The Mum Who Got Her Life Back

by Fiona Gibson

  For both Alfie’s and my sake, I decide to get out of the flat and decamp to the studio. I spend the day working away steadily, breaking off only to tell Gus and Corinne about my son’s ridiculously loud electric toothbrush, whirring away on the other side of my bedroom door as a remarkably effective sex deterrent.

  ‘You shouldn’t be doing it at your age anyway,’ Gus teases. ‘Sex is only for young people. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘Doesn’t that son of yours ever leave the flat?’ Corinne asks with a smirk.

  ‘Now and again, yes – there are still some of his friends kicking around. But not when I need him to.’ In fact, I don’t just mean this in a getting-it-on-with-Jack context. I’ve found it extremely challenging to relax in the flat with Alfie bashing around. He has melted the rice steamer in the microwave, caused my favourite china teapot to ‘just fall’, and somehow our shower seems to have come apart from its fitting on the wall. As a temporary measure I have gaffer taped it back into place. It’s tantamount to vandalism.

  ‘Couldn’t you send him out on an errand?’ Gus suggests with an arched brow.

  ‘Like a Boy Scout, you mean?’

  ‘I mean for bread, or strong alcohol …’

  ‘He could get that from the corner shop. He’d literally be out for about six minutes.’

  ‘You can achieve quite a lot in six minutes,’ Corinne remarks.

  ‘Though you’d better skip foreplay,’ Gus adds, which sets the two of them off sniggering again. ‘Or how about giving him money for the cinema? That way, you know he’d be out for, what, three hours minimum …’

  ‘Maybe some cinemas still do double bills,’ Corinne muses.

  ‘You’re saying I should pay him so Jack and I can go to bed together?’

  ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures,’ she remarks. ‘Even with popcorn and a drink you’re talking less than twenty quid …’

  ‘Which sounds reasonable for sex,’ Gus quips. ‘Cheaper than buying a caravan to do it in anyway …’ We all dissolve into giggles, but I can’t help wondering: how will things pan out with Jack, now that Alfie seems to be back home for good?

  ‘D’you think I should be having Jack to stay over anyway?’ I ask. ‘When Alfie and Molly are home, I mean.’

  ‘Of course you should,’ Corinne retorts, sipping her coffee. ‘They’re adults now. You can’t be expected to put your life on hold.’

  ‘But maybe you should think of other things to do with Jack instead?’ Gus suggests with a grin.

  ‘Like what?’ I ask.

  He shrugs. ‘Board games?’

  ‘Yeah, you were always the Scrabble whizz at college, Nads,’ Corinne chuckles. ‘Maybe it’s time to dig it out?’

  Back home, I’m thrilled to find Alfie hunched over his laptop, brushing up his CV. I’m even more delighted when he accepts my offer of help. It’s a little patchy, admittedly, but at least he’s done a few shifts in a club, plus a stint of cleaning hotel rooms, which we boost to the point where he appears to have substantial experience in the hospitality industry.

  When my sister shows up later, having been in town all day for a training session, she, too, is keen to batter his CV into shape. By the time she’s finished, it looks as if he’d be capable of running the entire chain of Premier Inns.

  Alfie frowns at the heavily edited document on his screen. ‘I’m not sure I want to do hotel work,’ he calls through to Sarah, who is now rearranging the contents of my food cupboard: so much wasted space, apparently, with all these torn-open packets and everything bunged in willy-nilly! If anyone else marched in and started rooting about amongst my dried goods, I’d feel violated. But something about Sarah’s brisk manner makes me accept that her way is probably better than mine.

  ‘What do you want to do then?’ she calls back to Alfie.

  ‘Um, I was thinking of getting some work at a festival?’

  ‘The Edinburgh festival?’ she asks, reappearing at his side, clutching a bag of paella rice. She darts a look at me. ‘This is four years out of date, by the way.’

  ‘I thought rice lasted forever?’ I remark.

  Sarah shakes her head.

  ‘I mean music festivals,’ Alfie explains, at which she laughs.

  ‘Getting paid to sit around getting stoned and watching the bands, you mean?’ Sarah asks.

  ‘No!’ he exclaims, and she sniggers again.

  ‘So what would it entail?’

