Take Mum Out Page 6

  ‘Well, Stephen was great,’ she declares, ‘getting stuck in with the games, being the wolf in What’s the Time, Mr Wolf? and helping the kids to build a fire at the bottom of the garden. He had them all toasting marshmallows …’

  ‘Wow,’ I breathe, unable to decide whether this is a hugely attractive quality, or smacks of over-zealous and eager to please. Perhaps I’m just not used to party-fabulous dads.

  ‘His daughter Molly’s around eight,’ Kirsty goes on. ‘She’s in Hamish’s class. He’s a single dad, has been for years as far as I can make out …’

  ‘And you’re sure he wants to meet someone?’

  ‘Oh yes. We got chatting and I told him all about you. What else? Um, he’s tall, slim, fairish hair, greenish eyes … he’s just nice, you know? Good-looking but not intimidatingly so.’ She pauses. ‘I did warn him that you’re a pusher of meringues and he seemed fine with that.’

  I laugh, my spirits rising as I fish the burgers from my pockets and fling them one by one, like miniature frisbees, over the drystone wall.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘but can we leave it until the boys are away on their jaunt with Tom? I feel bad, expecting Logan to look after Fergus all the time.’

  ‘Yes, like, about once a month,’ she says, not unkindly.

  I bite my lip. ‘It’ll just be simpler that way.’ This isn’t entirely true; after amuse-bouche night, I need time to rev myself back up into a dating frame of mind.

  By the time I’m back inside, Mum has produced a collection of illustrations showing Scotland in the Middle Ages. The scene – of the boys dutifully studying the creased, fly-speckled pictures that she’s spread out on the table to show them – twists my heart.

  ‘That’s amazing, Gran,’ Logan says gamely.

  ‘Yeah, they’re really cool,’ Fergus adds, stifling a yawn.

  She turns to him and smiles. ‘Before you go, let me have a look at that translator of yours.’ He hands it to her and, while she takes the thing to pieces and prods at its innards, I select a leather-bound book from a shelf and flip it open at a random page:

  With hym ther was his sone, a yong squier

  A lovyere and a lusty bacheler …

  A lusty bachelor! Could a child-friendly dentist fit into this category? We all wait patiently as Mum fiddles about with the gadget’s innards, then finally puts it back together. ‘There,’ she says, handing it to Fergus.

  ‘Is it fixed?’ he gasps.

  ‘Yes, just needed resetting. Go on, ask it a question.’

  He turns to me, perhaps fearful of what it might say.

  ‘Er … “Where is the station?”’ I ask nervously. He taps some buttons. Où est la gare? it chirps.

  ‘Wow, Grandma.’ Fergus grins. ‘That’s amazing. You’re so clever.’

  ‘It really wasn’t difficult,’ she blusters, as if unaccustomed to praise. We say our goodbyes then, all heading outside where I give her a hug; it’s like trying to cuddle an icicle. She is a little more receptive to Logan and Fergus’s hugs, and doesn’t appear to notice their eagerness to jump into the car.

  Before I climb in, perhaps in an attempt to spark a glimmer of warmth between us, I add, ‘Oh, I meant to tell you, Mum – that was Kirsty who called earlier. She’s setting me up on a blind date.’

  ‘Really?’ Mum fixes me with small pale grey eyes. ‘Who with?’

  ‘Some dentist guy.’

  ‘A dentist,’ she repeats, clearly impressed. ‘Ooh, you’ll be glad I gave you that diet then.’ So what’s she implying now? That I have fat teeth?

  Chapter Six

  ‘That was so embarrassing,’ Logan declares as we pull away. ‘Never put me in a situation like that again, Mum. Can’t believe you did that to me.’

  Like I flaunted the use-by date on those burgers!

  ‘Listen,’ I say, ‘I stopped you being poisoned, all right? I might’ve even saved your life. And I ruined my best cardi.’

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ Fergus crows from the back seat, ‘putting cooked food in your pockets. You’d go mad if we did that.’

  Jesus Christ. We reach the main road and I speed up, the cigarette and gin scenario becoming more appealing by the minute.

  ‘There wasn’t an awful lot of choice, Fergus. Anyway, I think you had the right idea. Next time we go, I’ll tell her we’ve gone vegetarian …’

  ‘You mean we’re going again?’ Logan whines.

