The Mother And Daughter Diaries. Clare Shaw

make sure we never dare see ourselves as anything more than a taxi driver.’

      ‘Or cash dispenser.’

      As we tried to laugh about it all, I discreetly scanned the marquee to ensure Jo had not slouched off to sit in the car be-cause it was all ‘so sad’. In fact, Jo was in rather a good mood, chatting to all the relatives and smiling from time to time. Not a stray hormone in sight. I almost relaxed.

      It was a happy day, as weddings so often are, and when Jo didn’t feel well, I didn’t give it another thought. The unwritten rule of teenage behaviour is to make a drama out of the mundane and Jo was no exception. One slight spot or blemish put her straight into quarantine in her own bedroom. One little tiff with her friend Scarlet had her announcing that nobody liked her, she might as well commit suicide, and when she did nobody would come to her funeral. So a slight period pain at the wedding meant leaving early with a view to hospitalisation later.

      Should I have insisted she lie down in George’s spare bedroom so that Eliza and I could carry on enjoying our day out? Did I do more harm than good by giving in to Jo’s foibles? I have no idea, I simply made my decision knowing that it was probably the wrong one. As always.

      There are no manuals on how to parent teenagers. It is assumed that once you get them sleeping through the night, using the potty and counting to ten, you can sit back and relax. Surely a parents’ magazine for those of us with teenagers would be snapped off the shelves. We would be able to read articles like ‘A Valium-free Method for Dealing with Your Child’s Mood Swings’ or ‘Just Giving You the Benefit of My Experience’—and other phrases never to say to your teenager. All I could do was carry on with the washing-machine approach to parenting.

      When we got home from the wedding, I made a positive decision not to ask Jo accusing questions about her apparent stomach problems.

      ‘Are you better?You seem to have made a speedy recovery,’ I said, the message from my brain not quite reaching my lips.

      I must check the hinges on Jo’s bedroom door, I thought, they may have worked loose by now.

      The wedding had exhausted me. You never completely relax when you are out with growing children in an environment containing alcohol and collapsible tables. And I had sole responsibility for anything that might have gone wrong. The burden of being a parent on my own suddenly seemed to weigh heavily on me, for I had nobody to shift the responsibility onto, no one else to take the blame, no one else to share my doubts with. I sensed that the stress of lone parenting was beginning to take its toll on me.

      The next day, I decided it was time her father got a taste of what I had to deal with, and time I had a desperately needed break. So I dialled Roger’s number, praying out loud as I held the receiver to my ear, ‘Please don’t let Alice answer, please don’t let Alice answer…’

      I hadn’t heard the click on the line.

      ‘I’m afraid it is Alice,’ came the well-enunciated tones of my ex-husband’s partner.

      I put the phone down quickly and stared at it. It rang.

      ‘Answer it, then,’ sang Eliza as she danced past me and into the kitchen.

      ‘Hello.’

      ‘That’s Lizzie, isn’t it?’

      ‘Well…yes.’

      ‘It’s Alice. I do believe you’ve just telephoned us.’

      ‘No, it wasn’t me. I’ve just this minute got in—the girls and I were out shopping.’

      ‘That’s funny…I pressed 1471 and your number came up as the previous caller. So I made the obvious deduction.’ Ever the lawyer.

      ‘Oh, it was Jo probably.’

      ‘I thought she was out shopping with you.’

      ‘She ran on ahead.’

      ‘So does she want to speak to her father, then?’

      ‘Yes. No. She did but she changed her mind. I’ll speak to Roger, though, seeing as you’ve phoned.’

      Roger and I have an amicable relationship.

      When we split up, we gave each other leaving presents and vowed to remain best friends. I was so delighted when he met his young, attractive partner so soon after our separation that I sent Alice a bouquet of flowers…

      Well, it could happen—in certain parts of America, perhaps. In reality, my main aim with Roger was to let him know how miserable he had made me.

      ‘Hi, Roger, sorry I took so long to get back to you—the girls and I have been out shopping and having a wonderful, wonderful time. Together.’

      ‘You phoned me.’

      ‘Did I? Oh, yes. Sorry, I’ve had so many calls to make today—work, the hairdressers, Gordon, of course—just someone I met at Victoria’s wedding. Now, what was it I needed to talk to you about?’

      ‘Jo and Eliza, presumably.’

      ‘Oh, yes, would you like Jo to stay for a few days next week?’

      ‘Yes, that suits me fine. Eliza?’

      ‘Rehearsals. But she could spend a couple of hours with you when I bring them over. If it’s Sunday. Then I could bring her back again.’

      ‘Fine. Look, you might as well stay to lunch. There’s no need to go all the way home and come back again.’

      ‘Fine. The only thing is, I would prefer it if your new partner wasn’t there. Well, Jo would prefer it, I don’t mind. After all, we’re both meeting new people. All the time. Practically on a daily basis.’

      ‘Alice lives here. Anyway, the girls have met her twice now and they all got on fine.’

      ‘It’s just something Jo said. About being just with you.’

      ‘Alice did offer to go to her mother’s but I think—’

      ‘That’s settled, then. About twelve-thirty.’

      ‘Fine. Alice should be out of the house by then.’

      ‘Will you be able to bring Jo back on the following Saturday?’

      ‘Yes, I should think so.’

      ‘About five o’clock would be good.’

      ‘I’d rather make it in the evening. About eight maybe.’

      ‘Six o’clock would be more convenient.’

      ‘Between six and seven, then.’

      ‘Fine.’

      ‘Can I speak to them now?’

      ‘They’re busy. You could phone back later.’

      ‘About six?’

      ‘Seven.’

      ‘Fine. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.’

      ‘Bye, Roger.’

      Roger had prepared a cold meat salad for us.

      ‘You didn’t tell me you were a vegetarian now, Jo,’ he said.

      ‘I thought Mum had told you.’

      I had a choice of answers, starting with the fact that I didn’t know myself, or ‘it must have slipped my mind’, or ‘how come you ate my spaghetti Bolognese, then?’ (which was provocative). I decided to remain completely silent and resist saying something meaningless.

      ‘Well, there’s vegetarian and there’s vegetarian, isn’t there?’ I laughed.

      Jo pushed her salad around on her plate as if she were designing a collage. She cut it up into smaller and smaller pieces, rearranged it, poked her fork into tomato and cucumber and hard-boiled egg and pulled it out again. Her mind was in orbit, it seemed, circling