by Fiona Gibson
‘I like you too,’ I say with a smile, thinking of Kirsty again, and how she’s been utterly tied to that beautiful, sprawling house for years, and wondering what on earth will happen now.
Back home, there is evidence of lots of revision having taken place, resulting in chemistry past papers strewn all over the kitchen table and dog-eared history textbooks dumped on the living room floor. It feels rather haphazard but, summoning my every ounce of willpower, I manage not to comment. Anyway, it’s too late now to muscle in with my timetable suggestions and offers of ‘help’.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask, finding Logan in his bedroom.
‘Yeah.’ He turns around from his desk and flashes a quick smile.
‘Did you heat up that bolognaise I left you?’
‘Yeah but I’m hungry again now.’
‘So am I,’ Fergus announces behind me.
I turn around and laugh. ‘But you had Kirsty’s burgers and sausages—’
‘The portions aren’t massive there, Mum,’ he points out.
‘Yes, because her kids are little and not the swarm of locusts that you two are. Give me a minute, okay? I’ll do you some cheese on toast.’
As I head to the kitchen I hear Fergus sniggering, ‘Logan – Mum thinks two locusts is a swarm.’
Supper is dispatched, and as soon as the boys have drifted back to their rooms I call Tom. It’s almost ten, and I can hear Jessica bellowing furiously in the background.
‘Just wondered how the barn’s coming along,’ I say lightly.
‘It, um … still needs a bit of TLC …’
‘Tom, have you actually started work on it at all?’
He clears his throat. ‘Jessica, stop that! Stop throwing your jigsaw around. Sorry, Alice. Things are a bit mad around here. We’ve had a rush of orders and Patsy’s away, sourcing new fabrics, and I haven’t had a chance …’
‘But …’ I frown, lowering myself on to a kitchen chair. ‘Logan’s supposed to be moving straight after his exams. D’you realise how soon that is? I know he’s not expecting luxury but that picture I saw on his phone, it looked as if it was about to fall down and that horse was still lurking in the corner …’ There’s a deafening howl in the background.
‘Jessie, stop that! Christ, it’s all over the coffee table … sorry, Alice, she’s sloshed her Ribena everywhere …’ Hmm, Patsy strongly disapproves of branded drinks. ‘Sorry,’ he says again.
‘Erm, the horse,’ I prompt him.
‘Oh, Pebbles went yesterday. It was only temporary. We were looking after him for a friend of Patsy’s.’
‘Yes, but what about the building? Will it actually be fit to live in when the exams are finished?’
‘Er …’ I wait for what feels like an age. ‘Probably not.’
‘So when will it be ready?’
He murmurs something conciliatory to Jessica, who’s obviously up well past her bedtime. ‘Once I get started it won’t take long.’
‘Tom,’ I cut in, ‘d’you realise how excited Logan is about this? You have enrolled him at the school, haven’t you? I mean, you’re not just floating about, assuming it’ll all be okay when he arrives—’
‘I don’t float about,’ he snaps. ‘And of course I’ve enrolled him. It’s all sorted, there’s no problem with that.’
A lump forms in my throat. Damn, I was hoping he hadn’t got around to that either. I still haven’t told his school here that he’s leaving. ‘So he’ll be sleeping in a horse’s house,’ I mutter.
‘I told you, the horse has gone.’
‘Okay, but I bet there are still piles of plop in there—’
‘Plop?’ Tom exclaims. ‘God, Alice, how old are you? Of course there’s no plop in there. It’s all cleaned out, at least it will be. But yes, you’re probably right – he’ll be better sleeping in the main house for the time being …’
‘And what will Patsy make of that?’
‘Please let’s not go through all that again.’
‘What?’ I counter. ‘The fact that your wife doesn’t actually want him living with you?’
‘She’ll be fine,’ he barks, then abruptly finishes the call.
And that’s when I turn around and see Logan standing right behind me.
