FIONA GIBSON
Take Mum Out

Copyright

Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2014

Copyright © Fiona Gibson 2014

Cover Illustration: Lucy Truman

Cover design: debbieclementdesign.com

Fiona Gibson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9781847563651

Ebook Edition © March 2014 ISBN: 9780007469383

Version: 2015-04-09

For Gavin, for setting me up on a very significant blind date

(‘I don’t think he’ll fancy you though’)

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One: Inspection day

Chapter Two: Four months later

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five: Seven months later: Inspection day

A Grown-up’s guide to dating

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One
Inspection day

‘So you’re setting up a meringue business,’ Erica says as I show her into my kitchen.

‘That’s right,’ I reply. ‘I’ve been testing different recipes and I’m all ready to go – as soon as I have official permission, of course.’ I’m aware of this thing I do – of putting on an oddly posh, grown-up voice when I’m in the company of an Official Person. In her navy blue trouser suit, with her shiny auburn hair swinging around her pointy chin, Erica falls into this category. She is an inspector from the council’s environmental health department. Her job is to ensure that I don’t poison the public – i.e. that my fridge isn’t seething with listeria or my cooking quarters populated by mangy cats. They aren’t, of course, but still, Erica’s very presence is making me nervous. It’s like when you’re being followed by a police car while driving. Is something broken on my car? you start wondering. Could the wine I guzzled two nights ago still be swilling around in my bloodstream?

‘I love meringues,’ Erica enthuses, peering into my fridge which I’ve scrubbed so thoroughly even its light seems to shine more brightly. ‘It’s the texture, isn’t it? The crunchiness on the outside, the gooey bit in the middle …’

‘That’s right,’ I agree. ‘I imagine it’s impossible to feel depressed when you’re biting into a meringue.’

She laughs politely and marks a few boxes on the form attached to her clipboard. I try to sneak a look, but can’t read it. Anyway, I must stop feeling so paranoid. I spent the whole of yesterday preparing for her visit, and so far it seems to be going well. Erica caresses my cooker hob and ticks another box on her form. ‘D’you have a name for your business?’ she asks.

‘Yes, I’m calling it Sugar Mummy.’

‘Oh, that’s cute. That definitely has a ring to it. I assume you have children then?’

‘Yes, two sons.’

‘Sons,’ Erica repeats with a slight shudder. ‘Oh, I take my hat off to you. I don’t know how people cope with boys.’

‘Really?’ I say, acting surprised. In fact, I have encountered this anti-boy attitude on numerous occasions since Logan and Fergus were tiny; a fierce aversion to young males, as if they are not miniature humans but incontinent pitbulls, prone to violence and likely to pee wherever the mood takes them (as opposed to little girls who’ll quietly colour in and groom their teddies for weeks on end).

‘Well, I couldn’t,’ Erica asserts. ‘My sister has three and her place is a wreck. She used to collect Danish glassware and of course that’s all been trashed.’

‘Oh dear,’ I say, wanting to add, Why didn’t she put it away in a cupboard? However, it’s crucial to keep Erica on my side. I’m itching to get my business started, and need to convince her that Logan and Fergus won’t be constantly charging into my ‘professional’ kitchen, bringing in live bugs to show me or using my mixer to blend potions of rotting leaves and soil.

‘Well, they’re thirteen and sixteen,’ I tell her, ‘so we’re past that crazy stage now.’

‘Oh, teenage boys,’ she goes on with a dry laugh, ‘and their terrible bedrooms. Eugh. That horrible dank duvet smell …’

‘They’re actually incredibly helpful around the flat,’ I fib, trying to quash the defensive edge to my voice.

‘Really?’ Erica widens her eyes. ‘Handy with the Mr Sheen, then?’

‘Yes, very.’ Actually, they back away from it as if it’s pepper spray, and neither seem capable of operating the Hoover without choking it. Plus there is an underlying smell around here, which I’ve tried to obliterate by burning the sandalwood and ginger oil my friend Ingrid gave me, with the promise that it would ‘uplift the senses’. On this rain-lashed November afternoon, both boys are off school with streaming colds, and the flat is tainted with the whiff of the unwell.

‘D’you have any children yourself?’ I ask pleasantly as she peers into the oven.

‘Just the one, a little girl.’

Ah, that figures.

‘I was terrified she was going to be a boy,’ Erica adds, straightening up. ‘In fact, I paid to have an extra scan to determine the sex as early as possible.’

‘Really?’ I have no idea how to respond to this.

‘If it was a boy,’ she goes on, ‘I wanted to be prepared.’ What could she possibly mean? Line up an adoptive mother for him? Just as I’m about to say they’re not that bad really – I mean, look at me, I’m healthy and happy and alive (well, alive) – Fergus, my youngest, yells, ‘Mum!’ and stomps along the hallway towards us.

‘I’m still with the lady,’ I call back. ‘Won’t be long now.’

‘Mum. Can’t get this stupid thing to work at all.’ He marches into the kitchen, wavy caramel hair askew, clad in just a pair of baggy grey boxers. He is clutching a small silver gadget which he thrusts into my face.

‘Fergus,’ I say, ‘you might want to go and put your dressing gown on, love.’

‘Nah, I was really boiling up, like my whole body was soaking. And the tubes at the back of my nose are totally bunged up with phlegm …’

Erica pretends to study our spice rack. ‘I’m a bit busy right now,’ I say briskly, trying to transmit the message: Please leave this kitchen immediately. Curiously, Ingrid’s sandalwood oil appears to be failing on the mood-lifting front. Fergus sneezes without covering his mouth, and something actually shoots out, causing Erica to shrink back in alarm. Christ, he’s probably infected her now. ‘It’s stopped working,’ he says, stabbing at the gadget’s buttons. ‘It’s gone weird.’

‘What did you expect for two pound fifty?’ Logan asks, wandering into the kitchen bare-chested in a pair of particularly unfetching tracksuit bottoms, bringing with him the powerful meaty pong of unwashed underarms. Neither of my boys have acknowledged our visitor.

‘Er … what’s gone weird?’ Erica asks Fergus politely.

‘My translator,’ he mutters, scowling at the gadget’s tiny screen.

‘Oh, what’s that for?’

‘For translating,’ he replies, rolling his coffee-brown eyes as if to say, Who is this bloody fool?

‘He likes buying old gadgets from charity shops and trying to get them to work,’ I explain.

‘That’s, um, resourceful,’ Erica says unconvincingly as Logan blows his nose on a square of kitchen roll.

‘Anyway, boys,’ I say firmly, ‘could you leave us for a minute please? This is important. Remember I told you—’

‘It has translations for thirty-six thousand words,’ Fergus cuts in, ‘in seven languages.’

‘Wow, that’s impressive,’ Erica says, checking her watch.

‘Tell it to say something,’ he demands.

Our visitor’s jaw tightens. ‘Er – hello, how are you?’

Fergus prods a few buttons. Ich bin diabetika, it chirps robotically. He touched my breast—

‘It said it’s diabetic,’ Fergus starts.

‘And someone touched its breast,’ Logan chuckles, twanging the elasticated waistband of his trackies.

‘Yes, we heard that.’ My posh voice has disappeared and now I, too, am sweating as I try to figure out how I might remove my sons from the kitchen without shouting or manhandling them in front of Erica.

‘It doesn’t have any,’ Fergus sniggers.

‘Have you been groping it?’ Logan ribs him. ‘’Cause it wouldn’t say that unless there was a reason—’

‘What are you on about?’ Fergus retorts.

‘You must’ve assaulted it,’ his brother exclaims as the darn thing starts up again: Ich bin diabetika. He touched my breast. Ich bin—

‘Fergus,’ I bark, ‘please put that thing away. We don’t need it right now …’

Logan rubs his upper lip where the faintest moustache is beginning to sprout. ‘We’ll never need it. It’s obsolete. What’s the point of a piece of crap like that when there’s Google Translate?’

‘Logan!’ I try to shoo him away with a fierce glare.

‘Well,’ Erica says dryly, ‘I suppose it has a certain retro appeal.’

‘What does non posso mangiare che mean?’ Fergus asks, mouth-breathing over the screen.

‘I’ve no idea,’ I mutter. ‘I don’t speak Italian.’

Erica clears her throat. ‘It means “I can’t eat that.”’

‘Great line for a meringue company,’ Logan snorts. ‘Maybe that should be your slogan, Mum.’

‘You can’t speak German either,’ Fergus reminds me, ‘or Polish or Dutch …’ No, because, clearly, I am an imbecile. There are many cockroaches in my hotel room, the translator bleats. I require police assistance immediately. Help! Help! Where is the nearest unisex hair salon? Ich bin diabetika—

‘Type in “goodbye”,’ I snap. ‘Type in, “It’s been very nice to meet you, Erica, but now I am going to leave you both to get on with important things.”’

I have been raped! the machine squawks, at which Logan honks with laughter.

‘Excuse me a second.’ Grabbing Fergus by his clammy hand, I march him out of the kitchen and into the living room where I hiss, ‘Stay here until she’s gone, okay? I’m trying to create a good impression and you’re really not helping.’

He fixes me with a challenging stare. ‘It’ll be useful on holiday if I can fix it.’

‘You’re going to the Highlands with Dad, remember? As far as I’m aware, they speak the same language as us.’

‘I don’t mean for Easter,’ he calls after me as I leave the room. ‘I mean our summer holiday. Are we going anywhere this year?’

‘Haven’t decided yet.’

‘We never go abroad,’ he bleats. He’s right – but how far does he think we’ll get on the bit of fluff I have left in my purse at the end of each month?

By the time I’m back in the kitchen, Logan has returned to his bedroom and Erica is clutching her brown leather briefcase in readiness for leaving. Meanwhile, I’m wondering if it would really be so terrible if the translator suffered an unfortunate accident, such as tumbling from our second-floor window and being run over by a car.

‘Well, Alice,’ Erica says coolly, ‘I’m pleased to tell you that your premises have passed.’

It takes me a moment to process this. ‘You mean everything’s okay?’

She nods. ‘Yes, you’re ready to go.’

‘Oh, that’s great! Thank you.’

Her clear blue eyes skim the room, settling momentarily on the scrunched-up piece of kitchen roll which Logan deposited on the table. Then, just as she makes for the door, another small object catches her eye. She frowns, and I follow her gaze towards the cooker – or, more precisely, to the small, turd-like object that’s poking out from under it.

