by Fiona Gibson
My phone rings as I’m gathering up the cardboard packaging. ‘Hi, Alice?’
‘Hi, listen,’ I blurt out, ‘something happened today and I know what you’re going to say …’
‘Sorry?’
I blow out air. ‘I know I shouldn’t have looked. It was wrong of me. It just kind of happened …’ I clear my throat anxiously.
‘Er … Kirsty gave me your number. I’m Stephen …’
Oh, Christ. ‘You’re her dentist,’ I exclaim. ‘Sorry, I assumed you were someone else.’
‘Well, er, she suggested I call you. You sound busy, hope it’s not a bad time.’
‘No, not at all,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m just clearing up after building some flatpack.’
‘You can build flatpack? I’m impressed.’
Oh, for goodness’ sake. I could explain that the alternative would be to have to rope in a friend every time I need something building, or paying someone to do it, which would be ridiculous.
‘It’s not that difficult,’ I remark.
‘Well, no. But a handy skill to have, I guess.’ He sounds shy, and more than a little awkward. I regret sounding snappy and try to adopt a calmer tone.
‘So … did Kirsty explain, um …’
‘About your three dates?’ He chuckles warmly. ‘Yes, she did. So, would you like to meet up sometime?’
I scrunch up some clear plastic packaging. ‘Sure. That would be nice.’
‘Don’t suppose you’re free on Saturday?’ he asks.
‘Actually, I am.’
‘Great – shall we have lunch then? Grab a pizza?’ This sounds distinctly un-date-like, but that’s fine.
‘Sounds perfect,’ I say, wandering back into Logan’s room to admire my handiwork.
‘How about Mario’s in Leith Walk – d’you know it?’
‘I don’t think so, but I’ll find it.’
‘Great, see you at one then? I’ll book.’
Hmmm. Pizza with a shy-sounding dentist – he seemed nice, but my pulse is hardly racing. Keep an open mind, Kirsty urged me. I vow to do just that because, if nothing else, an impending lunch date will at least take my mind off the smouldering bum.
Chapter Eleven
I spend the rest of Thursday and most of Friday up to my eyes in meringues. Clemmie reports that several of the guests at the Morgan expressed an interest in giving them out at their own events, so I’ve been making small batches in various flavours, as samples. Luckily, being so busy has helped to dispel the anchorless feeling which had set in when the boys left. By late Saturday morning, though, I’m a little put out that neither Logan nor Fergus has responded to any of my, ‘How’s it going?’ texts. While I haven’t been expecting hourly updates or, heaven forbid, an actual postcard penned by human hand, there has been not a peep since they left.
So I call Tom, and before I can stop myself it’s all poured out about the image on Fergus’s laptop.
Oh,’ he says, followed by silence. ‘God. Are you sure that’s what it was?’
‘Tom, I could hardly mistake a naked bum with a ciggie poking out of it for anything else.’
‘No, I suppose you couldn’t.’ There are outdoorsy sounds in the background; children playing, bursts of youthful laughter, and a dog barking in the distance.
‘So what d’you think we should do?’ I prompt him.
‘Whoo, I don’t know …’ He exhales. Then silence. What is it about the males in my life and their allergy to communication? I’m reminded of why I left Tom, why I broke up our family – for which I still have flashes of remorse, even now – because he cannot express an opinion one way or the other. Doesn’t your arse get sore, I often wanted to ask him, sitting on the fence the whole time?
‘Never mind,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ll have a chat with him when he’s back home. Viv reckons he might have stumbled across it by accident.’
‘Er, that’s possible,’ Tom says vaguely.
‘So, anyway, how’s the trip so far?’
‘Great. I think the boys are enjoying it, but it’s hard to tell, isn’t it? They don’t give much away …’
Tell me about it. ‘Do they want to say hi?’
‘Hang on …’ There’s mumbling in the background, then, ‘Oh, come on, Mum wants to talk to you, just a quick hello …’ Further mutterings. ‘Er,’ Tom says, clearing his throat, ‘they’re both a bit busy right now.’
Something slumps inside me. My boys, who’ve been away since Wednesday, don’t even want to say hi.
‘Okay,’ I say, adopting a perky tone, ‘please don’t mention the porno pic, all right?’
