<Jonesey, I’m so sorry I’ve been out of touch. I left my phone on the kitchen table when I went to Cardiff on Friday and I don’t have your number anywhere else. I’ve been tweeting and emailing you like a frenzied beast. Have the ants got into your computer?>
Oh God. That’s right. Roxster had said he was going to Cardiff to watch the rugby this weekend. That was why he wanted to see me on Thursday, when I found out Billy had nits. The Cardiff rugby thing was this weekend!
Had delicious texting exchange culminating in:
<Shall I come round tonight to have make-up sex? Even though we didn’t actually have break-up sex? But maybe we could do that after?>
Am going to say no. Have meeting tomorrow and is really important to be prepared, rested and fresh and that is the sort of professional, prioritizing Power Mother I am. After the children are asleep I shall prepare my thoughts for the Power Meeting.
11.55 p.m. Mmmmm. There is nothing like make-up sex to help you forgive your toy boy for going to watch the rugby and leaving his phone behind.
POWER MOTHER
Monday 22 April 2013
132lb (evaporated through sex), shags 5, minutes spent preparing thoughts for meeting 0, ideas of things to say in meeting 0 (oh God).
11.30 a.m. Film Company Reception Area.
Oh, God. What was I thinking having sex all night? The whole make-up/break-up thing somehow whipped Roxster and me up into a sexual frenzy and neither of us could stay asleep. Was just actually hanging upside down from the side of the bed with Roxster holding both my legs in the air whilst thrusting in between them when suddenly—
‘Mummeeee!’ The door handle started rattling.
Oh God, it was so difficult to stop.
‘Mummeee!’
Roxster pulled back in alarm so that I crashed down backwards onto the floor . . .
‘Mummy! What was that bang?’
‘Nothing, darling!’ I trilled, upside down, ‘Comeeeeing!’ at which Roxster whispered, ‘And I’m certainly about to.’
I tried to turn myself round unladylikely, with my bum in the air, and Roxster started giggling as he hoisted me back up onto the bed, whispering, ‘Please don’t fart.’
‘Mummee, where are you? Why is the door locked?’
I dived over the bed, trying to straighten my slip while Roxster hid over the other side. I undid the hook, opened the door a crack, and hurriedly stepped out, shutting it behind me.
‘It’s all right, Billy, Mummy’s here, and everything’s fine. What’s the matter?’
‘Mummy,’ said Billy, looking at me strangely, ‘why are your boobies hanging out?’
Once I’d taken them to school, the morning was complete nightmare trying to sort out complex matrix of pickups and nits and play-date dilemmas with Chloe, blow-drying hair (presumably spraying bathroom with early-cycle nit eggs), and eventually locating navy silk dress in bottom of wardrobe requiring ironing and wiping off of chocolate stain, and now I am here waiting for the film meeting and have not done any mental preparation at all.
Offices are incredibly scary. Reception area is like an art gallery. Reception desk is like an enormous concrete, free-standing bath, and there is a man lying face-down on the floor – perhaps another aspiring screenwriter whose ‘exploratory option meeting’ had failed?
12.05 p.m. Oh. Is a sculpture, or perhaps more of an installation.
12.07 p.m. Calm and poised. Calm and poised. Everything is fine. Just need to remind self of what is actually in script.