by Fiona Gibson
‘I’m teasing you,’ Charlie says with a grin. ‘I know exactly what you mean. Why the fuck does anyone need to know precisely how buttery the sauce was, or how crisp the pastry on their silly little tart?’ He shrugs dramatically. ‘But apparently they do.’
‘And who d’you write all this for?’
He pushes back his dark hair which keeps flapping into his eyes in the light breeze. ‘Anyone who asks me. Guess I’ve been lucky. I’ve been freelance for ten years now and managed to ride out the recession by the skin of my teeth. But then,’ he adds, ‘it’s just me, no kids to support …’
‘Have you ever been married?’
‘Just the once.’ He smiles, studying my face as our plates are cleared away. ‘An early one, far too young – don’t they call them starter marriages?’
‘A sort of practice run,’ I suggest. ‘Well, Tom and I were never married, but I suppose that’s sort of what it was.’
‘I assume he’s still in your life,’ he suggests.
‘Yes, well, we have our boys so there’ll always be that bond …’ I break off and laugh. ‘Which is a little scary.’
‘No escape,’ he agrees. ‘So, can I tempt you with dessert?’
‘Oh, I guess we should,’ I say, ‘for research purposes.’
And so we do, researching not only a beautiful lemon tart and an Eton-mess-type crushed meringue dessert (Charlie chose this, I tend to avoid meringues beyond my own kitchen), and also – just to be thorough in our investigations – a second bottle of wine. We’re all giddy and giggly as he pays the bill – ‘’Course it’s on expenses,’ he insists, batting me away as I pull out my purse – then totter off to the lift. I glimpse at the woman in its mirrored walls: no longer stiff and awkward with sweat marks on her skirt, but actually glowing with flushed cheeks and bright, sparkling eyes. As the lift doors open at the ground floor, a besuited businessman walks in and fixes me with an undeniably flirtatious grin. Christ, what is happening?
‘Hey,’ Charlie says as we step out, ‘don’t suppose you fancy hanging out together this afternoon? We could go places. Do stuff. You could show me the best bits of Edinburgh. I mean, you don’t have to start meringuing right now, do you? Or rush off to tend to your mother?’
I look at him, my heart quickened by his hopeful smile. Why not? whispers the voice in my head. And that phrase from Stylish Living pops into my mind: spontaneous suppers with friends. Well, maybe it’s time I spent a whole day being spontaneous, and seeing where it takes me.
‘Oh, I’m sure they can wait,’ I tell him.
‘Mum or meringues?’
‘Both,’ I say as Charlie takes my hand in his, making my entire body tingle as we step out into the glorious afternoon.
*
‘Say it again,’ he drawls in a Humphrey Bogart voice. ‘You know what I wanna hear …’
‘You’re crazy,’ I laugh. ‘You are completely insane.’
‘Go on, say it again. Say, “halibut”.’
We have reached the stage, after our distinctly winey lunch, of not only knowing each other’s surnames and ages (Charlie is thirty-seven – yes, a little younger than me, but no Giles-sized age gap), but also having a little in-joke. The halibut thing, I mean. As we stroll down to the Botanic Gardens, we also fill each other in on our favourite music, books and films – all those things you really want to match, but which rarely do.
And, when they do, it seems too good to be true.
‘I’ve never met any man who even likes Casablanca, let alone says it’s their favourite film,’ I tell him.
‘Then you’ve been hanging out with the wrong men,’ he retorts.
I laugh, shielding my eyes against the sun. We buy takeaway coffees from the Botanic Gardens cafe; Charlie was all for grabbing another bottle of wine from an off-licence, sneaking it in and downing it surreptitiously among the exotic flora (‘I mean, there must be a jungly bit we could hide in, right?’), but any more alcohol today would tip the day from being lovely into potentially messy, especially as I need to be ready with the cocoa and chit-chat when Mum returns.
‘I’ve had an idea,’ he announces, lounging on his back on the grass. ‘I could come home with you and help make your meringues.’
‘I don’t think so, Charlie. Drunk in charge of a piping bag? You might do yourself another injury on top of the groin one.’
‘You think I know nothing about baking,’ he retorts in mock-indignation. ‘Know what my last commission was? Testing out bizarre kitchen contraptions from the point of view of an idiot cook.’
I laugh and sip my coffee, grateful for its sobering effect, and the fact that there are still hours to go before Mum’s due back at the flat.