  ‘Well, at some point, yes. I mean, that wasn’t the last time you’ll ever see Grandma.’

  ‘No, I know that,’ he says gruffly.

  ‘And she loves our visits,’ I add. ‘Being around such vibrant young people brings sunshine and sparkle into her life.’

  Fergus cackles with laughter, and the fuggy weight of the day starts to lift as we head along the main Edinburgh-bound road.

  ‘What would she give us,’ Fergus muses, ‘if we pretended to be veggie?’

  ‘God knows. A tin of potatoes, maybe.’

  ‘You can’t get tinned potatoes,’ he retorts.

  ‘Oh yes you can. You’ve been spoilt, that’s your problem …’

  He barks with laughter. ‘Well, they sound better than stinky old meat …’

  ‘Maybe,’ Logan muses, ‘she’d be better in an old people’s home.’

  I cast him a sharp look. ‘Grandma doesn’t need to go into a home. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with her. She’s as strong as an ox, you know – managed to erect that fence at the front all by herself …’

  At the term ‘erect’, both boys dissolve into cackles. ‘They’re actually not that bad,’ Logan adds.

  ‘What aren’t?’

  ‘Old folks’ homes. Blake’s granddad’s in one.’

  ‘Yes, I know, love …’

  ‘They’re allowed to sit around and watch telly all day and at Christmas they get a Santa.’

  I splutter with laughter. ‘Oh, Grandma would love that. She’s only sixty-six and a world authority on Beowulf. She doesn’t need a patronising old bloke asking what she wants for Christmas.’

  ‘What’s Beowulf about?’ Fergus asks from the back.

  ‘Er … I think there’s a monster in it.’

  ‘Yeah, but what happens?’

  ‘A bit like Little Red Riding Hood, is it, Mum?’ Logan enquires.

  I throw him a quick sideways look. Smartarse. Bet he doesn’t know about Beowulf either. The two of them just enjoy exposing me as a fluff-brain, capable only of whisking up eggs and manning a school office – which is actually bloody complicated, what with the endless paperwork and the diplomatic handling of tricky parents.

  ‘Talking of which,’ I say with a smile, ‘how’s the revision going, Logan? It’s, what, three weeks till your first exam?’

  ‘It’s going fine,’ he says between his teeth.

  ‘Are you sure? Can I help at all?’

  He snorts.

  ‘Seriously, love. I wish you’d let me. I could be a useful resource.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mum.’

  ‘I’m starving,’ Fergus reminds me. ‘I only had a bare roll …’

  ‘… With a greasy stain on it,’ Logan adds. ‘That was a nice touch.’

  ‘I know,’ I reply, ‘and I plan to fix that as soon as I can.’ Shutting my ears to further grumbling, I turn off the main road and follow the narrow country lane towards the nearest village. ‘Isn’t it lovely around here?’ I muse.

  ‘’S’all right,’ Logan says.

  ‘I mean, the countryside. It’s so pretty and peaceful …’

  ‘Don’t see the point of it really,’ Logan says. ‘Anyway, where are we going?’

  I pull up in front of a small parade of shops where there also happens to be a chip shop. ‘Here.’

  The mood lifts considerably as, installed in a booth, we tuck into steaming platefuls of fish and chips. As we chat and giggle, eking out the pleasure of our unscheduled stop, it strikes me how lovely these unplanned events can be. You can feel as if you’re losing your chil
dren as they grow up, shunning your attempts to help with revision and regarding you as if you’re a particularly troublesome boil. Then there are occasions like this when, completely unexpectedly, you’re drawn back into being a family again. It no longer seems to matter that my own mother thinks I’m a fat dimwit or that my sole date this year recommended four grand’s worth of facial enhancements. Right now, it’s just me and my boys all happy and stuffed with delicious fish and chips.

  The day improves even further as we set off back to Edinburgh and pass a farm where some pigs are copulating, at which the boys shriek with laughter. It’s moments like this, I always think, that a parent should cherish.

  *

  My mobile starts trilling as I let us into the flat.

  ‘I’ve found someone!’ Viv shrieks. ‘Am I first? Bet I’m first …’

  ‘You mean for our thing?’ I hiss.

  ‘Yes! Bet the others haven’t found anyone yet …’

  ‘Well, Kirsty called when I was at Mum’s …’ I turn towards Logan and Fergus who are regarding me with rapt interest. ‘It’s all right, boys, thank you. I’m just having a private conversation with Viv.’