I open my mouth to speak but he has flounced back to his room. Shit. It feels like my fault, although it isn’t really. The flat is eerily quiet; Fergus has sloped off for an early night, and there’s no sound from Logan’s room either. I perch on the edge of our saggy sofa, heart thumping against my ribs. Damn Tom and his grandiose plans. Our lives were blighted by them when we were together: Of course I’ll get a job! I’ve met this guy and we’re going to sell this thing that purifies water without filters, it’s just a little thing you stick on your tap … who wouldn’t want that? Water that’s as pure as a mountain spring? The only catch was, Tom would have to buy a ‘starter kit’ at an astronomical cost, and badger friends to do likewise, which sounded suspiciously like pyramid selling to me. Then the ‘friend’ disappeared, the company went under and Tom was once again free to ponder what he might want to do with his life.
I see it at school, too. There’s a little girl called Lucie who likes to pop into the office, usually with a flimsy question like, ‘Alice, I just wanted to know if it’s all right to bring my packed lunch in a carrier bag to Deep Sea World? Or does it have to be a lunchbox?’ Really, she just wants an excuse to chat. She’s nine years old and often tells me, ‘We’re going to Egypt for our holidays! Mum said we’re gonna see the actual pyramids …’ The trip never happens, but that’s okay – next thing it’s, ‘Mum says we’re moving to her new boyfriend’s massive house near London with a swimming pool.’ Lucie could be making all this up, but I suspect it’s more to do with promises that can’t be kept. Yet she still keeps trusting and believing and it’s quite heartbreaking. Oh, I know that at sixteen years old, Logan’s day isn’t made or broken by anything Tom or I say. But still, it seems grossly unfair.
I flinch, startled by a movement at the living room door. ‘Hi, love,’ I say as he ambles in, looking almost too big for the room now. All arms, legs and long bare feet.
‘Hi.’ He flops down beside me. It’s only ten thirty but he looks tired and pale. There’s a hint of dark fluff above the outer corners of his mouth.
‘Sorry you heard that,’ I murmur. ‘I was just a bit annoyed with Dad.’
A fleeting smile. ‘’S’all right. I kind of believed him when we were away in the camper van but then I realised he had no intention of actually doing anything about it.’
I put an arm around his shoulders and he snuggles closer. ‘I’m sure he wants you to live with him. I know he misses you.’
‘Yeah.’ He looks at me, his dark eyes intense. ‘The whole thing was a stupid idea anyway.’
I frown, not quite grasping what he means. ‘You still want to go, though?’
‘What, with Patsy not wanting me there?’ He makes a pff noise. ‘No thanks.’
‘Logan, she likes you, I know she’s very fond of you—’
He silences me with a fierce shake of the head. ‘I’m not moving, Mum.’
‘Why, because of Patsy-the—’
‘Nah,’ he sniggers, ‘it’s not that. If I really wanted to I would. It’s that place, the barn – I mean, Dad’s done nothing. Look …’
‘I’ve seen the picture with the horse in it, love.’
‘No, there’s another one.’ He pulls his phone from his jeans pocket and holds it so close to my face, I have to shrink back to bring the picture into focus. It’s the barn again, gloomy and filled with bits of wood and old buckets.
I peer at it, deciding that, at forty, I really need to book an eye test. This holding phones and menus at arm’s length is beyond a joke. ‘What’s that pile of stuff in the middle of the floor?’ I ask.
‘It’s crap,’ Logan says.
‘No, I know it’s not exactly luxury accommodation. I mean what’s that—’
‘Mum, I mean it
’s actual crap. Or plop, as you so maturely called it.’ He barks with laughter.
I gawp at him. ‘But why is it there?’
‘Well, I imagine it fell out of Dobbin’s arse.’
We both splutter with laughter. ‘It’s Pebbles, actually. But d’you mean Dad actually sent you a new picture with the poo still there? He didn’t even shovel it up?’
‘Looks like it,’ he snorts, adding, ‘I want to stay here, Mum, with you.’
‘Really?’ My eyes fuzz with tears and I quickly blink them away.
‘Yeah. It’s not so bad here,’ he murmurs as Fergus wanders in, bleary-eyed, pyjama top askew.
‘What were you laughing at?’ he asks. We show him the barn picture, and he’s chuckling too – but also, I notice, looking relieved. Like he’s delighted not to be left alone, with me, despite no longer getting the biggest room.
‘Are you horribly disappointed?’ I ask Logan once Fergus has shuffled off back to bed.