  ‘Anything. Bar work, stewarding, security …’

  She glances at me. I have already warned her against mentioning his seemingly firm decision to drop out of uni, and I’m grateful for her jolly, no-nonsense presence. ‘Well, good luck, honey.’ She hugs him. ‘Aren’t you coming out for a bite to eat with us tonight?’

  ‘Aw, nah thanks. There’s not much I can have.’ From our local pub’s menu, he means.

  Sarah frowns. ‘Surely there’d be something meat-free? I thought it was virtually the law these days …’

  ‘He prefers actual vegan places,’ I explain, as the two of us head out on foot. ‘More choice.’

  She winces at the thought of it. I did consider the possibility, as – amazingly to me – Glasgow appears to boast more vegan restaurants per capita than anywhere else in the universe. Our reputation of being entirely fuelled by chips and deep-fried Mars Bars has always been nonsense, but it’s especially laughable now. These days you’re never more than ten feet from a chickpea.

  However, before long, just the two of us are installed in the Hog’s Head, tucking into prawn penne (me) and an Aberdeen Angus rib-eye steak (Sarah). Our talk focuses on the delightfully normal: Vic’s plans to extend their house and funny tales from the world of the care homes she inspects. We touch on Jack, naturally, but I wouldn’t dream of telling her about the whirring toothbrush sex interrupter, or Alfie marching in on us when we were virtually naked. I’m not sure she’d approve. Sarah and Vic have been together since she was sixteen, and she doesn’t really discuss anything intimate. I can only remember one incident, when she remarked that they were having ‘some issues in the bed department’ – and knowing Sarah, that could have meant a tiff in John Lewis.

  However, later that night, when I take a cup of tea to her in Molly’s room, I have to admit it’s comforting, having my sister around. Those glorious weeks of being able to wander about in my knickers, and to do things with my boyfriend at any given moment, might have dropped off the radar temporarily. But at least my kitchen cupboards are a beacon of respectability now.

  Chapter Twenty

  I set off for Edinburgh next morning, armed with the boxes I ordered, plus vast quantities of brown tape, bubble wrap and strong bin bags. Naturally, I don’t mind helping Molly to move out of halls. But I would appreciate some assistance from Danny occasionally, when it comes to practical matters like assembling fifteen cardboard boxes.

  ‘You’re much better at it than me,’ Molly says with a grin, when I point out that my box tally has reached twelve, while she has only managed to build one.

  ‘Why am I better?’

  She smirks, teasing me now. ‘You’re just … more efficient at repetitive, manual tasks.’

  ‘Thanks!’ I exclaim. ‘Maybe I should put that on my CV, under “strengths”, if I ever apply for a regular job …’

  ‘It’s a good skill to have,’ she chuckles. ‘Box builder. You’d go far with that, Mum.’

  In fact, all the assembling and packing and carrying – without her father’s help – is oddly enjoyable as, despite her aversion to brown sticky tape, Molly is a physically strong girl and not prone to moaning. Between the two of us we soon have her room emptied and cleaned, her flatmates bid goodbye to, and my car jammed to the hilt.

  ‘I can’t believe that’s your first year over,’ I tell Molly as we drive home. ‘It only feels like last week when I moved you in.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ she says with a smile.

  ‘D’you think you’ll like your flat-share next year?’ Despite her a
pparently happy state, I’m a little nervous that she, like Alfie, might have some dramatic announcement to make. When does it stop, this worrying?

  ‘Definitely,’ she says. ‘Halls are great but, y’know … it’s always going to be pretty mad and messy when you throw ten people together in one flat, including a few who’ve never cooked for themselves and someone who thinks you boil potatoes by putting them in a plastic bag in the oven …’

  ‘You’re kidding me,’ I say, laughing.

  ‘Unfortunately not. I mean, it was great – but now I’m ready to choose who I live with …’

  I nod, sensing a swell of pride at how well Molly has adapted to student life. I know she gets up to high jinks; unlike Alfie, who’s friended only his father on Facebook (and not me! The nerve of it!), Molly accepted my friend request years ago, and let me follow her on Instagram. She doesn’t seem to feel the need to hide her life from me. So I’ve seen all the messy photos: she and her mates in a tangle at parties, lipstick smeared, booze being slugged and ciggies being smoked. But she’s a grafter too, sitting up all night to power through an essay when a deadline requires it.

