Take Mum Out
Page 26
‘Of course I’m not. I’ll never be … honestly, I can’t believe you actually made this. Did you do the meringue from scratch?’
‘Yeah, of course,’ he says airily, as if this were a regular occurrence. ‘We thought of doing a proper cake, but we weren’t sure we’d get it right. And I’ve seen you making meringues so often I knew exactly what to do.’
‘So you made this together?’ I ask, glancing from Logan to Fergus.
‘Nah, it was me and Blake last night at his place.’
‘Wow.’ So Logan and his best mate had been hanging out together and chosen to bake. Next time I hear someone complaining that teenage boys are perpetually stoned, or getting girls pregnant behind hedges, I’ll show them the picture on my phone. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘I can’t tell you how impressed I am. Let’s have some now.’ I fetch plates from the cupboard, dish up three helpings and we all tuck in.
‘The meringue’s perfect,’ I murmur. ‘Lovely light texture …’
‘This is great,’ Fergus agrees, spooning in a huge mouthful.
‘It’s better than my meringues,’ I say truthfully.
Logan snorts. ‘It can’t be, Mum. It was my first try.’
‘It really is,’ I say. ‘Or maybe it’s that thing when you eat something you haven’t made yourself. For some reason it always tastes so much nicer.’
‘In that case,’ Fergus sniggers, ‘all the dinners you make us should taste great.’
I laugh, spooning in more cream and meringue. ‘Maybe you could start doing something like this, Mum,’ Fergus adds. ‘I mean, meringue nests with fruit in.’
‘The thing is,’ I say, ‘it really has to be eaten pretty much as soon as it’s been assembled or everything goes soggy …’ I turn to Logan. ‘So when did you actually build this?’
‘This morning, before you got up.’
‘Really?’ I blink at him.
He shrugs. ‘It is your fortieth, Mum.’ Then he smiles, and both of my sons envelop me in the best birthday hug of my life.
‘Oh, Mum, I got you something too,’ Fergus blurts out, scampering off to his room and returning with a small present wrapped in creased tissue paper.
‘What’s this?’ It’s small and squashy, like a hankie.
‘Open it,’ he prompts me.
I do, and it’s a little muslin square – not just any muslin square, but a precise replica for my old one. ‘A cleansing cloth,’ I exclaim. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘I bought it, of course.’
‘But … how did you know what to buy?’
Both boys are laughing heartily now. ‘I researched it on that thing we call the internet,’ Fergus says in a put-on boffin voice. ‘And I discovered that John Lewis sell these special cloths for ladies’ faces.’
‘Yeah,’ Logan sniggers, bottom lip smeared with fresh cream, ‘he felt bad about using your old one to scrub some shit off his trainers.’
‘Sorry about that, Mum,’ he mutters.
‘It’s okay, darling. I don’t care. This is the most wonderful day.’ So my birthday starts brilliantly, and we spend the day just hanging out in the flat. I have no baking to do, and no crucial chores to tackle. We watch TV together and, for once, Logan does not seem appalled by having to share the sofa with me. We have a picky lunch of cold bits and bobs from the fridge, and chat about Logan’s looming exams, which he seems eerily calm about. ‘D’you want me to test you on anything?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he guffaws. ‘I’m fine, Mum, thanks.’
I cut myself a slice of cheddar, wishing we could afford French monks’ cheese every day. ‘I could help you,’ I add.
‘I don’t think so,’ he chuckles.
‘Okay,’ I say breezily, ‘I know I’m ancient, and back in my day we used slates and chalk and the teachers thrashed the living daylights out of us, but I do know things, love.’
‘What about Beowulf?’ Logan teases. ‘Tell us about that, Mum. We’re all ears.’
‘No,’ I say, ignoring the sniggering from both ends of the table, ‘I mean in organising your time effectively. I could draw up some revision timetables on the computer.’ Logan turns to gawp at me, as if I’d added, ‘While sitting naked in the middle of Princes Street.’
‘Stop trying to micromanage me,’ he says, not unkindly.
‘Am I?’ I blow out air. ‘I do trust you to work hard, you know. It’s just …’
‘You worry too much,’ he adds, patting my arm.
