Take Mum Out

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Exactly.’ Eleanor flicks her gaze towards Giles, who is standing alone, looking a little stranded now, and gives him a little wave. ‘Not my usual haunt,’ she adds, ‘but a friend dragged me there and that’s where I met Giles …’

  ‘So,’ I whisper as things begin to fall into place, ‘is that a regular hang-out of his?’

  ‘Absolutely. He seemed to know just about everyone there and he’s obviously extremely popular …’ She emits another gravelly laugh and finishes her drink. ‘But then, it’s understandable, isn’t it? He’s very … easy on the eye.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Anyway,’ she goes on, ‘we had a little fling, but I can’t be doing with someone who can literally spend all his time shopping, or playing tennis, and meeting friends for lunch. It’s too tedious for words …’

  ‘But he works,’ I point out. ‘I mean, he has that internship—’

  ‘Only because I made such fun of him being a trust-fund boy,’ she declares.

  ‘Really?’

  Eleanor nods. ‘His father owns several Hebridean islands, darling. Let’s just say Giles could get away with never doing a day’s work in his life.’

  I sneak another glance at him, picture him charming the female clientele of a dimly lit club; what’s the attraction, I wonder? Does he find women our age genuinely alluring, or simply easier to pull?

  ‘Anyway,’ Eleanor continues, ‘it wasn’t a complete waste of time, as I ended up meeting my husband through him …’

  ‘Really? How did that happen?’

  ‘Well …’ She drops her voice. ‘Maurice is one of his oldest friends, and there was some big family birthday do that Giles took me too, and Maurice’s father was there …’

  ‘Wow,’ I murmur, a little disappointed when I see Giles making his way towards us.

  ‘Erm, I was thinking we could go somewhere else,’ he announces, placing a hand on my arm and checking his watch ostentatiously.

  ‘I’m fine here,’ I say. ‘Eleanor and I were just having a chat—’

  ‘It’s just, we could go to a bar, or a club, if you fancy it.’

  ‘Like Honey?’ I suggest with a grin.

  ‘Er, no, I was thinking of—’

  ‘Excuse me, I’d better go and make more fuss of the artist,’ Eleanor says with a tinkly laugh, leaving me and Giles stranded by the ceramics. There’s an awkward pause as if we are two complete strangers who’ve been forced together at a wedding.

  ‘Eleanor seems lovely,’ I venture.

  Giles shrugs. ‘She’s a bit bonkers really.’

  ‘I hear she’s married to Maurice’s dad?’

  He frowns. ‘Er, yeah.’

  ‘And that you had a bit of a fling with her …’

  ‘It was all a bit weird,’ he mutters.

  ‘Why?’ I ask, unable to resist teasing him. ‘Because she found someone her own age?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ he blusters. ‘It was just, just a thing with us. Can’t believe she told you actually.’

  I smile, placing my empty glass on the table and checking my own watch. ‘She mentioned that she’s the one who persuaded you to apply for that internship …’

  ‘Um, sort of,’ he mutters hotly.

  It’s so tempting to tease him some more, but I manage to resist. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with preferring older women; I’m just intrigued as to what his motives might be. Maurice obviously finds it highly amusing and keeps smirking at him across the room.

  ‘Sure you don’t want to go on somewhere else?’ Giles asks, raking back his dark hair.

  ‘Just a quick one, then,’ I say, overcome by curiosity as I wave goodbye to Eleanor across the room. Now there’s a fine example of a woman growing older beautifully, with her naughty sense of humour intact; clearly not Botoxed, and she doesn’t need it either with that fabulous bone structure. And what a filthy laugh! Makes me feel a whole lot better about my impending birthday …

  ‘I’ll get these,’ I say quickly as we wander into the Cross Keys over the road. It’s a cosy, cluttered old Edinburgh pub, a pleasing contrast to the starkness of the gallery.

  ‘So,’ Giles says, as I hand him a beer and take the seat opposite him, ‘you were having quite a chat, the two of you …’ He smiles resignedly.

  ‘She was fun. I liked her.’

  He fixes me with those dark eyes, but they have no loin-stirring effect this time. ‘What did she tell you about Honey?’

