Great
, he replies.
Will call you Gxx.
Two kisses? Seems rather forward, although I find myself smiling all the same.
By Tuesday evening, Clemmie’s meringues are ready to go. With no help from Logan, I might add – although Fergus has spent about ten minutes carefully packaging a few tiny, pastel-coloured kisses into clear cellophane bags, and boy-hero Blake has hand-written the labels in beautiful calligraphy script. It’s almost eerie, a sixteen-year-old boy being able to write legibly, let alone scripting
‘
Handmade for the Morgan Hotel by Sugar Mummy
’ on three hundred tiny buff-coloured labels. I’d be no more surprised if his next task was to perform a complex medical procedure on a human eye.
‘They look great,’ I enthuse as Fergus, Blake and I set about attaching the labels to the cellophane bags while Logan hovers around in a supervisory role.
‘You should pay him, Mum,’ Fergus suggests.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Blake replies, ‘I like doing stuff like that’, while Logan guffaws as if he’s just admitted to a love of embroidery. It’s gone ten p.m. when the boys help me to carry the filled boxes up the street to Clemmie’s.
‘These are amazing,’ she exclaims. ‘God – the colours. So pretty! And the dusting of glitter on the lilac ones …’
‘Blake’s been a huge help,’ I tell her. ‘He did the lettering for all the labels.’
‘Well, he is very artistic,’ she says with a trace of pride, as it strikes me that perhaps I don’t boast about my own sons enough. Of course, I adore my boys; we are a gang, the three of us – yet so often I seem to fixate on small annoyances. I’d hate to think I’m turning into someone who puts down her kids, like Mum and her, ‘Ooh – you’ll be glad I gave you that diet’ remarks.
‘You will come to the party tomorrow night?’ Clemmie says, handing me a glass of wine which I accept gratefully.
‘You mean the Morgan do?’
‘Yes, I’ve put your name down with a plus one …’
‘Oh, I’m sorry – I’ve got something on.’
‘Where are you going, Mum?’ Fergus asks.
‘Just out,’ I say lightly, feeling my cheeks burning. I’d tell Clemmie, of course I would – she is always amused by my occasional dating forays, and I’m grateful that at least someone derives entertainment from them. But the boys are aware that I was out with Fat-Tongue Man a mere four days ago, and I don’t want them to think I’ve become
frenzied
.
‘Who with?’ Fergus wants to know.
‘Er, just a friend of Viv’s,’ I reply, relieved when the conversation swerves to the forthcoming party with its live music, vast seafood bar and savoury lollipop canapés. And by the time we’re getting ready to leave, I’m in pretty high spirits.
‘So you boys are off on a week’s holiday tomorrow,’ Clemmie says as she sees us out.
‘Yeah,’ Logan murmurs.
‘Hmm.’ She smirks. ‘Off the leash, eh, Alice? God knows what kind of debauchery you’ll be getting up to.’ At that, everyone sniggers for slightly too long. Is it really that funny, the idea of me doing something a little bit … well, not debauched exactly, but just for fun?
‘She’ll be having the
girls
round,’ Logan quips as we step out into the cool spring night.
‘What’ll you do really?’ Fergus asks as we head home.
‘Oh, just the usual. Bit of batch-cooking, catch up on a few jobs around the flat …’
While his brother strides ahead, Fergus ambles along at my side. ‘I’ll actually miss you, Mum.’
‘I’ll miss you too,’ I reply, only just managing not to take his hand. ‘It won’t be the same without you.’
‘Well,’ he adds with a sly grin, ‘you can always phone me if you get
really
lonely and depressed.’
*
School breaks up for Easter next day, meaning an early finish for me and the boys. Yet, although we’re all home by three, I’m wishing now that Tom and Patsy were picking up the boys tomorrow so it wasn’t so horribly rushed. As it is, Tom has already called en route to say they’ve passed Carlisle and should be with us by four. That gives me forty-five minutes. Christ.
To explain, I’m not usually a terribly appearance-focused person, as Botox-Anthony would testify. My hair, which is long and dark brown, is usually pulled up into a topknot affair, in the hope that its messiness will be interpreted as ‘artfully undone’ and not a complete state. As for daily beautification, we’re generally talking a speedy lick of brown mascara and tinted lip balm. (Unless we’re visiting my mother, in which case I’ll do my eyes properly – old school, using all three shades of an eye shadow trio, in the hope that it’ll detract from the size of my arse.) And there you have it. Except on the rare occasions when Tom and Patsy are coming, when we’re talking a level of grooming generally enjoyed only by a dressage horse.
