by Fiona Gibson
‘There you go then,’ she declares.
‘You’re suggesting I make him casseroles?’
Her lips purse and she throws me an exasperated look. ‘I’d just like to see you happy and settled, Alice. If nothing else, he could probably do something about that overbite you have.’
Chapter Fourteen
Mum’s comment is still ringing shrilly in my ears next morning. I check my alarm – 7.14 – and peer into my dressing-table mirror to see if any changes have occurred without me realising. No, my face is precisely as I expect it to be: dark eyes, pale skin, a few faint freckles scattered across my long, straight nose. Teeth a little, well, toothy, but not overly protruding. They’re just sturdy and serviceable, all the better for nibbling on all those Tuc biscuits.
A thought hits me: I could call Stephen and ask his expert opinion. Heck, why not? It was lovely, spending yesterday afternoon examining preserved body parts together, and although he hasn’t shown the slightest sign of being attracted to me, I would like to see him again.
‘Of course you don’t have an overbite,’ he laughs when I phone after a full cooked breakfast with Mum. ‘Is this an April fool?’
‘No, not at all. I just, er, wanted to check.’
‘So what on earth makes you think you do?’
‘Something Mum said,’ I reply, keeping my voice low, even though she’s pottering about in Fergus’s room, getting ready for her grand day out. ‘And I know my top teeth overlap the bottom ones a bit,’ I add, now feeling faintly ridiculous: vain, shallow and appearing to be fishing for compliments, even though that wasn’t my intention at all.
‘I think you have very nice teeth,’ Stephen adds.
‘Like a show pony,’ I snigger, deciding I’m definitely warming to this man. Apart from his distinct togetherness, there’s also the plait thing, which I can’t quite get over. I mean, if he can manage that, what else might he be capable of – a chignon, or a ballet-style bun? Or am I being faintly patronising here, in the way that Stephen seemed amazed by my ability to build flatpack?
‘… With a true overbite,’ he’s explaining, ‘the top teeth overlap the lower ones by at least three millimetres. So I can promise you, you really have nothing to worry about.’
‘Great. Well, I just thought I’d consult an expert.’ I laugh awkwardly, leaving a tiny pause for him to ask me out for a drink.
‘Just a minute, Molly,’ he says. ‘I’m trying to have a phone conversation here.’ I wait for him to add, I’m talking to Alice, that nice lady from the museum who didn’t know the difference between pixies and fairies, but there’s just faint cartoony music in the background.
‘Um, so what are you up to this week?’ I ask, wondering how I might work around to suggesting we meet up.
‘Bit of a juggling act with the Easter holidays,’ he says. ‘How about you?’
‘Well, my boys are still away with their dad …’ I clear my throat. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy a drink sometime?’ My voice has risen a couple of tones higher than normal.
‘Sure,’ Stephen says brightly. ‘Can I call you, though? As I said, things are a bit—’
‘Daddy!’ comes Molly’s urgent tone. ‘Kate’s at the door.’ A woman’s voice rings out, clear and confident, in the background. ‘Kate’s here,’ Molly reiterates.
‘Oh, sorry, Alice—’
Kate? Ah, yes – Casserole Kate, with her bubbling hotpot …
‘Better let you go,’ I say quickly.
‘Yep, have a good week,’ is his brisk response. I stick the landline back on its cradle as Mum appears.
‘All ready then?’ I ask, quickly composing myself and fixing on a wide smile.
‘Yes, I think so,’ she replies, clearly relishing the prospect of a day out with her old friends. Her blue birthday sweater is being treated to a second outing and, not one to wear make-up normally, today she has applied a slick of peachy lipstick.
‘You look great,’ I add truthfully.
‘Oh, thank you.’ She checks her watch. ‘Well, I’d better be going …’
‘Sure you don’t want me to drive you into town?’
‘No, it’s a lovely morning and I’ll enjoy the walk.’
‘So you’re off to the gallery, then lunch and the theatre this evening?’
Mum nods. ‘I should be back by eleven at the latest.’