It’s a bit of old sausage. Time seems to freeze as we stare at it. It hasn’t been there long, I want to explain. Or I could joke about cutting it open to date it, the way you can count the rings in a tree. But instinct tells me that Erica wouldn’t find that amusing so, mustering a brazen smile, I saunter towards it and send it scooting under the cooker with a sharp kick. Our eyes meet and she smirks. ‘Well, good luck with your meringues,’ she says. ‘I think it’s a great idea for a business. And I do hope your son manages to get his translator fixed.’

Chapter Two
Four months later

It’s a cool, breezy afternoon as I leave Middlebank Primary where I work as the school secretary. Having texted the boys, who’ll head straight home from their nearby secondary school, I take a short detour via Betsy’s, a smart, airy cafe housed on the ground floor of a converted chapel. In recent years, there’s been an explosion of quaint tea shops here in Edinburgh. While there is no shortage of cupcake suppliers, meringues appear to have novelty appeal, which has proved good for business. Betsy’s is owned by an eager young couple who look like they’re barely out of college.

‘Just wondered how it’s been going this week,’ I tell Jenny, who offers me tea in a gilt-edged china cup.

‘Really well,’ she says, ‘especially the tiny ones – the meringue kisses.’

‘People seem to prefer them with coffee,’ I tell her.

‘We’ll take more next week,’ she adds. ‘What d’you think, Max?’

Her boyfriend turns from the coffee machine and grins. ‘Oh, sure. If Alice can handle it.’

Jenny laughs. ‘We were just saying we don’t know how you manage to fit it all in. With your job and family, I mean …’

‘Oh, it keeps me sane, actually,’ I reply truthfully.

‘Well, you’re obviously doing something right,’ Jenny says with a broad smile. ‘They’re the new cupcakes, right?’

Max nods. ‘Far superior in my opinion. All that thick, cloying icing …’ I leave the cafe filled with optimism and pride. While meringues have always been a personal favourite of mine, maybe I’ve hit on a gap in the market here.

My mobile rings; it’s Ingrid. ‘So what happened?’ she asks eagerly, referring to her party on Saturday night.

‘We’re meant to be going for dinner next Friday,’ I tell her.

‘I knew it! I saw you two, huddled together in the kitchen …’

I laugh. ‘We weren’t huddled, we were talking.’

‘Talking intently,’ she remarks.

‘Well … it was just chit-chat really, but he seemed interesting …’ It’s true: while I don’t think either of us was bowled over, I could see no reason not to see him again. After all, my dating activity is roughly on a par with a solar eclipse these days.

‘Well, he seemed hugely keen,’ Ingrid goes on as I march up the hill at a brisk pace. ‘Every time you wandered off to talk to someone else, he was prowling about looking for you. I hope you’re going to give him a chance.’

I inhale deeply. ‘I don’t know, Ing. It’s just been a hell of a long time, you know?’

‘All the more reason then.’

‘And there’s the boys,’ I add. ‘You know what it’s like.’ She doesn’t really; happily married to Sean for a decade now, and with a charming daughter who plays no less than three musical instruments, Ingrid is more sorted than anyone else I know. There’s the matter of being unable, inexplicably, to conceive another baby after Saskia, but following a failed IVF cycle they are trying again, and Ingrid is always keen to stress that another child would merely be the icing on the cake.

‘That doesn’t mean you can’t date,’ she says firmly. ‘It’s not as if they have to meet every person you have a drink with. You’re hardly going to haul him home after dinner, going, “Hey boys, meet your new Uncle Anthony …”’

‘Christ, no,’ I exclaim.

‘And it’s been, what – over a year since that finance guy? The one who wanted to inspect your bank statements?’

‘And told me off for not having an ISA,’ I add with a grin. ‘Yeah, more like eighteen months actually.’

‘Well, they’re not all like that. I’ve only met Anthony a couple of times but he seems lovely. Handsome, didn’t you think? In that groomed, takes-care-of-himself sort of way. Not gone to seed. Has a personal trainer, Sean reckons, and he’s brilliant at golf …’

Golf! Checked trousers, diamond-patterned sweaters … no, no, I mustn’t think that way. I replay last Saturday night, when I was leaving Ingrid’s party: It’s been lovely talking to you, Anthony had said, fixing me with intense grey eyes, like wet slate. I don’t suppose you’d like to come to dinner sometime? There’s a friendly little local place I know … how are you fixed on Friday night? A proper date-night, then. All we’d talked about was who we knew at the party, how long we’d been living in Edinburgh and a few sketchy background details about our lives. I hadn’t exactly experienced an urge to kiss him, or to glimpse that nicely honed body naked – but maybe ISA-man killed my ability to fancy anyone at all. And surely, any normally functioning woman would find a tall, smiley, smartly dressed man like Anthony attractive? Which is why I agreed to meet him for dinner – because I was bloody flattered to be asked.

‘I have a good feeling about this,’ Ingrid adds, ‘and I know you’re excited really.’

‘Am I?’ I say, laughing.

‘Yes, you’re panting.’

‘Ingrid, I’m marching up a hill …’

‘Well,’ she sniggers, ‘I can’t wait to hear about it. I mean, eighteen months. Christ. It’s time you were back out there.’

‘Back out there? Sounds like a sign in an NCP car park …’

‘Oh, stop it,’ she says, mock-scolding. ‘Promise you’ll go and not make up some crappy excuse about the boys being ill or whatever. I know what you’re like, Alice Sweet.’

She does, too, in the way that a friend of twenty years – since our second year at college – is aware of the difference between a mere reluctance to date, and full-blown terror at the very prospect. Which is, admittedly, the situation right now. Plus, with a track record like mine, I have to ask myself, is it worth it, really? Getting ‘out there’, I mean? It’s not just ISA-Man, and his perpetual nagging about share acquisition. It’s the whole, sorry dating debacle since I split with Tom, the boys’ father. A handful of encounters scattered over six years of single parenthood – each one making me question why I was in some gloomy, sticky tabled bar, or having sex with someone who might well have been simultaneously calculating the net profit on his investments. Frankly, I’d rather have been cosied up on the sofa with Logan and Fergus, munching crisps and sniggering over something daft on TV.

‘So you promise not to back out,’ Ingrid says firmly.

‘Promise,’ I say.

A small pause. ‘It’ll be great. I’m not sure what he does exactly but he seems like a really driven, thrusting guy.’ We both bark with laughter as I finish the call, trying to convince myself that Ingrid is absolutely right.

*

On Friday, as I pull on my new dress – sapphire-blue linen, grabbed from some sale rail one lunchtime – my thoughts fast-forward to tomorrow when the date will be over and I’ll be happily regaling Ingrid, plus our other college friends Kirsty and Viv, with the details. It’s a pleasant spring evening, the kind that coaxes dog-walkers and couples out to our gently sloping park, with its wide open sky and a glimmer of the Firth of Forth beyond. Hell, is it really eighteen months since I last slept with someone, let alone had a date? In contrast, Tom had found himself a wife less than a year after we split (he and I had never got around to tying the knot). He is married to the fragrant Patsy, founder of a children’s sleepwear company called Dandelion. They live in a vicarage in Cumbria surrounded by rolling fields and cattle, and have an adorable golden-haired daughter, Jessica, who regularly models for the Dandelion catalogue. We’re not talking Hello Kitty nighties or SpongeBob pyjamas; the only embellishment allowed on Patsy’s top-quality garments is a tiny embroidered dandelion clock.

Tom’s contact with our sons is sporadic and largely dependent on his ‘work commitments’. We’re talking a weekend down at the vicarage now and again, although he is whisking the boys away to the Highlands during the Easter holidays, which they seem to be regarding as a rare treat (no complaints about it ‘not being abroad’ where their dad’s concerned). ‘Patsy said I can model the teen boys’ range,’ Fergus told me recently, startling me with his enthusiasm. So, while he’s reluctant to be seen walking down the street with me these days, he’d be perfectly happy to risk being spotted by his friends in a checked seersucker ensemble in a bloody catalogue. Of course, Logan and Fergus have no idea that, for much of our relationship, Daddy modelled the same three pairs of limp, not exactly box-fresh underpants in rotation, until they literally shredded in the washing machine. Nor are they aware that he spent virtually all of our thirteen-year relationship in a fug of Southern Comfort and beer. (Granted, Tom was never a horrible or, God forbid, violent drunk. He’d just go all floppy and canine, pawing at me and trying to lick my face.)

All that limpid puppy stuff had been okay-ish pre-kids, when we’d been students in a house share together. It was still bearable – just – when I gave birth to Logan, perhaps because, as a twenty-three-year-old new mum, I was so freaked out that I couldn’t fully register anything else that was going on around me. We muddled on for years because I still loved Tom, despite his unsavoury pants and habit of penning poems along the lines of: Lovely Alice/I don’t need a palace/with you at my side … Until the day arrived when the boys were seven and ten and I realised that, unless we split, I’d spend the rest of my life coming home from work to have Tom glance up from the sofa and ask, ‘Do we have any milk?’

You see, back then, Tom didn’t go out to work. He wasn’t a partner in Dandelion, giving talks on the virtues of organic brushed cotton and formaldehyde-free dyes. In his early thirties, and with both Fergus and Logan at school full-time, he was still trying to figure out ‘what it is I really want to do’.

As I am, an hour later, as I pause outside the restaurant which Anthony has booked for our date tonight. It is housed in a creamy sandstone crescent, sandwiched between solicitors’ offices, a small, white sign the size of a postcard offering the only hint of its existence. It is called, simply, ‘chard’ (lower case ‘c’), which I know vaguely to be some kind of leafy vegetable, although I can’t say I’ve eaten it. However, it’s clear that Anthony wasn’t being completely honest when he described the restaurant as a ‘friendly little local place’. Unless this is the kind of establishment he frequents all the time; a possibility which causes my hands to become instantly tacky with sweat.

I inhale deeply, wondering if the boys are okay at home, and reminding myself that of course they are – Logan is old enough to leave school, have-sex-God-forbid, get married and even buy a scratch card without parental consent. And I’ve left them with a stack of cash, takeaway pizza menus and permission to order whatever they like.

Christ, I could murder a Four Seasons right now …

I push open the heavy glass door and step in. There he is, smiling broadly at a table in the centre of the sparsely populated room. I fix on a smile and am greeted with a kiss on the cheek.

