Colds and Craft: 2013 365 Challenge #351

My wonky sewing

Today I wanted to be in North Devon surfing with Claire and Conor, instead of walking in the rain all bunged up and shivery with a virus. It’s hard to even remember the heat of the summer, when I would have given, if not my right arm, then a chunk of a finger to be cold. Not that it’s cold out here in the rain, at a balmy 14C. But it is miserable.

It’s quite hard remembering to keep Claire in a hot summer. It was much easier writing back when we were still in the same season. If I had been organised I would have noted down the weather every day!

Sometimes I read tripadvisor reviews that are in the right week which helps, but often it’s one more layer of research I don’t quite find time for. Today I’ll be lucky if I get even a basic installment written. Any energy I had was used on vacuum cleaning upstairs and putting the shopping away.

I’m currently walking the dog in the slippery mud like a frail old lady. It reminds me of when I used to do this walk whilst eight months pregnant. It was more of a waddle, as I gasped for breath with a seven pound baby pressing against my lungs! If only the reason for my invalidity was so lovely. This time it’s just an end-of-term we’re-all-exhausted cough and cold.

One down, one to go

So today I decided to strike something off my Christmas to-do list while watching Homes Under the Hammer, instead of writing as I should have been doing (especially with only two more child-free days until New Year and another fifteen posts of Claire to write! Eeek).

I’ve missed daytime TV, particularly Homes Under the Hammer. I love the characters. I can’t write with the TV on, like I used to be able to paint, so it’s been absent for a long time. But today I decided to start a proper being ill activity, if only for an hour.

A while ago, I bought some felt bags to replace the Santa sacks the mice ate last year. When I got them home, they were a bit dull so I thought I’d personalise them. Silly girl! These crafty projects always look better in my head than in reality. I’m not much good at sewing and I haven’t done blanket stitch since school. I only got one bag done before I had to walk the dog and go collect the children, but better than nothing. It’s the crafty bits of Christmas that take the time, but they’re also the bits that are worth the effort.

I did at least post some Christmas cards this morning, so that counts for something, right? Am I the only one who takes on silly projects when they should be working (or resting in bed to shift the cold?)

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Kim glowed. Claire watched her from the other side of the room, as she flitted restlessly from bed to chair to bathroom, checking for belongings that would need to be invisible to have been missed on the previous three checks. Her skin seemed translucent in the afternoon sun spilling in between the curtains, and all the bitter lines had been erased by one simple conversation.

Good to his word, Jeff had called while Claire was still in her room pretending to work. When she’d returned to the lounge half an hour later, it was to find Kim alive with effervescent hope, chatting away to Conor about Jeff’s second job and the purpose of it. Claire had been greeted with joy, although not for the right reasons, and Kim had stumbled over her words in her haste to tell her friend the news. She was going home.

Jeff hadn’t only told her of the cause of his remoteness, he had pleaded with her to return to their apartment, so they could heal together. Kim would happily have jumped in the car there and then and driven straight to Cambridge without dropping Helena back first. It had taken the combined efforts of Claire, Conor and a quiet Helena to point out the late hour and the long journey.

“Time enough to drive Helena back to your Mum’s in the morning, then cut across country,” Claire had argued. Kim had reluctantly agreed and Claire wondered if she slept at all during the long night.

It was morning now, still early for a Sunday. Helena had gone for one last walk along the beach with Conor as gallant escort, allowing the friends to chat while Kim packed.

“I’m sorry I didn’t stay long,” Kim said, coming to sit by Claire on Helena’s bed. “At least you’ll have a few hours with Conor all to yourself.” She smiled; an unaffected genuine expression of joy that resonated in Claire’s heart.

“He’s a good man,” Kim continued, snuggling in next to Claire and resting her head on her shoulder. “He deserves you and you deserve a good man. I really hope it works out for you both. I want everyone to be as happily married as me and Jeff.”

Claire laughed. “Don’t marry me off yet: I’ve only been seeing him for a week. I’m not sure I’ll ever get married.”

“Of course you will!”

“I don’t know.” Claire felt heavy, but didn’t want to drag Kim down from her euphoric bubble. “Why would I choose to wash a man’s dirty socks and make sure he ate properly, when I could be footloose and fancy free, surfing the waves and writing about it?”

Kim pulled away from Claire and looked her in the eye. “Some men can do their own laundry, you know. Besides, it’s a small price to pay to share your life with someone. To know that even when you’re old and wrinkly, there’ll still be a person around who cares.”

Her expression became serious, and her brows pulled in together as she scrutinised Claire’s face. “Don’t fight it. If you’re falling for Conor, let it happen. I don’t know what took place between you and Michael, although I can guess. But they’re chalk and cheese. Michael wanted to control you: Conor just wants to love you. Why not let him?”

Claire shivered. It was far too soon to be talking of love and happily ever after. She was only just beginning to see the glimmer of a life of her own; she wasn’t sure if there was room in her dream for two.

She stood next to Conor as they waved off the sisters in Kim’s little car. Helena had said a subdued farewell; sinking into herself in proportion to Kim’s enthusiasm. Claire felt a pang for the woman, the spare wheel amidst two happy couples. Life was always hard for someone.

“So, what shall we do now?” Conor turned and slid his arms around Claire’s waist. “Indoors or outdoors?” He grinned, and Claire felt warm at the suggestion. It was a beautiful day, though, and she felt the need to walk along the cliff and let the wind blow through her mind.

As if sensing her hesitation, Conor said quietly, “Or I could go, if you want to be by yourself?”

The sincerity of the offer touched her, and she reached up to brush her lips across his. “No, don’t go. I just fancy a walk is all, and I know it’s not really your thing.”

“Then you’ll have to teach me. I didn’t do too bad on the surfing, now, did I?”

Claire laughed and fairness made her admit that it was true. He’d taken to the board like a duck to swimming.

“Okay, then, you’re on. Let’s go a bit further up the coast. There’s meant to be a beautiful walk, and I’m sure we can find a decent pub lunch along the way to send you back to Swanage in style.”

Conor looked for a moment as if he would happily forgo the lunch to find a reason to stay, but he remained silent. Thankful for his understanding, Claire led him by the hand back into the hostel.

***

Crafty Christmas (anglosaxonceltcreates.wordpress.com)
Christmas Crafts – 3 Edible Ornaments For Kids To Make (roomtogrow.co.uk)
Christmas Crafts (brazilnieminens.wordpress.com)
Festive share (samscraftythings.wordpress.com)

Reading as a Writer: 2013 365 Challenge #350

$A fraction of the unread books on my Kindle$

A fraction of the unread books on my Kindle

I read an article today, on Sally Jenkins’ blog, about reading as a writer and how it can destroy the magic of reading. I have to agree. These days, reading feels like a lot like work rather than pleasure.

Back when I was at university I read very little for fun. During my history degree it was lack of time, combined with strained eyesight, after reading dry historical works all day. During my English courses and Masters degree it was because I analysed everything, wondered about the author’s intention or tried to map character motivations. (And after reading the entirety of Clarissa, I never wanted to see a novel ever ever again!)

But at least that still kept me within the story: thinking about the action and the people. I was on the stage with the puppets. Now I’m a puppet master, above it all, seeing the strings, if not always understanding fully how they all work. And it has lost its magic. Like knowing how a illusionist’s trick is done I am super analytical and, if I’m honest, critical. It isn’t confined to the characters, plot or flow of the story either, but right down into the nuts and bolts of word choice, dialogue, even consistent formatting.