I go to give her a hug; for once, she actually returns it. ‘Mum, stay out as late as you like. I never go to bed early and anyway, I’ve got a big meringue order to do for tomorrow …’
‘Okay.’ She smiles. ‘Well, enjoy your day and …’ she pauses, looking almost embarrassed before adding, ‘and thank you, Alice. It’s good to spend some time together, just the two of us. I don’t think we do it often enough.’
I’m so taken aback that, after she’s gone, I sit at the kitchen table with my mug of tea, just to reflect on what she said. She’s right; sweatshop and overbite comments aside, we are managing to coexist without too much friction. Even so, without her the flat is pleasingly quiet and still. I have no crucial errands to run and, although I’ll need to start baking at some point, I have the whole of this fine spring day to do it.
When my mobile rings, I only pick it up to see if it’s Tom or one of the boys. It’s not, though – it’s unknown. Giles, maybe, as I haven’t saved his number?
‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Hi, is that Alice?’
‘Yes?’
‘Sorry to call you out of the blue like this. Hope it’s not a bad time. I’m Charlie, your friend Ingrid gave me your number …’
‘Oh, yes, she mentioned you …’
‘We got chatting at that gym she belongs to, the one with, what d’you call it? A hypoxic chamber …’ He laughs amiably, an infectious chuckle that makes me smile.
‘What is that?’ I ask.
‘Something to do with reduced oxygen so you can experience the effects of high altitude.’
I snigger. ‘What fun.’
‘But I wasn’t there for that,’ Charlie goes on. ‘I was writing a piece about some torturous thousand-calorie workout which nearly fucking finished me off …’
I can’t help laughing. He talks fast, with a twangy accent – south of England, but not London, I can’t quite place it. ‘A thousand-calorie workout? Is that actually possible?’
‘So they say. Anyway, I was chatting to Ingrid in the cafe, and we got around to talking about you and this thing your friends are doing – finding all these men for you to date …’
‘Only three,’ I say quickly.
‘Yeah. Well. I was wondering, how are you fixed this evening?’
Hmm. Better not, in case Mum comes home earlier than expected. ‘Tonight’s not good,’ I say.
‘Could you do lunch then? My treat, got a review to knock out. You can be my companion.’
Despite his distinct pushiness, I’m intrigued. ‘You mean today?’
‘Yeah.’
Should I? It’s short notice but why on earth not? Yes, I could start baking, but then, it would be a terrible waste of a sun-filled Easter Monday, and there’s all evening for that.
‘You mean you’ll be reviewing the restaurant?’ I ask.
‘Yep, it’s serious work, you know. The public needs to know where to find the best lemon sole …’
‘So,’ I say, ‘when you write, “My companion had a savoury mushroom amuse-bouche”, that person will be me?’
‘That’s it,’ Charlie laughs, ‘only there won’t be any amuse-bouche ‘cause it’s not that kind of thing. It’s that rooftop place opposite the castle – the Terrace – d’you know it?’
‘I’ve heard of it, yes …’ A sliver of sea bream costs about the same as my ewe cheese, I believe.
‘Fantastic fish – meant to be the best in Edinburgh. So it’s probably worth us checking it out.’
Hmm. He’s so cocky, so sure I’ll agree that part of me thinks, hold back a bit, tell him you’re busy. But Charlie sounds fun, and the gir
ls are always urging me to be more spontaneous.
‘What sort of time?’ I ask.
‘Table’s booked for one.’
Right. So he knew I’d say yes, or perhaps there’s always a spare person knocking around who’s delighted to have lunch with him at a moment’s notice.
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘I’ll see you then.’
‘Fantastic. I’ll be the one sitting outside on the terrace, looking terrified at the prospect of your vetting.’
Well, there it is. I’m going for lunch in a beautiful rooftop restaurant overlooking the castle, which I’ve read about in the magazines Clemmie gives me (they employ foragers, I believe, to gather mysterious greenery). By the time I turn up at the Terrace, having jumped on a bus so as not to arrive all red-faced and sweaty – it really is unusually warm today – I’m in a state of high excitement. A little antsy too, despite this being my fourth date in less than a month … is there a point at which, like with public speaking, you stop feeling nervous and breeze through it? Will I become a practised dater, treating each encounter as if it’s no more extraordinary than popping out to buy a newspaper?
