by Fiona Gibson
Instead, I call Ingrid, who says of course I can come over. ‘I need to catch up on all this dating,’ she says, making recent events sound far more gossip-worthy than they really are. So I march through the New Town towards her lovely Georgian garden flat, Logan’s parting line still ringing in my ears: ‘Clemmie would never do anything like that to Blake.’
*
Ingrid’s daughter Saskia, who’s nine years old and practising piano when I arrive, is a further example of impeccable parenting. Working part-time for a video production company, Ingrid manages family life in the manner of the head of a large, smooth-running corporation. She even manages to schedule twice-weekly fitness classes, hence being easily able to slip into size ten skinny jeans. Today, she and Saskia have been making juice – there’s a large jug of it on the sparkling granite worktop.
‘I’m really impressed that you drink that,’ I tell Saskia when she takes a break.
‘It’s really nice,’ she says pleasantly.
‘Oh, I know it is – it’s lovely and gingery. It’s just … the colour, you know? That terracotta shade. Fergus and Logan wouldn’t touch it.’
Ingrid laughs. ‘It always turns out that colour, unless you throw in spinach or beetroot and that’s a bridge too far, even for Saskia. Anyway,’ she adds, pouring us a glass each, ‘it’s lovely outside, let’s go and sit in the garden.’
As Saskia recommences her practice, Ingrid and I install ourselves at the wooden table on the patio overlooking her well-tended lawn. Daffodils are already in flower, and the delicious juice is helping to soothe my irritation over Logan’s accusations.
‘He’ll have calmed down by the time they come home,’ she reassures me, adding, ‘So tell me how it’s gone so far. With the dates, I mean.’
I fill her in on my Giles encounter, including being mistaken for his mother, and the brief kiss at the end. ‘D’you want to see him again?’ she asks.
‘Sort of. I mean, yes, I suppose I do, although I don’t expect it to go anywhere. Anyway, he might not even call again …’
‘And what about the dentist?’
I sip my juice, sensing it counteracting my cheese-laden pizza and cream-filled profiteroles. ‘We had lunch today at Mario’s.’
‘You mean that kiddie place? With the design-your-own pizzas?’
‘Yes, but it’s not compulsory, you know,’ I say, laughing. ‘You can just order them ready-made.’
She frowns. ‘God, Alice, what were you thinking, meeting him there? It’s hardly … conducive, is it?’
‘It was his idea,’ I say with a shrug.
‘So where are you going next time, Wacky Warehouse?’
I snigger. ‘I know it sounds weird but it was actually fine. More than fine, in fact. I enjoyed it. I think we might become friends, you know?’
‘Never mind that,’ she says briskly, ‘because Charlie is dying to meet you.’
‘Who’s Charlie?’
She pauses, as if wondering how best to explain. ‘I met him at my gym. Don’t worry,’ she adds quickly, ‘he’s not one of those obsessives – in fact, he was only there to write a feature about some killer thousand-calorie workout they’ve just introduced. He’s a freelance journalist, had to try it out for a health mag he writes for. Poor guy looked like he was about to peg it.’ Ingrid laughs, her long blonde hair gleaming in the afternoon sun. ‘Anyway, we got chatting in the cafe and it turned out he’s just split from his girlfriend and he seemed like a really fun, lovely guy. I know you’ll like him.’
‘And you mentioned me?’
‘Yes, he wants to meet you. Seemed really keen. I’ve got his number and, God, I hope you don’t mind but I gave him yours.’ She grimaces. ‘I was just excited, I guess …’
‘That’s okay,’ I say as Saskia appears at the back door and arranges herself on the step with a book.
‘Listen,’ Ingrid goes on, dropping her voice to a murmur, ‘I know you liked Giles, and Stephen sounds like a real sweetie but you’re not exactly bowled over by either of them, are you?’
I consider this for a moment. ‘Not exactly, but is that the way it happens anyway? When you’re our age, I mean?’
‘Thirty-nine isn’t that old. We’re not past it yet, Alice. At least, that’s what Dr Neilsen says …’ She smiles stoically, and I study her face, aware of the fact that she doesn’t like to discuss IVF; after a failed attempt, she threw herself into her job, going all out to promote the company and attract new clients. Talking about it too much feels like jinxing it, she told me once.
