by Fiona Gibson
‘You look fantastic,’ he says.
I glance down at my dress, which now feels a little plain, considering the setting. ‘Thanks, but if I’d known it was going to be this sort of night, I’d have made more of an effort.’ While he’s a handsome man with striking blue eyes, there’s something rather brittle about him, as if, wherever he might find himself, he would prefer to be somewhere else. His detached gaze skims the dance floor, and he doesn’t even acknowledge Kirsty as she joins us. ‘I’m glad you could come, Dan,’ I add. ‘Haven’t seen you in ages.’
‘That’s because Kirsty won’t ever get a babysitter,’ he remarks.
She frowns at him, then rearranges her features into a determined smile. ‘Of course I will, Dan. It’s just, they can be quite a handful, you know …’
‘Oh, I’m aware of that,’ he says with a bitter laugh, as if it’s all her fault.
Her jaw tightens. ‘And we’ve got one tonight, haven’t we?’ she goes on. ‘I mean, we’re out, in case you hadn’t noticed. And you’re being such fun, charming company that we must make the effort to do it more often …’ Clearly taken aback by her sarcasm, Dan glowers at his wife, then mutters something about being hungry – an impressive buffet has been set out – and marches off. ‘Sorry about him,’ Kirsty whispers.
‘You don’t have to apologise. Is everything all right, though? He seems so … so angry about something.’
She grimaces. ‘Yeah – about life.’
‘I take it he’s not happy about the kids starting at school?’
She takes a huge swig of wine. ‘You could say that. Anyway, never mind him. Hasn’t Clemmie done a brilliant job? And your boys, keeping it secret …’
‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am.’ I glance over at Ingrid, whose husband Sean has also appeared and is chatting easily to everyone. Looking incredibly smart in a charcoal suit, he makes his way over and kisses my cheek.
‘Some party,’ he says, grinning. ‘Never realised you were so popular, Alice.’
‘The thing is,’ I laugh, ‘I have no idea who half these people are.’
‘Gatecrashers,’ he says darkly. ‘Like them – those young people lurking over there. Who the hell are they?’ The music is being cranked up; Logan and Blake appear to be in charge, and are thankfully catering for grown-up tastes, and not just those born in the late nineties.
‘No idea,’ I reply. ‘They look dodgy, though.’
‘Better keep an eye out in case they get out of order … anyway, ready for another drink?’
‘Not yet, trying to pace myself.’ He laughs and drifts off to where a bar has been set up, while I hone in on the food. That’s another thing about turning forty: you absolutely have to eat. There is a dazzling array of dainty canapés, plus – oddly – tiny meringue kisses dotted between the plates.
‘Gorgeous, isn’t it?’ Clemmie says, appearing at my side.
‘It really is. And those meringues …’
‘The hotel didn’t do those. Blake and Logan made them – I think they had some leftover mixture from making your cake, or whatever you’d call that amazing construction …’
‘They made these?’ I marvel. ‘God. It’s almost too much, you know? Like the old Logan has been whisked away and replaced with an incredibly domesticated alien …’
‘An alien with a whisk,’ she giggles. ‘I know. Aren’t they great boys? Mind you, Blake is incredibly good around the house …’
I’m about to agree when someone catches my eye – a tall, handsome Frenchman, with neatly cropped hair, wearing a pale linen shirt and dark jeans, a hint of stubble adding to his attractiveness.
‘Look who’s here,’ Clemmie hisses, almost choking on a filo parcel.
‘Pascal,’ I murmur. ‘What’s he doing here?’
She shrugs, eyes wide and glinting mischievously. ‘No idea.’
‘Did he do the food?’
‘No, the hotel took care of all that.’
‘You invited him, though,’ I say, grinning. ‘Clemmie, you’re so naughty. I’ve had Kirsty, Ingrid and Viv all trying to set me up with men, and now you’re at it too—’
‘I didn’t! I swear, it was nothing to do with me.’ I grin, trying to read her expression, quickly brushing a hand over my mouth to check for canapé crumbs. ‘He looks a little lost, though,’ she adds. ‘Over you go to say hi.’
Emboldened now, I make my way towards him, my heart quickening as his face breaks into a grin.
