Take Mum Out Read online

  ‘Back out there? Sounds like a sign in an NCP car park …’

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ she says, mock-scolding. ‘Promise you’ll go and not make up some crappy excuse about the boys being ill or whatever. I know what you’re like, Alice Sweet.’

  She does, too, in the way that a friend of twenty years – since our second year at college – is aware of the difference between a mere reluctance to date, and full-blown terror at the very prospect. Which is, admittedly, the situation right now. Plus, with a track record like mine, I have to ask myself, is it worth it, really? Getting ‘out there’, I mean? It’s not just ISA-Man, and his perpetual nagging about share acquisition. It’s the whole, sorry dating debacle since I split with Tom, the boys’ father. A handful of encounters scattered over six years of single parenthood – each one making me question why I was in some gloomy, sticky tabled bar, or having sex with someone who might well have been simultaneously calculating the net profit on his investments. Frankly, I’d rather have been cosied up on the sofa with Logan and Fergus, munching crisps and sniggering over something daft on TV.

  ‘So you promise not to back out,’ Ingrid says firmly.

  ‘Promise,’ I say.

  A small pause. ‘It’ll be great. I’m not sure what he does exactly but he seems like a really driven, thrusting guy.’ We both bark with laughter as I finish the call, trying to convince myself that Ingrid is absolutely right.

  *

  On Friday, as I pull on my new dress – sapphire-blue linen, grabbed from some sale rail one lunchtime – my thoughts fast-forward to tomorrow when the date will be over and I’ll be happily regaling Ingrid, plus our other college friends Kirsty and Viv, with the details. It’s a pleasant spring evening, the kind that coaxes dog-walkers and couples out to our gently sloping park, with its wide open sky and a glimmer of the Firth of Forth beyond. Hell, is it really eighteen months since I last slept with someone, let alone had a date? In contrast, Tom had found himself a wife less than a year after we split (he and I had never got around to tying the knot). He is married to the fragrant Patsy, founder of a children’s sleepwear company called Dandelion. They live in a vicarage in Cumbria surrounded by rolling fields and cattle, and have an adorable golden-haired daughter, Jessica, who regularly models for the Dandelion catalogue. We’re not talking Hello Kitty nighties or SpongeBob pyjamas; the only embellishment allowed on Patsy’s top-quality garments is a tiny embroidered dandelion clock.

  Tom’s contact with our sons is sporadic and largely dependent on his ‘work commitments’. We’re talking a weekend down at the vicarage now and again, although he is whisking the boys away to the Highlands during the Easter holidays, which they seem to be regarding as a rare treat (no complaints about it ‘not being abroad’ where their dad’s concerned). ‘Patsy said I can model the teen boys’ range,’ Fergus told me recently, startling me with his enthusiasm. So, while he’s reluctant to be seen walking down the street with me these days, he’d be perfectly happy to risk being spotted by his friends in a checked seersucker ensemble in a bloody catalogue. Of course, Logan and Fergus have no idea that, for much of our relationship, Daddy modelled the same three pairs of limp, not exactly box-fresh underpants in rotation, until they literally shredded in the washing machine. Nor are they aware that he spent virtually all of our thirteen-year relationship in a fug of Southern Comfort and beer. (Granted, Tom was never a horrible or, God forbid, violent drunk. He’d just go all floppy and canine, pawing at me and trying to lick my face.)

  All that limpid puppy stuff had been okay-ish pre-kids, when we’d been students in a house share together. It was still bearable – just – when I gave birth to Logan, perhaps because, as a twenty-three-year-old new mum, I was so freaked out that I couldn’t fully register anything else that was going on around me. We muddled on for years because I still loved Tom, despite his unsavoury pants and habit of penning poems along the lines of: Lovely Alice/I don’t need a palace/with you at my side … Until the day arrived when the boys were seven and ten and I realised that, unless we split, I’d spend the rest of my life coming home from work to have Tom glance up from the sofa and ask, ‘Do we have any milk?’

  You see, back then, Tom didn’t go out to work. He wasn’t a partner in Dandelion, giving talks on the virtues of organic brushed cotton and formaldehyde-free dyes. In his early thirties, and with both Fergus and Logan at school full-time, he was still trying to figure out ‘what it is I really want to do’.

