Have your cake and eat it (Chicklit contest finalist)

chapter two

How did I get here? I wonder helplessly, sinking onto the bed. How did I become so frazzled that I failed to notice I was half naked? Me, Bella Hunt, 37 years old and wife of Steve, 39, mother to Jessica, almost 8; Joshua, 4; and Tamsin, not yet two. A glance in the mirror tells me I have indeed seen better days; a greyish pallor, dark circles under my eyes and eyebrows that look like two caterpillars stuck to my forehead such is their need for a good plucking.

If I don’t start making an effort with my appearance like I did when I was a career woman and strode around purposefully in Whistles shift dresses, Jaeger jackets and LK Bennett shoes, I could quite easily end up a single mother, I think despondently.

I stand up, resolute, anxious to shake off this unsettling feeling of self-pity. Of course I’m not going to end up a single mother. Steve isn’t that shallow, he’d love me even if I were wearing an old hessian sack. Which let's face it, would probably look infinitely more stylish than some of the questionable garments I’ve been throwing on as of late.

What I need to do is embrace this new wife-mother-cleaner-nanny-general dogsbody role I have found myself in. I mean, can running a household be harder than preparing pitches and winning column inches for clients? I don’t think so. It’s simple really. The key is to approach this as if I were still in my power suit, tapping efficiently away at my keyboard in my role as head of a team of twenty. Granted, the team I am now presiding over is smaller, and a lot more unruly, but there is no reason as to why discipline in the workplace cannot be transposed onto the home, is there?

First things first. I need a bath to make me feel human again and to give me the confidence to zip through the day; cleaning, tidying and teaching Tamsin how to write her name, before effortlessly whipping up a four course meal and draping myself across the sofa in a seductive pose, ready for my husband to sweep me off to the bedroom while the children play an educational round of scrabble. Just the thought of how I’m going to squeeze all that into a few hours makes me want to take a nap. Jerry Hall has a lot to answer for, let me tell you that.

I prop Tamsin up on the bed, surrounded by pillows, and flick on the television. I know, I know, it's not even 10.30am and I’ve already committed what many mothers much more virtuous than I would regard as the worse sin in the history of parenting. But in my current state I can’t think of any other way to keep her occupied, and having her stare glassy eyed at the rubbish box and watch cartoon characters cavort across the screen is a small price to pay for clean hair and freshly shaven legs.

It’s even worth risking the wrath of my mother-in-law over. Can you believe Steve didn’t have a television as a child? His mother is a firm believer in children making their own entertainment, and often regales me with stories of how little Steve and his brother used to play happily for hours on end with nothing more than a roll of parcel tape and a piece of string. While this approach to parenting may be commendable, it does mean that Steve has been conditioned to think television must be used sparingly and as a last resort while I tend to think of it as a free and reliable babysitter if I need to get something done in the next room. Needless to say, our wildly differing opinions have led to more than the occasional heated argument on the subject. Well, I say heated argument, but I actually mean me ranting at him and him just nodding mildly.

I leave the bathroom door open so I can keep an eye on my little charge, and pour a liberal dose of Jo Malone bath oil into the tub. This is heaven, I think, sinking back into the hot water and closing my eyes just for a second.

“Mama, Mama,” Tamsin starts imploring just as I’ve finished washing and conditioning my long blonde hair and I’m about to start with the Gillette Venus.

“Mummy’s coming darling,” I call soothingly, hurriedly lifting an arm and wincing at the state of my armpit. God, I’m like a gorilla. No wonder Steve and I haven’t had sex in… well I can’t remember how long actually, but that will be rectified tonight.