‘Nina, I just told you how bad it is. Get writing again – or else.’
‘Mum! These socks are black, not blue!’ Princess Chloe hollered from the top of the stairs. ‘I’m not going anywhere in these!’
Oh God, just swipe me off the face of this earth now. ‘Check my drawer!’ I shouted back. I was glad school was almost out for the summer. Then we could actually find the time to do things as a family, rather than be this horrid and harried assembly line consisting of morning calls, roll calls for items of clothing that have gone AWOL, breakfast tantrums, missing, or rather “forgotten” homework due on the day, and having to back up a hundred yards because Chloe had forgotten her ballet slippers.
‘Is there no one you could ask for a loan?’ Mike suggested. ‘I think that’s the only solution at this point, I’m afraid.’
‘Can I get back to you about that? I have to take the kids to school.’ For as long as I could afford the fees, that was.
He sighed. ‘Right. Keep me posted, then.’
‘I will,’ I promised obediently as I rang off.
And since I didn’t personally know any loan sharks, my next best option was to hightail it to my bank on the high street and beg the manager for an extension on my existing loan.
Maybe I needed a guardian angel. Maybe in this very moment, they were looking down on me tsk-tsking and muttering, Don’t give me that one with the battered, crappy car and the stroppy daughter – she’s an overtime job.
I checked my watch – if it hadn’t stopped again I had precisely twenty minutes to unravel Ben’s tie from around his neck, solve Chloe’s fashion dilemma and drive them off to school and deliver my arancini across the county before I got to the bank to do some major on-my-knees begging, provided the old banger didn’t clonk out in the process (my car, not the manager).
After the said twenty minutes, Chloe finally came down and stuck her head in the fridge.
‘I’ve already packed your lunch, sweetheart,’ I called over my shoulder as I freed Ben’s neck and tied a proper knot.
As Chloe rummaged through the fridge despite the last piece of information I’d given her about her lunch, it gave a familiar, loud bark.
It did that when it was empty. Not that it was empty by all means. But nowadays, we lived a little more frugally, tending towards healthier choices. It worked with Ben, but Chloe was a junk food freak.
Chloe slammed the fridge door as the bark became a Kennel Concerto. ‘Oh, God, it’s not started that bullshit again, has it?’ she whined.
‘Chloe, mind your language please.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘There’s no one else here, Mum.’
‘We’re here, and I’ll not have you talk like a stevedore, thank you.’
Chloe sniffed at the fruit and vegetables and groaned. ‘There’s never anything to eat in this house,’ she declared.
Here we go again. ‘You say that every time. There’s plenty of food. There are Jack’s apples, pears, peaches and three different kinds of berries.’
‘Exactly, most of it’s from the orchard.’
I lifted an eyebrow. ‘Everyone should be so lucky to have an orchard like us. We have almost any kind of fruit you—’
‘But I want something store-bought, like biscuits or cake.’
‘We have biscuits in the pantry.’
‘Ugh, there’s only Jaffa cakes. No thanks.’
‘And I’ve just picked some blueberries to make some jam and a pie.’
Silence. Because she actually liked my pies, there was nothing she could really say to that.
‘The last one you made was wonky, and the jam wasn’t sweet enough,’ she countered. Trust her to have the last word.
‘Mum’s pies are beautiful and her jams are excellent,’ defended Ben as he sauntered back in, his limp worse than usual as he reached for an apple from the fruit bowl. ‘It’s your mouth that’s bitter, Chloe. In every way. So let off and leave her alone.’
He winked at me and I melted. I loved both my children, truly I did. Ben was my baby, the one who dealt with a disability, and his was the smile that got me through the bad years with Phil. And Chloe was my first and I’d always cherish the years we had on our own and the bond we’d created. The bond between mother and daughter that no one can break, even if lately she was trying her best to make me pay all over again for letting her dad walk away.
Whatever I did, it was never good enough for her, whereas her dad had only to crook his little finger and she’d go running to him. The divorce, even after three years, was still ongoing, as Phil was finding it difficult in the end to sign on the dotted line.
Chloe looked me up and down. ‘And please tell me you’re not going to drive us to school dressed like that,’ she scoffed.
Yikes. She was right. Cargo pants and crocs were not a good get-up when appearing in the society of the Northwood Academy mothers. Nor for begging for a loan.
So I ran upstairs to my bedroom under the eaves and threw my best suit on (the pseudo Jackie O dress and matching cropped jacket I wore at Aunt Elena’s funeral), literally dragged the kids into the car, grabbing the pile that was today’s post on the way, twisted my hair into a bun that I secured with a stolen IKEA pencil that disappeared in my messy black rat’s nest and threw up a silent prayer that yesterday’s engine stalling was not a sign of today’s death.
Hopeful that up there someone was listening, I heaved a huge breath and turned the ignition key with one eye scrunched up. Dead flat, of course. No, no, no! Please God, spare me this one time. I’ll take this piece of junk to a mechanic’s, I swear to you, but please don’t let it die right now. Not
