The Mum Who Got Her Life Back Page 2

  ‘So your present to yourself is to get online,’ remarks Gus, as he makes coffee for the three of us.

  ‘I’m not joining a dating site,’ I say firmly.

  ‘Why not just give it a go?’ He glances over from the huge canvas he’s working on.

  ‘I’ve told you, Gus. It’s just not my thing.’

  I turn back to the preliminary sketches that are littered all over my desk. I’m illustrating a series of study guides covering English, maths and history, and possibly more subjects, if the client is happy with the results. As I start to sketch, I’m aware of Gus and Corinne exchanging a look; both of them reckon I have been single for far too long.

  It’s a year and a half since I last slept with someone, and that person happened to be Ryan Tibbles, who was also at art college with us, although I hadn’t known him very well when we were students. I’d just experienced a little frisson whenever I glimpsed him mooching around, with his mop of black, shaggy hair and languid expression, a smouldering roll-up permanently clamped between his sexy lips.

  After we’d graduated, everyone had scattered all over the country in pursuit of work or to further their studies. I returned to Glasgow, to do admin for a small design company, hoping it would lead to greater things. Ryan, who’d been the star of his year, whizzed off to do a post-grad at St Martins in London. I heard nothing from him for all those years until he turned up out of the blue at a party at Corinne’s.

  She hadn’t even invited him; he’d been in Glasgow on some work-related mission, and someone had brought him along. We sat together all night, reminiscing about college and, eventually, indulging in a little furtive hand-holding and kissing. ‘Be good, you two!’ Corinne had chuckled as we left together.

  I took him back to my place where we crept in gingerly at 6.30 a.m. There was no real need to creep – Molly and Alfie were away on a school trip to France – but still, I’d half expected them to jump out from behind the sofa yelling, ‘Ah-a! So here’s our filthy mother, drunk and with a man!’ Even when Ryan and I went to bed, I was still on edge in case they charged in, flung down their rucksacks and clicked on the dazzling overhead light.

  In the four days that followed, it felt as if we were teenagers, getting it on as much as humanly possible before my parents returned. When the kids phoned home, it was an almighty effort to put on a normal voice as I asked about their trips to Parc Astérix and the Camembert factory, which Alfie especially loved (ironic, given that he is now a vegan and regards cheese as the devil’s work: ‘No, I don’t miss it, Mum. Why’s everyone so obsessed with cheese?’ Because it’s heavenly! I always want to retort).

  During that whole time, Ryan and I barely left my flat. We had pizzas delivered – cheese-laden pizzas – and drank wine during the day. We had long, languid baths together, with Ryan graciously occupying the tap end. It was terribly decadent but then, it had marked the end of yet another lengthy sex drought for me. It was as if I’d been on a juice fast – not just a weekend ‘cleanse’, but for two bloody years – and had then been presented with a mountain of profiteroles. I started to think we might have a ‘thing’, albeit of the sporadic, long-distance variety, as Ryan was still based in London. Like an idiot, I pictured him nipping up for weekends, and me standing there – blow-dried, make-up immaculate – at Glasgow Central station, waiting for him.

  Then my kids came back, by which point Ryan had already loped off back to London, where he runs a successful leather accessories company, promising to stay in touch. But his replies to my texts were curt – he was ‘manic with work’, or ‘out of the country’ – then they stopped altogether. Some frantic googling revealed that, for many years, Ryan had been having an on-off thing with a model-stroke-personal-trainer with an ash-blonde pixie cut.

  I felt pretty foolish, I suppose, as he’d claimed he hadn’t been seeing anyone for ages. I’d trusted him; perhaps that’s another reason why I refuse to join a dating site, despite Gus and Corinne badgering me to do so.

  ‘There must be someone you’d consider having a drink with,’ Corinne remarks now, when the three of us break off for coffee on our squashy corner sofa.

  ‘Yeah, there are about 800,000 people in this city, Nads,’ Gus adds with a smirk.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but once you take away everyone who’s too young, too old, married or crazy, that probably leaves about three, and what would be the chances of us fancying each other?’

