by Fiona Gibson
‘You have amazing eyes,’ Giles murmurs, fixing me with a penetrating smile.
I glance up. ‘Thank you, that’s a sweet thing to say.’
‘No, I mean it. With those little amber flecks, they’re mesmerising …’
I laugh, wondering if this is how young men operate these days: batting out compliments and oozing confidence. If only he knew that, in the normal scheme of things, I’d be simmering up a giant pot of chilli con carne right now, to divide into various receptacles for freezing and labelling with my special indelible pen. An older couple are locked in conversation at a nearby table, and the woman – mid-sixties at a guess, finely boned with silvery hair artfully piled up – casts us an indulgent smile.
‘It’s hard to decide, isn’t it?’ she remarks. ‘Took us ages.’
‘What did you have?’ I ask.
‘The sea bass,’ the woman replies, ‘and David had the lamb … both delicious.’
We choose from the specials on the blackboard – they’re easy to read, my distance vision is fine – and, before they arrive, Giles’s mobile rings. ‘Sorry, this is terribly rude of me but I’d better take it.’ He strides out to chatter away on the pavement outside, allowing me a few moments to assess the evening so far. Maybe I am making a big deal of our age difference. After all, it’s not as if I order elasticated-waisted ‘slacks’ from Sunday supplements, or have bunions – yet.
I glance towards the door. Giles is raking a hand through his lush, posh-boy hair, and still gabbing away on his phone. The older woman nearby asks a waiter for their bill, and she and her husband chat companionably for a few moments.
‘So nice to see, isn’t it?’ she tells him, giving me a quick glance. ‘I wish Owen would do that with me.’
The man chuckles. ‘Not many young men would go out for dinner with their mothers.’
She looks back at me, unaware of the crashing sensation in the pit of my stomach. He complimented my eyes! I want to tell her. Didn’t you hear? Giles returns to our table, and the older couple leaves as our main courses arrive – risotto for me, pork cutlets for him. I sip my white wine, managing to convince myself that it’s okay, we are having a lovely time and I really shouldn’t care what people think. When I notice Giles’s gaze skimming the restaurant, and settling upon a point in the distance, I look around, expecting him to be admiring the Bardot-esque young waitress. But it’s a woman of around my age, perhaps even older, smoothing back her neatly cropped auburn hair as she emerges from the loos.
‘D’you know,’ I tell Giles, ‘the woman next to us thought I was your mum.’
‘For God’s sake,’ he exclaims, with a hearty laugh. ‘She must be half-blind.’
‘I don’t think she was.’
‘Well, it’s as ridiculous as your mum telling you to go on a diet. Are you having pudding, by the way?’ We both do and, by the time we emerge from the restaurant, I’m pleasantly tiddly and full of delicious food, and happier than I should be for a woman whose sons have gone on holiday without her.
‘Fancy another drink?’ Giles asks. He touches my arm again, and my head whirls with possibilities: a whole child-free night ahead, and a bottle of wine in the fridge in my empty flat …
‘No, I’d better head back,’ I say firmly. But why? Viv wouldn’t scurry home. She’d seize the opportunity, and the thought of this sculpted God of a man seeing her naked wouldn’t trigger the fear in her. In fact, she’d have dragged him off back to her boudoir already, if she wasn’t technically his boss …
‘Are you sure?’ Giles says, his smile teasing.
‘Yes, it’s pretty late.’ Go on, scuttle home to your crossword then, Granny …
‘Okay,’ Giles says lightly. ‘But would it be okay to call you again?’ He focuses on my eyes, as if counting the flecks, then he kisses my lips – a brief, barely-there gesture, a million miles from Anthony’s lizard tongue, and for a moment I lose all sense of reason. Oh, just come home with me. I’m pretty sure I could conquer my sex-fear with you …
‘That would be great,’ I manage. ‘I’ve had a lovely evening.’
‘Me too. So how will you get home?’
‘I’ll walk. It’s literally five minutes …’
‘Great. See you again, then.’ There’s a broad, melty smile, then he strides away into the crisp, cool night without looking back.