I’m reading two books at the moment that I’ve been looking forward to and I’m struggling to get swept away by either. It makes reading painfully slow and hard work, although whether it’s improving my craft remains to be seen. I can’t put my finger on exactly why I’m not enjoying them, so I don’t know how much I’m learning. At the moment I feel like the only time I’ll enjoy a story again is when I’m drafting it for the first time (because, quite frankly, if reading the well-crafted stories of masters like Terry Pratchett is giving me a headache, reading my own efforts is excruciating!)

Thank goodness I don’t write music is all I can say.

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“Hello, Jeff speaking.”

Claire listened to the deep voice answering her call and went blank. Blood rushed loudly in her ears. What was she doing?

“Hello?”

The voice now held a tinge of irritation. If she didn’t speak she would only have succeeded in making things worse

“Jeff, hi, it’s Claire.”

“Claire! I was starting to think I had some creepy stalker. How are you? Are you still in the UK?”

The warmth in his voice helped to lessen the quivering in her knees. She wondered whether to chat or jump straight in with what she wanted to say, before she chickened out.

“I’m fine, thanks. Good. I’m in Devon. With Kim and Helena, actually.”

“Kim and Helena?”

“Your wife and her sister?” Claire injected a humour she didn’t feel into her voice. This wasn’t going to plan at all. When she’d rehearsed the conversation in her head, during her surfing session with Conor, there had been no awkward silences and unanswerable questions.

I guess it’s easier when you provide both sides of the dialogue.

She wondered whether to abandon the attempt and make up some reason for her call. Jeff was going to think her an interfering cow at best, and if she made things worse between him and Kim, her friend was likely to fly off the rails again.

“I know who they are, I just didn’t realise Helena was back from Hong Kong.”

“When did you last speak to Kim?” Her voice was wary now.

“A week or so, I guess. Maybe a bit more. I’ve been very busy at work.”

“Maybe you should take time to speak to her now and then. She is your wife. Then you would know that her pregnant sister is home.”

“Helena’s pregnant?”

Jeff’s shock was palpable and Claire felt relieved that it meant he missed the antagonism in her voice. She hadn’t meant to pick a fight with him; but to find out he hadn’t spoken to Kim for weeks really stunned her. They were married. Surely husband and wife spoke every day? At least that’s how she’d always imagined it would be.

“Yes, apparently some indiscretion meant she was sent home under a cloud. Kim needed moral support, so she and Helena are staying with me in Devon for the weekend.” She stopped, unsure what to say next. She didn’t think she needed to spell out to Jeff why spending time with her pregnant sister was hard on Kim, but then she didn’t think she’d have to tell him anything.

Is this what it means to get married: to drift apart at the first crisis? I think I’d rather stay single and know that no one is there for me, rather than find out at the worst possible time.

She tried to picture Conor abandoning her, and smiled. He’d proved already that he was the most reliable friend: collecting her from the airport, taking her to see Kim in hospital. The memory pulled her back to the purpose of her call, and she pushed the pictures of Conor away.

“Anyway, I wondered if you wanted to come down and stay with us for a day or two. I realise it’s short notice, but it would mean the world to Kim.”

The line remained silent, and Claire wondered if Jeff had hung up or put the phone down and walked away. She held her breath; the pulse throbbing in her temples keeping time, counting down the seconds.

Eventually he inhaled audibly and said in a stilted voice, “I would love to, Claire, but I have to work.”

“On a Sunday? I know it’s a long way, but you could be down and back in the day, or you could come tonight.”

“It’s just not possible.” His tone indicated the conversation was over.

Hot blood flooded beneath Claire’s skin. “That’s utter bollocks, and you know it. You guys have been married three months. Three months! Kim needs you. What happened, Jeff? When I last saw you, you couldn’t do enough for her. And now you barely talk? What gives? Are you having a bloody affair, is that it? Your wife is broken and instead of trying to put her back together you sod off and bed someone new?”

Claire ran out of breath and stopped, panting, wondering what had come over her. She waited for Jeff to start shouting, or hang up, but he did neither. She could hear him breathing and it sounded as if he was labouring under strong emotion. When he spoke, his voice wavered.

“It was my child, too. I never knew I wanted to be a dad until that damned blue line. And then the wedding, and the uproar, and the miscarriage. No, I’m not blaming you, before you think I am. The doctors said the pregnancy wasn’t viable. And now they think she can’t get pregnant again. But there are doctors that will help, I’ve looked into it. I spent hours reading up, while Kim was low, and then after she tried to kill herself.”

He took a deep breath, and Claire waited, stunned.

“When you took her to her mother’s, it meant I could do something about it. I’ve got another job, evenings and weekends, to raise money for the procedures. I didn’t want to tell Kim, get her hopes up only to have them dashed again. I didn’t think she could handle that. I didn’t mean not to call, but I’m so tired: if I’m not working I’m asleep.”

He went silent, suddenly, as if his outburst had cost him too much. Claire’s mind whirled while she processed the words.

Poor Jeff.

“You have to tell her,” she said, quietly. “Please. She needs something to live for, to hope for. Otherwise you’ll raise the money, turn around, and she’ll be gone.”

“Oh God, she isn’t depressed again, is she?” Jeff sounded stricken.

“No, not really. But sharp, edgy, brittle. Spending time with Helena is not doing her any good. The girl is glowing and, although she doesn’t say much in front of me and Conor, I know the relationship the two of them have. I don’t doubt she makes little digs. If Kim could reassure herself that she has a solid marriage and hope for the future, she’ll have one over on her sister.”

Jeff sighed. “What a bloody mess.”

Claire could imagine him running his hands through his hair, and she yearned to give him a friendly hug. How lonely must it be, in the flat alone, working all hours.

“Just give her a call. You don’t need to mention we’ve spoken. She and Helena are downstairs with Conor. They think I’m working.”

“Okay, I will. And thank you, Claire.”

“Don’t mention it. I just want my friend back.”

She hung up the phone and hoped it was that simple.

***

Plodding On: 2013 365 Challenge #349

Kids’ Discos – not for the faint of heart

This festive season feels like an endurance trial, ticking off waypoints as we pass them. Today we struck off two that have been in the calendar for weeks and it felt great.

Even when there is nothing that needs to be done (aside from buying and wrapping gifts in this case), stuff on the calendar always takes up mental space. So, hair cuts for everyone (except Mummy, who has off-set the £30 saved by not getting her hair cut against excessive Christmas spending at least twice!) and then two birthday parties in the afternoon. Job done.

It was actually the perfect time to go to a party disco for five year olds (Hubbie got the shorter straw and went to the three-year-old’s village hall romp!) I got to catch up with mummy friends, watch my daughter dance, and sit quietly in the dark by myself (which is pretty much what I used to do at school discos when I was younger!) I adopted a young girl whose parents had dropped her off, who was standing alone, and was rewarded by seeing her join in a bit later on. And I only had a little stress about organising my own daughter’s do for after Christmas. (We’re doubling up with a school friend whose mummy is far more chilled than me, so could be an interesting experience for both of us. if she’s reading this, I’d like to apologise now for being a stressball worrywart!)

My glamorous dancing witch

The afternoon was the hardest. Hubbie and I were both suffering from our 3am insomnia (if only the cricket was more worth listening to, I wouldn’t mind my newly discovered inability to sleep) and the children had to put up with a certain amount of grump.

I managed to make everyone dinner, do all the ironing and facilitate a play doh session, but crawled into bed at 8pm, unable to even stay awake for Strictly Come Dancing. I woke up at midnight, remembering I hadn’t written my post or even outlined my Claire installment. (And it seems I’m coming down with a cold which might explain a lot!) The knock-on of a spaced out Friday continues!

