Take Mum Out (24 page)

He looks at me for a moment, and then he does it – he
rolls his eyes
, in precisely the way Logan does. What remained of my wilting libido has now shrivelled up into the tiniest ball, and is about to disappear forever.

‘I might,’ he says grumpily, ‘if I fancy a snack.’

‘Or tipping a yoghurt straight from the jar into your mouth because you forgot to steal a spoon?’

Charlie shrugs. ‘That would be all right.’

‘All right for you, maybe.’

He turns and stares pointedly through the glass doors towards the courtyard. ‘I don’t mean I expect another posh lunch,’ I start to explain, ‘and I know you’re not mean, Charlie. You’ve been incredibly generous since we left Edinburgh. You keep saying it’s all on expenses but they’re still
your
expenses, not mine, and I appreciate that …’

Charlie yawns without covering his mouth. ‘It only goes to waste, you know.’

‘What does? A
vase
?’

‘No,’ he huffs, wafting a hand in the direction of the depleted buffet, ‘all that.’

We slump into ill-humoured silence, and I’m sure the moustache man is laughing at us now; he keeps leaning across the table towards his wife, and the two of them are chortling away. I sip my cool coffee, wondering if this is to be a feature in my life: the business of food becoming a thing not of pleasure, but of disappointment and stress. Like the amuse-bouche with Botox-Anthony, and Mum’s stinky burgers, and now this: breakfasty things, re-presented hours later, because you never know when you’ll be hit by the urge for a sweaty cheese portion plucked from your pocket.

We start to make polite chit-chat, but it’s no use – everything has changed. Even as we head out to explore the Jardin des Tuileries, the mood fails to lift. While I buy a crêpe from the kiosk, Charlie says he has ‘plenty here, thank you’, having parked himself on a bench in order to pick at his spoils from the buffet. ‘Like one?’ He waggles a squashed pain au raisin at me.

‘It looks delicious, Charlie, but no thanks.’ In a fit of petulance, he rips it to bits and throws it down for the pigeons.

By the time we’re heading out by taxi to the airport, we have used up our final dregs of conversation, and when our plane touches down at Edinburgh airport Charlie has descended into barely speaking mode. Sulking, I suspect, because the only action he’s had is a measly snog.

‘Well, thanks again,’ I say, pecking his cheek as the taxi pulls up outside my flat.

‘It’s been fun,’ he says unconvincingly.

‘Yes, it has.’

‘Er … got much on this week?’ That’s all he can muster, conversation-wise.

‘Well, my boys are back tomorrow.’

‘Oh.’ He glazes over. ‘That’ll be nice for you. Hope Felix likes his dog.’

‘Fergus,’ I say. ‘He’s called Fergus.’

‘Oh yeah. So, uh …’ He bends to unzip the bag at his feet and pulls out the small white vase. ‘I nicked it for you, you know.’

‘No thanks,’ I say, conscious now of disappointment pooling in my stomach.

‘Suit yourself,’ he says, stuffing it back in. ‘Bye then. I’ll call you.’ We both know he won’t, and I don’t want him to either. I meant it when I said he’s clearly not tight, in that he invited me on the trip, and has lavished me with fabulous food and wine. Yet part of him
must
be, in that small, mean-spirited way. And somehow, petty meanness seems worse than stinginess on a grander scale, like my mother refusing to heat her house properly, or to have the septic tank seen to. It’s penny-pinching, and it sucks all the joy out of life.

Oh, I know I should focus on all the fun we’ve had these past twenty-four hours: the screaming with laughter over his riverbank shoot, and giggling like kids in the toyshop. Being far away from my shrunken little world has been lovely. But I also know I could never love a man who takes his good fortune for granted, not pausing for a moment to reflect on how lucky he is.

I climb out of the taxi, glancing back to wave goodbye. Charlie is staring gloomily ahead and, as the car pulls away, he extracts a mini cheese from his pocket and devours it in one bite.

The boys are dropped off at lunchtime on Friday. The handover is brief and a little awkward; Tom seems distracted, and in a terrible hurry to ‘get on the road’, while Patsy and Jessica don’t even get out of the camper van. ‘Is everything all right?’ I ask in a general, addressing-everyone sort of way.

‘Yeah, it was great,’ Fergus says with genuine enthusiasm, while Logan zooms straight for the living room.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ I hiss at Tom as Fergus wanders off to join his brother.

He shrugs. ‘He’s fine, I think. Maybe just tired after the drive.’