  ‘A private conversation,’ Logan repeats mockingly as they slope off to their respective bedrooms. ‘Bet that’s thrilling.’

  ‘Yes, we’re discussing the best way to fold tea towels,’ I call after him. ‘God,’ I mutter to Viv. ‘I’ll never be able to bring a man back here with those two policing me. I’ll have to wait until Fergus leaves for uni.’

  ‘How long away is that again?’ she asks.

  Heading for the relative privacy of the kitchen, I pull off my jacket which retains its fuggy smell from Mum’s house, mingling with the vinegary tang of the chippie. ‘Only five years. Half a decade. I’ll be forty-four by then.’

  ‘Isn’t Tom taking the boys away soon?’

  ‘Yes – on Thursday, when they break up. But I’m not planning to bring anyone back and jump on them the minute they’re gone, Viv.’

  ‘No,’ she giggles, ‘you’d better at least wait until his car’s gone round the corner.’

  ‘Camper van actually. He’s hired some amazing, top-of-the-range model …’

  ‘He’s moved up in the world, hasn’t he, from that leaky two-man Argos tent?’

  ‘Yes, but he married well, remember …’

  ‘There you go then,’ she says triumphantly. ‘You’ll have an empty flat. Perfect opportunity.’

  ‘For what?’ I ask, laughing. ‘I’m not planning to rush in, Viv.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Because it’s too sodding traumatic, that’s why. Because – if truth be known – I can barely remember which bits go where.

  ‘I just want to take things slowly,’ I say feebly.

  ‘Hmm. So, who’s Kirsty found for you? One of her beardy single-dad mates?’

  ‘She didn’t mention a beard,’ I say with a smile, ‘but, yes, he is a dad …’

  ‘… Wears tie-dyed trousers, reeks of hummus …’

  ‘Actually, he’s a dentist.’

  ‘Ugh. Not very sexy, is it?’

  ‘What,’ I say, ‘being a dentist? I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ Viv goes on. ‘Cavities, plaque, poking about with other people’s rotting molars …’

  I shrug off my cardi, lay it on the kitchen table and frown at the greasy patches which have seeped through the pockets. There’s a small lump in one of them; it’s the Tuc biscuit diet, scrunched into a tight little ball.

  ‘It was you who said I should keep an open mind,’ I remind her.

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I’ve a feeling mine’ll be much more your type.’

  ‘Not that this is a competition,’ I tease.

  ‘Of course it’s not. God. It’s all about you, not just cheap entertainment for us.’

  I smirk and flick on the kettle.

  ‘In fact, we’ve all had a chat,’ Viv continues, ‘and we decided that, no matter how much you like the first one, or the second, you still have to go out with all three of them just to be sure.’

  ‘To give you all a fair chance of winning,’ I remark with a grin.

  ‘Yeah. No! Oh, you know what I mean. We feel it’s important to follow the whole process right through to its conclusion.’

  ‘Okay, so who d’you have in mind?’

  Viv hangs off for a moment, in order to pique my interest. I picture her pacing around her small art-filled flat, drawing on a Marlboro Light. ‘Okay – his name’s Giles.’

  ‘Sounds posh.’

  ‘Well, he’s not. At least, not especially. He’s a new guy at work – cute, really fun, dark nicely cut hair and the most stunning blue eyes …’

  ‘Wow,’ I exclaim. ‘And you’re sure he’s single?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  ‘And you said he’s new …’

  ‘Yeah.’ Curiously, she has become a little reticent.

  ‘Is he a designer?’ I ask, faintly intrigued by the idea of someone who could give me tips on transforming our ‘space’.

  ‘Um … not exactly.’

  I slosh boiling water into my mug – one hand-painted by Viv, incidentally, all cerise and gold swirls, almost too pretty to drink from. ‘Is he in the accountants department?’

  ‘Nooo …’

  I blow out a big gust of air. ‘Viv, listen, you know I don’t care about job titles or how much someone earns. It really doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yes, I know that,’ she says.

  ‘But you’re actually being really cagey, which is a bit weird. I mean, if you like him and think we’d get along, that’s fine – I don’t care if he’s the maintenance man …’

  ‘He’s the intern,’ she interrupts.

  ‘The intern?’ I repeat. ‘I can’t meet the intern, Viv. God.’