  ‘So, was it sad saying goodbye to everyone?’ I ask.

  Molly nods. ‘Kind of. We had a little do last night …’

  ‘I thought I detected a hangover.’

  She chuckles, and I glance at my daughter. She’s barefaced with her long dark hair worn loose and barely brushed, wearing a faded green T-shirt and old jeans. She is quite the beauty, even after a late night. ‘We made our own drink,’ she says, grinning.

  ‘What kind of drink?’

  Molly sniggers. ‘Actually, we fermented a pineapple in an old bucket …’

  ‘Where did you get the bucket? And can’t home-made booze cause blindness?’

  ‘Mum,’ she exclaims, ‘I’m okay, aren’t I? My vision’s fine, and we found the bucket lying in the street. Don’t look like that. We washed it,’ she adds, proceeding to describe the fermentation process in such detail that, by the time we reach Glasgow, I’m pretty confident that I could competently set up a fermentation plant of my very own. I could certainly do with a steady supply of booze at the moment.

  But when she and Alfie greet each other with a heartfelt hug, I have a flash of how brilliant this is, having them home, our tight little unit together again. And soon Molly will meet Jack, and that’s bound to go much better than when Alfie met him. For one thing, we’ll be clothed.

  However, I’m not quite sure when that will be, as when I call Jack that evening he sounds a little preoccupied with Lori, who’s talking about spending more days at his place, apparently, and fewer at her mum’s.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I ask, perching on the edge of the kitchen table.

  ‘It’s hard to know for sure. Maybe she just wants a bit of a break from her mum. You know how Elaine is …’

  ‘Well, yes, sort of,’ I reply. Although I have never met his ex, he’s told me how chaotic she can be, with the wheelie bin overflowing with bottles, and the slurring on the phone. But I’d been under the impression that things had been pretty stable recently. ‘Let’s get together next week, then,’ I add, trying to quell a surge of missing him.

  ‘Of course, yes.’

  I pause. ‘And Jack?’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  I’m about to say I miss you, and surely we’ll figure out ways of being together with everyone else around? But Molly has marched into the kitchen and appears to be conducting a full inventory of our biscuits.

  ‘Aren’t there any Oreos?’ she asks, seemingly unconcerned that I am on the phone.

  ‘No, love—’

  ‘I’m sure I saw two packets?’

  ‘Alfie ate them,’ I reply.

  ‘All of them? Two packets?’

  ‘Yes. They’re vegan …’

  ‘What a pig!’

  ‘Molly,’ I start. Then, to Jack: ‘Sorry, she just wanted—’

  ‘Biscuits?’ he says wryly. ‘Sounds serious.’ We laugh about how the kids still rule our lives – hahaha – and agree to see each other very soon. Perhaps for Scrabble, I reflect as we finish the call.

  However, the days roll on, with both of us keeping on top of family and work stuff, to the point at which I start to think, did Jack and I fully appreciate the acres of time we had to spend together before my offspring came home? He has spent the weekend with Lori, and I’ve hung out with my kids, trying to assess Alfie’s wellbeing as well as suggesting numerous jobs he could apply for. Barista? He brushes this off as too humdrum and is more drawn to the idea of zooming around Glasgow, being one of those food delivery rider guys. But then, he doesn’t possess a bike, and I’m loath to buy one for him in case he uses it precisely once, then leaves it forever chained to the banister downstairs. Which seems like a probable outcome, since he’s already expressing concern over the size of the boxes those guys have strapped to their backs …

  Molly starts working at the garden centre on Monday, and it feels important to be around in the evenings for those first few days, considering that she’s putting in long shifts. I’m seized by an urge to feed my kids proper dinners, especially when I hear Alfie confessing to Molly that, actually, pasta lubricated with ketchup has been his main staple for several months. I’m wondering now whether so much as a single pulse was soaked during the entire academic year.