I smile, knowing he’s right as we clear up after lunch. This is probably the crux of why he wants to live with Tom; I do, admittedly, have control-freakish tendencies, probably due to being on my own all these years, and being conscious that I needed to keep a tight rein on the minutiae of our lives, otherwise everything would spiral out of control. Later, Logan and Fergus head off to the shops and return with a large bar of very posh French chocolate, from Pascal’s.
‘Thought it seemed a bit mean, just giving you a piece of material,’ Fergus says, handing it to me.
‘It wasn’t mean at all,’ I reply. ‘It was really thoughtful. But thanks anyway, darling. You’ve both been lovely today.’
And later still, as I pin up my hair in the hall mirror, Logan hovers around me. ‘So what are you doing tonight?’ he asks.
‘I’m meeting the girls in the Morgan for cocktails at seven, and Ingrid said she’d book some new sushi place for a bite to eat. I won’t be late, though.’
He follows me through to the living room where Fergus is flicking through a gadget magazine. ‘Is that all you’re doing?’ Logan wants to know.
‘Yes, hon. Unless we suddenly have a mad urge to go clubbing …’
‘What?’
‘I’m joking. God. Imagine.’ In fact, cocktails and sushi with my best friends feels just right; the four of us, having some time together out of the flat for once. ‘Sure you both want to hang out here and not stay over at Blake’s?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, I just fancy a quiet night in,’ Logan replies.
‘Okay, old man,’ I snigger, checking my make-up in the hall mirror and wondering if I should trowel on a bit more. I’m actually of the opinion that, at my age, overloading the slap seems to add years. So I’ve kept it light, while hoping that my simple jade shift dress doesn’t look too ‘cheap piece of cloth’, and that the highest sandals I own – in strappy black suede – don’t tear my feet to pieces.
‘You look nice, Mum,’ Fergus concedes from the sofa, takeaway pizza menu in his hand.
‘Thanks, honey. Now, you’re absolutely sure you want to stay here? I could still call Clemmie—’
‘Stop going on, Mum,’ Logan retorts.
‘Nah, we’re fine,’ Fergus says quickly, arousing a smidge of suspicion in me.
I pause in the living room doorway. ‘You’re not planning anything, are you?’
‘Like what?’ Logan snorts.
‘Like … I don’t know. Jacqui at work told me that Kayla had a party when she left her at home overnight. She’d even photographed the furniture and knick-knacks so she could put everything back in exactly the right position. Jacqui only found out because a curtain pole had come down …’
‘But you’re only going out for a few hours,’ Fergus reminds me.
‘And we couldn’t have a party here,’ Logan adds. ‘There’s not enough space.’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised how little you need—’
‘I think that’s clever,’ Fergus adds, looking impressed. ‘The photography part, I mean. I’d never have thought of that.’
‘Well, don’t be getting any ideas,’ I say, grinning, realising how idiotic I’m being. The boys have never given me any reason to distrust them.
‘Shouldn’t you be going now, Mum?’ Fergus asks.
‘You’re desperate to get rid of me,’ I say, planting a kiss on the top of each of their heads before heading for the door.
‘Yeah, because it’s your birthday,’ Logan calls after me. ‘Now go out.’
*
‘Whoa, look at you,’ Viv cries, leaping up.
‘Hi,’ I say, hugging everyone in turn, and beaming with pleasure at being out, at night-time, with all three of my closest friends. And they all look gorgeous: Kirsty all springlike in a sweet blue and white cotton dress, Ingrid in an elegant white shift which would make me look like a medical person, and Viv in a clingy black top, displaying her pert cleavage to great effect, and a hip-hugging red skirt.
‘What are you having?’ Ingrid thrusts me a menu.
‘Oh, God.’ I focus on the tiny print. ‘I forgot my reading glasses …’
‘What?’ Viv guffaws. ‘You never told us—’
‘I’m joking,’ I snigger, then read aloud, ‘Tanqueray gin, triple sec, orange bitters … God, that reminds me, the French guy called. Pascal, remember, from the deli? He wants to stock my meringues, asked for a pecan variety which is fine, but also bitter orange …’
‘Not sure about that.’ Viv wrinkles her tiny nose.
‘No, me neither.’
‘Weird request,’ Ingrid agrees as a waiter comes over, so generically handsome in a modelly way that it’s almost comical, and takes our orders. The place is buzzing with chatter and laughter, with all the tables taken; the waiter returns with our drinks, plus a fine selection of snacks in glass bowls.