‘What kind of contraptions?’ I ask.
‘Mad stuff like, um … a cream-horn mould. I didn’t even know what a cream horn was. I mean, I thought I did. I assumed it was a sex thing …’ I crease up with laughter. ‘But turns out it’s just a cake. Don’t make those as well, do you?’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I never have.’
He adopts a serious face. ‘You’re a cream-horn virgin. Well, I can’t blame you actually because who wants a cake you have to mould? So there was that, and a plastic thing to make omelettes in the microwave … but the one you want is the Yolk Plucker.’
‘The what?’
‘Yolk Plucker. It’s brilliant, can’t believe you haven’t got one. It looks like a miniature toilet plunger – that thing you stick down the loo to clear a blockage …’ An unsavoury image of Mum’s septic tank shimmers into my mind. ‘… And the idea is, you crack your egg into its little rubber bowl, squeeze the balloon at the end and it sucks your yolk right in – sorry if this is sounding a bit medical – leaving you with a perfectly separated white.’ He grins triumphantly.
‘Come on, that is not a real thing.’
‘It is, I swear. See the top-notch commissions I get?’ He laughs self-mockingly.
‘So you’ll pretty much do anything for money,’ I suggest.
‘Just about.’ He shrugs. ‘A man’s got to earn a crust.’
I sip my coffee and lean forward. ‘Really? Like … anything?’
Charlie sniggers and plucks at the grass. ‘In my dark and murky past, I’ve done things that …’ He tails off. ‘Well, that I probably wouldn’t do now I’m a highly mature and responsible adult.’
‘What kind of things?’ I ask greedily.
‘Never mind that, nosy girl.’
‘Oh, come on, you can’t tell me half the story. You’re a horrible tease.’
He gives me an impish grin. ‘I might when we know each other better.’
I grin, pushing hair from my eyes and watching a squirrel scurry up a tree. The azaleas are bursting with reds and oranges, as zingy as poster paint splattered on by a child, and an entire border is filled with cheerful yellow daffodils. I glance at Charlie, figuring that, yes, I would like to get to know him better. Does this mean that Ingrid has won the Date-off? I’m not sure yet. Then Charlie lifts a hand towards my face, and for a moment I think he’s just going to flick something away from my cheek – an insect or, horrors, a speck of foraged greenery from lunch – but instead he smiles tenderly and brushes back a strand of hair.
He moves closer, and I notice how lovely his mouth is close up – just full enough, made for kissing, really. Then we are kissing, in the warmth of a perfect Monday afternoon. It is dizzying. I am no longer a mother, thinking up ways to use up hundreds of leftover egg yolks. I am no longer trying to ignore the fact that my fortieth birthday is hurtling towards me like an out-of-control train. Right now, on this patch of neatly clipped grass, I am kissing a man who tastes of wine and perhaps a hint of soft, sweet berries from his meringue dessert. My head is spinning as we finally pull apart.
‘Well,’ Charlie says with a lazy smile. ‘What now?’
Reluctantly, I glance at my watch. ‘It’s nearly six. The gardens are closing any minute.’
‘So where shall we go?
’ he asks hopefully.
I smile, brushing grass from my bare legs. ‘Sorry, but I need to get back. I really do have to bake tonight …’
‘Okay, so what are you doing on Wednesday?’
I study his eyes. They are deep brown, like the darkest chocolate, and framed by long black lashes. ‘I thought you said you were going to Paris?’
‘I am.’ He grins, then kisses me gently again. ‘So why don’t you come too?’
Chapter Fifteen
I’m still dizzy from all that wine and kissing as we make our way to the main gates. What’s happened to me? I’ve snogged a stranger and am leaving the Botanic Gardens all mussed up and covered in bits of grass, and I have to face Mummy Dearest in a few hours’ time.
‘I can’t come with you, Charlie,’ I say.
‘Why not?’ He sounds taken aback.
‘Well, for one thing I’ve known you for, what – about six hours?’
‘We’d have a great time, I know we would—’
‘And you’ll be working anyway.’
‘Yeah, writing a pissy little hotel review that’ll take me about ten minutes, that I’ll do when I get back home anyway. I won’t turn on my laptop, I promise. I won’t even take it. C’mon, Alice. When’s the last time you did something completely impulsive?’ Today, I think, my lips twitching into a smile. ‘No, not that,’ he says, reading my mind. ‘You know what I mean. When’s your birthday, by the way?’
