Фиона Гибсон – Take Mum Out (страница 9)

She is slurring a little, and he regards her with horror before backing out of the kitchen.

‘Thank your lucky stars you’re not a woman, Ferg!’ she cackles after him. ‘Our lives are so fucking complicated.’

‘Viv,’ I scold her, only half joking, ‘you’ve traumatised my poor boy. He’s thirteen. He doesn’t need to know alternative uses for haemorrhoid ointment.’

‘It’s good for him,’ Viv insists, ‘to learn about the quirks of womankind. You cosset those boys, keeping them all wrapped up in cotton wool …’ Christ, what is she on about? ‘Anyway,’ she adds, ‘never mind that. Who are we going to fix you up with after that disaster last night?’

‘No one.’ I crunch a rose-scented meringue.

‘Come on, there must be someone …’

‘What about Derek?’ teases Ingrid, flicking back expensively blonded hair.

I splutter with laughter. Derek is the janitor and sole male employee at my school, where Ingrid’s daughter Saskia is a pupil.

‘He’s lovely but he’s also pushing sixty, I’d imagine. I don’t want a boyfriend who’s twenty years older, thanks all the same.’

‘You don’t want a younger one either,’ Viv teases.

‘God, she’s choosy,’ Ingrid snorts as Logan barges in. He glances around, transmitting a silent message – Christ, pissed middle-aged women – even though Viv’s knocked back most of the wine so far, and is already grabbing another bottle from the fridge.

‘How are you, Logan?’ Kirsty asks pleasantly, causing his expression to soften. He likes her the best, approving of her earth-mummy credentials (although, when I jokingly asked if he’d like to be home educated, he shrieked, ‘God no!’).

‘Good thanks, Kirsty,’ he says gallantly, helping himself to a Tunnock’s teacake from the cupboard.

‘Not having any of these meringues?’ Viv asks.

‘Nah, maybe later.’

‘Poor boy’s all meringued out,’ Ingrid chuckles, sipping her tea as Logan beats a hasty retreat from the kitchen.

‘What a handsome boy,’ Kirsty declares.

‘Like his dad,’ I chuckle, and it’s true; however useless Tom may have been, he also happened to be one of the most striking men I’d ever met, if you go for that whole intense, brown-eyed brooding thing, which he – and now Logan – possess in spades. Plus, Tom is hanging on to his looks remarkably well. Due to a lack of stress or exertion, probably.

‘Anyway,’ Ingrid says, ‘I still feel bad about Anthony and his whisk thing.’

‘Oh, I don’t care about that,’ I declare, refilling Kirsty’s empty glass. ‘It did make me think, though, that I’m not going to bother going on random dates any more.’

Ingrid catches my eye. ‘And by random dates, you mean …’

I shrug. ‘Just some man who happens to ask me out.’

‘Why not?’ Viv asks, aghast.

‘Because …’ I shrug. ‘I’m not even sure I want to meet anyone. I mean, I like being able to please myself and not be answerable to anyone. And I kept thinking, when I was in that restaurant with Anthony with all the silly, tiny food, why am I doing this? I’d have had a nicer time at home with the boys.’

Kirsty gives me a concerned look. ‘That’s because you knew virtually nothing about him, apart from that he plays golf.’

‘We should vet the next man you go out with,’ Viv suggests.

‘I am thirty-nine,’ I remind them. ‘I can usually weed out the weirdos and whisk-pervs.’

‘I’d never have imagined a whisk could be considered erotic,’ Kirsty muses. ‘What d’you think he’d have made of your piping bag?’

We all snigger, then Viv adds, turning serious, ‘All I mean is, we could find suitable dates for you. If each of us picked someone – really carefully, I mean, putting lots of thought into it – then you’d have three really lovely, eligible men to choose from.’

I frown. ‘But surely, if you knew someone that appealing who you thought might be interested, then you’d have told me about him already.’

‘No, we wouldn’t,’ Ingrid declares, ‘because you’ve got this whole thing going on of, I am perfectly all right by myself, thank-you-very-much.’

‘You can even build flatpack furniture,’ Kirsty observes.

‘Well, yes – if you take it step by step it usually turns out all right.’

‘You’ve been single far too long,’ Ingrid observes. ‘Flatpack’s no fun unless there’s a load of swearing and someone storms out in a furious temper.’