I have just read a very funny post on Elf on the Shelf for under achievers which made me chuckle, and also made me wonder why we opt for any extra stress at this manic time of year. My physio friend is happy though – she says the insomnia isn’t confined to hubbie and I, and she’s getting lots of extra work with people needing massages to relax. It’s an ill wind, and all that.

There’s certainly a strong, bitter, wind whistling round our house tonight. Brrr. I say, roll on Spring!

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An arm snaked across the bed and pulled Claire into a warm embrace. She snuggled into Conor, finding the spot to lay her head on his chest that already felt like the most natural place in the world. They lay entwined in the dimly lit room, not speaking.

Slowly Claire opened her eyes, half expecting to see Conor’s apartment. The chill steel of the hostel furniture greeted her gaze and she was instantly awake. Events from the previous evening crashed into her like a runaway car.

As if sensing the tension in her body, Conor stroked her hair. “Are you okay?”

Claire gave a short laugh. “Depends. Was last night as awful as I remember?”

She felt Conor’s throaty laugh resonate through his body, and it sent sensations trickling across her skin. “I’ve had less hostile meals out. Restaurant was nice though; adequate food, amazing view, and–” he kissed her on the top of her head, “one rather gorgeous woman who agreed to come home with me. That counts as a result in my book.”

“I’m sorry about Kim, I don’t know what’s got into her.”

“You mean she doesn’t treat all of your…” he hesitated, searching for a word, “male friends to a sarcastic, caustic grilling? Don’t worry, I can handle it. I’ve had worse.”

Claire’s thoughts skittered between memories of Kim’s vicious attempts at humour at dinner, and Conor’s hesitation over the word boyfriend. Why did such definitions get harder as you got older? You happily called a boy you never spoke to your boyfriend at school, but somewhere along the line it became loaded with significance.

After a few moments’ silence, Conor shifted so he could look at her face. “What’s wrong? Are you really upset? Kim’s just jealous, that’s all. Not of us, of her sister. Didn’t you say she ended up in hospital because she lost her baby? Having a glamorous sister turn up with a bump is going to hurt. She’ll be fine once she’s caught up.”

“She can’t.”

“What?”

“If by catch up you mean get pregnant again, she can’t. Doctors told her she couldn’t have any more children.”

“Oh.”

Conor fell silent and they lay wrapped in their own thoughts, with the thrum of their hearts beating loudly in their ears. Eventually they heard the unmistakeable sounds of life in the room next door, where Kim and Helena had spent the night.

Claire sighed. “Time to get up and think of a way to survive the day.”

“I say we go to the beach. The girls can gripe together, and you can show me how you surf.”

“You’re on!”

“Wow, loving the outfit.”

Conor’s lascivious grin made Claire blush. She looked down at the short wetsuit and shrugged. “It doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination.”

Conor came over and ran his hands down it, making her shiver. “I know.” His eyes gleamed in appreciation.

“Down, boy!” Claire glanced over towards Kim. She thought of all the times Kim and Jeff had made her feel jealous, with their overt displays of affection. Even so, she felt self-conscious receiving Conor’s flattery in front of her and her sister.

The hostilities seemed to have abated since breakfast. Kim looked drawn and tired, and Claire had to remind herself how hard this all was on her friend. It occurred to her that they should have invited Jeff, and she wondered why he wasn’t looking after his wife more. The awful idea that he had found someone else to comfort him germinated in her brain. It was difficult to imagine, but then he had lost a child and his wife, to a certain extent. Not that that made it right.

She gave her head a shake, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable thoughts. Turning her attention to Helena, she said, “There are toilets up there, and I’ve hired you both deckchairs.”

Helena smiled and Claire wondered what she made of it all. She had remained mostly silent and aloof since her arrival and Claire found it difficult to read her flawless, expressionless, face.

With a quick glance at Conor, whose face seemed to say, let’s skedaddle, Claire waved farewell to Kim and Helena and strode up the beach to where the surf came rolling in towards the sand.

With two quick strides, Conor caught up and walked alongside her. “They’ll be fine. Even Kim isn’t going to murder her sister in front of hundreds of witnesses.”

Claire gave him a grateful smile, but said nothing. She was still thinking about Jeff. “Do you think Kim’s husband might be having an affair?” she said suddenly. “Don’t you think it’s strange that he hasn’t been down to visit her, the whole time she’s been at her mum’s? He keeps saying he’s busy, but…”

Conor looked as if he’d rather not pass comment. Claire was about to change the subject when he said quietly, “Who knows? It’s a difficult situation. From what you’ve said, Kim has changed a lot since the miscarriage. Do you know him well enough to give him a call?”

They had reached the surf school, where they had agreed to hire boards and have Claire teach Conor the rudiments. She had told him a proper lesson might be advisable, but he’d just grinned.

“I guess.” Claire shrugged. It felt like it wasn’t her business, but she hated to see Kim so altered. Poor Conor, this wasn’t exactly the romantic weekend he might have hoped for. Determined to put in some effort, she reached over and gave him a lingering kiss.

Just as he was getting overly amorous, she pulled away. “Last one in the water’s a rotten egg.” She pecked him on the cheek and ran towards the surf school to get her board.

***

Self-Sabotage: 2013 365 Challenge #348

Origami Trees became giant snowflakes

Why are Humans prone to self-sabotage? Or is it just me (and my husband!)? You know what I mean: picking at that dry skin on the edge of your nail, even though it’s going to hurt like anything and you KNOW it’s going to hurt.

Or being unable to sleep the night before an important meeting or exam, and staring at the ceiling stressing. Or (as was me this morning) waking up at 3.45am with a head buzzing with stuff and just not being able to get back to sleep. Even though both kids slept past 6am for the first time in weeks.

It always happens when I get anxious or overwhelmed and my brain is running at a hundred miles an hour in ten different directions. Christmas, Claire and now my car (which appears to be suffering from a terminal illness) are all taking up headspace. Little things like decorating a Christmas jumper for my daughter, or writing Christmas cards before the last posting date, run round in my head like escaped guinea pigs: irritating and hard to catch and cage.

So, on a day when I really needed to be productive, to write tomorrow’s post (we have hair cuts and birthday parties to fill our Saturday) I was utterly spaced, having finally crept downstairs at half five (desperately trying not to wake my daughter because I’d never live that down!) I tried to clear other irritants – messy house, buying final gifts – and hope that there would be time in the morning to get back to Claire and Conor, Kim and Helena.

My origami tree

But, again this morning, I was awake at 3.30am. Husband too. He went down to sleep on the sofa (although he didn’t sleep) and I lay in bed, with my brain like a toddler in a toy shop, running this way and that. Instead of trying to think through my next Claire post, my brain did this:

“I’d like some different lights in the garden this year. But I don’t want coloured lights as they won’t really go with our current white lights. A polar bear on the lawn would be fantastic. But they’re so expensive and I’ve already blown the budget this year. Oh yes, my step-dad’s brother made one out of willow. I could make one. I wonder where I could get some willow from.”

And before you know it, instead of writing posts or wrapping presents, I’m trying to work out how to make a bloomin’ polar bear. It happened with the Elf on the Shelf (after scouring the shops for two hours, instead of writing, and not finding an elf I thankfully gave up on that idea.)

And again, with my daughter’s Christmas party this week. I had agreed to print out some colouring sheets to keep the kids occupied. So, being the master of overkill, I had the bright idea of taking a craft activity for the older ones as well. A quick search of Pinterest revealed origami trees and before you could say “self-sabotage queen” I found myself spending an hour making trees, while my son watched TV, instead of doing something useful like cleaning. When we got to the party the trees were too hard to do, and they all became giant green snowflakes.