  As I am, an hour later, as I pause outside the restaurant which Anthony has booked for our date tonight. It is housed in a creamy sandstone crescent, sandwiched between solicitors’ offices, a small, white sign the size of a postcard offering the only hint of its existence. It is called, simply, ‘chard’ (lower case ‘c’), which I know vaguely to be some kind of leafy vegetable, although I can’t say I’ve eaten it. However, it’s clear that Anthony wasn’t being completely honest when he described the restaurant as a ‘friendly little local place’. Unless this is the kind of establishment he frequents all the time; a possibility which causes my hands to become instantly tacky with sweat.

  I inhale deeply, wondering if the boys are okay at home, and reminding myself that of course they are – Logan is old enough to leave school, have-sex-God-forbid, get married and even buy a scratch card without parental consent. And I’ve left them with a stack of cash, takeaway pizza menus and permission to order whatever they like.

  Christ, I could murder a Four Seasons right now …

  I push open the heavy glass door and step in. There he is, smiling broadly at a table in the centre of the sparsely populated room. I fix on a smile and am greeted with a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Hope you like this place,’ Anthony says, sweeping out an arm in appreciation of the grandeur of the building. ‘It’s a favourite of mine.’

  Or maybe the thin crust with pine nuts and spinach, which never fails to disgust Logan: ‘Like, why would anyone want a pizza with salad all over it?’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I say, taking a seat.

  ‘I thought we’d have the tasting menu,’ he announces. ‘It’s the only way to fully appreciate what they do here.’

  Those slate eyes sparkle. I swallow hard and glance down at my menu.

  ‘That sounds great.’ Be positive, I remind myself as the waiter appears and Anthony orders. Ingrid was right, I absolutely should be here, because this is what grown-up single women do. And it’s time to move on, to be proactive and seize the moment, after six years of crap dates and sex which has been at best, a mild diversion and, at worst, made me seriously consider celibacy as a more satisfying option.

  ‘So you mentioned you’re a teacher,’ Anthony says, his confident tone snapping me back to the present.

  ‘I’m actually a school secretary,’ I remind him, having imparted this fascinating information at the party.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ His eyes fix on mine.

  ‘It fits in with the boys’ school hours,’ I continue, tugging down the hem of my shift dress, ‘which I really needed when they were younger and their dad and I had broken up.’

  He nods, and I notice that his teeth aren’t just white – they are verging on blue-white, and quite disconcerting. The lighting in Ingrid’s kitchen clearly hadn’t illuminated them to full effect.

  ‘And I’ve set up a business from home,’ I go on, sensing his gaze flickering across the restaurant, ‘making meringues for local cafes, delis and special events …’

  Anthony tastes the wine that’s being offered and nods approvingly. ‘That sounds like a fun little sideline.’ Why this riles me, I’m not sure. He’s right, it is a little sideline. While I love it, and it’s boosted our finances, I am hardly heading for global domination of the meringue market.

  ‘You mentioned at the party that you have your own business,’ I remark, ‘but I’m not quite sure what it is.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ he says grandly, ‘we’re all about offering a complete bespoke service and taking care of the whole clien
t. It’s about complete personal attention every step of the way.’

  I study him, assessing the angular jaw, the intense little eyes and neatly cropped dark hair. While he is certainly handsome, and more than likely employs a personal trainer, there’s something disconcertingly plasticky about him. He looks sort of moulded, as if there could be a secret join up the back of his head, like Barbie’s boyfriend Ken.

  ‘Erm, okay,’ I say, ‘but I still don’t know what you do.’

  ‘Oh,’ he wrinkles his pore-free nose, ‘we’re a clinic.’

  ‘Are you a doctor?’ I ask, taking a big swig of wine.

  ‘No, we deal in aesthetic procedures.’

  Ah – that explains the glowing teeth. ‘You mean Botox and all that?’

  He emits a patronising laugh. ‘Yes, but there’s a bit more to it than that. Our ethos is to assess every client individually so, with the very latest techniques, we can work in synergy with her own, unique beauty and the natural contours of her face …’

  To stop myself from choking, I take another gulp from my glass. Hell, I’ll be smashed at this rate. Better slow down and have some water, the way the magazines always tell you to. At long last our first course arrives; at least I think it counts as a course. It’s an ‘amuse-bouche’, consisting of a sticky beige blob served on a ceramic spoon with a dribble of green liquid around it, like bile.