‘Ooh, thank you,’ says Kirsty. She’s always the most delighted among us to be let off the leash.
‘Lovely nibbles,’ Ingrid says as the waiter departs. ‘Are we allowed to call them nibbles these days?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ Kirsty retorts. ‘I haven’t been out at night since 1987.’
‘Me neither.’ I sip my cocktail and pick at the toasted pistachios.
Ingrid chuckles. ‘You’re always out these days.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘Yes you are. Since you started dating—’
‘My God,’ I hiss. ‘Talking of which – don’t all stare …’
Everyone follows my gaze to the far end of the bar. ‘Who is it?’ Viv hisses.
‘It’s Charlie.’
‘So it is,’ Ingrid exclaims.
‘You mean Paris-Charlie?’ Kirsty asks.
‘The very same,’ I say, fortifying myself with a gulp of orangey gin as we all try to be discreet in our peerings. He is perched on a high stool next to another man with ill-advised long hair, floating weedily down his back like a black net curtain. They are chatting animatedly and there are frequent bursts of loud, blokeish laughter.
‘Aren’t you going to say hi?’ Viv asks, eyes wide.
‘Er, not sure, Viv. It all ended a bit coolly when he dropped me off …’
‘But you’ll always have Paris,’ Ingrid sniggers into my ear.
‘He’s cute though,’ Viv observes, ‘in that louche, rather knackered kind of way. Like, if he could get it together to do it, the sex would actually be great.’
‘Isn’t he a bit old for you, though, Viv?’ Ingrid teases.
‘He’s seen us,’ Viv hisses, arranging her face into a broad smile as he grins and waves, then hops off his stool and murmurs something to his companion, before making his way over.
‘He looks a bit pissed,’ Ingrid observes.
‘Hang onto your nibbles,’ Kirsty whispers, shoulders bobbing with mirth, ‘before he tries to stuff them in his pocket.’
Ingrid hoots with laughter and places her hands over the bowls with fingers outstretched, as if guarding them.
‘What’s in my pocket?’ Charlie is right up at our table now, grinning squiffily and more than a little sweaty around the gills.
‘Just a joke,’ Ingrid says quickly.
He peers at her, then turns to me. ‘This is Charlie,’ I say, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Charlie, this is Viv and Kirsty, and you’ve already met Ingrid …’
‘Hi,’ everyone says as he wobbles in front of us.
‘We had fun in Paris, didn’t we, Alice?’ he drawls.
‘Er, yes,’ I say with a smile.
He smirks. ‘I think I maybe drank a bit too much …’
‘It’s okay,’ I say truthfully, ‘it was still great.’
‘We could go again,’ he blurts out, looking around as if for a vacant chair to drag to our table.
‘Um … probably not,’ I say pleasantly, ‘but thanks anyway, Charlie.’
His bleary gaze sweeps over the four of us. ‘So, just a few drinks tonight, is it?’ I swear he glances covetously at our bowl of rice crackers, and nearly splutter with laughter.
‘It’s Alice’s fortieth,’ Ingrid explains.
‘Oh, you mentioned that was coming up.’ He bobs down to plant a wet-lipped kiss on my cheek. ‘Happy birthday! Let me get you another cocktail. I’ll get you all one. What are you all having?’
‘It’s fine,’ I say quickly, knowing with absolute certainty that I don’t want Charlie, or his curtain-haired friend – who is making his way over to join us – tagging on to our night.
‘Go on, I wanna buy all you lovely girls a drink – Andy, find out what they want …’
His friend grins, and it feels so awkward with them towering over us, with nowhere to sit, that I’m relieved when Ingrid cuts in, ‘It’s lovely of you to offer but we’re actually going on somewhere else.’
‘Are we?’ Viv asks, frowning. ‘Already?’
‘Yes,’ Ingrid says, giving her a significant look. ‘It’s time.’
‘Time?’ I repeat, laughing. ‘Time for what?’
‘What’s it time for?’ Charlie slurs.
‘Nothing,’ Kirsty says quickly.
‘Time for another drink!’ Charlie bellows. I smile tightly and glance around at my friends, all of whom are up on their feet now.