‘Hope you like this place,’ Anthony says, sweeping out an arm in appreciation of the grandeur of the building. ‘It’s a favourite of mine.’

Or maybe the thin crust with pine nuts and spinach, which never fails to disgust Logan: ‘Like, why would anyone want a pizza with salad all over it?’

‘It’s lovely,’ I say, taking a seat.

‘I thought we’d have the tasting menu,’ he announces. ‘It’s the only way to fully appreciate what they do here.’

Those slate eyes sparkle. I swallow hard and glance down at my menu.

‘That sounds great.’ Be positive, I remind myself as the waiter appears and Anthony orders. Ingrid was right, I absolutely should be here, because this is what grown-up single women do. And it’s time to move on, to be proactive and seize the moment, after six years of crap dates and sex which has been at best, a mild diversion and, at worst, made me seriously consider celibacy as a more satisfying option.

‘So you mentioned you’re a teacher,’ Anthony says, his confident tone snapping me back to the present.

‘I’m actually a school secretary,’ I remind him, having imparted this fascinating information at the party.

‘Oh, I see.’ His eyes fix on mine.

‘It fits in with the boys’ school hours,’ I continue, tugging down the hem of my shift dress, ‘which I really needed when they were younger and their dad and I had broken up.’

He nods, and I notice that his teeth aren’t just white – they are verging on blue-white, and quite disconcerting. The lighting in Ingrid’s kitchen clearly hadn’t illuminated them to full effect.

‘And I’ve set up a business from home,’ I go on, sensing his gaze flickering across the restaurant, ‘making meringues for local cafes, delis and special events …’

Anthony tastes the wine that’s being offered and nods approvingly. ‘That sounds like a fun little sideline.’ Why this riles me, I’m not sure. He’s right, it is a little sideline. While I love it, and it’s boosted our finances, I am hardly heading for global domination of the meringue market.

‘You mentioned at the party that you have your own business,’ I remark, ‘but I’m not quite sure what it is.’

‘Ah, well,’ he says grandly, ‘we’re all about offering a complete bespoke service and taking care of the whole client. It’s about complete personal attention every step of the way.’

I study him, assessing the angular jaw, the intense little eyes and neatly cropped dark hair. While he is certainly handsome, and more than likely employs a personal trainer, there’s something disconcertingly plasticky about him. He looks sort of moulded, as if there could be a secret join up the back of his head, like Barbie’s boyfriend Ken.

‘Erm, okay,’ I say, ‘but I still don’t know what you do.’

‘Oh,’ he wrinkles his pore-free nose, ‘we’re a clinic.’

‘Are you a doctor?’ I ask, taking a big swig of wine.

‘No, we deal in aesthetic procedures.’

Ah – that explains the glowing teeth. ‘You mean Botox and all that?’

He emits a patronising laugh. ‘Yes, but there’s a bit more to it than that. Our ethos is to assess every client individually so, with the very latest techniques, we can work in synergy with her own, unique beauty and the natural contours of her face …’

To stop myself from choking, I take another gulp from my glass. Hell, I’ll be smashed at this rate. Better slow down and have some water, the way the magazines always tell you to. At long last our first course arrives; at least I think it counts as a course. It’s an ‘amuse-bouche’, consisting of a sticky beige blob served on a ceramic spoon with a dribble of green liquid around it, like bile.

‘This looks delicious,’ I fib, wondering what possessed Anthony to ask me out in the first place when he is clearly not remotely interested in anything about my life – and also why he played down the restaurant’s poshness when it’s turned out to have a bloody Michelin star. Is he showing off, trying to impress me by dropping in words like ‘bespoke’? And what’s with the six courses? I told the boys I wouldn’t be too long, but troughing our way through this lot will take weeks. I’m more annoyed with myself, really, for allowing Anthony to decide what I must eat. Tonight may call for an emergency measure, like feigning illness or a faint …

‘… These days,’ he says, a little fleck of spit flying out of his mouth, ‘it’s about women making the most of what they have. For instance, you wouldn’t think twice about buying a new dress on a whim, would you?’

‘Er, I’m not a huge shopper actually …’

‘Yet, for a similar level of investment,’ he goes on, ‘instead of buying a cheap piece of cloth’ – his gaze drops briefly to my blue shift – ‘a woman can regain her youthful bloom, which has a far greater impact on her confidence.’

I swallow down the bile sauce from my spoon. I know. I could go to the loo, climb out of the window and run all the way home. Rude, yes, but then so is mocking my fashion choice … although, I have to admit, I wish I was wearing something else. The dress is a little tight around the hips when I’m sitting down, and keeps riding up, and my shoes are pinching like hell. I overdid it, I realise now. I’d forgotten that, rather than lending me an elegant air, teetering heels have the effect of making me feel like a big, hairy trucker with a secret penchant for cramming his vast size tens into his girlfriend’s stilettos. It’s all wrong – my outfit, the restaurant, the man (who has started on about ‘boosting a woman’s confidence’ again as if, without his poky needles, any female should be terrified of leaving the house).

‘The thing is,’ I cut in, ‘you said it’s all about working with natural contours …’

‘Mmm-hmm.’ More food has arrived. As Anthony nibbles the end of an asparagus stalk, I picture Logan and Fergus chomping happily on a side order of garlic bread.

‘I mean,’ I continue, ‘I don’t have a problem with that, if that’s how people want to spend their money. But it’s not completely natural, is it? Natural is leaving everything as it is. Natural is bunging on a bit of mascara and lip gloss and hoping for the best.’

‘Yes, well … that’s an option I suppose,’ he says scathingly, as if I’d confided that I’m partial to smearing my face with lard.

‘So,’ I continue, ‘what would you recommend I should have done to my face?’

‘Oh, I don’t want to get into that, Alice …’

I force a smile as plates are whisked away and replaced with others. Every course is tiny; I feel as if I have stumbled into the dining room of a doll’s house.

‘Go on,’ I say. ‘I’m just interested to know what could be done. I’d like your … expert appraisal.’ This might be entertaining, I decide, curiosity having superseded my initial nervousness. Actually, there is no reason to feel anxious sitting here. It’s a one-off, an ‘experience’, certainly, and at least I can report back to Ingrid that I didn’t chicken out.

‘Okaaaay,’ Anthony says plummily, ‘you really want me to tell you?’

‘Yes,’ I say firmly.

‘Hmm. Well, I’d say around here’ – his fingers dart close to my eyes – ‘we’re talking a little Botox to soften the crow’s feet, plus dermal fillers here’ – I flinch as his spongy fingertips prod my cheeks – ‘and more fillers here, here and here, to plump up those marionette lines.’

‘What are marionette lines?’ I frown, wishing I hadn’t started this.

‘These crevices,’ he says, sweeping a thumb and middle finger from my nose to mouth corners. ‘In fact, the whole jawline,’ Anthony continues while I take another fortifying swig of wine, ‘can be lifted with the careful use of fillers, creating a youthful springiness. We call it the non-surgical facelift.’ Now the twerp has reached across the table and cupped my chin in his clammy hand, as if trying to guess the weight of my head. ‘And those forehead lines could be lightly Botoxed for a smoother appearance with no loss of movement.’

‘That’s not true,’ I retort, leaning back to maximise the distance between my clearly ravaged visage and his gropey hands. ‘You can’t say that. We’ve all seen celebs with their weird, frozen foreheads, unable to form normal expressions.’

He shakes his head. ‘That never happens when it’s expertly done.’

‘But it does,’ I argue. ‘We’re talking Hollywood A-list – the wealthiest, most photographed women in the world. Surely they go to the best people. I mean, they’re hardly resorting to some shoddy little clinic with a seventy per cent off Groupon deal.’

Anthony makes a little snorting noise. ‘If it’s properly done, it’s merely enhancing. It’s the way forward, trust me.’

‘Okay,’ I laugh involuntarily, ‘so how much would all of this cost, just out of interest? All the procedures you’ve mentioned, I mean?’

‘Well, we look upon it as an investment …’ I know what this means: a fuck of a lot of money. Anthony pops a raw-looking pink thing, tied up with what looks like green raffia, into his mouth.

‘I’m sure you do,’ I say, ‘but how much are we talking exactly?’

‘Ahh … at our top-tier service, we’d probably be looking at around four thousand pounds.’

‘Four grand,’ I exclaim, a little too loudly, ‘for a new face?’

‘Not new,’ he declares. ‘We never say new. We say you’ll still be you – but better.’

I swallow hard, trying to dislodge a seaweedy strand that’s lodged itself in my throat. To my horror, I am starting to feel rather wobbly and emotional. It hasn’t helped that the waiter has been diving over to refill my glass every time I’ve taken a sip. It’s not just the booze, though. It’s the realisation that I clearly have the face of a withered crone who needs extensive reconstructive work. Why has no one told me this before?

‘You might also benefit from microdermabrasion,’ Anthony adds, flicking a crumb from his pale-blue striped shirt.

I blink at him. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s when we use a little spiky roller to stimulate your skin, accelerating the replenishment of collagen deep within the dermal layers.’

Jesus Christ. ‘Excuse me, Anthony,’ I say, getting up, ‘I just need to nip to the loo.’ I march to the Ladies, conscious of my dress clinging to my hips in unflattering folds.

In the swankiest facilities known to womankind, with Jo Malone hand creams lined up on a glass shelf, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. God, that slimy man. Obviously, he doesn’t want to get to know me at all. He just wants to give me a good going-over with his spiky roller. Still fixed on my reflection, I widen my eyes to try to stretch out the crow’s feet, and open my mouth as far as it’ll go, like one of those scary bottom-feeding fish, in an attempt to iron out those damn marionette lines. Then, placing a flattened hand on each of my cheeks, I push back my entire face – the free facelift effect – which does improve things somewhat, even if I look a little like a rabbit in a sidecar …

‘Oh!’ A smart, reedy woman in clicky heels has trotted into the loos.

‘Ha,’ I guffaw, whipping my hands away and rubbing ineffectually at my cheeks in the hope that she’ll think I’m applying moisturiser. She purses her lips at me before disappearing into a cubicle.

Grow up, I tell my reflection silently. Just be nice and polite and get through this without getting too pissed and making a complete twit of yourself. Surely there can only be another couple more courses to go.

