Take Mum Out (18 page)

‘I, er … don’t work here,’ I reply.

‘Oh, I’m
so
sorry,’ the man booms as several diners swivel round to watch our exchange.

‘That’s okay,’ I reply with a big, barky laugh. ‘Happens all the time …’ Shit, shit, shit, what made me say that? And did Charlie hear? No, he said he’d definitely be out on the terrace … I glance around the restaurant in all its white-tiled, glass-walled glory. One entire glass wall has been pushed back, allowing a faint breeze to drift in, and out on the actual terrace several couples and one large family group are all chattering away. Marching out, I pray that no one will try to catch my attention and ask for their bill.

I spot him immediately at a table for two, wearing a dark blue open-necked shirt and jeans, with dark curly hair flopping around his face. He has a nicely shaped mouth (looks like he smiles a lot) and cheeky brown eyes behind black-framed rectangular specs. It all adds up to one of those lively, animated faces that somehow draw you in.

On seeing me, Charlie grins and springs up, knocking over a glass pepper pot – a gesture that causes my anxiety to melt away instantly.

‘Alice,’ he says warmly, ‘how lovely to meet you.’

‘And you.’ He kisses my cheek, and I have a good feeling about today as we take our seats.

‘I’m really glad you said yes,’ he adds. ‘Hope I didn’t completely ruin your day.’

I laugh and glance towards the castle against the searing blue sky. ‘Of course you didn’t. This place is amazing.’

He grins broadly; it’s a lovely smile, showing good but not-quite-perfect teeth, and causing those dark eyes to glint mischievously. ‘Like being in a Visit Scotland calendar.’

‘Yes, a bit. So, d’you live in Edinburgh?’

‘At the moment, yes, just for a few months – my parents have a flat here that they let out for an extortionate rate during the festival. Rest of the time I’m in London, but I fancied a change – there’s been stuff going on …’

‘You’re on the run?’ I suggest, raising a brow.

‘Oh …’ He wafts a hand. ‘Girlfriend stuff. All over now, just before Christmas …’

‘Rotten timing.’

He shakes his head. ‘Only in that I’d already bought her present, a bloody hideous red Chloé handbag with a gold-link chain strap … tried to palm it off on my mum but she said it wasn’t her style.’ He smirks. ‘The only reason I’d known Matilda wanted it is because she’d not only ringed it in biro in her magazine, but stuck all these hint stickers around it.’

I smile, a little taken aback by how easily he offered this information, particularly about a recent ex. But then, I’m used to the males in my life – Logan, Fergus, Tom – barely communicating at all. It is, I decide, quite refreshing.

‘I’ve never come across hint stickers,’ I tell him.

‘Oh, you know – those arrow-shaped stickers with “choose me” printed on them …’ Charlie laughs loudly, fills my glass from the bottle that’s already sitting in its silvery ice bucket on the table, and takes a big swig from his own. ‘They’re not especially subtle,’ he adds. ‘Matilda had a whole sheet of those damn stickers but I can tell you’re not like that.’

‘What aren’t I like?’ I ask, wondering if he’s actually
comparing
us here.

‘The handbaggy sort. You know.’

‘No, I’m not handbaggy …’

‘And that’s good.’ Charlie meets my gaze and smiles, then turns to the waiter who’s approached our table. We order, choosing simple grilled fish which feels right with sunshine beaming down on us.

‘So, you’ve wound up in Edinburgh,’ I remark.

‘Yeah, I’ve wanted to spend some time here for ages – it’s such a great city. Whereabouts are you from?’

‘Yorkshire originally, but I moved to Scotland in my teens, then came to college here. I had my first son pretty young – I’d only just graduated – so Tom, my ex, and I found ourselves getting a life together in Edinburgh …’

‘And then what happened?’

I pause, unaccustomed to such intense curiosity about my life. ‘Well, we split up six years ago and I’ve been working as a school secretary for a few years now …’ Charlie nods, showing no sign of itching to dive in and talk about himself. I take a sip of wine, noting at once how different it is to the stuff I drink at home; in comparison, my usual plonk might be concocted in some gigantic chemical plant in Wolverhampton, with not a whisper of grape.

‘Like it?’ Charlie asks.

‘It’s delicious. It’s one of the nicest wines I’ve ever had.’

He grins approvingly. ‘I take no credit for choosing it. The waiter foisted it on me and I’m glad he did. Anyway,’ he goes on, ‘Ingrid said you also run a successful meringue business.’

I laugh and sip more wine. ‘I’m flattered that she did a great PR job on me, but it’s pretty small-scale at the moment.’

