by Fiona Gibson
I could, of course, just keep walking with no destination in mind. Doesn’t every parent fantasise about doing that occasionally? I could walk and walk until Edinburgh peters out into open countryside, the kind of featureless terrain that Logan ‘doesn’t see the point of’. And I’d be fine, even without money. I could feast on wild berries – does anything edible grow in April? I could ask horticultural expert Tom, but he seems to be avoiding me at present. Anyway, if things became desperate I could barbecue some roadkill, and when I was sick of that, I could service a passing trucker in order to buy myself a loaf of bread. Do roadside hookers exist in rural places? I’d be a novelty if I was the only one. God, I could probably make more in one swift transaction than I do from a whole night’s baking.Would the boys even notice I’d gone? Probably not. They could go feral, feasting on dry cereal scooped straight from those mini variety boxes they so love. They could throw wild parties where people are sick in the bath, and break the world record for Time Spent on the Xbox, handsets welded to their sweaty paws. Occasionally, Fergus might say, ‘Wonder when Mum’s coming back with our hot chocolate sticks?’ Then his attention will be caught by a massive explosion on screen and he’ll forget all about me.
I turn the corner and head along the high street, trying to wrestle my thoughts back into some semblance of order. Somehow, I’m going to have to get through the next seven weeks leading up to Logan’s departure without being in a simmering bad mood all the time. It can’t be good for my health, or my business; how can I possibly bake shop-worthy meringues when my head is swirling with angry thoughts? They require patience, and a light touch – qualities that don’t come easily when I’m under duress. If I carry on like this, they’ll end up like bitter, joyless grenades. And I must remember that Logan is sixteen, i.e. old enough to know his own mind. Who am I to decide he should live with me?
On a more positive note, the small lump I’ve just noticed in the hip pocket of my jeans turns out to be a scrunched up ten pound note. Perhaps, if I’m careful, I can put off being a prostitute until the weekend, when people might be more inclined to treat themselves.
My phone rings, and I snatch it from my back pocket, expecting it to be Logan or Fergus remembering something else they want me to fetch them from the shops. Which I will dutifully buy them, because I am the sort of fascist dictator who dutifully scurries along the biscuit aisle to grab the Caramel Logs they so enjoy.
But it’s not them – it’s Giles. ‘Hi, Alice?’
‘Hi, Giles,’ I say distractedly.
‘How’ve you been?’
I try to steady my breathing. ‘Fine. Good, actually. I’ve been to Paris …’
‘That sounds fun …’
‘Oh, it was.’
A small pause. ‘Did you get my text?’
‘Yes, sorry, I meant to reply—’
‘That’s okay,’ he says brightly. ‘Just wondered if you’d like to get together later this week?’ I’m still walking briskly, and as I approach the top of the hill I can see that there’s some kind of event happening in Pascal’s.
‘I’m not sure. It’s just … life’s a bit hectic at the moment.’ And, apart from that one brief text, you haven’t exactly been in a tearing hurry to contact me. Then again, maybe that’s the way it works these days. Dating etiquette is, I realise, as baffling to me as Medieval literature.
‘Friend’s having a private view,’ Giles is saying, ‘at Space, that gallery just down the hill from Harvey Nicks … d’you know it?’
‘Er, yes.’ Why do I pretend to know places I’ve never heard of? To sound less geriatric?
‘Thursday evening, starts at seven, just a few drinks … you’ll love his stuff.’ I can’t help smirking at that; for all Giles knows, my idea of great art might be a crying Pierrot print. ‘Fancy coming along?’ he prompts me.
‘Can I let you know?’ I’ve arrived at Pascal’s now, the lovely aromas of baked goods and cheeses forcing me to a halt. On the pavement a chalked blackboard announces, in ever-so-pretty French handwriting: Tuesday April 9 * tasting evening * open till late * drop in and try our delicious new ranges.
‘Sure,’ Giles says as I step into the busting deli. ‘Anyway, sorry, I didn’t realise you were out—’
‘That’s okay.’
‘Sounds busy for a Tuesday night …’
‘It is a bit.’
‘Where are you?’ Ah, now his interest is piqued. I am a woman about town who goes to lively places – on a school night too. And I’m not going to spoil the illusion by saying, ‘I’m actually in a shop.’
