Ask laura, p.1
Ask Laura, page 1
ASK LAURA
GILLIAN JACKSON
Copyright © 2024 Gillian Jackson
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The right of Gillian Jackson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Re-published in 2024 by Bloodhound Books.
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Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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www.bloodhoundbooks.com
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Print ISBN: 978-1-916978-75-1
Contents
Newsletter sign-up
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
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Author’s notes
Acknowledgements
A note from the publisher
Chapter One
An agony aunt should have all the answers drawn from the experience of her own perfect life, right. She is immensely proud of a loving husband, two-point-four beautiful children, and a charming home which is always neat as a pin, right? Wrong! I am thirty-eight years old, a stone or two overweight, and my husband has left me for a younger, sexier woman. As if this isn’t a good enough cliché, she’s also his PA at work. I have a sixteen-year-old daughter, Lucy, who currently isn’t speaking to me (all to do with a pair of shorts, and I mean, really short shorts) and eleven-year-old twin sons, Sam and Jake. In common with most boys their age, they live and breathe football and suffer from an aversion to soap, water and vegetables. All three children seem programmed to leave a trail of devastation behind them in every room of the house. Said house, anything but charming, requires a massive dose of TLC or, failing that, a nuclear bomb.
Fortunately, however, my employers are blissfully ignorant of my chaotic life as we mainly communicate remotely over the internet. So, once a month, I join the ranks of weary commuters trekking into London, thankful I don’t have to go every day to meet with my editor Madeline. She greets me with gushing words and air kisses, her fashionable ensemble complementing a perfectly made-up face and impeccably coiffed hair. If this sounds a little like jealousy, it’s because it is, tempered by a strong affection. Over the three years I’ve worked for Madeline, she’s proved to be as beautiful inside as out. My envy is founded simply on my insecurities as my editor is so altogether, whilst I muddle along in a cloud of eternal busyness without the time, or often the inclination, to devote to my appearance.
My aspiration in life is to become a woman who has everything totally under control, with her family so well-grounded, that each day passes in a perfumed haze of idyllic bliss. Ideally, each family member will be fulfilled and confident in their place in the world, knowing they are valued and loved. The reality, however, is so far removed from perfection, and there are days when I’d happily crawl back into bed with a giant bar of chocolate and a bottle of wine. But no! I get up when the alarm rings, not daring to allow myself the luxury of the snooze button, stumble into the shower and wake myself up with a blast of cold water, whatever the season. This ritual reminds me I am alive and functioning, even if only just.
Occasionally I ask myself why I became an agony aunt when there are so many problems in my own life without taking on board other people’s. However, I love the work, and even if a proportion of the letters from readers are not genuine, many are, and if my replies help someone, it is totally worthwhile. And did I mention it pays the bills? Well, it goes some way towards them, and with the related articles the magazine occasionally commissions from me, we manage to live quite comfortably with the huge bonus that I don’t have to leave the house to work.
When the application form for the job arrived in the post, there were large boxes in which to write my history and qualifications, far more than my single degree needed. After careful consideration, I enlarged my handwriting to match. Admittedly the degree in psychology is appropriate, and I’d been working voluntarily for the last two years for a local counselling charity, which looked pretty impressive in black and white. But what caused me at least one sleepless night was the hypothetical problem to which they asked me to reply. It was sketchy to say the least, presumably lacking in detail to test my skill at reading between the lines:
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Dear Agony Aunt,
My husband has told me he wants a divorce after fifteen years of marriage. He says he’s bored with me, but I thought we were happy, and this has come totally out of the blue! I feel hurt and angry. What should I do?
Mary
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Dear Mary,
This must have been quite a shock for you. Try to persuade your husband to talk about his reasons for wanting a divorce and find out why he is unhappy with your marriage. If he refuses or finds it difficult to speak to you, perhaps he has a friend he could confide in, someone who might act as a mediator. Or you could seek professional counselling as a couple. Fifteen years together is a long time to throw away without discussing and exploring all the options.
If your husband refuses to participate in any dialogue and remains determined to seek a divorce, you must begin thinking of yourself and your happiness. Do you really want to stay in a marriage with someone who doesn’t want to be there? On the other hand, if you act calmly and with dignity, you will weather this storm much better than allowing anger and bitterness to take control. I wish you luck with whatever you decide to do.
