Скачать книгу

       34. Melanie

       35. Melanie

       36. Abigail

       37. Melanie

       38. Ben

       39. Tanya

       40. Abigail

       41. Ben

       42. Melanie

       43. Melanie

       44. Melanie

       45. Melanie

       46. Abigail

       47. Ben

       48. Melanie

       49. Melanie

       50. Ben

       51. Abigail

       52. Melanie

       53. Liam

       54. Melanie

       55. Abigail

       56. Melanie

       57. Abigail

       58. Melanie

       59. Tanya

       60. Ben

       61. Melanie

       62. Abigail

       63. Melanie

       64. Tanya

       65. Melanie

       66. Liam

       Epilogue

       Questions for Discussion

       Extract - Just My Love

       Acknowledgments

      About the Publisher

      Becoming a Single Mum, for the first time, is like someone has just thrown you out of a car that’s travelling at high speed on a motorway. Door flung open, a gush of blustery, sharp wind, a mean, forceful shove and there you are, face down on the tarmac in the middle of the fast lane. You scramble to your feet, cling to your offspring. Both of you are in utter peril.

      The thing is, you do not have time to be outraged at the fact you’ve just been shoved out of the car – a car you’d assumed would comfortably, carefully take you on your life’s journey to a destination unspecified but simply and certainly lovely. A future that included a nice home and the active participation of the father — however, no time to dwell. You’re too busy dodging the on-coming traffic.

      The cars zoom past – swoosh, whizz, honk – you duck, dive, dart, and dodge. A small Fiat speeds by and the driver winds down the window to shout, ‘Children of single parents are more likely to do badly at school.’ You do not have a crystal ball that would show you the day he picks up his stonking GCSE results, so you panic. Next, a big family saloon (which is basically insulting because it is a big family saloon) drives by. The parents lean out of their windows and yell, in unison, ‘Children who grow up without fathers are more likely to end up unemployed, homeless, or imprisoned, you know?’ You kiss your baby’s head and promise him you won’t let that happen. Vehicle after vehicle speeds by. People are crying out about a new government report that insists kids from lone-parent families are more at risk of poverty, poor health, depression. Other drivers add that they’re also more likely to run away from home, drink, and smoke heavily. Then, finally, a juggernaut of a vehicle tries to flatten you. A paunchy, smug fella wearing a vest top and tattoos toots on his horn then screams, ‘Kids from lone-parent families are more likely to suffer sexual and physical abuse, indulge in drug-taking, fall into crime, have early sex and, finally, complete the circle by becoming teenage parents themselves! You silly bitch!’

      Presumably this pillar of society (who farts in his cab) read all this in a tabloid, on a pit-stop in a layby (just after he’d had a wank), so he is now an expert. Everyone is. You cover your baby’s ears. You don’t want him to hear this stuff.

      Of course, they have to say, ‘lone–parent’ but since ninety per cent of single families are headed up by mums, it’s clear who is being blamed. Not the absentee father, because that would be too logical, but rather the Boudica who is battling on alone.

      It makes my blood fucking boil, it really does. Sorry about my language but sometimes, you know, no other word can do the job.

      It seems everyone is out to get you. No one says that you’re a warrior, a Trojan, a veritable saint. Can’t they see these babies, these children, are total miracles – little soldiers in their own right?

      Still, no time to ponder. You hop and jump, weave and scurry because your life depends on it. You cling to your child, tight, taut, tense. You’re prepared to lie down in front of one of those cars for him, if you have to, but you know that act of martyrdom would be pointless. What you really must do is stay alive and look after him, no matter what comes hurtling your way.

      You just have to look after him.

       Melanie

       Monday 19th February

      While the girls are cleaning their teeth I start to stack the dishwasher. It’s too full to take the breakfast pots – I should have put it on last night. There’s nothing I can do about this now, so I finish making up their packed lunches and then have a quick glance at my phone. I’m expecting an email from my area manager about the results of some interviews we held last week. I work in a high street fashion retailer that everyone knows. There’s one in every town. Our branch needs another sales assistant and, as assistant manager, I was asked to sit in on the interviews. Dozens of people applied; we interviewed six. I have a favourite and I’m crossing my fingers she’ll be selected. Unfortunately, I don’t get to make the final decision.

      I skim through the endless offers to invest in counterintuitive home-protection units, or pills that promise me thicker and fuller hair or a thicker and fuller penis, and look for my boss’s name. Suddenly, I spot another name – ABIGAIL CURTIZ – and I’m stopped in my tracks. It jumps right out at me. Abigail Curtiz. My first thought is that it is most likely to be a clever way of spreading a virus; the name is a coincidence, one just plucked out of the air by whoever it is who is mindless enough, and yet clever enough, to go to the effort of sending spam emails to infect other people’s gadgets. But Curtiz with a z? I hesitate before opening it, as it’s probably just trouble. However, the email is entitled, ‘It’s Been Too Long’ which sounds real enough, feasible. It has been a long time. I can’t resist. I open it. My heart thumping.

      Normally, I skim read everything. I have three kids and a job, my default setting is ‘hurried’, but this email I read carefully. ‘No!’ I gasp, out loud.

      ‘Bad news?’ asks Ben with concern. He’s moving around the kitchen, looking for something. His phone, probably. He’s always mislaying that and his car keys.

      ‘No, it’s not.’ Not exactly. ‘I’ve just got an email from an old friend of mine. She’s getting divorced.’

      ‘That’s sad. Who?’

      ‘Abigail Curtiz. Abi.’ Her name seems strange on my lips. I used to say it so often, with such pleasure. And then I stopped doing so. Stopped talking to her, stopped thinking about her. I had to.

      Ben looks quizzical.

Скачать книгу