by Fiona Gibson
Wattle and daub consisted mainly of mud, horsehair and dung, according to Fergus’s Horrible Histories book. Hmmm. Would it be kind of hairy, like Logan’s spider cake, or smooth, or somewhere in between? As I can’t face calling Mum again, I gather together every decorating implement and edible embellishment I own, and set to work.
Five hours later, at just gone eleven p.m., my work is done.
Chapter Thirty-Three
‘This is the best cake I’ve ever seen in my whole life.’ Molly looks up at me, eyes shining, a vision of beauty in her medieval sackcloth tunic.
‘I’m so glad you like it.’ I sense myself flushing with pleasure.
‘It must have taken all night,’ Stephen says. ‘It’s incredible, Alice. So detailed! All the little houses—’
‘They’re exactly the right colour,’ Molly agrees as her friends all clamour around it.
‘It’s not bad at all,’ my mother concedes.
‘It’s perfect,’ Molly corrects her, frowning as if to say, Can’t you see? The party has gone incredibly well so far, thanks in no small part to Mum, whose storytelling session was quite captivating. I’d almost forgotten the stories she’d read to me as a child, one aspect of parenting she excelled at.
Stephen, too, is doing a sterling job of keeping order while retaining a sense of fun. As I ferry out plates of sandwiches and cookies to join the cake on the garden table, I glimpse him being ‘the donkey’ on which the tail must be stuck – a game which isn’t quite in keeping with the party’s theme, but is clearly a favourite of Molly’s.
‘Hide-and-seek now,’ she announces when it’s finished. ‘Let’s hide in the house!’ She turns to my mother who is ‘resting’ on a garden chair with a large glass of wine. ‘You be the seeker, Eileen,’ Molly commands.
‘Not now, darling. It’s not really my thing. We can do more stories later, though, if you like.’
Molly turns to me. ‘Will you be seeker?’
‘Sure.’ I turn to Stephen. ‘Is it okay for them to play inside?’ However, his attention has been diverted by a statuesque woman with curiously set auburn hair, in white jeans and a navy blue lacy top, sunglasses perched on top of her head.
‘Molly, darling,’ she announces, ‘Daddy didn’t tell me it was your birthday!’
I take a moment to assess the scene. This newcomer has brought a large, burnished orange Le Creuset pot. So this is Casserole Kate, who’s clearly a little put out not to have been involved in the birthday proceedings.
‘I know how busy you are,’ Stephen says, raking back his hair.
‘Oh, you are silly. I’d love to have helped. You know you only have to ask …’ Her eyes light upon the cake on the table. ‘What on earth is that?’ she asks with a sparkly laugh.
‘It’s Molly’s birthday cake,’ my mother says tersely.
‘How unusual! What are all those funny little houses? Is it a farm?’
‘It’s a Medieval village,’ Molly announces, as her father remembers that Kate and I haven’t actually met.
‘Alice, um, this is Kate …’
‘Hello, Alice.’ She smiles tightly, her gaze skimming the cluster of children all waiting expectantly at the back door to the house. ‘So which one’s yours?’
‘Oh, mine aren’t here,’ I explain. ‘I’m just here to, er, lend a hand.’
‘And this is Eileen, Alice’s mum,’ Stephen adds, looking stressed now, for the first time since the party started.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ Kate says, her gaze falling back upon the as yet untouched cake. ‘That’s quite something, Stephen. I’d no idea you were so creative.’
‘Actually, Alice made it.’
‘Really? Gosh.’
‘Kate, I’m sorry,’ Stephen blusters, ‘I haven’t even offered you a drink.’
‘I’d love a glass of wine, darling.’ She flashes a big smile, showing top and bottom teeth, and parks herself at the garden table next to Mum. I watch as he scurries away to fetch her a drink, returning with a glass of chilled white.
He looks especially handsome today in jeans and a plain navy T-shirt; definitely school-gate totty. Making no attempt to engage my mother in conversation, Kate keeps her gaze fixed firmly upon him, as if she doesn’t quite trust him to behave.
And all at once, despite the success of the cake and the games and my own mother being here, I suddenly feel like an outsider.
‘Sit here, Stephen,’ Kate commands, patting the vacant seat beside her. ‘You must be exhausted from running about all afternoon.’