I nibble a salted-caramel meringue; good, but the caramel shards should be ground finer so as not to stick to the teeth.

‘Okay, so you reckon I need someone to say, “Stand back, fragile maiden, allow me to fly into a complete rage while building this bookshelf for you.”’

Viv shakes her head. ‘No, you just need some fun.’

‘You mean I’m a miserable trout?’

‘No!’ everyone cries.

I laugh, appreciating their concern, but eager to swerve the conversation away from my sorry love life.

‘So what d’you think of these flavours?’ I ask, indicating the shattered remains of the meringues on the plate. ‘Can we put them in order of favourites?’ Everyone starts debating, and I scribble down comments and suggestions.

‘Our flavours sort of match us,’ Viv observes when everyone has nominated their favourite. She’s right; I’d have guessed she’d nominate pistachio and rose water, the on-trend flavour combination in confectionary circles. I expected Kirsty, fresh-faced with her tumble of light brown curls, to go for strawberries, while Ingrid – all languid beauty with her refined features and salon-fresh waves – is definitely a salted caramel girl (sorry – woman).

‘Shows how different we are,’ Kirsty agrees.

‘And how we’d all pick a very different sort of man for you,’ Viv adds with a grin.

There’s a burst of laughter from the TV in the living room. ‘I’m just not keen on the idea of being set up, you know?’ I venture. ‘It feels too … forced.’

‘But almost everyone’s set up at our age,’ Ingrid points out. ‘How else d’you think it happens, apart from online dating, which you won’t even consider?’

‘I just don’t want to turn it into a project,’ I say, feeling ever-so-slightly bossed around now. ‘Anyway, if you did all pick someone, what if none of them were right? I’m not being negative here, but it’s pretty likely, isn’t it? I mean, three isn’t that many.’

‘We’re thinking quality over quantity,’ Viv explains.

I nod, considering this. ‘But then, if it didn’t work out, I’d feel bad because each of you had put so much thought and effort into it.’

Kirsty shrugs. ‘It wouldn’t matter a bit. You could reject them all if you liked. It’s just a bit of fun.’

‘For you lot, maybe,’ I snigger, topping up my glass.

‘Oh, come on,’ Viv says, ‘just give it a try. I mean, who knows you better than us?’

‘We’ve known you for twenty years,’ Kirsty points out.

‘That’s sixty years’ combined experience of Alice Sweet,’ Ingrid says with a throaty laugh.

I crunch a pink-flecked meringue. Kirsty is right; the combination of heady strawberries, and the chewy sweetness of the meringue, are a perfect match. ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘I’ll give it a try.’

‘Brilliant,’ Ingrid exclaims.

‘We’ll start thinking of candidates,’ Viv announces as everyone starts babbling excitedly. ‘My God! You might even love them all …’

I laugh, buoyed up by the wine and being with the women I love most. ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘but let’s hope they’re not too appalled when they meet me.’

‘They’ll think you’re gorgeous,’ Viv declares, shaking her head. ‘God, Alice, what’s wrong with you? Have some belief in yourself.’

Chapter Five

‘Now, Alice, I’ve been thinking about your weight,’ my mother announces as the boys and I arrive on her doorstep next morning. It’s a thing with Mum – my appearance, I mean. Considering her fierce intelligence – until her recent retirement she was a university professor of Medieval Studies – she places an awful lot of emphasis on how people look. It’s probably why I’m wearing my favourite skirt and top, plus a cardi I absolutely love; cashmere, in a beautiful deep-raspberry shade, bought for my last birthday by Ingrid.

‘Have you, Mum? I’m kind of fine with the way I am,’ I say as the three of us follow her into her ancient, low-slung cottage. It stands alone, as if sulking, in the treeless landscape of the North Lanarkshire moorlands and seems to sag in the middle, as if someone has sat on it.

‘Well,’ she goes on, smoothing back her pewter-flecked hair which she wears in a long, low ponytail, ‘I just thought you might be interested in this diet I cut out for you. You know, if you wanted to lose a few pounds.’

Logan suppresses a snigger as we blink in the gloom of her kitchen.

‘What sort of diet is it?’ I ask pleasantly. The one where you exist on some terrible, fart-making soup? Or staple your mouth shut and eat nothing at all?