Mum on the Run by Fiona Gibson

adopt an expression of hope.
    Downstairs, Jed is engrossed in his book. In the kitchen, I set the pasta to boil and follow the recipe with the prawns, rocket and chilli. The chillies look so pretty, flecking the prawns with deep red, that I sling in a few extra. Maybe my culinary gene is reawakening. I’m actually enjoying myself, creating a meal from scratch that doesn’t involve sausages or the potato masher. I might not be able to make felt purses, or be half-French, but I can knock together a delicious supper and make myself look presentable (at least, half -presentable).
    I carry our supper, cutlery and glasses of wine from the kitchen to the back garden. Our ancient iron table looks far too rusty and unhygienic to eat off, so I place everything on the garden wall while I hurry back in for a tablecloth. The only one I can find has an indelible orangey stain, but it’ll do. Grabbing a bunch of tea lights, I set the table, placing my plate over the stain. ‘Ready!’ I call from the back door.
    Jed appears, still clutching his book. ‘We’re eating outside?’
    ‘Yes, why not? It’s a lovely evening.’ With a flourish, I light the tea lights and survey the scene.
    ‘Oh . . . okay. I’ll need a jacket though.’
    ‘Get one then,’ I say sweetly. It is a bit chilly, but I’m not going to spoil the effect of the dress with a jacket or even a cardi. I shall freeze my arse off instead.
    Jed reappears in an Arctic-worthy jacket, thankfully devoid of book, and perches on a wobbly metal chair. I wait for him to register my new make-up and exclaim, ‘Wow, Laura, you look gorgeous tonight. Let me kiss you, irresistible wife!’ Nothing is forthcoming. Next time Jed and I have a hot date, I may wear a boiler suit.
    I glance around our garden. The bleak rectangle is bordered by brick walls all shedding their white paint skins. The borders are already sprouting weeds. ‘You know,’ I murmur, ‘we really should do something with this place.’
    ‘Like what?’ Jed prods a pasta quill. He looks so good, so strong-jawed and handsome in the yellowy flicker of the tea lights, even with his big fat jacket on.
    ‘Get some pots,’ I suggest, ‘or hanging baskets. Maybe even some turf to make a proper lawn.’
    ‘Feel free,’ he says with a chuckle, ‘but I don’t imagine it’d stay perfect for long. The kids would soon mess it up.’
    ‘It wouldn’t have to be perfect,’ I insist. ‘It could be wild, full of colour like, like—’
    ‘Like . . . your dad’s garden?’ he says gently.
    I nod. Dad lived for his garden. Finn would help him to plant things, when he was still eager to please. He even had a notebook in which he’d document what he’d planted and when the first shoots appeared. ‘My cornflowers came up!’ Finn wrote carefully, and Mum let us cut some to bring home. As Dad grew sicker, the borders ran wild. ‘He’ll knock it back into shape when he’s better,’ Mum would say as the exuberant colours blurred beneath a blanket of weeds. I could have helped, if I’d known. After Dad had gone, Mum had the whole garden turfed over.
    ‘You okay, love?’ Jed asks.
    ‘I’m fine.’ I muster a smile. ‘I just think the kids would enjoy the garden more if we spruced it up.’
    ‘There’s the park, though, isn’t there?’ He forks in some pasta and splutters dramatically. ‘God, Laura! How much chilli did you put in this?’
    ‘Just what the recipe said,’ I say curtly.
    ‘Oh, wow . . . this is bloody hot.’ He slugs his wine and starts blowing out air.
    I take a tentative nibble. It tastes fine at first, if a little fiery. Then the heat builds up until an inferno tears at my throat. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it,’ I croak, my eyes streaming as I fork in an enormous mouthful to prove just how bloody fine and delicious it is.
    ‘I can’t eat this,’ Jed announces, lurching inside to the kitchen. I hear the tap being turned on full blast. My entire digestive system is combusting. No