Mum on the Run Read Online Free Page A

with clothes hanging neatly on rails. Grace is tolerant, as long as we schedule a visit to the fancy dress shop. As for Toby – he loves the bustling streets, for about eight seconds, after which I have to placate him with a visit to Jorvik to hang out with the Vikings.
    Not today, though. This is what the glossy magazines call ‘me-time’. It’s supposed to be soothing and restorative. As I stand in a changing room cubicle, with some girl chirping, ‘D’you think this makes me look too thin ?’, I suspect I might be having a jollier time sniffing the authentic Viking cesspit with Toby.
    ‘No, you look gorgeous,’ her companion enthuses. ‘God, I wish I had legs like yours. They go on forever.’
    All right, all right. No need to over-egg it, lady. I peer down at mine, which absolutely do not go on forever. They are the colour of raw pastry and urgently require a shave. Disconcertingly, the changing room mirrors are angled in such a way that you can view yourself from every conceivable angle. They should have a warning sign outside, saying it’s unsuitable for those of a nervous disposition.
    The thin girl is now in the communal changing area. She probably looks like Penelope Cruz and has a Lancôme advertising contract. Standing in my bra and knickers – once dazzling white, now a lardy pale grey – I scrutinise the garment I grabbed randomly from a rail, simply because it’s in my favourite shade of blue. Actually, I’d assumed it was a top with little pearly buttons down the front. Nothing too controversial. Nothing to make the children shriek in horror and refuse to be seen in public with me. Now, though, it’s clear that this isn’t a top – at least not for a woman with a normal-shaped body. It has some kind of bottom-scenario attached. It’s a romper suit for a grown-up. My mind fills with a picture I once saw in a Sunday supplement, showing adults who dress up as babies for kicks. Grown men in knitted matinee jackets. Has the world gone insane? This is a respectable department store. They do wedding lists and Nigella Lawson tableware. Surely they haven’t started catering for sexual freaks.
    I step into the ‘thing’ and try to pull it up over my body. Jesus. I look like an unconvincing transvestite. In a sweat, I yank it off, shutting my ears to the sound of a seam ripping and a button popping off. After hastily pulling on my jeans and top, I hurry out of the changing room where the Penelope look-alike is twirling in front of the mirror. She is skinny and angular, like a foal – and is wearing the thing. The romper. It’s several sizes smaller than mine – it would fit a Bratz doll, actually – but is clearly the same style. ‘Hi,’ she says, catching me staring. ‘It’s so hard to decide, isn’t it?’
    ‘Um, yes,’ I say, conscious of a faint throbbing in my temples. God, it’s hot in here. Penelope doesn’t look hot, though. At least not in a flushed, sweaty way. Her abundant dark hair cascades around her bronzed shoulders. It’s not natural to be tanned in April in Yorkshire. She must have been sprayed like a car.
    ‘Doesn’t she look amazing?’ says her equally dainty, redheaded friend, emerging from a cubicle.
    ‘Yes, she does.’ My back teeth clamp together.
    ‘You’ve got to buy it,’ the redhead urges. ‘It’s so you.’
    ‘Oh, I’m not sure . . .’ Penelope leans forward, studying her cleavage in the mirror. She has perky, young-person’s breasts. It’s a fair bet that they haven’t been gnawed by three ravenous infants or leaked milk in the supermarket checkout queue.
    ‘I, er, hope you don’t mind me asking,’ I say, fuelled by sudden curiosity, ‘but what would you call that thing you’re wearing?’
    ‘It’s a playsuit,’ Penelope says, twisting round to admire her minuscule derrière. Isn’t it obvious, Granny? she adds silently.
    ‘A playsuit?’ I repeat. ‘Like little children wear?’
    She laughs. ‘Yes, I suppose so. They’re back