‘Sure. I won’t say anything.’
‘I mean, there are worse things, aren’t there? When you think of the kind of stuff he could have been looking at.’
‘Yep, definitely.’
‘So I’d just prefer it if we didn’t blow this up into a huge thing.’ I pause. ‘Mind you, I hope it doesn’t give him any ideas about taking up smoking.’
We both laugh, causing the tension to ease.
‘Yeah,’ Tom chuckles, ‘they never show that on the packets, do they?’
I’m still wondering how to handle all this as I set out to meet Stephen for lunch. I’m wearing smart jeans, an embroidered cream top and flat shoes; it’s only lunch, after all. Plus, it’s a fresh, blue-skied day and I want to walk to the restaurant – hence no heels – to shake off any lingering irritation over bum-gate.
I’ve never heard of Mario’s, and as I walk in I realise why. It’s the kind of restaurant we used to come to when the boys were little but which, like soft-play centres and ‘splash time’ at the swimming pool, I have since banished from my consciousness. I have nothing against such places; without them, Tom and I would never have managed to eat out with the boys. But as they grew older, I was happy to move on.
I pause just inside the entrance. The place is packed with stoical parents and their rowdy offspring, including several children who are running, unchecked, around the restaurant. One little boy is charging about with his arms out, being an aeroplane, while a waiter with a tray of drinks smiles benignly and says, ‘Whoops, careful there!’ And then I spot him – Stephen-the-dentist, raising a hand in greeting across the restaurant. His light-brown hair is nicely cut and a broad, open smile lights up his amiable face. Great eyes, too – greenish, sparkly, radiating good humour.
‘Alice, hi, good to meet you.’ He is out of his seat now, and all smiles – lovely teeth, but they’d have to be, wouldn’t they? I guess they’re his shop window, so to speak.
‘Nice to meet you too,’ I say, sitting down. ‘Hope you haven’t been waiting long.’
‘No, I just came early so I’d be here before you, not that I thought it would bother you, being alone – I mean, you can handle flatpack without any problems … ha.’ He blushes and laughs in a flustered way, and I will him to relax. Christ, he seems as tense as I was when I first clapped eyes on Giles.
‘So, um … you come here a lot?’ I eye the wipeable place mats and clusters of drinks with bendy straws at the next table. On ours, there’s even a pot of pencils for colouring in the menu.
‘With my daughter, yes,’ Stephen explains. ‘It’s her favourite restaurant. They make children so welcome here.’ He smiles, lips pressed together this time.
‘Right … I can see that.’
‘Which is making me wonder,’ he adds, already seeming to relax a little, ‘why on earth I suggested this place.’
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I say firmly.
‘No, really. It’s for children. What was I thinking?’ He laughs. ‘Sometimes I forget I’m allowed to eat in proper grown-up places.’
I smile, studying his face as he reads the menu. It’s an appealing face; kind and sympathetic, the kind of man you’d be inclined to trust with complicated dental work. While I’m not fond of going to the dentist, with Stephen at the helm – or the drill, rather – I’d at least think, he’ll explain things patiently and do his best not to hurt me. It f
eels right, I realise, being in a noisy restaurant as he politely quizzes me about school, my meringues and my family. It feels entirely fitting that we’re in the kind of environment where nothing untoward could happen. Oh, I know a flying olive might have someone’s eye out, or a child might start crying when his pizza arrives mistakenly dotted with capers. But nothing naughty, I mean. No drunken flirting or other wanton behaviour. It is about as sexy as a bathroom fittings shop, and that’s fine. If anything, it’s a relief.
‘So how old is your daughter?’ I ask as our enormous pizzas arrive.
‘Molly’s eight, nine next month.’
‘And she lives with you?’
Stephen nods. I want to ask why this came about, but am not sure how to without sounding as if I’m prying.
‘It’s just the two of us,’ he goes on, tucking into his pizza with enthusiasm, ‘which is probably why I have such a limited knowledge of restaurants.’
I laugh. ‘Honestly, the restaurant’s great. This pizza is lovely, actually. Far nicer than the usual takeaways the boys and I have.’