  ‘This looks delicious,’ I fib, wondering what possessed Anthony to ask me out in the first place when he is clearly not remotely interested in anything about my life – and also why he played down the restaurant’s poshness when it’s turned out to have a bloody Michelin star. Is he showing off, trying to impress me by dropping in words like ‘bespoke’? And what’s with the six courses? I told the boys I wouldn’t be too long, but troughing our way through this lot will take weeks. I’m more annoyed with myself, really, for allowing Anthony to decide what I must eat. Tonight may call for an emergency measure, like feigning illness or a faint …

  ‘… These days,’ he says, a little fleck of spit flying out of his mouth, ‘it’s about women making the most of what they have. For instance, you wouldn’t think twice about buying a new dress on a whim, would you?’

  ‘Er, I’m not a huge shopper actually …’

  ‘Yet, for a similar level of investment,’ he goes on, ‘instead of buying a cheap piece of cloth’ – his gaze drops briefly to my blue shift – ‘a woman can regain her youthful bloom, which has a far greater impact on her confidence.’

  I swallow down the bile sauce from my spoon. I know. I could go to the loo, climb out of the window and run all the way home. Rude, yes, but then so is mocking my fashion choice … although, I have to admit, I wish I was wearing something else. The dress is a little tight around the hips when I’m sitting down, and keeps riding up, and my shoes are pinching like hell. I overdid it, I realise now. I’d forgotten that, rather than lending me an elegant air, teetering heels have the effect of making me feel like a big, hairy trucker with a secret penchant for cramming his vast size tens into his girlfriend’s stilettos. It’s all wrong – my outfit, the restaurant, the man (who has started on about ‘boosting a woman’s confidence’ again as if, without his poky needles, any female should be terrified of leaving the house).

  ‘The thing is,’ I cut in, ‘you said it’s all about working with natural contours …’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’ More food has arrived. As Anthony nibbles the end of an asparagus stalk, I picture Logan and Fergus chomping happily on a side order of garlic bread.

  ‘I mean,’ I continue, ‘I don’t have a problem with that, if that’s how people want to spend their money. But it’s not completely natural, is it? Natural is leaving everything as it is. Natural is bunging on a bit of mascara and lip gloss and hoping for the best.’

  ‘Yes, well … that’s an option I suppose,’ he says scathingly, as if I’d confided that I’m partial to smearing my face with lard.

  ‘So,’ I continue, ‘what would you recommend I should have done to my face?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to get into that, Alice …’

  I force a smile as plates are whisked away and replaced with others. Every course is tiny; I feel as if I have stumbled into the dining room of a doll’s house.

  ‘Go on,’ I say. ‘I’m just interested to know what could be done. I’d like your … expert appraisal.’ This might be entertaining, I decide, curiosity having superseded my initial nervousness. Actually, there is no reason to feel anxious sitting here. It’s a one-off, an ‘experience’, certainly, and at least I can report back to Ingrid that I didn’t chicken out.

  ‘Okaaaay,’ Anthony says plummily, ‘you really want me to tell you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say firmly.

  ‘Hmm. Well, I’d say around here’ – his fingers dart close to my eyes – ‘we’re talking a little Botox to soften the crow’s feet, plus dermal fillers here’ – I flinch as his spongy fingertips prod my cheeks – ‘and more fillers here, here and here, to plump up those marionette lines.’

  ‘What are marionette lines?’ I frown, wishing I hadn’t started this.

  ‘These crevices,’ he says, sweeping a thumb and middle finger from my nose to mouth corners. ‘In fact, the whole jawline,’ Anthony continues while I take another fortifying swig of wine, ‘can be lifted with the careful use of fillers, creating a youthful springiness. We call it the non-surgical facelift.’ Now the twerp has reached across the table and cupped my chin in his clammy hand, as if trying to guess the weight of my head. ‘And those forehead lines could be lightly Botoxed for a smoother appearance with no loss of movement.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I retort, leaning back to maximise the distance between my clearly ravaged visage and his gropey hands. ‘You can’t say that. We’ve all seen celebs with their weird, frozen foreheads, unable to form normal expressions.’