Laura
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It took me three hours and copious amounts of coffee to compose the reply in the specified number of words allotted to me. It must have hit the right tone and depth the magazine was seeking because I was subsequently called for an interview and offered the job. What I really wanted to write in reply to poor Mary was:
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Dear Mary,
If your husband has been so hurtful and wants a divorce, then fine, give him one but tell him you want the house, the car and the bank account!
Laura
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Now, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m flippant about my work, as I do take it seriously. The diversity of people’s problems challenges me continually, hopefully keeping my brain from becoming jelly. The articles, too, are exacting, taking me back to my student days, a time I adored when, with my peers, we debated anything and everything, from Freud to Dr Spock, with aspects of physiology in between. The articles, which are tailored to the female, thirty to fifty plus age group, have the usual twee alliterative titles, ‘Managing the Menopause’, ‘Coping with Crisis’ and my particular favourite, ‘Surviving the Surly Student’. Perhaps with the latter I can draw on my own life experience. In researching the column, I am constantly looking for help with my children, as with ‘Life as a Lone Parent’. I believe life is a constant learning curve, and mistakes are simply lessons that will make us stronger to face the future if we heed them. Ha!
In the bottom drawer of my desk, under a pile of old greetings cards I haven’t the heart to destroy, there lies a half-finished manuscript, ‘The novel’ (a bestseller, of course) which I began to write during my pregnancy with Lucy. So many people who write for a living have a secret desire to produce a great literary work of art and I admit to being no different. Perhaps half-finished is exaggerating. Ten chapters would be more accurate, plus a notebook filled with random ideas which I always intended to use in a plot for my novel. Admittedly, I’ve taken it out on occasions and read through it. It isn’t good, but it may become something commercial with a few months of editing. Who knows? It’s my ‘one-day project’, but I haven’t a clue when ‘one-day’ will arrive.
Chapter Two
I feel blessed to have a house for the children and me. As Paul was the one to initiate our divorce, he was the one who left the marital home where the children and I still live. To give him credit, he didn’t argue the point in our settlement and I’ve been working towards paying off his share of the house since we split. It’s a 1930s semi-detached in a pleasant area of West Finchley. W e only live here because an aunt of Paul’s, who was unmarried and childless, made him the sole beneficiary of her will, including this house. To buy the same place today would be entirely out of my price range – neighbouring properties are selling for around the million-pound mark. Outrageous, I know, but rising property prices are a sad fact of life in London.
Not being the most fastidious of housekeepers, the place has a distinctly lived-in feel, but occasionally guilt prompts a pathetic attempt to blitz the place. On one of those days, I was brought to a sudden halt in absolute horror. Starting at the top of the house seemed a logical way to get the task done, but I was to get no further than Lucy’s room.
It wasn’t because I was snooping – I could no longer stand the mess and was trying to distinguish the dirty clothes from the newly ironed ones, all of which were strewn across the bedroom floor. It was there I discovered them; a packet of birth control pills! My heart skipped a beat and I held my breath, staring at the troubling find. The pills were pushed under the bed but not far enough to hide them effectively. Lucy is sixteen and, according to the law, old enough to sleep with a boy – but not in the opinion of an already slightly neurotic mother. Turning them over in trembling hands, I counted the empty blisters in the pack, twelve missing tablets. So, she was taking them, which presumably meant she had a sexual relationship. My mind went into overdrive, trying to recall if Lucy had mentioned any particular boy of late. She hadn’t, which wasn’t surprising. We don’t have the kind of relationship where we tell each other everything, Lucy has a best friend for such confidences. So, what should I do?
If I approach her with the evidence, I’ll be accused of prying, but what’s the alternative? My baby, my firstborn child was in a sexual relationship which I knew nothing about, and even worse, I didn’t even know her boyfriend! This could definitely be chalked up to another failure in the list I was amassing as a parent, but it couldn’t stay on the list without being addressed. Should I ring her father? No, that would be the ultimate betrayal, and Lucy would never speak to me again if I fessed her up without talking to her first. And my ex, Paul, would take it as confirmation I was a lousy parent, a complete failure. But how should I deal with it? Writing a letter to ‘Ask Laura’ crossed my mind, and I laughed out loud, my voice sounding strangely brittle, cutting into the silence of a room which usually pulsated with what passed for music in Lucy’s world. It needed to be addressed and this afternoon would be the ideal time while the boys were at football practice, and Lucy would be first home from school.