  I shrug. ‘Just that it’s a grab-a-granny kind of place …’

  ‘That’s so insulting,’ he declares.

  ‘To who? The older women or the younger guys?’

  He looks irritated now. ‘It’s not like that, Alice.’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter if it is,’ I say truthfully, because clearly nothing’s going to happen between Giles and me. If he finds it remarkably easy to meet intelligent, consenting women like Eleanor this way, then why not? It’s more the fact that he wouldn’t get my life at all; what on earth would we do, apart from have sex?

  ‘I do like older women,’ he murmurs, brushing my hand with his fingers.

  ‘Why is that?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s just … girls my age can be so spoilt, you know?’

  ‘The ones you meet, maybe.’

  ‘But they are, Alice, and they’re so demanding …’

  ‘Whereas we older birds are grateful for anything we can get,’ I tease him.

  He looks aghast. ‘I don’t mean that.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I laugh, ‘I’m not offended, but you know, it’s funny – a few weeks ago, a man told me he reckons older women know their onions …’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’

  ‘That …’ I laugh and sip my drink. ‘That we’re experienced, I guess – only in my case, I was with the same guy from the age of nineteen to thirty-four—’

  ‘What an arse,’ Giles mutters.

  ‘You mean my ex?’

  ‘No, the onion man …’

  ‘And the worst thing was,’ I add, ‘he was actually older than me.’ We’re both sniggering away now. Although it might be mildly amusing to while away the rest of the evening with Giles, the thought of heading home is, in fact, more enticing, especially as I notice him darting a quick glance towards the barmaid, who’s quite the fox in her tight black dress, and is old enough to be his mother.

  ‘I’m going to head off, Giles,’ I tell him, getting up and planting a speedy kiss on his cheek. ‘Thanks for this evening. It’s been … interesting.’

  ‘Not offended, are you?’ He fixes me with a hopeful smile.

  ‘No, not a bit. Your older woman thing – it’s fine, it really is. I guess …’ I pause ‘… I’d just feel a bit weird about being part of a running theme.’

  Giles shrugs, in a can’t-help-myself way. ‘Think I’ll stay for another drink.’

  ‘Bye then,’ I say. I’m not even out of the door before he’s up at the bar, his posh accent radiating unshakeable confidence as he tells the barmaid, ‘I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Over the next few days I’m too busy with orders to quiz Logan any more about moving, which is perhaps for the best. Every evening sees me either baking or packaging, and the boys – with Logan protesting at first – are drafted in to help. I do notice him paying particular attention to the mixing part, though, quizzing me on ingredients and quantities and what kind of flavours I’m partial to these days.

  ‘The nutty varieties still seem to go pretty well,’ I tell him as we tie up cellophane bags of pistachio kisses with pale green ribbon. ‘And anything not too sweet, like bitter chocolate, or salted caramel – it’s that contrast with the sweetness that really seems to work.’

  ‘Cool,’ he murmurs.

  ‘You’re actually doing a great job with these bags,’ I add.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I really appreciate you helping me.’ Fergus, who grew bored and snuck off ages ago, is playin
g music in his room. ‘I mean,’ I add, ‘some people are really cack-handed doing things like this, but you’re not at all.’

  When he looks up at me, the flecks in his dark brown eyes picked out by the sunshine streaming in, I realise how much I’ll miss him. Although I know it’s rather cowardly, I have decided not to communicate with Tom about that wretched barn for the time being. But I’d bet my life on the fact that he hasn’t got around to enrolling Logan at the school there. And so, rather belligerently, I have decided to ‘forget’ to tell his school here in Edinburgh that he’ll be leaving after the exams. For the time being, at least. I suppose it could also be interpreted as clinging on to a shred of hope.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say, Mum,’ Logan murmurs.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘I just know! You’re so transparent. You’re going to say, “Why don’t you not go to Dad’s, and spend all summer working here with me, tying up little bags with ribbons? Wouldn’t that be fun?”’

  ‘I wasn’t going to suggest that,’ I say gruffly.