I rejoin my date at our table. Anthony beams at me, and I’m transfixed by his dazzling dental work and unmoving forehead as he says, ‘I’d imagine it’s tough as a single mum, Alice. But for you, covering all the treatments we talked about tonight, I’d be happy to draw up a special payment plan.’

Chapter Three

On the damp pavement outside the restaurant, Anthony is looking decidedly crestfallen.

‘But it’s only just gone ten,’ he protests. ‘I didn’t imagine you’d have to rush off so soon. Thought we might pop back to mine for a nightcap …’

‘I don’t like leaving my boys too late,’ I say quickly. ‘I’d really better get back.’ It’s a cool, drizzly Edinburgh night, and the fishiness of the amuse-bouche has somehow clung to the inside of my mouth, having obliterated all the other taste sensations. I have also, for the first time tonight, happened to notice Anthony’s curious footwear. I’m not one of those women who’s obsessed with checking out men’s shoes because, they are, after all, only water-resistant coverings for feet. For instance, before she married Sean, Ingrid only ever dated men who favoured black or dark-brown brogues, which seemed crazily picky to me. ‘If you look down and see grey slip-ons,’ she once advised, ‘start running very fast.’

And on this damp pavement I have glimpsed not just any old slip-ons, but basket-weave ones, in tan or possibly mustard, with a little strap across the front and a flash of gold buckle. I have nothing against basket weave – for baskets. But for shoes? And he had the nerve to criticise my choice of attire?

‘Don’t you have a babysitter?’ Anthony wants to know.

Oh God. Having insisted on paying the bill, he’d clearly anticipated that there would at least be a snog in return. Or perhaps he expected that, having been treated to the tasting menu, I’d feel obliged to hot-foot it to his boudoir to remove my ‘cheap bit of cloth’.

‘No, well – it’s a bit tricky,’ I explain. ‘Logan’s sixteen and he’d die if I suggested booking a sitter. I mean, most of the ones we know are in his school year so I could hardly ask them to come over and look after him.’

His eyes glaze briefly, as they did when I mentioned being a school secretary. ‘Well, that’s a real shame.’

‘So I really should get back …’

‘Right.’ He blinks at me, studying my face. I’m convinced now that every time he looks at me, he’s planning how to fix me up, like an over-zealous decorator about to be let loose on a clapped-out house.

‘It’s been a lovely evening,’ I add, ‘and thanks so much for dinner.’

‘My pleasure. We must do it again some time.’

Just how does a woman wriggle out of arranging a second date in these modern times?

‘I, er … I’ve got a lot on over the next few weeks,’ I explain.

‘Hmmm. Busy lady, are you?’

‘Er … yes, especially with the meringue thing taking off these past few weeks …’ I’ll be busy whipping up egg whites into the small hours, you see, with no room in my life for a weasly man who’s starting to look more and more doll-like. Not Ken, I decide. More Action Man with his angular jaw and painted-on hair.

‘Meringues.’ Anthony rolls the word around his mouth. ‘I’d love to try them. I’d imagine they’re quite delicious.’

‘Um … yes.’ I check my watch unnecessarily. ‘Well, they sell them in Peckery’s – you know the coffee shop in Hanover Street? And Betsy’s next to St Martin’s Church. Anyway, thanks again—’

‘Can I walk you home?’

‘Oh, no – you live miles away in completely the opposite direction.’

‘Let’s get you a cab then.’ He goes for my arm, clutching it as if, without his support, I might topple over. However, although I felt mildly pissed in the restaurant, the cool drizzle on my face has miraculously restored me to one-hundred-per-cent sobriety.

‘Anthony,’ I say firmly, ‘I only live twenty minutes away. I’d actually like to walk.’ I smile again, and this is when I make my crucial mistake. As I stretch up to give him a polite kiss on his waxy cheek, my brief, bird-like peck is somehow misinterpreted to mean that I desire him very much, and next thing I know, he’s got my face in his hands and has jammed his wet lips on mine as he goes in for the full-on, tongue-jabbing snog.

‘What are you doing?’ I exclaim, springing away from him.

‘Oh, come on, Alice. You’re a saucy minx – I can tell …’

I stare at him, speechless.

‘You older women,’ Anthony adds in a throaty growl, ‘I know what you’re like. You know your onions …’

‘I know my onions?’ I bark. ‘How old d’you think I am?’

He shrugs. ‘Thirty-seven?’

‘Thirty-nine actually.’ I omit to mention that my fortieth is a mere month away. ‘How about you?’

He smirks. ‘You might be surprised to learn that I’m actually forty-five.’ And he’s calling me an older woman? ‘My last girlfriend was twenty-eight,’ he adds, ‘but I’ve finished with younger girls now. Their bodies are great but they can be so vacuous. It’s refreshing to spend time with someone who’s genuinely interested in what one has to say.’

‘I’m sorry, I really have to go,’ I say, cheeks blazing as I turn on my stupid heels and march away.

Mercifully, Anthony doesn’t protest or try to follow me. I walk briskly, overcome by the terrible realisation that, for a ‘woman of my age’, this is probably as good as it gets. God, if that’s a typical example of dating today, then it’s something I’ll avoid from now on. Ugh … the creep, with his foot-baskets and darting tongue, like a lizard trying to catch flies. My bouche is not amused. I walk faster and faster until, by the time I’m almost home, I have virtually broken into an ungainly trot. I take a quick left turn, hurrying past the grand, detached Victorian houses, then alongside the terrace of tenement flats. Although this is a fairly smart area, with an arthouse cinema and coffee shops galore, our block is rather shabby. I am beyond seething as I head in through the main entrance and clatter upstairs to my second-floor flat.

‘I’m home,’ I announce jovially, trying to sound as if I’ve had a perfectly enjoyable night out. In the darkened living room, Logan and Fergus continue to stare at the blaring TV. On the coffee table in front of them lies the detritus of a boys’ night in – greasy pizza boxes, milkshake cartons and a few stray socks. ‘Everything okay?’ I ask, tearing off one shoe, followed by the other.

‘Yuh,’ Logan replies, picking up his red and white stripy carton and taking a big slurp. In the absence of any further response, I commence a slightly deranged conversation with myself: ‘“Hi, Mum, did you have a nice time?” “Yes thank you, it was lovely …”’ In the kitchen now, I click on the kettle. ‘“Actually,”’ I continue under my breath, ‘“it was pretty shitty. But maybe I misread the signs, or I’m so out of touch with dating that, if a man has paid for the six-course tasting menu, he at least expects to ram his disgusting fat tongue down your throat …”’

‘Huh?’ Fergus is standing in the doorway, clutching the pizza boxes to his chest.

‘Nothing,’ I mutter, peering into the fridge so he can’t see my blazing face.

‘You were talking to yourself,’ he sniggers. ‘That’s the first sign of madness, Mum.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ I reply.

He smirks as I straighten up and pour too much milk into my mug. ‘What was that about a fat tongue?’

‘Nothing, take no notice of me, I was just babbling on.’

‘Who were you out with tonight?’ he asks.

‘Just someone I met at Ingrid’s party last weekend.’

He arches a brow. ‘Was it a man?’

Clutching my tea, I lower myself on to a kitchen chair. ‘Yes, sweetheart, but I won’t be seeing him again.’

Fergus cracks a grin, extracts a packet of Jammie Dodgers from the cupboard and rips it open. ‘Good. What d’you need a boyfriend for anyway? You’re a mum.’

Chapter Four

His words are still ringing in my head when I wake up early next morning. While he may only be thirteen, and unable to tolerate virtually the entire vegetable food group, Fergus is absolutely right. I don’t need a boyfriend. I’ve managed perfectly well – well, I’ve managed – being by myself all these years, and have now reached the conclusion that any single men around my age are so baggage-laden they can barely face leaving the house, or are looking for girlfriends born in the early nineties or, as in Anthony’s case, are so clearly wrong for me that I shouldn’t have gone in the first place.

You only went because you were flattered, I remind myself, examining a tea towel which appears to have been used to stem the flow of ink from a leaking biro. In other words, I was momentarily grateful for a glimmer of male attention, which is no way to go about things. Also, that vile, slimy kiss – I can’t get it out of my mind. Is that how it happens these days? In agreeing to a date, was I sending the message, ‘I’m desperately starved of affection so, yes, of course I’ll welcome your fat, probing tongue into my mouth? In fact, you needn’t have bothered with the tasting menu. Half a cider would have done the trick …’

I worry, too, that it’s not just about Anthony, and that the real issue is I have become sex phobic. In fact, I suspect that the mere act of removing my underwear in front of any adult male would trigger a panic attack. It sounds ridiculous and it’s not because I’ve had terrible experiences in the past. Even when our relationship was in tatters, getting it together with Tom was always pretty good – but now, doing it with anyone seems wholly alarming and unnecessary. It’s like when you pass your driving test and think, this is amazing – I can finally do what all those other grown-up people have been doing all along. It’s incredibly exciting and liberating. Then months – years – pass by before you find yourself behind the wheel again, and when you’re suddenly thrown into the situation, it’s bloody terrifying. Only with driving, you can at least book a course of refresher lessons …

Anyway, as Fergus so succinctly pointed out, I have no need of a man in my life. I have two big, gangly, gorgeous sons. We have a decent, three-bedroomed flat. (I’ll gloss over the fact that Logan describes it, inaccurately, as ‘poky, like our car – why is everything so mini around here?’) And yes, I do have a Mini – the car, that is, a bright-red model which I like very much. I also have a job I enjoy, at least some of the time (the kids are mostly fantastic, the insurmountable paperwork less so) and there’s my ‘little sideline’, which I absolutely love. So what do I need a boyfriend for really? I’m starting to wonder if meringues really do fulfil all my womanly needs.

For one thing, they are so pleasingly uncomplicated, requiring just two main ingredients: egg whites, beaten to a cloud-like froth, and caster sugar, whisked in until satiny smooth. Follow the correct method and a meringue will never flop disappointingly. There are no nasty surprises, like discovering a portrait of an ex-lover tattooed on the pale curve of a buttock (as glimpsed during an ill-advised one-night stand several years ago), or being informed that four grand’s worth of work might just about salvage my face. Yet they’re far from tedious, as the possibilities for flavourings are virtually infinite. As kitchen inspector Erica observed, the perfect specimen is satisfyingly crisp on the outside, and gooey within – where would I find a man to beat that?