‘He doesn’t seem in a particularly good mood …’ I glance in the direction of the living room where the TV is already blaring at old person’s volume.

Tom blows out air. ‘He’s been fine, they both have. Anyway, I’d really better be off. Bye, boys,’ he calls through.

‘Bye, Dad,’ they both reply.

‘Boys,’ I call out, ‘come through and say goodbye to Dad properly.’ They appear in the hallway, each bestowing their father with a brief hug before hurtling back to the TV.

‘I’ll be off then,’ Tom says briskly, bounding downstairs as if he’s just delivered a fridge.

That
was weird. While Fergus seems fine, and appears to be the picture of health – face flushed and hair lightened by days spent outdoors – Logan appears anxious and even paler than usual. He has barely looked at me since they came home. I consider trying to quiz him further, but that’s always impossible when the TV is on. I could turn the telly off, but that sends out the signal that this is a Massive Deal requiring
everyone’s full attention
, and I don’t have the heart for that when they’ve barely been home ten minutes. No, I’ll leave them be and hopefully, if anything is wrong, I’ll be able to coax it out of Logan when he’s in the mood to talk.

Having gathered that the boys have eaten nothing since breakfast, I set about rustling up a favourite lunch of stir-fried prawns and noodles. Lured by the aroma of garlic and soy, Fergus appears in the kitchen. ‘Mmm, that smells great, Mum.’

‘I thought you’d like it.’

‘And I see you got Rex back from the charity shop.’ I smile stiffly, waiting for him to add,
but he looks and smells different
, despite the fact that the first thing I did when I got back from Paris last night was to grubby him up and attack him with a nail brush – thus achieving an authentic ‘worn’ effect – then put him through a hot wash cycle.

‘Er, yes,’ I say.

‘You put him on my bed.’ He chuckles. ‘That was nice of you. I’m not going to sleep with him, though—’

‘No, I know, darling. It was just a joke.’

He grins and slides an arm around my shoulders. ‘I know it seemed a bit stupid but Jessica wants him. In fact, maybe I’ll keep him. She’s probably forgotten anyway. Remember that holiday with Dad, where was it again …’

‘Devon?’ I suggest, trying to squash a flurry of guilt.

‘Yeah, that was it. And we did that mad thing of putting Rex in every single photo, remember? Like, he was at the table in that pizza place and sunbathing on a flannel on the beach, and …’ He stops, trying to think of further examples.

‘And you tied him to the bow of the boat when we went on that mackerel fishing trip—’

‘Yeah, that was great. He was our figurehead!’ Fergus laughs and rakes back his growing-out hair.

‘I’m amazed you can remember so much,’ I tell him. ‘You were only seven, you know.’

He taps the side of his head. ‘I’ve got a good brain. Grandma’s brain.’ Fortunately, he hasn’t recalled – or perhaps he’s chosen not to mention – that that was our last holiday as a family of four; one I embarked on filled with hope that two weeks together, in new surroundings, would help to fix things between Tom and me. However, despite wonderful highlights – building a fire on the beach, and feasting on paper cups of cockles as the sun slipped down – by the end of the trip, my reserves of patience had run out.

I clear my throat. ‘Could you fetch me three big bowls please?’

Fergus obliges, adding, ‘The great thing about stir-fry is it’s so fast.’

‘Yep, it’s one of the handiest things ever. You’ve probably had it at least once a week your whole life.’

He watches as I throw fat prawns into the wok. ‘D’you remember we were saying, instead of meringues, you should start making something that’s quicker?’ I frown, uncomprehending. ‘You know,’ he adds, ‘that doesn’t need the oven on for hours and hours?’

‘Oh, that.’ I chuckle. ‘The thing is, Ferg, stir-fry has to be served straight away, and the only way I’d be able to do that is to set up a cafe or a little kiosk or something.’

‘Well, you could …’

‘No thanks,’ I say briskly, whirling everything around in the wok and dolloping it into three bowls.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I already have a job, remember, and I enjoy it and have no plans to give it up. Whereas meringues can be fitted around work and done at night, or whenever I have a bit of spare time … they’re
flexible
.’

‘Actually,’ he says, grinning, ‘they’re crumbly and stiff. They’re about the
least
flexible thing there is.’

I laugh and call his brother. ‘Logan! Lunch is ready …’ He lumbers in and we all take our seats at the table, with Fergus making it clear that he’s not letting me off the hook just yet.

‘I just think we should be more green,’ he murmurs, spearing a prawn with his fork.

