The Mum Who Got Her Life Back Read online

  She has a mane of crinkly light brown hair and is wearing a lime green linen shift over black leggings and flat red pumps, plus a chunky necklace of multicoloured beads. She drinks fast, finishing her cocktail first, as if afraid that the barman might run out of ingredients. ‘So, what kind of art d’you all make?’ I ask, looking around the table in the corner of the bar. ‘I mean, how does this group of yours work?’

  ‘Clue’s in the “wasted”,’ chuckles Rico. ‘We get together once a fortnight, have a few drinks, bring along stuff we’re working on, or start portraits, do collage, make things with our hands – whatever we feel like really …’

  ‘Where d’you have your meetings?’

  ‘Fran has a studio,’ he explains.

  ‘Top floor of my house,’ she says. Although I’d put the rest of the group at around mid-fifties, Fran is oldest: rangy and elegant in a simple blue dress, with a sharp, silvery crop from which her animated face seems to shine.

  ‘So, is there a lot of drinking?’ I ask, sipping my potent cocktail.

  Elsa, who seems a little quieter, nods and laughs. ‘Oh, yes. We play records and have a bit of a night.’ She indicates Fran. ‘She has quite a record collection …’

  ‘Sounds brilliant,’ I remark, wondering what the well-behaved life drawing groups I’ve modelled for would make of such a set-up.

  They quiz me further about my own work, my upbringing, my kids, and the fact that their father is Danny Raven – not that I’ve name-dropped. By the time we’d sat down for lunch they had already managed to wheedle that little factlet out of me. They even know about Kiki Badger and her torturous facials, and Gerri announces loudly, ‘Well, if it’d make me look as good as Nadia, I might give it a shot!’

  ‘No, don’t,’ I say quickly. ‘You feel like someone’s trying to remove your face, from the inside.’

  ‘No pain, no gain,’ she chuckles, and I smile that she’s come out with the very phrase I’d used to reassure myself when Kiki’s fingers had been inside of my mouth.

  ‘Another round?’ Elsa suggests.

  ‘I’d really better go and catch a train,’ I say quickly. ‘I should make make sure Alfie’s okay.’ I look at Rico. ‘Has he replied to my text yet?’

  He fishes his phone from his pocket and checks it. ‘Nothing yet, love.’

  ‘C’mon, stay a bit longer,’ Gerri urges me. ‘You’re one of us now, Nadia.’

  ‘But he might start to worry.’

  Fran laughs, deeply and throatily. ‘How old is he again?’

  ‘Nineteen,’ I reply.

  ‘Does he have any cash,’ Rico asks, ‘or at least access to some?’

  ‘Erm, I left him some euros, yes …’

  ‘And you honestly think,’ Elsa chuckles, ‘that a nineteen-year-old boy, who’s been left alone in Barcelona – with money – is going to be pacing about, wondering where the hell his mother is?’

  Everyone laughs and I have to agree she has a point. ‘The thing is,’ I add, ‘he’s a little fragile right now. He’s split with his girlfriend and looks like he’s dropping out of uni. He’s a bit of a lost soul …’

  Rico taps my shoulder. ‘Another margarita while you think about it? We should probably have some tapas too. They do amazing ones here. Shall we just have a selection?’ As everyone murmurs in approval, Rico catches the eye of the barman. He is clearly on friendly terms with the Wasted Artists already as, with a nod and a hand gesture, Rico manages to communicate that another round of his excellent cocktails and an array of dishes are required.

  ‘He reckons the secret is to put the ice in the glass first,’ Gerri says.

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ I say. ‘They’re absolutely delicious.’

  And so we have another round, and tuck into a vast selection of tapas, while everyone shows me pictures of their art on their phones. Fran creates enormous splashy abstract canvases, favouring shimmering colours that seem to dance. Rico, who often works in collaboration with his boyfriend, is primarily a sculptor with a passion for reclaimed debris found on demolition sites. Gerri paints on sheets of parachute silk, and Elsa incorporates mosaic into her stunning portraits.

  At just before ten, Fran announces, ‘I think you should forget about going back to Barcelona tonight and stay with us instead.’

  ‘But I don’t have a room booked,’ I protest.