  He shakes his head. ‘That never happens when it’s expertly done.’

  ‘But it does,’ I argue. ‘We’re talking Hollywood A-list – the wealthiest, most photographed women in the world. Surely they go to the best people. I mean, they’re hardly resorting to some shoddy little clinic with a seventy per cent off Groupon deal.’

  Anthony makes a little snorting noise. ‘If it’s properly done, it’s merely enhancing. It’s the way forward, trust me.’

  ‘Okay,’ I laugh involuntarily, ‘so how much would all of this cost, just out of interest? All the procedures you’ve mentioned, I mean?’

  ‘Well, we look upon it as an investment …’ I know what this means: a fuck of a lot of money. Anthony pops a raw-looking pink thing, tied up with what looks like green raffia, into his mouth.

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ I say, ‘but how much are we talking exactly?’

  ‘Ahh … at our top-tier service, we’d probably be looking at around four thousand pounds.’

  ‘Four grand,’ I exclaim, a little too loudly, ‘for a new face?’

  ‘Not new,’ he declares. ‘We never say new. We say you’ll still be you – but better.’

  I swallow hard, trying to dislodge a seaweedy strand that’s lodged itself in my throat. To my horror, I am starting to feel rather wobbly and emotional. It hasn’t helped that the waiter has been diving over to refill my glass every time I’ve taken a sip. It’s not just the booze, though. It’s the realisation that I clearly have the face of a withered crone who needs extensive reconstructive work. Why has no one told me this before?

  ‘You might also benefit from microdermabrasion,’ Anthony adds, flicking a crumb from his pale-blue striped shirt.

  I blink at him. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s when we use a little spiky roller to stimulate your skin, accelerating the replenishment of collagen deep within the dermal layers.’

  Jesus Christ. ‘Excuse me, Anthony,’ I say, getting up, ‘I just need to nip to the loo.’ I march to the Ladies, conscious of my dress clinging to my hips in unflattering folds.

  In the swankiest facilities known to woman
kind, with Jo Malone hand creams lined up on a glass shelf, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. God, that slimy man. Obviously, he doesn’t want to get to know me at all. He just wants to give me a good going-over with his spiky roller. Still fixed on my reflection, I widen my eyes to try to stretch out the crow’s feet, and open my mouth as far as it’ll go, like one of those scary bottom-feeding fish, in an attempt to iron out those damn marionette lines. Then, placing a flattened hand on each of my cheeks, I push back my entire face – the free facelift effect – which does improve things somewhat, even if I look a little like a rabbit in a sidecar …

  ‘Oh!’ A smart, reedy woman in clicky heels has trotted into the loos.

  ‘Ha,’ I guffaw, whipping my hands away and rubbing ineffectually at my cheeks in the hope that she’ll think I’m applying moisturiser. She purses her lips at me before disappearing into a cubicle.

  Grow up, I tell my reflection silently. Just be nice and polite and get through this without getting too pissed and making a complete twit of yourself. Surely there can only be another couple more courses to go.

  I rejoin my date at our table. Anthony beams at me, and I’m transfixed by his dazzling dental work and unmoving forehead as he says, ‘I’d imagine it’s tough as a single mum, Alice. But for you, covering all the treatments we talked about tonight, I’d be happy to draw up a special payment plan.’

  Chapter Three

  On the damp pavement outside the restaurant, Anthony is looking decidedly crestfallen.

  ‘But it’s only just gone ten,’ he protests. ‘I didn’t imagine you’d have to rush off so soon. Thought we might pop back to mine for a nightcap …’

  ‘I don’t like leaving my boys too late,’ I say quickly. ‘I’d really better get back.’ It’s a cool, drizzly Edinburgh night, and the fishiness of the amuse-bouche has somehow clung to the inside of my mouth, having obliterated all the other taste sensations. I have also, for the first time tonight, happened to notice Anthony’s curious footwear. I’m not one of those women who’s obsessed with checking out men’s shoes because, they are, after all, only water-resistant coverings for feet. For instance, before she married Sean, Ingrid only ever dated men who favoured black or dark-brown brogues, which seemed crazily picky to me. ‘If you look down and see grey slip-ons,’ she once advised, ‘start running very fast.’