Production line making twelve trees

I’m like this all the time, particularly with writing projects. Signing up for a Children’s Book writing course, starting yet another NaNoWriMo novel, illustrating a book for my son, wanting to enter the Mslexia Chidlren’s Novel competition.

The daily blog has thankfully made most of these other ideas unworkable, but I dread to think what I’ll be like next year without it. There are just so many creative things I want to do, and tedious boring humdrum life gets in the way. To compensate, my brain seems to list all the possibilities and tell me they’re all doable. Now.

But, just like the toddler in the toy shop, more toys doesn’t mean more fun. There’s exponentially more pleasure to be had with one favourite toy, loved and cherished, than a room full of tat. (Which also puts pressure on my beleaguered brain to make sure my children get the perfect toys at Christmas, but that’s a whole other level of self-sabotage!) Just as there is exponentially more satisfaction (and use) in one finished project rather than fifty half done.

I don’t know what the answer is. If I had a boss it would be simple: I’d make them prioritise my to-do list and try to be good. Being my own boss? It comes down to a discipline I don’t have. And wanting to make polar bears. Sigh. Is it time for bed, yet?

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Claire chewed her thumbnail and tried to concentrate on the screen in front of her. Attempting to write was proving futile, and she shut the laptop with a snap. Outside, the sun beamed down on the terrace and she let it lure her from the lounge. She felt fidgety and restless and longed to go down to the beach for a run.

After a blissful few days alone, wandering around the north coast of Devon, the weekend had finally arrived, bringing with it the anticipated arrival of her guests. Conor had texted to say he’d be there early evening. She hadn’t heard from Kim and her sister, but assumed they were due around the same time.

This is going to be a train wreck. What was I thinking? I should have gone to Kim’s house; at least I could have chatted with her mother or hidden in the garden. As their guest, I could do what I liked. Now they’re coming to see me, I’ll have to entertain them.

She leaned on the railing and looked out over Kipling Tor, shimmering blue in the hazy distance. If she left now, she could be walking up there in twenty minutes, enjoying the view of Lundy Island and the Bristol Channel. She’d done it at least once a day during her stay, and her feet could probably get there without her guidance.

Conor might just forgive me for not being here when he arrives, but somehow I doubt Kim will. She doesn’t seem to be in a forgiving mood these days.

Wishing she had a cool glass of gin and tonic in her hand, Claire perched on a seat and thought about her friendship with Kim. It wasn’t something she’d dwelt on before. It was a given, like having Ruth and Robert for siblings, or working at AJC. In the past few months all those things had shifted. Ruth and Robert weren’t the people she thought they were: her relationship with Ruth was much closer than it had been in years, while she wasn’t sure she’d cross the road to give Robert the time of day.

Where did that leave Kim? What did it mean to be friends, anyway, when you had known someone so long? Were they friends out of habit or to keep alive memories of childhood that only they shared. Until this year, they hadn’t been that close: catching up when Claire was in town, swapping stories of men and jobs while drinking a few bevvies.

Then Kim had got pregnant and everything had changed. Claire wondered if it was the first time Kim realised she didn’t have any close friends: only Jeff, and her fellow thespians.

A bit like me, really, discovering my work colleagues were more enemies than mates, and that Michael wanted some romanticised version of me.

She thought about the people she’d met during her travels: Josh, Maggie, Bethan. People she had little in common with, except the urge to be on the move. In her heart they felt more like friends than Kim did. The realisation hit her like a cold wave, and she gasped for air.

Her mouth felt dry as she realised she didn’t really want to be friends with Kim anymore. It felt like all give and no get. Kim needed her, she understood that. She’d had the most awful year; the ruckus at the wedding that Claire had inadvertently caused, losing the baby, depression and attempted suicide. Claire couldn’t leave her now but she didn’t know how to be the kind of friend Kim needed.

And what about me? I can’t talk about Conor; Kim sees it as some office fling. Maybe it is, but what if it isn’t. We’re not eighteen anymore. Claire rested her head against the railing and closed her eyes.

She started awake as something brushed her face. With hammering heart she opened her eyes, and saw Conor crouched next to her chair.

“Hello, sleepy head.” The smile he gave her made her catch her breath. She grinned back.

“Sorry, I must have nodded off. Have you been there long?”

He looked guilty. “A few minutes. You look adorable asleep, snuffling like a kitten.”

Blood rushed to Claire’s face and she covered her cheeks with her hands. “I was snoring? Really? God, I’m so sorry.”

“That’s okay. I already know you snore.” He grinned and she took a playful swipe at his arm.

“I do not snore. Not like you do.”

They fell still, suddenly, and Conor leant forwards to kiss her. She let herself sink into the embrace and, for a moment, the hurried voices in her head fell mute.

“Aw, look at the lovers. Why don’t you guys get a room?” Kim’s voice cut through their embrace. Claire pulled away and Conor rose languidly to his feet.

“Hello, Kim, nice to see you again. You’re looking well.” Conor was at his urbane best, holding his hand out for Kim to shake. Claire was looking at Kim’s face and caught a flicker of a frown cross her features before she flashed her teeth and shook the outstretched hand.

“You’ve been busy since I met you last,” she said archly. Claire winced at the confrontational tone, wondering what Kim’s problem was. With a sick feeling in her stomach, she wondered if it was too late to run away.

“I don’t think you’ve met my sister, Helena,” Kim was saying. She turned and gestured for her sister to come forward.

Claire hadn’t seen Kim’s older sister in a long time, but she hadn’t changed. She was still tall and willowy, with long straight golden hair. The only difference was the round stomach stretching her designer top. With a demure smile and glowing skin, she looked like a model in a maternity magazine.

Poor Kim.

Claire’s irritation vanished as she realised how hard it must be for her friend. She’d always competed with her sister, who was the more financially successful and, some argued, the more attractive of the two. Now she was also the one who could carry a child, when Kim couldn’t.

While Conor chatted to Helena about Hong Kong and the journey down from her parents’ house, Claire sidled up to Kim and put her arm around her.

“How are you holding up?” she whispered.

“I haven’t murdered her in her sleep, if that’s what you mean.” Kim’s voice was somewhere between angry and rueful. Claire caught a glimmer of her old friend, the one she used to have fun with, before life became complicated.

“Look at it this way: she’ll have saggy boobs and stretch marks, and will look fifty by the time she’s thirty five.”

Kim giggled and put her arm around Claire, pulling her close. “Thanks, I needed that.”

***

Busy, Busy, Busy: 2013 365 Challenge #346

My Angel

Phew I haven’t stopped yet today, and it’s only 12.30pm. I was up at 5am again (see yesterday) but as daughter needed the toilet, I was good, kind Mummy. I used the time to get the tattoos off her arms ready for today’s Nativity (they’ve been on for two weeks, and only scrubbing with vaseline removed them!)

I then sat down and finished formatting yesterday’s post, completing it nicely at 7am ready to start the breakfast run. (Only to notice, at 11am, that I forgot to schedule it properly, so it hadn’t gone live. Doh!)

Packed lunches made, washing on, children dressed and fed, school run completed, free coffee from Waitrose acquired, crackers purchased for meal out tonight and back home again by 9.20am. Then a mad dash round to wrap my Secret Santa gift, test and wrap the gifts for the kids from Grandad, so I could get them out from underfoot (dancing speakers, very cute!) and a search in the loft for something to wear this evening. That yielded a massive haul of clothes I haven’t seen since they were packed away over a year ago, when hubbie decided to redo our bedroom wardrobe. I’ve been living in jeans and fleece jumpers ever since. And low and behold there were skirts and tops galore. I felt like I’d been shopping, without the expense. Marvelous.