‘Alice, hi. Happy birthday.’ He kisses both cheeks, and everything goes a little swimmy, and not solely due to the orangey cocktail and a couple of glasses of champagne.
‘How did you know?’ I ask.
He laughs and taps the side of his nose. ‘I know what goes on.’
I smile, silently thanking Clemmie for her meddling. ‘Well, I’m delighted you’re here. Let me get you a drink—’
‘No, I’ll get you one, what would you like?’
‘Wine please …’ He heads for the bar, reappearing at my side moments later. I don’t know if it’s the setting, and the fact that we’re not in his shop, but I can sense something different between us. A sort of … charge of some kind. My heart is racing as we fall into conversation – about how he landed in Scotland ten years ago, and how his girlfriend and their daughter couldn’t settle here and went back to France.
‘I’d opened a shop,’ he says. ‘Not the one I have now but smaller, not very successful – but I had high hopes for it. But it wasn’t what Madeleine wanted …’ He shrugs. ‘We sort of drifted. We’re still friends, though. It’s okay.’
I keep glancing at him, drawn to his face. Slightly feline dark eyes, strong brows and very kissable lips. While I could appreciate his attractiveness in the shop, when he was all busy and brisk, it’s only now that I’m fully appreciating his finer qualities … maybe I’m a little drunker than I realise. ‘So how old’s your daughter?’ I ask.
‘Almost sixteen,’ he says as Kayla drifts past – she has her mother Jacqui’s fine, rangy build, and a mane of tumbling red curls. Pascal nods towards her. ‘Your daughter?’
‘No – I just have two boys, Logan and Fergus.’ I nod towards them, noting with interest that Logan and Kayla are now deep in conversation.
‘Oh, yes, I’ve met them. Is that your son’s girlfriend?’ He glances towards Logan and Kayla.
‘Wrong again,’ I say, laughing. ‘They’ve actually never met before. For all his bluster, Logan’s pretty shy around girls. I mean, there are girl mates from school, but you know …’
‘He’s still young.’
I smile as our eyes meet. ‘Yeah.’
‘And you’re forty today …’
I nod, catching a raised-eyebrow glance from Viv as she sashays by. ‘Yep, and you know, it doesn’t feel like such a big deal.’
‘Well, you don’t look anything like it …’
I chuckle, knowing he can’t possibly mean it. ‘Oh, come on.’
‘It’s true,’ Viv declares, having been unable to resist coming back to check out Pascal at close quarters. ‘Look at her – she has the face of a baby!’
We all laugh, and she turns to Pascal, her eyes beautifully made up with perfect flicks of liner, and slightly fuzzed with booze. ‘So where has Alice been hiding you?’ she asks.
He blinks at her, looking rather taken aback. ‘I haven’t been hiding anywhere.’
‘How old are you, Pascal?’ she goes on. ‘Had your big four-o yet?’
‘Um, no – that’s next year …’
‘Oh, a proper grown-up,’ she declares, tottering slightly on her patent heels. ‘Why do I go for younger men, Alice? Tell me. It’s got to stop. The thing is, when you go out with younger guys, you’re always the grown-up and it’s bloody boring!’ She hiccups loudly and giggles.
‘Viv, hon, no one thinks you’re boring.’ I wrap an arm around her shoulders. ‘You’re the most un-boring person I know.’
‘Yes, they do! They think I’m their mum. Remember
Jake, that last guy I was seeing? Couldn’t even book a restaurant table …’
‘Just as well he had you to do it for him then,’ I remark.
‘He didn’t even own a proper Hoover,’ she exclaims. ‘Just one of those little mini Vax things that are meant for the car …’
Pascal has started to look a little uncomfortable, so I grab Viv’s arm and lead her away. ‘Let’s go and get something to eat. You must try the food …’
‘God, yes, I’d better eat. Ooh, I feel pissed, Alice. Didn’t have any lunch either.’ Now we’re in motion, I realise she is even more drunk than first appeared. We arrive at the table where she grabs a chair and flops on to it gratefully, while I fetch her a plate of the more carb-laden of the canapés.
‘Viv’s plastered,’ Ingrid sniggers, appearing at my side.
‘Yeah, I know. Would you keep an eye on her for a bit?’
