending to Judy and I need to know what she knows.

I catch her in the kitchen when I go in to make a camomile tea for a nervous Lisa Smart who hasn’t been to the dentist in ten years. Judy is not remotely judgmental, totally on my side and is a machine of information.

‘You didn’t know he was going?’ she asks me.

‘No idea.’

‘He’s had it booked in, a month ago. I didn’t want to take any leave then, so I’m here doing anything that comes up– cleaning the bloody fish tank and getting Tony coffee mainly.’

I don’t know how to say it, but I try. ‘You know that Miles and I were...’

‘Oh, he never stopped talking about you. “Janet gravy this”, “Janet looking lovely the other”...’

‘Right.’ A tiny bit of me relaxes. It wasn’t just a figment of my imagination. He did like me and we were/are getting on.

‘Oh yes, you were lovely– and so was bouncy Bella and needy Nina.’

I can’t quite process what Judy has just said. I get a full-blown hot flush from my scalp to my toes, a wave of nausea hits me and I reach backwards to steady myself on the kitchen counter.

‘Sorry, Judy. What did you just say?’

The look on her face says it all.

‘Oh my God, don’t tell me you didn’t know?’ Judy is mortified. She can see I’m shaken. ‘Oh Janet, Janet love. I’m so, so sorry. Let me get you a chair.’

I am wobbly, I can’t deny it. I sit myself down on the metal bin for a moment, wrestle in my bag for a tissue and find myself unexpectedly crying. Judy is beside herself. She rings through to Tony and says she’s taking me home because I’m not feeling well. I explain we can’t go home, not with me in this state and with builders and shamans and Laura and everything. We retreat to one of the grottier pubs somewhere I’d never normally go ever, but it’s dead and discreet and we find a hidden corner. Judy returns from the bar with a pint for me and an orange juice for herself.

‘I’m so sorry, love. I didn’t know anything was still going on between you. I had no idea you were still keen on him. Oh shit, me and my big bloody gob.’

‘Don’t worry, Judy, I know you didn’t.’ As I calm down from the shock, I begin to slowly seize on threads of myself, my dignity, my pride, my self-esteem, and attempt to weave them back together across the conversation. It’s not about you, Janet Jackson, I tell myself. Don’t take this personally, don’t let this hurt you. It’s Miles being a two-faced twat, that’s what this is about. Nothing to do with you.

Gently, once she’s decided I can take it, Judy shows me his Insta account. Foxdentist74. It’s Miles showing off on his various machinery and activities: water skis, Strava timings, pot-holing, quad bikes, racing cars, Segways, ski slopes. And in between, over the last few days, a woman is always in the background of every other ski-slope shot. All in black, she has dyed blonde hair and giant sunglasses that hide everything bar the pouty mouth.

I down the pint. Order a bottle of wine. Judy sips at her glass, speculating that it could be needy Nina. Cheshire set, waiting list for Real Housewives of Cheshire, born rich, married rich, divorced rich, specialises in doing nothing in life bar booking spa retreats. According to Judy, Miles hates spas and finds them, and Nina, boring. Then Judy runs out of time. She has her Keep Fit class to get ready for and it’s gold dust to get in with Clive GoGo at the gym as he’s sooo good. ‘You should come,’ she says. ‘Blow your cares away.’

I’m too weak to know if or why she’s suggesting it. My confidence has taken such a battering that speculating if it’s because she reckons I’m plump, fat, dumpy, whatever, is not a sensible idea. I take her hand as she prepares to leave.

‘I’m glad you told me. Thank you, Judy.’

She gives me a hug and wags her finger at me, saying, ‘You, Janet Jackson, are far too good for Miles. He’s a boring posh idiot going through a very boring post-divorce mid-life crisis. He’s going to be very skint and emotionally wrecked by the time his wife Miranda’s done with him. Believe me, it’s not even started and you do not want a Miles post-Miranda. Run for the hills, Janet, if he comes knocking. RUN!’

She’s lovely, Judy. I fill my glass with the last of the wine and sit there quiet and nurse it. The hot shame has gone. Judy has helped with that. So down to earth, so matter of fact. No judgement. It helps me not to judge myself too harshly. The fact remains that I’m an idiot. A too-easy-to-have-sex-with idiot. But I’d never hurt anyone intentionally. I wouldn’t be cavalier like Miles, would I? Not with someone’s emotions. You hurt Peter the librarian, I think, and my heart sinks. Here comes the Karma.

I stagger home. I quite like it when the rain begins to dash against me. All that daft renewal baptism stuff kind of makes sense when you’re soaking wet and everything that you put on that day, all the make-up and the hair stuff, gets literally washed away. I pile in through the patio door and Chloe is there looking anxious with Mitzi.

‘At last! Where have you been? We’ve been calling you since four o’clock!’ Accusations, angry faces.

‘Oh, sorry.’ I dig out my phone and find there are lots of messages and phone call notifications. It’s now after 7 p.m.

I feel a bit cornered. ‘Sorry, I lost track of time.’ It doesn’t help that I’m still drunk.

‘You OK, Mum?’

Chloe puts her penetrating eye radar on me. I shrivel under her gaze and her instinctive understanding of me. I’ve nowhere to go and I’m not in a good place to be able to hide it. Mitzi is on me now too, looking me up and down.

‘Something’s happened, Janet. What is it?’

I can’t escape my daughter and my sister. I don’t even want to. I fall open like a book to the final page.

‘Miles is cheating on me though we weren’t a thing anyway, so I can’t complain, but I didn’t know and now I do. It makes me feel like a tramp and an idiot.’

These are my people and they smother me in love and tea and a bath is run and Chloe gets me set up on Insta which I can’t decide is a good thing or not. She spends the evening scrolling through Miles’s Insta page with Mitzi. They locate, they say, three other women and at least two of my home-made pies. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

‘I don’t get featured but my pies do?’

‘They are good pies though, Janet.’ This comes from Carl who is glued to Top Gear whilst Mitzi and Chloe ‘doom scroll’– that’s the term apparently.

‘I have to say, Mum, he’s pretty bloody boring.’

Mitzi nods. ‘There’s not one funny meme on here.’

‘Judy says if he comes knocking, to run.’ I manage a chuckle.

‘He better not come bloody knocking, I’ll have his ballbags for earrings and his dick for a coat hook.’

‘Mitzi, please. Honestly.’ I shake my head.

Carl, who is engrossed in the action on TV, doesn’t turn his head but adds, ‘I’ll make some room on the back of the ensuite door.’

Well, that’s it, we are howling. Howling. And if there’s anything that makes the pain and shame of being cheated on when you’re not allowed to really call it cheating, it’s having the support and laughter of your own little family. I am blessed. I’m also exhausted. I drag myself upstairs and suddenly remember I need to change the bedding. I sigh and go in to start the process but there it is, all done for me. A hot water bottle has been put in the bed, and there’s a love heart on a Post-it note on my pillow.

Love you, mum. Best mum in the world.

If I had any doubts about how lucky I am, that settles them. I collapse into bed where, just before sleep overwhelms me, I wonder where Miles’s boxers are. In the bin?

Try to avoid agreeing to host the Lauras of this world. The domestic goddess is impossible to please and it will be a nightmare trying.

To find love you have to be prepared to take risks. Sometimes they backfire and it’s horrible and embarrassing and you’re humiliated and that’s all there is to it. You will survive it. All you can hope is that you’ll be a bit smarter next time. Don’t give up. Being loved is lovely. Be grateful for every scrap.