  ‘Why not? You just said you don’t care about job titles.’

  I’m laughing so much now, Fergus pokes his head around the kitchen door to see what’s funny. ‘I don’t,’ I say, grinning and waving him away. ‘It’s not that. It’s about age.’

  ‘But he’s gorgeous,’ she insists. ‘He has amazing bone structure and great teeth …’

  ‘Yes, well, milk teeth usually are.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, he’s not that young. Just meet him, have a drink, go to a movie or something …’

  I pick up Mum’s diet from the table and ping it in the vague direction of the bin. It bounces off it and lands on the floor which is currently littered with enormous, boat-like trainers and a smattering of orangey dust which I presume to be crushed Doritos.

  ‘I’m not sure a movie’s ideal for a first date,’ I say, ‘and I’m not really up for watching American Pie or the latest Pixar …’

  ‘Alice, he’s not a teenager. He’s worked for years, done this and that – taught English, travelled, hung out in Ibiza for a while … he’s a really interesting person.’

  ‘I’m sure he is,’ I reply, as a collection of gap year jewellery – leather thongs, yin yang symbols and the like – shimmers in my mind. God, I haven’t even been to Ibiza; the whole clubbing thing passed me by. In my younger days I was happier installed in a pub with my mates and a load of crisps and beer.

  ‘And he’s always wanted to work in design,’ she continues, ‘so when his grandma died and he inherited some money, he decided to apply for an internship. He was so impressive at the interview, very passionate …’

  ‘Were you orgasming at this point?’ I enquire.

  Viv snorts. ‘I was a bit distracted, I have to admit. Anyway, it’s a career change for him.’

  ‘A change from what? Sitting on beaches and taking shitloads of drugs?’

  ‘Stop that. He’s serious about this. Hopefully he’ll be taken on properly after a few months.’

  I push back my dishevelled dark hair, detecting a faint chip-shop smell, and nibble a finger of Kit Kat that someone has left on the table. ‘So how old is he?’ I ask.

  ‘Er … twenty-ni
ne.’

  ‘That’s ten years younger than me, Viv. I’d feel like his auntie or something. Like he’d expect me to suggest a game of whist.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re still young. Anyway, no one cares about age any more. Remember that half-your-age-plus-seven rule?’

  I perform a swift calculation, rounding myself up to forty to avoid pesky fractions: ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘There you go then. He’s comfortably within range …’

  ‘Viv,’ I say thoughtfully, ‘why don’t you ask him out? He sounds far more your type …’

  ‘Because we work together,’ she says in an overly patient voice. ‘It’d be so awkward, especially with me technically being his boss.’

  ‘Oh, of course. So have you mentioned me yet?’

  ‘I might have casually said something,’ she teases.

  ‘But we only hatched this plan yesterday and you haven’t been at work …’

  ‘We had to finish off an advertising shoot this morning and he offered to help,’ she says. ‘He’s very dedicated.’

  ‘And, er … he’s up for meeting me, is he? I mean … he knows I have two sons, and that one of them will be old enough to drive a car this time next year?’

  ‘Yes, well, I didn’t go into detail, but he knows you’re a bit older and he was perfectly fine with that.’

  I sip my tea. ‘Listen, he’s not one of those, “I love older women” types, is he? The kind who fantasised about his friend’s mum or his well-preserved biology teacher …’

  Viv honks with laughter.

  ‘I’m not up for any of that creepy, “Oooh, you mature ladies, you know your onions” kind of crap,’ I add firmly.

  She laughs some more. ‘I promise you, Giles will not be interested in your onions. He’s not that kind of boy – I mean man.’

  ‘Only just,’ I chuckle.

  ‘Well … yeah. So can I give him your number?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, feeling suddenly, horribly conscious of my age, and spotting a whacking great frown line when I glimpse my reflection in the chrome kettle. Which, I fear, doesn’t bode terribly well for the actual date.

  Chapter Seven

  To clear a backlog of filing I’ve done an extra hour at school, so the boys are home before me on this blustery Monday afternoon. I can hear jovial chatter, dominated by my neighbour Clemmie’s booming tones, as I hurry upstairs to the flat. She is Logan’s best mate Blake’s mum, and often pops round to monitor the sorry state of my life. (Clemmie runs her own events management company and her husband Richard is something in property – he basically owns pretty much all of Scotland, as far as I can make out.)