‘In three weeks’ time, why?’
‘Well then. It’s always on those lists, isn’t it – things to do before you’re forty? Never mind hang-gliding and swimming with dolphins and all that shit. There’s always something on those lists about going to Paris with someone you’ve only just met.’
‘I don’t remember reading that,’ I laugh. ‘Anyway, I know they’re made up by people like you. Everyone makes out that turning forty is this enormous event, and it’s just not—’
‘It’s just a number,’ he says, deadpan.
‘It is, Charlie …’ For once, I really don’t care about that looming milestone, as it’s always called. Not when I’ve just had the most amazing afternoon …
‘Forget it then. Forget your birthday, I mean. Come just for the hell of it. I’ll go home and book you a flight right now. I’ve got tons of air miles and the hotel’s free, it won’t cost you anything …’ He takes my hand as we head back up the steep hill towards Princes Street.
‘It’s not about money,’ I insist. ‘The main thing is, my boys are coming home tomorrow. They’ve been away for a week with their dad and I can’t just not be there.’
‘Oh.’ He frowns, clearly deflated. ‘Couldn’t they stay away a bit longer?’
‘No,’ I exclaim, laughing. ‘What d’you think I’d say? “Um, d’you mind not coming home for a few more days because I’m off to Paris with a man who, at about a quarter to one this afternoon, I didn’t actually know?” That’d go down well.’
He chuckles softly. ‘Well, I think it’s good for kids to see that their parents have a sense of adventure.’
‘Look,’ I say with a sigh, ‘it’s lovely of you to ask me, and maybe if things were different …’ We’ve reached the top of the hill now, both of us a little breathless. ‘But I’m going home to get myself sorted before Mum comes home …’
Charlie smiles, plucking a blade of grass from my hair, a gesture which is so sweet and tender it causes my heart to perform a little flip. ‘So we’ll get together when I come back? I’m only away for a night …’
‘Yes, I’d love that.’
He takes both of my hands in his and kisses me softly on the lips. I’m still glowing as I climb into a cab, and possibly even when I get out, as Clemmie, who’s striding briskly towards me in a figure-hugging dress in a loud poppy print, gives me a significant stare. ‘Well, you look like you’ve been out having fun!’
‘Do I?’ Inadvertently, I touch my lips, trying to assess whether they look freshly kissed.
‘In a good way,’ she adds as Stanley snuffles around my ankles. ‘Been somewhere nice?’
‘Just for lunch,’ I say blithely, realising that it must be getting on for seven, and suspecting I reek of booze.
‘Must have been a fun lunch,’ she titters.
‘Yes, it was. It was lovely.’ I smile tightly, wondering what she’s referring to. I glance down at my skirt; there are no bits of grass or azalea petals sticking to it that I can see.
‘You’re so funny,’ she adds with a rich, throaty laugh. ‘Well, it’s lovely seeing you out having a good time. You deserve it, Alice.’
‘I’d better get home,’ I say quickly. ‘Got a night’s baking ahead …’
‘Good luck with that,’ she says with a smirk. I say goodbye, still perplexed as to why she kept looking at me in that way – faintly appalled, but also rather thrilled by my obvious wantonness. I march quickly to my front door, and hurry upstairs to my slightly stale-smelling flat (the milkshake odour still lingers, I’m sure of it) to study my reflection in the mirror in the hallway.
And there I see the worst case of beard rash I have ever seen. Shit. Charlie wasn’t even that stubbly, at least not that I’d noticed. Sexiest man I’ve met since God knows when, and it turns out I’m allergic to him.
To take my mind off my disfigurement, I tear into whisking up eggs and sugar and pipe the mixture, in slightly wobbly fashion, on to the trays. They are marbled pink from the sieved raspberry I’ve swirled in, and flecked with chips of toasted almond. Once my first batch is in the oven, I call Ingrid and fill her in on the day’s events.
‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry,’ she exclaims. ‘Is it really bad?’
‘Hopefully it’ll be gone by morning,’ I say, feeling calmer now. ‘And there’s nothing to apologise for. We had such a great afternoon.’
‘And he asked you to go to Paris with him? Are you sure it wasn’t an April fool?’
‘Thanks,’ I tease her. ‘You think men only ever offer to whisk me away as some kind of seasonal prank?’