‘I’m fine, thanks, Kate,’ he says firmly, making no move to join her.
‘We want to play hide-and-seek,’ Molly prompts me. ‘Start counting, Alice!’ Spotting Kate getting up and placing a hand territorially on Stephen’s arm, I quickly cover my eyes with my fingers and start counting aloud. ‘Coming!’ I shout, catching Mum’s expression – it’s as brittle as my little icing houses – before turning and running into the house.
Immediately, it’s apparent that this is a welcoming family home. In the large, airy kitchen, the fridge is plastered with photos of Molly in various settings – sitting astride a decorated pony on a carousel, and blowing out the candles on a previous birthday cake. From the kitchen I make my way to the living room, where newspapers are scattered across the table. Light streams in through the tall Georgian windows and, with its well-worn leather sofa, the room feels laid-back and extremely comfortable. I check behind the sofa and several stuffed bookshelves, then peer into the tiny downstairs bathroom. Not a child in sight.
‘Coming!’ I call out, stepping lightly up the wooden stairs.
The first bedroom I check is clearly Stephen’s. It’s more orderly than what I’ve seen of the house so far. The bed is neatly made up with a snowy white duvet, and beside the pale oak wardrobe is the famous appliance. I blink at it, this slab of mock-mahogany for the flattening of trousers. Of course it’s fine to own one. Very practical, I’d imagine, if supreme neatness is required.
There are muffled giggles from another upstairs room.
‘I’m coming,’ I call again, but remain motionless, wondering if, just before he goes to bed with a woman, Stephen removes his trousers and carefully places them in the press. Or maybe he’s been single for so long, the issue of trouser pressing in a pre-romantic scenario hasn’t occurred? From the window I watch Stephen and Mum, now chatting at the garden table. They both look round as Kate reappears from the house, marching across the lawn with a large jug of water.
I leave the room, figuring that it’s none of my business whether he’s seeing her or not. While he laughs at the way she foists casseroles on him, perhaps he secretly enjoys it? After all, who doesn’t relish being made a fuss of now and again? Shaking off a sense of disappointment, and deciding that perhaps Mum and I should leave pretty soon, I peer into the next bedroom which is obviously Molly’s. Stifled laughter is coming from several hiding places.
‘Found you!’ I cry, discovering a little red-haired boy in fits of giggles under the bed, and Molly, plus three others, in a hysterical heap beneath the duvet. Everyone except Molly charges downstairs and back out into the garden.
‘I like you,’ she says. ‘No one ever made me a cake like that.’
‘Thanks, Molly,’ I say. ‘You know, I loved doing it.’
‘Daddy can’t do icing.’ Her voice has dropped to a whisper.
‘No, but think of all the things he can do …’ I stop as she tears out of the room, following her friends to the garden.
‘Whoa!’ Kate exclaims, shrinking back in her seat from the clamouring children. I loiter at the back door, wondering what to do now.
‘Cut the cake, Daddy,’ Molly demands.
‘Give me a minute,’ he laughs, ‘I’ll just grab a knife …’ However, his words fall on deaf ears as, the moment he leaves, the children snatch at the houses and peel sugar-paste from the top.
‘Steady on,’ Kate says, looking tense around the eye region now. ‘You’re making a t
errible mess—’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, making my way towards her, ‘it’s meant to be eaten—’
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ she shrieks, staring down at her left thigh in horror.
‘Sorry,’ Molly cries, her eyes filling up as she surveys the huge, purple patch on Kate’s white jeans.
‘What is it?’ she demands. ‘Ribena?’
Molly nods, distraught. ‘I’m sorry …’
Kate is up on her feet now as Stephen reappears with a knife to cut the cake. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she announces. ‘Look what’s happened …’
‘It is a children’s party,’ Mum observes. ‘There are bound to be spillages.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Kate snaps, ‘but these are DKNY.’
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have worn those,’ she says tersely, turning to me. ‘You’d never wear white trousers to something like this, would you, Alice?’
‘Well,’ Kate announces, before I can answer, ‘if there’s any hope of getting this stain out, they’ll have to be washed right away. Stephen, would you drop off my casserole when you’ve finished with it?’