My view!

Then I had to be good and sit down to write tomorrow’s installment, as I have the dentist in the morning, and my son home all day. Quick piece of toast for lunch, while chopping vegetables for hubbie’s dinner (I’m such a good wife!). Then just enough time to walk the dog now before I go and collect my mum, who is coming to the matinee Nativity performance with me.

Hubbie is attending tonight’s performance with our son, while I go out and celebrate Christmas with my good ex-colleague friends. After being up since 5am I’m not sure I’m going to last all that well. Pass the coffee, please! 🙂

P.S. The Nativity was adorable. Reception children played a silent tableau while older children narrated and everyone sang. My view was limited but we had a chance at the end to take decent photos, which thankfully stopped all the adoring parents and grandparents from snapping away during the show. Genius.

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Claire gritted her teeth and dived into the waves. It was essential to get fully wet immediately. Wading out slowly just prolonged the agony. Flicking back her wet hair, she tugged at the board tethered to her ankle and climbed onto it, ready to paddle out into the surf.

The need to concentrate finally drove the thoughts from her cluttered mind. On the long drive down from Swanage, and during the endless night at the hostel, her head had hummed with words. Was she doing the right thing, leaving Conor so quickly? Should she call it off for good? And if she didn’t go to work for him, what was she going to do at the end of the contract, which really wasn’t that far away. There was no rainy day money in her bank account: she couldn’t afford to be out of work even for a few weeks. The leftover money from Robert, which her conscience told her she ought to return, and her temper said was hers by rights, was put aside to hopefully replace her much-missed tablet.

Icy water crashed over Claire’s head, as her brain returned to the problems it had been tousling with, instead of focussing on remaining upright on the speeding board. She brushed the foam from her face and laughed, feeling the tension leave her with the joyous sound. You couldn’t be angry or grumpy or sad in the ocean. It didn’t care. The sheer expanse of indifference put the world into perspective.

Dragging the board up the beach, Claire toyed with having one more run. Guilt pricked at her, as she remembered the report. Thoughts of her assignment led to thoughts of Conor and she flicked them away with a toss of her tangled hair. Instead she concentrated on another idea that had popped into her mind during her surf. She needed to call the boys. With everything that had happened during the Carnival, and afterwards, it had slipped her mind that she didn’t even know if they were still in the country.

She stomped up the beach, angry with herself for letting Conor fill her head when she had responsibilities. I took those boys to Mum’s house, the least I could do was make sure they were alright.

A familiar wave of sadness washed over Claire, as she towelled herself dry and pulled on some clothes. Even though she wanted to do something for herself, there were still people who relied on her, who had expectations.

Will Conor just be one more person wanting something from me?

The words left a bad taste in her mouth and her heart grew heavy. She retrieved her phone and scrolled through for the number, waiting for it to connect as she headed back to the car.

“Hello?”

“Mum? Hi, it’s Claire.”

“Well, it’s about time you called. That’s just like you, to dump your nephews here and then disappear off the face of the earth for weeks.”

Claire bit her lip. “I haven’t disappeared, I’ve been working, and it’s only been two weeks. Besides, the phone works two ways, you know. You could call me.”

There was a tiny pause, and Claire wondered if her mum would retaliate. Instead she huffed a sigh and said, “If you’ve called to talk to the boys, you’re too late. They’ve gone home, thank goodness.” She seemed to realise that wasn’t what a grandmother said of her grandsons and quickly added, “Not that I haven’t enjoyed having them, but they’ve eaten me out of house and home.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I missed them. Did Francesca come and collect them.”

“Ha! If you can call it that. She refused to leave the airport. Checked into a hotel and told us to take the boys there to her. That woman. No wonder Robert left.”

That was too much for Claire. “She might not be the easiest woman to get along with, Mum, but in case you’ve forgotten, your precious son left to get engaged to a girl half his age. He’s not really the victim in all this.”

“Well, we don’t know the full story,” her mum blustered. “Anyway, it doesn’t pay to interfere.”

Claire snorted and coughed to cover it up. There was no point getting into a row with her mother. She said goodbye and hung up the phone, vowing to Skype the boys that evening. She felt bad to think they’d left the country without her being able to say goodbye.

If that’s what dating Conor does to me, then I’m better off without him.

***

Impossible Parenting: 2013 365 Challenge #345

Oh precious sleep

There’s no room for self-doubt in parenting and yet I’ve never come across anything that made me question myself more. Daughter came into our room at 5am, this morning, for the fifth time in a row and shone a torch in my eyes. I only got to bed at 1am after writing my post. I snapped. And then snapped at her.

Not shouted, by any means, just “what is it you want?” in a firm (harsh?) voice. Knowing I was cross, I sent her to her room with Daddy, as he’s far more sympathetic than I am, whatever the time. But she still dissolved into floods of very loud tears, as is usual form at the moment whenever I dare to even mildly chastise her. The crying is likely to go on for some time.

Cue Mummy guilt, mixed with anger. And cue self-doubt. Is her emotional fragility my fault for being harsh? Or copied behaviour from my depression? Should it always be “dependence before independence” in parenting, as my therapist once told me: should a four year old’s nighttime visits to her parents’ bedroom always be greeted with concern and sympathy? Or should the tears be ignored as manipulation, as the preschool teacher tells me they are? Should she learn that waking people up in the night for no good reason is unacceptable behaviour? Or am I a monster?

On the way to school yesterday, both children asked me to stop being a grumpy Mummy, and my response was, “when you two stop waking me up at all hours.” So now I’m giving them guilt, too. Because don’t we teach our children that only they are responsible for their own happiness, not anyone else? So only I am responsible for my grumpiness and, as they often tell me to do, I can choose to stop being grumpy at any time. Even if I’ve averaged less than four hours’ continuous sleep a night for the last five and a half years, since a wriggly baby in Mummy’s tummy started the transformation of me into the raging, sobbing monster I am today.

Me before kids (when I got sleep!)

The problem with parenting is: there are no right answers, and we won’t vaguely know if we did okay for a couple of decades at least. My Mum recently said she felt sorry for me and my sister, parenting in the twenty-first century. When we were little, she said, a parent’s role was to keep the tikes alive for sixteen years. Job done.

I can’t even be consistent, because my program parent – my learnt behaviour from my work-from-home Dad – is cross, shouty and unsympathetic. Whilst my chosen responses (harder to produce when tired) tend more towards liberal, sympathetic, hippie parenting. And hubbie is all soft and cuddly pretty much all the time, so I usually act (and feel) the bad cop.

Daughter has gone quiet, but is probably awake and upset. Hubbie is still awake beside me in the dark. Son has been woken by the commotion and is calling for me. My moment of grump and indignation at getting a torchlight in my eyes at 5am has caused only widespread misery. So, next time, should I sacrifice my sleep to the greater good, as I usually try to do, hoping this, too, will pass? Or am I right to take a stand? Who knows. I only know that grumpy Mummy isn’t likely to be leaving anytime soon, and the person who is most upset about that is me.

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“Is it back to Cornwall, then?”

Conor drained his beer and looked over at Claire. Lunch was an informal affair, up at Durlston Country Park. By unspoken agreement they’d kept the tone friendly rather than romantic. Claire wasn’t sure if Conor was taking her lead, or protecting himself.

“I think I’ll head to north Devon, actually. I’ve stayed in most of the hostels in Cornwall, and I covered a lot of ground with the boys. There are some places along by Westward Ho! which are meant to be great for surfing.”

