Take Mum Out (19 page)

He moves closer, and I notice how lovely his mouth is close up – just full enough, made for kissing, really. Then we are kissing, in the warmth of a perfect Monday afternoon. It is
dizzying
. I am no longer a mother, thinking up ways to use up hundreds of leftover egg yolks. I am no longer trying to ignore the fact that my fortieth birthday is hurtling towards me like an out-of-control train. Right now, on this patch of neatly clipped grass, I am kissing a man who tastes of wine and perhaps a hint of soft, sweet berries from his meringue dessert. My head is spinning as we finally pull apart.

‘Well,’ Charlie says with a lazy smile. ‘What now?’

Reluctantly, I glance at my watch. ‘It’s nearly six. The gardens are closing any minute.’

‘So where shall we go?’ he asks hopefully.

I smile, brushing grass from my bare legs. ‘Sorry, but I need to get back. I really do have to bake tonight …’

‘Okay, so what are you doing on Wednesday?’

I study his eyes. They are deep brown, like the darkest chocolate, and framed by long black lashes. ‘I thought you said you were going to Paris?’

‘I am.’ He grins, then kisses me gently again. ‘So why don’t you come too?’

I’m still dizzy from all that wine and kissing as we make our way to the main gates. What’s happened to me? I’ve snogged a stranger and am leaving the Botanic Gardens all mussed up and covered in bits of grass,
and
I have to face Mummy Dearest in a few hours’ time.

‘I can’t come with you, Charlie,’ I say.

‘Why not?’ He sounds taken aback.

‘Well, for one thing I’ve known you for, what – about six hours?’

‘We’d have a great time, I know we would—’

‘And you’ll be working anyway.’

‘Yeah, writing a pissy little hotel review that’ll take me about ten minutes, that I’ll do when I get back home anyway. I won’t turn on my laptop, I promise. I won’t even take it. C’mon, Alice. When’s the last time you did something completely impulsive?’
Today
, I think, my lips twitching into a smile. ‘No, not that,’ he says, reading my mind. ‘You know what I mean. When’s your birthday, by the way?’

‘In three weeks’ time, why?’

‘Well then. It’s always on those lists, isn’t it – things to do before you’re forty? Never mind hang-gliding and swimming with dolphins and all that shit. There’s always something on those lists about going to Paris with someone you’ve only just met.’

‘I don’t remember reading that,’ I laugh. ‘Anyway, I know they’re made up by people like you. Everyone makes out that turning forty is this enormous event, and it’s just not—’

‘It’s just a number,’ he says, deadpan.

‘It
is
, Charlie …’ For once, I really don’t care about that looming milestone, as it’s always called. Not when I’ve just had the most amazing afternoon …

‘Forget it then. Forget your birthday, I mean. Come just for the hell of it. I’ll go home and book you a flight right now. I’ve got tons of air miles and the hotel’s free, it won’t cost you anything …’ He takes my hand as we head back up the steep hill towards Princes Street.

‘It’s not about money,’ I insist. ‘The main thing is, my boys are coming home tomorrow. They’ve been away for a week with their dad and I can’t just not be there.’

‘Oh.’ He frowns, clearly deflated. ‘Couldn’t they stay away a bit longer?’

‘No,’ I exclaim, laughing. ‘What d’you think I’d say? “Um, d’you mind not coming home for a few more days because I’m off to Paris with a man who, at about a quarter to one this afternoon, I didn’t actually know?” That’d go down well.’

He chuckles softly. ‘Well, I think it’s good for kids to see that their parents have a sense of adventure.’

‘Look,’ I say with a sigh, ‘it’s lovely of you to ask me, and maybe if things were different …’ We’ve reached the top of the hill now, both of us a little breathless. ‘But I’m going home to get myself sorted before Mum comes home …’

Charlie smiles, plucking a blade of grass from my hair, a gesture which is so sweet and tender it causes my heart to perform a little flip. ‘So we’ll get together when I come back? I’m only away for a night …’

‘Yes, I’d love that.’

He takes both of my hands in his and kisses me softly on the lips. I’m still glowing as I climb into a cab, and possibly even when I get out, as Clemmie, who’s striding briskly towards me in a figure-hugging dress in a loud poppy print, gives me a significant stare. ‘Well,
you
look like you’ve been out having fun!’

‘Do I?’ Inadvertently, I touch my lips, trying to assess whether they look freshly kissed.

‘In a good way,’ she adds as Stanley snuffles around my ankles. ‘Been somewhere nice?’

