by Fiona Gibson
‘C’mon, Jessie,’ Logan says, frowning at her tear-blotched face, ‘cheer up. This is gonna be fun.’ She musters a stoical smile as they all clamber into the palatial camper van.
They are waving with the windows down – even Logan, who never waves at anyone. A lump forms in my throat as I stand there, feeling stranded, in our street. I know it’s silly, and that my boys aren’t babies any more, so I should feel fine about them leaving. Last week, Fergus packed up all his soft toys for charity – even beloved Rex, a small, grubby white dog with no obvious appeal (instead of being furry, in approximation of a real dog, he has the unsettling texture of 40-denier tights). But I can’t help it. My vision is blurring again and I’m blinking madly, hoping that’ll force the tears back in. Meanwhile Tom tries not to look petrified as he slowly manoeuvres the gigantic vehicle out of its tight parking space.
I give them a final wave and turn away, just as Patsy’s voice drifts out of the passenger window: ‘Alice is always so kind, Tom, but I wish she wouldn’t try to stuff Jessica full of sugar.’
Chapter Nine
That’s my role, you see – to destroy the dental enamel of every child who enters my home. In fact, Logan and Fergus have zero fillings, a fact I cling on to as evidence of my brilliant parenting when it’s probably nothing to do with me. Both Tom and his father have rather large, sparkling, filling-less teeth, the kind that seem wasted not being on TV.
In order to shrug off Patsy’s comment, I try to focus on the fact that I have a whole child-free week ahead of me. In sixteen years I have never had such a thing, and the prospect is at once thrilling yet faintly alarming. What the hell will I do with myself? I can see friends, of course, and bake; I can catch up on niggling jobs and, more crucially, go out with a man who just sneaks over the half-your-age-plus-seven boundary, a concept which causes my stomach to fizzle with excitement and nerves. What would Mum say about that? She’d probably remind me that twenty-something girls tend to have fabulous figures, and that perhaps I should give up on eating anything at all.
Stomach rumbling now, I make cheese on toast and a pot of tea and tuck in at the kitchen table, picturing Tom at the helm of that camper van. While he looked rather scared, he was still managing to put on a show of being a big, capable, ‘taking my family away on an adventure’ type-dad. When we were together, he couldn’t even drive; he passed his test when Patsy was pregnant with Jessica. That’s probably around the time he learnt how to grow kale when, a couple of years previously, he wouldn’t have recognised it if it had bitten him on the bum. There’s a definite pattern here, i.e. Tom-with-me = useless lump, often forgetting to flush the lavatory. Whereas Tom-with-Patsy = superhero dad. And while I’m not fond of women blaming themselves for men’s foibles, you have to consider the facts. Patsy always seems to be completely delighted with Tom. I’ve never known any woman to be so pleased with her husband, all of the time. Was it me who somehow drained the potential out of him?
I finish my tea, feeling a little anchorless now with two hours to go before I’m due to meet Giles. My phone rings; seeing Kirsty’s name displayed cheers me up instantly.
‘So, have they gone?’ she asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘A whole week to yourself. God, you’re lucky. I’d kill for that.’
I bite my lip. ‘It feels a bit weird, to be honest. I’m redundant, completely without purpose …’ We both laugh, because I am joking, sort of. ‘Anyway,’ I add, ‘what are you up to in the holidays?’
Kirsty sighs loudly. ‘Business as usual around here. That’s the thing with home educating – they’re here, all the time, with me. Holidays don’t actually exist for us.’
‘Isn’t Dan taking some time off work?’
‘Says he can’t. Too much on. The financial industry would crumble without him being ever-present …’
‘Well, I think you’re brilliant,’ I say firmly. ‘I couldn’t do it. I’m in awe of you.’
She snorts. ‘Well, I have no intention of doing this beyond primary, you know.’
‘Really?’ I’m taken aback by her frankness. ‘I thought you and Dan felt really strongly—’
‘He does,’ she cuts in. ‘He’s the one who’s adamant that the kids shouldn’t go anywhere near a dastardly classroom, that it would crush their spirit and ruin their souls. D’you know he’s started referring to schools as child-prisons?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I splutter.
