‘Sure, we’ll do it later – as soon as I get back from London.’ I don’t want to get Felix’s hopes up that his terrible digital drawing might be the solution to all our problems, but it doesn’t sound like he’s going to let it go, and there’s no time for a big conversation about it now.
On the family planner, there’s a list of all the things the children need on a Monday. Under Felix, it says ‘Football kit （top drawer） and spelling homework （ask him）’。 After spending ten minutes searching for something I’ve never even seen, which Felix can only describe as ‘a book with writing in’， Felix remembers he might have left it in Simon Gee’s book bag, whoever the fuck Simon Gee is.
We’re so late now, but as I rush everyone out to the car there’s a rumbling sound and the air fills with an ungodly stench.
‘Amy’s done a poo,’ Felix says with a heavy sigh.
Amy gives me a wide, toothy grin. Did she do that on purpose? Can I take her to nursery with a dirty nappy? I imagine it’s frowned upon. But then I’ve been frowned upon before, I’m happy to take my chances. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I let out a long, slow exhale. To think I used to struggle getting to work on time when I only had myself to get dressed and out of the door.
‘Good morning, Lucy,’ says Stanley Tucci. His voice is soothing and sexy, and instantly makes me feel a little less stressed.
‘Hi, Stan,’ I say.
‘Are you going to FELIX SCHOOL?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ Though now I’m worried about driving this enormous car. I haven’t driven for years, and I never did quite master parallel parking. What if I have to parallel park at the school? But as soon as I press the accelerator, the car silently launches into action, smooth as butter melting off a knife. As I turn left out of the drive, it honestly feels as though the car is driving itself. Is the car driving itself?
When we arrive at the school, twenty minutes later, Stanley says, ‘Have a good day, FELIX.’
‘Get bent, Stan,’ says Felix, opening the door.
‘Get bent!’ Stanley replies cheerfully.
‘I taught him that,’ Felix tells me proudly, then slams the car door and runs across the empty playground.
Stanley navigates us to Amy’s nursery, and I’m beginning to think the worst of my day might be over. If I make the nine-fifteen train, I can still be at the office by ten fifteen. But when I park up and open the passenger door, I discover Amy has managed to get into my handbag, open my expensive cream blusher, and smear it all over her face, and the car seat.
‘Amy! How did you do that?’ I have nothing to wipe it off with. Trying to rub it off with my hands only makes it worse – her whole face is so flushed, now she just looks extremely embarrassed, which frankly I would be in her position. As I’m handing her over to the nursery worker, I notice her nappy has leaked, and there’s a small, light-brown stain seeping through the side of her leggings. I have plausible deniability – she could have just done that. Amy clings to me, like a stinky baby koala reluctant to leave her tree.
‘It’s okay, Amy, I’ll be back to get you later. I have to go to work now, sweetie.’
As I’m trying to unclench her hands from my hair, her face goes still, and I think she’s about to relent. But then she’s sick all over my shirt.
‘Oh dear,’ says the nursery worker.
‘Agh!’ I cry, handing Amy to the woman so I can shake pink vomit off my top. Now I’ll have to go all the way home and change, I’ll never make the nine fifteen.
‘She can’t come to nursery if she’s sick,’ says the nursery worker, handing her back to me.
‘I don’t think she’s got anything contagious; she just ate my blusher on the way here.’
‘Sorry, nursery policy. She can’t come back for forty-eight hours.’
‘Forty-eight hours? But how am I supposed to go to work?’
The woman shrugs sympathetically, but I genuinely don’t understand. I need to go to work. How are parents supposed to hold down jobs? Seriously, how has no one found a solution to this yet? Amy starts crying, and I immediately feel bad for worrying about missing my meeting. Poor little thing probably has a tummy ache, and I don’t want to leave her here if she’s not feeling well. I hug her blusher-covered face to the dry side of my chest.
‘Poor Amy. Let’s go home.’
Back at the house, I change her nappy and her clothes, but she won’t stop crying. I think about calling Sam, but there’s nothing he can do from Manchester. He’ll just worry I don’t have things under control. I don’t have things under control. Putting a palm against Amy’s forehead, I try to gauge if she is hot. My mum used to do that to me, like a human thermometer. Amy feels warm, but maybe it’s a normal warm. Where do parents learn this stuff? Is there a TED Talk I can watch?
Amy sinks into me, closing her eyes. I remember that feeling of simply needing my mum. Something tells me she just needs me to cuddle her in my lap and let her know I’m not going anywhere. So I change my top and that is what we do, until she falls asleep, dribbling on my shoulder. Using my free hand, I manage to text Michael, telling him I’ve had a childcare emergency and won’t make it into London today after all. I’m conscious I’m letting Future Me down. She’s left me in charge of her life, her career, her children, and I’m failing on every front. What would she do in this situation? I’ll let Amy snooze for ten minutes, then move her onto the sofa, perhaps dial into work remotely. Just . . . ten . . . minutes.
I’m woken by my phone. Did I fall asleep? What time is it? Shit, we’ve both been asleep for two hours! The ringing wakes Amy too, but she smiles up at me with sleepy, contented eyes. She looks so much better, even though she still has residual smears of blusher on her face.
‘Mrs Rutherford, it’s Yvonne from Farnham Primary,’ comes a nasal voice on the phone. ‘Felix doesn’t have his green football jersey. They’re wearing green this week because it’s an away game. We did remind everyone on the Skoolz app.’ There’s a pause on the line. ‘You’ll need to drop it off before two if he’s going to play in the match.’
I don’t want to be the reason he doesn’t play in the match. Handing Amy a bear that plays music when you press its ears, I run upstairs to look for this green football top. There’s nothing in his drawers or on the floor of his room, and after a full search of the house, I eventually find it in the laundry room at the bottom of a pile of washing – covered in mud. If I do a speed wash, maybe I can get it dry in time. The space-age washing machine won’t turn on without codes for energy efficiency and water usage, but after experimenting with a thousand random number combinations, I finally hear the merciful shooshing sound of water pouring into the drum.
Amy shouts, bored of her toy, and as I go to pick her up, there’s a high-pitched repetitive beeping sound from the laundry room. We go to investigate and find ERROR CODE 03 flashing on the washing machine.
‘What the bejeezus is Error Code Three?’ I ask Amy, and then notice she’s picked up a washing powder sheet and is about to put it in her mouth. When I whip it out of her hands, she yells in rage. I can’t open the machine, or turn it off, and the beeping noise, coupled with Amy’s crying, is torture. If I were a spy and the enemy were interrogating me, five minutes of this and I’d give up all my secrets.