So, while the boys gather together the last of their things, I apply a full face of make-up and give my hair a quick spritz and blow-dry. I even dig out a rather glitzy top to wear with my newest jeans. Why go to such lengths? Well, there’s the date with Giles, of course, but that’s hours away (and, to be honest, I’d rather not dress up too much for such a young pup in case it hints at middle-aged desperation). No, I am ashamed to admit that my efforts are entirely for Tom and Patsy’s benefit – to show that, even though my home is unlikely to feature in
Stylish Living
magazine, I am still capable of looking presentable.
I’m just slicking on some
extra
lipstick in the bathroom mirror when I remember my tainted cleansing cloth lying behind the loo. I pick it up delicately, by its sole clean corner; it really does look as if someone’s wiped their bum on it. Why would anyone do this? Perhaps I’m more uptight than I’ve realised about the boys going away, because before I know it I’m marching furiously to the kitchen with the cloth dangling between thumb and forefinger. I know, too, that it’s ridiculous to snatch a clear plastic freezer bag from a drawer, drop the sullied cloth into it and tie it up with a little wire bag tie, then grab a leftover blank meringue label and write in big bold capital letters: EXHIBIT A.
‘Can you tell me what this is please?’ I’m in the living room now, dangling the bag in front of Logan and Fergus who gaze up at it from the sofa.
Fergus frowns. ‘I thought you’d bought us a goldfish for a minute.’
‘No, it’s not a goldfish,’ I reply.
‘I can see that. What is it – a dirty hankie? Why’ve you got it in a bag?’
Logan gives it a quick glance before flicking his eyes back to the screen where David Attenborough has encountered a baby rhino on an African plain. ‘Is it an oily rag?’ he murmurs.
‘Why would I have an oily rag in a bag, Logan?’
He shrugs. ‘Dunno. Maybe you’ve been fixing the washing machine or something?’
‘It’s neither of those things,’ I start. ‘It’s my special cleansing cloth.’
‘What?’ Logan mutters, eyes fixed on the screen.
‘For cleaning my face. Except now it appears to have poo on it.’
Fergus narrows his eyes and peers up at it. ‘Oh yeah.’
‘Yes, exactly, so could you tell me who did it?’
‘Not me,’ he says firmly.
Logan shakes his head. ‘Nah.’
‘The thing is,’ I say, knowing it’s the wrong time to get into this, but unable to stop myself, ‘it’s just not fair, boys, using my things without asking …’
‘So if I’d
asked
if I could wipe my bum on your cloth, that would’ve been okay?’ Logan chortles.
‘Oh, so it was you!’
‘No! No, I just mean … hypothetically.’ On TV, the baby rhino is making an endearing squeaking noise.
‘Can’t you just get another one?’ Fergus asks.
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it came with the …’ I tail off as David Attenborough explains, in his lovely mellow voice, that the baby rhino is blind and desperately needs a cataract operation. And here I am, banging on about a sodding scrap of muslin …
‘What, Mum?’ Fergus asks distractedly, eyes glued to the screen.
The doorbell buzzes. ‘Nothing, love.’ I swallow hard, blinking rapidly in the hope that that’ll clear my vision, which is fuzzing rapidly as my eyes fill with tears.
Fergus turns to me with a solemn gaze. ‘You’ve upset, Mum,’ he snaps at Logan.
‘No I haven’t. What have I done? I’m just sitting here, watching TV!’
‘
Hypothetically
,’ Fergus mocks him as the doorbell buzzes again.
‘That’ll be Dad at the door,’ Logan offers. Without further discussion, and dabbing my eyes on my sleeve, I leave the room, furious with myself at getting upset over a stupid cloth at the precise moment when my carrot-cultivating ex is standing on the pavement outside. Phone, front door – it’s my duty to answer these, like a butler. Sometimes I think I should wear white gloves and carry a little silver tray. Not right now, though, as here comes Tom, all smiles and lush, wavy dark hair, still looking irritatingly youthful as if preserved in aspic; followed by Patsy, tastefully highlighted with apparently no make-up at all, and smelling fresh, like a spring meadow. There are hugs all round, and Jessica, who’s just turned four, very sweetly plants a kiss on my cheek.
‘What’s that?’ she asks. I realise I’m still clutching Exhibit A.
‘Oh, just a bit of dirty material, love.’
She fixes me with wide blue eyes. ‘Why’s it in a bag?’
‘Um, I was just about to put it in the bin. Anyway, come on through to the kitchen, there’s a fresh batch of meringues waiting for you. I’ll just put the kettle on … Boys, are you pretty much ready to go?’ There’s nodding and mumbling as they drift off to fetch their rucksacks.