‘Well, you’re a busy woman with two boys to raise …’

I meet his gaze. ‘You seem to know a lot about me, Charlie.’

He shrugs. ‘You sounded interesting.’

‘You and Ingrid must have had a pretty long chat at the gym …’

‘I’d actually, er … strained something during the workout,’ he says with a rueful smile. ‘So I was hanging around in the hope that it’d wear off.’

‘What had you done?’ I ask.

‘A kind of groin thing.’

‘Oh dear. How is it today?’

‘Still recovering.’ He laughs loudly and tops up our glasses, even though mine is barely touched. ‘But the plan is still to anaesthetise myself today …’

‘Isn’t that unprofessional, though? I mean, I’d have thought you’d be keeping a clear head, ready to make detailed notes on the texture of the halibut …’

Charlie grins cheekily. ‘I like the way you say “halibut” in that Yorkshire way.’

I burst out laughing. ‘
No one
has ever said that to me before. And I’ve lived in Scotland for twenty-five years – I didn’t think there was any Yorkshire left in me …’

‘There is, and it’s lovely. Your voice, I mean.’

I look at him and smile, realising I’ve felt completely at ease since I joined him at the table. Even being mistaken for staff seems funny now, and I find myself telling Charlie about it.

‘I like that look, though,’ he says. ‘It’s very foxy.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘Seriously, you look great.’ By the time our lunch arrives, I’m silently thanking Ingrid for giving Charlie my number and starting to wish this was dinner, and that Mum wasn’t staying over tonight, and that we had a whole, long evening ahead of us. Somehow, I’ve found myself telling him about Mum’s visit, and her comments about overbites and child labour, at which he laughs in disbelief.

‘So,’ I say, conscious of prattling on about myself, ‘tell me about the kind of writing you do.’

‘Oh, I just trot out any old stuff – whatever comes along. Actually, I’m off to Paris on Wednesday to review a hotel.’

‘So you do travel writing too?’

Charlie shrugs. ‘Anything that pays, basically.’

‘Sounds like fun.’ I smile. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t you be focusing on the food here?’

‘Oh, I’ll bash something together later,’ he says distractedly.

‘Are you sure you’ll remember? I mean, this green stuff—’

‘Samphire, yeah …’

‘Aren’t you going to write about its silken texture? Sorry to go on, but the whole restaurant critic thing intrigues me. I mean, to go into that amount of detail about something on a plate …’

He pulls a mock-aghast face. ‘Don’t you like food?’

‘Of course I do. I just mean the
pernicketiness
of restaurant reviews, you know?’

‘I’m teasing you,’ Charlie says with a grin. ‘I know exactly what you mean. Why the fuck does anyone need to know precisely how buttery the sauce was, or how crisp the pastry on their silly little tart?’ He shrugs dramatically. ‘But apparently they do.’

‘And who d’you write all this for?’

He pushes back his dark hair which keeps flapping into his eyes in the light breeze. ‘Anyone who asks me. Guess I’ve been lucky. I’ve been freelance for ten years now and managed to ride out the recession by the skin of my teeth. But then,’ he adds, ‘it’s just me, no kids to support …’

‘Have you ever been married?’

‘Just the once.’ He smiles, studying my face as our plates are cleared away. ‘An early one, far too young – don’t they call them starter marriages?’

‘A sort of practice run,’ I suggest. ‘Well, Tom and I were never married, but I suppose that’s sort of what it was.’

‘I assume he’s still in your life,’ he suggests.

‘Yes, well, we have our boys so there’ll always be that bond …’ I break off and laugh. ‘Which is a little scary.’

‘No escape,’ he agrees. ‘So, can I tempt you with dessert?’

‘Oh, I guess we should,’ I say, ‘for research purposes.’

And so we do, researching not only a beautiful lemon tart and an Eton-mess-type crushed meringue dessert (Charlie chose this, I tend to avoid meringues beyond my own kitchen), and also – just to be thorough in our investigations – a second bottle of wine. We’re all giddy and giggly as he pays the bill – ‘’Course it’s on expenses,’ he insists, batting me away as I pull out my purse – then totter off to the lift. I glimpse at the woman in its mirrored walls: no longer stiff and awkward with sweat marks on her skirt, but actually glowing with flushed cheeks and bright, sparkling eyes. As the lift doors open at the ground floor, a besuited businessman walks in and fixes me with an undeniably flirtatious grin. Christ, what is happening?

‘Hey,’ Charlie says as we step out, ‘don’t suppose you fancy hanging out together this afternoon? We could go places.
Do
stuff. You could show me the best bits of Edinburgh. I mean, you don’t have to start meringuing right now, do you? Or rush off to tend to your mother?’

