Everyone laughs, and I refill Ingrid’s mug with raspberry leaf tea. ‘I think you’re too picky,’ Viv drawls.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I say with a shrug. ‘I mean, I’m not prepared to get involved with a man just to, you know …
be
with someone.’
‘Don’t you ever fancy anyone?’ Viv enquires.
‘No. Well, yes. There is someone – he owns that lovely deli up the road, you know Pascal’s? I dropped off some meringue samples today and we were chatting …’
‘There you go then,’ Viv says, as if that’s all there is to it.
‘He’s probably married or gay, though.’ I look around at my friends, relieved that the tension has eased between Ingrid and Viv. ‘Anyway, I’m thinking about forgetting this whole dating thing. I know you were all trying to help, but I’m just not sure it’s working out for me.’
‘Let me find someone else,’ Ingrid cuts in. ‘Charlie doesn’t count because I didn’t actually know him. I must’ve had a rush of blood to the head after my fab-abs class. He was just
there
.’
Viv swings round to face her. ‘You can’t have another go. That’s unfair …’
‘It’s fine,’ I cut in quickly, ‘I don’t want to be set up with anyone else. I’ve had a great time – I’ve been to Paris, for God’s sake – and it’s coincided with the boys being away so it’s stopped me mooching about, feeling sorry for myself. But that’s the end of it.’
‘So you’re not seeing any of them again?’ Kirsty asks, sounding deflated.
I pop a morsel of delicious nutty cheese into my mouth. ‘I don’t think so. Have you tried this cheese? It’s French, made by monks.’
Ingrid pops a sliver into her mouth. ‘Oh, I know this. It’s one of my favourites. Why d’you think so many monks make cheese?’
‘I suppose,’ Viv suggests, fixing me with a squiffy grin, ‘when you take a vow of celibacy, you’ve got to find
something
to do.’
Saturday morning consists of a whirl of pancake-making for the horde of boys who stayed over last night. There’s much chatter and jollity around the table as I make a big pot of hot chocolate to serve French-breakfast style – which reminds me, I haven’t deliberately omitted to mention my jaunt to Paris. However, Logan clearly wasn’t in the sunniest mood when they came home yesterday, and I want to pick my moment.
With my mammoth frying session finished, and the boys and their friends having drifted back to Logan and Fergus’s rooms, I nip out for the paper and sneak back to bed to read it. When my phone bleeps, I assume it’s one of my friends texting further thoughts on how we might resurrect our ‘project’ – but, in fact, it’s the baby-faced intern.
Sorry haven’t been in touch
, he writes.
Crazy busy. Fancy a drink soon? Giles x.
Hmmm. I’m really not sure, especially after Viv’s ‘bearded lady’ theory. We could just be friends, but really, what would be the point? I have plenty of friends: as well as the inner circle, there’s Clemmie and a bunch of mums I met during the toddler group years, plus Jacqui, the classroom assistant at school, and a couple of teachers I go for drinks with occasionally. And, despite his obvious qualities, I just can’t imagine Giles and I simply hanging out together.
As soon as the last visitor has drifted off home, I wander casually into the living room where the boys are flopped out on the sofa; scoffing pancakes is clearly exhausting work.
‘I thought I should let you know,’ I begin, ‘that I was in Paris when you were away with Dad.’
‘Were you?’ Fergus stares at me, wide-eyed.
‘Why didn’t you say?’ Logan asks.
‘Erm, I’m telling you now, love. Anyway, I just went for one night and it was great, but I have to say, I kept thinking about you two and wishing you were there.’
‘Will you take us some time?’ Fergus asks brightly.
‘Yes, of course I will.’
‘When?’
I laugh. ‘One day, sweetheart.’
‘She always says that.’ Logan peers at me suspiciously. ‘So who did you go with?’
I start to gather up the few remaining drinks cans from their boys’ night in. ‘Just-a-friend. No one you know.’
‘Like a man?’ Logan wants to know.
‘Yes, it was a man,’ I say firmly, ‘but it’s no big deal, it was just a little trip.’
My sons’ eyes are fixed upon me, dark, intense, probing. ‘Was it Fat-Tongue Man?’ Fergus asks with a grin.
‘No,’ I splutter, ‘I won’t be seeing
him
again.’
‘Who was it then?’
‘Just someone Ingrid met, and he was writing a thing about Paris and asked if I’d like to go.’ I smile tightly.
Fergus frowns. ‘Are you going out with him?’