Chapter Ten
I wake up with slipper-tongue and aware of a faint odour permeating the flat. Sitting up in bed, I replay last night’s events, feeling quite pleased that a) I didn’t make a complete arse of myself, apart from mentioning Fuzzy Felts, and b) Giles seemed to enjoy himself too. Okay, there was the being mistaken for his mother bit – but it could have been worse, it could have been his granny. Perhaps he was right, and that woman had forgotten to put her contacts in. Whatever, if I’m going to get ‘back out there’ – and, after last night, a glimmer of optimism has awakened in me – then I need to stop worrying so much.
So everything’s good – apart from the pong which definitely seems to be in the flat, rather than coming in from outside (there are never any bad smells in our neighbourhood – the residents’ association wouldn’t allow it). I climb out of bed, pad across my bedroom and into the hallway. I stand there for a moment, sniffing experimentally, and decide that the smell is most likely to be coming from Logan’s bedroom. I’m not exhibiting favouritism here. I just have a hunch that, as I’m generally forbidden from entering, it’s the room in which things are most likely to fester.
Right, I’m going in. I push open the door and peer around in the gloom. The room is dark, apart from a sliver of sunlight which is bravely forcing its way through the gap between the drawn curtains. As David Attenborough might observe, it’s actually impressive that such inhospitable terrain can support human life. Yet, while it’s clear that atmospheric conditions are different in here – there’s a distinct staleness, reminiscent of old biscuits and socks – the actual odour doesn’t seem to be any worse than it was in the hallway. I draw back the curtains, allowing a gasp of bright April sunshine to stream in.
A plate on the black shag-pile rug is daubed with mysterious splodges of red, yellow and orange which, on closer inspection, are identified as baked beans, ketchup and egg. On another plate is a small collection of crusts, and dotted around the floor are numerous crumpled sheets of paper covered with his spiky handwriting, which may or may not be crucial English essays. Being as quick and light-footed as possible, so as to cause minimal disruption to Logan’s natural habitat, I round up several glasses, sticky with flat Coke and find tons of coins nestling in the rug. There’s almost enough here for a week’s groceries. His rumpled duvet is strewn with underwear, a ratty paperback copy of The Shining and several plectrums – some of which appear to have been cut out of a store charge card I thought I’d lost. It is hardly evocative of the Dandelion sleepwear catalogue. More like Tracy Emin’s bed.
I click into action, clearing up the debris and opening the window; instantly, it feels less like a place where an injured animal might limp off to die. Oh, I know Logan will probably be horrified that I’ve ‘moved’ things – but I’m sorry, I’m the adult here and I must seize control. I fetch a duster, then the Hoover, and by the time I’m done the room looks heaps better – not an annexe exactly, but fresh and welcoming. The doorbell buzzes and I run to answer it.
‘Alice? It’s me.’
‘Viv, come on up.’ This is a surprise. It’s Thursday, late morning, and I’d have assumed she’d be at the studio; she works more than anyone else I know, perhaps because she doesn’t have children and therefore has no reason to feel guilty for loving her job.
‘So?’ she asks as I welcome her in. ‘How did it go? Not interrupting anything, am I?’
‘No,’ I laugh, ‘of course not.’
‘It’s just, you look a bit … tousled.’ She raises a brow.
‘I’ve been tackling the horror of Logan’s room. Anyway, I’ll make you a coffee. How come you’re not at wo
rk?’
She takes a seat at the kitchen table and grins expectantly. ‘I’m officially out visiting suppliers but I was so close by, I had to see you—’
‘I know there’s an awful smell in here,’ I cut in. ‘I’m trying to find out where it’s coming from.’
‘Um, yeah, I did notice. But anyway. Giles …’
With a smile, and eking out the suspense, I pour our coffees and check both the bin and fridge for ponginess; both seem fine.
‘It was a nice evening,’ I say lightly.
‘A nice evening? What does that mean?’
I laugh, taking the seat opposite her. ‘Well, it was fun. We chatted loads, had a laugh, went on for something to eat … has he mentioned anything today?’
‘No, I wouldn’t ask him at work …’
‘Yes you would,’ I exclaim.
‘Oh, okay – I just haven’t had the chance. So, are you seeing him again?’
I sip from my mug. ‘Maybe.’
‘What d’you mean, maybe?’
