Take Mum Out

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Hmmm,’ he mumbles. Shaking my head, I clear up the veg remains from the worktop; clearly, he’s in no mood for fun so I’m better leaving him to it. The two of them are bickering at the table now, about something I can’t quite catch, with Logan calling his brother a swotty arse and adding, ‘It’s none of your fucking business.’

  ‘Logan!’ I snap, swinging round from the worktop. ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘I only said—’

  ‘I heard what you said.’

  ‘You swear.’ He juts out his chin.

  ‘Yes, understandably, I’d say. Anyway, can I just point out that neither of you have thanked me for sprucing up your bedrooms while you were away?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Logan says, ‘I meant to ask, why did you move all my stuff?’

  I blink at him. ‘I haven’t moved things. I just took a few things away.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ Logan asks.

  ‘One means shifting things from one position to another and the other is subtraction, like maths.’

  Fergus sniggers. ‘What did you subtract?’ Logan demands.

  I’m trying so hard not to lose it. Christ, I deserve a medal for exercising such self-control. ‘Just some old socks, a few toast crusts and a plate with dried-up egg on it. I hope they weren’t precious to you, love.’

  ‘I s’pose that’s okay,’ he says reluctantly.

  ‘Are you sure, or did you want to hang on to the plate to see how long it’d take for it be completely covered in fur?’

  ‘It takes at least a month for something like egg yolk to putrefy,’ Fergus remarks, dumping his fork into his empty bowl. The boys leave the kitchen and, although I try not to follow Logan to his room, my willpower falters. I knock and peer in to see him lying on his bed and stabbing at his phone.

  ‘So, how was the holiday really?’ I ask.

  ‘It was all right.’

  ‘It’s just, you’ve obviously come back in a pretty foul mood and I wondered what was wrong.’

  ‘It was fine,’ he says, pursing his mouth, the face he pulls when he hands me a school report which he knows isn’t brilliant. I sense him trying to mentally shoo me out of his room: Be gone, tedious mother, with your incessant questioning …

  ‘Were Dad and Patsy getting on all right?’

  ‘Yeah, they were fine.’

  I study Logan’s face, which still looks winter pale; I do hope they fed him properly. I know how keen Patsy is to festoon Jessica with quinoa salads, and I hope she realised that most teenage boys aren’t crazy for that sort of thing.

  ‘So,’ I continue, ‘did you visit many places? Castles, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Yeah, we went to a castle,’ he replies.

  ‘What was that like?’

  He shrugs. ‘Big. Old. There was a falconry display …’

  ‘Oh, what was that like?’

  ‘Mum,’ he exclaims, swivelling towards me, ‘it was a falconry display. There were big birds flying about, all right?’

  ‘Were they kestrels or hawks or—’

  ‘They were falcons, hence falconry display. What is this, a what-I-did-on-my-holidays thing?’ He emits a loud, bitter laugh. ‘Should I have kept a diary so you’d give me a sticker at the end of it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I retort, marching away while muttering, ‘They do use other birds too, you know.’ In fact, I’m so agitated by his attitude that I switch on my laptop and Google ‘falconry display birds’, and it turns out there are loads of different types – buzzards, kestrels and no less than five different species of owl. It’s so tempting to yell for Logan and make him come and see but instead, I shut down my laptop at the kitchen table. Great: he’s been back for less than an hour and already there’s that perpetual exasperation that seems to foul up the air between us. Shamefully, I start to picture life after children, when they’re set up with jobs and wives and I am an old lady. Whenever I try to envisage my future self, it’s usually one of two versions. In the first, I am fat and unkempt with wiry hairs poking out of my chin, dragging a wheeled shopping basket around Poundland. In the other version, I am lying beside a beautiful palm-fringed pool, and bear a striking resemblance to Helen Mirren. I’m multitasking, too, being able to sip a gin and tonic, pick at a dish of olives and have oil rubbed into my back by some man with large, firm hands, all at once. However, right now I am unable to shift the trolley/Poundland version from my mind. No matter how hard I try to visualise Helen Mirren gliding along at the poolside, with her sarong flapping in the light breeze, it’s my mother I see – or, rather, someone who looks a bit like Mum, but is about five stones heavier and nibbling morosely on a tinned hot dog (NO BREAD).

