Lush in Translation Read online

  Lush in Translation

  Aimee Horton

  Published by Velvet Morning Press

  Copyright © 2015 by Aimee Horton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance toactual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Ellen Meyer and Vicki Lesage

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Lush in Translation

  About the Author

  Introduction

  After Dottie headed overseas for the re-release of Survival of the Ginnest, I became terribly aware of just how British she is. This is no surprise—born and raised in a small village in northeast England, she couldn’t be anything else, and it’s why we all (I hope) love her as much as we do.

  However, for her American friends out there, I feel it’s only fair I offer you a translation guide for those tougher, slightly gin-soaked, chapters. So over to Dottie to give you a helping hand…

  Aimee Horton

  England, 2015

  Lush in Translation

  “Come on Dottie,” I say to myself taking a deep breath. “You watch Friends all the time. Carrie from Sex and the City is your style guru, and Saved by the Bell re-runs basically made you into an American teenager. This shouldn’t be so confusing.”

  I’m in the upstairs loo, giving myself a pep-talk in the mirror. My second cousin (or maybe third or fourth—I can never remember) from the States is visiting. Pregnant, she and her American husband are moving back to the UK to be near her parents, and she’s come early before it’s too late to fly. And because Henry travels so much, everyone thought I could give her advice on how to cope.

  I’m not sure why they think I’m more qualified than anyone else. I can’t very well tell a pregnant woman that booze fixes everything.

  Things didn’t get off to a great start if I’m honest. I forgot that “pregnant with first child” feeling of hope. You know, where any parent that finds their children tiresome at times is obviously doing it wrong. Well, Brittany (not Britney, sadly) is totally in that stage. Seven months pregnant and glowing, she couldn’t wait to meet my “little poppets.”

  Like my children can be referred to as anything other than little devils.

  I’d told her they were doing my head in and I was letting CBeebies babysit them. She’d looked confused for a moment, until I’d explained they’d been running riot since 5:45 a.m. and I was tired, so I’d plonked them in front of the digital (cable) television channel dedicated entirely to preschoolers.

  “So, CBeebies isn’t an actual person looking after your babies? You’re just leaving them in front of the television?” She’d said slowly, her all-American smile slipping slightly from her face when the realisation hit her.

  “No, no… well. I’m here, in the other room, I’m just…” I can’t carry on because there is no way of making it sound any better.

  It hadn’t gone any better when my daughter, Mabel, on a mission to tell tales, ran into the kitchen. I was fixing Brittany a camomile tea and myself a strong coffee as Mabel quickly informed me that George’s nappy had exploded all over his vest.

  Shit. Quite literally shit.

  Seeing Brittany looking puzzled, I had opened my mouth, ready to explain that a nappy was in fact a diaper and a vest was…

  Wait what was a vest in American? Kelly Kapowski never dealt in baby vests.

  A vest is in fact a onesie. However, I didn’t need to bother trying to find the words to explain, as a stinking George had toddled into the room shouting “Poo! Poo!” at the top of his voice, giving a visual explanation instead. Whisking him away before she actually threw up, I quickly cleaned him up before deciding that perhaps it would be safer for him to have a nap.

  Now, George is gurgling in his cot, and I’m taking a few deep breaths wondering how to redeem myself. I’d quite like to appear as a competent mother in front of this stranger, who has been watching as I fail dismally.

  Come on Dots. The language barrier is bigger than you thought, but you can do this.

  Washing my hands just to be sure, I brush my jeans and t-shirt down, smooth my slightly unruly curls and head back downstairs. I try not to look at the pristine bump in front of me, clad in black Capri trousers (pants) and a pink wrap-around blouse that I swear looks designer.

  In the kitchen, Mabel is re-enacting a scene from Peppa Pig for poor Brittany, and in order to save the situation, I shove some sweets (candy) in her direction and usher her back to the lounge.

  “Is Peppa Pig some sort of pet?” Brittany asks, glancing out of my kitchen window, perhaps looking for signs of a pigsty in the back garden.

  “No no no, it’s a television programme. Not on CBeebies, though. On another channel.” I don’t say any more as she looks at me awkwardly for a second before changing the subject.

  “So, are you going on vacation anywhere this year?” Instinctively I stroke my curls, feeling like I’ve stepped into an American hair dressers (salon).

  “Nowhere special.” We’ve not been on holiday abroad since we had Mabel. “We tend to find a little cottage in the country somewhere and do lots of walks, trying to tire the kids out in the desperate hope for some sort of lie-in!”

  I laugh, before going on to explain that a lie-in didn’t actually mean lying in something, but sleeping late in the morning, something I don’t feel like I’ve done for years.

  “Oh! Sleeping in?” she asks enthusiastically. “I’m so excited. Since I’ve been over here with Mom and Dad, I’ve been sleeping in a lot. It’s great to be off work. I can’t wait for Tim to be over here, and us all to have snuggly weekend lie-ins. Coffee and papers in bed, the baby in the crib next to us.” She continues, her face lighting up with a smile.

  Do I have the heart to tell her I had a similar dream and in reality anything that starts with a “7” is considered a lie-in?

