Read Mummy Said the F-Word for Free Online Page A

think.’
    ‘That doesn’t sound too bad. It looks pretty shiny and healthy in her photo, doesn’t it? Surely she’s not about to drop dead …’
    ‘God only knows,’ Millie says with a shrug. ‘Anyway, it’s a pain in the butt. I think Harriet needs a proper break, so I need to sort out a temporary replacement. Trouble is, agony aunts aren’t exactly easy to find. They’re hardly crawling out of the woodwork.’
    I snigger, picturing women with there-there smiles slithering out between gaps in the restaurant’s panelled walls. ‘Do you need one? Couldn’t you just drop the problem page until she’s better?’
    Millie looks aghast, as if I have suggested she invites Travis for a sleepover at her flat. On his sole visit there, Travis jettisoned a box of Lil-lets into her toilet. ‘It’s the most popular part of the magazine,’ she insists. ‘It’s providing a valuable service to our readers.’
    I splutter and Travis cackles with delight. ‘No it’s not. It’s a chance to gloat over other people’s misfortunes.’
    Millie grins, and her eyes glint mischievously. ‘Well, there is that. Anyway, we can’t do without problems. The readers would have a fit.’ She pushes back a swathe of hair that’s escaped from its tortoiseshell clip and is swinging jauntily over one eye. Millie is an absolute beauty: all honeyed hair which gleams as if illuminated from inside, coupled with disarmingly wrinkle-free skin. That’s the child-free for you. They look about fifteen years old. They have their cuticles oiled and their bums scoured with Dead Sea minerals. They don’t know the names of the Tweenies.
    ‘Well,’ I say firmly, ‘I’m sure you’ll find someone. D’you honestly think I’d have the first idea of how to help people?’ I omit to mention that
Bambino
’s poncey attitude sends me incandescent with rage. All those pristine children scampering through buttercup fields in Mini Dior dresses. I could hurl all over its glossy pages.
    ‘That’s why you’re ideal,’ Millie insists.
    ‘I don’t see why …’
    ‘Because you’ve had …’ she struggles for a diplomatic way to put it … ‘plenty of
life experiences
.’
    ‘Jesus, Millie. You mean I’ve been dumped.’
    ‘It’d be really high-profile,’ she charges on, ‘and it’s regular work. Regular
cash
. I bet you’re skint, aren’t you? When did you last have your hair cut?’
    ‘The summer of 1942.’
    ‘Honestly, it’s money for old rope. You’re a mother and a writer, aren’t you?’
    ‘That’s debatable,’ I say.
    ‘And your kids are healthy and well balanced, so you must be doing something right. You must
know
stuff …’
    ‘That doesn’t mean I’m qualified to advise other people.’ I decide not to mention Jake’s decidedly unbalanced cleaning fetish.
    ‘Neither is Harriet! You don’t need qualifications to be an agony aunt. Anyone with half a brain can do it. You just need common sense, a good turn of phrase and sound like you know the answers to everything.’
    ‘Is that all?’ I edge a wine glass away from Travis’s grappling hands. ‘I’d feel like a fake,’ I add flatly.
    ‘Don’t you feel like a fake when you’re writing those health tips? I mean, what d’you really know about fungal feet and premature baldness?’
    ‘Um, nothing …’
    ‘And look at me, editing a parenting magazine when I’ve never changed a nappy in my puff and wouldn’t want to, thanks. We’re all fakes, Cait, when you think about it. We’re all bluffing. Unless you’ve spent years training as a surgeon and you’re doing a
real
job like fixing people’s insides.’
    I laugh and she flashes a blinding smile while taking the bill from our waiter. ‘My treat. I’ll stick it on expenses.’
    ‘Thanks, Millie. I’ll get it next time.’
    ‘Will you think about it? The agony thing?’
    ‘OK,’ I fib.
    While I attempt to de-sauce Travis with a paper napkin, Millie stuffs her purse back into her bag. It looks