  ‘Don’t lie. You’ve gone red. Your cheeks are on fire, Mum.’ He splutters with laughter and it’s contagious, and now both of us are sniggering away. ‘That was your plan all along, wasn’t it?’ he crows.

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ I say in mock-exasperation. ‘Go on then, go to Dad’s. Live in your posh barn and eat fresh herbs and make loads of money putting pyjamas in boxes, because that’ll be far more rewarding than this.’

  ‘Okay, I will,’ he retorts, then he’s out of his chair and beside me, giving me the tightest, most heartfelt hug I can remember. And I know he means it kindly, and it’s a really sweet thing for a sixteen-year-old boy to do, but it nearly breaks my heart.

  *

  By the time Friday rolls around, all I’m good for is a movie night in with Ingrid. She arrives with the news that egg collection has taken place, and that, if everything continues to happen as it should, the embryos will be implanted in a few days’ time.

  ‘In a couple of weeks I could have a positive pregnancy test,’ she tells me, as if daring to allow herself to feel excited at last.

  ‘I so hope it works this time,’ I tell her.

  ‘Weirdly enough, Saskia’s started nagging like mad about wanting a little sister. Like I need the pressure …’ She breaks off and laughs. ‘She says if she can’t have that, then it’s got to be a puppy.’ I smile, remembering Fergus’s incessant nagging for a dog when he was little, and explaining over and over that it wouldn’t be fair to have one in a flat. He has taken himself off for one of his long, languorous baths – it tickles me that, for the first eleven years of his life, I virtually had to tie him down in order to chip the dirt off him – while Logan is over at Blake’s. I’m making tea for Ingrid when my landline rings.

  ‘Hello, Alice?’ says the unfamiliar male voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Pascal, from the deli. Sorry to call you so late on a Friday evening—’

  ‘That’s fine, it’s only eight …’ Ingrid widens her eyes and mouths Stephen? I shake my head.

  ‘I thought you might’ve come to the second tasting evening on Tuesday,’ he goes on.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realise it was a regular thing.’ So he looked out for me, and noticed I wasn’t there? I glance at Ingrid, unable to keep down a smile.

  ‘Just something I want to try out,’ Pascal explains, ‘as a kind of social event. It’s a way of getting to know our customers …’

  ‘It’s a great idea,’ I say. ‘And I have to say, those raspberry tarts you had at the first one were amazing. Put my baking to shame actually.’ I laugh a little too loudly, aware of Ingrid trying to make eye contact, desperate to know who’s on the phone. On the back of an envelope that’s lying on the table, I write PASCAL THE DELI MAN!!! Then, just for a laugh, I draw a big heart around it, with sparks shooting off.

  ‘We didn’t get the chance to talk the other evening,’ he adds.

  ‘You looked really busy,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Well, one of your friends was in the shop today – Clemmie, I think it is? Large, loud, lots of lipstick?’

  ‘Yes, that’s Clemmie,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘Thought so. I’d seen you chatting that first tasting night, so I got your number from her. Sorry – I forgot to hang on to one of those labels with your contact details …’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right.’ I glance at Ingrid who is grinning, eyes sparkling. ‘What did you think of them anyway?’

  ‘They were delicious. I’d like to stock them if you still have the time …’

  ‘Yes, of course I do. D’you have any flavours in mind? I can do any of the ones I left with you, or make up something specially …’

  Ingrid waggles her brows so suggestively, I have to turn away to keep a straight face.

  ‘D’you think something with pecans would work?’ he asks.

  ‘Um … I’m sure it would.’

  ‘And, er … I was thinking of a sort of, um, bitter orange variety? What d’you think?’ From the bathroom comes the whoosh of water as Fergus engages in his daily quest to use all the hot water in the tank.

  ‘Well, that’s a new one for me but I’ll try it. How many would you like? A tray is usually twenty-four or, if you’d like them packaged, it’s usually six minis in a cellophane bag …’

  ‘The bags you dropped off would be good for us … Shall we say ten to start with, as a trial run?’

  ‘Great, so I’ll do five pecan and five bitter orange … I can drop them off on Monday if that’s okay.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Pascal says. We finish the call and I turn to Ingrid.

  ‘My God,’ I exclaim. ‘That voice.’