‘Of course,’ he says quickly, ‘and thank you, Kate. I’m really sorry about your jeans.’
‘White jeans at a children’s party,’ Mum mutters as soon as she’s gone.
‘I don’t think she knew the party was happening,’ I venture as the children cluster around her for another story. While she regales them with tales of Beowulf, Stephen and I find ourselves sitting together on the back step of the house.
‘So, that was Kate,’ he says with a grin.
‘She’s obvious very keen on you,’ I remark, at which he splutters. ‘Come on, Stephen. She could hardly make it more obvious.’
‘You think so?’ He looks genuinely baffled.
‘Yes. God, you mean you haven’t picked up on her signals?’
He smiles. ‘I’ve never been very good at that.’
‘They’re pretty obvious, you know. Like, in a sort of flashing neon sign sort of way …’
‘Oh, God,’ he says, shuddering. ‘She’s bloody terrifying.’
‘She’s just a woman who knows what she wants,’ I say, and we fall into companionable silence, watching the children listening with rapt attention to Mum.
‘You’ve been great today,’ he adds. ‘But I guess you’re an old hand at all this, aren’t you?’
‘Our parties weren’t quite like this,’ I say. ‘However organised I tried to be, they’d always descend into sheer chaos.’
He chuckles. ‘Your boys must be much easier now.’
I consider this and, without thinking, find myself telling him that teenagers are challenging in a different way, such as announcing that they don’t want to live with you any more, or accessing a smoking bum picture on their laptop.
‘A smoking bum?’ he repeats. ‘Seriously?’
I nod. ‘Yep.’
‘God.’ He blows out air. ‘That sounds … ill-advised …’
‘One of those don’t-try-this-at-home moments,’ I add with a smirk. ‘You know, sometimes I think my life’s full of bum …’
He looks at me incredulously. ‘Like, there are other things?’
‘Um, yeah.’ And because I feel so relaxed here, all worn out in that pleasant, post-party way, I tell him about my ravaged hot cleansing cloth, and how I’d managed to inform the pert French pharmacy lady that I had batteries up my bottom.
Stephen is convulsing with laughter. ‘Anything else?’
‘Er, that’s all I can think of at the moment.’
‘So,’ he says, shuddering with mirth, ‘you think your life is too bottom-focused.’
‘Yes, I really do.’
He wipes his eyes and smiles fondly at me. ‘But not today, I hope. I really hope it hasn’t been a bunch of arse for you.’
I shake my head and glance across the sun-dappled garden, overcome by an unexpected surge of fondness for Mum. Who else could captivate all these children like this?
‘Not at all,’ I say, turning back to him. ‘It’s actually been a wonderful day.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
I’m not stupid enough to think that all Frenchmen have that look, that Robert Doisneau Kiss thing going on – the mop of dark hair, the sharp cheekbones and chiselled jaw as featured on millions of posters. Yet that’s precisely what springs to mind, when I glimpse Pascal sitting in the corner in one of Edinburgh’s most beautiful Victorian pubs. He is the grown-up version of that boy I saw with his girlfriend from the hotel balcony in Paris. He hasn’t seen me yet, and I’m stealing a look before he does. A week has flown by since Molly’s party, and I’d almost forgotten about Pascal’s promise to call. Logan is now in the throes of exams – it has been a little tense, to say the least. Then Pascal finally called, throwing me into a frenzy of pecan and orange meringue production, the results of which I have with me in a small paper carrier bag.
‘Hey, how are you?’ He is out of his seat now, kissing me Frenchly – not French kissing, obviously, but a peck on each cheek.
‘I’m good, thanks.’ I glance at the bar. ‘What would you like?’
‘No, I’ll go,’ he says quickly. ‘Glass of wine? They have a nice Burgundy here.’
‘Oh, yes please.’ He returns with a glass and sits back in the seat opposite me. ‘So how was your son after the party? It looked pretty bad.’
‘He’s okay now. I took him to A&E for his lip and a friend, a dentist, fixed his tooth the next day. His mouth’s still pretty sore but it’s healing well, and you’d never know anything had happened to his tooth.’
Pascal shakes his head and lifts his tall glass of beer. ‘Some end to your party.’
‘I know, but I loved it anyway.’