To obliterate lingering thoughts of Anthony’s tongue plunging towards my tonsils, I busy myself by gathering up the jotters which Fergus has left scattered across the kitchen table, and remove the two bulging schoolbags which have been dumped in the middle of the floor. As it’s Saturday, the boys are having their customary lie-in. Perhaps I should be demanding that they get up and do something useful, but I actually cherish these peaceful weekend mornings when there’s no one to moan about my choice of radio station.

I set out my ingredients and start cracking eggs, separating whites from yolks. Humming along to some faintly familiar chart music, I whip up a batch of basic mixture to divide into three bowls, one for each new flavour I’m trying out: strawberries, pistachio and rose water, and little gravelly shards of buttery salted caramel. Kirsty, Ingrid and Viv are coming over later for a taste-in. That’s what we call our regular gatherings, suggesting that my friends come over not just to chat and drink wine – or, in Ingrid’s case, supposedly fertility-boosting raspberry leaf tea – but to ‘help’. I remind Logan of this whenever he declares that I am ‘always’ having them over, as if, at my advanced age, there is something a little unseemly about being in the company of other human beings, purely for fun. Presumably I should interact only with colleagues, tradespeople and Tesco employees.

At around eleven, Fergus is the first to emerge from his boudoir. ‘God, I need food,’ he groans, jabbing a finger into the strawberry mixture and licking it.

‘Hey, hands out of there,’ I exclaim.

He pokes at the caramel bowl.

‘Stop sticking your fingers into everything!’

‘Why? I’m starving. I’m about to keel over, Mum, and you just don’t care …’ He sniggers and makes for the pistachio bowl but I manage to swipe him away.

‘Uncooked meringue mixture isn’t proper breakfast food. If you can wait two minutes I’ll make you some eggs.’

‘Not too runny,’ he warns.

‘No, sweetheart,’ I reply, feigning subservience, ‘I’ll try to do them properly this time.’

‘You doing scrambles, Mum?’ Logan has emerged now, rubbing his bleary, pillow-creased face.

‘Yes, love.’

‘Can I not have mine rubberised like his?’

‘Of course! I’ll do both differently, according to your precise wishes.’ With a smirk, I grab my piping bag and start to pipe out strawberry kisses on a paper-lined tray, frowning as Logan starts jabbing his fingers into the mixture. ‘Please stop sticking your fingers into my bowls,’ I bark.

‘Whoa.’ He backs away, turning to Fergus. ‘You’d think I’d spat in it.’ They both chortle as I swap the two trays of cooked meringues in the oven for the freshly-piped batch.

‘So,’ I say, now turning my attention to their eggs, ‘what are you two up to today?’

‘I’m going to fix my translator,’ Fergus says confidently.

‘How about you, Logan? Is Blake coming over?’

He sighs loudly, clearly overwhelmed by my relentless questioning. ‘I’m going out.’

‘Where to? Who with?’

‘Just out, Mum, with people.’ No further information supplied.

‘Logan,’ I say, stirring their eggs on the hob, ‘you’ll have to be a bit more specific than that. I need to know where you are, hon.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m your mum, dearest.’

‘Yeah, and I’m sixteen, I’m an adult—’ He stops short as my mobile starts trilling; I don’t recognise the number but take the call anyway.

‘Hi, Alice?’ comes the strident male voice. ‘It’s me.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s me – Anthony from last night. Don’t say you’ve forgotten already.’ He chuckles disconcertingly.

‘Oh, er … right.’ I shudder. It takes years, and probably living under one roof, before you’re allowed to announce yourself as ‘me’.

‘Thought you might like to come and see a movie later,’ he goes on.

‘You mean today?’

‘Well, yes, if you’re not doing anything. I’ve checked out the Filmhouse …’

God, that’s a little presumptuous. Maybe he interpreted me leaping away from his suckering lips as a sign of being unable to manage my yearning for him – like when you nudge away a chocolate cake in case you lose all control and end up devouring the lot. Or maybe he’s just eager to give me a good going-over with his roller.

‘Sorry, I can’t today,’ I reply, wondering what possessed me to add ‘today’ – ever is what I should have said.

‘Ah, yes, busy with your meringues, I’d imagine,’ he says with a snigger.

The boys are shooting me curious looks. ‘Actually, yes, I’m making a batch right now. Sorry, better go. Can’t leave the uncooked mixture sitting around too long …’

‘Oh, what’ll happen?’ he asks leeringly. ‘Will it lose its stiffness?’

‘What?’ Something sour rises in my throat; sixteen hours later, that amuse-bouche is still fermenting away in my gut.

‘Or are we talking more the texture of soft peaks?’ Anthony enquires.

‘Yes, sort of,’ I say tersely.

‘I’d like to see you brandishing your whisk,’ he growls. ‘I imagine it’d be handy for a little light beating …’

‘Logan, keep an eye on those eggs in the pan,’ I order him, striding through to the living room so as to distance myself from the boys’ flapping ears.

‘They’re rubberised,’ Logan shouts after me. ‘These are, like, teeth-bouncing eggs.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I hiss into the phone.

‘I mean,’ Anthony drawls, ‘a little tap on the bottom would be pleasing.’

I peer at a small muddy smear on the white wall and wonder, briefly, how it got there. ‘You mean with my whisk?’

‘Mmmm, yes …’

The small pause is filled by the sound of his rhythmic breathing.

‘You have a thing for kitchen utensils,’ I say flatly. He whispers something I don’t catch. ‘Speak up, I can’t hear you.’

‘I said,’ Anthony whispers, ‘I’ve been a very naughty boy …’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ I splutter, ‘you’re not a boy, you’re a forty-five-year-old man, and I hate to tell you but I use an electric mixer. D’you honestly think I could whisk up twenty-four egg whites with a hand whisk? I’d get repetitive strain injury or tennis elbow—’

‘Yes, but I just thought—’

‘Goodbye, Anthony.’ Having ended the call, I return to the kitchen, trying to emit an aura of serenity as I grab my mug of milky coffee and take a big gulp.

‘Anthony?’ Logan repeats with a smirk.

‘Was that Fat-Tongue Man?’ Fergus sniggers.

‘Who’s Fat-Tongue Man?’ Logan enquires.

‘No one you know,’ I say quickly, serving up the eggs, even though no one seems especially interested in eating them.

‘Who’s got a fat tongue?’ he persists.

‘No one, Logan. It was just something stupid I said without thinking.’

‘Anthony’s the man she went out with last night,’ Fergus announces, ‘and he tried to kiss her. That’s why she’s on about tongues. He tried to stick it in her mouth—’

‘For God’s sake,’ I cut in, ‘of course he didn’t. I barely know him …’

‘He snogged her,’ Fergus adds with a shudder, ‘and now he’s calling her at home.’ I dump the egg pan in the sink and blink at my sons. Now, although I still have no plans to see Anthony again – and can’t believe I found him pleasant company as we snacked on Ingrid’s canapés – I do take exception to the suggestion that no man should phone me ‘at home’.

‘Where else would anyone call me?’ I ask mildly.

‘Dunno.’ Fergus shrugs.

‘I mean, I assume it’s okay for me to take private calls here,’ I add, aware that I’m verging towards overreacting now, ‘seeing as I pay the bill and the mortgage on our flat in which our phone resides.’

‘Yeah, all right, Mum,’ he says, shoving aside his substandard breakfast and swaggering out of the kitchen, closely tailed by his big brother.

‘Why does she do that?’ Logan’s voice rings out from the hall.

‘Dunno.’

‘Clemmie doesn’t. She never talks to Blake like that.’

‘Nah, I know,’ Fergus agrees.

‘She respects him,’ Logan observes, then the TV goes on in the living room, cranked up to its customary old person’s volume, so I can overhear no more.

I stand there, heart hammering in my chest, as a TV advert for fence preserver blasts through the flat. Only when it has returned to a relatively normal speed can I concentrate on the matter in hand. I resume piping meringues, wondering why any interaction between me and an adult male is viewed as tawdry, whereas their father is regarded as the height of respectability. Having put the last batch to bake, I clear up the kitchen, and find the boys still lolling on the sofa.

‘You know Dad’s coming to get you at lunchtime tomorrow,’ I remind them, ‘so you really should start packing today.’

No response. They are watching a programme about the building of an eco-house, a dazzling wedge of glass clinging to a hillside in a remote part of Wales.

‘Look at that,’ Logan murmurs. ‘Imagine living somewhere like that.’

‘Yes, imagine,’ I say distractedly, surveying the scattering of shoes, batteries and backless remote controls on the carpet.

Fergus turns to me. ‘It’s an eco-house, Mum. It’s hardly got any carbon footprint.’

‘Amazing,’ I agree.

‘We should be more eco-friendly,’ he goes on.

‘In what way?’

‘Well, like, our oven’s always on, isn’t it?’

‘Not always,’ I correct him, ‘but quite a lot, yes, when I’m baking, obviously …’

‘It’s on so much, Mum! Think of what it’s doing to the planet.’

I take a moment to digest this. ‘Meringues take a long time to bake, Fergus. There’s not much I can do about that.’

He scowls, as if I might be making this up, and enjoy consuming vast quantities of electricity just for the hell of it. ‘Couldn’t you make something different? Something that cooks quicker?’

I burst out laughing. ‘What d’you have in mind?’

‘I dunno, you’re the baker.’ With that, he turns his attention back to the TV where the presenter is extolling the virtues of a composting toilet.

‘Oh, and just so you know,’ I add, my voice drifting like tumbleweed, ‘the girls are coming over later to test flavours.’

Logan throws me a bemused look. ‘The girls,’ he sniggers.

‘Okay,’ I say, my voice rising a little, ‘the women are coming over. Is that better?’

Fergus chuckles. ‘That sounds as if you don’t actually like them very much.’

‘So when are they coming?’ Logan wants to know.

‘About seven-ish.’

‘Ugh, all that talking and laughing …’

‘I know – hideous,’ I snigger, catching Fergus’s eye who grins in return. ‘We shouldn’t be allowed to congregate en masse.’

But thank God we do, I think, leaving him to ogle the eco-house while Logan gets up and heads out, to meet his people.