She laughs dryly. ‘I know I was all for it at the start, but only because of all the bullying Hamish went through at that school of his. I was so put off by the whole system, and the teachers being unwilling to do anything about it, that I really thought it was for the best. I didn’t want Alfie and Maya to go through all that.’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘and maybe it was the best option at that point …’
‘But it was only meant to be temporary,’ Kirsty goes on, as what sounds like a brawl kicks off in the background, ‘only now, Dan’s adamant that it’s best for all of them and that’s it.’ She pauses. ‘Alfie, put that hammer back in Daddy’s tool drawer right now.’
‘It’s not a hammer,’ he retorts. ‘It’s a mallet.’
I sip my tepid tea, wondering how best to respond. ‘Maybe it’s time to be firmer,’ I suggest. ‘It has to be mainly your decision – I mean, you’re the one doing it all.’
‘I’ve tried and he won’t hear of it. He seems reluctant to even discuss it.’
‘Okay, but what happens if you want to go back to work?’
‘I do actually,’ she retorts. ‘You know, sometimes I could cry with envy when Dan sets off to the office, and when he moans about colleagues, and how tedious it all is, I could shake him and say, “Okay, shall we swap places then? I’ll go out and do the paid job, surrounded by adults and with a proper lunch hour, while you try to help three children, all at different levels, with their reading, when all they want to do is run about in the garden and throw soil.”’ She stops, catching her breath.
‘I don’t blame you at all. I’d feel exactly the same.’ It’s frustrating, actually, seeing my friend trapped into the home educating scenario like this, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself blurting out what I really think of Dan. Glimpsing Exhibit A sitting in its plastic bag on top of the fridge, I quickly drop it into the bin. Although it’s been months since Erica’s home inspection, I can’t shake off the fear that she might pop around again at any time.
Kirsty sighs loudly. ‘Oh, never mind all that. Has my lovely dentist called you?’
‘No, not yet, but I am seeing Giles tonight – Viv’s intern …’
‘Oh, she mentioned him,’ she exclaims. ‘Why didn’t you say? I shouldn’t be wittering on. You should be getting ready …’
‘I am ready,’ I say with a smile, not adding that my readiness was in fact for the benefit of Tom and Patsy. ‘At least, as ready as I’ll ever be.’
‘Not having second thoughts, are you?’
I pause. ‘Not really – I mean, it’s only a drink – but, you know. He’s twenty-nine, for Christ’s sake …’
‘Come on,’ she says, not unkindly. ‘It’ll be fun if nothing else. Off you go and tell me all about it.’
We finish the call, and I wonder if it’s actually the magazine feature that’s sapped my enthusiasm today – the fact that Tom and Patsy’s sofa deserved two full pages in a glossy magazine, whereas ours came from one of those out-of-town stores where everything seems to be permanently fifty per cent off. It has long lost its springiness, due to years of being pummelled by the boys – a bit like my face, I decide, catching my reflection in the mirror in the hall. As I study my wrinkles, Patsy’s face shimmers into my mind: rosy-cheeked, line-free, no spiky roller required there. She probably just sprinkles her complexion with morning dew.
I head for my bedroom, trying to push such dark thoughts away. For someone who spends much of her life handling vast quantities of sugar, I seem to be turning awfully bitter.
*
/> I leave to meet Giles a little early, just to escape from the flat. I stroll past the fancy interiors shops, and the posh French deli with its artisan breads and chocolate cubes on sticks that you dunk in hot milk – the ones Clemmie always seems to have a stock of in order to make drinks ‘fun’, even though Blake, her only child, is nearly seventeen years old. Before I know it I’m outside the pub where Giles suggested we meet. Still ten minutes early but never mind.
I go in, immediately cheered by the warmth and cosiness of the place. Considering his vintage, I’d been worried that Giles would suggest a young, shouty bar where I wouldn’t recognise any of the drinks. It’s nearly eight and the place is pretty busy; in fact, there’s only one table free. I grab it and glance around, deciding there’s no one here who remotely fits Giles’s description and is conspicuously alone. In fact it soon becomes apparent that I am the only alone-person here, but that’s fine. It’s actually incredibly pleasing not to be in the empty flat, feeling as if I should be in an egg-beating frenzy or enjoying some me-time, as the magazines put it. Then, just as I’m starting to think, actually, it would be quite nice if Giles appeared now – being nearly twenty past eight – the door opens and in comes this … well, the only way I can describe him is a vision of loveliness.