  I decide against it as I hear George stir and realise it’s time to collect Arthur from his football (soccer) lesson.

  “I’m just going to grab the kids,” I say, standing up and quickly rinsing our mugs and drying them with a tea towel (dish towel). “Could you just grab the pushchair… sorry, stroller, from the hall? Thanks.” Racing upstairs I scoop up a sweeter-smelling George, and call to Mabel in the lounge. She begins to argue with me, and not wanting to cause another scene I promise her a bag of buttons for the walk back if she’s good.

  Turning to Brittany I don’t even bother to try and cover up. “You know, I always said I wouldn’t bribe, but sometimes you just have to go with it. Mini bags of buttons are in fact mini bags of candy—about eight in a pack, and if it makes the walk to school easier, it’s totally worth it.”

  Brittany doesn’t respond, but stands quietly by the front door as I strap George in and dangle the purple bag of chocolate in front of Mabel while she slips her wellies on her feet, before shoving the buttons into my pocket for later.

  We walk in silence. I’m pretending Brittany is taking in our picturesque village, but I have a feeling she’s lost in thought about how she is going to parent completely opposite to me. Especially as I notice a smear of snot on Mabel’s cheek that, by the looks of it, has been there for a while.

  We approach the edge of the pavement and just as I’m turning to grab Mabel’s hand I say, “Watch out
for cars on that zebra crossing. People tend to speed around the corner without stopping for pedestrians!” I hear a scream and manage to yank Brittany by the coat back onto the pavement (sidewalk) as a 4x4 does an emergency stop.

  “I was looking for a zebra! You meant crosswalk didn’t you?” Brittany is panting, her hand on her bump. The driver looks angrily at us, and winds down his window.

  “Should’ve looked where you were going, love!” he shouts, then drives off before I can shout after him that perhaps he should too.

  “Are you OK?” I ask, and Brittany nods.

  “I didn’t know SUVs could go that fast on such winding roads.” She pauses for a second then says, “Let’s just keep going.”

  We continue in an uncomfortable silence, and that’s pretty much how it stays the rest of the afternoon. We head home, the kids running ahead but stopping at the edge of each road, waiting until I come and help them to cross.

  This never happens. They are totally getting extra ice cream tonight for making me look marginally better.

  It’s Friday, so the kids are excited to have their traditional Friday treat of fish fingers and chips (fish sticks and French fries) for tea, before running around the garden like loonies.

  I make Brittany another camomile tea, and catch her looking longingly at my coffee. “I used to love coffee with cream.”

  “Would you like one? I’m sure one wouldn’t hurt.”

  Smiling, she shakes her head.

  At least she’s smiling.

  Finally, the alarm on my phone starts to ring, signalling that it’s time to start the bedtime routine.

  What? Don’t tell me you don’t count down to bedtime.

  I take the kids upstairs, leaving Brittany in the kitchen gazing out quietly over the garden. She’s probably wondering why the hell she agreed to stay with us. Luckily, Henry will be home soon and he’ll be able to charm the socks off her.

  Forty-five minutes later, I race downstairs with a tired and angry George on my hip.

  “Hey, Brittany, could you pass me that dummy please?” I ask, indicating over her shoulder while I grab a toddler cup from the fridge, already filled with milk.

  At the precise moment Brittany turns around to see what I’m talking about, Henry walks in through the back door.

  “You’re calling your husband a dummy?” she exclaims, as Henry swoops in and picks up what I actually meant.

  “Pacifier.” He beams at her, before holding out his hand. “You must be Brittany. I’m Henry. Let me relieve Dottie from the bedtime scrum, and then I’ll introduce myself properly when the horrors are in bed!”

  Handing him George, I tell Henry I’ll be up in a minute for kisses before turning to my guest. At once silence descends on the room, and I feel calmer, more in control.

  “I don’t know about you,” I begin, “but I’m pooped.” I rummage in the drawers and pull out our trusty take-away folder. “Do you fancy a take out?” I grin and hand her the pizza delivery menu.

  Smiling the first genuine smile since she arrived, Brittany takes the menu and settles onto the stool at the breakfast bar. Just as I think everything’s going to be OK, she bursts into tears.

  “Dottie, I think I had the wrong idea about parenting. I don’t think it’s going to be as relaxing as I first thought.”

  I put my arm around her, realising I’d mistaken her silence for judgement, when actually it was sheer panic.

  “Ach, you’ll be a lot calmer than I am. My children are just horrible,” I say, giving her a hug. Her crying slows down, and she turns to look at me.

  “I’m not so sure. I think they’re cute… but will you help me?”

  “Of course.” I say. “The most important bit of advice I can give you—and it’s the same advice my mother gave me—is make sure your cupboard is always full of coffee, and your fridge is always full of gin and tonic…”

  About the Author

  Aimee is from Lincoln, England, where she enjoys drinking gin and spending time with her family (and she won’t tell you which of those she prefers doing). As a child, one of her favourite parts of the summer holidays was to devour all the books in a little book shop in Devon. She continued reading at lightning speed right up until having children. She now reads with eyes propped open by match sticks.