  By mid-week, Jack and I still haven’t managed to get together. He has a backlog of proofreading to plough through – a necessary sideline, as he would struggle to get by on his salary – and I’m cracking through my commissions as efficiently as possible, holding on to the vision of Jack and me together in Barcelona in just a few weeks’ time. Meanwhile, after the brief flurry of effort in researching possible job options, Alfie seems to have slumped back into a fug of inactivity.

  ‘What’s with the onesie?’ Molly asks, looming over him on Wednesday evening as she marches in from work.

  He shifts on the sofa and looks down at it, as if he’s only just remembered he has it on. ‘It’s just comfy to wear around the house.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ she scoffs. ‘You’re acting like an old man!’

  ‘And it’s not a onesie,’ he protests.

  ‘What is it then?’ she asks.

  ‘Footed pyjamas.’

  I choke back a laugh. ‘What?’

  Alfie turns to face me. ‘That’s what Auntie Sarah said when she gave them to me.’

  ‘They’re not a “them”,’ Molly retorts. ‘They’re an it. Just because it doesn’t have a hood and little teddy-bear ears doesn’t mean it’s not a onesie. C’mon, Alf – it’s only six o’clock. Too early for bed. Get some proper daytime clothes on, and then you can start thinking about getting a job …’

  ‘I’m capable of thinking while wearing my pyjamas,’ he says, chuckling now.

  Molly snorts. ‘Okay, then. Think of everyone you know who might be able to offer you some work, and start asking around. That’s how I got my summer job.’ She turns to me. ‘Could Jack give Alfie some work in the charity shop?’

  ‘It’s all volunteers,’ I reply, ‘apart from the managers …’

  ‘What about Dad, then? Or you?’

  I smile and look at my son. ‘You know, Alf – they’re always looking for life models at the art class …’

  ‘No way!’ he exclaims as Molly laughs.

  ‘Aw, c’mon,’ she cajoles him. ‘Mum’s always said it’s easy work, but …’ She looks down at him, pursing her lips in disapproval: ‘You wouldn’t be allowed to wear your footed pyjamas for that.’

  By chance, although my ‘proper’ job means I rarely have time these days, I find myself agreeing to model for a class the following evening. The booked model is ill, and so I head off to the community hall where Stuart, the tutor, explains that I’ll be changing poses every two minutes. As tonight’s theme is ‘dynamic drawing’ he wants the students to work in a loose and speedy style.

  ‘Does that sound okay, Nads?’ he asks.

 
‘Of course,’ I reply. Stuart and I go back years; he knows I’m generally happy to do whatever’s required. I undress behind the screen – that’s a part of the process the students never get to see – and slip on my robe, casting a quick glance across the room to see if I recognise anyone here, as is my custom since I was ‘outed’ as a life model, many years ago.

  One evening, when the children were ten and Danny was away for work, Alfie confronted me over the dinner table. ‘Leon says you’re a stripper,’ he announced.

  ‘What?’ I exclaimed. He turned to Molly, and a look of disgust passed between them. ‘Alfie, what are you talking about? If you mean the art class—’

  ‘Yeah, Leon’s dad went to it. He said you were the naked model!’

  Christ, I didn’t even know his friend’s dad. At least, I certainly hadn’t recognised anyone at the class. ‘Look, Alf,’ I said firmly, ‘a model and a stripper are totally different things. You know that …’

  ‘How are they different?’ Molly eyed me defiantly across the vast dish of lasagne.

  ‘Um, well, you know that strippers do it purely for entertainment, for men to look at, and, uh, find attractive …’ I sensed my forehead prickling with sweat. ‘It’s a sexual thing, obviously,’ I added, seeing Alfie turn pale. ‘Whereas in a life drawing class, I’m not really a woman to them.’

  ‘What are you, then?’ she demanded.

  ‘Just, um, a shape, really. A collection of angles and bumps and, er, other bits – like a kettle or a bowl of fruit.’

  Alfie looked aghast. ‘Do you stand, or sit, or what?’

  ‘Whatever they ask me to do really. I change poses when they ask me to.’

  ‘D’you lie on a sofa?’ Molly enquired.

  ‘Yes, if that’s what they want. Sometimes I stand on a revolving platform.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Alfie groaned.

  I tried to reach for his hand. ‘Look, love – you both know I do this. I’ve been doing it for years …’