Take Mum Out (29 page)

My arm shoots out like a robot’s as I grab a bottle by its neck.

‘Ooh, looks like
you
fancy a drink tonight, darling!’

I spring round, bristling defensively until I realise it’s Clemmie. ‘Don’t ask,’ I say, laughing. ‘Anyway, looks like everyone’s here tonight.’

‘Are you surprised?’ She grins, indicating Pascal as he chats charmingly to some elderly customers from behind the counter. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous? That sexy voice! Must be good for business …’

‘You know it’s his place?’

‘Really? I did wonder …’ She drops her voice to a whisper. ‘You should get in there, Alice. A thriving business
and
drop-dead handsome in that sexy Gallic way. I imagine he’s just your type.’

I burst out laughing again. ‘You
are
joking. I don’t even know if he’s single—’

‘Find out then! Do some research. If you don’t,
I
will …’ She turns and beckons over two tall, pink-cheeked blondes who are dressed in coordinated shades of red and grey. ‘Rachel, Olivia, come and meet my friend Alice …’

‘
You’re
the one who made the amazing meringues for the Morgan party,’ Rachel exclaims. ‘God, they were good.’

‘Glad you liked them.’

‘The three of us worked on the event together,’ Clemmie adds.

‘With Clemmie at the helm,’ Olivia explains. ‘She’s amazing, a
powerhouse.
The most dynamic person I’ve ever met …’

Clemmie tosses back her freshly blow-dried mane. ‘Well, it is my job. Oh, Alice, I wish you’d let me pull something together for your fortieth …’

‘Is that coming up?’ Olivia asks.

‘Yes, but I’m sort of hoping it slips by unnoticed.’ I smile tightly and take another glass of wine from a passing tray.

‘Why?’ she frowns. ‘Come on, it’s meant to be a real biggie, an excuse to throw the kind of party you’ve always wanted.’

‘Or have a trip,’ Rachel cuts in. ‘One of those holidays-of-a-lifetime …’ An image flashes into my mind: of me and Fergus on a beautiful beach, and Logan a speck in the distance, parked on a towel which he’s carefully positioned half a mile away so as to minimise contact.

Clemmie clutches at my wrist as if taking my pulse. ‘It’s not fair to pressurise you, sweetie. I know you don’t like being the centre of attention and if you’re not in the mood, well …’ She shrugs and gives me a pitiful look.

‘I honestly don’t think I could face a big do,’ I admit.

Rachel nods sympathetically. ‘I’m not sure what I’m going to do for mine.’

‘But I remember yours,’ Clemmie says. ‘It was years ago.’

‘No,’ she titters, ‘I mean my fiftieth …’

‘You’re nearly
fifty
?’ I bark, far too loudly.

‘Yes.’ She laughs ruefully. ‘But don’t shout about it.’

‘But … you look amazing.’ It’s true: her skin is flawless, glowing, as if illuminated from the inside. I’d have put her at late thirties at the very most.

Rachel winks and sidles closer. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret. I see a great guy about three times a year and he’s made all the difference.’

‘You mean you’ve had stuff done?’ I bite into a herb-flecked crostini.

‘Just a bit.’

‘Go on,’ Clemmie cajoles her with a chuckle, ‘tell Alice your entire treatment history.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly,’ she giggles. ‘But he’s amazing. If you’re interested, his name’s Anthony Lane and his clinic’s—’

‘In the New Town,’ I cut in. ‘Yes, I know him actually.’

‘Oh.’ I can sense Rachel scrutinising my face.

‘I don’t mean I’ve been to him,’ I add hurriedly. ‘I mean, er, I had dinner with him once.’

‘God, did you? You mean a date?’ She looks hugely impressed.

‘Sort of. Well, yes.’

Rachel glances round at the others, eyes wide. ‘I’ve told you about Anthony. He’s absolutely gorgeous. Mid-forties but looks so much younger, really takes care of himself
and
very sexy.’ She grins at me. ‘God, you lucky thing.’

‘Er … he wasn’t really my type,’ I say with a smile.

‘Really?’ She blinks at me.

‘We just didn’t click,’ I say, trying to shoo away the memory of his jabby tongue.

‘But think of all the free treatments you could have had,’ Olivia teases with a gravelly laugh. For a moment, I prickle at the suggestion that I might have considered sleeping with him in return for a little light Botox around the crow’s feet. Then I remember that, just twenty minutes ago, I was considering servicing truckers out on the moors, so perhaps I am being a little oversensitive.