‘I know it’s not,’ I say gently as Saskia skips to the bottom of the garden where her rabbit resides in its hutch.
‘Oh, I’m just nervous, I guess.’ Ingrid musters a smile. ‘My eggs are being harvested next week …’
I wrap an arm around her bronzed shoulders. ‘Oh, love. I really hope it happens this time.’
She shrugs. ‘At best, it’s a one in four chance. So the odds—’
She breaks off as Saskia lifts the rabbit from his hutch and places him carefully on the lawn. He nibbles daintily at the clipped grass; even their pet is beautifully behaved.
‘But it could work,’ I say. ‘You’re fit and healthy, and think of how many IVF babies we know.’
She turns to me. ‘Yes, but the disappointment last time …’ Ingrid shakes her head. ‘This is the last go, anyway. Sean wasn’t even that keen and I can’t help thinking why are we doing this when we have Saskia? I know people who’ve been through three, four rounds of treatment and still don’t have a baby and here’s me, wanting more …’ She shakes her head. ‘Just greedy, I guess.’
‘Not at all,’ I insist. ‘Why shouldn’t you try, if it’s what you want?’
She sips from her glass. ‘Oh, enough about that. I really think you’ll like Charlie. There was something about him, you know? Something a bit naughty. Bit of a handful …’ She sniggers, and my interest is piqued.
‘In what way?’
‘Hard to tell – we only talked over coffee. But I can tell you one thing,’ she adds with a smirk, ‘I’m pretty sure he’s not the type to take you to a pizza place with coloured pencils on the table.’
Although I leave with Charlie’s number in my phone, it’s Ingrid who’s playing on my mind. I don’t think she’s greedy in wanting another child. I did too, desperately, once Logan was a toddler and I’d just about got to grips with the business of looking after him. Fergus was planned; in the blink of an eye I was pregnant, this time more able to enjoy early motherhood, as by then I’d discovered that social services wouldn’t whisk my baby away if he happened to be wearing a Monday bib on a Wednesday, or if said bib had a blob of pasta sauce on it. And Saskia is always beautifully dressed – a stained garment is quickly replaced – and plays piano, flute and guitar. Ingrid’s entire focus, and Sean’s too, has been poured into the care and nurturing of their talented little girl – yet I can’t help feeling, or even hoping, that another child might cause them to ease off a little.
They don’t even have a TV, which seems mind-boggling; would the occasional cartoon really do her any harm? If you asked Logan and Fergus, they’d probably cite Scooby Doo as one of the highlights of their early childhood. Perhaps I’m just a little in awe of how Ingrid and Sean manage to keep on top of music practice, alongside a whole raft of other wholesome pursuits, when both of my boys have always battled against any kind of organised activity. (‘I’m just not a joiner-inner, Mum,’ Logan informed me, at eight years old, tearing off his karate jacket in disgust.)
Back home, I soak in a bath, really to put off calling Fergus. In fact, maybe I should just leave it. He’s not exactly forthcoming on the phone, and I’ll be able to handle the whole bum-gate situation more delicately when he’s home. Yet I need to talk to him. I can’t settle to anything until I do.
‘Hi, Mum,’ he says warily as I pace the hallway in my dressing gown.
‘Hi, love.’ I clear my throat. ‘Having a good time with Dad?’
‘Yuh
.’
Something sinks inside me. ‘Look, darling, I just wanted to call about that thing, you know …’
‘Oh. Yeah,’ he says dully.
An awkward pause. ‘Um … I wanted to say I’m sorry I looked at your laptop. I mean – I trust you, hon, and I wouldn’t normally do it. It just kind of happened when Viv went to look something up …’
‘’S’okay,’ he says quietly.
‘It’s just, if you’re looking at stuff like that, you might start getting all kinds of horrible pop-ups on your computer. So you’re best not doing it at all.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he mutters. Tension simmers between us, and I wish I could spirit myself up to Skye right now and hold my boy in my arms. He sounds so young and far away. God, I wish I hadn’t seen that picture. It would bother me slightly less if it had been Logan’s laptop; he’s nearly grown up, with hair sprouting all over and a deep, growly voice. He has a razor, a debit card and a national insurance number. Fergus is still a child.
