Take Mum Out (11 page)

‘That’s the plan. I hope the boys have a good time. How d’you think they’ll be?’

‘You mean, trapped in a camper van for a week?’ I chuckle. ‘I’ve no idea, Tom. I think Fergus will enjoy it but Logan’s so hard to predict these days …’

‘He’s great with Jessica, though,’ Tom murmurs, as if to reassure himself.

‘I know he is. They both adore her – you know that.’ I drop my voice to a murmur. ‘Is Patsy okay about this trip?’

‘Oh, yes, she hasn’t seen much of Scotland.’ That’s not what I meant, and he knows it; I meant spending a week in a van with one pubescent boy and one hairy, almost fully formed adult man.

‘Hon? Shall we get going soon?’ Patsy has reappeared in the doorway, clutching Jessica’s hand.

‘Yep, s’pose we’d better,’ Tom murmurs.

‘Boys,’ I call out, ‘are you ready?’

‘Yeah,’ Fergus replies, and both appear with stuffed rucksacks. Jessica still looks crestfallen, and I’d love to sneak her a contraband meringue to cheer her up.

‘Great to see you, Alice,’ Patsy says in an overly bright voice. ‘Sorry it’s such a quick visit but we want to be up in Fort William before dark …’

It will be dark, but never mind. Perhaps suspecting that no one is paying attention, Jessica reaches up towards the meringue plate, but is tugged away by her mother as if she were about to plunge her hand into a fire. I catch Logan’s eye as he picks up his rucksack; there’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, and I smile back. Then we’re all heading downstairs, laden with bags, and I should be joyous at the prospect of much tranquillity ahead, punctuated by at least one date. But I’m not. I’m hugging them all – first Logan, who goes stiff and awkward, then Fergus, who hugs me back in his gangly way, as if his arms have come loose in their sockets.

‘C’mon, Jessie,’ Logan says, frowning at her tear-blotched face, ‘cheer up. This is gonna be fun.’ She musters a stoical smile as they all clamber into the palatial camper van.

They are waving with the windows down – even Logan, who never waves at anyone. A lump forms in my throat as I stand there, feeling stranded, in our street. I know it’s silly, and that my boys aren’t babies any more, so I should feel
fine
about them leaving. Last week, Fergus packed up all his soft toys for charity – even beloved Rex, a small, grubby white dog with no obvious appeal (instead of being furry, in approximation of a real dog, he has the unsettling texture of 40-denier tights). But I can’t help it. My vision is blurring again and I’m blinking madly, hoping that’ll force the tears back in. Meanwhile Tom tries not to look petrified as he slowly manoeuvres the gigantic vehicle out of its tight parking space.

I give them a final wave and turn away, just as Patsy’s voice drifts out of the passenger window: ‘Alice is always so kind, Tom, but I
wish
she wouldn’t try to stuff Jessica full of sugar.’

That’s my role, you see – to destroy the dental enamel of every child who enters my home. In fact, Logan and Fergus have zero fillings, a fact I cling on to as evidence of my brilliant parenting when it’s probably nothing to do with me. Both Tom and his father have rather large, sparkling, filling-less teeth, the kind that seem wasted not being on TV.

In order to shrug off Patsy’s comment, I try to focus on the fact that I have a whole child-free week ahead of me. In sixteen years I have never had such a thing, and the prospect is at once thrilling yet faintly alarming. What the hell will I do with myself? I can see friends, of course, and bake; I can catch up on niggling jobs and, more crucially, go out with a man who just sneaks over the half-your-age-plus-seven boundary, a concept which causes my stomach to fizzle with excitement and nerves. What would Mum say about that? She’d probably remind me that twenty-something girls tend to have fabulous figures, and that perhaps I should give up on eating anything at all.

Stomach rumbling now, I make cheese on toast and a pot of tea and tuck in at the kitchen table, picturing Tom at the helm of that camper van. While he looked rather scared, he was still managing to put on a show of being a big, capable, ‘taking my family away on an adventure’ type-dad. When we were together, he couldn’t even drive; he passed his test when Patsy was pregnant with Jessica. That’s probably around the time he learnt how to grow kale when, a couple of years previously, he wouldn’t have recognised it if it had bitten him on the bum. There’s a definite pattern here, i.e. Tom-with-me = useless lump, often forgetting to flush the lavatory. Whereas Tom-with-Patsy = superhero dad. And while I’m not fond of women blaming themselves for men’s foibles, you have to consider the facts. Patsy always seems to be
completely delighted
with Tom. I’ve never known any woman to be so pleased with her husband, all of the time. Was it me who somehow drained the potential out of him?