  If you liked this story, you’ll love the rest of the Survival Series, featuring Dottie Harris:

  Survival of the Ginnest, a modern-day diary of a new mom.

  Survival of the Christmas Spirit, a humorous short story about Dottie’s Christmas gone horribly wrong.

  Mothers Ruined, a funny novel of Dottie’s misadventures in suburbia.

  For more about Aimee, check out PassTheGin.co.uk. And you can always drop Aimee a line at [email protected].

  Read on for a sneak peek of Mothers Ruined…

  Mothers Ruined

  1.

  Am I the only one whose plans always go wrong?

  WHY THE HELL ISN’T HE PICKING UP HIS PHONE?

  I’m speeding. Well as much as you can speed when you’re stuck behind a tractor on what feels like a single-track road. There can’t possibly be enough room to overtake, even though that posh-looking car has overtaken us both and is already just a speck in the distance.

  I glance at the seat next to me, where a Tesco carrier bag stuffed with various snacks, fruit shoots and about five different electrical gadgets is resting, along with my hospital bag. By hospital bag, I mean random clothes rammed into the first handbag I could find that didn’t have a layer of mini-cheddar crumbs crushed into the lining.

  I didn’t expect this baby for another three or four weeks. How the hell was I supposed to know it would bloody come early?

  The nearly out-of-battery iPad is charging in the cigarette lighter, and my mobile is propped precariously on the dashboard in front of the petrol gauge. Stabbing at the screen again, I select Henry’s number for the hundredth time and listen to it ring out. The kids in the back are irritating me even more by counting how many times it rings before going to answer machine. This time it’s only three before the sound of Henry’s “grown-up work voice” comes out of the tinny speakerphone and informs me he’s away on business and will be back in the office next week.

  He’s bloody diverted my call! Three rings means he’s seen my name and diverted it! Idiot.

  Stopping the car on the grass verge, I grab my phone from the dashboard and Google Henry’s Scotland office. He visits there every few months, yet I’ve never needed to call. I’ve always relied on his mobile phone to get in contact. However, this time it’s serious.

  “I need to talk to Henry Harris, please,” I say to the Scottish voice on the other end of the phone. I attempt to sound calm, even though I can feel a niggling pain again in my lower back. The receptionist begins to inform me he’s in a meeting right now, but with the cars racing past and the kids shouting, I can’t hear her and lose patience.

  “Look, can you give him an urgent message… no… I don’t want you to get him to call me back; I need you to use these exact words: THE BABY IS COMING. GET YOUR BLOODY ARSE HOME NOW. Have you got that?”

  It’s times like this I wish I could slam my phone down instead of just pressing the screen angrily.

  The pain subsides, and I try not to think about how cross Henry is going to be with me for speaking to her like that.

  I suppose it was a bit rude.

  But I’m having a bloody baby!

  It’s not enough that he pissed off on a jolly to drink whisky for nearly a week and left me to move house on my own with the two kids—oh no. Now he’s going to miss the birth of his third bloody child, his second daughter. And yet again, I’m left to do everything myself. But I can’t do it all. I mean, I can’t even work out how to use the bloody newfangled baby monitor. It keeps screeching static at me or playing random music.

  Starting the engine, I take a deep breath and carry on to the hospital. But all I can think about is: If I can’t manage to operate the baby mo
nitor, how can I look after three children on my own?

  Arriving at the hospital, I reach into my bag for my wallet to buy a parking ticket, but I can’t find it. Shit! I rummage about, but as I work my way through button-down nighties, big pants and feeding bras, the image of my lovely tan and pink leather wallet flashes in front of my eyes. It’s next to the kettle.

  How the hell did I forget my wallet? I NEVER forget my wallet; you never know when there’s going to be a good shopping moment.

  Sod it. I don’t have time to worry about little things like parking tickets. Balancing a vile-smelling, nearly asleep Mabel on my hip, I grab Arthur’s hand and make my way towards the entrance of the maternity wing. I’m nearly at the door when I hear a shout, and turning around, I see the traffic warden waving his hand, indicating my ticketless car.

  This isn’t fair. Why do they charge for parking anyway?

  In a sudden burst of pain-free energy, still lugging my bag and the kids, I march back towards him. As I approach my car, I realise he’s actually writing me a ticket. He’s not even given me a chance!

  “You going inside to get change for the machine?” he asks, not even looking at me. He holds the ticket in the air, in what I can only assume is an overly dramatic way of giving me one last chance to say I was going to get change. But of course, I don’t give him that answer. Instead, I squeeze between my car and the one parked next to it and snatch the ticket off him.

  “I…” I begin through gritted teeth as another pain builds up, “am… in… bloody… labour…”

  He opens his mouth, starting to say something as he attempts to take his ticket back, and that’s when it hurts. Like proper hurts, and before I drop her, I thrust Mabel at him and grip onto the bonnet of the car, letting go of Arthur’s hand and the parking ticket as I do. The traffic warden visibly recoils, and I’m not entirely sure whether it’s because of the smell coming from Mabel’s nappy or because the ticket flies into the air and is carried away by the breeze.