*

‘I never realised Anthony was like that,’ Ingrid exclaims later as I set down plates of freshly baked meringues on the kitchen table. ‘What a complete creep. I feel so responsible. If I’d known, I’d have warned you off.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ I assure her as Kirsty and Viv munch on my confections, equally dismayed by the outcome of my date. ‘You didn’t exactly throw us together and force me to go out with him. I thought he was nice, actually. A proper grown-up …’

I’m aware that I have this grown-up-in-a-good-way thing, probably as a reaction against all those years spent with Tom. I don’t mean grown-up as in, ‘Every Saturday will be spent trundling around Homebase until I drop down dead.’ More, ‘It’s okay – I can fix things and throw a meal together, and I’ll never expect you to remember my relatives’ birthdays.’ An in-this-together sort of feeling … like we’re equals. If I occasionally yearn for anything, it’s that.

‘I guess there was no way of knowing he likes being smacked with utensils,’ sniggers Kirsty.

‘Well, I thought he looked creepy,’ declares Viv, smoothing back her neat auburn crop. ‘I tried to communicate that to you every time I came into the kitchen.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ I tease her. ‘Whenever you glanced over you gave me an indulgent smile, as if to say, “Ah, that’s nice, Alice enjoying some adult male company for a change.”’

‘No, I didn’t. God, you’d have no end of male company if you wanted it, if you put out some signals. You’d be fighting them off with sticks …’

We all laugh, and I quickly shush them as Fergus scampers in to grab a bottle of Lucozade from the fridge and barks a speedy hello before disappearing again.

‘Does he know about your date?’ Kirsty murmurs.

‘Yep. Heard me muttering to myself about Anthony plunging his tongue down my throat …’

Viv splutters. ‘That’s the kind of conversation you have with yourself?’

A strawberry meringue dissolves in my mouth. ‘Sadly, yeah. I probably traumatised my poor boy …’

‘Bet he’d love you to meet someone, though,’ Kirsty suggests.

‘You really think so?’ I laugh dryly. ‘He interrogated me after Anthony called today. God knows how things would be if I dared to bring a man back to the flat. I’d have to smuggle him in, covered in a blanket, like a criminal being ushered into a police van. And then we’d lie in bed, as silent as lambs in case Fergus – his bedroom is next to mine, remember – got wind of some action and set off his translator to spite me: “I have been raped!”’

Everyone howls with laughter. Seriously, though, is it any wonder I find the very thought of sex rather anxiety-making?

I glance at Viv who, perhaps in an attempt to inspire me, has switched the topic to her current dalliance with some whippersnapper she pounced on in a bar. Although the four of us are close in age, Viv has by far the whizziest life these days. As studio manager at a textile design company, she easily passes for a decade younger with her Mia-Farrow-esque crop, which she carries off beautifully with her large brown eyes, pronounced cheekbones and the rosy complexion of the child-free. Viv married young, at twenty-one; the ring had barely been slipped on her finger when her husband started to micromanage the way she dressed (no hemlines above knee-length) and even her make-up (i.e. none). So jealous was he, she used to joke that he’d probably implanted some kind of tracking device in her while she slept – then he caused an almighty scene when she was chatting to some man at a party, and it stopped being remotely funny. Sick of being ‘under surveillance’ as she put it, Viv packed her belongings into two battered old cases and walked out. There’s been a dizzying amount of flings since, though nothing remotely approaching serious.

‘You need to cast the net wide,’ she instructs me now, smoking a cigarette at the open kitchen window. ‘Find yourself a younger man. Everyone’s doing it these days.’

‘You mean you are,’ I snigger. ‘Anyway, how young is too young, d’you think? I mean, what are the rules?’

She takes a drag of her cig. ‘Half your age plus seven is perfectly fine.’

‘And how did you work that out?’

She grins and drains her wine glass, refilling it to the brim from the bottle. Viv drinks fast, with seemingly no ill effects next morning; but then, my hangovers were child’s play before I had kids.

‘Well,’ she explains, extinguishing her cigarette under the running tap and dropping it into the bin, ‘that way you avoid people crowing that you’re twice his age. And think of the energy levels, Alice. Younger guys don’t need much sleep, and when they do it’s at the proper time – you know, at night, and not when you’re watching a movie together.’ My mind flashes back to Tom sleeping, seemingly for days on end, like a hibernating dormouse in his duvet nest on the sofa. ‘Although, I have to say, it’s not all good,’ Viv goes on, cheeks already flushed from the wine.

‘Sounds pretty good to me,’ Kirsty says ruefully. I know she and her husband Dan have been having problems lately; their three children are home educated, and he appears to have reneged on his part of the deal, which was to teach them science and maths. As Kirsty has pointed out, home educating is a cinch when you’re sitting in a peaceful office, ten miles from home.

‘I mean, look at the state of my face,’ Viv laments. ‘I’m so sleep deprived, I can’t tell you.’ She jabs at the faintest hint of under-eye baggage.

‘That’s normal,’ Kirsty retorts. ‘I’ve had mine for so long, they’re permanently etched on my face.’

Ingrid leans forward. ‘You know the best treatment for those? Pile ointment. Alice, d’you have any old tubes kicking around?’

‘Thanks a lot,’ I scoff. ‘When you think of my bathroom cabinet, you’re not picturing a beautiful pot of Crème de la Mer. You’re thinking a mangled tube of Anusol.’

‘Well,’ she says with a smile, ‘you have had that … problem over the years, haven’t you?’

‘Not for ages,’ I insist, heading to the bathroom anyway and returning with the requested tube.

‘Great. Dab it on,’ she instructs Viv.

‘What are you doing?’ Fergus, who’s returned to the kitchen for further supplies, stares at us from the doorway.

‘Emergency beauty treatment,’ Viv explains, patting an eye-bag with a finger and waggling the tube. ‘This, Fergus, is your mum’s bum cream but as you can see, it has other uses. It multitasks.’

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?

‘Oh, I’ve got it here somewhere …’ She frowns and starts flicking through mountains of ratty old paperwork on the gnarled oak table. We’ve been here for less than five minutes and already I can sense a vein throbbing violently in my forehead. It’s my fault; I should have spent the forty-minute drive mentally revving myself up into the sparkling game-show hostess persona that’s required on these occasions, instead of berating the boys for moaning about visiting Grandma. ‘It’s my Sunday,’ Logan kept lamenting, as if he’d been slaving away at the coalface all week. ‘I was gonna do stuff.’

‘I don’t mind going,’ Fergus conceded, ‘but we’re not staying long, are we? Like, we’re not gonna be there all day?’

And now it’s too late. I’m gritting my teeth in defensiveness, while trying to reassure myself that being a size twelve is actually fine, at my age – at any age, in fact. We’re hardly talking morbidly obese. But then, I have never matched up to Mum’s expectations of what a daughter should be. She couldn’t understand why I never gleaned the clutch of A grades that had come so easily to her; the fact that I enjoyed drawing, baking and simply playing as a child left her utterly baffled. I don’t blame her especially – she’s just made that way – and, thankfully, she’s a little warmer to her grandsons.

As Logan and Fergus install themselves on the scuffed leather sofa beneath the kitchen window, Mum continues her search for a snippet of paper which will save me from a gastric bypass operation. Newspapers are piled up on wonky wooden chairs, and bookshelves are crammed with formidable tomes, all dusty and sticky with kitchen grease in which evr’thing is spellte lyke this. Finding her library oddly fascinating, Fergus selects one from a shelf.

‘What does this mean, Grandma?’ he asks, proceeding to read in a grand, theatrical voice: ‘“Tehee, quod she and clapte the window to!”’

‘Hang on a minute, love,’ she says distractedly.

‘I think it means he’s telling her to shut the window,’ I venture.

‘But why?’

‘Um, maybe it’s draughty …’

‘Yeah, but what’s the “tehee” bit about?’ Fergus wants to know.

I glance at Mum in the hope that she’ll stop excavating the paperwork and answer him. ‘I think she’s laughing at someone,’ I say, bobbing down to help her gather up a heap of yellowing journals which have slid off the table in a dusty heap.

Fergus frowns. ‘Is it meant to be funny?’

‘What’s that, Fergus?’ my mother asks.

‘Mum was just translating something Medieval for us,’ Logan says with a smirk.

‘Was she?’ Mum chuckles. ‘Good luck with that, Alice. It’s not like you to take an interest in my library.’ I form a rictus grin. Mum is of the impression that I can barely manage to read anything more taxing than Grazia, which these days isn’t too far from the truth.

Having dumped the book on the table, Fergus pulls something from his jeans pocket. ‘Look, Grandma – I’ve got a translator.’

‘That’s nice,’ she says. ‘I’m glad you’re taking an interest in language, Fergus.’

‘Yes,’ I say quickly, ‘but it doesn’t speak Medieval. In fact it doesn’t make much sense at all. Please put it away, darling.’ Before it starts squawking about rape …

‘Ah – here it is, I knew I’d kept it safe for you.’ Mum brandishes a scrap of paper as if it’s a treasure hunt clue and presses it into my hand.

‘Thank you, Mum.’

‘Let me know how you get on …’

‘Of course I will.’ If I’m not too sodding fat to stagger to the telephone …

‘Anyway,’ she says, visibly relieved now, ‘I thought I’d do burgers for lunch, okay, boys? That’s what you like best, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, that’s great, Grandma,’ Fergus says dutifully. I drop my gaze to the diet. In fact, it isn’t newfangled; rather, it appears to have been snipped out of a Medieval copy of Woman’s Own.

Breakfast: half banana, black tea/coffee.

Lunch: One spoon cottage cheese, 4 Tuc biscuits.

Dinner: Tinned hot dog sausage (NO BREAD), unlimited green beans.

As Mum clatters around, managing to locate a frying pan in a jam-packed cupboard, I scrunch up the diet into a tight ball in my fist. I know I’m being churlish but I can’t help it.

‘I hear your father’s taking a holiday soon,’ Mum is telling me now. ‘An Easter holiday, like one a year isn’t good enough for him.’ She extracts a clear plastic carton of burgers from the fridge.

‘Really? I hadn’t heard. Where are they going?’

‘Penzance!’ she exclaims, in a voice more suited to ‘the Maldives’.

‘Well,’ I say carefully, ‘maybe you should have a holiday too. A change of scene might be good for you.’

She frowns, assessing my apparently ballooning figure. ‘Who would I go with?’

‘Mum, you have plenty of friends. I’m sure Penny or Joan would love to go away with you.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she says crossly.