  ‘Yes, but my room’s a twin – one of our group had to drop out at the last minute. So you can stay there.’

  I pause for a moment and look around at my new friends. Rico is making the barman laugh, and Gerri is chipping in to persuade me to stay. It’s so tempting. Fran and Elsa are looking at me expectantly, so I smile and say, ‘Okay, if you’re sure – why not? I’ll just let Alfie know …’ Rico hands me his phone.

  Decided to stay over in Figueres, I write. Hope that’s okay. Text me back please? And call if you need anything. This is Rico’s phone.

  Minutes later, a reply comes: All fine here Mum just out.

  ‘He’s out!’ I exclaim, frowning.

  Fran hoots with laughter. ‘Of course he’s out. What else would you expect?’

  ‘Yes, but where? And who’s he with?’

  Rico grins. ‘He’ll have just found people …’

  I let this idea settle: that my son might not have spent my absence lying in the apartment in semi-darkness, getting up only to break things occasionally, but has thrown himself out there, into the delights of a Barcelona night.

  ‘Anyway, you’re with us tonight,’ Fran says companionably, patting my arm, ‘so you don’t need to worry about Alfie right now. Just relax and think how great it is for him to have some space, away from his mum, out on the lash with people his own age.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Jack

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to tell Mum you’re here?’ Alfie asks.

  ‘Just leave it for now,’ I reply.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just … don’t want to unsettle her,’ I say.

  Alfie frowns at me, clearly confused. ‘Why would it do that?’

  ‘She might feel the need to come straight back,’ I say, realising how unlikely this is, now she’s with Rico. Bloody Rico. As we finally found somewhere where Alfie thought he might like to eat – after he’d rejected something like twenty-five places – she texted Alfie again, with the announcement that she is staying in Figueres overnight. ‘Or maybe,’ I add, trying for a joke, ‘she’d be horrified and never come back, and stay in the Dalí Museum forever.’

  Alfie manages a nod, and I look at him as he picks at a kind of flatbread adorned with scorched black bits and a meagre scraping of tomato sauce. It seems almost criminal, when we’re in a city famed for its food, that he finally selected what is possibly the worst restaurant – not just in Barcelona, but in the whole of mainland Europe.

  ‘Can you imagine,’ I struggle on, ‘what that would do to a person’s brain? Being trapped in the Dalí Museum for your whole life?’

  ‘Huh, yeah,’ Alfie murmurs, clearly wondering why I am talking like this, as if he is seven years old.

  ‘So, how’s your food?’ I ask.

  ‘Okay,’ he replies. ‘How about yours?’

  ‘Fine,’ I reply gamely, although I suspect some mean-spirited individual from somewhere like Slough decided: sod those Catalans with their mouthwatering tapas, seafood, cheeses and hams. What I’m going to do is cash in on this vegan explosion, and dish up substandard flatbreads and a few gloopy alternatives, because they’ll eat anything as long as we put a big, leaf-covered sign outside and call it ‘Veg-Life’. It sounds like some kind of ‘tonic’ you’d find languishing at the back of a health food shop.

  We are sitting outside, in a nondescript courtyard with a few half-arsed fairy lights strung around the potted, leafless trees. The grubby white plastic tables and chairs are of the kind you might spot on a bungalow’s weed-infested patio. There is actual moss growing on them.

  Like Alfie, I am working my way through so
me sort of flatbread. I’m okay with the charred base, and even the grated ‘cheese’ (reconstituted nut matter? Who knows?) that’s been scattered upon it. But there is also a carrot element; par-boiled, slightly softened on the outside and hard within. Basically, it’s a carrot pizza.

  Even more unsettling is the fact that Nadia is having a holiday fling with her hot Spanish lover in the birthplace of Salvador Dalí. (Well, not in the actual museum – at least I’d hope not. But close enough for it to be completely thrilling for her.) And now, as I hack away at my dinner, I’m picturing this Rico: tall, devilishly good-looking, a local who spied the beautiful tourist wandering around the Dalí Museum and swooped in, expertly offering to show her round.

