Take Mum Out (8 page)

‘How long away is that again?’ she asks.

Heading for the relative privacy of the kitchen, I pull off my jacket which retains its fuggy smell from Mum’s house, mingling with the vinegary tang of the chippie. ‘Only five years. Half a decade. I’ll be forty-four by then.’

‘Isn’t Tom taking the boys away soon?’

‘Yes – on Thursday, when they break up. But I’m not planning to bring anyone back and jump on them the minute they’re gone, Viv.’

‘No,’ she giggles, ‘you’d better at least wait until his car’s gone round the corner.’

‘Camper van actually. He’s hired some amazing, top-of-the-range model …’

‘He’s moved up in the world, hasn’t he, from that leaky two-man Argos tent?’

‘Yes, but he married well, remember …’

‘There you go then,’ she says triumphantly. ‘You’ll have an empty flat. Perfect opportunity.’

‘For what?’ I ask, laughing. ‘I’m not planning to rush in, Viv.’

‘Why not?’

Because it’s too sodding traumatic, that’s why.
Because – if truth be known – I can barely remember which bits go where.

‘I just want to take things slowly,’ I say feebly.

‘Hmm. So, who’s Kirsty found for you? One of her beardy single-dad mates?’

‘She didn’t mention a beard,’ I say with a smile, ‘but, yes, he is a dad …’

‘… Wears tie-dyed trousers, reeks of hummus …’

‘Actually, he’s a dentist.’

‘Ugh. Not very sexy, is it?’

‘What,’ I say, ‘being a dentist? I don’t see why not.’

‘Oh, you know,’ Viv goes on. ‘Cavities, plaque, poking about with other people’s rotting molars …’

I shrug off my cardi, lay it on the kitchen table and frown at the greasy patches which have seeped through the pockets. There’s a small lump in one of them; it’s the Tuc biscuit diet, scrunched into a tight little ball.

‘It was you who said I should keep an open mind,’ I remind her.

‘Well,’ she says, ‘I’ve a feeling mine’ll be much more your type.’

‘Not that this is a competition,’ I tease.

‘Of course it’s not. God. It’s all about
you
, not just cheap entertainment for us.’

I smirk and flick on the kettle.

‘In fact, we’ve all had a chat,’ Viv continues, ‘and we decided that, no matter how much you like the first one, or the second, you still have to go out with all three of them just to be sure.’

‘To give you all a fair chance of winning,’ I remark with a grin.

‘Yeah. No! Oh, you know what I mean. We feel it’s important to follow the whole process right through to its conclusion.’

‘Okay, so who d’you have in mind?’

Viv hangs off for a moment, in order to pique my interest. I picture her pacing around her small art-filled flat, drawing on a Marlboro Light. ‘Okay – his name’s Giles.’

‘Sounds posh.’

‘Well, he’s not. At least, not especially. He’s a new guy at work – cute, really fun, dark nicely cut hair and the most stunning blue eyes …’

‘Wow,’ I exclaim. ‘And you’re sure he’s single?’

‘Yes, absolutely.’

‘And you said he’s new …’

‘Yeah.’ Curiously, she has become a little reticent.

‘Is he a designer?’ I ask, faintly intrigued by the idea of someone who could give me tips on transforming our ‘space’.

‘Um … not exactly.’

I slosh boiling water into my mug – one hand-painted by Viv, incidentally, all cerise and gold swirls, almost too pretty to drink from. ‘Is he in the accountants department?’

‘Nooo …’

I blow out a big gust of air. ‘Viv, listen, you know I don’t care about job titles or how much someone earns. It really doesn’t matter.’

‘Yes, I know that,’ she says.

‘But you’re actually being really cagey, which is a bit weird. I mean, if you like him and think we’d get along, that’s fine – I don’t care if he’s the maintenance man …’

‘He’s the intern,’ she interrupts.

‘The intern?’ I repeat. ‘I can’t meet the
intern
, Viv. God.’

‘Why not? You just said you don’t care about job titles.’

I’m laughing so much now, Fergus pokes his head around the kitchen door to see what’s funny. ‘I don’t,’ I say, grinning and waving him away. ‘It’s not that. It’s about
age
.’

‘But he’s gorgeous,’ she insists. ‘He has amazing bone structure and great teeth …’

‘Yes, well, milk teeth usually are.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, he’s not
that
young. Just meet him, have a drink, go to a movie or something …’

I pick up Mum’s diet from the table and ping it in the vague direction of the bin. It bounces off it and lands on the floor which is currently littered with enormous, boat-like trainers and a smattering of orangey dust which I presume to be crushed Doritos.