‘You look great, Alice,’ Patsy says, while Tom grabs a meringue from the towering stack on the table.
‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘so do you. So, how are things? How’s the business going?’ As she fills me in on Dandelion’s latest triumphs, Logan reappears, grabbing and tickling Jessica, making her squeal with delight. It warms my heart to see him making a fuss over his adorable little sister.
‘We’re lucky,’ Patsy tells me, sipping the mint tea she requested. ‘We’ve had lots of great publicity and Tom’s brilliant on the creative side. Things are going better than we could have expected …’
‘I saw you in
Stylish Living
,’ I say with a grin.
‘Oh, that,’ Tom blusters, cheeks flushing instantly.
‘It was through a friend of a friend,’ Patsy adds. ‘Just a great plug for the company. We’d never have done it otherwise …’
And how
is
the purple sprouting broccoli?
I want to ask Tom, but manage to restrain myself.
‘Well, I think you’ve done it all brilliantly,’ I tell Patsy. It’s true: in flogging pyjamas, she has somehow managed to sell the very essence of a perfect childhood. It’s all about walking in the woods, and coming home rosy-cheeked to feast on buttered crumpets at the fireside. In Dandelion world, no one wipes their arse on a Liz Earle cleansing cloth.
‘Honestly,’ she says, casting her beloved a fond glance, ‘I couldn’t have done it without Tom.’
‘And your house looked amazing in the magazine. I never realised …’
‘Oh, it’s a wreck really. It’s incredible what they can do in photos.’ Patsy emits sparkly laughter and I sense that vein again, throbbing urgently in my neck.
‘I’ve told you loads of times how nice it is,’ Fergus says.
‘… But she wasn’t listening,’ Logan quips, causing everyone to laugh. ‘Anyway, Jessie, are you looking forward to sleeping in the camper van?’ He knows full well that Patsy prefers people not to shorten Jessica’s name.
‘Yeah,’ she grins at him. ‘I’m getting the best bed.’
‘No you’re not,’ he teases, ‘I am.’ She squeals with laughter as Logan starts to chase her around the kitchen table, deftly grabbing a pink meringue from the plate as she hurtles by.
‘God, these are good, Alice,’ Tom says with a full mouth. ‘Nice and fruity, not too sweet …’
‘Oh, don’t let Jessica have that!’ Patsy blurts out, scuttling towards them.
‘But they’re yummy,’ her daughter exclaims.
‘Jessica, you’ve had one already …’
‘I haven’t!’ she roars, still gripping the meringue as Patsy swipes it from her grasp. I glance at Tom, who is expressing rapt interest in the view from the kitchen window as if he’s never been here before.
‘Mummy-I-want-a-meringue …’ Jessica’s face crumples.
‘I’m sorry, darling, but you can’t have it.’ Patsy gives me a firm smile. ‘It’s just, you know – the sugar.’
‘Oh, I thought just one might be okay …’
‘I’d rather not. She’s very young. It’s …’ She pulls a terse little smile. ‘Her teeth.’
‘Of course, yes.’ Sensing my cheeks burning, as if I’ve been caught offering her cocaine, I glance down at Jessica who is crying heartily now, despite Logan wrapping a conciliatory arm around her shoulders and Fergus trying to show her his translator.
‘We’ve got some banana bread in the car,’ Patsy offers, her face creased into a frown.
‘Don’t want banana bread …’
‘Darling.’ Patsy bobs down to Jessica’s level. ‘It’s your favourite, I made it specially for you yesterday—’
‘DON’T WANT BANANA BREAD!’ she shrieks, mouth crumpling, fresh tears springing from her eyes.
‘Jessica,’ her mother snaps, ‘stop this.’ She stands up and turns to me. ‘I’m so sorry, Alice. She doesn’t normally behave like this. She’s probably just tired after the drive …’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, placing the offending plate of meringues on a high shelf while Patsy whisks Jessica off to the loo.
Tom clears his throat. ‘Patsy’s just a bit, y’know … careful about what Jessica eats.’
‘So I see.’
‘They
are
delicious, though,’ he adds with an apologetic smile. ‘So how’s your business going?’
‘Not bad. To be honest, I have as many orders as I can cope with while still having a life …’
‘And how is, um …
life
?’
I shrug. ‘It’s fine, Tom.’
‘Seeing anyone just now?’ he asks lightly.
With a small laugh, I reach for a rose-flavoured meringue from the plate. ‘When you say life, you mean love life, right?’
He laughs awkwardly. ‘Just curious.’
‘Well, there’s nothing to report,’ I say firmly. ‘So anyway, d’you reckon you’ll get to Skye tomorrow?’