‘Just a little place near my flat. Better go.’
‘Sure. Have a fun night and let me know about Thursday … I’d really like to see you again.’
My mouth curls into a smile as we finish the call. Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I glance around, not quite sure why I’ve ended up in the deli. Staff are milling around with trays bearing all kinds of delights – tiny samples of cheeses and pâtés on crostini, plus miniature raspberry and apple tarts. A wine tasting session is happening at one end of the shop; spotting Jacqui from school, chatting animatedly with Moira, our deputy head, I zoom over and am offered a glass containing a tasting measure by a caramel-limbed girl who flashes me a broad smile.
‘It’s our new Burgundy, just in,’ she explains.
I take a sip. ‘Mmm, it’s lovely.’
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ agrees Jacqui. ‘I’m going to buy a couple of bottles.’
‘We’re going for a drink afterwards,’ Moira says, ‘if you fancy joining us.’
‘It’s okay, thanks. I was just, er, on my way to pick up some shopping and noticed this was happening …’
‘You were lured in,’ Moira laughs. ‘I know the feeling. I love this place, can’t walk past without popping in for a little something …’
‘That reminds me,’ I say, placing my empty glass on a passing tray, ‘the boys asked me to pick up some of those hot chocolate stick things.’
‘They’re in a basket in the corner,’ offers a tiny blonde girl with another tray.
‘Great, I’ll grab some before I forget.’ I squeeze my way through the chattering groups, but by the time I reach the chocolate sticks, and realise I’d only get three for my tenner, I am overwhelmingly distracted by the display of Burgundy on the neighbouring shelf. I know it’s bad, and that I’m putting my own fierce desire for booze before the whims of my sons, but hell – that’s probably what Hitler would do too. Only he didn’t have children. But if he had, I doubt if he’d have experienced a second’s remorse in brushing off a casual request for what amounts to a gimmicky way of making a very ordinary hot chocolate.
My arm shoots out like a robot’s as I grab a bottle by its neck.
‘Ooh, looks like you fancy a drink tonight, darling!’
I spring round, bristling defensively until I realise it’s Clemmie. ‘Don’t ask,’ I say, laughing. ‘Anyway, looks like everyone’s here tonight.’
‘Are you surprised?’ She grins, indicating Pascal as he chats charmingly to some elderly customers from behind the counter. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous? That sexy voice! Must be good for business …’
‘You know it’s his place?’
‘Really? I did wonder …’ She drops her voice to a whisper. ‘You should get in there, Alice. A thriving business and drop-dead handsome in that sexy Gallic way. I imagine he’s just your type.’
I burst out laughing again. ‘You are joking. I don’t even know if he’s single—’
‘Find out then! Do some research. If you don’t, I will …’ She turns and beckons over two tall, pink-cheeked blondes who are dressed in coordinated shades of red and grey. ‘Rachel, Olivia, come and meet my friend Alice …’
‘You’re the one who made the amazing meringues for the Morgan party,’ Rachel exclaims. ‘God, they were good.’
‘Glad you liked them.’
‘The three of us worked on the event together,’ Clemmie adds.
‘Wi
th Clemmie at the helm,’ Olivia explains. ‘She’s amazing, a powerhouse. The most dynamic person I’ve ever met …’
Clemmie tosses back her freshly blow-dried mane. ‘Well, it is my job. Oh, Alice, I wish you’d let me pull something together for your fortieth …’
‘Is that coming up?’ Olivia asks.
‘Yes, but I’m sort of hoping it slips by unnoticed.’ I smile tightly and take another glass of wine from a passing tray.
‘Why?’ she frowns. ‘Come on, it’s meant to be a real biggie, an excuse to throw the kind of party you’ve always wanted.’
‘Or have a trip,’ Rachel cuts in. ‘One of those holidays-of-a-lifetime …’ An image flashes into my mind: of me and Fergus on a beautiful beach, and Logan a speck in the distance, parked on a towel which he’s carefully positioned half a mile away so as to minimise contact.