I look at him, my heart quickened by his hopeful smile. Why not? whispers the voice in my head. And that phrase from
Stylish Living
pops into my mind:
spontaneous suppers with friends
. Well, maybe it’s time I spent a whole
day
being spontaneous, and seeing where it takes me.

‘Oh, I’m sure they can wait,’ I tell him.

‘Mum or meringues?’

‘Both,’ I say as Charlie takes my hand in his, making my entire body tingle as we step out into the glorious afternoon.

*

‘Say it again,’ he drawls in a Humphrey Bogart voice. ‘You know what I wanna hear …’

‘You’re crazy,’ I laugh. ‘You are
completely
insane.’

‘Go on, say it again. Say, “halibut”.’

We have reached the stage, after our distinctly winey lunch, of not only knowing each other’s surnames and ages (Charlie is thirty-seven – yes, a little younger than me, but no Giles-sized age gap), but also having a little in-joke. The halibut thing, I mean. As we stroll down to the Botanic Gardens, we also fill each other in on our favourite music, books and films – all those things you really want to match, but which rarely do.

And, when they do, it seems too good to be true.

‘I’ve never met any man who even likes
Casablanca
, let alone says it’s their favourite film,’ I tell him.

‘Then you’ve been hanging out with the wrong men,’ he retorts.

I laugh, shielding my eyes against the sun. We buy takeaway coffees from the Botanic Gardens cafe; Charlie was all for grabbing another bottle of wine from an off-licence, sneaking it in and downing it surreptitiously among the exotic flora (‘I mean, there must be a jungly bit we could hide in, right?’), but any more alcohol today would tip the day from being lovely into potentially messy, especially as I need to be ready with the cocoa and chit-chat when Mum returns.

‘I’ve had an idea,’ he announces, lounging on his back on the grass. ‘I could come home with you and help make your meringues.’

‘I don’t think so, Charlie. Drunk in charge of a piping bag? You might do yourself another injury on top of the groin one.’

‘You think I know nothing about baking,’ he retorts in mock-indignation. ‘Know what my last commission was? Testing out bizarre kitchen contraptions from the point of view of an idiot cook.’

I laugh and sip my coffee, grateful for its sobering effect, and the fact that there are still hours to go before Mum’s due back at the flat.

‘What kind of contraptions?’ I ask.

‘Mad stuff like, um … a cream-horn mould. I didn’t even know what a cream horn was. I mean, I thought I did. I assumed it was a sex thing …’ I crease up with laughter. ‘But turns out it’s just a
cake
. Don’t make those as well, do you?’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I never have.’

He adopts a serious face. ‘You’re a cream-horn virgin. Well, I can’t blame you actually because who wants a cake you have to
mould
? So there was that, and a plastic thing to make omelettes in the microwave … but the one
you
want is the Yolk Plucker.’

‘The
what
?’

‘Yolk Plucker. It’s brilliant, can’t believe you haven’t got one. It looks like a miniature toilet plunger – that thing you stick down the loo to clear a blockage …’ An unsavoury image of Mum’s septic tank shimmers into my mind. ‘… And the idea is, you crack your egg into its little rubber bowl, squeeze the balloon at the end and it sucks your yolk right in – sorry if this is sounding a bit medical – leaving you with a perfectly separated white.’ He grins triumphantly.

‘Come on, that is
not
a real thing.’

‘It is, I swear. See the top-notch commissions I get?’ He laughs self-mockingly.

‘So you’ll pretty much do anything for money,’ I suggest.

‘Just about.’ He shrugs. ‘A man’s got to earn a crust.’

I sip my coffee and lean forward. ‘Really? Like … anything?’

Charlie sniggers and plucks at the grass. ‘In my dark and murky past, I’ve done things that …’ He tails off. ‘Well, that I probably wouldn’t do now I’m a highly mature and responsible adult.’

‘What kind of things?’ I ask greedily.

‘Never mind that, nosy girl.’

‘Oh, come on, you can’t tell me half the story. You’re a horrible tease.’

He gives me an impish grin. ‘I might when we know each other better.’

I grin, pushing hair from my eyes and watching a squirrel scurry up a tree. The azaleas are bursting with reds and oranges, as zingy as poster paint splattered on by a child, and an entire border is filled with cheerful yellow daffodils. I glance at Charlie, figuring that, yes, I would like to get to know him better. Does this mean that Ingrid has won the Date-off? I’m not sure yet. Then Charlie lifts a hand towards my face, and for a moment I think he’s just going to flick something away from my cheek – an insect or, horrors, a speck of foraged greenery from lunch – but instead he smiles tenderly and brushes back a strand of hair.