‘Sure.’ She grins, clutching her sparkling water, her eyes glinting. ‘I see your sexy Frenchman’s turned up.’
I nod. ‘I still haven’t figured out how, or why – but I’m pretty sure Clemmie invited him.’
‘Nice and local,’ she says, grinning mischievously. ‘You’re lucky having a man like that virtually on your doorstep …’
‘Handy for wine, cheese and chocolate,’ I add, and we both laugh.
‘Seriously – would you get free stuff, d’you think? Bet you would. He’d be forever popping round with little delicacies …’ We’re giggling away now, and I glance over to where Pascal and Clemmie are chatting while her husband Richard hovers nearby, looking a little left out. He’s not usually shy, but I sense he’s a little put out by the attention Clemmie is bestowing on Pascal.
More people are dancing now, and Viv has leapt up, abandoning her canapés and throwing herself about the floor with great enthusiasm. Some of her more flamboyant moves cause her top to ride up, exposing an enviably toned stomach, and I catch Pascal murmuring something to Clemmie and both of them throwing her a bemused look. From the far end of the room comes a burst of rowdy laughter from the boys.
‘What’s so funny?’ I ask, sidling over.
‘Nothing,’ Fergus says, his cheeks burning hot.
‘Tell her,’ Blake commands.
‘No, it’s nothing—’
Oh, I know what it is. To a teenage boy, few sights are more hilarious than an adult throwing herself around on a dance floor. ‘Is it Viv?’ I ask, intrigued now, as Logan is still cracking up.
‘We were talking about Patsy the Nazi,’ Logan starts.
‘Shut up!’ Fergus shouts. ‘Mum doesn’t know …’
‘Patsy the what?’ I ask.
‘Just a stupid thing we came up with on holiday,’ Logan mutters.
‘Patsy the Nazi?’ I repeat.
‘Yeah,’ Fergus says, and even in this darkened room I can tell he’s blushing furiously.
I frown at him. ‘Why d’you call her that?’
‘Oh, it’s just the food thing, Mum. You know what’s she’s like …’
‘You mean freaking out about Jessica having a meringue?’
‘God, that was nothing,’ Logan exclaims. ‘Every time we went to a cafe on holiday it was, like, a nightmare, the fuss she made—’
‘One time she made a waitress get a bag of frozen fishcakes out of the freezer so she could check the ingredients,’ Fergus adds, grinning now.
‘She was the food Gestapo,’ Logan declares, setting everyone off again.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘maybe she has a reason to be like that, if Jessica has allergies …’
‘There’s nothing wrong with her, Mum,’ Logan exclaims.
‘When Patsy went off for a run on the beach,’ Fergus adds slyly, ‘Dad gave her a massive bag of Haribos—’
‘And nothing terrible happened to her,’ Logan cuts in.
I shouldn’t laugh, but I can’t help myself. ‘So,’ I say carefully, ‘the other night, when I heard the two of you talking about Obergruppenführer …’
Both boys look blank. ‘Eh?’ Logan mutters.
‘You weren’t talking about me?’ I say with a grin.
They stare at me as if I have really lost it this time. ‘You thought we meant you?’ Logan asks, eyes wide. ‘God, no, Mum. You’re not like that at all. You let us eat whatever we want.’
‘Yeah,’ Blake cuts in, ‘why d’you think I like it so much at your house? My mum’s a nightmare.’ While I’m not sure that’s ideal either, it’s heartening to discover I’m not regarded as a senior member of the Third Reich. In fact, I want to grab Logan and say, then why are you insistent on moving to Dad’s? I can’t go there tonight, though; it would bring down the mood. Instead, I take the glass of wine being offered by Pascal, determined to push the whole horse barn scenario out of my mind.
Falling back into conversation with him certainly helps. Although he’s extremely sociable with my friends, we seem to keep meeting at the bar, or by the food, and catching up where we left off. I learn that his daughter is crazy about horses, and lives with her mother in Châteauroux a couple of hours south of Paris.
‘So, d’you live on your own?’ I ask boldly.
‘My brother was staying with me for a few months,’ he replies, ‘but he’s gone home again so, basically, yes.’ Just as I’m wondering how best to follow this up, he says, ‘Alice, would you like to go out to dinner some time?’