She flushed, as she realised she’d just told her boss her intention was to skive off rather than work.

This is why I couldn’t work for him. That, and I’d never get any work done.

Sat across the table from her, he looked ruggedly handsome, with his two-day stubble and crumpled t-shirt. It was the expression in his eyes, though, that kept turning her knees to jelly. The words he spoke might be platonic, but his gaze was X-rated.

Conor grinned at the slip. “Intending to play truant, are we? I didn’t know you could surf. You strike me more as the horsy type.”

“God, no. I hate riding. I’ve done it a few times as part of my travels but it hurts! I’m not a surfer, either, but I have been learning.”

“I quite fancy the idea of you all surfer chick in stretchy neoprene.” He widened his eyes appreciatively and she threw her napkin at him.

“Behave! Do you surf?”

“Ha, no. Not my thing.”

Claire realised she didn’t know what his thing was, aside from work and listening to live music.

“How do you let off steam? Is there a gym at your fancy apartment?”

“Hardly. I think there’s a drying room somewhere, and of course steps down to the beach. I go for a run, if I feel the need. That’s about it.”

Claire wasn’t sure she believed him. The sculptured body suggested more effort than that. He didn’t seem to be concealing anything, though, so she let it go. It was so hard to get him to talk about himself.

I hope there aren’t skeletons in his closet. That would be just my luck.

She looked out at the view, across past Peveril Point to the cliffs near Old Harry. On a day like today, away from the town, she could appreciate his love for the place.

“Are you finished? Do you fancy a wander or have you got to rush off?”

Conor’s voice broke into her reverie. His reference to her departure sounded casual and unconcerned and she felt gratitude flare in her heart.

“A quick walk would be lovely, before I swelter in my car for a few hours. No such thing as aircon in an old banger like mine. Not too long, though, I don’t want to get snarled in Sunday evening traffic.”

“Sure thing, my lady. Follow me and prepare to be amazed.”

Wondering what he was planning, Claire let Conor lead her from the restaurant and down a path that meandered away from the folly known as the castle. Beneath them she could see something concrete at the end of the path, and wondered what it was. As she got nearer she realised it was a large stone globe, surrounded by black railings.

“Ta da!” Conor said, when they reached it.

Claire tried to hide her puzzlement. “What is it?”

She saw Conor’s delight fade at her lack of enthusiasm. “It’s Victorian. It’s weathered now, so you can’t really read it, but it’s a Victorian globe. I used to come here as a child. There’s a picture, somewhere, of me and my brothers and sisters all lined up round the railing.” He kicked at the gravel. “I guess it’s not so amazing to a stranger.”

Claire walked up to him and put her arms around his waist. He was a complicated man, and she felt she barely knew him. But what she knew she liked. More than liked.

“Thank you for sharing it with me.” She reached up and kissed him. Conor’s arms tightened around her, and the railings jabbed into her as he pushed her back.

“Ow!”

Conor pulled away, and saw the black metal points. His mouth turned down and he looked ludicrously pathetic, like a small child caught in wrongdoing. “Sorry.”

She giggled at his expression and laced her hand through his. “Come on; let’s go get lost in the woods.” She tugged him back up the hill and along in the other direction, away from the castle, to where the path disappeared into some trees. Time enough to drive away later.

***

Take it Easy: 2013 365 Challenge #344

Throw the stick, please?

Today I decided not to rush. Lately I’ve been feeling like the white rabbit; running around with my watch in my hand, saying “I’m late I’m late I’m late.” It’s horrible. I feel on end all the time, trying to juggle a dozen things at once. The kids suffer, too. They hate being rushed.

The day I really lost it, the shouty day, is referred to by them as the Rushing Day. My boy says “Are we in a rush, Mummy?” and he means, Are you going to try and say goodbye to me at the door instead of taking an extra two minutes to escort me to the room?

I rush on the school run because of parking and because everyone else is frantic and because I drop the children in two different places within ten minutes. Today, though, I decided we’d just be late. I probably still said “Come on, we’re late”, a few times, because the children have no concept of time. But I took time to chat to the teacher, to try and help another mother with a clingy child who was also trying to drop at the door and run, (she has an excuse, though, as she goes to a proper job, not just home to play with words).

I wrote my daughter a star (a note on the board about something they’ve done at home that you’re proud of.) I let myself be ten minutes late for preschool. I took my son to the toilet on request even though I knew it was his way of making me stay longer. I had to leave, then, when he started crying, because I know delay prolongs the pain. But I left calmly, blowing him a kiss and a smile.

The White Rabbit at Disneyland Paris by Paul Beattie

With tea and mince pie to hand, I penned my post leisurely, and ordered some Christmas gifts, trying not to feel guilty at taking half an hour off work to do so. I made pasta for lunch and emptied the dishwasher. I ignored the dirty floor and read my book. I wrote tomorrow’s installment, because I have my son on Tuesdays, and checked for comments on my guest post. Calmly.

As I write this, I am walking the dog with time to spare. Walking slowly in the sunshine instead of haring round in a state, knowing I have to get the kids in ten minutes. It feels great.

I’m not even sure I’ve achieved all that much less than I do on a normal day. I’ve made fewer of cups of tea because I’ve been less stressed. I’ve spent more time reading and less time on Facebook, which must be healthy. Of course it isn’t sustainable, because I live on my nerves. If I take things too easy, I get complacent. And that’s when it all goes to pot.

Still, it was nice to arrive with minutes to spare and be the first Mummy in to pick up my son. It was nice to take a leisurely walk to the school run and agree to take the children to the coffee shop for tea. Of course they whinged and moaned and I lost my tranquility within about ten minutes. Hey, I’m only human!

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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The fireworks were over. It was the first display Claire had watched from down by the shore and her eyes and mind reeled from the spectacle. Standing beneath the waves of light, the endless showers of sparks, had been like standing inside the universe.

Conor had his arms around her as they faced the sea. When the penultimate lights had parachuted down to ignite on the water, she had gasped like a child, and Conor had chuckled and kissed her cheek.

Now, aside from the mingling tourists shuffling around them, all was still. They stood motionless for a long moment, neither wanting to break the spell. Then Claire straightened, and inhaled deeply.

“I have to get going in the morning.” Her voice didn’t sound like hers, and she cleared her throat. Aiming for a playful tone, she continued, “I have this report that needs finishing, you see. My boss wants it done in a few weeks and I don’t want to let him down.”

Conor tightened his arms around her, but didn’t speak. They simply existed; listening to the babbling crowds slowly making their way home.

The bay stretched before them, black as a cave without the lights of the fireworks sizzling on the water. A cavernous space pulling at Claire like an unknown future. She dropped her head back against Conor’s shoulder and sighed.

As if hearing her unspoken thoughts, Conor breathed in through his nose before saying softly. “You’re not coming to work for me, are you? When the report is done.” It was a statement and his tone sounded neutral, business-like. It made her stomach clench.

She waited for him to continue: to beg and plead, or reason, or demand. But he stood motionless, apart from one hand which stroked rhythmically at her arm as he held her tight.

“No,” she said eventually into the dark. “Probably not.”

As she said the words aloud, she knew they were the burden she’d been carrying for weeks. Even without the events of the last twenty-four hours, she knew she couldn’t work for Conor. Couldn’t come and live in the place he loved so much. She tried to frame a reason in her mind, one that could possibly contain sufficient explanation for her desertion.

“I need to do something for me. This isn’t my place. This isn’t my dream.”

“What is your dream?” There was a hint of longing in Conor’s voice, but no accusation. She stroked his hand in gratitude and then sighed again. The exhalation felt like a dessert wind, blowing from the depths of her soul, to wander lost on the sea breeze.