‘No,’ I exclaim, ‘and I’m pretty sure I’ll never see him again either …’
‘You keep saying that,’ Logan asks, a hint of amusement now playing on his lips. ‘How come you keep going out with
all
these men, then never seeing them again?’
I open my mouth, trying in vain to concoct some kind of feasible explanation.
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ is the best I can do.
*
Next morning, unable to face the boys flopping about the flat all day, I make an executive decision.
‘We’re going to the beach,’ I announce, having lured them from their beds with a prospect of a cooked breakfast.
‘Nah, it’s all right, thanks,’ Logan says, which I pretend not to hear.
‘Which beach?’ Fergus asks.
‘North Berwick,’ I say, in my best
wouldn’t-that-be-a-treat?
voice. It was a big favourite of ours when they were younger, with its gorgeous sweep of sand and craggy rocks to climb on.
‘All right,’ Fergus says noncommittally.
‘No thanks,’ Logan says, cramming his mouth with bacon.
‘Come on, darling. We’re all back at school tomorrow and I’ve hardly seen you over the holidays. Kirsty’s coming too – she’s bringing the kids and I said we’d meet her there.’
I get up to make more toast, wondering how far to push this. Whereas I really want Logan to come, I can hardly expect a sixteen-year-old to be overjoyed at the prospect of spending a day on a windswept beach with his mother. Then, to my delight, his mood changes. ‘Oh, all right, I’ll come.’
‘Great. Kirsty’s bringing a picnic …’
‘Uhhh, not one of Kirsty’s picnics,’ he groans.
‘Please, Mum,’ Fergus whines, ‘she never brings anything we like.’
‘Yes,’ I snigger, ‘because Kirsty is a fantastic cook and cares what her kids eat—’
‘Whereas we’ve been stuffed with sugar and additives,’ Logan snorts.
‘It’s a wonder we’ve got any teeth left,’ Fergus chips in, clearly enjoying the game as I start to rustle up a picnic of our own. And so, an hour later and armed with provisions, we set off.
The sky is a brilliant blue, with wisps of gauzy white cloud and, by the time we arrive, Kirsty has already set up camp in our favourite sheltered spot close to the rocks. Hamish and Alfie demand piggybacks from Logan while Maya, who’s just turned seven, tries to clamber on too.
‘You’re so honoured,’ I laugh. ‘I can’t imagine Logan doing that for anyone else.’
Kirsty smiles, accepting a handful of shells that Maya has collected for her from the flat, wet sand. ‘They’d actually like to adopt him as a big brother, wouldn’t you, Hamish?’
‘Yeah,’ he exclaims, all wide, toothy grin and a mass of chaotic blonde curls. All three of Kirsty’s kids are incredibly photogenic.
‘I’m actually surprised he agreed to come,’ I add, sprawling on the checked blanket beside her as all five of our offspring head off to explore the rocks.
‘Maybe he missed you more than he’s letting on,’ she suggests.
I shrug. ‘I very much doubt that. But, yes – he’s been slightly odd since he came back. A bit tetchy yesterday, then surprisingly agreeable today. Very up and down mood-wise.’
She shrugs. ‘I guess that’s teenagers for you.’
I nod, glancing over to where my boys are helping Kirsty’s children to climb to the upper reaches of the rocks.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I know it’s full-on when the children are little, but in some ways it’s simpler. I mean, it might not feel like it now, but you can control so much – what they eat, who they play with, how they spend their days.’
‘Guess you can,’ she says with a laugh, ‘in theory, at least.’
‘There were no nasty surprises on laptops back then,’ I add, ‘and remember how I used to fiddle the clocks on really desperate days and pretend it was night time at six o’clock? Then they grow into big, hairy teenagers and you can’t control anything at all.’
‘I still fiddle the clock,’ she sniggers as I set out our contribution to the picnic. Compared to Kirsty’s offerings of Thai noodle salads, savoury tarts and an array of exotic dips, ours are terribly workaday: hastily made sandwiches and crisps. ‘You don’t miss the old days, do you?’ she adds. ‘Remember how tough it was when you first split with Tom …’
I turn this over in my mind. ‘I don’t really. I mean, I’m not one of those mums who wants to keep her children little and playing with Duplo forever. It’s just confusing, you know? One minute Fergus is gawping at a smoking bum on his laptop and the next he’s devastated because I took his soft toys to the charity shop.’
Kirsty laughs, glancing towards the children in the distance. ‘It’s just lovely seeing them all hanging out together.’
‘It really is. Being with younger ones seems to bring out the best in Logan, especially. He’s great with his little sister.’
‘You’re lucky, you know. They’re both lovely boys.’