I enter the foyer, press the lift button and wipe my slightly clammy hands on my skirt. Damn, they’ve left a faint mark on the fabric. The lift arrives, and I step in, taking in my reflection in its mirrored interior and hoping I’ve got it right this time. Charlie didn’t strike me as someone who’d berate me for possibly supporting child labour, but as you can never tell, I’ve chosen a plain white shirt (no embellishments which might have been stitched by infant hands) plus a simple, bias-cut black linen skirt. Legs are bare – rather pallid of hue but that’s preferable, I think, to hastily applied cheap fake tan and its inevitable gravy-coloured tidemarks. I look smart, I decide. Grown-up yet not stuffy … possibly even a little sexy, with my hair hastily blow-dried and worn loose? It’s impossible to tell. Certainly, I realise as the lift doors open, several other women are all carrying off the look, as they too are wearing the white-shirt-black-skirt combo – the waitresses’ uniform here. As if to confirm this, a gangly man with a sculpted, rich-person’s jawline (and possibly an underbite?) shoots up a hand in my direction and calls out, ‘Excuse me, we’re just waiting for that glass of Sauvignon?’
‘I, er … don’t work here,’ I reply.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ the man booms as several diners swivel round to watch our exchange.
‘That’s okay,’ I reply with a big, barky laugh. ‘Happens all the time …’ Shit, shit, shit, what made me say that? And did Charlie hear? No, he said he’d definitely be out on the terrace … I glance around the restaurant in all its white-tiled, glass-walled glory. One entire glass wall has been pushed back, allowing a faint breeze to drift in, and out on the actual terrace several couples and one large family group are all chattering away. Marching out, I pray that no one will try to catch my attention and ask for their bill.
I spot him immediately at a table for two, wearing a dark blue open-necked shirt and jeans, with dark curly hair flopping around his face. He has a nicely shaped mouth (looks like he smiles a lot) and cheeky brown eyes behind black-framed rectangular specs. It all adds up to one of those lively, animated faces that somehow draw you in.
On seeing me, Charlie grins and springs up, knocking over a glass pepper pot – a gesture that causes my anxiety to melt away instantly.
‘Alice,’ he says warmly, ‘how lovely to meet you.’
‘And you.’ He kisses my cheek, and I have a good feeling about today as we take our seats.
‘I’m really glad you said yes,’ he adds. ‘Hope I didn’t completely ruin your day.’
I laugh and glance towards the castle against the searing blue sky. ‘Of course you didn’t. This place is amazing.’
He grins broadly; it’s a lovely smile, showing good but not-quite-perfect teeth, and causing those dark eyes to glint mischievously. ‘Like being in a Visit Scotland calendar.’
‘Yes, a bit. So, d’you live in Edinburgh?’
‘At the moment, yes, just for a few months – my parents have a flat here that they let out for an extortionate rate during the festival. Rest of the time I’m in London, but I fancied a change – there’s been stuff going on …’
‘You’re on the run?’ I suggest, raising a brow.
‘Oh …’ He wafts a hand. ‘Girlfriend stuff. All over now, just before Christmas …’
‘Rotten timing.’
He shakes his head. ‘Only in that I’d already bought her present, a bloody hideous red Chloé handbag with a gold-link chain strap … tried to palm it off on my mum but she said it wasn’t her style.’ He smirks. ‘The only reason I’d known Matilda wanted it is because she’d not only ringed it in biro in her magazine, but stuck all these hint stickers around it.’
I smile, a little taken aback by how easily he offered this information, particularly about a recent ex. But then, I’m used to the males in my life – Logan, Fergus, Tom – barely communicating at all. It is, I decide, quite refreshing.
‘I’ve never come across hint stickers,’ I tell him.
‘Oh, you know – those arrow-shaped stickers with “choose me” printed on them …’ Charlie laughs loudly, fills my glass from the bottle that’s already sitting in its silvery ice bucket on the table, and takes a big swig from his own. ‘They’re not especially subtle,’ he adds. ‘Matilda had a whole sheet of those damn stickers but I can tell you’re not like that.’
