Jack had continued to work relentlessly for weeks fixing the log burner and the boiler before the winter set in, while Emma had provided the free childcare while I worked in a restaurant. All for the price of a weekly neighbour dinner. And now I reciprocated by providing dinner and babysitting as she worked.
‘Mum, I think my clothes are shrinking,’ Ben said as we tried to get his trousers over his leg brace this morning. The doctors said he would always have one leg longer than the other, but I refused to believe it. The fact that he couldn’t even walk without it (for now) didn’t stop us from believing he would run like the wind one day.
And his trousers were actually not shrinking. He was simply growing faster than I could clothe him, and the school had been adamant – no wide-legged trousers (were they afraid my eight-year-old was going to introduce a bazooka into the school, for goodness’ sake?), so every morning we had this palaver.
‘One more time, darling,’ I urged him as my bloody mobile rang. I’d have left it gladly, but it was my accountant, Menacing Mike, formerly dubbed Marvellous Mike when there was money in my account.
I tapped the green circle on my screen. ‘Hi, Mike,’ I chimed like a dream-catcher warding off evil spirits, hoping that some good karma would work its charm and come back into my life. ‘What’s up?’
‘Up? Nothing’s up, Nina. But I can tell you what’s down. Your royalties. They’re dwindling.’
I felt my stomach start to burn again for the third time that morning. ‘What, so soon?’
‘It’s been three years since your last book, Nina. You need to come up with something new ASAP… or else,’ he counselled as I jammed the phone between my shoulder and cheek as Ben and I finally managed to pull his trousers on.
‘Do your tie up now, darling,’ I whispered.
‘It’s sort of knotted, Mum,’ he apologised and I looked down in dismay. Of all mornings, he’d somehow managed to tangle it so badly that it would not come undone.
Chloe, on the other hand, was already sulking at the top of the stairs preparing a tantrum of biblical proportions because she couldn’t find her favourite blue tights, the sheer ones. God, how I hated Mondays. It was like being dragged back to hell after a few minutes’ paradise called The Weekend during which you were allowed to forget your troubles. But unfortunately, it never lasted.
Sorry, Ms Conte, it’s Monday again. You can’t stay here in Paradise. No, Ms Conte, please stop bawling and do let go of the Pearly Gates and come down this way, through the burning doors, please.
This happened every seven days. Even God got a break more often than me.
‘Look in your mesh bag,’ I called up to my pre-teenager.
She yelled back, ‘Mum, where do you think I’ve been looking – the fridge?’
On days like this anything was possible. It wouldn’t be the first time anyway. I personally had a potted history of putting my reading glasses in the (hot) oven, my day-planner in the hamper and my keys in the bread bin.
‘Then wear socks for today.’ I looked down at Ben. ‘How on earth did we find ourselves in this mess, my boy?’ I asked and he looked up at me with those angel eyes and grinned.
‘Don’t blame me,’ Mike shot back, thinking I’d been talking to him. ‘I’m not the one with the heart of gold.’
Jesus, I’d almost forgotten he was there. I must stop blanking out like this. And by heart of gold, he meant a brain the size of a piece of lint and how could I have not seen that my husband had so cleverly planned his escape?
‘How bad is it really, Mike?’ I asked, although I was well aware of my options at this point:
Lose my dilapidated and heavily mortgaged home if I missed any more payments (very likely) and move under a bridge;
Take my kids out of Northwood Academy (not happening);
Ask Jack for a loan. I knew he was well off, but I wasn’t doing that. He had already done enough for me.
Ask my agent for an advance. But an advance on what: my supposed next big fat failure?
While living in London, I had dreamt about leaving my childish, undependable and irresponsible husband for years. Unable to do so because the children were still besotted with him, I instead began to write about my fantasies of a new life. A Cornish life, to be exact. And possibly a new Cornish husband. The result had been three romantic comedy novels.
But then, when Phil had unexpectedly left me instead, without a care about the kids whatsoever, writer’s block had struck with a vengeance, and the creativity had drained from me. How the heck was I expected to continue dreaming about love and Mr Darcy-ish male leads after Phil, who had once claimed to love me, had pulled such a stunt on me, breaking not only our vows, but also my heart? I simply didn’t believe in Happily Ever After anymore, so who did I think I could kid?
My agent Alice Hopkins always said I’d be fine if I wrote another book. It was easy for her to say. But it was no longer my writing that filled my children’s bellies. It was my cooking Sicilian arancini for restaurants.
Luckily for me, the orders came in steadily (I’ll give you the recipe later, promise). I prepared them after dinner, two hundred per batch, and left them in my freezing pantry because there was no space for them in the fridge. These fifty kilograms of food had become, as it were, my lifeline, so I killed myself with work twenty-four-seven to make sure I never ran out. The trouble was the restaurants only gave me thirty per cent