‘Well, I’d like to,’ I start to explain, ‘and he said he’d call. But I can’t get away from the fact that he’s a whole decade younger and the woman at the next table thought I was his mum—’
‘What?’ she gasps.
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter. I don’t really care. But, you know – the age thing is an issue. I mean, he looked completely baffled when I mentioned Fuzzy Felts …’
‘Fuzzy Felts,’ she repeats. ‘Please don’t tell me I set you up on a date with Giles Henderson and you talked about Fuzzy Felts.’
‘I wasn’t talking about them,’ I say defensively. ‘They just came up in passing.’
She fixes me with a cool stare. ‘Did you mention playing hopscotch as well? And that you used to love watching Swap Shop?’
‘Of course not. Anyway, I’m not imagining this smell, am I? My senses haven’t gone all haywire?’
‘No, it really is pongy …’
‘Help me find out where it’s coming from – that is, if you’re not in a mad rush to get back.’
‘No, it’s fine. Could it be coming from Logan’s room, d’you think?’
‘Checked that already. Come on – let’s try Fergus’s.’ Compared to Logan’s quarters pre-clean, it really is a show room. All around his bed, Fergus has neatly Blu-tacked up his own hand-drawn comic strips; he’s a budding cartoonist, his vigorous drawings alive with bizarre humour and boyish jokes. In the corner sits the knotted carrier bag of the soft toys he rounded up for charity (Rex’s grimy visage is squashed against the clear plastic). His bed has been made, and books are neatly lined up on the shelf. The floor is eerily devoid of socks, pants or empty Lynx cans. But the smell is worse than ever: pungent and sour. ‘Ugh, it’s horrible in here,’ Viv exclaims.
‘I know. It’s definitely coming from something in this room.’ I get down on my hands and knees and start sniffing around the rug, like a dog. It’s even stinkier down here, as if the smell weighs more than normal air and is pooling invisibly at floor level. Then, under the bed, I spy a red and white striped milkshake carton bearing the Crispi Crust logo from our local pizza place. It’s lying on its side, lidless, its contents apparently having sunk into the sky blue rug.
‘Found it,’ I groan, scrambling up to show it to Viv.
‘That’s disgusting.’ In her aesthetically pleasing world, there’s no stinky, milky seepage; in fact I doubt if she’s ever had anything from Crispi Crust.
‘I know. God, how will I ever get rid of this smell?’
‘There must be something you can do …’ She turns to Fergus’s laptop at his desk.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Googling it – spilt milk on carpet.’
‘How did you get in? I’m sure he has a password—’
‘It was already on,’ she says, tapping away. ‘Ah, look. It says here that it smells because it’s a breeding ground for micro-bacteria but it’s okay, you can try baking powder or vinegar and if it’s really bad …’ As she rattles off various cleaning solutions, I decide that this kind of thing never happens in Tom and Patsy’s house. ‘Sounds like you’ll need some strong detergent to tackle the rancid proteins,’ she adds cheerfully.
‘Right, I’ll try that.’ I’m back to sniffing at floor level while Viv continues to tap away at the laptop, showing no desire to resume her working day.
‘D’you ever have the urge to check his browsing history?’ she asks casually.
‘Not really,’ I say, straightening up.
‘Oh, come on, you must do.’
‘Viv, you’re the nosiest person I’ve ever known. You even snuck off work to find out how it went with Giles. I don’t believe you were just in the area at all …’
‘If I were you I’d want to take a little look,’ she sniggers, clearly having no understanding of how wrong that would be. Okay, I’ve been tempted to check Logan’s laptop, especially as he too is lax about leaving it on, unprotected – but have always managed to wrestle myself away.
‘Well, I don’t,’ I fib, busying myself by fetching cloths from the kitchen and blotting up what I can of the milkshake. Viv remains at Fergus’s desk, where I assume she’s shutting down his laptop – but no, she taps a few keys and, up it pops … a woman’s naked bottom, with a smouldering cigarette poking out of it.
‘Look at this!’ she exclaims.
‘Oh, God, Viv.’ I stare at the image, feeling slightly nauseous and very, very sad. ‘A smoking bum, Christ. What’s that all about?’
‘It’s a cigarette butt,’ she cackles, clearly unaware of what this signifies: the end of my beloved boy’s innocence, basically. The corruption of a young mind which I’d naively believed was consumed with the fixing of old gadgets. ‘It’s pretty innocent,’ she adds with a shrug.