  She laughs as we take our drinks through to the living room and flop on to the sofa. ‘Sexy French?’ she suggests.

  ‘Very. I mean, I know it’s silly and that every French person who speaks English has an accent a bit like that …’

  ‘You sounded very businesslike,’ she remarks.

  ‘Well, it was business. You heard.’

  ‘Don’t you think, though,’ she muses, ‘if he’d wanted to get in touch purely about meringues, he wouldn’t have called you on a Friday night?’

  I shrug. ‘There was no hint of anything else.’

  ‘Yes, because you didn’t put out signals …’

  ‘That’s what Viv’s always saying.’

  ‘Oh, never mind all that,’ she says, pulling off her shoes and tucking her feet up under her bottom. ‘Would you hate it if I asked you to put Casablanca on?’

  ‘’Course not.’ I jump up and pull it from the shelf, and we both settle down with our mugs of tea and a plate of misshapen violet-tinted meringues to watch the greatest film ever made. Only one thought is niggling, and that’s how on earth will I come up with a bitter orange flavour that actually works? Because, for some reason I can’t quite put my finger on, it seems terribly important to get it right.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I don’t expect handmade birthday cards or a wonky breakfast in bed. I don’t even expect anyone to be up and about at eight fifteen on a Saturday morning, so I’m startled by a rare sighting of Logan, not only out of bed but also dressed, in proper day clothes, not his beleaguered South Park dressing gown.

  ‘You’re up early,’ I remark, dropping toast into the toaster.

  ‘Yeah.’ He grins at me, and I wonder for a moment if he’s remembered.

  ‘Any plans for today?’ I ask pleasantly.

  ‘Nah, not really.’ He takes juice from the fridge and grabs the last variety box of cereal from the cupboard.

  Hmm, no mention of my birthday then. I’m miffed, but determined not to show it. There’s such a fuss made over decade birthdays; last week, Jacqui at work showed me one of those ‘things you must do’ lists in a magazine. I expected it to be all about hang-gliding and swimming with dolphins. But it wasn’t like that. It was all, ‘Book an eye exam now so you can start monitoring for glaucoma’ and ‘Wipe
out your credit card debts before you’re hit with the huge expense of seeing your children through college.’ Christ’s sake. I thanked Jacqui, handed back the magazine and vowed to make as little of a deal of my birthday as humanly possible.

  Anyway, last night was lovely with Ingrid, and tonight the four of us are having cocktails in the bar in the refurbished Morgan, the hotel I made the meringues for.

  Logan disappears from the kitchen, and Fergus must be up now as there’s some muffled chat going on in the hallway. They both reappear in the kitchen, brandishing a large Quality Street tin with a dented lid and chiming, ‘Happy birthday!’ the way they used to when they were little.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, quite overcome. ‘You got me Quality Street? You know I love those, especially the green triangles—’

  ‘It’s not Quality Street,’ Logan retorts. ‘This is just the old tin from Christmas.’

  ‘Oh.’ I smile, taking it from him.

  ‘Logan made you something,’ Fergus adds, glancing at his brother.

  ‘Really?’ I am astounded. ‘You haven’t done that for years.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he says bashfully, ‘it’s not one of those cards made from pasta …’

  ‘We forgot to get you cards,’ Fergus adds.

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’ I glance down at the tin, impressed that, without a father around to chivvy them into making an effort – which seems to be the way it generally happens – they’ve actually got something together.

  ‘It’s nothing much,’ Logan adds.

  ‘Open it,’ Fergus commands.

  I grin, set the tin on the table and take off the lid. ‘Oh my God,’ I exclaim. ‘This is amazing.’

  ‘Logan made it,’ Fergus repeats.

  ‘I … I can sort of tell. In a good way, I mean.’ I stare at the extravagant construction: a sort of outsized meringue nest, filled with strawberries and passionfruit and further embellished with squirty cream, chocolate curls and silver glitter. It is eye-popping. ‘I need to take a photo,’ I exclaim, grabbing my phone and framing it in all its fruity, chocolatey glory.

  ‘Hope you’re not sick of meringues,’ Logan murmurs.