The Bad Mother's Handbook Read Free Page B

her dad’s blue eyes.
Nan’s are brown. None of us bloody match in this house.

    Special Interests Reading, drinking, watching tv. Doesn’t
sound too clever, does it? But believe me, when the alternatives
are changing your mother’s colostomy bag or arguing with
your daughter, there’s no contest. Always meant to take up
something worthy, but there you go. Actually I do read quite a
lot. Joanna Trollope, Rosamunde Pilcher, that kind of thing.
It helps.

    Personality

    Do you consider yourself to be any of the following? (It may
be useful to ask a friend or relative.) You must be kidding.
Charlotte would wet herself laughing if she saw this.

extrovert
generous
organised
shy
patient
creative
optimistic
thoughtful
spontaneous
loyal
down-to-earth
understanding

    To be honest, none of these seems quite right.

    Please feel free to add your own ideas below:

    Knackered, bitter, unfulfilled, self-sabotaging.
Hence this questionnaire.

    What kind of relationship are you hoping might develop out
of our introductions?

    Christ. Just forget it.

    M Y LAST DATE was a classic. We’d met in the Working
Men’s. It’s a bit common, but I go there occasionally
because it’s cheap and local, and if Nan gets up to anything
really mad Charlotte can nip across the road and let me
know. Sometimes I need to get out of the house in a hurry.
    Anyway I was sitting at the bar cradling a Bacardi
Breezer and feeling bleak when he came over. Greyish –
well, grey, but not balding; normal shape; about my height.
He was wearing a check shirt with the sleeves rolled up,
and jeans, which gave no clues. I clocked hairy forearms,
no wedding ring, clean fingernails as he proffered his
money to the bar man.
    ‘Can I get you a drink while I’m here?’
    That gave me licence to have a better look at his face.
He just seemed ordinary, pleasant, not weird or anything.
    ‘Thanks. I’ve not seen you in here.’ It was true; it’s
always the same faces in the Working Men’s.
    ‘No. I used to live up Bolton way, I’m revisiting old
haunts. What about you? Is this your regular?’
    ‘Not really.’ God, what a thought. ‘I just drop in from
time to time. When it all gets too much.’ I laughed loudly
but really I felt like banging my forehead against the bar.
Stupid thing to say.
    He only smiled, which made his face crinkle up. I
wondered how old he was, not that it mattered. I get like
that sometimes; desperate.
    See, I know you shouldn’t look for a man to solve your
life for you, but it’s easier said than done when you’re out
in the throng on your own. Sometimes it would be so nice
for somebody else to take the flak for once, never mind
have some decent sex. A hundred million sex acts a day
worldwide, there are supposed to be; you’d think one of
them might waft its way over in my direction. Nobody in
our house understands that I have Needs as well, it’s like
Montel Williams says. He was on Channel 4 yesterday
afternoon, a show called ‘I Hate My Mom’s New Boyfriend’.
‘Doesn’t Mom have a right to some happiness
too?’ he kept asking these sulky teenagers. The audience
were all clapping. I nearly called Charlotte down but she
was revising for her modules.
    Six Breezers later and for all his grey hair I was out in
the car park kissing him long and full, putting off the
moment when I had to go home and change Nan and face Charlotte’s scowls. Even light rain and sweeping headlights
weren’t putting me off my stroke. It was so nice to be
held, even for a few minutes. Then a car nearly reversed
into us, which broke the mood slightly. I disentangled.
    ‘I’d invite you back but my daughter’s around . . . It’s a
bit difficult . . .’
    ‘Can I see you again?’
    Jackpot.
    He fished in his back pocket and gave me His Card,
very swish, and said there was no pressure but to give him
a call. ‘Soon.’ I liked that, it seemed gentlemanly; also it
meant I didn’t have to sit around