‘I’m not sure it’s the right way to go,’ Clemmie adds. ‘You do look great, Rachel, but didn’t you say you couldn’t raise your eyebrows after that last shot?’

‘Eyebrows aren’t that important,’ she retorts, ‘in the grand scheme of things.’

We all laugh, and Clemmie nudges me and adds, ‘I think you should grab another glass of that wine while we think of something you
can
do to mark your birthday.’

I smile, flattered that she cares so much. ‘I’d love to stay a while but the boys will be wondering where I am. Um … I’d actually stomped out in a bit of a huff.’

‘Oh, nothing serious I hope,’ Clemmie says.

‘No, just a silly little thing.’

‘Alice,’ she adds grandly, ‘is an
amazing
mum to two lovely boys.’ I grin awkwardly, not knowing how to respond to that, then say my goodbyes. As I make my way through the crowd, clutching the paper bag containing my wine, I’m already vowing to be all smiley and non Führer-like when I get home. Damn, maybe I should have bought them a treat after all.

I’m almost at the door, about to leave, when one of the serving girls appears at my side, bearing a tray of tiny raspberry tarts. ‘You must try one of these.’ She smiles, flicking her ash-blonde fringe from her eyes.

‘Go on then.’ I pick one up and bite into it; she’s right, it’s delicious.

‘Amazing,’ I tell her. ‘My God, that is the best.’

‘Have another if you like.’

I laugh, wondering how it’s possible to make pastry so light and melty, to perfectly hold its filling of crème pâtissière and plump, sweet raspberries.

‘Well, if you insist.’ I take a second tart and devour it virtually in one. ‘D’you think I could buy a couple of these to take home to my sons?’ I ask. ‘They’d love them.’ And it would make up for me blowing my money on wine … oh, hell. I have precisely £3.01 left in my pocket …

‘Just take them,’ the girl murmurs. ‘Grab one of those paper bags from the shelf and I’ll pop them in for you.’ She grins conspiratorially. ‘Pascal will never know.’

‘Thanks,’ I say warmly, glancing back to see him through the crowds, being jovial and attentive with everyone, and wondering what he made of my meringues. I feel foolish now, expecting him to stock them; how can I compete with these heavenly tarts? He catches my eye and makes some kind of gesture, and a brief smile lights up his face. I smile back, then realise how awkward it’ll be if he comes over – how he’ll feel obliged to say something about my meringues, while I act all blasé and say it’s fine, I didn’t think they’d be his kind of thing …

I hurry out of the shop, clutching the tart bag in one hand and the wine to my chest as if someone might try to wrestle it from my grasp.

I spend Wednesday morning desperately trying – and failing – to keep my mind on work. Where the hell is Tom, and why won’t he speak to me? Didn’t Patsy ask him to call me back? It doesn’t help that it’s a hassly morning with a plumbing emergency in the boys’ loos, caused by some bright spark using about five thousand sheets of loo paper, plus a clog-up of parents in the office all firing questions and requesting various forms, none of which I can locate at the moment.

I know it’s my job, and most of the parents are lovely; however, there is a small core who regard school not as excellent free childcare with some learning thrown in, but as something to wage war against. Why was Irn-Bru offered at the school car boot sale before the Easter holidays? someone wants to know. Why aren’t there CDs available of the choir’s last performance, and when will Sophie McLelland be given a solo spot? (I politely point out that my responsibilities do not extend to the choosing of soloists.) And now Belinda Troop has barged into the small, cramped office and thrust a stapled wad of A4 at me, covered in signatures.

‘Here’s a petition,’ she barks, flaring her nostrils like a vexed pony.

‘What about?’ I frown at her, conscious of the
bzzz-bzzz
of my mobile as it vibrates somewhere on my desk.

‘Teachers having the car wash man round after school.’

I blink at her. ‘But it’s only once a month and it’s always long after the children have gone home. It doesn’t actually affect anyone …’

I’m desperate to grab my phone and see who’s just called in case it’s Tom. But Belinda is glaring at me across the cluttered desk, brandishing the petition. I take it from her and try to regard it with interest.

‘I didn’t realise this was an issue,’ I remark.

‘Well, it is when it’s happening in our children’s playground.’
Yes, but we’re talking about washing cars, not nude mud wrestling …

‘It’s just, some of the teachers find it really useful,’ I go on as the lunch bell rings, long and shrill, and not before time either.

‘The thing is,’ she says, towering over me in her spotted shirt and candy-pink pencil skirt, ‘things get washed
off
cars and on to the ground. It’s a hazard and every parent here –’ she jabs at the petition – ‘wants it to stop.’