  ‘There’s every chance,’ Gus insists. ‘You’re a very gorgeous woman, Nads.’

  I laugh and look at Corinne. ‘And he’s not even drunk!’

  He snorts in mock exasperation. All three of us are single but, unlike Corinne and me, he has no shortage of dates. A good-looking artist with bags of charm, apparently he has no desire to meet ‘the one’. While his lifestyle would be a little hectic for me, I envy him sometimes.

  ‘Don’t you ever look at a man and think, oooh?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s very, very rare,’ I say truthfully. In fact, I reflect as I get back to work, I’ve wondered if that part of my biological make-up has died, like a flat car battery. But that very lunchtime, when I pop out to buy a few last-minute presents, it becomes clear that that hasn’t happened after all.

  The city centre feels jolly and festive, and I look around, feeling grateful to be part of this big, vibrant city where I grew up, and which I still love very much. In a few days’ time I’ll be installed at my sister Sarah’s on the Ayrshire coast, with Molly and Alfie and Sarah’s family for Christmas, and it’ll be lovely. We’ll all eat too much (Sarah is a wonderful cook, the self-appointed Queen of Christmas), play board games and kick back and relax. But for now I’m enjoying the festive build-up, the seasonal music blasting out from the shops, and the sense that quite a few shoppers have enjoyed a few drinks already.

  Feeling the chill now, and regretting not putting on a jacket, I step gratefully into the warmth of a bustling shop. I’m perusing the shelves, looking for stocking fillers for Molly, when a dark-haired man – wearing jeans, a black jacket and a grey sweater – walks in. I know it’s weird to stare so blatantly, but I can’t help myself. Despite the marauding hordes, and ‘Winter Wonderland’ blaring out of the speakers, I cannot tear my gaze away.

  Apparently, my ability to find another person wildly desirable hasn’t died after all. It has just jump-started.

  He is tall and lean with a strong, proud nose and the kind of generous mouth that suggests he smiles a lot. From my vantage point some way across the shop, I can’t tell what colour his eyes are. But actually, it’s not just his appearance that’s stopped me in my tracks.

  Normally, the word ‘aura’ makes me shudder, but this man has one. It’s one of quiet courage and calmness – the way he strolled into the melee without flinching. Clearly on a mission, a bold pioneer fearlessly navigating the store, apparently untroubled by people clamouring for highly scented goods. He wanders from one display to the next, then stops and looks around, as if assessing the terrain before deciding how best to proceed …

  A man, in a branch of Lush, five days before Christmas: he deserves some kind of national bravery award for that.

  I try to focus on what I came in for, but all thoughts of body lotions and bath oils have evaporated now. I edge past a boy with mauve dreadlocks who’s demonstrating some kind of product in a bowl of bubbly water. Girls cluster around him, squealing excitedly as if he might be about to pluck a live unicorn from the foam.

  I’m closer to the man now, pulled towards him by a powerful magnetic force. Although he seems to be alone, I still scan his immediate vicinity for evidence of an accompanying female – daughter, wife, friend. There appears to be no one. This man looks like someone I absolutely have to speak to; all I need to do is figure out how.

  Don’t be a lunatic, I tell myself. He’s probably married or gay or … my God, he made eye contact and smiled at me! It was a proper smile – warm and wide and perhaps held for a couple of moments more than you might expect from a stran
ger. Heat surges up my neck as I smile back, briefly, before turning away. Now I’m gazing around the shop as if I have never been to Lush before, and am considering writing a thesis on it. (I’d start it: How trustworthy are those labels on the products, depicting the person who made them? Can we be sure that Daria really created that massage bar, or could the labels be randomly generated?)

  Pushing away such disturbing thoughts, I edge my way towards the man, pretending to examine the hand-cut soaps along the way. There’s just a display table between us now, bearing an outlandish rockery of pink and yellow spheres. He’s peering at bowls of gloop that are displayed on crushed ice, like fish. Feeling terribly stalkerish, I sidle around the table and position myself next to him. Now I’m close enough to register the colour of his eyes; they are a clear, piercing blue.