‘So what kind of things have you been doing?’ I ask when it becomes clear that we’ve reached the limit of our communication on the matter.
‘Uh, we’ve been to the beach and that.’
‘Bet Jessica loved it.’
‘Yeah,’ he says, sounding more relaxed now, ‘she’s really funny, Mum. Me and Logan helped her build this massive sandcastle with a wall to try and stop the sea coming in …’ I smile at that; lately, I haven’t known how to be with the boys on beaches. Logan sulked during last year’s summer holiday in Cornwall, and Fergus didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. I couldn’t figure out how to gee them up. Boys of their age don’t want their mother splashing in the sea in her mortifying bikini, or sending them off to find razor shells.
‘She loves spending time with you,’ I add.
‘Yeah, she does.’ I can tell he’s smiling now.
‘I really miss you, you know.’
‘Miss you too,’ he says. Then, to my delight, he adds, ‘Love you, Mum.’
‘Love you too,’ I say, filled with warmth at the sound of his voice, and understanding completely why Ingrid wants another baby more than she can even bear to admit.
Chapter Thirteen
‘There are plenty of Grazias left,’ says Ali, the jovial man who runs our local newsagents.
‘It’s okay, thanks, my mum’s coming today.’ I smile and fish out money to pay for the New Statesman, Observer and a fat, extremely posh-looking magazine called Intelligent Life.
‘Ah.’ He grins. ‘Need anything else? Prozac, Valium?’
I laugh, sticking the magazines and newspaper into my bag and wondering why, at my advanced age, I’m still all antsy at the prospect of Mum and I spending two whole days together. I’m taking her out for her birthday today, and tomorrow she’s planning to meet up with a couple of old friends for lunch and to see a play – I mean, a proper grown-up play, in a theatre. Clearly, Mum’s life isn’t quite as dismal as she makes out. I don’t think I’ve seen anything on stage in over a decade that hasn’t had a dame in it.
On the way home, I stop off at Pascal’s, the swanky French deli-cum-cafe that’s frequented by smart, glossy women in Henley tops and pastel sweaters. I’m planning to drop in some meringue samples, but keep putting it off. Even their butter – genuine Breton demi-sel, in chic gingham wrapping – is intimidating.
‘Can I help you?’ asks the man behind the counter. I look up from the glass-topped display. He is tall and dark-haired, with a hint of grey around the temples and the lean, rangy frame of a runner. Around mid-forties at a guess, he’s clearly pretty clean-living, like the rest of the staff here. They obviously have some kind of looks policy.
‘I’m just looking for a few bits for lunch,’ I say, glancing back down to the goodies on offer and aware of the shuffling queue which has already formed behind me. (Pascal’s is incredibly popular on a weekend morning, and this being Easter Sunday, the place is milling with families poring over the chocolate display.)
‘Some ham perhaps?’ the man suggests in his light French accent.
‘Yes – six slices of that please, and one of those loaves.’ He smiles before cutting the ham, and by the time he’s wrapped it I’ve selected various little stuffed items, which I hope will meet with Mum’s approval – peppers, olives, plus marinated anchovies which he spoons into tubs.
He packs my purchases into a brown paper bag and hands it to me. ‘There you go.’
‘Oh, just a sec …’ Although I’ve paid, and the man behind me is sighing impatiently, I have a feeling that what I’ve bought isn’t enough. I know Mum likes to keep a keen eye on her weight, but it is her birthday. ‘Sorry – could I add some cheese?’ I ask.
‘Sure, what would you like?’
I look down. So many to choose from: cow’s milk, goat, ewe …
‘That one’s very good,’ comes an elderly male voice behind me, ‘the Abbeye de Belloc.’
‘Sheep’s milk,’ says the man behind the counter, ‘made by Trappist monks.’
Hmmm. Sounds pleasingly historic, Mum will appreciate that. ‘Yes, I’ll have a big wedge of that please.’
‘This much?’ The shop guy angles his knife.
