Take Mum Out (28 page)

By the time I turn into our street, both Kirsty and Ingrid have both expressed horror at Logan’s plans. (I knew Kirsty would be especially aghast – all three of her kids were virtually strapped to her body for their first two years of life; back then, she was a firm believer in ‘
wearing
your children’.) I let myself into our block, realising with shame that I didn’t ask Ingrid what’s happening about her eggs being harvested this week, and decide I’m a pretty cruddy friend, too.

I dump my bag in our hallway, relieved that I’m home before Logan and Fergus, and call Tom’s landline for the umpteenth time.

‘Patsy?’ I say when she picks up. ‘It’s me, Alice. I’ve been trying to get hold of Tom. Is everything all right?’

‘Erm, it’s fine,’ she says, in the kind of brittle tone that says things are patently
not
fine, then she adds, ‘Sorry, Alice, bit caught up at the moment. I’ll ask Tom to ring you, okay?’ And she clonks the phone down. While I don’t want to read too much into our brief exchange, it sounds as if they were possibly in the middle of a row. Wasn’t that the main reason I split from Tom – so the boys wouldn’t grow up in an atmosphere of seething resentment? I knew it would be tough, and they’d miss out on dad-type stuff – but then I figured that we could possibly survive without his day-to-day input. This, of course, was long before his reincarnation as Monty Don.

The boys arrive home tired and faintly grumpy, and although I try to give Logan some space, I can’t help prowling around him, like a cat.

‘I just need to understand why you’ve come to this decision,’ I blurt out as we clear the table after dinner.

‘I don’t want to talk about it now.’

‘It’s just, you do know their house is in a tiny village—’

‘Yeah, I’ve been loads of times, haven’t I?’

‘And you don’t even like the countryside. You think it’s boring. You said you
couldn’t see the point of it
, remember?’

‘Yeah, that was different. That was near Grandma’s.’

‘It’s still countryside, isn’t it?’

He eyes me disdainfully as if I am an irritating child, then shuts the dishwasher with a bang and disappears to his bedroom.
If you’re so fond of the country
, I want to shout after him,
how about living at Grandma’s for a while with the malfunctioning septic tank and her delicious lunches – see how you get along there?
There’d be no pancakes or takeaway pizzas, no Xbox to boggle your brain for hours at a time …
I don’t, of course. I just stomp off and do lots of silent swearing in the bathroom, marvelling at – on top of the grey hairs this morning – the new facial crevices which seem to have appeared since Logan’s announcement. Perhaps I should get back in touch with Anthony, see if he’d do me some fillers in exchange for a smack on the arse with my spatula. I look exhausted, frankly, like a particularly tragic ‘before’ picture in a makeover, under which the caption would read, ‘Alice had
completely
let herself go …’ Is it really only five days since I was giggling tipsily in the Marais and snogging Charlie in the street?

The next evening, mainly by keeping my mouth clamped tightly shut, I manage to not mention Tom’s glorious outhouse at all, even to suggest that, post-renovations, it’ll probably still stink of horse shit. Right now, the best tactic seems to be to carry on normally as if nothing untoward is happening at all. Logan heads out to his usual Tuesday guitar lesson down the road, and when he comes back, he actually invites Fergus into his private lair to play on the Xbox. There’s the sound of rapid gunfire and many explosions, and part of me wishes that my kids had grown up like Kirsty’s wholesome trio, or Ingrid’s daughter Saskia, happy to while away the hours making flapjacks and little clay owls and tinkle away on the piano. But at least they’re hanging out together. That’s a good sign, surely. Maybe Logan is softening, and all that living-with-Dad stuff was just a whim after all. I spend the evening trying to build on this glimmer of hope.

First, I try to woo him by baking one of his favourite treats – not my tedious meringues, but apple crumble. While the crumble is great, the custard is less successful, but at least the vigorous beating required helps to dispel any lingering tension in my brain. I even transport bowls of pudding to the boys in Logan’s room, gliding back and forth with a beatific smile on my face, like a stoned waitress.

‘Thanks,’ they mutter, eyes glued to the screen. Then, instead of throwing Logan’s laundry from the dryer into a basket, I actually fold each item – even his pants, like he’ll really appreciate that. I’m about to return his fragrant clothes to his room when I catch a snippet of conversation from behind the closed door: ‘She tries to be nice and everything but she’s such a
Nazi
.’ That’s Fergus speaking. Fergus, who I actually thought still liked me, perhaps because I managed to ‘rescue’ Rex, ahem.