  Dammit all. I need to talk to someone, someone who actually likes me and doesn’t pull a pained expression whenever I walk into the room. I need the girls (yes, I know we have a combined age of one hundred and fifty-six) and, besides, despite her reluctance to ‘make a big deal of it’, I suspect that Ingrid might appreciate a get-together seeing as she’s due to have her eggs collected any day now.

  As luck would have it, Viv ‘can’t be bothered’ to go out tonight, and would far rather get together over a bottle of wine in my kitchen if it means hearing every detail about Paris. And Ingrid and Kirsty sound delighted too.

  ‘Want me to bring anything?’ Ingrid asks.

  ‘No, I’ll rustle something up, no problem.’ It’s only later, when I’ve battled my way through Logan and Fergus’s holiday laundry mountain, that I stop to peruse the fridge and cupboards and realise there’s hardly anything to snack on. As I can’t face baking, I decide to nip into Pascal’s, the French deli, instead.

  Feeling emboldened, I also package up and label some leftover meringue kisses from my last order (despite Fergus’s moans about meringues’ colossal carbon footprint, they do have a pleasingly lengthy shelf-life if kept in a tin). With any luck, the deli will agree to stock a trial run.

  ‘Just popping to the shops,’ I call out to the boys, to deafening silence.

  As it turns out, Pascal’s is pleasingly quiet when I go in. There’s just one other customer – an elderly lady perusing the flavoured oils – and the French man who served me last time, tending his cooked meats behind the counter. I fill a wicker basket with olives, pâté and crackers, and choose several modest slivers of cheese.

  ‘Anything else?’ he asks. Pleasant, but no flicker of recognition, even though he pointed me in the direction of the toyshop when I was searching for a substitute Rex.

  ‘Erm, I actually wondered if you might be interested in stocking my meringues,’ I say, taking the packets from my bag and placing them on the counter. ‘They’re all natural ingredients – even the flavourings. If you like them, I can deliver on a weekly or twice-weekly basis, or even more often – whatever suits you best.’

  He picks up a packet and studies it. ‘You make these in your home kitchen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s very … industrious of you,’ he says, and it strikes me how very attractive his accent is.

  ‘Well, it’s a sort of sideline,’ I explain, ‘and actually, I love it. It’s pretty therapeutic.’ I laugh awkwardly.

  He nods. ‘I can imagine. And I know they’re very difficult to get right.’

  The elderly woman is standing next to me now, clutching a bottle of garlic oil. ‘Meringues must never be chalky,’ she observes.

  ‘No, absolutely not.’ I smile at her.

  ‘They should be slightly gooey in the centre,’ the man adds approvingly.

  ‘Like the perfect man,’ the woman adds, giving my arm a playful nudge.

  I laugh. ‘That’s so strange. It’s what I always think – that the ideal qualities are pretty much right there, in a meringue.’

  The man is laughing too and, as I pick up my brown paper bag of goodies, I wonder why on earth I found this place intimidating.

  ‘I’ll get back to you about the samples,’ he says with a warm smile.

  ‘Thanks – would y
ou mind mentioning to the owner that I’ve dropped them off?’

  ‘I am the owner,’ he replies.

  ‘You’re Pascal?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He turns over a brown paper label attached to one of the packets. ‘And you’re Sugar Mummy.’

  ‘Yes.’ I smile. ‘But my real name’s Alice. Anyway, I’ll pop back soon.’

  Then, just as I’m leaving, he calls out, ‘Did your mother enjoy the cheeses?’

  ‘She did, especially the monks’ one …’

  He smiles a lovely warm, open smile that seems to light up his eyes, and causes dimples to appear on his cheeks. ‘There are a couple of new ones coming in next week that she might like to try. Not that I’m suggesting you spend all your time sitting around eating cheese with your mother …’ He laughs. Is he flirting, or just being friendly-shopkeeper-man? It’s impossible to tell.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ I say with a grin, feeling as light as a cloud as I hurry back to the flat.

  *

  Ingrid arrives early, clearly desperate to hear about my Paris trip. Within minutes, Kirsty and Viv have shown up, and all three bombard me with questions.

  ‘You didn’t sleep with him?’ Viv says this in the manner of an incredulous hairdresser. (‘You want to look like Scarlett Johansson? Are you out of your mind?’).