It’s all I can do not to gasp. For a moment I sit there, thinking it can’t be him. He is far too handsome and this will be mortifying. I glance down at my wine, hoping that, in the millisecond it takes him to realise it’s me and come over, his appearance will have settled into something approaching merely pleasant-looking. But no. When I glance back he’s just as lovely as before, reminiscent of a Gap ad, clean-cut and square-jawed, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. His skin is olive, his eyes dark and chin faintly stubbled, his mid-brown hair mussed just so …
‘Alice?’ he says, flashing a heart-flipping smile.
‘Hi Giles.’ I jump up, and he goes for the single cheek-kiss, which by some miracle I manage to negotiate with aplomb.
‘What can I get you?’ He glances down at my glass; only a few sips left.
‘A white wine would be great.’
‘Large one?’
Bloody massive please as I’m freaking out over your handsomeness … But then, there is the real danger of turning into drunken middle-aged-berk …
‘Er, yes please.’
He orders our drinks and brings them back to our table. ‘So you and Viv are old college mates,’ he says, taking the seat opposite and flashing another disarming smile.
‘That’s right,’ I say, realising he’s already said ‘old’, but that in this case he meant ‘long-term’, which is fine, isn’t it? ‘We met in the halls of residence,’ I add, ‘then got together with a couple of others and shared a house.’
Giles nods and sips his beer. ‘She’s great to work with. Can’t believe she gave me the chance, to be honest – I mean, I know it’s just an internship but there was a lot of competition for it.’
‘Well, maybe she saw potential in you,’ I suggest.
‘Maybe.’ He laughs, and his eyes seem to actually sparkle. ‘Anyway, what about you? Is that a Yorkshire accent I detect?’
‘Yep, I grew up near Leeds, but we moved to Scotland in my teens as my parents had both landed jobs up here.’
‘And you work in a primary school, right?’
I nod. ‘I’m the person who sits in the office dealing with a constant stream of parental complaints.’
He chuckles. ‘That bad, huh?’
‘Actually no, I do enjoy it. It’s a lovely school and the kids are great …’ No-no-don’t-talk-about-children …
‘So what does it involve?’ he asks.
I suspect it would be futile to try to thrill this fine specimen of manhood with tales of lost permission forms and tearful, vomiting children.
‘Just admin mainly,’ I say quickly, ‘and I run my own business, a small thing on the side, a meringue-type thing.’
‘Viv mentioned that. It’s a great idea, specialising in one thing you know everyone loves—’
‘Not quite everyone,’ I cut in, and without thinking, I’m telling him about Patsy’s alarm when I offered Jessica possibly the smallest meringue ever – ‘I mean, it was about the size of an olive.’ Giles seems to enjoy this – at least he doesn’t bolt for the door – and then, of course, I have to explain about Tom, and how we still get along reasonably well (in a purely practical way), which leads me on to our sons, specifically Logan demanding an annexe, like his best friend’s, ideally with a full-sized pool table … ‘I mean, when I was a kid I was happy with a box of Fuzzy Felts.’
Giles laughs, a little uncertainly now. I’ve been babbling on, I realise, due to my intensely nervous state, and I clearly lost him at Fuzzy Felts. What the hell am I rabbiting on about? He’ll assume I’m not just old, but mad as well, and likely to start wittering away about my childhood Etch a Sketch and Buckaroo game. Fuzzy Felts. Christ.
‘So, um … are you from Edinburgh?’ I ask.
‘No, I grew up in Aberdeen, went to a scarily posh school there …’ He laughs. ‘And I was – I am – dyslexic, but the school didn’t spot it. In fact, no one did, and I struggled so much with reading and stuff that it seemed far easier to behave like a complete twat.’ He shrugs. ‘So they threw me out.’
‘God, so no one knew there was anything wrong?’