A small silence descends as she lights the gas ring with a dented silver wand and sloshes yellow oil from a large unlabelled bottle into the pan.

‘When are we going home?’ Fergus mouths at me.

‘Never,’ I hiss, prompting him to mime a throat-cutting motion.

‘Please, Mum,’ he mouths back.

I shake my head and whisper, ‘You will die here.’

Mum turns back to us from the cooker. ‘I’m afraid I’m not doing chips, boys. Can’t be doing with all that fat.’

‘That’s fine, Grandma,’ Logan mutters.

‘Oh, I brought you these,’ I say in an overly perky voice, lifting the tin of meringues from my bag and removing the lid. ‘I’ve been testing new flavours. You can give me your verdict if you like.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ she says, wincing as if I might have expelled them out of my bottom.

‘I thought you might like the chocolate ones. I made them specially.’

She forces a tight smile. ‘So, as I was saying, it’s all right for your father and his fancy woman to swan off here, there and everywhere at the drop of a hat …’

‘Uh-huh,’ I murmur, unwilling to be drawn into a character assassination of Dad right now. Okay, he left Mum for another woman – Brenda McPhail who, with her reedy ex-husband, ran a dump of a pub on the moors called The Last Gasp (we are not talking gastro-pub, although they do stock a fine range of pork scratchings). Understandably, Mum was horrified; she’d had not an inkling that anything had been going on. In his holey sweaters and faded jumbo cords, Dad – an academic like Mum – hardly seemed capable of sparking a scandal among the sparse community in this blasted landscape. But eight months ago, he and Brenda hotfooted it to Devon, where they now keep chickens and goats. Although he’s rarely in touch, I can’t bring myself to hate him for it. After decades of Mum pointing out his failings, perhaps Brenda made him realise he didn’t have to live out the rest of his years feeling like a colossal disappointment after all.

Mum slices open four rolls on the cluttered worktop. ‘Can I help you with anything?’ I ask, conscious of hovering ineffectually.

‘No, it’s fine.’

A tense silence descends, and I glance at my boys, both of whom are slumped on the sofa as if awaiting an unpleasant medical procedure. At times like this, I’d give anything for a sibling to share some of this. As it is, I feel guilty if we don’t visit, and guilty when we do – for dragging my boys here and because, in truth, I’d dearly love to be somewhere else too. In fact, coming here is more guilt-making than staying at home.

Plus, I’m annoyed with myself for not having the gumption to say, Please stop badmouthing the boys’ granddad in front of them. It’s really not what we came here for.

‘Logan’s exams are coming up,’ I remark, sensing myself ageing rapidly, like a speeded-up film of the lifecycle of a rose. By the time we leave, I’ll be entirely withered.

‘I’m sure you’ll do well,’ Mum remarks. ‘You’ve always been a very bright boy.’

‘Thanks, Grandma,’ Logan mumbles.

‘You’ll be studying hard in the holidays, I’d imagine?’

‘Well, um, Dad’s taking us to the Highlands …’

‘But you’ll take all your books with you—’

‘Of course I will,’ he says quickly, flushing a little. I see a flicker of tension in his jaw, and am seized by an urge to hug him and say I’m so sorry it’s always like this, and I wish you had a storybook granny with an endless supply of cuddles and cakes and, actually, she does care about you. She just wants you and your brother to have successful lives, perhaps to compensate for me not having risen to the dizzy heights of academia … I start extracting plates from the cupboard and cutlery from the drawer, wondering if it would be so terrible to stop off to buy cigarettes on the way home, plus strong drink like vodka or gin.

‘How are you getting along at school, Fergus?’ Mum asks.

‘Great,’ he says brightly. ‘It’s loads better than primary school …’

‘Why’s that?’

‘’Cause we’re allowed to go up the street and get chips.’

She throws him a disappointed look, then turns to rip the cellophane lid off the carton of burgers, allowing a pungent odour to escape. Dear God, they stink. She’s planning to poison us all with rotten beef. Adopting the nonchalant air of someone planning to shoplift, I stroll around the kitchen table, bending to stroke Brian, her malevolent ginger tom, who hisses sharply from behind the propped-up ironing board. Working my way towards the cooker now, I casually peer into the pan where the slimy burgers have landed with feeble sizzle.

‘Um … are you sure they’re okay, Mum?’ I venture.

‘Of course they are. Why wouldn’t they be?’

‘Er, don’t you think they look a bit … peaky?’ What is wrong with me, an almost-forty-year-old woman, terrified of crossing my mother?

‘They’re fine,’ she declares as the remainder of our weekend flashes before me: of the boys puking copiously during the car journey home, culminating in twenty-four hours spent in bed. I can handle her cooking – I’ll stuff my burger in my shoe or something, as a sort of grease-soaked insole – but my boys won’t know unless I alert them. ‘I tried that diet myself,’ Mum informs me.

‘Did you? Well, you look great. Very trim.’ It’s true: she could spear someone’s eye out with those collarbones. Her moss-green scoop-necked sweater and dog-tooth-checked trousers are probably a size eight. Defeated now, I perch on the edge of the table and survey my poor sons who are about to ingest a swarm of seething bacteria. I’m their mother, for crying out loud; I can’t allow that to happen.

‘Don’t-eat-the-burgers,’ I mouth as Mum turns back to the stove.

‘Eh?’ Fergus says loudly.

‘The meat’s off. It’ll kill you.’

‘What?’ Logan barks as Mum heads for the fridge to rummage for her pre-war ketchup.

‘Don’t eat the meat!’ I mouth again, more forcefully this time.

‘Mum, what are you on about?’ Fergus asks.

I make a petrified face, indicating the pan on the hob, then poke two fingers into my mouth to mime vomiting. Logan bursts out laughing and Fergus stares at me uncomprehendingly.

‘She’s gone mental,’ he whispers to his big brother. ‘This is it – she’s finally flipped.’

Mum turns back to us, setting down the sauce bottle, then goes in search of the generic lime cordial that I suspect only sees daylight during our visits. While she checks several crammed cupboards, I glance around wildly, wondering how to alert my boys to their imminent fate. If only we had some kind of secret family code, like a series of coughs, or knew semaphore or Morse …

Pretending to study a newspaper from the pile, I squint at the fiendishly difficult, completed crossword. While Mum continues her search for the cordial, I snatch a pencil from an overstuffed jam jar on a shelf and quickly scribble in the margin: BURGERS BAD DO NOT EAT!!!

Logan frowns at my scrawling. ‘Shit,’ he breathes.

‘What’ll I do?’ Fergus whispers, dark eyes wide. This is the tricky bit. We can’t eat them, obviously, but nor am I keen on incurring Mum’s wrath. Would it be possible for us to somehow dispose of our burgers, perhaps by throwing them out of the window, if she happens to leave the table? Could I send her off on a fake errand – to find us a different kind of sauce, or a selection of fine pickles? No, she doesn’t exactly run around fetching things for people, and anyway, the small kitchen windows are all painted shut. Could we feed the burgers to Brian? I slide my gaze over to where he is eyeing us from his ironing board hidey-hole. No – that wouldn’t be fair. Even if he did manage to guzzle them, they might poison or even kill him, and I’d never forgive myself for that. We all take our seats at the table as Mum slides the burgers into four rolls.

‘There’s one spare,’ she announces. ‘Who wants the extra?’

‘No thanks,’ the boys blurt out.

‘Aren’t you having one, Mum?’ I ask as she brings a small plate of crackers, and a slice of the industrial dyed orange cheese she allows herself as a treat, to the table.

‘Oh, I can’t be doing with all that rich food in the middle of the day.’

‘Um, I’m not that hungry either, Grandma,’ Logan says meekly. Poor boy, usually so full of swagger. In less than an hour he’s been reduced to a husk.

‘Come on, a growing lad like you needs to eat.’ She cuts a tiny triangle the size of a Trivial Pursuit piece from her cheese, and pops it into her mouth.

Fergus clears his throat. ‘I’ve been thinking of becoming vegetarian. Or even vegan and, you know, just eating plants.’

Mum laughs dryly. ‘Whatever for?’

‘Because I don’t think such a big proportion of the earth should be used for cows to graze on.’

‘Well, you can be vegan at home,’ Mum says, prompting him to throw me a stricken expression which says: HELP. As both boys nibble at the edges of their rolls, I pick up mine and give it a discreet sniff. It smells oddly sweet, and I picture Erica-the-Inspector’s face if she were to examine it.

‘Well, tuck in,’ Mum prompts us.

I pause, feeling her curranty eyes fixed upon me across the table, and aware of the boys throwing me panicky looks. I’ve always known what to do in a crisis; I’ve managed to eradicate verrucas, threadworms and nits, and didn’t even freak out when Fergus plucked King Nit from his head and made me watch it writhing on his history jotter. Yet now, when they depend on me to be quick-witted, I am useless. What kind of mother sits back while her children ingest rancid flesh? Then a small miracle happens. Having emerged from behind the ironing board, Brian prowls towards us across the kitchen. He gives each of us a sly look, then stops on the murky Aztec-patterned rug where his entire body appears to spasm. While I’ve never been one to derive pleasure from seeing an animal in distress, his actions – causing Mum to leap up and hurry towards him – give me just enough time to snatch all three of our burgers from their buns and ram them into the small side pockets of my cashmere cardigan.

‘Is he okay, Mum?’ I ask as Brian vomits and the boys convulse with silent mirth.

‘He’s been doing this a lot lately,’ she mutters, wiping up the small pool of puke with the cloth from the sink. ‘He’s been on a cheaper brand of food since your father left and it’s not agreeing with him.’

‘Yes, I can see that.’

‘I can’t afford his trout pâté any more,’ she adds.

I take a big bite of roll, hoping that any beef residue is minimal. ‘That’s a real pity.’

‘Poor Brian,’ Fergus adds for effect. ‘Maybe he should see a vet, Grandma.’

‘As if I can afford that,’ she exclaims, rinsing out the cloth at the sink while I give my cardi pockets a tentative pat. Grease is already seeping through the fine raspberry knit. I could grumble about this, and point out that it’s the only cashmere garment I’ve ever owned – but its ruination is a small price to pay for my boys’ wellbeing.

As I finish my bare roll, my mobile rings. ‘Excuse me a sec, Mum,’ I say quickly, marching to the back door and letting myself out into the scrubby back garden.