Her reply dropped into the darkness like a stone.

“I have no idea.”

“Do you have to go now? You could stay another night. There isn’t much to do today. We could go somewhere, have lunch.”

Claire did up her jeans and sat back on the bed, looking over to where Conor sat, naked, against the headboard. Outside the window, the sun was high in the sky. She had no idea what time it was, but her growling tummy said lunch was definitely an idea.

It felt wrong, running away like this. She didn’t know where the urge came from; she just knew she wanted to be on the road. Her time with Conor had been magical. They’d talked and made love into the early morning, falling asleep as the first rays of the sun painted the sky in stripes of peach and amber.

She reached down for her t-shirt and pulled it over her head, concealing the tears in her eyes. Swallowing against the hard knot in her throat, she stood up and walked round to his side of the bed. She sat on the mattress next to him and ran her fingers through his haystack hair and down his cheek, where stubble prickled like cut wheat.

“Today, tomorrow, does it make much difference? It’s easier this way.” Her words lacked conviction.

Conor reached up and cupped her face, pulling her down and kissing her hard. When they finally broke for air, his eyes were red.

“Of course it makes a difference. I’m not asking you to stay forever, just for lunch. You make it sound like we’ll never see each other again.”

It was on Claire’s lips to say, we won’t. Was that what she wanted? To avoid crossing the event horizon and getting sucked into a black hole she couldn’t escape from. Would it be so bad to live in this sleepy town and work for a man she cared for? Wasn’t that a dream, of sorts?

Conflicting desires tugged at her until she was ready to scream. Restraining herself against the urge to run, Claire stood slowly and watched Conor, trying to read his expression. He looked hurt, and then resigned, and then something else she couldn’t quite place. A steady resolve crept into his eyes.

Throwing back the covers, he stood and faced her. The sight of him without a stitch on did funny things to her insides, shaking her resolution. Judging by the playful smile on Conor’s lips, that had been his intention.

Claire laughed and ran her hand down his chest. “Tempting. Very tempting.”

As if he had proved his point, Conor turned and pulled on his jeans. Grabbing a clean t-shirt from a drawer, he turned back and grinned. “Just lunch. My treat. And then you can leave with my blessing. Provided you agree to let me come visit you occasionally. And after the report is finished? Well, we can just figure that out when we get there.”

Grateful for his understanding, Claire gave a swift nod and walked out the bedroom, before she ran out of reasons to leave.

***

Guest Post: Brave book reveals the reality of postnatal depression…

My guest post over on Alana Munro’s blog. Do please stop by.

The Christmas Fairy: 2013 365 Challenge #341

My kitchen table is under there somewhere…

I need a Christmas fairy. Not one on top of the tree, or even one who grants wishes. I don’t need a pretty dress, a pumpkin coach or a handsome prince. Some footmen might be nice, though. She can use the mice in the loft, and then they won’t eat through the Santa sacks, like they did last year, and nibble on the Christmas chocolate. (“Father Christmas,” we explained to my distraught daughter, “must have had nibblers on his sleigh.”)

What I need a fairy for is to be me, while I get on with the fun business of Christmas. For example, while I’m up from 5am tweaking photographs (one of my usual hair-brained Christmas things – photos make great gifts), the fairy could help find my kitchen table, ready for breakfast.

Or she could sit and supervise the children’s homework, because I’m all out of patience and actually had to go upstairs and scream into a pillow this morning because three hours’ sleep wasn’t enough to deal with the bickering. I also cried when I couldn’t get parked on the school run, because I had a red double-decker bus on my tail and I’m rubbish at reverse parking, but that’s not unusual.

The living room is not the relaxing zone it’s meant to be

The fairy could waltz the children to school, singing silly songs, and wait patiently for ten minutes for them to go through their settling in routine. I’m managing it, but the smile is slipping.

Or I could send the fairy out when I get the call for another chore for hubbie. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, and she could have the McD breakfast instead of me, to save my waistline. That would be a real plus.

A helpful fairy might help locate my living room floor, or put food in the fridge, or make the photos look better when I pick them up from the supermarket (the 5am two-hour stint was worth nothing because they printed so dark they’re unusable. Start again!)

I wonder if I could convince friends and family to give Christmas gifts early? I don’t need slippers or perfume or jewellery, but a cooked meal would be marvelous. A school pick up superb. A quick vac of the house would be a result for everyone, because I can’t be the only one tired of standing on toys and picking stickers and dirt off my socks.

I want to be writing my blog, and inventing adventures for Claire (it’s just getting interesting!). I want to be buying and wrapping gifts, and writing Christmas cards. At a push I don’t mind walking the dog, but the housework isn’t on the agenda until January, and who knows what the house might look like by then. Does anyone know where I might find a Christmas Fairy? If so, send her my way, please. I’ll pay in chocolate. 🙂

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Claire looked in the mirror and pulled a face.

I look ridiculous. Why did I let Conor talk me in to this?

She tugged at the wig, which had slipped sideways, and pouted her bright red lips. She swished her skirt and struck a pose. “Happy birthday, Mr President…” she sang off key and laughed.

Fine; I’ll be Marilyn, seeing as the theme is Hollywood, but if there’s karaoke I’m out.

With a sigh Claire turned from the mirror and pulled on her cardigan. Despite the warm temperature outside there was no way she was walking across town without some protection.

As she strode down the road in her sandals, with her heels in a bag over her shoulder, Claire’s mind wandered over the events of the week. They were mostly a blur of phone calls and running across town to fetch and carry. She’d stayed awake for the fireworks on Wednesday, but had watched them from the hostel bedroom, not wanting to stand on the beach by herself.

Conor was still the elusive Pimpernel. She caught sight of him from time to time, hurrying to a meeting or helping out at an event. She’d been wrapped up in her own tasks, liaising with the shops over their storefront competition and doing a dozen other menial tasks.

Just when she was starting to think Conor was avoiding her, instead of simply being busy, he’d called out of the blue and asked if she wanted to take part in the Wheelbarrow Race on Friday night. Once he had reassured her that it was a pub crawl rather than a sports day event, she had reluctantly agreed. Then he’d mentioned the need for fancy dress.

“You’re kidding. I don’t do dressing up,” had been her response. Conor had only laughed. “You do now,” he’d replied with a wicked chuckle.

“Are you ordering me, as your employee?” She’d put on a prim tone, wondering if the banter was a wise idea, given his attitude all week. He’d paused for a fraction of a second before saying in a softer voice, “Of course not. I thought it might be fun is all.”

She’d had to agree at that point.

More fool me.

Her walk through the residential streets drew amused glances from passers-by, as she took the route into town, and she regretted not waiting until she got to the pub before putting on the wig. A group of lads wolf whistled from the other side of the road and she toyed between ignoring them and telling them to get lost. Instead she turned, bent forwards, pouted, and blew them a kiss. They looked shocked and then laughed; their appreciative chuckles drifted along behind her as she continued walking.

I guess I’m going to have to try and get in the mood.

She gathered that all of Conor’s colleagues – my colleagues, she amended – would be taking part in the pub crawl. It seemed strange to be socialising with people she hardly knew, and she wondered what they made of the woman Conor had hired against the Board’s better judgement.

Her footsteps slowed as it dawned on her what the evening would entail. Pub crawls meant getting drunk. Did she really want to leave herself vulnerable amongst strangers? The last time she’d been on a work do and under the influence she had heard things about herself she’d rather not have done. It was an experience she didn’t choose to repeat.

But it was too late now. She could see the pub up ahead; identifying it as much by the group of oddly dressed people milling outside. And by the wheelbarrows.