The smile bursts across my face. Thank you, Clemmie. I know you denied it but I also know you set this up, you clever thing.
‘That would be lovely,’ I reply.
‘Shall we do something next weekend? Can I call you?’
‘Yes, of course you can. You’ve got my number, haven’t you?’
Pascal nods and sips his beer. ‘And of course, you’re going to do those meringues for me.’
‘I am, and I’m sorry I haven’t yet. It’s just been a bit hectic.’
‘Hey,’ he says, the smile lighting up his face, ‘no rush at all. I know you have a busy life.’
‘Well, it’s not that busy,’ I say quickly, meaning, not too busy to listen to that accent of yours, which is having an incredibly libido-stirring effect. That lovely, caramelly, sexy French voice – I could literally listen to it all night. I could lie back and close my eyes while he read out the ingredients in a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. I realise he’s stopped talking. There’s a small silence, and I find myself scanning the room with a detached smile on my face, like a teacher observing the young people having fun at a school disco. ‘I’ll just check how the boys are doing,’ I say unnecessarily, because of course they’re fine; Fergus is chatting to Kirsty – kids are drawn to her, as she always seems genuinely interested in their lives – and Logan, Blake and Kayla are all huddled in a corner in hysterics.
I know I shouldn’t invade their space, but I can’t help myself. ‘Everyone okay?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, it’s nothing,’ Logan says, creasing up again.
‘We’re fine,’ Kayla says, trying in vain to keep a straight face, an honestly-I-haven’t-been-drinking face if ever I’ve seen one.
I peer at Blake, who has a similarly glassy look. ‘Are you all right, Blake? Feeling okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m good,’ he says a shade too loudly. I’m not sure how to handle this. I know they’re all sixteen, and that Tom let Logan drink beer on holiday – and, to be honest, I’m okay with that, one or two beers max. But these three don’t look like they’ve had a beer or two. I’m no expert, and I haven’t had a joint for decades, but they all seem pretty out of it.
‘Have you been drinking?’ I ask Logan, trying to avoid an accusatory tone.
‘Nah.’ He gives me a blank look.
‘It’s just, it’s a hotel, you know, you’re all under age …’ I glance at Kayla who has turned a peaky shade of green.
‘We haven’t drunk anything,’ Blake asserts.
‘Only Coke,’ Logan says firmly.
‘Okay.’ Maybe I’m mistaken, I decide. Maybe I’m just out of
touch, a withered old lady who’s forgotten what teenagers look like when they’re having a great time. And if they have filched a drink or two from the tables, then so what? Getting a bit tiddly is a rite of passage. I look around for Jacqui, wanting to alert her that Kayla looks rather peaky, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Instead, I zoom over to Clemmie.
‘Having a good time, birthday girl?’ she asks, cerise lipstick still immaculate at ten thirty p.m.
‘Fantastic,’ I tell her. ‘But, listen – d’you think our darling sons might have nicked some booze?’
She glances towards them and frowns. ‘No, they’d never do that. I know Blake wouldn’t.’
‘Oh, come on, Clemmie. They’re sixteen. Didn’t you have the odd sneaky rummage through your parents’ drinks cabinet?’
An emphatic shake of the head. ‘There was no need. They let me drink when I was old enough – a small glass of wine at dinner, that sort of thing. But Blake’s just not interested in alcohol …’
‘Well, Logan has never seemed interested either,’ I cut in, ‘but look at them, Clemmie. They’re all over the place …’
She squints in their direction and adjusts the neckline on her plunging polka-dot dress. ‘They’re just being sociable, darling. Come on – d’you want a drink?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I say, glimpsing Viv still dancing her heart out, and Ingrid and Sean having a little smooch in a corner, which appears to have sent Logan, Blake and Kayla into hysterics again, while Fergus attacks the buffet with gusto. Pascal catches my eye and smiles, and I make my way over to him. ‘Bit worried about the teenagers,’ I say.
‘They look fine,’ he remarks with a disarming smile.
‘D’you think so?’
‘Yes, and anyway, it’s your birthday. You shouldn’t be worrying about your kids.’ He touches my arm. ‘Look at her. She’s the one you should be keeping an eye on …’