Take Mum Out (30 page)

‘Tom, I can’t believe you haven’t even discussed this with Patsy!’

‘I
will,
and she’ll be fine …’

‘You keep saying that,’ I cut in, ‘as if you’ve, I don’t know, ordered a new stair carpet without checking with her first. But you’re foisting a sixteen-year-old boy on your wife, Tom—’

‘He’s my son,’ Tom snaps.

‘I know that.’ A weird gulping sound pops out of my throat, like something a toad might make. ‘It’s just, I’m so upset I can’t tell you …’

‘I … I’m sorry, Alice,’ Tom murmurs. And that’s where our conversation ends, because if we carry on in this vein, my pink, puffy face will scare the kids so much, Belinda Troop will probably organise a petition about it.

*

I scramble through the afternoon, mainly by keeping my head down and dealing with gargantuan amounts of filing, and arrive home just before the boys. While Fergus lopes in in his usual
feed-me-now
sort of way, Logan is eerily jovial.

‘Good day, Mum?’ he asks.

‘Er, yes, fine thanks, love.’
Apart from discussing your looming departure with your father and blubbing in the street, it was bloody fantastic.

‘Great.’ Awkward grin. ‘Right, then. There’s stuff I need to do in my room and I might be quite a while.’

As I start to prepare dinner, aware of loud knocking and banging coming from his room, I figure that the kind of ‘stuff’ he’s talking about isn’t chemistry revision. I’m itching to investigate, but am holding out for as long as possible, to prove that I do possess some willpower after all.

Four minutes later I’m rapping sharply on his bedroom door. ‘Can I come in, hon?’

‘Uh, yeah. I’m warning you, though, it’s a bit of a mess.’

I push open the door and survey the scene. Logan is sprawled on the floor on his belly, unscrewing something and surrounded by numerous sections of MDF.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask, frowning.

‘Taking my chest of drawer to bits.’

‘You mean your new one? The one I built for you?’

He looks up, and his smile – just like his little boy’s smile – twists my heart. ‘Yeah. I wanna take it to Dad’s so I thought I’d get it ready.’

‘By turning it back into flatpack?’

‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘I’m
deconstructing
it.’ For a moment, I don’t know how to respond. It’s his keenness that gets me; the fact that, even with seven weeks and a whole pile of exams to get through, he’s so thrilled to be leaving that he’s getting ready now. Like when he was seven years old, and we’d booked a family holiday to Majorca, and I discovered his Finding Nemo rucksack all packed in his bedroom a full three weeks before our flight.

‘You could probably take it without deconstructing it,’ I say dryly. ‘Is Dad planning to hire a van to move your stuff?’

‘Dunno.’

I fall silent and retreat from his room, trying to come to terms with the fact that this is how the next few weeks will be. It will involve Logan taking stuff to bits, and packing his books, CDs, games and guitar, and being all jovial and smiley like the sunny little boy he used to be. I know I should be relieved that at least he’s cheerful for once. But I’m also aware that he’s only happy because he’s off to a place where there’s no
Obergruppenführer
, where he will be allowed to drink beer.

It’s okay,
I tell myself as I start to get ready for my date with Giles.
In fact, we might get along better when there’s some distance between us.
However, as I carefully apply eyeliner and lipstick, I suspect that no amount of Revlon’s finest will make me appear full of
joie de vivre
tonight.

Although I’d pretended to know the gallery, I’ve actually had to Google its address. The truth is, I don’t tend to frequent places where the cheapest artwork is around nine hundred pounds.

‘You won’t be expected to buy anything,’ Viv points out when she calls. ‘It’s a private view, not a Jamie Oliver cookware party.’

‘I know but …’ I pause, reminding myself that I turn forty in just over a week’s time; I should know how to look appreciatively at art. And it’s all right for Viv, who buys proper paintings – not even prints – as casually as M&S knickers. Her living room is dominated by a huge canvas depicting a chaotic dinner party, which I love and always make a big show of pretending to steal whenever I’m round there.

‘Just go and have a glass of wine and admire the pictures,’ she instructs.

‘Right.’

‘And, Alice, give him a chance, would you? Giles is a lovely guy.’

