Mum on the Run Read Online Free Page B

again. Meant to be the big thing for summer.’ The redhead throws me a curt look as if to say: ‘No, she’s the big thing for summer.’
    ‘Oh, you’ve got one too!’ Penelope exclaims, registering the garment scrunched up in my clammy hand. ‘Are you treating yourself?’
    ‘Um, I don’t think so. It’s not really my thing.’
    She flares her nostrils. ‘Hmmm. Guess you’ve got to go with what suits you.’
    ‘Yes, of course.’ I force a grin, which I hope suggests that I’m on the hunt for some foxy little cocktail dress, and not support hose or a girdle.
    Back in the sanctuary of the mall, I wonder where to go next. I must buy something sexy and completely impractical. I can’t face going home empty-handed after being awarded a day off from domestic duties by my beloved. Ignoring a burning desire to check out drum accessories for Finn, or toys for Grace and Toby, I fish out my mobile, deciding to cheer myself up by telling Jed about the playsuit incident. Our answerphone clicks on, and when I try his mobile it goes straight to voicemail. ‘Hi, love,’ I say. ‘Just thought I’d let you know I’ve bought a playsuit. It looks great, really foxy – thought I’d wear it to your next work do. Hope you’re all having a fun day. Missing you. Bye, honey.’
    I glare at my phone, as if it’s responsible for my husband’s unavailability. It’s not that I’m worried that Jed is incapable of looking after our children. He works with kids, after all, in the toughest primary school in the area. He’s even had a feature in the local newspaper about him. Jed Swan, it said, has scooped a well-deserved Local Hero award for his unfailing commitment to children’s artistic and sporting endeavours in the borough. He’s not the kind of dad who needs a map of the kitchen to indicate where milk is kept. Beth told me that, on the rare occasions when she’s going away overnight, she still feels compelled to leave Pete, her husband, a list of child-related instructions which can run to five pages. What guidance could a father possibly need in order to care for his two children, I wondered? ‘Take kids to park . . . you’ll do this by first ensuring that they are adequately clothed according to climatic conditions . . . Leave house via front door remembering to take key . . . In the park you will find a large circular object. This is called a roundabout. No, not the traffic kind. The other kind. Let Jack go on it, and Kira if she wants to, then proceed to spin them as fast as humanly possible for several weeks . . .’
    As I head for Starbucks, I figure that at least Jed does his fair share. In fact, he could probably survive perfectly well without me. He certainly doesn’t seem to need me. Sometimes I suspect he wouldn’t notice if, instead of sleeping beside him, I replaced myself with a cushion. I have come up with possible reasons for this:
    1. Severe exhaustion (although toning down his sporting activities might help).
    2. He is suffering from some kind of sexual dysfunction and is too embarrassed to talk about it, even though we have been together for fourteen years. Regarding this option, I have delved about on our computer for evidence of him trying to buy Viagra or some kind of pumper-upper penis device. So far, nothing.
    3. He no longer fancies me due to my ample fleshage.
    4. He is shagging Celeste, a possibility which is too horrific to contemplate seriously and makes me barge into Starbucks in a rather aggressive manner, nearly sending a man flying in the doorway.
     
    ‘Whoa, after you!’ he says, staggering back dramatically.
    ‘God, I’m so sorry,’ I bluster. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
    ‘That’s okay. You’re obviously more desperate for a caffeine fix than I am.’ He grins, and his cheeks dimple in a distinctly fetching way.
    ‘Guess I am. It’s just been one of those mornings.’ I smile back, pushing dishevelled hair out of my eyes, and realise I’m still clutching