‘Does that mean you can’t help?’ Jacob sighs and picks up his iPad.
I take it off him. ‘Absolutely not. We don’t give up that easily.’
‘Even when we don’t know what we’re doing?’ he asks.
‘Especiallythen.’
Leo pops his head around the living room door. ‘Have we got any Pot Noodles?’
‘No. We’re having a crackdown on ultra-processed foods.’
He huffs. ‘There is literallynothingin this house to eat.’
‘I’m sure there is, Leo,’ I say, aware of the divergence in our respective expectations. He eats like a horse and seems to think it’s my job to keep the cupboard full enough to whip up a Tudor feast at the drop of a hat.
‘Not that I can see. And where’s the Coke? Or Doritos? You said you’d get some.’
‘Have some fruit,’ I say, distractedly, googling something that might shed some light on the next maths question.
‘Nah. I wanted something good.’
To think this is the child I bothered pureeing organic broccoli for when he was five months old because I naively believed that it would lead to a lifetime of healthy eating. But then, that’s not the only way in which Leo has changed recently.
Until the beginning of this school year, he wasn’t just one of the brightest students in his class, he was diligent too. There wasn’t a spelling test that Leo didn’t prepare for.
Unfortunately, the start of his two-year GCSE studies seems to have coincided with a major re-evaluation of his priorities in life. Now, he has a total disinterest in exams, has to be threatened, bribed and cajoled into doing his homework and seems to place as much value on studying as he does on picking up wet towels from a bathroom floor.
Far more important to him these days is developing his skills on the PlayStation and playing any sport available – including but not limited to Brazilian Ju-Jitsu, tennis and, above all, rugby.
Obviously, I’m glad he’s looking after his physical health, if you can say that about a sport that has resulted in several black eyes and a broken wrist (and that’s just the tennis). I think it’s fantastic that he has passions. Equally, he’s a clever kid who is going to blow these exams completely if he doesn’t get his act together.
‘Do you know what a Carroll Diagram is, Leo?’ I ask, more to satisfy my own curiosity than anything else.
‘Course,’ he shrugs.
Something occurs to me. ‘Great! Come and sit down. You can have a Pot Noodle if you help Jacob with his homework.’
‘I thought you said we didn’t have any?’
I don’t tell him it’s my emergency stash. ‘Chicken Curry?’ I offer instead, standing up to head to the kitchen.
‘Ooh yeah,’ he replies eagerly, as if I’ve just offered him a Michelin-starred meal. ‘Thanks Mum.’
I sometimes think I should be stricter, that the backchat I’ve been dealing with since he turned 15 is my own fault. Perhaps I made this bed in the aftermath of the divorce. When Brendan left, I felt an almost primal need to lavish them with affection and tenderness. With hindsight, I probably spoiled them, but I wanted the message to be loud and clear: your dad might no longer live in this house, but I’ve got more than enough love to fill it with.
I don’t get time to watch TV after Jacob has gone to bed – I’ve got too many emails I need to catch up on in the spare room. This doubled as my office at the height of the pandemic and still does on the odd day when I work from home.
The boys and I live in a four-bedroom Edwardian semi that my dad and I redecorated from top to bottom when we first moved in. I wouldn’t describe it as my dream house; that would be one of those rambling country cottages in the Cotswolds where Jilly Cooper’s books were set. But there is a lot to love about it that goes beyond the desirable postcode. Original features. A good garden. A fitted kitchen, complete with double oven, pendant lights and a flexi-spray sink tap that I got very excited about when it was installed 18 months ago.
It’s gone 11pm before I finally close my laptop, at which point I’m too shattered to do anything except head to the bathroom totake off my make-up. Back in my twenties, I’d happily scrub it off with a disposable wipe, slap on a bit of supermarket moisturiser and that was that. I can’t claim that my skincare routine has changed enormously, though there are dozens of jars in my cabinet and they cost more, though I suspect all these AHAs and retinols are probably no better than a good night’s sleep.
Full disclosure: I have had Botox. Not because I want the skin of a twenty-year-old but because I have frown lines above my nose that, without an injection a couple of times a year, make me look permanently angry and irritated. And I’m only that some of the time. I’m not brave enough for fillers, though, mainly because there’s a woman on reception at our doctor’s surgery with lips you could stand a potted cactus on.
Beyond that, my quest to be the best forty-something version of myself is half-hearted at best; I am no Gwyneth Paltrow.
I think every woman reaches a stage in her life when she vows toBe More Gwyneth. I’d love to be irritated by her. To dismiss her vagina-scented candles and bone-broth diet as evidence that she’s ga-ga. But at the end of the day, she’s running a multi-million-pound empire and she still has time to meditate, scrape her tongue and dry-brush her thighs every night.
As if on cue, another Asana Rebel notification pops up on my phone, reminding me that if only I’d devoted 10 minutes to their exercises today, I’d soon be on the way to an iron-clad core and inner peace. I don’t really have the temperament for Pilates or yoga, preferring the oxytocin high and convenience of a thirty-minute run, which I can slot in a few evenings of the week when Jacob is at one of his clubs. The only trouble is, running does not love me these days, judging by the sound my joints make the day after a 5k. Like someone in the vicinity is opening a bag of crisps.