Clemmie clutches at my wrist as if taking my pulse. ‘It’s not fair to pressurise you, sweetie. I know you don’t like being the centre of attention and if you’re not in the mood, well …’ She shrugs and gives me a pitiful look.
‘I honestly don’t think I could face a big do,’ I admit.
Rachel nods sympathetically. ‘I’m not sure what I’m going to do for mine.’
‘But I remember yours,’ Clemmie says. ‘It was years ago.’
‘No,’ she titters, ‘I mean my fiftieth …’
‘You’re nearly fifty?’ I bark, far too loudly.
‘Yes.’ She laughs ruefully. ‘But don’t shout about it.’
‘But … you look amazing.’ It’s true: her skin is flawless, glowing, as if illuminated from the inside. I’d have put her at late thirties at the very most.
Rachel winks and sidles closer. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret. I see a great guy about three times a year and he’s made all the difference.’
‘You mean you’ve had stuff done?’ I bite into a herb-flecked crostini.
‘Just a bit.’
‘Go on,’ Clemmie cajoles her with a chuckle, ‘tell Alice your entire treatment history.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly,’ she giggles. ‘But he’s amazing. If you’re interested, his name’s Anthony Lane and his clinic’s—’
‘In the New Town,’ I cut in. ‘Yes, I know him actually.’
‘Oh.’ I can sense Rachel scrutinising my face.
‘I don’t mean I’ve been to him,’ I add hurriedly. ‘I mean, er, I had dinner with him once.’
‘God, did you? You mean a date?’ She looks hugely impressed.
‘Sort of. Well, yes.’
Rachel glances round at the others, eyes wide. ‘I’ve told you about Anthony. He’s absolutely gorgeous. Mid-forties but looks so much younger, really takes care of himself and very sexy.’ She grins at me. ‘God, you lucky thing.’
‘Er … he wasn’t really my type,’ I say with a smile.
‘Really?’ She blinks at me.
‘We just didn’t click,’ I say, trying to shoo away the memory of his jabby tongue.
‘But think of all the free treatments you could have had,’ Olivia teases with a gravelly laugh. For a moment, I prickle at the suggestion that I might have considered sleeping with him in return for a little light Botox around the crow’s feet. Then I remember that, just twenty minutes ago, I was considering servicing truckers out on the moors, so perhaps I am being a little oversensitive.
‘I’m not sure it’s the right way to go,’ Clemmie adds. ‘You do look great, Rachel, but didn’t you say you couldn’t raise your eyebrows after that last shot?’
‘Eyebrows aren’t that important,’ she retorts, ‘in the grand scheme of things.’
We all laugh, and Clemmie nudges me and adds, ‘I think you should grab another glass of that wine while we think of something you can do to mark your birthday.’
I smile, flattered that she cares so much. ‘I’d love to stay a while but the boys will be wondering where I am. Um … I’d actually stomped out in a bit of a huff.’
‘Oh, nothing serious I hope,’ Clemmie says.
‘No, just a silly little thing.’
‘Alice,’ she adds grandly, ‘is an amazing mum to two lovely boys.’ I grin awkwardly, not knowing how to respond to that, then say my goodbyes. As I make my way through the crowd, clutching the paper bag containing my wine, I’m already vowing to be all smiley and non Führer-like when I get home. Damn, maybe I should have bought them a treat after all.
I’m almost at the door, about to leave, when one of the serving girls appears at my side, bearing a tray of tiny raspberry tarts. ‘You must try one of these.’ She smiles, flicking her ash-blonde fringe from her eyes.
‘Go on then.’ I pick one up and bite into it; she’s right, it’s delicious.
‘Amazing,’ I tell her. ‘My God, that is the best.’
‘Have another if you like.’
I laugh, wondering how it’s possible to make pastry so light and melty, to perfectly hold its filling of crème pâtissière and plump, sweet raspberries.
‘Well, if you insist.’ I take a second tart and devour it virtually in one. ‘D’you think I could buy a couple of these to take home to my sons?’ I ask. ‘They’d love them.’ And it would make up for me blowing my money on wine … oh, hell. I have precisely £3.01 left in my pocket …
‘Just take them,’ the girl murmurs. ‘Grab one of those paper bags from the shelf and I’ll pop them in for you.’ She grins conspiratorially. ‘Pascal will never know.’