‘Not at that point, no. People didn’t tend to in those days.’ In those days! How endearing. It was virtually last week.
‘So what happened then?’ I prompt him.
Giles shrugs. ‘A lot of drifting about. Couple more schools, hardly any qualifications to speak of – then I worked with friends on various projects, did a bit of travelling and an evening course in graphic design and here I am.’ He grins, and we have another drink, by which time the wine is having the miraculous effect of making me feel far more relaxed.
Just be natural, I instruct myself silently when he goes to the loo. In fact, Giles is so obviously out of my league on the attractiveness scale that I’ve decided there’s no point in trying to come across as a hip young thing, or pretending to be au fait with the bands in NME, because he cannot possibly be interested in me in that way. I’m no longer fretting about my hair looking flat, and whether the loose powder I swept over my face has settled into the crevices. It’s like being in the presence of a fine-looking creature from a distant land, like a snow leopard. Faced with one at close quarters, you don’t think, ‘Do I fancy this snow leopard? Does it fancy me? Would it laugh at my old person’s CDs?’ You just enjoy its beauty in a slightly detached way, pretty certain that your paths are unlikely to cross again.
‘Listen,’ Giles is saying, ‘I didn’t have a chance to eat before I came out. Don’t suppose you fancy going to that Italian next door, if we can get a table?’
I haven’t eaten much either – just that measly slice of cheese on toast, mother-alone food – and right now, I can think of nothing more lovely than prolonging the evening.
‘Sounds great,’ I say, plucking my ringing phone from my bag as we leave the pub. ‘Hi, Mum, everything okay?’
‘Oh, just the same, rattling along. How’s the diet?’
‘Er, it’s going really well, thanks.’ I throw Giles an apologetic glance.
‘Good, isn’t it? Do you find you’re not hungry at all?’ Actually, no – because my existence is entirely fuelled by refined sugar and carbs. Giles and I are outside the restaurant now. I skim the menu in its glass-fronted frame, salivating at the array of pastas on offer.
‘That’s right,’ I tell her, a little wine-giddy already. ‘It’s very … satisfying. Sorry, Mum, I’m out just now, can we chat tomorrow?’
‘Are you out with that dentist?’ she barks.
‘Um, no … someone else.’ Sorry, I mouth at Giles.
‘And what does this one do?’
He’s on work experience, Mother – ha, that’d put the cat among the pigeons … In fact, he is younger than many of the dried good
s in your pantry.
‘Um, we’ll talk in the morning, okay? Bye, Mum.’ I stuff my phone into my pocket as we head into the Italian with its bare wooden tables and welcoming vibe.
‘That was very nice of you,’ Giles murmurs.
‘What was?’
‘Telling your mum your date’s going well. That it’s satisfying.’ He grins flirtatiously and touches my arm, causing me to flinch, as if prodded with Fergus’s ‘hilarious’ electric-shock pen.
‘Oh,’ I laugh, ‘it wasn’t that. She was talking about a diet—’
‘Not on one, are you?’
‘No, but Mum thinks I should be.’
‘She’s insane then,’ Giles declares as we’re shown to a table. ‘You’re lovely, Alice. Viv didn’t do you justice.’
I laugh awkwardly, unsure of how to handle such a comment. ‘That’s friends for you,’ I say, holding the menu at arm’s length in order to read it in the dim light. Would he be so complimentary if he knew about my old-lady vision, my occasional haemorrhoid outbreaks and ravaged pelvic floor? Or the fact that, while I was once able to guzzle as much wine as I liked, I now wake up with a mouth like the inside of a particularly unsavoury slipper after a mere four glasses? It’s not that I think I’m some hideous gargoyle, not really; as far as I’m aware, none of the children at school weep and cling on to their mothers on glimpsing me in the playground. It’s just … Giles is insanely attractive and, as dates go, I can’t help suspect that we are being secretly filmed for some reality TV thing, and that the audience are cackling, ‘Look – she really believes he fancies her.’ A slender blonde waitress has already given him a quick, ‘Oooh, hello’ look, which he seemed not to notice, and an unavoidable fact keeps jabbing away at my brain: this is a little … unbalanced.