Chapter 11 #2
Although Jo might have liked a few moments to try to pull herself together, the opportunity was lost with the stampede of girls rushing to the table, back from whatever had been so urgent in the bedroom a few minutes ago, to demand cake, which meant candles, singing and all the adults round the table catching each other’s eyes uneasily.
Still, slicing forcefully through Barbie’s dress over and over again gave Jo the opportunity to vent some of her Simon rage, but the cake stuck in her throat and the party was well and truly spoiled for her.
As the adults sat quietly at the table letting the children make the noise and conversation for them, Jo was suddenly finding it difficult not to cry.
She stabbed her fork hard through the heart of the pink, spongy slice in front of her and hoped Simon was watching. And, God, Marcus, she thought as she put the piece into her mouth, this was good cake.
Jo was the last guest to leave the party, by quite some time. The teeny guests left soon after the cake, and her parents hung on for another half hour to help clear up and to be polite.
Once they’d gone, to avoid Simon and Gwen, Jo took her daughters to the bathroom – hi-spec, slate floored, yet somehow coldly bachelor – ran them a deep bath and washed cake icing, sweat, baby’s first blusher and all the rest of the day from them.
She towelled her children carefully, anointed dry cheeks, arms and legs with baby cream, put them into their sweet little matching pyjamas, supervised teeth cleaning, then brushed out their hair, all the while listening to chit-chat and a barrage of corny jokes.
‘What did the inflatable teacher say to the inflatable boy who brought a pin into the inflatable school?’ Mel asked, head cocked to the side for an answer, eyes fixed on her mum, as if this was the most important question in the whole world.
‘I don’t know,’ Jo complied.
‘You’ve let me down, you’ve let the school down, but worst of all you’ve let yourself down.’
Oh, that was good. Jo began to laugh and all the tension of the day began to bubble up into the laugh, until she was giggling uncontrollably. She had to stop: if she carried on laughing like this, Mel would tell her this joke twenty times a day from now on until… forever.
Nettie held out a sparkly purple hairband: ‘Put this in, please,’ she asked.
‘For bed?’ Jo replied.
Nettie nodded solemnly and fished around in her little purple toilet bag for further accessories. She took out a raspberry lip salve and a compact mirror, then, with all the elegance of a mademoiselle on the Rive Gauche, she flipped open the mirror and dotted salve on with her pinkie.
‘All ready for bed,’ she said finally.
‘I love you,’ Jo said, squeezing her tight and pulling Mel in with her other arm, ‘I love you both so much. It’s time for me to say night-night. Daddy’s going to tuck you in.’ Jo managed to muster as much warmth for the word ‘Daddy’ as she could. ‘It’s time for Mummy to go off and do some work.’
She wondered why she was using work as an excuse. It just seemed less bald than saying ‘Mummy has to go, because she doesn’t live here.’ Mel looked fine with this, but Jo could already see Nettie’s face crumple. ‘I want you to stay,’ her youngest daughter said.
‘Nettie, it’s not for long,’ Jo said and put an arm round her.
‘It is, it’s for three sleeps.’ She held out three fingers to her mother. ‘I’ll miss you very much.’
‘I’ll miss you too. Will you promise to phone me?’ Jo picked her up and they headed out of the bathroom to find Simon.
‘Let’s see what Daddy’s going to read to you tonight, shall we?’ Jo soothed, ‘I bet he’s got some really good stories.’
But Nettie’s head was already buried in her shoulder and there wasn’t much doubt that it was going to be one of those terrible, screaming handovers that would make Jo want to wail and scream with guilt and distress herself.
Despite the earlier row, both she and Simon tried to manage it as kindly as they could, but still Jo’s last sight of Nettie as the bedroom door closed was of a distraught red face with tears streaming down the cheeks.
Once Jo had shut the door of Simon’s flat behind her, she let several of the tears she’d been trying to stop all evening slip out.
Hell. Hell. Hell. But she had to do it this way.
Surely her children would thank her in the end?
Surely it was better to have two equally caring parents rather than one fed-up, full-time totally harassed one and one hazily distant unknown one?
She could not look after her girls all week. That was the simple truth. Her hours were far too long on Fridays and Saturdays, and also, she feared sacrificing all of her time off to childcare and domesticity.
She’d seen enough divorced mothers do this.
They were always at home, they were always with the kids, they were imprisoned; once the children were in bed, they couldn’t even get out for a pint of milk.
Whereas the dads swanned in on Sunday afternoons offering trips to the cinema, meals out and other treats and really it was so grossly unfair that it should be illegal.
Drudge Mum and Santa Dad was how it often went after the divorce.
And hardly surprisingly, Santa Dad had so much time and freedom to himself – no washing-up, no laundry, no packed-lunch making, no school runs – that he was busy working out, going out, rediscovering himself, oh, and sleeping with everyone willing and able.
So no, although it was so hard to say goodnight and leave the girls here, she had to stick to her guns and make sure Simon took just as much responsibility for his children as she did. Otherwise, how would she ever move forwards?