‘Innocent? Of course it’s not!’
‘All boys have a look,’ she cuts in. ‘I read something recently. It said seventy-five per cent of thirteen-year-olds access porn at least three times a week …’
‘But this is Fergus.’
‘Yes, but he’s a boy, Alice. A growing male who’ll soon be a man. It’s part of life …’
I stare at her, wondering how to explain that I don’t want it to be part of his life. I’m fine with sex education at school, and I’ve always been happy to answer any body-related questions the boys have had, but I’ve never felt it necessary to explain that it is in fact possible for a woman to smoke a fag out of her bottom. In fact I’d never known it was, until now.
‘It’s probably not even real,’ Viv goes on. ‘Bet it was Photoshopped on …’
‘I hope so,’ I mutter. ‘Poor girl could’ve burnt herself.’
‘Ouch,’ she winces with a smile.
‘Please just shut it down, Viv,’ I say, landing heavily on the edge of Fergus’s bed. In fact, I am crushingly upset. It feels only yesterday that he was tucked up under his Buzz Lightyear duvet, cuddling Rex.
‘It’s only a bare arse,’ she says, perching beside me.
‘I just wish I hadn’t seen it.’ We sit in silence for a moment in the sour-smelling room.
‘Hey.’ She puts an arm around my shoulders.
‘Oh, I’m okay, really. Guess you’d better get back to work …’ I glance at her pretty, unlined face.
‘I should actually,’ she says gently. ‘Please don’t spend all day worrying about this. It’s pretty quaint, when you think what he could’ve been looking at …’
I laugh dryly. ‘Stamp collecting is quaint, Viv. Collecting Famous Five books and fantasising about running off to Kirrin Island is quaint. Not a bare bum with a Silk Cut sticking out of it.’
We both snigger. ‘He probably stumbled on it by accident,’ she adds, getting up and heading through the kitchen to collect her jacket and bag.
‘How would he have done that?’ I follow her, still clutching the milkshake carton, and clinging on to the faint possibility that she may be right.
‘Like …’ She shrugs. ‘A homework topi
c maybe?’
‘You mean like a report on why smoking is bad for you?’
‘Or something about Native Americans?’ she adds, trying to cheer me up. ‘They were big on smoking with their peace-pipe ceremonies and, what d’you call it … smudging, is it? When smoke is wafted around to ward off evil spirits?’
I can’t help smiling at that. ‘Obviously, that’s what she was trying to do in that picture. Trying to make bad things go away.’
She laughs and we hug in the hallway. ‘Not fed up, are you?’
I shrug. ‘Just a bit.’
‘Oh, come on, it’s not a big deal. Your boys are fantastic – you know that.’ She gives my arm a reassuring squeeze and trots off down the stone stairs.
In a blink, I’m back on Fergus’s laptop, checking everything he’s looked at during the past few days. There’s a web page about the construction of the Eiffel Tower, and another on the role of the viola in an orchestra. It’s all innocent, homeworky stuff. Maybe Viv is right, and it’s horribly normal, and so what if he fancied a quick peek at a naked girl? Doesn’t virtually every boy do that at some point? Tom once laughingly told me that finding a page ripped out of a porno mag blowing along the street on his way to school was one of the most memorable events of his childhood. He’d been ten, I recall – three years younger than Fergus is now.
Minutes later I’m lifting his bed to drag out the rug from beneath it. Then I haul it downstairs and round to the back of our block where I prop it up against the wall. Feeling better already, I grab my keys and drive to Ikea to buy a new one. That way, I’ll get rid of the stink and make Fergus’s room nicer, thus (hopefully) cancelling out the guilt that’s currently surging through my veins at seeing the thing in the first place. While I’m there, I also buy a chest of drawers for Logan and, back at home, set about building it.
In fact, I’m rather proud of my ability to construct flatpack without shouting or resorting to drink. It’s rather like baking: methodical, slightly tedious in parts, but generally okay if you can keep your nerve. And, when it’s done, it looks great. In fact both of the boys’ bedrooms are vastly improved – not quite Stylish Living magazine standard, but it’ll be a pleasant surprise when they get home.