Once I’d decided on my course of action, nothing more constructive would be done that day. My insides churned with nerves, or possibly it was the half a dozen chocolate biscuits I’d eaten since my discovery. Biscuits always taste better when eaten with stress. The day seemed interminable, but eventually 3.40pm arrived and with it, my daughter. It was no surprise when she slammed the door and ran straight up to her room; I’d been getting the cold shoulder since vetoing the short shorts last Saturday. I own belts wider than they were, and it was freezing outside too. After a few deep breaths, I climbed the stairs and tapped on Lucy’s door.
‘We need to talk.’ I raised my voice as the music was already throbbing throughout the house. When there was no reply, I stepped inside, ignoring the look of irritation on her face. I opened my palm to show her my find and waited for the expected tirade. Instead, there was steely silence as she grabbed the pack from my hand and pushed it deep into her pocket.
‘Where did you get these from?’ I tried to sound calm, reasonable even.
‘The family planning clinic, where else?’ Lucy almost spat the words out.
‘Didn’t you need an adult with you?’
‘Mum, I’m sixteen and old enough to see a doctor alone. So why do you always treat me like a child?’
I sat on the bed next to Lucy, who immediately turned away, folding her arms across her body, an act of disapproval. I stood to turn down the music and took my place again next to Lucy.
‘Having a sexual relationship with a boy is something you must consider carefully. It’s not a matter of being old enough – it’s about respecting yourself, saving yourself for someone special.’
‘Right, like Dad was your someone special?’
‘I’m not claiming to be perfect or to have always made the right decisions, but I hoped you might learn from me so as not to make the same mistakes I did.’
Lucy turned her head away again, avoiding eye contact.
‘Who is this mysterious boyfriend then? Will we get to meet him soon?’ I tempered my voice, not wanting to sound accusing.
‘You’re joking! Bring him back to this madhouse?’ she said to the wall.
‘Lucy, this is your home; the boys and I are your family. Are you ashamed of us? Because if you are and you think he’ll look down on us, then perhaps he’s not the right one for you?’
‘Who said anything about the right one? I’m not planning a wedding or anything! Look, save the advice for your readers, Mum. It doesn’t work on me.’
I stood to leave, saddened our relationship had soured so much.
‘We have to discuss this sometime, Lucy, and probably talk to your dad too. Think about it and we’ll talk later.’ I left her alone, pretending not to hear the disgusted ‘tut’ as I turned away.
Back downstairs, as I rummaged in the fridge for something to make for tea, my mind drifted back to the day Lucy was born. Okay, she hadn’t been planned and we married young, but I like to think we’d have married eventually anyway. She was a tiny baby, petite but perfect, so perfect, with tiny fingers grasping at mine and her little face screwed up against the light, trying to make sense of the new world into which she’d been so suddenly thrust. Cradling her in my arms and guiding those rosebud lips to my breast, I fell in love, and Lucy’s presence brought out the best in Paul and me. The three of us were so happy, and my love for this helpless little scrap of humanity threatened to overwhelm me. As she grew, so did my love. Lucy was perfect, with cornflower-blue eyes and honey-blonde hair, like my own – and the way she chuckled when Paul played with her was infectious. I could never imagine that one day the all-encompassing harmony of our little family would be torn apart.
When Lucy was three, we decided I should actively seek a job. Our daughter was at an age when she would thrive in the company of other children at a nursery, and a second income would ease the financial burden on Paul. I was secretly looking forward to returning to the adult world of work and doing something to stretch my mind. However, it was not to be as I became pregnant again, ending our well-laid plans. Who would want to employ a pregnant woman? Yes, it was another unplanned pregnancy, and when we learned we were expecting twins, the pressure began to bear down on our relationship, and tiny cracks appeared in the cement of our marriage. There would be two more mouths to feed, yet no second income to help.
Paul and I were disappointed for different reasons, but when the boys were born, this was forgotten in the joy of those two tiny babies conceived (albeit accidentally) in love. We were sure we would cope and weather the storms of the future. But our joy was short-lived as Paul began to work more hours. By the time the boys were a year old, I was exhausted from the effort of looking after three young children and a home with a husband who seemed more and more unwilling to be with us. His long hours paid off with two pretty rapid promotions, and I dared to hope things would change and perhaps we would see more of him in the future. But I was wrong.