He smiles. ‘It was kind of your sons to invite me. Hope you didn’t mind?’ A distinctly flirtatious tone has crept into his voice.
‘No, of course not. I was delighted you came.’
‘D’you think they were trying to set us up?’ he adds, dark eyes glinting.
My entire head is now a perfect orb of hotness, and I keep glimpsing the glowing oval reflected in the huge copper pan hanging on the wall behind him. I try to cool down with a sip of wine.
‘Probably,’ I say. ‘But I’m not sure – you know how hard teenagers are to fathom.’
‘Um, not really. I don’t see much of my daughter these days.’
‘That’s a pity …’
‘I suppose so,’ comes his perplexing reply. ‘It’s just the way things are.’ Pascal shrugs. ‘My life is here now.’
But what about your daughter? I want to ask. Doesn’t a teenage girl need her dad too? And another father creeps into my mind: Stephen, being a brilliant sport last Sunday when, clearly, the prospect of Molly’s party had been causing him no small amount of anxiety.
‘I nearly forgot,’ I say quickly, placing the paper bag on the table between us. ‘I made these for you.’
‘What’s this?’ He raises a brow in surprise.
‘Those meringues you asked for. Pecan and bitter orange.’
‘Wow.’ He opens the bag and takes out one of each flavour: small, perfectly formed kisses, if I say so myself. I put untold effort into these samples. ‘Unusual flavours,’ he adds, nibbling the orange one. ‘Mmm, this is lovely.’
‘The pecan ones were easy,’ I explain. ‘Crushed pieces with a little honey and the tiniest amount of ginger. The orange one was harder. That was quite a challenge you set me.’ I smile, watching as he finishes the meringue in a second bite.
‘Is that what I asked for?’ He chuckles. ‘I’d forgotten. I just said the first flavours that came into my head. Didn’t want to seem, uh, unimaginative …’
‘So you didn’t really want bitter orange?’ I ask, replaying my endeavours in the kitchen two days ago: first with finely chopped fresh orange (big fail), then, more successfully with a bitter orange peel meant for cake decorations, which had taken me an entire lunch break to track down.
‘Well, I thought it would be fun to see what you could come up with,’ he says, popping one into his mouth. ‘And I was right, wasn’t I? These really are delicious.’ I prickle with annoyance, realising I could have knocked up a tried-and-tested flavour and saved myself from ruining a batch.
I clear my throat. ‘You know, that’s why Logan and his friends were so out of it at the party. Meringues, I mean. They’d cooked up some hash ones, would you believe?’
‘Now they sound interesting,’ Pascal laughs. ‘Had your friend had some too?’
I frown. ‘Which friend?’
‘The woman in the tight red skirt …’
‘Oh, you mean Viv. No, we’d had some pretty potent cocktails, then she’d tanked into the wine.’ I laugh. ‘Just a little overexcited, I guess.’
He shakes his head. ‘Not a good look in a woman that age.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You know – a middle-aged woman making a fool of herself like that. Dancing, throwing herself around, trying to kiss everyone …’
I frown and shift in my seat. ‘She’s just affectionate—’
‘Is that what you call it?’ He emits a scathing laugh. ‘And wasn’t she crying at the end?’
‘Pascal,’ I cut in, ‘Viv’s one of my closest friends. I’ve known her since college. I know she goes overboard sometimes, but it was a party, and virtually everyone was there as a couple. I think she just finds that a bit difficult sometimes.’
‘But you’re single,’ he points out.
‘I know,’ I say, trying to shake off my annoyance. ‘And I’m fine with that. But occasionally, I get the feeling that Viv isn’t …’
He meets my gaze, and although his eyes are stunning – deep chocolate brown, fringed by long, outrageously curly black lashes – they are ceasing to have any effect on me at all. ‘It just looks a bit …’ He pauses to find the right word. ‘Desperate.’
As we sit in silence for a moment, I try to work out why this irks me so much. I doubt if he’d be so aghast about a man being that drunk; it would be regarded as acceptable party behaviour and probably not even commented upon at all. In the cocktail bar at the Morgan, no one else seemed to register the fact that Charlie was out of his mind. Certainly, I’m not sure anyone would have labelled him as ‘desperate’.