She’s right, I decide, having seen the boys off to Clemmie’s where they’ve been invited to a sci-fi screening up in the annexe, as Blake now has a projector (amazingly, it would appear that even the prospect of having virtually unlimited access to such a facility isn’t enough to persuade Logan to stay). As it’s still too early to set off, I also Google the most recent Ofsted report for Thornbank High, the school Logan assumes he’ll go to, hoping it says:
School completely out of control. Teachers lying about drunk. Massive penis ‘drawn’ on the sports field with weedkiller …

The report is headed: ‘This is an outstanding school’ and goes on: ‘Exceptionally strong in English, mathematics and science … teachers are highly committed, devoting much of their spare time to offering extra support …’ Ah. I decide to phone Tom to ask if he’s actually enrolled Logan at this establishment of academic excellence. ‘I’ll give them a call later this week,’ he says vaguely. I want to point out that it’s probably a little more taxing than that – i.e. he might have to actually fill in a form, with a
pen
– but can’t face another terse exchange right now, not just before my date. I’ve noticed that more and more situations are making me blotchy of face these days, and if I’m not careful I’ll start looking that way all the time.

I set off, trying to feel full of hope, and wondering how this evening will turn out. Giles is extremely good-looking, it has to be said – and it’s flattering to be invited to such an event. I mean, we’ll be
visible
at the exhibition. This suggests that he doesn’t just want to shag an old lady to see what it’s like.

As it turns out, I spot him milling about with a glass of red wine as soon as I step into the brightly lit gallery. He is wearing skinny jeans and a fine-knit sweater with two curious details: a breast pocket embroidered with a flamboyant gold skull, and a little knitted belt.

‘Hey,’ he says, smiling broadly and kissing my cheek, ‘great to see you. What would you like? Red, white, champagne?’

‘Champagne would be lovely, thank you.’ Hell, why not?

He goes to fetch me a glass, giving me the chance to check out the art, which he reckoned I’d love. And I really
want
to love it. This will be so much easier if I can be genuinely enthusiastic; in fact, that’s the only way it’ll be bearable because, I realise now, everyone is around Giles’s age, or even younger. In fact, most of them look as if they are barely out of college. There are bursts of youthful laughter and all the men appear to have either three-day stubble or decorative facial hair – and all their own head hair too.

‘So what d’you think?’ Giles asks, handing me a glass and surveying a row of evenly spaced artworks. They’re not paintings, but collages, using maps as their base and adorned with what I can only describe as various splatterings. I’m reminded of Hamish being carsick on the way home from North Berwick.

‘They’re interesting,’ I say. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like them before.’ That’s true, at least.

‘Maurice is really innovative,’ Giles offers.

‘I can see that,’ I say, flinching as he snakes an arm around my waist. It feels too much, too soon in the evening.

‘Excuse me a sec,’ I say, beetling off to examine an enormous map with bits of paper napkin and sugar wrappers stuck all over it, with the words,
Why are we here?
painted across them in gold ink. Does the artist mean here – i.e. alive, on earth – or somewhere more specific, like … I peer closely at the map for a place name … Milton Keynes? I glance back at Giles who flashes me an undeniably saucy grin. Is he drunk, I wonder, or feeling especially up for it tonight? Perhaps he’s still at the mercy of rampaging adolescent hormones? God, this is weird. He’d been mildly flirty that night at the Italian restaurant, but this is different: the way he’s looking at me with a sly, slow grin, doing that checking-out-your-boobs thing which men seem to think women don’t notice. In fact, so intently is he gazing at my tits, I glance down to check that a bra underwire isn’t poking out through my top.

Someone wanders over to talk to him, and they embark on what seems like a pretty intense, muttered exchange. The other young man has a shock of startling auburn hair, like a fox.

‘Alice,’ Giles calls over, flapping his hand, ‘come and meet the artist, a great friend of mine.’ Gripping my glass, I make my way across the room, quickly formulating positive things to say about his work.

‘I’m Maurice,’ he says, extending a hand.

‘Hi Maurice. I’m Alice. Your work’s really, uh, interesting.’

‘Thanks,’ he says, a smirk playing on his lips as he glances at Giles; what’s so funny?

‘These are great, Maurice,’ Giles says quickly. ‘The whole exhibition hangs together so coherently, you know?’

‘Well, I hope so,’ Maurice says, still giving Giles odd looks, as if trying to communicate something – but what? Perhaps,
Why are you with this woman when this room is filled with gorgeous girls with an average age of twenty-five
…
?