‘So what about you and your sons?’ he asks. ‘If that’s not too intrusive of me …’
‘Oh, it’s fine – I split up with their dad six years ago.’
‘That’s about the same as me and Molly’s mum …’ Although I’m now itching to know what happened, I don’t ask. ‘It’s funny,’ he adds, sipping his wine, ‘I’d expected this to feel weirder than it actually does.’
‘You mean the kind of contrived, set-up-ness of it?’
‘Yeah, I guess so.’ He chuckles and sets down his cutlery.
‘So you haven’t done much of this?’
‘Um, no, not really.’ He is shy, I decide, despite the ready smiles and the fact that, clearly, his life is pretty together. Perhaps, I muse, he’s perfectly happy being single.
‘I’d have thought your friends would be constantly trying to set you up,’ I suggest with a grin.
Stephen chuckles, his cheeks flushing endearingly. ‘Not really. I don’t think it would occur to them and, anyway, there’s Molly to consider …’
‘Yes, I know, but most people our age have kids, don’t they? Not everyone of course. But it can hardly come as a huge surprise to women when they discover you’re a dad.’
He shrugs. ‘I guess that’s true.’
‘And I know it’s not easy when they’re little,’ I continue. ‘But there are babysitters, and people do go out and have social lives and meet new partners, don’t they?’ I mean this generally, and not in a me-and-you-hooking-up situation, and hope he realises this. I can sense Stephen’s slight reserve, despite the affableness, and have already decided that Kirsty is unlikely to ‘win’ the challenge.
‘It’s just tricky,’ he explains. ‘I have seen a couple of people but there hasn’t been anything serious …’ He smiles his thanks as the waitress takes away our plates.
‘I know what you mean,’ I say. ‘You don’t want to get involved with just anyone.’ Something about being surrounded by children yelping excitedly, and squabbling with siblings, means it feels okay to say this. I could be at parents’ evening at the boys’ school, chatting to an extremely pleasant English teacher, the kind the sixth-year girls all secretly fancy.
‘You’re right,’ Stephen says. ‘God, it’s not easy, is it?’ He turns towards the waitress who’s returned to our table. ‘Are you having anything else?’ he asks me.
The Tuc biscuit diet flashes into my mind. ‘Profiteroles please.’
‘Apple pie for me,’ Stephen says, which seems to fit him perfectly: reliable and comforting. He looks back at me as the waitress leaves. ‘Alice, I’m not trying to be cagey. I’m sorry if it seems that way.’
‘Not at all,’ I insist.
‘It’s just … my situation’s a bit tricky with Molly.’
I sip my wine. ‘Well, mine can be too. You know what Fergus, my youngest, said to me recently? “What d’you want a boyfriend for? You’re a mum.”’ Stephen laughs obligingly, and I add, ‘Not that I’m desperate to meet anyone either. I just … well,’ I smile broadly, ‘my friends were adamant that I should get out there, as they put it. So I am actually here under duress.’
His green eyes crinkle with warmth. ‘Perhaps I should find some friends like that, to get my life in order.’
‘To bully you into being more proactive …’
‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘Exactly.’
‘Well, I don’t see why not,’ I say, delving a spoon into my dessert. ‘I mean, our kids aren’t with us forever, are they? They’re only on loan, as people always say. It must be tough on you, though, managing by yourself …’
‘Yep, I’m one of those poor, hapless dads,’ he teases.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean to sound patronising.’
‘No, but it’s funny – I do get that a lot. Like the casserole thing …’ I nod, eager to hear more. ‘There’s a neighbour who’s been coming round with a big pot of stew for years now, twice a week …’
‘That’s kind of her,’ I venture.
‘But I love to cook,’ he goes on, ‘and I know this sounds churlish but it’s terrible stuff, tough meat in a greyish gravy …’ He laughs. ‘Molly and I call her CK – Casserole Kate.’
‘You know,’ I say, grinning, ‘no one does that for me. I’ve never had a casserole showing up at my door.’
‘That’s because you’re obviously very capable …’
‘No, it’s because I’m a woman.’
‘Ah, yes, there is that.’ We finish our desserts and, as neither of us are in a hurry to go anywhere, we linger over coffee and tiny cubes of fudge. ‘Seriously, though,’ I venture, ‘it must be pretty full-on, running your own practice.’