I smile. ‘I think sometimes I can forget that. They
are
great, and we muddle along somehow, and maybe that’s why I’m kind of happy on my own.’
‘Because you’re
not
on your own,’ she suggests.
‘That’s right. I mean, yes, it’d be lovely to have someone to grow older with, because we all know our children won’t be around forever—’ I stop abruptly as Kirsty’s expression changes. ‘Is something wrong?’ I ask.
Kirsty pauses and pokes a finger into the pale sand. ‘This will be their last term at home with me,’ she says firmly. ‘I’m done with it, Alice. I told Dan they’re all starting school after the summer holidays.’
‘Really?’ I exclaim, impressed by the determination in her voice.
‘Yes – spending all day with me just isn’t enough for them any more.’
‘Well, they’re sociable,’ I remark, ‘and they’ll love being with other children—’
‘Dan doesn’t see it that way,’ she cuts in. ‘He’s absolutely livid. Says we agreed we’d home educate all the way through—’
‘What, even when they’re sixteen, seventeen …?’
‘Yes!’ she exclaims, cheeks flushing an angry shade of pink. ‘How crazy is that? How the hell am I supposed to cover every subject to that level?’
‘I’ve no idea. Christ, I know I couldn’t …’
‘He says I can buy coursebooks and work through them but—’ She breaks off and turns to me, fury burning in her eyes.
‘God, Kirsty.’ I put my arm around her slender shoulders.
‘The thing is,’ she hisses, ‘I know it’s about more than the children and what’s best for them. It’s like he wants to keep me trapped in a little box, at home …’ She breaks off, brushing back her windblown hair distractedly.
‘Will you go back to work?’ I venture.
‘That’s the plan – at least, it’s
my
plan. I want to get back into nursing as soon as I can. I need my life back, Alice, and I want to earn my own money instead of having to ask Dan for every penny, and then have him quizzing me about whether I really need a dress
and
shoes, or if I could make do with my knackered Birkenstocks …’ She glares down at her feet in their battered old sandals. Then, as the children surge back towards us, driven by hunger, she somehow manages to switch back into the sunny earth-mummy persona she carries off so well, even when Logan and Fergus pointedly avoid her fabulous picnic offerings, ‘aubergine dip’ ranking as the devil’s work in their opinion.
With her children within earshot for the rest of the day, we can’t discuss what might possibly be going on in Dan’s mind. She seems cheerier, though, directing the kids to gather driftwood so we can build a fire and cook sausages for our second feast of the day. Logan appears to relish his role as chief sausage fryer, and it warms my heart to see him happy, involved and not gripping a remote control like some kind of crucial lifesupport system.
Finally, as our shadows lengthen, we haul everything back to our cars. ‘I want to go in Logan’s car,’ Hamish announces.
‘Me too,’ says Alfie. ‘Can we, Mum?’
Kirsty laughs, opening the back door for Maya to hop in. ‘Sure, if it’s okay with Alice.’
‘Of course it is,’ I say.
‘Looks like it’s just you and me then, Maya,’ she says. We set off, with Fergus beside me and Logan squished on the back seat in between Kirsty’s boys, our car filled with laughter and excitable chatter, the way it used to be.
‘Mum,’ Logan says as we head out to open countryside, ‘Hamish says he feels a bit sick.’
‘Okay, I’ll stop as soon as I can. Could you open the window for him?’
He does as I ask, and there’s some muttering I can’t catch, then Logan blurts out, ‘Mum, you need to stop
now
!’
‘Honey, I can’t, someone’s driving right up my backside …’
‘MUM!’
‘Lean over to the back, there should be some empty bags there, give him one of those … Hamish, are you okay, darling?’
‘I’m going to puke,’ he wails, and there’s a rustling of carrier bag followed by a violent splattering noise.
‘Mum! He’s puked!’ Logan shouts.
‘Oh, God. Are you okay, Hamish? I promise I’ll stop as soon as I can …’
‘I feel a bit better now,’ he whimpers.
‘Good,’ I mutter, frantically looking for somewhere to pull over.
‘… But this bag’s got holes in it …’
‘It’s leaking out all over Hamish’s trousers,’ Logan announces. ‘Ugh, I think I’m gonna puke too …’
‘Take it off him, open the window and hold it out—’
‘Stop the car, Mum!’ Fergus demands.
‘No, darling, it’s not safe, the road’s too twisty—’
‘It really stinks,’ Alfie announces. I glance back and can’t help twitching with mirth at the sight of Logan holding the dripping bag at arm’s length out of the open window.