‘Just for lunch,’ I say blithely, realising that it must be getting on for seven, and suspecting I reek of booze.

‘Must have been a fun lunch,’ she titters.

‘Yes, it was. It was lovely.’ I smile tightly, wondering what she’s referring to. I glance down at my skirt; there are no bits of grass or azalea petals sticking to it that I can see.

‘You’re so funny,’ she adds with a rich, throaty laugh. ‘Well, it’s lovely seeing you out having a good time. You
deserve
it, Alice.’

‘I’d better get home,’ I say quickly. ‘Got a night’s baking ahead …’

‘Good luck with that,’ she says with a smirk. I say goodbye, still perplexed as to why she kept looking at me in that way – faintly appalled, but also rather thrilled by my obvious wantonness. I march quickly to my front door, and hurry upstairs to my slightly stale-smelling flat (the milkshake odour still lingers, I’m sure of it) to study my reflection in the mirror in the hallway.

And there I see the worst case of beard rash I have ever seen.
Shit.
Charlie wasn’t even that stubbly, at least not that I’d noticed. Sexiest man I’ve met since God knows when, and it turns out I’m allergic to him.

To take my mind off my disfigurement, I tear into whisking up eggs and sugar and pipe the mixture, in slightly wobbly fashion, on to the trays. They are marbled pink from the sieved raspberry I’ve swirled in, and flecked with chips of toasted almond. Once my first batch is in the oven, I call Ingrid and fill her in on the day’s events.

‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry,’ she exclaims. ‘Is it really bad?’

‘Hopefully it’ll be gone by morning,’ I say, feeling calmer now. ‘And there’s nothing to apologise for. We had such a great afternoon.’

‘And he asked you to go to Paris with him? Are you sure it wasn’t an April fool?’

‘Thanks,’ I tease her. ‘You think men only ever offer to whisk me away as some kind of seasonal prank?’

‘Of course not,’ Ingrid retorts. ‘I’m sure loads of men would love to take you to Paris. But, you know, after
one
lunch …’

‘Well,’ I murmur, ‘like I said, it was lovely. A bit reckless. Can’t remember the last time I did something like that.’

She chuckles. ‘So you’re sure you’re not going to jump on a plane with him?’

I smile, breathing in the warm, sugary aroma that’s filling my kitchen. ‘Of course not,’ I say, omitting to add that I would actually love to, very much.

Mum rolls in just after eleven, a little tipsy and unable to stop herself from remarking, ‘You’re all pink around the chin, Alice – have you had a reaction to something?’

‘No, Mum,’ I fib, ‘my skin just flares up from time to time.’

‘Why would that be?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe the cream I’ve been using …’

She tuts. ‘You do have a lot of potions in your bathroom.’ Compared to her, she means; Mum uses only Imperial Leather soap. ‘Awful lot of money,’ she goes on, perhaps referring to the serum I bought last week, a blowout purchase of £2.99.

‘Anyway,’ I say, to deflect her attention from my face, ‘how was your day?’

‘Lovely. Perfect, in fact.’ She smiles with her lips pressed together. ‘Have you heard from that dentist again?’

I smile and pour her cocoa: a dark, rich cupful instead of a mug, the way she likes it. ‘We had a quick chat this morning.’

‘And …?’

‘And
nothing
, Mum. I hate to disappoint you but I think we’re just going to be mates, which is fine. I haven’t met a new man friend in a very long time.’

‘That’s nice,’ she says unconvincingly. We part with a hug, and it’s a relief to escape to my bed and replay the day’s events.

Kissing in the Botanic Gardens, on the very patch of grass where the boys and I once ate our egg sandwiches and bags of crisps. Will he call, when he gets back from Paris? If not, I decide, I’ll phone him – definitely. Then my mind races ahead, and I’m actually boarding a plane to Paris, having asked Clemmie to look after the boys overnight. What’s the worst that could happen? That Charlie and I discover that, fleeting attraction aside, we have little in common? Well, so what? We’d be in
Paris
. I haven’t been to Paris since I was pregnant with Logan, and Tom and I wandered around holding hands, with me in gargantuan dungarees and a permanent smile on my face.

Mum pokes her head around my bedroom door, making me flinch in the glow of my bedside lamp. ‘Maybe some chamomile lotion would help.’

‘Sorry?’

‘For your face, Alice. To take the heat out of it.’

‘Er, I don’t have any, Mum. Anyway, I’m sure it’ll die down on its own.’