  They toured the museum together, I’ve decided. Then it was dinner – of course, he knows the best places, hidden and exquisite where only the locals go – and then they had drinks in some delightful courtyard bar, under the stars. By now she might even be back at his apartment, overlooking some achingly beautiful square. And they’ll be in his bedroom, with the cool white sheets, shutters open, warm breeze wafting in …

  Maybe the fact that his mother has gone off and met someone new, just like that, is unsettling for Alfie too. He doesn’t look unsettled, though, as he shovels his food in wordlessly, as if to get this evening over as quickly as possible. The staff, I’ve noticed, all seem mildly depressed; a girl with a pierced eyebrow is roaming the tables, giving them a perfunctory wipe with a greying cloth (perhaps she could tackle the moss on our chairs?). An elderly couple are sitting opposite each other, looking rather stunned by the platefuls of various mush that have been placed in front of them.

  ‘What’s yours then?’ the woman asks in a strong Yorkshire accent.

  ‘I think it’s … a grain?’ her companion ventures.

  ‘A brain?’ she exclaims.

  ‘No, grains,’ he replies hotly. ‘Like barley or something …’ He glares at her, and it strikes me that few scenes are more dismal than a couple who are clearly having a terrible time together, on holiday.

  ‘Jack?’

  My God, did Alfie just address me by name? ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  He fixes me with a steady gaze. ‘I said, I s’pose running a charity shop is quite a cool thing to do really.’

  So he appears to be initiating a conversation with me. This is a good sign, surely? ‘It’s fine, you know? It has its challenges but—’

  ‘You’re not working for a big, horrible organisation that wants to screw its employees, are you?’ he suggests, sipping his beer.

  ‘Well, no, there is that.’ I sip mine too. We are on our second, which I hope is okay, but then, he is nineteen. I’m hardly going to suggest that he switches to lemonade. ‘But we do have sales targets,’ I add, ‘and our area manager keeps a close track on our takings. It’s all compared, year-on-year, we have aims and objectives, it’s actually very closely monitored …’

  His eyes begin to glaze and I realise I’m in danger of anaesthetising him with tedious facts. What’s wrong with me? Whenever we’re forced together in a situation where we at least have to try to communicate, I end up spouting inanities. Aberdeen’s the most northern city in Britain, isn’t it? Now, shall we talk about its annual rainfall? It’s odd because it’s not as if I am unused to being around teenagers. Lori’s always spent half the week with me. When she first started getting spots, we went to the chemist together and got someone to talk us through how to deal with the oiliness and outbreaks. I’d bought Lori what she needed when her periods started when she was staying at mine. It wasn’t a big deal. We’ve talked about puberty, bodies, sex – all that. Yet put me in close proximity with Alfie and I start saying things like ‘sales targets’, ‘aims and objectives’ and, of course, ‘cathedrals’. I must stop this, or the poor boy will end up trying to impale himself on his knife.

  ‘I do enjoy it, though,’ I continue. ‘It’s fascinating, the kind of things we have handed in.’

  This perks up his interest. ‘D’you get much weird stuff?’

  ‘God, yes,’ I say with a knowing chuckle.

  His eyes are on me now. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like, uh …’ And now, despite the fact that there must be something that falls under the Weird Stuff category every day, I cannot think of a single thing. Oh yes, there was something – but I don’t feel entirely comfortable with the idea of Alfie announcing to Nadia: ‘Jack was saying he was handed in a glass dildo at the shop. Why would he even tell me that, Mum?’

  ‘What kinda things, then?’ Alfie prompts me.

  ‘Um, er … like a knitted Womble …’

  ‘A what?’ He peers at me through his hair.

  ‘A Womble. It’s a character from a kids’ programme from years ago. You wouldn’t know it.’ So why the hell are you telling me then? his flat expression says. ‘They used to go around collecting litter,’ I barge on, ‘and make useful things out of it.’ I pause, wondering how to make this even remotely relevant to today’s world. ‘They were pioneer recyclers,’ I add, catching our waitress’s attention and requesting a couple more beers. ‘That okay with you?’ I ask Alfie.