Christ-on-a-bike. ‘What kind of things get washed off?’ I ask as my phone starts vibrating again. I grab it; it
is
Tom. So he’s alive, at least. No fatal injury with a trowel.

‘Oil,’ she announces.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t—’

‘Oil can be washed off the cars and sit there on the tarmac.’

I am starting to feel as old and gnarled as that human skin book in the Surgeons’ Museum. ‘I’ll pass on your concerns,’ I say, willing her to leave the office so I can call Tom back.

‘They’re not
my
concerns, they’re the concerns of all—’

‘The people who’ve signed this,’ I say, ‘about the oil. Yes.’

‘I have noticed a few spots of it,’ she adds darkly.
Bzzz-bzzz
. There goes my phone again, third time now.

‘Sorry, I really have to take this,’ I say firmly as I answer the call. ‘Tom? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days.’

‘Um, yeah, Patsy said you’d called …’

Belinda is still standing there, arms firmly folded. What is she waiting for – the Pearl & Dean jingle, or a hot dog?

‘Well, we need to talk about Logan, don’t we?’ I say in a tight voice.

‘Guess we do,’ Tom replies with a sigh.

‘Hang on …’ I hiss, blinking at Belinda. ‘Thanks for bringing in the petition. I’ll call you as soon as there’s any feedback, okay?’

She nods.

That means
please go away now.

Mercifully, she turns and leaves the office as I mouth
BYE-BYE
at the back of her shiny blonde head.

‘Tom, where the hell have you been?’ I hiss.

‘I’ve just been busy, I’ve had stuff on—’

‘You didn’t think I’d want to speak to you about Logan moving into your stable?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘He’s our son, not the baby Jesus,’ I snap.

‘It’s a
barn
,’ Tom corrects me as I get up, shrug on my jacket and grab my bag, then make my way out of the office.

‘The thing is,’ I continue through gritted teeth, ‘you discussed this with Logan without even mentioning it to me. What the hell were you thinking?’ I push the main door open and march outside.

‘Yeah, sorry, it just kind of came out.’

I’m crossing the playground now, which appears to be oil-free, despite Belinda reporting a spillage disaster on an Exxon scale. ‘What d’you mean, it just came out?’

‘We were just chatting one night over a few beers—’

‘You gave Logan beer?’ Sue, our head teacher, gives me a look of surprise as we pass at the ornate iron gates.

‘He
is
sixteen,’ Tom reminds me.

‘You tipped alcohol down his throat!’

‘Christ, you make it sound like I forced it on him. He was actually quite keen to try it—’

‘Of course he was! What d’you expect him to say – “No thank you, Dad, I’d rather have a lemonade”?’ I clamp my mouth. Standing just outside school is not the place to be shouty. ‘Okay,’ I mutter, ‘so you gave him alcohol …’

‘It was beer, not absinthe,’ he snaps.

‘… And then you announced that he could live with you …’

‘We were just having a chat,’ Tom says coolly.

‘… Without even clearing it with me …’

‘How could I clear it with you? What was I supposed to say – “Stop talking, Logan. We must speak of this no more, at least not until I’ve okayed it with Mum …”?’

‘Don’t be facetious,’ I growl.

‘
Well
.’

We fall into a huffy silence as I march along, past shops selling scented candles and antique mirrors and hand-painted tiles, things people can’t get enough of around here.

‘Listen,’ Tom says finally, ‘I didn’t plan it. Like I said, it just came up, and I was surprised at how keen he was.’

Great. Just bloody great.

‘But it wasn’t a this-is-definitely-going-to-happen kind of thing.’

‘Well, Logan thinks it is,’ I point out.

‘Um, well, that’s … fine.’

‘What does Patsy make of all this?’

‘She’ll be
fine
,’ Tom says, sounding less confident now. Alarmingly, my eyes are filling with tears, to be noted and commented upon when I return to school after lunch.
Have you been crying, Miss Sweet? No, just some kind of allergic reaction … to MY SON LEAVING HOME.

I clear my throat. ‘It sounds like she’s not remotely fine about it,’ I venture. ‘I mean, I know you have Jessica, and Patsy’s a great mum – but a teenage boy is a very different proposition.’

‘Not really,’ Tom says in the kind of weedy voice that makes me want to shake him. ‘She’ll be okay, honestly.’

‘You mean you haven’t actually mentioned it?’

‘Look, she was in the camper van with Fergus and Jessica—’