‘We’ll have your table then,’ he announces.
‘Well, nice to see you again,’ I say.
He beams unsteadily. ‘You too. And have a lovely rest-of-birthday.’
‘Thanks,’ I say brightly as Viv grabs my arm and virtually manhandles me out of the bar.
This is very weird. The mood has changed to one of urgency as everyone hurries upstairs.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask Ingrid, who is trotting ahead and seems to be in charge of the proceedings.
‘You’ll see,’ she calls back.
‘Let’s go to a pub,’ I suggest. ‘That cocktail’s whooshed straight to my head and it was really hot down there. I fancy a nice cold beer before our sushi.’
‘I know a place we can go,’ she says, stopping as we reach the hotel foyer.
‘Where?’ I ask.
Ingrid grins, and I detect her exchanging a confusing array of glances and eyebrow raises with Kirsty and Viv. ‘Let’s see what’s going on through here,’ she says, setting off at a trot with the rest of us scurrying behind her. We are heading not to the exit but in the opposite direction, along a corridor illuminated with mini versions of the bunches-of-grapes chandeliers.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask. ‘To a room?’
‘Not quite,’ Ingrid says with a throaty laugh.
‘Well, sort of,’ Kirsty adds.
‘A sort-of room?’ I’m starting to feel unsure about this. Since the boys were so sweet this morning, I’d like to spend a bit of time with them before they go to bed. They’ll still be up, hopefully, if I’m home by eleven. While I don’t want to be a killjoy, it’s occurred to me that Logan and I have very little time left.
‘Here we are,’ Ingrid announces as we stop at a polished wooden door. On the door is a brass sign which reads FLEMING SUITE, and I can hear a babble of voices behind it.
‘What’s this?’ I stare at Ingrid.
She grin
s and pushes the door open. And – oh, my lord. It’s a room, yes – but one full of people. As my mouth falls open, and my eyes scan the sea of faces all turned towards me, it dawns on me what tonight is really all about.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The first person I see is Jacqui and a whole bunch of teachers from school. They all hug me, and when I come up for air I see all my old friends from toddler group, who I rarely have a chance to hook up with these days.
‘How did you all know?’ I exclaim. ‘Who tracked you all down?’
‘Clemmie,’ announces the voice behind me, and I spin round to see Logan, Fergus and Blake all sniggering away.
‘But I left you at home! You were going to order pizzas … what are you all doing here?’
‘I heard the food here was a better standard,’ Logan says with a smirk.
Laughing now, I look around at all the people in this beautiful room. ‘I can hardly believe this. I didn’t even suspect.’ Red and silver helium-filled balloons hover at the ceiling, and there’s an enormous hand-painted banner which says HAPPY 40TH ALICE pinned along a wall. The boys have, very sweetly, all made an effort – Logan is wearing his favourite top and skinny jeans, while Fergus is modelling Topman’s finest, and they’re liberally doused in Tommy Hilfiger and Joop!. Clemmie is here, grabbing me for a bone-crushing hug, and without warning my eyes fill with tears.
‘Did you really organise all this?’ I ask, wiping my eyes with a hand.
She nods, grinning. ‘Guilty as charged – but Ingrid, Viv and Kirsty put their oar in too.’
‘But how did you manage to contact everyone?’
‘Well, the boys helped, of course … it just took a bit of detection work.’
‘Wow.’ I grin at her. ‘You are an organisational genius.’
‘It is my job, sweetheart. Anyway, I know you wanted to keep it low-key, so I hope you’re not horrified.’
‘Of course I’m not,’ I say as someone presses a glass of champagne into my hands, and I’m festooned with cards and presents and more hugs.
And it’s a fantastic party. I really hadn’t wanted one; the thought of organising anything had been overwhelming and, as Logan would testify, our flat isn’t really the place for a party. I’d also wondered whether my various groups of friends would get along, or if they’d curdle, like my custard. Which, of course, they haven’t. Clemmie and Kirsty are locked in conversation with Jacqui, whose goddess-like teenage daughter Kayla has just turned up, and the teachers are laughing raucously with my toddler-group friends. I glance around for a moment, drinking it all in; the music and laughter and everyone dressed up to the nines. Kirsty’s husband Dan has arrived, and I go over to say hello.