  I am literally bursting to say something to him – but what? I no longer feel like a fifty-one-year-old menopausal mother of two. In fact, I seem to have reverted to my adolescent self, who gleaned her talking-to-boys tips from Just Seventeen. I try a conversation opener in my mind: D’you think the smell in here is just from the products, or do they pump something out of secret vents?

  As he picks up a macaroon-shaped bubble bar, inspiration hits me. ‘You’re not planning to eat that, are you?’ I blurt out.

  He looks momentarily shocked, then smiles. ‘Ha, no, don’t worry. They do look pretty edible though, don’t they?’

  ‘They really do,’ I reply, sensing my face simmering. Thanks, plummeting oestrogen levels. Fine time for a hot flush. I press a hand onto the crushed ice in an attempt to cool myself.

  ‘So hard to choose, isn’t it?’ I add, trying to establish common ground: i.e. we both find Lush confusing. Therefore, we must leave and go for a coffee together immediately.

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know where to start,’ he says.

  ‘Can I help at all?’ I ask eagerly.

  ‘Er, yes, maybe you can.’ Another disarming smile. ‘That would be brilliant, actually …’

  ‘So, um, is it Christmas presents you’re after?’

  Of course it is, idiot. Why else would he be in here on December 20th? ‘Yeah.’ He rakes back his shortish hair. Noting the absence of wedding ring, I plough on: ‘Who for?’

  ‘My daughter.’ Yes! Not my incredibly sexy wife. ‘She’s kind of addicted to this place,’ he adds.

  ‘Ha, yes, mine too. So, has she given you any hints of what she’d like?’

  ‘Not really. Just bath stuff, I think. And maybe, uh, some creams and things for her face?’

  ‘You mean skincare?’ I offer, expertly.

  ‘Yes, skincare – stuff like that.’ He pauses. ‘She’s fourteen. Could you tell me what girls of that age tend to go for?’

  I’m about to feign insider knowledge and say yes, of course – when I realise: he thinks I work here. Lush staff don’t have uniforms, a quick glance confirms, and in my black sweatshirt and jeans I could probably pass as a sales assistant (apart from being roughly thirty years older than these exuberant boys and girls, and having no interesting piercings or tattoos).

  I press my hand further into the ice, reluctant to correct his mistake, as he’d probably hurry off to find someone to help him. ‘You could start with some bath bombs or bubble bars,’ I suggest.

  ‘Right.’ He looks at them thoughtfully. ‘So … what do they do, exactly?’

  ‘Er, well, they’re pretty spectacular,’ I start, trying to exude the enthusiasm of a genuine salesperson. ‘You drop them in, and there’s this explosion … ’

  ‘Explosion?’ He flashes a wide grin, and something seems to effervesce right here, thrillingly, in my stomach.

  ‘Like a sort of sherbet grenade,’ I charge on, ‘and it fizzles and turns the water pink or blue or whatever …’ He nods, apparently taking this in. ‘It doesn’t stain the skin, though,’ I add reassuringly.

  ‘Well, that’s good.’

  ‘But some are glittery. Perhaps avoid those, unless you want to look like a disco ball after your bath.’ His eyes glint with amusement. ‘I know they’re for your daughter, but the glitter clings to the tub, believe me. My daughter loves them. I always tried to choose her the non-glitter kind, but then there’d be secret glitter, lurking inside …’ I catch myself and laugh self-consciously. ‘That’s one thing you don’t miss when your kids leave home. The sparkly bath! Hours I’ve spent, picking it off myself …’ Stop ranting, idiot …

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he says, picking up a small brown nugget shaped like a Christmas pudding.

  ‘That’s a bubble bar,’ I explain, authoritatively, as Molly has had dozens of these too. ‘They’re more, er …’

  ‘Bubbly?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘And glitter-free?’

  ‘Yep,’ I reply, hoping that’s correct. Whilst I’m managing to wing it so far, I’m dreading questions of a more complex nature. But of course, he’s a man – a terribly attractive man with his lovely, warm, slightly wonky smile – and he’s hardly going to quiz me about the nourishing properties of cocoa butter.