‘No, not really.’
I try to read his expression. ‘I know you were looking forward to it, and I can see why it was appealing, having your own place like Blake does.’
‘Oh, he’s getting evicted,’ Logan says with a shrug.
‘Evicted? What d’you mean?’
He bunches a hand up at his face. ‘You know, because of the meringues.’
‘You mean they’re throwing him out? They can’t do that—’
‘Nah, not out of the house, I mean the annexe. He’s moving back into his old, poky room, packing up his stuff today. Clemmie’s gonna give up her office and use the top floor as her new work place.’
‘Oh.’ I take a moment to digest this. ‘That seems pretty harsh, doesn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’ He exhales through his nose. ‘Thank God you’re not like that.’
‘Well,’ I say briskly, ‘maybe that’s one benefit of me not having the money or space to give you a whole floor of your own.’ I flick a stray Pringle from the sofa.
‘You’d never do that anyway,’ he says.
‘You’re saying I’m a soft touch?’
‘Er, not exactly …’ He smiles crookedly, and there’s a flash of that boy, the one who watched Peter Pan daily for about two years straight. ‘You’re all right,’ he adds.
‘Thank you, sweetheart. You are too.’
‘Er …’ He fiddles with the back of his hair. ‘The other thing is, I’m kind of going out with Kayla.’
‘Are you? Oh, I’m really pleased for you. She seems like a lovely girl.’ He shrugs, cheeks flushing pink. ‘Does her mum know?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
We sit in silence for a moment. ‘The thing is, Logan,’ I say eventually, ‘there’s one condition, if you’re definitely going to stay.’
He frowns. ‘Mum, I’m never gonna make hash meringues again, I told you that already. Please don’t go on about it any more …’
‘No, I mean your chest of drawers. You know how you deconstructed it ready for moving to Dad’s?’
‘Er … yeah.’ He looks a little sheepish.
‘It’ll need putting back together again tomorrow, okay?’
He moves closer again, dropping his head on to my shoulder, the way he used to when he was tired and wanted a story. ‘Oh, Mum,’ he says, ‘could you do it please? You’re far better at that kind of thing than I am.’
‘Nope,’ I say, laughing, ‘it’ll be good for you to learn, darling. There’s a screwdriver in the bottom kitchen drawer.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
On Thursday evening, Stephen calls in a panic. ‘It’s getting out of hand,’ he says. ‘Molly’s adamant that she wants a storytelling session in the garden.’
‘I’m sure you can manage that,’ I say. ‘Come on, how many bedtime stories have you read in her lifetime?’
‘Yes, but she doesn’t want stories read from a book. She wants them told the way a storyteller did last time we went to the Museum of Scotland. They had professional actors in costume and she thought it was great.’ The poor man sounds exhausted.
‘Come on,’ I say, ‘she won’t mind when all her friends are there and the party’s actually happening.’
‘You think so?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll have a think about it, though – I’m sure we’ll be able to come up with something.’ He sounds reassured as we finish the call, but later a text comes: Now she’s specifying a medieval cake! Any ideas? With no expertise on such matters, I call Mum.
‘You mean that lovely, bright girl from the museum?’ she says. ‘Oh, what a wonderful idea! You always bought the boys’ cakes, didn’t you? I always think they have that rather sad, factory-made look …’
‘What about that spider cake I made?’ I cut in. ‘It took me hours to make, Mum.’
‘Oh, I’d forgotten about that.’ She pauses. ‘Anyway, for Molly’s party I think the best option would be a village scene …’
‘That sounds a bit complicated.’ While Stephen is impressive on many levels – the fixing of teeth, the plaiting of his daughter’s hair – I suspect that this may stress him unnecessarily.
‘It’s only houses, Alice …’
‘Yes, but what were they like?’ I ask, deciding now that I’ll offer to make the cake.
She sighs, as if to say, Have you learnt nothing in all these years? ‘If you mean peasants’ dwellings, they’d be made from a wooden structural support filled in with wattle and daub.’ I daren’t ask her to remind me what that is. Clearly, that particular info should be neatly filed within the historical facts department of my brain.