‘Yeah, she is a bit,’ Logan replies.

‘She’s like one of them top Nazis, the ones in the long coats and the caps with the shiny peaks …’

‘Haha,’ Logan guffaws as my blood starts to curdle, not unlike the custard I just made.

‘What d’you call the top Nazi?’ Fergus asks.

‘Commandant?’

‘Nah, something else …’ The rim of the heavily laden plastic laundry basket digs into my fingers as I stand, motionless, outside Logan’s room. How dare they? Do they have no idea of how incredibly
un
-fascist I am? They have friends around constantly, watch virtually anything they want to on TV,
and
there’s no consequence to speak of when someone sullies my cleansing cloth in the most degrading manner imaginable.

‘
Obergruppenführer
!’ Fergus exclaims.

‘Yeah, that’s it.’ There are peals of raucous laughter as I back away with my basket, heart pounding, face burning hot. At least they’re having a bloody fine time, insulting me, after I made a crumble
and
folded twelve pairs of Topman boxer shorts – who needs so many pants anyway?

‘Spoilt, spoilt, spoilt,’ I mutter, storming back to the kitchen, dumping the basket on the floor and grabbing my jacket from a chair.

‘I’m going out,’ I bark, back in the hall now.

‘Where’re you going?’ Fergus yells.

‘Out.’

Logan’s bedroom door opens and Fergus’s head appears around it. ‘Are you going to the shops?’

‘Yes.’ I soften momentarily at the sight of his perky face. ‘D’you want something?’

‘Could you get those chocolate sticks, the ones you dunk in hot milk?’

‘They only do those in Pascal’s. I wasn’t planning on going there.’

He frowns. ‘Why not?’

Because everything costs eight thousand pounds …
‘It’ll be shut,’ I reply, heading for the door and clattering downstairs, realising I don’t have the faintest idea of where I plan to go.

I don’t have my purse with me either, but never mind that. I march down our street, grateful for lungfuls of cool evening air after all the cooking and pant-folding and being likened to a senior-ranking Nazi. While the high street is usually bustling – there’s a decent selection of pubs and restaurants as well as our collection of rinky-dinky shops – our residential road tends to be quiet. There are tenement flats on either side, and three large, creamy-stone detached houses at the high street end; Clemmie’s is the biggest and finest, the one with the walled garden and the annexe on top. I could pop in and have a good old grumble, but wonder if being in her gleaming kitchen with its island the size of Fiji and special fridge
just for wine
will actually make me feel any better about my own life.

I could, of course, just keep walking with no destination in mind. Doesn’t every parent fantasise about doing that occasionally? I could walk and walk until Edinburgh peters out into open countryside, the kind of featureless terrain that Logan ‘doesn’t see the point of’. And I’d be fine, even without money. I could feast on wild berries – does anything edible grow in April? I could ask horticultural expert Tom, but he seems to be avoiding me at present. Anyway, if things became desperate I could barbecue some roadkill, and when I was sick of
that
, I could service a passing trucker in order to buy myself a loaf of bread. Do roadside hookers exist in rural places? I’d be a novelty if I was the only one. God, I could probably make more in one swift transaction than I do from a whole night’s baking.Would the boys even notice I’d gone? Probably not. They could go feral, feasting on dry cereal scooped straight from those mini variety boxes they so love. They could throw wild parties where people are sick in the bath, and break the world record for Time Spent on the Xbox, handsets welded to their sweaty paws. Occasionally, Fergus might say, ‘Wonder when Mum’s coming back with our hot chocolate sticks?’ Then his attention will be caught by a massive explosion on screen and he’ll forget all about me.

I turn the corner and head along the high street, trying to wrestle my thoughts back into some semblance of order. Somehow, I’m going to have to get through the next seven weeks leading up to Logan’s departure without being in a simmering bad mood all the time. It can’t be good for my health, or my business; how can I possibly bake shop-worthy meringues when my head is swirling with angry thoughts? They require patience, and a light touch – qualities that don’t come easily when I’m under duress. If I carry on like this, they’ll end up like bitter, joyless grenades. And I must remember that Logan is sixteen, i.e. old enough to know his own mind. Who am I to decide he should live with me?