  Realising my hand has gone numb, I extract it from the ice and surreptitiously wipe it on my jeans. Under my protective gaze, he starts to select various items from the display. ‘I’ll get you a basket,’ I announce, flitting off to fetch one and zooming back before he can get away.

  ‘Thanks.’ He piles everything in. ‘Oh, what do these do?’ He indicates some candy-pink boulders piled up on a slate.

  I speed-read the explanatory label. ‘They’re jelly bombs. They’re, um, supposed to surprise and bewilder in the bathtub …’

  He laughs. ‘Is that what people want?’

  I smile. ‘Personally, I’d rather just relax in the bath.’ Preferably with you in it with me … As this scenario flits into my mind, I sense my cheeks blazing again, as if he might have read my lewd thoughts. ‘So, you mentioned skincare?’ I prompt him.

  ‘Yes, if you possibly could help me with that …’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, escorting him now to the cleansers and moisturisers where I manage to suggest several potions his daughter might like, simply by dredging my memory for Molly’s preferred products. As I blabber on about aloe vera and mallow extract, dropping in words like ‘brightening’ and ‘invigorating’, I realise I’m starting to enjoy myself. ‘Fresh dove orchid helps to plump up the cells,’ I explain, thinking, hang on: his daughter is only fourteen, so, presumably she doesn’t want her cells plumping …

  ‘Sounds ideal,’ he says, dropping a tub into his basket.

  ‘Could we talk about blackheads?’ I venture.

  ‘Sure!’

  And so it goes on, this stranger amazing me with his willingness to purchase a toner, a purifying face mask and something called a ‘spritz’. I’d never realised it was so easy to flog beauty products. Perhaps I should apply for part-time work here, instead of supplementing my earnings by posing naked for the art class. At any rate, he seems impressed by my knowledge and passion for the brand, and obediently selects everything I recommend. Glancing down at his laden basket, I try to ignore a twinge of guilt as I wonder how much it’s going to cost him. Still, if I am outed as fake employee, at least I’ve boosted the day’s sales.

  ‘You’ve been so helpful,’ he says, eyes meeting mine. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No problem. Anything else I can help with?’

  ‘No, I think I’m all done.’

  ‘I’m sure your daughter will be pleased …’

  ‘Yeah, I hope so. Well, thanks again.’ He turns and navigates his way through the crowds towards the till. If I wasn’t afraid of my cover being blown, I’d accompany him, just to make sure he doesn’t get lost en route. Instead, I just dither about, feeling oddly light-headed, and make my way towards the door.

  Outside, I inhale the crisp December air and stride along the busy shopping street. The sky is unblemished blue, the sun shining brightly. Veering off into a side road, I stop at a nondescript sandwich s
hop that I never go into normally. I emerge with my lunch, wondering now what possessed me to grab a cheese and onion sandwich, made with industrial white bread, like the ‘Toastie’ loaf Danny used to buy occasionally in an act of rebellion against my preferred granary. I’m clearly not thinking straight.

  I walk briskly back to the studio and canter up the concrete stairs to the bright and airy top floor. ‘How’d you get on?’ Corinne asks, picking at a Danish pastry at her desk.

  ‘The shops are rammed,’ I reply.

  ‘That’s a surprise!’ Gus chuckles, tweaking his neatly trimmed beard.

  ‘I’ll have to go out again tomorrow,’ I add, perching on the chair at my own desk.

  ‘Why didn’t you do it all online?’ Gus asks. ‘It’s the modern way, you know—’

  ‘Yes,’ I cut in, a swirl of excitement starting up again in my stomach, ‘but there are benefits to going to the real shops.’

  ‘Such as?’

  I’m smiling ridiculously, and now there’s no way I can resist filling them in on my impersonation of a Lush employee.

  ‘You should try that,’ Gus tells Corinne as they convulse with laughter. ‘Running to the aid of a confused and helpless male in a soap emporium—’

  ‘But did you get his number?’ she asks, looking at me.

  ‘No, of course not!’

  Gus turns back to Corinne and smirks. ‘Yet she was absolutely fine, flogging him bubble bath under false pretences.’