  ‘Oh, yeah! Thanks.’ And then: a smile. An actual raising of the mouth corners suggesting that drink is the only way to proceed here. Another beer or two, then we can part company and he can go back to his apartment, and await Nadia’s return tomorrow – that is, if she comes back then, and hasn’t decided to spend the rest of the trip shagging Rico in Figueres. As for me, I’ll head back to my hotel and then wake up and explore more of this fascinating city all by myself. Or I might just find a bar to hide in (perhaps I’ll make notes on my sales targets?) until it’s time to go home.

  But right now, the waitress is tossing a laminated dessert menu onto our table as if it’s a court summons. I am smiling politely and saying ‘No, thanks’, then paying our bill, dusting off a mossy smear from the leg of my shorts and suggesting to Alfie: ‘D’you fancy another beer somewhere before we call it a night?’

  He shrugs and checks his phone. ‘Yeah, why not?’ Twenty minutes later, he is perched on a high stool in a rowdy bar with tears spilling from his eyes.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  He’s trying to hide it, of course, wiping his face with his hand, and turning away from me as if something terribly interesting is happening across the room.

  ‘Alfie?’ I venture, frowning.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘What’s wrong? Are you okay?’

  He nods, lips pressed tightly together. Surely it can’t be the booze; he’s only had three small beers with dinner, plus half of the one I bought him in here. Nineties music – The Strokes, I think – is blasting out; the average age is probably about twenty-two. I’d spotted this place, and thought he might like it. Now I wish we’d gone into the bar two doors down, a more sedate place with a guy playing tinkly piano.

  ‘Has something happened?’ I ask, conscious of a wave of responsibility for this distraught young man.

  He nods. ‘Ummm … yeah. Kind of.’

  ‘Something … today? What is it, Alfie?’

  He exhales loudly and I try to figure out how to be of any use to him at all when we barely know each other. ‘Is it … something you can tell me about?’

  He shakes his head mutely. A couple of guys jostle past us, knocking against Alfie’s shoulder. A splash of beer from a glass hits the front of his T-shirt, and he winces. ‘Not really,’ he murmurs, rubbing at his face again.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘but if you do want to tell me …’ I pause. ‘It’s so noisy in here. D’you fancy a walk?’

  ‘A walk?’ he gasps, as if I had suggested a bungee jump, whilst fire-eating.

  ‘Just a stroll,’ I say quickly. ‘We could find somewhere quieter to sit, or if you just want to head back to your apartment, that’s fine, of course.’ He looks at me, and I sense him sizing me up.

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ he mutters. ‘I would like a walk. But not miles, okay?’

  ‘No, not mil
es, just a wander about …’ I stop. ‘Or we could find somewhere, like a bench or something. It’s still lovely and warm out there. We could just sit.’

  And that’s what we do, turning off the main thoroughfare and following the narrow side streets until we find a stone arch, which leads to a small square, bordered on all sides by high buildings in softly worn creamy stone. There are a couple of antique shops, now in darkness, and a single café with just one young couple sitting outside. There are benches beneath spindly trees in the square, and we sit down.

  I glance at Alfie, who seems to have recovered himself now. He’s a handsome boy, with angular features: a strong nose, full lips like his mother’s and heavily lidded eyes. For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. It doesn’t feel awkward now. Every now and again, a lone person or a couple strolls through the square, and then it’s deserted again. Even the people from the café have left.

  ‘Um … Jack?’ Alfie says finally.

  ‘Yeah?’ I glance at him, but look away again. I have a hunch that he might be more inclined to talk if he feels I’m not watching him intently.

  ‘I, um …’ He clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry about that … thing. With your mum and dad, I mean. I shouldn’t have said it.’

  ‘Oh.’ I ponder this for a moment, taken aback that he’s brought it up at all. ‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘You went into one a bit, but it’s okay—’

  ‘’Cause I really feel strongly …’

  ‘Yes, I can tell you do,’ I cut in. ‘That’s fine. Of course it is. You’re an adult, you can follow your own principles and lead your life how you want to. I respect that.’

  I sense him studying me in surprise. ‘You do?’

  ‘Of course I do! Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Well, I upset your mum, I probably said too much …’

  ‘Look, Alfie,’ I say, more firmly now, ‘you’re entitled to make your own choices about what to eat and how to live. But I do think, when you’re trying to persuade people into a different way of thinking, there’s no point in lecturing or haranguing them—’