‘Hon, there’s nothing I can do about the oven thing, okay? We need the meringue money. I mean, I’d sit for hours, breathing warm air on them if I thought they’d cook that way, but I don’t think the kitchen inspector lady would approve of that.’

‘Dad and Patsy are really green,’ he adds slyly, at which Logan shoots him a warning look.

‘Yes, I’d imagine they are.’

‘Yeah,’ Fergus continues, ‘they’re getting this thing where they’ll collect rainwater in tubs and it’ll be piped into the house.’

‘That sounds good.’ I try, with difficulty, to swallow a noodle.

‘That eco-house on TV had a special toilet,’ Logan reminds me, ‘where all the stuff – the sewage – gets turned into—’

‘Odourless bricks that can be burnt as fuel,’ I cut. ‘Yes, I saw it too, but I’m afraid we’re not getting one of those.’

‘Why not?’ asks Fergus, looking crestfallen.

‘Because the residents’ association wouldn’t like it. Anyway, maybe the two of you could think about being green in other ways.’

‘Like what?’ Logan growls.

I set down my fork. ‘Like walking more and not using your Xbox so much.’

He looks aghast. ‘What would I do instead?’

‘I’m sure you could think of other, non-fuel-burning ways to amuse yourself,’ I tease him.

‘Like
reading
,’ Logan groans.

‘Yes. Or drawing beards on the ladies in the Boden catalogue.’ I grin as the two of them stare at me, then get up and wash out my bowl at the sink. When I glance back at Logan, his face is set in a frown. ‘I’m joking,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t even get the Boden catalogue.’

‘Hmmm,’ he mumbles. Shaking my head, I clear up the veg remains from the worktop; clearly, he’s in no mood for fun so I’m better leaving him to it. The two of them are bickering at the table now, about something I can’t quite catch, with Logan calling his brother a
swotty arse
and adding,
‘It’s none of your fucking business.’

‘Logan!’ I snap, swinging round from the worktop. ‘That’s enough.’

‘I only said—’

‘I heard what you said.’

‘
You
swear.’ He juts out his chin.

‘Yes, understandably, I’d say. Anyway, can I just point out that neither of you have thanked me for sprucing up your bedrooms while you were away?’

‘Oh yeah,’ Logan says, ‘I meant to ask, why did you move all my stuff?’

I blink at him. ‘I haven’t moved things. I just took a few things away.’

‘What’s the difference?’ Logan asks.

‘One means shifting things from one position to another and the other is subtraction, like maths.’

Fergus sniggers. ‘
What
did you subtract?’ Logan demands.

I’m trying so hard not to lose it. Christ, I deserve a medal for exercising such self-control. ‘Just some old socks, a few toast crusts and a plate with dried-up egg on it. I hope they weren’t precious to you, love.’

‘I s’pose that’s okay,’ he says reluctantly.

‘Are you sure, or did you want to hang on to the plate to see how long it’d take for it be completely covered in fur?’

‘It takes at least a month for something like egg yolk to putrefy,’ Fergus remarks, dumping his fork into his empty bowl. The boys leave the kitchen and, although I try not to follow Logan to his room, my willpower falters. I knock and peer in to see him lying on his bed and stabbing at his phone.

‘So, how was the holiday really?’ I ask.

‘It was all right.’

‘It’s just, you’ve obviously come back in a pretty foul mood and I wondered what was wrong.’

‘It was fine,’ he says, pursing his mouth, the face he pulls when he hands me a school report which he knows isn’t brilliant. I sense him trying to mentally shoo me out of his room:
Be gone, tedious mother, with your incessant questioning …

‘Were Dad and Patsy getting on all right?’

‘Yeah, they were
fine
.’

I study Logan’s face, which still looks winter pale; I do hope they fed him properly. I know how keen Patsy is to festoon Jessica with quinoa salads, and I hope she realised that most teenage boys aren’t crazy for that sort of thing.

‘So,’ I continue, ‘did you visit many places? Castles, that kind of thing?’

‘Yeah, we went to a castle,’ he replies.

‘What was that like?’

He shrugs. ‘Big. Old. There was a falconry display …’

‘Oh, what was that like?’

‘Mum,’ he exclaims, swivelling towards me, ‘it was a falconry display. There were big birds flying about, all right?’

‘Were they kestrels or hawks or—’

‘They were falcons, hence
falconry display
. What is this, a what-I-did-on-my-holidays thing?’ He emits a loud, bitter laugh. ‘Should I have kept a diary so you’d give me a sticker at the end of it?’