‘I’m not sure a movie’s ideal for a first date,’ I say, ‘and I’m not really up for watching
American Pie
or the latest Pixar …’

‘Alice, he’s not a teenager. He’s worked for years, done this and that – taught English, travelled, hung out in Ibiza for a while … he’s a really interesting person.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ I reply, as a collection of gap year jewellery – leather thongs, yin yang symbols and the like – shimmers in my mind. God, I haven’t even been to Ibiza; the whole clubbing thing passed me by. In my younger days I was happier installed in a pub with my mates and a load of crisps and beer.

‘And he’s always wanted to work in design,’ she continues, ‘so when his grandma died and he inherited some money, he decided to apply for an internship. He was so impressive at the interview, very
passionate
…’

‘Were you orgasming at this point?’ I enquire.

Viv snorts. ‘I was a bit distracted, I have to admit. Anyway, it’s a career change for him.’

‘A change from what? Sitting on beaches and taking shitloads of drugs?’

‘Stop that. He’s serious about this. Hopefully he’ll be taken on properly after a few months.’

I push back my dishevelled dark hair, detecting a faint chip-shop smell, and nibble a finger of Kit Kat that someone has left on the table. ‘So how old
is
he?’ I ask.

‘Er … twenty-nine.’

‘That’s ten years younger than me, Viv. I’d feel like his auntie or something. Like he’d expect me to suggest a game of whist.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re still
young
. Anyway, no one cares about age any more. Remember that half-your-age-plus-seven rule?’

I perform a swift calculation, rounding myself up to forty to avoid pesky fractions: ‘Twenty-seven.’

‘There you go then. He’s comfortably within range …’

‘Viv,’ I say thoughtfully, ‘why don’t you ask him out? He sounds far more your type …’

‘Because we work together,’ she says in an overly patient voice. ‘It’d be so awkward, especially with me technically being his boss.’

‘Oh, of course. So have you mentioned me yet?’

‘I might have casually said something,’ she teases.

‘But we only hatched this plan yesterday and you haven’t been at work …’

‘We had to finish off an advertising shoot this morning and he offered to help,’ she says. ‘He’s very dedicated.’

‘And, er … he’s up for meeting me, is he? I mean … he knows I have two sons, and that one of them will be old enough to drive a car this time next year?’

‘Yes, well, I didn’t go into detail, but he knows you’re a
bit
older and he was perfectly fine with that.’

I sip my tea. ‘Listen, he’s not one of those, “I love older women” types, is he? The kind who fantasised about his friend’s mum or his well-preserved biology teacher …’

Viv honks with laughter.

‘I’m not up for any of that creepy, “Oooh, you mature ladies, you know your onions” kind of crap,’ I add firmly.

She laughs some more. ‘I promise you, Giles will not be interested in your onions. He’s not that kind of boy – I mean
man
.’

‘Only just,’ I chuckle.

‘Well … yeah. So can I give him your number?’

‘Sure,’ I say, feeling suddenly, horribly conscious of my age, and spotting a whacking great frown line when I glimpse my reflection in the chrome kettle. Which, I fear, doesn’t bode terribly well for the actual date.

To clear a backlog of filing I’ve done an extra hour at school, so the boys are home before me on this blustery Monday afternoon. I can hear jovial chatter, dominated by my neighbour Clemmie’s booming tones, as I hurry upstairs to the flat. She is Logan’s best mate Blake’s mum, and often pops round to monitor the sorry state of my life. (Clemmie runs her own events management company and her husband Richard is something in property – he basically owns pretty much all of Scotland, as far as I can make out.)

‘Hope you don’t mind me dropping by,’ she says with a red-lipped grin as Blake sips on a Coke and Stanley, her Cairn terrier, snuffles around my kitchen. Flaunting health and safety regulations, but never mind that.

‘Of course not,’ I say, noticing Logan’s previously perky expression deflating, as if I have brought in something terrible stuck to my shoe. Why is it perfectly acceptable –
enjoyable
, even – to chat pleasantly with his best mate’s mum, but not the woman who birthed him? (And whose body has – to be frank – never fully recovered. Apart from the obvious sagging of boobs, we are also talking a knackered old pelvic floor, plus outbreaks of piles – glamorous, I know – from time to time.) Fergus, meanwhile, is too busy chomping on a biscuit to pay much attention to anyone.

‘D’you take milk, Clemmie?’ Logan asks, in the process of making her a cup of tea. This is astounding. He has never made me a hot beverage; I’ve never been sure if he’s capable of operating the kettle, to be honest. I have to clamp my mouth shut to stop myself from saying,
And thank you for my much-needed cup of tea, Logan
. Instead, I watch mutely as he shoves my raspberry cardi up to the end of the table – I’d laid it out to inspect the burger stain damage – and places the cup in front of her. ‘Biscuit?’ he asks, maturely.