I finish my tea, feeling a little anchorless now with two hours to go before I’m due to meet Giles. My phone rings; seeing Kirsty’s name displayed cheers me up instantly.

‘So, have they gone?’ she asks.

‘Yeah.’

‘A whole week to yourself. God, you’re lucky. I’d
kill
for that.’

I bite my lip. ‘It feels a bit weird, to be honest. I’m redundant, completely without purpose …’ We both laugh, because I
am
joking, sort of. ‘Anyway,’ I add, ‘what are you up to in the holidays?’

Kirsty sighs loudly. ‘Business as usual around here. That’s the thing with home educating – they’re
here
, all the time, with me. Holidays don’t actually exist for us.’

‘Isn’t Dan taking some time off work?’

‘Says he can’t. Too much on. The financial industry would crumble without him being ever-present …’

‘Well, I think you’re brilliant,’ I say firmly. ‘I couldn’t do it. I’m in awe of you.’

She snorts. ‘Well, I have no intention of doing this beyond primary, you know.’

‘Really?’ I’m taken aback by her frankness. ‘I thought you and Dan felt really strongly—’

‘
He
does,’ she cuts in. ‘He’s the one who’s adamant that the kids shouldn’t go anywhere near a dastardly classroom, that it would crush their spirit and ruin their souls. D’you know he’s started referring to schools as
child-prisons
?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I splutter.

She laughs dryly. ‘I know I was all for it at the start, but only because of all the bullying Hamish went through at that school of his. I was so put off by the whole system, and the teachers being unwilling to do anything about it, that I really thought it was for the best. I didn’t want Alfie and Maya to go through all that.’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘and maybe it was the best option at that point …’

‘But it was only meant to be temporary,’ Kirsty goes on, as what sounds like a brawl kicks off in the background, ‘only now, Dan’s adamant that it’s best for
all
of them and that’s it.’ She pauses. ‘Alfie, put that hammer back in Daddy’s tool drawer right now.’

‘It’s not a hammer,’ he retorts. ‘It’s a
mallet
.’

I sip my tepid tea, wondering how best to respond. ‘Maybe it’s time to be firmer,’ I suggest. ‘It has to be mainly your decision – I mean, you’re the one doing it all.’

‘I’ve tried and he won’t hear of it. He seems reluctant to even discuss it.’

‘Okay, but what happens if you want to go back to work?’

‘I do actually,’ she retorts. ‘You know, sometimes I could cry with envy when Dan sets off to the office, and when he moans about colleagues, and how tedious it all is, I could shake him and say, “Okay, shall we swap places then? I’ll go out and do the paid job, surrounded by adults and with a proper lunch hour, while you try to help three children, all at different levels, with their reading, when all they want to do is run about in the garden and throw soil.”’ She stops, catching her breath.

‘I don’t blame you at all. I’d feel exactly the same.’ It’s frustrating, actually, seeing my friend trapped into the home educating scenario like this, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself blurting out what I really think of Dan. Glimpsing Exhibit A sitting in its plastic bag on top of the fridge, I quickly drop it into the bin. Although it’s been months since Erica’s home inspection, I can’t shake off the fear that she might pop around again at any time.

Kirsty sighs loudly. ‘Oh, never mind all that. Has my lovely dentist called you?’

‘No, not yet, but I am seeing Giles tonight – Viv’s intern …’

‘Oh, she mentioned him,’ she exclaims. ‘Why didn’t you say? I shouldn’t be wittering on. You should be getting ready …’

‘I
am
ready,’ I say with a smile, not adding that my readiness was in fact for the benefit of Tom and Patsy. ‘At least, as ready as I’ll ever be.’

‘Not having second thoughts, are you?’

I pause. ‘Not really – I mean, it’s only a drink – but, you know. He’s
twenty-nine
, for Christ’s sake …’

‘Come on,’ she says, not unkindly. ‘It’ll be fun if nothing else. Off you go and tell me all about it.’

We finish the call, and I wonder if it’s actually the magazine feature that’s sapped my enthusiasm today – the fact that Tom and Patsy’s sofa deserved two full pages in a glossy magazine, whereas ours came
from one of those out-of-town stores where everything seems to be permanently fifty per cent off. It has long lost its springiness, due to years of being pummelled by the boys – a bit like my face, I decide, catching my reflection in the mirror in the hall. As I study my wrinkles, Patsy’s face shimmers into my mind: rosy-cheeked, line-free, no spiky roller required there. She probably just sprinkles her complexion with morning dew.