‘Thanks,’ I say warmly, glancing back to see him through the crowds, being jovial and attentive with everyone, and wondering what he made of my meringues. I feel foolish now, expecting him to stock them; how can I compete with these heavenly tarts? He catches my eye and makes some kind of gesture, and a brief smile lights up his face. I smile back, then realise how awkward it’ll be if he comes over – how he’ll feel obliged to say something about my meringues, while I act all blasé and say it’s fine, I didn’t think they’d be his kind of thing …
I hurry out of the shop, clutching the tart bag in one hand and the wine to my chest as if someone might try to wrestle it from my grasp.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I spend Wednesday morning desperately trying – and failing – to keep my mind on work. Where the hell is Tom, and why won’t he speak to me? Didn’t Patsy ask him to call me back? It doesn’t help that it’s a hassly morning with a plumbing emergency in the boys’ loos, caused by some bright spark using about five thousand sheets of loo paper, plus a clog-up of parents in the office all firing questions and requesting various forms, none of which I can locate at the moment.
I know it’s my job, and most of the parents are lovely; however, there is a small core who regard school not as excellent free childcare with some learning thrown in, but as something to wage war against. Why was Irn-Bru offered at the school car boot sale before the Easter holidays? someone wants to know. Why aren’t there CDs available of the choir’s last performance, and when will Sophie McLelland be given a solo spot? (I politely point out that my responsibilities do not extend to the choosing of soloists.) And now Belinda Troop has barged into the small, cramped office and thrust a stapled wad of A4 at me, covered in signatures.
‘Here’s a petition,’ she barks, flaring her nostrils like a vexed pony.
‘What about?’ I frown at her, conscious of the bzzz-bzzz of my mobile as it vibrates somewhere on my desk.
‘Teachers having the car wash man round after school.’
I blink at her. ‘But it’s only once a month and it’s always long after the children have gone home. It doesn’t actually affect anyone …’
I’m desperate to grab my phone and see who’s just called in case it’s Tom. But Belinda is glaring at me across the cluttered desk, brandishing the petition. I take it from her and try to regard it with interest.
‘I didn’t realise this was an issue,’ I remark.
‘Well, it is when it’s happening in our children’s playground.’ Yes, but we’re
talking about washing cars, not nude mud wrestling …
‘It’s just, some of the teachers find it really useful,’ I go on as the lunch bell rings, long and shrill, and not before time either.
‘The thing is,’ she says, towering over me in her spotted shirt and candy-pink pencil skirt, ‘things get washed off cars and on to the ground. It’s a hazard and every parent here –’ she jabs at the petition – ‘wants it to stop.’
Christ-on-a-bike. ‘What kind of things get washed off?’ I ask as my phone starts vibrating again. I grab it; it is Tom. So he’s alive, at least. No fatal injury with a trowel.
‘Oil,’ she announces.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t—’
‘Oil can be washed off the cars and sit there on the tarmac.’
I am starting to feel as old and gnarled as that human skin book in the Surgeons’ Museum. ‘I’ll pass on your concerns,’ I say, willing her to leave the office so I can call Tom back.
‘They’re not my concerns, they’re the concerns of all—’
‘The people who’ve signed this,’ I say, ‘about the oil. Yes.’
‘I have noticed a few spots of it,’ she adds darkly. Bzzz-bzzz. There goes my phone again, third time now.
‘Sorry, I really have to take this,’ I say firmly as I answer the call. ‘Tom? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days.’
‘Um, yeah, Patsy said you’d called …’
Belinda is still standing there, arms firmly folded. What is she waiting for – the Pearl & Dean jingle, or a hot dog?
‘Well, we need to talk about Logan, don’t we?’ I say in a tight voice.
‘Guess we do,’ Tom replies with a sigh.
‘Hang on …’ I hiss, blinking at Belinda. ‘Thanks for bringing in the petition. I’ll call you as soon as there’s any feedback, okay?’
She nods.
That means please go away now.
Mercifully, she turns and leaves the office as I mouth BYE-BYE at the back of her shiny blonde head.
‘Tom, where the hell have you been?’ I hiss.