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ I look around the table at my friends’ expectant faces. ‘Well, yes, I slept, but—’

  ‘You went to a hotel in Paris with a man you fancy – otherwise you wouldn’t have gone, right – and didn’t do it?’ Viv blinks at me. ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I told you – we went to the Sacré-Coeur, we ate loads, we had a brilliant time considering we’d only known each other for about five minutes before the trip …’

  ‘But what happened in the room?’ Ingrid asks, sipping her tea while Kirsty throws me a knowing look, understanding at once that my jaunt wasn’t wholly successful.

  ‘In the room?’ I tease them. ‘Well, I made tea …’

  ‘You cooked?’ Viv barks, pouring glasses of wine for all of us, including Ingrid, who’s already reminded her that she’s not drinking right now.

  ‘No, I mean a pot of tea.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Viv mutters.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ Kirsty sniggers. ‘I love a cup of tea and biscuit in a hotel room.’

  ‘… And I took tons of pictures from the balcony, which had an amazing view,’ I go on. ‘Honestly, I’d forgotten how beautiful the city is …’

  Viv shakes her head in despair. ‘What a wasted opportunity.’

  ‘Oh, there was plenty of kissing,’ I say as she lights a cigarette, ‘which was lovely – but then, the pile thing put a bit of a dampener on things—’

  ‘What pile thing?’ Ingrid asks.

  ‘You had piles?’ Kirsty radiates sympathy which morphs into hysterical laughter as I regale them with the Preparation-Ash incident, when Charlie had refused to help me out.

  ‘Haemorrhoids in Paris,’ Ingrid says sadly. ‘It’s hardly a Woody Allen film, is it?’ She sighs. ‘It just seems so wrong.’

  ‘I know.’ I sip my wine, noticing that Viv’s glass is empty already; Christ, she’s hoovering it down these days. Maybe she’d have been a better match for Charlie. I try to picture them together, and decide she’d have found the breakfast-thievery thing a big hoot; perhaps I’ve just become a judgemental old spoilsport.

  ‘So what else happened?’ Kirsty prompts me, breaking off a corner of Pascal’s monk cheese.

  I go on to describe how Charlie became progressively more pissed as the day wore on. ‘Which was fine,’ I say firmly, in case my friends are under the impression that I’m considering heading up the temperance movement, ‘but, you know, something was making me hold back …’

  ‘Probably your little medical problem,’ Kirsty remarks sagely.

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, we got back to the hotel, which was lovely – you know those tall, elegant windows that seem so Parisian, with the shutters? Ours were a kind of washed-out, greeny-blue—’

  ‘Never mind the architectural details,’ Viv sniggers, flicking her still-burning cigarette butt out of the open window.

  ‘And the spiral staircase, in a sort of central well, was amazing—’

  Viv sniggers. ‘Just get on with it.’

  I grin and sip more wine. ‘Okay, so he was smashed by this point, and he’d tottered off for a shower so I stood there on the balcony, just looking out over the city at night …’ I glance around at the three rapt faces, realising, not for the first time, how very lucky I am that we’re all still here, living just a few miles apart and, more importantly, still relish each other’s company (although Ingrid winces as Viv lights up another Marlboro). ‘But what I was really doing,’ I continue, ‘was playing for time.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Ingrid asks.

  ‘Well, you know how, in football, when a team has enough goals to get their point or whatever, and they just want to hog the ball till the final whistle goes?’

  ‘You mean you didn’t want to have sex with him,’ she observes, shuffling her chair away from Viv.

  I nod. ‘That’s about it.’

  Viv frowns. ‘But why? You said he’s lovely, that you’d had such a great day …’

  There’s an explosion of laughter from the living room. Both Logan and Fergus have friends over tonight (I’m not allowed to use the term ‘sleepover’ any more – the boys merely crash out) and everyone is hanging out with a movie and the obligatory pizzas.

  ‘When it came down to it,’ I try to explain, ‘I suppose I didn’t want it enough.’

  ‘You don’t have to want it loads,’ Viv says bossily, wafting her cigarette in Ingrid’s face.

  ‘You think I should’ve slept with him just because he’d taken me to Paris?’