I take a fortifying sip of champagne. ‘So, what’s the idea behind the maps?’ I ask.

‘Uh, it’s about man’s futile attempts to formalise his environment,’ Maurice replies, bringing to mind Logan’s bedroom and my futile attempts to formalise that. ‘And how nature wreaks havoc with the topography of our minds,’ he goes on, still smirking infuriatingly as if possibly taking the piss, while I wonder if what he’s actually done is make pictures from the debris he found lying about on the floor of his car.

‘That’s fascinating,’ I say, struggling now.

‘So, um, where did you two meet?’ Maurice asks, arching a brow.

‘I work with a friend of Alice’s,’ Giles explains, flushing a little.

‘And how
is
the internship going?’ Maurice wants to know.

‘It’s fine,’ Giles says, a trace of irritation in his voice, which I take as my cue to turn away and study a collage consisting of leaves and ripped-up doilies, reminding me of the one Fergus made at nursery, which is still proudly displayed on our fridge. Now Giles and Maurice are muttering again, until Giles snaps, ‘Yeah, all
right
.’ I glance around the gallery, trying to plot my escape. My glass is empty but I don’t want another as that would mean staying for longer; that’s how bad it is, that I’m passing up free champagne. The door opens and a woman who’s easily six foot tall has swept in. And I mean
literally
swept, in a long, swishy black coat, her pale blonde hair piled up artfully to expose a long, elegant neck. She spies Giles and Maurice and strides over.

‘Hi, how lovely this is,’ she drawls, planting a kiss on each of their cheeks.

‘Hello Eleanor,’ Giles says, forcing a smile.

‘Lovely work,’ she says, turning her attention to Maurice.

‘Really glad you could come,’ he says, sounding rather less than sincere.

‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, darling.’ Giles thrusts his hands into his pockets, looking horribly flustered. At once, I know he’s slept with her. I can understand why; she is stunning close up, all savage cheekbones and sparkly blue eyes. She is also aged around fifty. Giles’s cheeks flush even pinker as he introduces us, and sweat has sprung from his upper lip. After a moment’s polite chit-chat, she too glides away, and I’m compelled to follow her and try to figure out what’s going on.

I find her admiring a collection of ceramic bowls in aqua tones, arranged on white cubes of varying sizes. ‘These are lovely, aren’t they?’ I remark. It’s true: they gleam beautifully, like the pearlised interiors of shells.

‘Better than those godawful collages,’ she whispers with an earthy cackle.

I snigger. ‘I’m not too keen either but I didn’t like to say.’

She grins and touches my arm. ‘They remind me of interminable car journeys when my children were little …’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ I reply, beginning to relax for the first time this evening.

‘Ugh,’ she shudders, ‘all those emergency stops in lay-bys … mind you, map-reading always made me feel a little queasy. I’m sure that’s why my ex insisted on me doing it, while he drove.’

‘Oh, mine too,’ I say, conscious of Giles shooting us alarmed looks across the gallery.

Without asking if I’d like one, Eleanor hands me a glass of champagne from the nearby table, taking one for herself. ‘So you were relegated to the role of navigator too?’ she asks with an engaging smile.

‘Yes, I was. At least, as soon as he’d passed his test, despite the fact that I’d been driving for years. And on the rare occasions when I had to drive – when he’d had a drink, usually – he’d sit there terrified in the passenger seat, gripping the door handle for support, as if that would save him.’

Eleanor laughs even louder this time. ‘What is it with men who can’t bear to inhabit a car with a woman at the wheel?’

‘I have no idea, but it seems to be horribly common.’ I sip my drink, no longer seized by an urge to escape.

‘It’s so nice to meet you, Alice,’ Eleanor adds. ‘These events can be terribly dull.’

‘What made you come?’ I ask. ‘Are you a friend of Maurice’s?’

She laughs. ‘I’m his step-mum. His dad’s away on business in the States so I had to show support really.’ She leans closer, adding, ‘You’re not a step-mum, are you?’

‘No, just a mum.’

‘Ah. I was hoping you could offer me some tips.’

‘Afraid not. So, is it quite a new marriage then?’

Eleanor nods. ‘Nearly six months, and we’d only been together for another eight months before that.’ She rolls her eyes and laughs. ‘Fools rush in.’

‘And …’ I pause, wondering how to put this. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you and Giles …’