How to Kill Your Husband (and other handy household hints) by Kathy Lette (top 10 novels to read TXT) 📗

Planning is a vital part of any trip. Just ask Scott of the Antarctic. I planned to take my class to the museum, then leave them there with Lucy, the other teacher from my form who is a good mate, and the six parental helpers drafted in for the day. I would then dash to my daughter’s Sports Day in Hampstead Heath, compete in the Mothers’ Race, and catch the Northern Line back in time for the return coach journey to school.

I knew the dangers of bunking off from a school excursion. It was no doubt a sacking offence. However, the school policy cited that a teacher had to be given three written warnings, before he or she could be sacked. Which was at least fairer than marriage. Three written warnings then divorce would be preferable to the sudden rejection Rory had sprung on me.

Oh yes. Preparation can make all the difference between not getting a promotion and not even getting close.

On the way to Jenny’s Sports Day, I was so nervous, I devoured two Mars bars, swigged down a cappuccino and crunched my way through a packet of crisps. Not the ideal way to train for a race. I had to sprint from the tube to the sports ground, a matter of some 300 yards, but that left me bent double at the waist, wheezing and praying for death. I was so bloody unhealthy I could hardly stand upright. I traversed the last stretch with the speed of a tree sloth through treacle. Hampstead Heath had been chock-a-block for weeks with deranged mothers panting along with their personal trainers, trying to achieve Olympian stamina for their mothers’ races. And here was me, shuffling along, as though trekking across snow.

There was also the drawback of what I was wearing. Having crashed out in the surgery flat, I’d slept in the clothes I’d worn teaching yesterday – a skirt and a short-sleeved top. Luckily, I’d put on my trainers before leaving the flat for Bianca’s. But I’d hoiked off my old grey bra during the night and, in my haste that morning, hadn’t put it back on. Never mind, I told myself. My bras weren’t that supportive anyway. A truly supportive bra would tell me that I’m not half a stone overweight and have no stretchmarks.

Once I got to the sports ground, the children’s races were coming to an end. I was just in time to cheer Jenny on. I sat with the other parents, writhing in our seats, as though being tickled by gigantic invisible fingers, as we craned for the best view of the finishing line. Heads bobbed like popcorn exploding in a pan, amid the flash of digital cameras and the whir of camcorders.

‘Mu-um!’ Jenny cringed when I hugged her at the finishing line, ecstatic that she’d come third, ‘You’re not wearing a bra. Eeeww. You’re just sooo embarrassing.’ In a spirit of reconciliation, she offered to run away if I embarrassed her again. All I could think was that she’d better start packing, because pretty soon her mother would be sprinting, skirt tucked into knickers, tits to the wind.

‘Have you seen your dad?’ I asked, trying to keep the hysteria and pain out of my voice.

She hooked a thumb towards the amenities block. I meandered as casually as possible in that direction. The wind whipped through the long grass, this way and that, making it seethe and twitch like a sea of green snakes. It was quiet behind the toilet shed and quite secluded. Trying to quell my emotions, I peeked around the corner of the building. And there they were, stealing a kiss. I couldn’t breathe. I was gasping. It was an emergency situation. If I’d been on a plane, an oxygen mask would have been dropping from the overhead lockers.

After they’d sauntered back to join the other parents, I walked to the place where they’d been standing. They’d left two perfect casts of their shoes pressed into the soil. Like the scene of a crime. But at least Bianca was wearing kitten heels and a summer frock, which meant I might not have to run after all.

Then the mothers’ race was cracklingly announced over the Tannoy. Devoted mums suddenly flung their children out of their arms as though flamenco dancing and hurtled towards the starting line.

Once upon a time, there would have been a few fun, gentle heats, mums running in their stockinged feet, perhaps balancing an egg on a spoon; the biggest danger being if your wrap-around skirt came undone and fell down. But not now. Not since the advent of the alpha mums, those women with their polished granite kitchen worktops, down lights and number plates which read A1 Mum. They’d had their meteoric careers, then bred late; giving up their high-powered jobs to be high-powered mummies. But the killer competitive instinct still oozes out of them. The traditional big-thighed mothers, women testing the limits of Lycra, were so cowed by the ferocity of the supermums, each muscle and sinew flexing intimidatingly, that they’d given up competing and now just sat glumly on the sidelines.

Bianca suddenly peeled off her frock to reveal a state-of-theart, high-tech Lycra running ensemble, which wouldn’t be out of place in the Olympic village. She kicked off her kitten heels and bent to lace herself into trainers, too white to be anything but brand new and purpose bought, I reflected wrathfully. She then rose like an Amazonian warrior. The flowers seemed to curtsey in the wind before her. Christ. Even Mother Nature adored the man-eating bitch.

Strolling to the lane next to mine, Bianca, in full make-up – including fake eyelashes, looked me up and down. ‘It doesn’t matter if you win or lose because . . . you’re gonna lose.’ She stretched, as languorously at ease in her skin as a cat.

‘Well, I just hope you’ve got a spare medical team on hand, because you are