I head for my bedroom, trying to push such dark thoughts away. For someone who spends much of her life handling vast quantities of sugar, I seem to be turning awfully bitter.

*

I leave to meet Giles a little early, just to escape from the flat. I stroll past the fancy interiors shops, and the posh French deli with its artisan breads and chocolate cubes on sticks that you dunk in hot milk – the ones Clemmie always seems to have a stock of in order to make drinks ‘fun’, even though Blake, her only child, is nearly seventeen years old. Before I know it I’m outside the pub where Giles suggested we meet. Still ten minutes early but never mind.

I go in, immediately cheered by the warmth and cosiness of the place. Considering his vintage, I’d been worried that Giles would suggest a young, shouty bar where I wouldn’t recognise any of the drinks. It’s nearly eight and the place is pretty busy; in fact, there’s only one table free. I grab it and glance around, deciding there’s no one here who remotely fits Giles’s description and is conspicuously alone. In fact it soon becomes apparent that I am the only alone-person here, but that’s fine. It’s actually incredibly pleasing not to be in the empty flat, feeling as if I should be in an egg-beating frenzy or
enjoying some me-time
, as the magazines put it. Then, just as I’m starting to think, actually, it
would
be quite nice if Giles appeared now – being nearly twenty past eight – the door opens and in comes this … well, the only way I can describe him is a vision of loveliness.

It’s all I can do not to gasp. For a moment I sit there, thinking it can’t be him. He is
far
too handsome and this will be mortifying. I glance down at my wine, hoping that, in the millisecond it takes him to realise it’s me and come over, his appearance will have settled into something approaching merely
pleasant-looking
. But no. When I glance back he’s just as lovely as before, reminiscent of a Gap ad, clean-cut and square-jawed, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. His skin is olive, his eyes dark and chin faintly stubbled, his mid-brown hair mussed just so …

‘Alice?’ he says, flashing a heart-flipping smile.

‘Hi Giles.’ I jump up, and he goes for the single cheek-kiss, which by some miracle I manage to negotiate with aplomb.

‘What can I get you?’ He glances down at my glass; only a few sips left.

‘A white wine would be great.’

‘Large one?’

Bloody massive please as I’m freaking out over your handsomeness …
But then, there is the real danger of turning into drunken middle-aged-berk …

‘Er, yes please.’

He orders our drinks and brings them back to our table. ‘So you and Viv are old college mates,’ he says, taking the seat opposite and flashing another disarming smile.

‘That’s right,’ I say, realising he’s already said ‘old’, but that in this case he meant ‘long-term’, which is fine, isn’t it? ‘We met in the halls of residence,’ I add, ‘then got together with a couple of others and shared a house.’

Giles nods and sips his beer. ‘She’s great to work with. Can’t believe she gave me the chance, to be honest – I mean, I know it’s just an internship but there was a lot of competition for it.’

‘Well, maybe she saw potential in you,’ I suggest.

‘Maybe.’ He laughs, and his eyes seem to actually sparkle. ‘Anyway, what about you? Is that a Yorkshire accent I detect?’

‘Yep, I grew up near Leeds, but we moved to Scotland in my teens as my parents had both landed jobs up here.’

‘And you work in a primary school, right?’

I nod. ‘I’m the person who sits in the office dealing with a constant stream of parental complaints.’

He chuckles. ‘That bad, huh?’

‘Actually no, I do enjoy it. It’s a lovely school and the kids are great …’
No-no-don’t-talk-about-children …

‘So what does it involve?’ he asks.

I suspect it would be futile to try to thrill this fine specimen of manhood with tales of lost permission forms and tearful, vomiting children.

‘Just admin mainly,’ I say quickly, ‘and I run my own business, a small thing on the side, a meringue-type thing.’

‘Viv mentioned that. It’s a great idea, specialising in one thing you know everyone loves—’

‘Not quite everyone,’ I cut in, and without thinking, I’m telling him about Patsy’s alarm when I offered Jessica possibly the smallest meringue ever – ‘I mean, it was about the size of an olive.’ Giles seems to enjoy this – at least he doesn’t bolt for the door – and then, of course, I have to explain about Tom, and how we still get along reasonably well (in a purely practical way), which leads me on to our sons, specifically Logan demanding an annexe, like his best friend’s, ideally with a full-sized pool table … ‘I mean, when I was a kid I was happy with a box of Fuzzy Felts.’