‘That’s great, Mum,’ I say, feigning confidence. ‘I should be able to get that together by Sunday. Oh, and Stephen’s also hoping for a storytelling session …’
‘How lovely! Isn’t he a thoughtful parent?’
‘He is,’ I say, smiling, ‘and I really want to help out. He’s been brilliant with Logan – there was, er, an accident the other day. He fell and smashed out his front tooth …’
‘For goodness’ sake,’ she barks, implying gross negligence on my part. ‘Is he all right now?’
‘Thanks to Stephen, yes, he is.’
A small pause. ‘Tell you what, Alice, I’ll come to the party. I can take care of the stories, okay? Sunday, did you say it was?’
‘Er, yes. It starts at one.’
‘Well, I have nothing else on and Molly’s a delightful girl. Pick me up early, about tenish?’
Jesus, Mum let loose at a children’s party. I’m thinking either stroke of genius, or one of those terrible occasions that’ll haunt me for the rest of my life.
Fortunately, Stephen is resoundingly positive.
‘Molly thought your mum was great,’ he enthuses. ‘She’s even asked if that lady will be at the museum next time we go.’
‘You’re absolutely sure we’re not muscling in?’ I know Logan, who’s currently installed in front of a movie in the living room – a ‘revision break’, I believe it’s called – will think it’s a bonkers idea.
‘No, not at all. Molly will be so pleased.’
‘Okay, and I’ll do the cake, if you’re okay with that …’
‘Really? It seems like so much work for you.’
‘It’ll be easy,’ I fib, ‘and anyway, I’ll enjoy it.’
Stephen pauses, his relief palpable. ‘Alice,’ he adds warmly, ‘I think you really have saved my life.’
*
Kirsty has been in practical mode all week, politely declining offers of visits from Ingrid, Viv and me.
‘We’re working things out,’ she told me last time I called. ‘He’s, er … having to go away on business.’ The children were clearly in the vicinity and she sounded determined. However, we do hook up in the park round the corner from her house on Saturday afternoon. While her children scale the climbing frame, she explains, ‘You know what the really galling thing is? He says he’s sorry, and that he despises himself for what he’s done to our family. But he still couldn’t resist add
ing that motherhood has made me lose my sparkle.’
‘He’s insane, Kirsty.’ I look at my beautiful friend with her tumble of wavy, light-brown hair, fresh-faced and gorgeous without a scrap of make-up. How can he not love her?
‘So what’s going to happen now?’ I ask.
She smiles, her pale eyes shining. ‘Well, I’ve applied for a nursing refresher course and so, in a bizarre way, it’s quite exciting.’
‘You’re incredible,’ I murmur. ‘Most people would fall to pieces.’
She shrugs, indicating the children who are now spinning at an impressive speed on the roundabout. ‘What choice do I have? I can’t crumble. It’s just not an option. Anyway, Dan’s staying with a friend from work, a male friend …’ She stops and gnaws at a fingernail. Although there’s so much I want to say, I am also aware of the unspoken rule of never slagging off a friend’s husband, cheating bastard or not.
‘Will you let him come back eventually?’ I ask.
‘Oh, sure, when I think he’s suffered enough.’ She laughs dryly. ‘But we’ll be doing it on my terms, which means school for the kids, back to work for me, and couples counselling for the two of us.’
‘Sounds like a good plan,’ I say as the children charge towards us. ‘But what if …’
‘If we don’t make it,’ she whispers into my ear, ‘then I might take a leaf out of your book and get out there and start dating again.’
My head is full of Kirsty’s predicament as I drive home; I can’t imagine her putting on heels and lipstick in order to get ‘back in the saddle’ (ugh – that terrible phrase). But maybe, I decide, there comes a point when it’s actually a good idea to at least give it a try. And I’ve had fun: I’ve been out with an older-woman-fancier and almost had sex in a Parisian hotel. And I’ve met a lovely, kind, devoted dad, which reminds me that the cake isn’t going to decorate itself. I haven’t made the meringues for Pascal either, or heard from him about going out to dinner. But there are more important matters to think about right now. I park my car and scamper upstairs to our empty flat; both boys have been asked over to friends’ houses today. It’s just gone six and, without stopping to eat, I lift the enormous, square cake I baked last night from its tin.