‘What aren’t I like?’ I ask, wondering if he’s actually comparing us here.
‘The handbaggy sort. You know.’
‘No, I’m not handbaggy …’
‘And that’s good.’ Charlie meets my gaze and smiles, then turns to the waiter who’s approached our table. We order, choosing simple grilled fish which feels right with sunshine beaming down on us.
‘So, you’ve wound up in Edinburgh,’ I remark.
‘Yeah, I’ve wanted to spend some time here for ages – it’s such a great city. Whereabouts are you from?’
‘Yorkshire originally, but I moved to Scotland in my teens, then came to college here. I had my first son pretty young – I’d only just graduated – so Tom, my ex, and I found ourselves getting a life together in Edinburgh …’
‘And then what happened?’
I pause, unaccustomed to such intense curiosity about my life. ‘Well, we split up six years ago and I’ve been working as a school secretary for a few years now …’ Charlie nods, showing no sign of itching to dive in and talk about himself. I take a sip of wine, noting at once how different it is to the stuff I drink at home; in comparison, my usual plonk might be concocted in some gigantic chemical plant in Wolverhampton, with not a whisper of grape.
‘Like it?’ Charlie asks.
‘It’s delicious. It’s one of the nicest wines I’ve ever had.’
He grins approvingly. ‘I take no credit for choosing it. The waiter foisted it on me and I’m glad he did. Anyway,’ he goes on, ‘Ingrid said you also run a successful meringue business.’
I laugh and sip more wine. ‘I’m flattered that she did a great PR job on me, but it’s pretty small-scale at the moment.’
‘Well, you’re a busy woman with two boys to raise …’
I meet his gaze. ‘You seem to know a lot about me, Charlie.’
He shrugs. ‘You sounded interesting.’
‘You and Ingrid must have had a pretty long chat at the gym …’
‘I’d actually, er … strained something during the workout,’ he says with a rueful smile. ‘So I was hanging around in the hope that it’d wear off.’
‘What had you done?’ I ask.
‘A kind of groin thing.’
‘Oh dear. How is it today?’
‘Still recovering.’ He laughs loudly and tops up our glasses, even though mine is barely touched. ‘But the plan is still to anaesthetise myself today …’
‘Isn’t that unprofessional, though? I mean, I’d have thought you’d be keeping a clear head, read
y to make detailed notes on the texture of the halibut …’
Charlie grins cheekily. ‘I like the way you say “halibut” in that Yorkshire way.’
I burst out laughing. ‘No one has ever said that to me before. And I’ve lived in Scotland for twenty-five years – I didn’t think there was any Yorkshire left in me …’
‘There is, and it’s lovely. Your voice, I mean.’
I look at him and smile, realising I’ve felt completely at ease since I joined him at the table. Even being mistaken for staff seems funny now, and I find myself telling Charlie about it.
‘I like that look, though,’ he says. ‘It’s very foxy.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘Seriously, you look great.’ By the time our lunch arrives, I’m silently thanking Ingrid for giving Charlie my number and starting to wish this was dinner, and that Mum wasn’t staying over tonight, and that we had a whole, long evening ahead of us. Somehow, I’ve found myself telling him about Mum’s visit, and her comments about overbites and child labour, at which he laughs in disbelief.
‘So,’ I say, conscious of prattling on about myself, ‘tell me about the kind of writing you do.’
‘Oh, I just trot out any old stuff – whatever comes along. Actually, I’m off to Paris on Wednesday to review a hotel.’
‘So you do travel writing too?’
Charlie shrugs. ‘Anything that pays, basically.’
‘Sounds like fun.’ I smile. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t you be focusing on the food here?’
‘Oh, I’ll bash something together later,’ he says distractedly.
‘Are you sure you’ll remember? I mean, this green stuff—’
‘Samphire, yeah …’
‘Aren’t you going to write about its silken texture? Sorry to go on, but the whole restaurant critic thing intrigues me. I mean, to go into that amount of detail about something on a plate …’
He pulls a mock-aghast face. ‘Don’t you like food?’
‘Of course I do. I just mean the pernicketiness of restaurant reviews, you know?’