On a more positive note, the small lump I’ve just noticed in the hip pocket of my jeans turns out to be a scrunched up ten pound note. Perhaps, if I’m careful, I can put off being a prostitute until the weekend, when people might be more inclined to treat themselves.

My phone rings, and I snatch it from my back pocket, expecting it to be Logan or Fergus remembering something else they want me to fetch them from the shops. Which I will dutifully buy them, because I am the sort of fascist dictator who dutifully scurries along the biscuit aisle to grab the Caramel Logs they so enjoy.

But it’s not them – it’s Giles. ‘Hi, Alice?’

‘Hi, Giles,’ I say distractedly.

‘How’ve you been?’

I try to steady my breathing. ‘Fine. Good, actually. I’ve been to Paris …’

‘That sounds fun …’

‘Oh, it was.’

A small pause. ‘Did you get my text?’

‘Yes, sorry, I meant to reply—’

‘That’s okay,’ he says brightly. ‘Just wondered if you’d like to get together later this week?’ I’m still walking briskly, and as I approach the top of the hill I can see that there’s some kind of event happening in Pascal’s.

‘I’m not sure. It’s just … life’s a bit hectic at the moment.’
And, apart from that one brief text, you haven’t exactly been in a tearing hurry to contact me.
Then again, maybe that’s the way it works these days. Dating etiquette is, I realise, as baffling to me as Medieval literature.

‘Friend’s having a private view,’ Giles is saying, ‘at Space, that gallery just down the hill from Harvey Nicks … d’you know it?’

‘Er, yes.’
Why
do I pretend to know places I’ve never heard of? To sound less geriatric?

‘Thursday evening, starts at seven, just a few drinks … you’ll love his stuff.’ I can’t help smirking at that; for all Giles knows, my idea of great art might be a crying Pierrot print. ‘Fancy coming along?’ he prompts me.

‘Can I let you know?’ I’ve arrived at Pascal’s now, the lovely aromas of baked goods and cheeses forcing me to a halt. On the pavement a chalked blackboard announces, in ever-so-pretty French handwriting:
Tuesday April 9 * tasting evening * open till late * drop in and try our delicious new ranges.

‘Sure,’ Giles says as I step into the busting deli. ‘Anyway, sorry, I didn’t realise you were out—’

‘That’s okay.’

‘Sounds busy for a Tuesday night …’

‘It is a bit.’

‘Where are you?’ Ah, now his interest is piqued. I am a woman about town who goes to lively places – on a school night too. And I’m not going to spoil the illusion by saying, ‘I’m actually in a shop.’

‘Just a little place near my flat. Better go.’

‘Sure. Have a fun night and let me know about Thursday … I’d really like to see you again.’

My mouth curls into a smile as we finish the call. Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I glance around, not quite sure why I’ve ended up in the deli. Staff are milling around with trays bearing all kinds of delights – tiny samples of cheeses and pâtés on crostini, plus miniature raspberry and apple tarts. A wine tasting session is happening at one end of the shop; spotting Jacqui from school, chatting animatedly with Moira, our deputy head, I zoom over and am offered a glass containing a tasting measure by a caramel-limbed girl who flashes me a broad smile.

‘It’s our new Burgundy, just in,’ she explains.

I take a sip. ‘Mmm, it’s lovely.’

‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ agrees Jacqui. ‘I’m going to buy a couple of bottles.’

‘We’re going for a drink afterwards,’ Moira says, ‘if you fancy joining us.’

‘It’s okay, thanks. I was just, er, on my way to pick up some shopping and noticed this was happening …’

‘You were lured in,’ Moira laughs. ‘I know the feeling. I love this place, can’t walk past without popping in for a little something …’

‘That reminds me,’ I say, placing my empty glass on a passing tray, ‘the boys asked me to pick up some of those hot chocolate stick things.’

‘They’re in a basket in the corner,’ offers a tiny blonde girl with another tray.

‘Great, I’ll grab some before I forget.’ I squeeze my way through the chattering groups, but by the time I reach the chocolate sticks, and realise I’d only get three for my tenner, I am overwhelmingly distracted by the display of Burgundy on the neighbouring shelf. I know it’s bad, and that I’m putting my own fierce desire for booze before the whims of my sons, but hell – that’s probably what Hitler would do too. Only he didn’t have children. But if he
had
, I doubt if he’d have experienced a second’s remorse in brushing off a casual request for what amounts to a gimmicky way of making a very ordinary hot chocolate.