Woman Last Seen(3)

It’s just a fact that Paula and I are not close. We don’t argue but we don’t gel. Never have. We are polite with one another. I suppose her cool detachment toward me is understandable. Mark could get a new wife; she could never get a new sister. I realize if Frances hadn’t tragically died of cancer, I would never have become Mark’s wife, Oli and Seb’s mum, because they were not the sort of couple that would ever have split up. They were happy. Mark would never have noticed me.

But Frances did die.

It takes a lot of strength and determination not to think of myself as second choice. Second place. I am constantly reminding myself, I’m not Plan B, I’m just a different path. I do visit her grave with them on her birthday and even Christmas Eve, just before we dash off up the M1 to see Mark’s parents—although that drives me mad, because there are a ton of things that have to be done on Christmas Eve and all of them are time sensitive. I just think making a thing out of the death anniversary is a bit much.

I’d rather wash the kitchen floor.

I am going to do the housework first and then settle down to my telephone calls, catch up with friends and family. It will be my treat after the drudgery. I’ll make plans for the coming week, discuss bars and restaurants that are worth a visit, remind myself that there are more ways to validate my life than my success—or otherwise—in parenting Oli and Seb, being Mark’s wife.

Don’t get me wrong. We’re a very happy family. More often than not. Very happy. It’s just sometimes—and any mother will tell you this—sometimes being a mum seems a bit thankless, a bit hopeless. Well, if not hopeless, then certainly outside of your control. I think that’s the hardest lesson I have had to learn as a parent; no matter how much I try, I am not able to guarantee my sons’ happiness and success. There are constant outside forces at work that disrupt things. Forces that matter to them more than I do. Friendship groups, strict or nagging teachers, Insta likes and follows, whether or not they are picked for a team or invited to a party, whether they think they are tall enough, too fat, too thin, too spotty. Whether they are the best at something, at anything. It was easier when they were younger; a cuddle, a colorful Elastoplast or an ice lolly solved just about everything.

I like to listen to music when the house is empty. Two reasons. One, to fill the void that is normally owned by the noise of video games beeping, music blaring and the TV streaming, and secondly because when the boys are home, I rarely get to pick what music is played. Oli likes hip-hop and rap, Seb pretends to like these things because he lives in awe of his big brother and tries to ape his every move—adopting his style, claiming his tastes in music, food, TV shows—much to Oli’s annoyance. Because both the boys like hip-hop and rap, the angry lyrics and heavy, insistent beats tend to thud through our rooms whenever they are about; my preferences are not considered. No one would call me a muso. I stopped following bands when Oasis and Blur started to slip down the charts. Most of the music I like is blacklisted on Radio 1, but I do like dancing. I like a beat thrilling through my body. I guess I’m the musical equivalent to that person who says they know nothing about wine, except what they like to drink.

Sometimes I’ll hear a track that Oli and Seb are listening to and I’ll say, “What’s this? This is good.” Up until about six months ago that would make Oli smile, he’d excitedly show me some incomprehensible YouTube video and tell me facts about the singer: they’ve been in prison, they’ve performed on a yacht to crowds on the shore, they gave away ten million in cash in their local hood. The worlds he describes are alien to me; I remember when the most surprising thing a pop star could do was wear eyeliner. But I liked to listen to him enthuse. I liked to see him animated, I felt honored that it was me he chose to share his excitement with. I miss that. I miss him.

I once made the mistake of commenting that after hearing Taylor Swift on Radio 1, I considered her my spirit animal—because if you listen to her lyrics, she writes the things I feel. Well, felt, when I was young and vulnerable. It appears those things don’t change for a woman no matter how woke a world becomes. It was around this time that I noticed Oli change toward me. When I said the spirit animal thing, he didn’t get the sentiment, couldn’t see my joke or my attempt at connection. He was horrified. Suddenly furious that I might encroach on his world of youth and possibility, crushes, and illicit under-the-covers (solo) activity.

“You don’t even know what a spirit animal is,” he snapped. “Another person can’t be your spirit animal.”

“I know, I was making a joke!” I said, smiling trying to get him to engage. “But she is brilliant, isn’t she? It’s as though she understands everything there is to understand about secret longings, triumphs and mistakes.” After hearing her on the radio, I had downloaded her latest album. I pressed Play on my phone. “Listen.” I began to dance around the kitchen. We first bonded over dancing, me and Oli. He used to climb onto my feet, and I would step with him, in a strange slow shuffle dance, the way my father had once moved with me. Obviously, he’s far too big now. He’s taller than me! He’s a great dancer. I like watching him. It takes a confident teen to dance anywhere, let alone in the kitchen with his mother. That day, when I said the thing about Taylor Swift, Oli just scowled, said Taylor Swift was crap and then disappeared to his room. I can’t remember him dancing with me since.