Bastard. He said there were no real wheelbarrows. I am going to kill him.

“Claire, you’re here!”

Conor pushed through the crowd and came to meet her. “You look amazing,” he said as he approached. “This gentleman definitely prefers blondes.” His tone was light but it brought the blood to her cheeks.

He came to a standstill too close for comfort and Claire concentrated on his outfit. He was dressed as Elvis, complete with white suit and big hair. It looked good. The words of anger died on her lips at the warmth in his expression and she dropped her gaze to stare at the pavement between them.

“Are you okay? Have you changed your mind?” Conor’s soft tone held too much understanding for her liking. Deciding the only course was to brazen it out, she threw back her shoulders and looked him in the eye.

“No, not at all. Bring it on.”

“That’s my girl.” His smile was swift and genuine. He looked like he was about to say something else, when a voice hailed him from amidst the crowd.

“Come on, Conor, stop hogging the fit bird and bring her over.”

It was Conor’s turn to look embarrassed. “Sorry, Claire,” he murmured, “Some of the lads have had a head start.”

“It’s okay, it’s nothing I can’t handle.” Claire took off her cardigan and draped it over her bag. In full costume she felt better able to enter into the spirit of things. Still, in the back of her mind she knew it was going to be a long night.

***

Relax: 2013 365 Challenge #339

Doggy comes to McD

Today has been a surprisingly restful day. It always starts well, when I’ve managed to get my post finished before the school run. Plus, too, it’s a nursery day, which means the little one is dropped off first. Amazing how much that reduces the stress, even if we have to leave the house earlier.

We had a slight hiccup when hubbie came down and asked if we could redo the bathroom and boiler system. I still have nightmares from having our kitchen redone three years ago and my answer was rather short and snappy (and my misdirected bad mood resulted in a crying child who had to be placated)

Apologies and hugs all round and tranquillity was soon restored. I left a smiling child at nursery and another one at school, then wandered down to the charity shop to get some books and puzzles as stocking fillers (knowing that quantity is as important as quality for my children, and they don’t mind if Father Christmas buys second hand!)

Sunny cafe

I managed to be home and writing by 9.30am, successfully ignoring the rubbish tip that is my house, the towering pile of laundry waiting to be sorted and ironed, and the hundred and one other chores all around.

Hubbie rang mid-morning and asked if I could run a favour for him in town. As the sun is shining today, it’s a good time to be out and about, and doing it to help out someone else stops me feeling guilty for not writing.

I rushed out to walk the dog first, because she asked me so very nicely, then headed off in the car, singing Michael Bublé at the top of my voice. I love driving in the sunshine, with blue skies over head and great music on the stereo. If I’m not in a hurry I’m quite happy to drive for miles.

Chore completed, I took the car to the car wash next door and finally got rid of the two inches of road dirt on my boot that the kids have been drawing in in the mornings. Well, to be precise, some lovely people cleaned it while I sat inside and read All in the Leaves by Pat Elliott.

Enjoying my Earl Grey

Then a cheeky McD lunch, while I did some more writing and surfed the free WiFi; I even remembered to take a picture of Doggy in the café, as requested by my son this morning, when he asked me to take his favourite toy to work with me.

I decided to drive straight to town, rather than go home and come back for the school run. So I’m currently in the supermarket café drinking my free cup of Earl Grey and making up new adventures for Claire, while the sun slips slowly to the horizon outside the window. Shortly I shall head off and walk across town to school, rather than screeching in late having legged it round with the dog at a zillion miles an hour. This calm and organised lark is rather pleasant.

Ah well, normal chaos will resume tomorrow I’m sure.

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Claire’s stomach began to squirm as she drove the almost familiar road into town. Conor wasn’t expecting her for two days and she wasn’t sure how he would greet her early arrival. When she’d finished her conversation with Kim she’d realised how stupid it was driving all the way to Cornwall only to have to travel back to Dorset two days later for the Carnival.

How did it creep up on me so quickly?

The fortnight with the boys had passed in a blink, despite each day feeling a hundred hours long. How did time work like that? Being both fast and slow?

She let her mind drift over the unsolvable problem, ignoring the mounting tension as she headed into the centre, wondering where she was going to find a room for the night. Her accommodation was booked for the Carnival week, but she had no idea if there would be space at the hostel for the two extra nights. The idea of telling Conor she had nowhere to sleep did strange things to her tummy.

The car park at the side of the hostel wasn’t full and Claire took it as a good sign. She’d forgotten how gothic the building looked, all grey stone and higgledy-piggledy windows. Looking around at the tired hostel, with the grimy details she hadn’t noticed on her last stay, she began to have second thoughts about arriving early. In her mind she saw the clean and bright hostels of southern Cornwall, with the crisp sea breeze and the rolling surf calling her out to play.

In the distance she could see Swanage Bay glistening in the afternoon sun, with the barrow climbing up behind. It reminded her of a phone call with Conor, what felt like light-years ago, when she’d hiked along that barrow into town. The day he’d called and offered her a job. With the knowledge she possessed now, would the outcome of that day been different?

Claire looked around the tiny room that would be home for the next week or so, and sighed, hoping she would be so busy with whatever Conor needed her to do that she wouldn’t be in the hostel all that much. The darkness of the building felt oppressive and it smelt like mouldy carpet.

As soon as she’d left her bag on the only available bed, Claire headed out into the fresh air and followed the long road down the hill to town, in search of coffee. She knew she should call Conor straight away, but her mind went blank every time she thought of it.

It felt strange, wandering through Swanage again. During her time travelling around the South West, she had remembered the town through Conor’s eyes; through his passion and sense of belonging. Coming again, unannounced and fresh from the very depths of Cornwall, the town felt small and dated. The endless grey stone hemmed her in and the shops seemed insufferably twee.

She tried to compare it dispassionately with St Ives or Penzance. The former was similar in a way, with the same steep, winding streets and small shops, surrounded by the beach and the ocean. If anything the streets were more narrow and the stone buildings just as forbidding in wet weather. But, inside, one felt welcoming and the other didn’t.

Without realising where she was going, Claire’s footsteps took her down to the shore near the pier. The sun dipped behind a cloud and a shadow fell over the concrete slip, where a father and two sons were pulling their canoe out of the sea. The air felt cooler by the bay, relieving some of the oppressive heat of the day. Claire ordered a coffee and sat on the picnic table staring out at the boats on the water.

Forcing herself to dial without thinking, she called her boss and waited for him to answer. Her heart beat loudly in her throat.

“Hello, Conor speaking.”

The deep Irish voice made Claire jump when it came suddenly on the line. She didn’t answer immediately, and felt foolish when Conor said, “Hello? Claire is that you?”

“Yes, sorry, hi Conor. I had a mouthful of coffee.”

He laughed, but it was a tight sound and he spoke again immediately. “Is everything okay? I’m rather busy.”

“Yes. Sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to let you know I’m in town. For the Carnival.”

“I thought you weren’t coming until Friday?” The flatness of the question drove Claire’s heart into her stomach.

“I had to take the boys to my mum’s house and it seemed daft to drive right past the door back to Cornwall.” Her titter made her cringe. “So, I’m here ready to help. What can I do?”

The line went quiet, and Claire sipped at her coffee. Her hands shook and she dropped the cup with a clatter back into its saucer.

Eventually Conor spoke again. “Great. That’s great. Listen, we’re not really ready for you. Can you hang fire and I’ll give you a buzz?”

Claire murmured her assent and disconnected the call. Wrapping her hands around the warm coffee cup, she shivered as she stared out across the sea.

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