A Crowded Marriage by Catherine Alliott Read Free Book Online Page B

sighed as I mounted the stairs to my bedroom now and peeled off my dressing gown. Hell certainly hath no fury like a woman whose child has been scorned, but I wondered, if Rufus wasn’t an only child, if I’d feel everything so keenly. Feel his disappointments like serpent’s teeth, his tiny triumphs like Olympic achievements. If I could share my emotions out between some siblings, would they dilute, or would I just emote even more until I became one gigantic emotion? I didn’t know, because as yet it hadn’t happened and however much I cupped my hands around my mouth and hollered, “Come in, Cameron minor, your time is up,” nobody showed. Obviously I knew I had to do more than holler, but sometimes I wondered if Alex did.
    I had a shower and dried myself slowly, keeping an eye on my reflection in the long mirror. My figure still wasn’t bad—at least I hadn’t completely gone to pot like Hannah—but those thighs could definitely be slimmer. I really ought to lose a few pounds but I worried that dieting affected fertility and I couldn’t help thinking that if I ate well, a big fat baby would follow. And it suited my face too, I thought. What was it they said? After thirty, you choose between your face or your bottom. Well, I’d made my choice, and Alex approved too. “It suits you,” he’d murmur in bed when he held me close. “You’re voluptuous, Imo, not like those terrible stick-insect women.” Not like his first wife, I knew he meant, but part of me longed to be like Tilly and her daughters: tall, dark and reed thin, not round and blonde and obvious.
    â€œAre you going to paint today?” Mum called up from the bottom of the stairs.
    â€œYes, why?” I abandoned my reflection and reached quickly for my bra and pants.
    â€œWell, I’ll take Rufus to school if you like, then get out in the garden.”
    â€œOh, Mum, would you?”
    â€œCourse.”
    I rifled in my drawer for a top, but as my hand closed on one, I went cold. I ran to the top of the stairs.
    â€œMum, make him hold your hand, won’t you? And he has to be taken right to the gates. Don’t let him tell you he can walk from the corner.”
    My mother shot me a withering look as she hustled Rufus out of the front door. “We’re cycling. See you later.”
    Cycling! The front door slammed on my open mouth. I stood there, horrified. Rufus had only ever cycled in the park, never on a busy road. She couldn’t mean it. I ran to the bedroom window. Sure enough the pair of them were walking bikes down the path, and as Mum hopped aboard and led the way, Rufus pedalled after her, wobbling wildly, no helmet. I struggled with the window latch: it wouldn’t open. I hammered: it wouldn’t break. Terrified, I ran downstairs, flung open the front door and was on the point of yelling, “STOP!” when I realised that was guaranteed to send him under the wheels of that passing juggernaut. I stifled my scream and made myself watch as he peddled alongside it. He did it rather beautifully. Much steadier now, and in a straight line behind his granny. As they disappeared around the corner, the postman delivering to next door gave me an odd look. It took me a moment to realise I was in my bra and pants. I hastened back inside and shut the door. God, what was wrong with me? I plunged my fingers into my hair. I seemed to veer from flagrant neglect and tossing Rufus a crust at tea time, to suffocating the poor child, never letting him out of my sight, and running down the street after him with no clothes on.
    â€œYou’re an obsessive,” Alex would say, nonjudgementally. “You’re either obsessed with your painting, or your child, but the two are mutually exclusive.”
    â€œIs that wrong?” I’d asked anxiously.
    â€œOf course it’s not wrong, it’s you.”
    And actually, Mum was such a breath of fresh air, I