‘Of course not,’ Ingrid retorts. ‘I’m sure loads of men would love to take you to Paris. But, you know, after one lunch …’
‘Well,’ I murmur, ‘like I said, it was lovely. A bit reckless. Can’t remember the last time I did something like that.’
She chuckles. ‘So you’re sure you’re not going to jump on a plane with him?’
I smile, breathing in the warm, sugary aroma that’s filling my kitchen. ‘Of course not,’ I say, omitting to add that I would actually love to, very much.
Mum rolls in just after eleven, a little tipsy and unable to stop herself from remarking, ‘You’re all pink around the chin, Alice – have you had a reaction to something?’
‘No, Mum,’ I fib, ‘my skin just flares up from time to time.’
‘Why would that be?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe the cream I’ve been using …’
She tuts. ‘You do have a lot of potions in your bathroom.’ Compared to her, she means; Mum uses only Imperial Leather soap. ‘Awful lot of money,’ she goes on, perhaps referring to the serum I bought last week, a blowout purchase of £2.99.
‘Anyway,’ I say, to deflect her attention from my face, ‘how was your day?’
‘Lovely. Perfect, in fact.’ She smiles with her lips pressed together. ‘Have you heard from that dentist again?’
I smile and pour her cocoa: a dark, rich cupful instead of a mug, the way she likes it. ‘We had a quick chat this morning.’
‘And …?’
‘And nothing, Mum. I hate to disappoint you but I think we’re just going to be mates, which is fine. I haven’t met a new man friend in a very long time.’
‘That’s nice,’ she says unconvincingly. We part with a hug, and it’s a relief to escape to my bed and replay the day’s events.
Kissing in the Botanic Gardens, on the very patch of grass where the boys and I once ate our egg sandwiches and bags of crisps. Will he call, when he gets back from Paris? If not, I decide
, I’ll phone him – definitely. Then my mind races ahead, and I’m actually boarding a plane to Paris, having asked Clemmie to look after the boys overnight. What’s the worst that could happen? That Charlie and I discover that, fleeting attraction aside, we have little in common? Well, so what? We’d be in Paris. I haven’t been to Paris since I was pregnant with Logan, and Tom and I wandered around holding hands, with me in gargantuan dungarees and a permanent smile on my face.
Mum pokes her head around my bedroom door, making me flinch in the glow of my bedside lamp. ‘Maybe some chamomile lotion would help.’
‘Sorry?’
‘For your face, Alice. To take the heat out of it.’
‘Er, I don’t have any, Mum. Anyway, I’m sure it’ll die down on its own.’
‘Hmmm.’ She makes no move to leave. Perhaps she feels lonely in Fergus’s room. At home, she always has Brian to talk to. ‘So what have you been doing today?’ she asks, looking sleepy now.
‘Just had lunch with a friend, then we went for a stroll around the Botanics.’
‘A man friend?’ she enquires.
‘Yes.’
‘Was it the dentist?’ she asks, hovering in the doorway with a hopeful smile.
I consider lying, but realise how pointless that would be. ‘No, someone else. But I did call Stephen, and he says anything less than three millimetres is absolutely fine, so both of us can sleep easily tonight.’ She blinks at me, confused. ‘I mean I don’t have an overbite,’ I add cheerfully.
‘Oh,’ she says, sounding a little disappointed, before disappearing off to bed. My mobile bleeps on the floor and I snatch it, greedy for further communication with Charlie – but it’s Tom.
Weather still great, he writes. Everyone seems to be enjoying Skye. Jessica loving being with her brothers. Would it mess up your plans if we stayed away longer and kept the boys until Friday?
Chapter Sixteen
I glance out of my car window at the lambs nibbling grass through gaps in the fence at the roadside. The sun is struggling through a hazy sky, and I’m filled with the kind of smug pleasure you experience when you’ve leapt out of bed and cooked a full fried breakfast, all the while making the kind of pleasant conversation befitting a properly grown-up daughter. Naturally, I omitted to tell Mum that I am going to Paris with Charlie tomorrow, who she hasn’t even had the opportunity to vet, and certainly wouldn’t approve of. Reviewing yolk pluckers and cream-horn moulds – what kind of career is that? Plus, I shudder to think what she’d have made of us ignoring the beautiful architecture of the glasshouses in the hallowed Botanic Gardens in favour of kissing on the grass …