A Short Moment Of Bitterness In An Otherwise Tranquil Life

‘Hi Mum.’
‘Hi darling. Have you had a good time?’
‘Yeah, it was ace. Laura made this really mint chocolate pudding, with chocolate sauce and chocolate flakes on it. And Ellie’s got like her own laptop and wireless internet thing, and then Laura put the tent up for us in the garden, it’s a really mint garden, Mum, and then this morning she made us cooked breakfast, I mean how long is it since we had cooked breakfast? And their cat’s expecting kittens and next time I go I can choose one, if it’s OK with you, if you don’t mind.’
‘How kind. Have you got your dirty washing?’
‘Laura did it, said it would save you a job, and she put a button on my jeans, she had one in her sewing box, and she ironed my red skirt. I told her you don’t iron it, but she said she didn’t mind doing it with Ellie’s stuff.’

Laura is the second wife, and my daughter’s stepmother. Ellie is her daughter, same age as mine (his, ours) and my daughter thinks it’s really mint, cool, ace, to have a step sister and two step brothers. Her father left when she was a baby; I got the house, the garden, the mortgage, the insurance premiums, the repairs, and our daughter, except for every other weekend and a proportion of school holidays. He got a Reasonable Rent Housing Association flat, the car, CSA minimum maintenance payments and, a year ago, Laura and the big house she got from her divorce.

I tell everyone, with a laugh, that Laura is way too good for him. She is tall, and slim, with long blonde hair. A woman who can wear shorts among people other than those who love her best. A woman who makes her own chocolate puddings, and irons a fucking tumble-dryable skirt.

I snatch crumbs of comfort where I can. Does she sell short stories and articles, even if it is one every six months? Does she get stories cherry picked on ABC Tales? Is she working through the fourth draft of her first play, and does her writing group think it really will be worth sending off, somewhere, when it’s done?

No. She’s making fucking chocolate puddings and ironing tumble-dryable skirts.

I am a feminist. I am a sister under the skin. I value the making of chocolate puddings and the ironing of skirts as much as the drafting of plays and the receiving of Cherries. This woman is a teacher, she likes the theatre, she persuaded him to go to the bloody opera, for God’s sake. When my daughter visits, Laura always asks after me and, when my daughter leaves, sends me her regards. I have no quarrel with Laura. He left me for someone quite other, and there have been several women since. But Laura is the one he married.

While I am still single. From choice. I’m a writer. There are sacrifices to be made for the artistic life. No distractions. Sex is a distraction. Oh yes, sex is a distraction…

He has now come into the hall, my daughter’s weekend bag in one hand and a carrier bag in the other.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi. Thank Laura for doing the washing.’
‘No problem.’
My daughter is tugging at his sleeve. ‘Tell her about the extra weekend, Dad. Mum, this is really cool.’
‘Extra weekend?’
He has the grace to look embarrassed. ‘If it’s OK with you. I mean, if you haven’t got any plans.’
‘What extra weekend?’
‘Third weekend in May. Normally she would be with you. But, we were wondering…you see…Laura’s having this exhibition…’
‘At, like, this photo gallery place in London. Mum, it’ll be really mint, all Laura’s photos, and there’ll be some of me.’
‘Exhibition?’
He smiles apologetically. ‘Her pictures are getting quite well known. Some guy from The Guardian mentioned her to this chap with a gallery in London…’
‘It’ll be OK, won’t it, Mum? I will be able to go, won’t I?’
‘Of course, darling. How lovely. You must bring me back a print or two.’

My daughter whoops and runs off to switch the television on.
I smile at him. ‘You never told me she was a photographer.’
His shoulders perform something between a shrug and a squirm. ‘Well, y’know…it’s always a bit difficult…it’s just…I thought…I thought it might make you feel a bit…y’know…’
The word hangs between us. I-N-A-D-E-Q-U-A-T-E.
‘How’s the writing going?’ he asks.
‘Fine. Great. Brilliant. The Guardian are thinking of offering me a weekly opinion column, actually. And there’s a bidding war for the play. Straight to the West End. Mendes to direct, Dench and McKellen in the leads.’
‘I thought it was about teenagers.’
‘Originally. But they begged. You know how it is.’
‘Great,’ he says. ’Great. Well, I’ll pick her up Friday week, as usual.’ He turns to go, then turns back, holding out the carrier bag. ’Oh God, I nearly forgot. Laura sent you some chocolate pudding. She said to forget the diet for once.’
‘Wow. Thanks. I shall.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’

As I drop the chocolate pudding into the wheelie bin I think, he couldn’t even be bothered to catch me out in the lies. He couldn’t even bother to notice me making a prat of myself.

Photographs. Any fool can take photographs, especially with a digital camera. Point and click. Point and fucking click.

Inside, my daughter is watching The Simpsons. ‘Mum, can we have Sky?’
‘No. You watch too much telly as it is.’
‘Mum, can I have Ellie for a sleepover?’
‘You see her every other weekend.’
‘Yeah, but I want her to come to our house.’
My face softens. I look at her tenderly. ‘Why darling? What is it that we’ve got that Laura’s house hasn’t?’
My daughter shrugs. ‘Nothing. It just that it gets so boring over here. And she could bring her laptop.’
‘And her dirty washing.’
What?’
‘Nothing. What would you like for tea?
‘Not hungry.’
‘All that chocolate pudding, I suppose.’
‘Yeah. And the pizza she made. Laura makes these really mint pizzas…’
‘Darling, you’re missing The Simpsons. And I have to go and find a length of strong rope and something to hang it from.’
‘OK. Mum, when you sell another story, can I have an iPod?’

Well, at least that’s something. My daughter actually thinks that one of my stories will make enough money to buy an iPod. It’s a small crumb of comfort. If not a bloody chocolate pudding.