‘Yes please,’ she replies. ‘What do you have?’

‘Only Rich Teas,’ I cut in, at which Clemmie’s enthusiasm wilts.

‘Ah, I’ll just leave it.’ She pats an ample hip. ‘Meant to be fasting today but I suppose, if you have some of your lovely meringues, I wouldn’t say no …’ She runs a tongue over her lips. ‘I mean, they must be about ninety per cent air …’

‘Here you go,’ I say, offering her the tin with a smile.

‘Thanks, darling. Yum. Anyway, the boys were just telling me about their visit to their grandma’s …’

‘Oh, yes. A bit trying as usual.’

‘And I hear you had to intervene over lunch …’ She laughs, causing her spectacular breasts to jiggle like crème caramels.

I take the seat beside her. ‘Well, there was a bit of an incident with the Medieval burgers …’

‘So I heard. Gosh, she’s
such
a one-off.’

I chuckle uncomfortably, torn between my shameful feelings of irritation towards Mum, and a bizarre sense of loyalty.

‘Anyway,’ Clemmie goes on, indicating the small stack of magazines on the table, ‘I’ve finished with these and thought they might give you a few ideas.’

‘Great, thanks.’ I eye the uppermost title:
Stylish Living
.

‘But I’m really here to ask a favour,’ she goes on, adjusting her plunging neckline. ‘It’s a bit of a rush, I’m afraid. You know I’ve been working on the Morgan relaunch …’

‘Yes, you mentioned that.’ The Morgan is a sprawling Edinburgh Hotel. For years, it looked rather decrepit – all faded tartan carpets with a depressed-looking bagpiper droning away under the wonky awning outside – but it has recently undergone a major overhaul, for which Clemmie is masterminding the launch party.

‘Well, it occurred to me yesterday that it would be cute to have party bags,’ she says, ‘just like at a children’s party – only ours would contain something people would actually want to eat. And I thought, Alice’s meringues! The client thinks it’s a fantastic idea.’

‘Sounds great,’ I say. ‘So what were you thinking of?’

‘Those cute little ones you do in cellophane bags.’

‘Meringue kisses …’

‘Yes, those. They’re
delicious
. I was thinking five flavours in each bag, and I’ll need three hundred bags … could you do that by Wednesday morning?’

I frown, figuring out the logistics. ‘This Wednesday? Like, the day after tomorrow?’

‘That’s right. I know it’s a rush …’ She smooths the front of her rose-pattered wrap dress – Clemmie is never knowingly underdressed – while I perform a quick calculation: thirty meringues per tray, six trays per bake. That’s, um … eight bakes in total at an hour each … Christ, it’s doable – just.

‘That’s fine,’ I say, wishing Mum could have witnessed how speedily I worked that out.

‘What would you charge for that?’ Clemmie asks.

‘Er … well, a bag of five kisses usually sells at around three pounds but that’s retail, of course. I normally do them for one pound fifty …’

‘Four hundred and fifty quid for three hundred bags,’ chips in Blake.

‘God, that’s loads, Mum,’ Logan says, appearing to warm to me a little. ‘You could get me an iPad.’

I laugh dryly, momentarily distracted as Stanley starts sniffing at my cardigan sleeve, which happens to be dangling down from the table.

‘That’s not enough,’ Clemmie retorts. ‘The consortium that owns the Morgan has more cash than you can imagine. What they’re spending on the party alone would make your hair curl. You need to charge more – how about six hundred pounds?’

‘Wow,’ I gasp. ‘For
meringues
? Are you sure?’

‘That sounds good,’ Logan barks greedily.

He’s right, though. This order alone could make the difference to us having a summer holiday this year – perhaps the last one with the three of us all together.

‘Absolutely,’ Clemmie says as Stanley starts barking fretfully. ‘Shush, Stan. Stop that. Anyway,’ she goes on, ‘let’s talk flavours, shall we?’

‘Sure. How about rose water, orange water, that sort of thing?’

‘Hmm, flower waters … sounds lovely. In fact a whole spring-like, blossomy feel would be great …’

‘Violet is pretty,’ I suggest, ‘and a primrosey shade would look …’ I stop abruptly as my cardi, which until now had been lying as still as you’d expect an item of knitwear to be, starts jerking to our left along the table. It’s moving faster now – so quickly, in fact, that Clemmie and I can only gawp as Stanley, who must have snatched a dangling sleeve, sets about savaging it on the floor.