  ‘No! No, God, of course not. What I mean is, if you’re with a guy who’s attractive and fun, and the possibility of sex comes up …’ She pauses, glancing around for affirmation from the others. ‘Well, even if he’s not going to be the love of your live or even some amazing, passionate affair, then at least it’ll kick-start things, get you all revved up again …’

  ‘Like a rusty old engine,’ I snigger.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Maybe I need a good squirt of WD-40.’

  Viv gives my arm a squeeze. Although the gesture is well-meant, it comes across as faintly patronising, the kind of thing you’d to do a frail relative you were visiting in hospital.

  ‘Anyway,’ I add, ‘as it turns out, I’m glad we didn’t do it,’ and proceed to fill them in on Charlie’s antics at breakfast.

  ‘Ugh, I’d rather go without lunch than eat stale baked things out of someone’s pocket,’ Ingrid declares.

  ‘I couldn’t put up with that,’ Kirsty agrees. ‘Maya once stuck a Babybel cheese in her pocket in a hotel in Windermere, but Dan made her put it back and gave her a lecture about stealing.’ Hmm. A different kind of meanness, I’d say.

  ‘Anyway,’ Ingrid cuts in, ‘what about Stephen? D’you reckon you’ll see him again?’

  ‘Well, my mother would like me to.’ I glance at the column of ash that’s hanging precariously from Viv’s cigarette, and get up to find a saucer for her to use as an ashtray.

  ‘It’s getting really smoky in here,’ Ingrid points out, throwing Viv a pained look.

  ‘The window’s open,’ she points out.

  ‘It’s still blowing right in my face, Viv, and it makes me feel a bit sick—’

  ‘So-rree,’ she says, rolling her eyes and adding, incredibly, ‘God knows what you’ll be like when you’re pregnant, Ing—’ We all stare at Viv who, realising her faux pas, grabs Ingrid’s hand. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I know there’s big stuff coming up – the treatment and all that …’

  ‘Yes, anyway,’ Ingrid says, her cheeks flushing hot, ‘we were talking about Stephen …’

  ‘I still think you should give Giles a chance,’ Viv adds, her lipstic
k a little askew.

  ‘She probably put him off by discussing Fuzzy Felts,’ Kirsty chuckles, clearly trying to lighten the tense atmosphere.

  ‘Maybe he thought it was code for pubic hair,’ Ingrid observes.

  ‘Yeah,’ Viv sniggers, ‘you do realise most men under thirty have never seen any? It’s like they’ve forgotten it’s actually a natural thing and, when they’re finally confronted with it, they’re completely freaked out and assume it’s some kind of weird phenomenon, like those bearded ladies in fairgrounds in Victorian times.’

  I laugh, my annoyance at her insensitivity ebbing away. Maybe if I was child-free and single like Viv, I’d be drinking the way she does, and smoking tons of fags – and perhaps that’s why Ingrid, Kirsty and I find her a bit much occasionally. Maybe she reminds us of our younger selves, and although I have no desire to swap lives with her – truly – occasionally, I can’t help thinking: God, that looks like a whole load of fun.

  ‘D’you have it all waxed off, Viv?’ asks Kirsty.

  ‘I do now, yeah.’

  ‘Doesn’t anyone like it left natural these days?’ I ask, frowning. ‘I’d have thought it might have some retro seventies appeal, like flares or ponchos—’

  ‘Or Annie Hall,’ Kirsty chips in. ‘I love that look …’

  ‘Bet she had the full fuzz,’ Ingrid offers. ‘Diane Keaton, I mean.’

  ‘Everyone did,’ Viv declares, ‘but not any more. It’s viewed as unhygienic.’

  We all fall silent for a moment. ‘What’s unhygienic?’ Fergus asks, sauntering into the kitchen to extract a bottle of Coke from the fridge.

  ‘Dipping your fingers in the meringue mixture bowl,’ I shoot back, adding as soon as he’s left the room, ‘God, if that’s what younger men expect, I’m finding myself some doddery old guy who can hardly see.’

  Everyone laughs, and I refill Ingrid’s mug with raspberry leaf tea. ‘I think you’re too picky,’ Viv drawls.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I say with a shrug. ‘I mean, I’m not prepared to get involved with a man just to, you know … be with someone.’

  ‘Don’t you ever fancy anyone?’ Viv enquires.

  ‘No. Well, yes. There is someone – he owns that lovely deli up the road, you know Pascal’s? I dropped off some meringue samples today and we were chatting …’