‘Bit more …’
He edges it round. Still looks rather mean. Can’t have Mum thinking I’m fat, ill-educated and stingy …
‘Just give me a huge piece please,’ I say, thinking to hell with the cost: Mum and I will get through the next two evenings sipping wine and nibbling little pieces of it. Then I worry that one massive chunk might look rather lonely, so I pick a couple of others which the man weighs and wraps.
He stabs at the old-fashioned till. ‘Thirty-eight pounds please.’
Bloody hell! I freeze for a moment, wondering what he’d do if I asked him to slice a bit off the monks’ one and stick it back on to the enormous cheese wheel, the fromage mothership. But I can’t do that. The man behind me is now gusting air at the back of my head, and a small child is whining for a foil-wrapped praline Easter egg. I poke at the buttons on the credit card machine, figuring that I could feed my family for five days for the price of this piddly cheese stash.
As I leave the shop, I’m also wondering if Tom has thought to buy Easter eggs for the boys. I know Logan won’t care, but Fergus still expects one and Tom can hardly buy him one without treating his big brother too. I’m tempted to text him but know it would seem a little control freakish. Gritting my teeth, I march back with my shopping to the flat.
In the living room, I fan out the magazines and newspaper on the coffee table, then give the entire flat a speedy check for any trashy novels lying about. Mum would scorn any book with an embossed gold title, and God forbid she should spy a mag with Victoria Beckham on the cover. In Fergus’s room, where Mum will be sleeping, I check the bookshelf to make sure his entire collection of Horrible Histories books are clearly visible. Selecting The Measly Middle Ages, I have a quick flick through so I can impress her with facts such as: those Medievals feasted on hedgehog and murdered a load of monks, probably for overcharging for cheese. Are they even referred to as Medievals, as in Victorians or Edwardians? Tucking the book back on the shelf, I carry out Fergus’s laptop and stash it on top of my wardrobe. Overly cautious, I know, but Mum is pretty au fait with her own Medieval computer and I don’t want to risk her having a fiddle about and being confronted by some smoking-ass-type situation. She is not exactly relaxed about bodily functions, and the only sex education I received from her was a leaflet thrust at me, detailing the numerous infections I could contract if I ever got around to doing it. No wonder I practically leapt upon Tom when I met him at nineteen years old. The first guy I’d slept with, he helped me discover that sex could actually be a lovely thing, and not just the cause of terrible diseases and a humiliating trip to a ‘special’ clinic.
Shaking off an unwelcome wave of nostalgia, I carry out Fergus’s enormous sack of ratty old toys to my car. I set off, trying to convince myself that it’s silly to feel a
wrench in my gut at bidding farewell to Rex, Panda and all the other cuddly toys – because other children will treasure them. Plus, they’re quite smelly (the toys, not other children). I’m still trying to convince myself that I’m doing the right thing as I pull up outside the charity shop and hand over the sack. The assistant is an elderly woman with curiously mauve-tinted hair. Although she thanks me, rather curtly, her small, narrowed eyes say, ‘And what do you expect us to do with these?’
I planned to have a quick poke around the shop for any duff old gadgets for Fergus. But it’s so depressing in here – the woman having slung my sack into the back room along with the snaggy old underskirts and misshapen shoes – that I have an urge to leave immediately. Another child will cherish Rex, I remind myself silently as I climb into my car, crank the radio up loud and set off for the wilds of Lanarkshire.
Perhaps I’m having some kind of hormonal meltdown. Why else would it bother me so much to rid our flat of some ratty old playthings? Ingrid doesn’t cling on to Saskia’s discarded teddies; they are washed and passed swiftly on to friends’ younger children in order to keep their place clutter-free. I picture myself aged eighty-seven, like some tragic Miss Haversham character – not clad in an ancient wedding dress but surrounded by dozens of quietly decaying soft toys.
Maybe I’m peri-menopausal, heading for irrational mood swings and night sweats, which makes the fact that I recently had dinner with a twenty-nine-year-old seem even more ridiculous. And he hasn’t called. Does that bother me? Yes, a bit. I could call him, of course; I am an adult, after all, capable of operating a phone. However, I suspect that any move on my part may be interpreted as distinctly cougar-like. And I’m not that type at all. Even Viv would agree with that. Cougars have glossed lips and ample cleavages, not grease-smeared cardigans and sensible M&S cotton knickers.