‘Yes, far too much. But there’s a brilliant after-school club and we have a lovely childminder to help out in the holidays.’
‘Does Molly spend much time at her mum’s?’
‘Not really. Joanne has a new husband and a baby … there’s not much time left over, unfortunately.’ Stephen shrugs.
Poor kid, I decide. Maybe that’s why he’s reluctant to meet someone new. ‘So,’ I say carefully, ‘I suppose the time you’re with Molly, you just want to focus completely on her.’
‘Yes, I do.’ As he finishes his coffee, I decide that grown-up places aren’t on his radar and neither, I suspect, is a proper adult life for himself. Which is a pity, really, as I have thoroughly enjoyed our lunch. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I’d better pick up Molly from her friend’s …’
‘Yes, of course, I’ve got things to do too,’ I fib.
We part outside the restaurant with a brief kiss on the cheek. ‘It’s been great meeting you,’ he says.
I am overcome by a rush of fondness for this sweet, well-meaning man. ‘You too. And you have my number if you ever fancy meeting up for coffee or lunch or something.’
‘Yes, let’s stay in touch,’ he says, before hurrying away on this sunny spring afternoon. While I hope he meant it, I have the feeling I’ll never hear from Stephen again, because his life is just a little too full to allow anyone new into it right now.
That’s preferable to the strong possibility that he simply didn’t fancy me.
Chapter Twelve
‘You were snooping,’ Logan rages. ‘I can’t believe you did that, Mum.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ I protest, catching my breath as I march home from the restaurant.
‘Yeah, it was. It was totally wrong. You’ve violated his human rights.’
I splutter ineffectually, furious at Tom for mentioning the smoking bum when I’d far rather have discussed it with Fergus face-to-face.
‘What else have you been doing while we’ve been away?’ Logan wants to know.
‘Nothing,’ I retort. ‘Well, apart from tidying your hovel of a room—’
‘Tidying my room?’ he exclaims.
‘Logan, stop speaking to me like this, like I’m forever delving through your private things. I’ve actually bought y
ou a new chest of drawers …’
‘What for?’
‘To look at. To amuse yourself by opening and closing the drawers. What d’you think it’s for?’
‘Dunno,’ he says crossly.
I bite my lip, any lingering pleasure from my lunch with Stephen having ebbed away, and will myself to remain calm and not start shouting in the street.
‘Could you put Fergus on the phone,’ I mutter, ‘seeing as it was his laptop, not yours?’
‘He doesn’t wanna talk to you.’
Something twists inside me. ‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ he announces, ‘he doesn’t feel like it.’
This is ludicrous. Here I am, being harangued by my sixteen-year-old son who still relies on me to get him up for school on time. Does he speak to his father this way? Of course he doesn’t.
‘Listen,’ I say firmly, ‘it happened completely by accident. Viv and I were in Fergus’s room, and we needed to Google something …’
‘And it just sort of appeared,’ he cuts in.
‘Well, yes.’ He emits a nasal snorty noise. ‘There’s obviously no point in talking about this,’ I add firmly. ‘In fact, it’s really nothing to do with you.’ After a few more terse exchanges we finish the call in a fizz of ill-humour. Christ, that boy. While Kirsty’s kids are a handful, none of them are actually rude to her. And what about Clemmie? She has managed to raise a considerate son who wipes down worktops without being asked, and takes off his trainers in other people’s houses. I often spot him trotting down the road with bags of groceries. If ever I ask Logan to nip out to the shops for me, he comes back with most items forgotten, plus Fanta, toffee popcorn and a whole host of un-asked-for delights.
Maybe it’s me, and I’m just too soft on the boys – but then, is the alternative to be as frosty and distant as my own mother? Surely there’s some kind of middle ground. When your children are little, there’s no end of advice from books, magazines and the mums you meet at toddler groups. Then they hit their teens and – wham. When you desperately need someone to say, ‘This is how you do it,’ there’s just a big void. Anyway, I have a good mind to un-build Logan’s sodding chest of drawers, stuff the pieces back into their cardboard box and donate it to Blake for his annexe.