The Mum Who Got Her Life Back. Fiona GibsonЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter One

       Nadia

      Since my children left home, nothing terrible seems to have happened. There has been no evidence of malnutrition or the taking of shedloads of drugs. No one has phoned me, crying, because they couldn’t get a crumpet out of the toaster. At eighteen years old, my twins Alfie and Molly seem to have coped perfectly well during their first semester at university … which means I’ve done a decent job as a parent, right?

      Naturally, their father, Danny, should take some of the credit. But the moving-out part was down to me. Danny is an independent film-maker and he was away shooting down south when I took Molly to her student halls. In the seven years since we split, his career has blossomed; he is pretty famous in film circles, and incredibly busy. At least, too busy/famous to drive Molly from our home in Glasgow to her university halls in Edinburgh.

      ‘Well, this is it,’ I remarked with fake jollity as we lugged her possessions into her stark little room.

      ‘Yeah,’ she said casually, tossing back her long dark hair.

      ‘You will be all right, won’t you?’

      ‘’Course I will!’

      I cleared my throat. ‘Any time you need me, I mean if you need anything, I’ll come straight over.’

      ‘Mum, I won’t need—’

      ‘No, I know, but …’ I stopped. My daughter has always given the impression that she rarely needs anything, from anyone.

      ‘I’m not dying,’ she said, smiling. We hugged tightly, and I was immensely proud of myself as I hurtled out of the block, shoving my way past more new arrivals with their stoical parents and desk lamps and mini fridges and, in one instance, a gerbil in a cage, which I was pretty sure wasn’t allowed in halls. Only when I was safely back in my car did I allow the tears to spill out, and had to mop my face on a waterproof umbrella sleeve.

      Two days later, I drove Alfie to his own halls further north, in Aberdeen. The city felt chillier and greyer than it had when we’d come up for the open day (his father had been too busy/famous to go to that too), and I reminded my son several times that he might start wearing a vest.

      ‘You can just leave my stuff here, Mum,’ he said, indicating the floor on the landing.

      ‘Really? Can’t I come in?’ But he’d already scooted into the flat to find his room, and so I stood there, waiting, like a FedEx delivery person.

      Moments later Alfie reappeared, and we fell into a pattern of me fetching stuff in from the car, lugging it up three flights of stairs and handing it over at the designated spot on the landing. He grabbed the final box in which I’d assembled an emergency rations pack of tinned soups, pastas and – rather optimistically – fruit. ‘See you then,’ he mumbled, gazing down at his feet.

      ‘Er … okay, love. Look after yourself, won’t you?’ In truth, I was more worried about him than Molly. He’d always been rather shy and disorganised, and a klutz when it came to practical matters. I wasn’t convinced he’d be up to boiling spaghetti without somehow setting it on fire.

      ‘Of course I will,’ he insisted. I forced a hug on him and left the building, passing a woman carrying an enormous tropical plant (does anyone really need a tree in their uni halls?), and wishing that Danny was here too, but that night he was in London at his wrap party.

      Good for him, I thought. Good for my ex and his girlfriend and those miles of canapés and champagne sloshing everywhere. No, this was all great, I told myself as I drove back to Glasgow, then stepped back into my second-floor flat. Danny is a caring dad – I’ve never disputed that. However, he’s never been too hot on the practical matters of parenting.

      We were thrilled when we found out we were having twins, but from the word go we fell into pretty traditional roles. While Danny toiled all hours to get his career off the ground, I threw myself into the hurly-burly of toddler groups. We’ve been lucky to have always lived in a decent area of Glasgow: a little shabby, but friendly and safe. We stretched ourselves to upgrade to a four-bedroomed flat so the kids could each have their own rooms, and Danny could have a much-needed study.

      For a few years I worked from a desk in our bedroom. I am a freelance illustrator, and had accumulated a small roster of clients before the twins came along. During my early years of motherhood, I’d tackle any commissions after the kids had gone to bed. I also did some occasional life modelling – i.e. with my clothes off – for local art classes, to bring in extra cash. In a weird sort of way, they offered a bit of respite from family life. Reclining nakedly on a sofa was pretty soothing compared to chipping hardened Weetabix off the floorboards – and I assumed the kids would never find out what it really involved. Anyway, I was around so much after nursery and school that Alfie and Molly didn’t actually believe I worked at all. Their primary school teacher laughingly told me that, when she’d asked Molly what her mum did for a living, she’d replied, ‘She colours in.’

      In contrast, Danny did go to work – not in a nine-to-five sense, but for weeks at a time if he was away filming, or to his study at home where he’d hide away to work on edits or scripts.

      ‘Nadia, the kids keep coming in!’ he’d yell.

      ‘They just need to see you for a minute, Danny. Alfie wants to show you something he made at school …’

      ‘Honey, please. Can’t you just keep them at bay?’ he’d say, as if they weren’t his six-year-old children, but wild bears. But then, Danny’s work was all-consuming, and it was my job to thwart the kids’ access to He Who Must Not Be Disturbed.

      ‘Daddy’s busy being Steven Spielberg,’ I’d explain, ushering them away.

      ‘Who’s Steven Spee—’ Alfie would start.

      ‘A very important film man like Dad,’ I’d say. Alfie always needed more reassurance than Molly, and I was conscious of over-compensating for Danny’s unavailability: painting with the kids whenever they demanded it, and indulging Alfie’s lengthy baking craze. The more cakes he made, the more I felt obliged to scoff (‘Sounds like a feeble excuse to me,’ Danny had sniggered), my once-slender body expanding and softening, my skimpy knickers making way for sturdy mummy-pants.

      Meanwhile, Danny remained his gangly, raffishly handsome self, all messy dark hair and stubble. He seemed to experience no guilt whatsoever on turning down one of Alfie’s Krispie cakes: ‘They look great, Alf, but I’m not really into that breakfast-cereal-confectionery hybrid.’ He didn’t intend to be mean, and the kids still adored him. However, Danny had always done whatever he wanted and he didn’t really worry what anyone else thought.

      I’d known, when I got together with a film-maker, that I might