‘Hmmm.’ She makes no move to leave. Perhaps she feels lonely in Fergus’s room. At home, she always has Brian to talk to. ‘So what have you been doing today?’ she asks, looking sleepy now.

‘Just had lunch with a friend, then we went for a stroll around the Botanics.’

‘A man friend?’ she enquires.

‘Yes.’

‘Was it the dentist?’ she asks, hovering in the doorway with a hopeful smile.

I consider lying, but realise how pointless that would be. ‘No, someone else. But I did call Stephen, and he says anything less than three millimetres is absolutely fine, so both of us can sleep easily tonight.’ She blinks at me, confused. ‘I mean I don’t have an overbite,’ I add cheerfully.

‘Oh,’ she says, sounding a little disappointed, before disappearing off to bed. My mobile bleeps on the floor and I snatch it, greedy for further communication with Charlie – but it’s Tom.

Weather still great
, he writes.
Everyone seems to be enjoying Skye.
Jessica loving being with her brothers. Would it mess up your plans if we stayed away longer and kept the boys until Friday?

I glance out of my car window at the lambs nibbling grass through gaps in the fence at the roadside. The sun is struggling through a hazy sky, and I’m filled with the kind of smug pleasure you experience when you’ve leapt out of bed and cooked a full fried breakfast, all the while making the kind of pleasant conversation befitting a properly grown-up daughter. Naturally, I omitted to tell Mum that I am going to Paris with Charlie tomorrow, who she hasn’t even had the opportunity to vet, and certainly wouldn’t approve of. Reviewing yolk pluckers and cream-horn moulds – what kind of career is
that
? Plus, I shudder to think what she’d have made of us ignoring the beautiful architecture of the glasshouses in the hallowed Botanic Gardens in favour of kissing on the grass …

I’m filled with a delicious sense of anticipation as we speed over the moors towards her cottage. It’s as if yesterday flicked some kind of switch, triggering a distinct recklessness to the point at which I no longer fear anything, because really, with the boys staying up in Skye, I couldn’t think of a single reason not to go. Viv was right, I
do
worry too much – about Logan and Fergus, and whether we have enough batch-cooked meals in the freezer to see us through a famine, and where I put all those school trip permission forms which I filed away for ‘safekeeping’. Now all that’s gone. Of course I’ll be Mum again in just a few days – and it’ll be lovely to see the boys, as long as Logan is speaking to me – but right now, I’m going to drop off Mum and go home to get ready for Paris. Where I will drink wine, and eat delicious food, and
stay in a hotel with a man
. I could actually scream with excitement, if Mum wasn’t sitting in the passenger seat beside me.

Our parting is unusually fond, perhaps because our two days have gone pretty well, considering. I drive away slowly – my usual tactic, so she doesn’t think I’m eager to leave – admiring the lambs and recalling how, when the boys were little, they would nag me to stop the car at this time of year so they could watch them playing. These days, now that Logan and Fergus don’t care a jot for livestock, I often experience a pang of nostalgia on seeing them playing in the fields. But today feels different. I no longer feel sad about anything. I turn the radio up loud – it’s a cheesy chart song the boys would scoff at – and put my foot down, smiling at the realisation of what is happening to me.

I am going to Paris with a man I barely know, and it’s fine, it’s better than fine …

I am so excited I actually let out a yelp of delight.

*

But first, business must be attended to. Back home, I have last night’s marathon bake to deliver, so I pack them in neat rows in large, flat boxes, and drive over to Betsy’s.

‘I wondered if you could deliver an extra batch tomorrow?’ Jenny says, plucking one out of a box and biting into it. ‘I was going to ask for some chocolate ones but forgot to mention it last time …’ She pulls an apologetic face.

‘Sorry, I’ll be away, but I can make them over the weekend, no problem.’

Jenny smiles. ‘Going somewhere nice with the boys?’

‘Er – no, they’re on Skye with their dad. I’m going away with a friend actually, to Paris.’

‘Oh, how lovely.’ Jenny gives Max a sharp nudge in the ribs. ‘Are you listening to this? Other people do fun stuff. They don’t just sit at home with a box set.’

‘And they don’t have a cafe to run,’ I say, laughing, my head whirling with the rest of today’s tasks: pack, unearth passport, prepare myself for spending a night in a hotel room with Charlie.

Back at the flat, I call Kirsty to fill her in on the latest development.

‘Lucky you,’ she exclaims, amidst what sounds like a brawl in the background.

‘I thought you’d disapprove, that you’d say I’m mad to go …’