‘You okay to talk for a minute?’ Kirsty asks.

‘Yes, but I’m at Mum’s …’ I fill her in on the rank burger incident, knowing that Kirsty, who hasn’t eaten ‘anything with a face’ for twenty-five years, will be sufficiently appalled.

‘And your lovely cardi’s ruined?’ she laments. ‘That’s awful. Ugh. Anyway, this’ll cheer you up. I think I’ve found a man for you …’

‘Who is he?’ I glance at the row of industrial beige knickers wafting gently on Mum’s washing line.

‘His name’s Stephen and he’s our new dentist …’

‘A dentist,’ I repeat.

She laughs. ‘Keep an open mind. He’s brilliant with the kids – they actually look forward to going now. And I ran into him again at a birthday do Hamish was invited to. You know how most dads tend to hide away in corners at kids’ parties?’

‘Tom never went to any,’ I say with a snort. ‘It’s a miracle he actually showed up to Logan and Fergus’s.’

‘Well, Stephen was great,’ she declares, ‘getting stuck in with the games, being the wolf in What’s the Time, Mr Wolf? and helping the kids to build a fire at the bottom of the garden. He had them all toasting marshmallows …’

‘Wow,’ I breathe, unable to decide whether this is a hugely attractive quality, or smacks of over-zealous and eager to please. Perhaps I’m just not used to party-fabulous dads.

‘His daughter Molly’s around eight,’ Kirsty goes on. ‘She’s in Hamish’s class. He’s a single dad, has been for years as far as I can make out …’

‘And you’re sure he wants to meet someone?’

‘Oh yes. We got chatting and I told him all about you. What else? Um, he’s tall, slim, fairish hair, greenish eyes … he’s just nice, you know? Good-looking but not intimidatingly so.’ She pauses. ‘I did warn him that you’re a pusher of meringues and he seemed fine with that.’

I laugh, my spirits rising as I fish the burgers from my pockets and fling them one by one, like miniature frisbees, over the drystone wall.

‘Okay,’ I say, ‘but can we leave it until the boys are away on their jaunt with Tom? I feel bad, expecting Logan to look after Fergus all the time.’

‘Yes, like, about once a month,’ she says, not unkindly.

I bite my lip. ‘It’ll just be simpler that way.’ This isn’t entirely true; after amuse-bouche night, I need time to rev myself back up into a dating frame of mind.

By the time I’m back inside, Mum has produced a collection of illustrations showing Scotland in the Middle Ages. The scene – of the boys dutifully studying the creased, fly-speckled pictures that she’s spread out on the table to show them – twists my heart.

‘That’s amazing, Gran,’ Logan says gamely.

‘Yeah, they’re really cool,’ Fergus adds, stifling a yawn.

She turns to him and smiles. ‘Before you go, let me have a look at that translator of yours.’ He hands it to her and, while she takes the thing to pieces and prods at its innards, I select a leather-bound book from a shelf and flip it open at a random page:

With hym ther was his sone, a yong squier

A lovyere and a lusty bacheler …

A lusty bachelor! Could a child-friendly dentist fit into this category? We all wait patiently as Mum fiddles about with the gadget’s innards, then finally puts it back together. ‘There,’ she says, handing it to Fergus.

‘Is it fixed?’ he gasps.

‘Yes, just needed resetting. Go on, ask it a question.’

He turns to me, perhaps fearful of what it might say.

‘Er … “Where is the station?”’ I ask nervously. He taps some buttons. Où est la gare? it chirps.

‘Wow, Grandma.’ Fergus grins. ‘That’s amazing. You’re so clever.’

‘It really wasn’t difficult,’ she blusters, as if unaccustomed to praise. We say our goodbyes then, all heading outside where I give her a hug; it’s like trying to cuddle an icicle. She is a little more receptive to Logan and Fergus’s hugs, and doesn’t appear to notice their eagerness to jump into the car.

Before I climb in, perhaps in an attempt to spark a glimmer of warmth between us, I add, ‘Oh, I meant to tell you, Mum – that was Kirsty who called earlier. She’s setting me up on a blind date.’

‘Really?’ Mum fixes me with small pale grey eyes. ‘Who with?’

‘Some dentist guy.’

‘A dentist,’ she repeats, clearly impressed. ‘Ooh, you’ll be glad I gave you that diet then.’ So what’s she implying now? That I have fat teeth?

Chapter Six

‘That was so embarrassing,’ Logan declares as we pull away. ‘Never put me in a situation like that again, Mum. Can’t believe you did that to me.’

Like I flaunted the use-by date on those burgers!

‘Listen,’ I say, ‘I stopped you being poisoned, all right? I might’ve even saved your life. And I ruined my best cardi.’

‘That’s disgusting,’ Fergus crows from the back seat, ‘putting cooked food in your pockets. You’d go mad if we did that.’

Jesus Christ. We reach the main road and I speed up, the cigarette and gin scenario becoming more appealing by the minute.

‘There wasn’t an awful lot of choice, Fergus. Anyway, I think you had the right idea. Next time we go, I’ll tell her we’ve gone vegetarian …’

‘You mean we’re going again?’ Logan whines.

‘Well, at some point, yes. I mean, that wasn’t the last time you’ll ever see Grandma.’

‘No, I know that,’ he says gruffly.

‘And she loves our visits,’ I add. ‘Being around such vibrant young people brings sunshine and sparkle into her life.’

Fergus cackles with laughter, and the fuggy weight of the day starts to lift as we head along the main Edinburgh-bound road.

‘What would she give us,’ Fergus muses, ‘if we pretended to be veggie?’

‘God knows. A tin of potatoes, maybe.’

‘You can’t get tinned potatoes,’ he retorts.

‘Oh yes you can. You’ve been spoilt, that’s your problem …’

He barks with laughter. ‘Well, they sound better than stinky old meat …’

‘Maybe,’ Logan muses, ‘she’d be better in an old people’s home.’

I cast him a sharp look. ‘Grandma doesn’t need to go into a home. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with her. She’s as strong as an ox, you know – managed to erect that fence at the front all by herself …’

At the term ‘erect’, both boys dissolve into cackles. ‘They’re actually not that bad,’ Logan adds.

‘What aren’t?’

‘Old folks’ homes. Blake’s granddad’s in one.’

‘Yes, I know, love …’

‘They’re allowed to sit around and watch telly all day and at Christmas they get a Santa.’

I splutter with laughter. ‘Oh, Grandma would love that. She’s only sixty-six and a world authority on Beowulf. She doesn’t need a patronising old bloke asking what she wants for Christmas.’

‘What’s Beowulf about?’ Fergus asks from the back.

‘Er … I think there’s a monster in it.’

‘Yeah, but what happens?’

‘A bit like Little Red Riding Hood, is it, Mum?’ Logan enquires.

I throw him a quick sideways look. Smartarse. Bet he doesn’t know about Beowulf either. The two of them just enjoy exposing me as a fluff-brain, capable only of whisking up eggs and manning a school office – which is actually bloody complicated, what with the endless paperwork and the diplomatic handling of tricky parents.

‘Talking of which,’ I say with a smile, ‘how’s the revision going, Logan? It’s, what, three weeks till your first exam?’

‘It’s going fine,’ he says between his teeth.

‘Are you sure? Can I help at all?’

He snorts.

‘Seriously, love. I wish you’d let me. I could be a useful resource.’

‘I don’t think so, Mum.’

‘I’m starving,’ Fergus reminds me. ‘I only had a bare roll …’

‘… With a greasy stain on it,’ Logan adds. ‘That was a nice touch.’

‘I know,’ I reply, ‘and I plan to fix that as soon as I can.’ Shutting my ears to further grumbling, I turn off the main road and follow the narrow country lane towards the nearest village. ‘Isn’t it lovely around here?’ I muse.

‘’S’all right,’ Logan says.

‘I mean, the countryside. It’s so pretty and peaceful …’

‘Don’t see the point of it really,’ Logan says. ‘Anyway, where are we going?’

I pull up in front of a small parade of shops where there also happens to be a chip shop. ‘Here.’

The mood lifts considerably as, installed in a booth, we tuck into steaming platefuls of fish and chips. As we chat and giggle, eking out the pleasure of our unscheduled stop, it strikes me how lovely these unplanned events can be. You can feel as if you’re losing your children as they grow up, shunning your attempts to help with revision and regarding you as if you’re a particularly troublesome boil. Then there are occasions like this when, completely unexpectedly, you’re drawn back into being a family again. It no longer seems to matter that my own mother thinks I’m a fat dimwit or that my sole date this year recommended four grand’s worth of facial enhancements. Right now, it’s just me and my boys all happy and stuffed with delicious fish and chips.

The day improves even further as we set off back to Edinburgh and pass a farm where some pigs are copulating, at which the boys shriek with laughter. It’s moments like this, I always think, that a parent should cherish.

*

My mobile starts trilling as I let us into the flat.

‘I’ve found someone!’ Viv shrieks. ‘Am I first? Bet I’m first …’

‘You mean for our thing?’ I hiss.

‘Yes! Bet the others haven’t found anyone yet …’

‘Well, Kirsty called when I was at Mum’s …’ I turn towards Logan and Fergus who are regarding me with rapt interest. ‘It’s all right, boys, thank you. I’m just having a private conversation with Viv.’

‘A private conversation,’ Logan repeats mockingly as they slope off to their respective bedrooms. ‘Bet that’s thrilling.’

‘Yes, we’re discussing the best way to fold tea towels,’ I call after him. ‘God,’ I mutter to Viv. ‘I’ll never be able to bring a man back here with those two policing me. I’ll have to wait until Fergus leaves for uni.’

‘How long away is that again?’ she asks.

Heading for the relative privacy of the kitchen, I pull off my jacket which retains its fuggy smell from Mum’s house, mingling with the vinegary tang of the chippie. ‘Only five years. Half a decade. I’ll be forty-four by then.’

‘Isn’t Tom taking the boys away soon?’

‘Yes – on Thursday, when they break up. But I’m not planning to bring anyone back and jump on them the minute they’re gone, Viv.’

‘No,’ she giggles, ‘you’d better at least wait until his car’s gone round the corner.’

‘Camper van actually. He’s hired some amazing, top-of-the-range model …’

‘He’s moved up in the world, hasn’t he, from that leaky two-man Argos tent?’

‘Yes, but he married well, remember …’

‘There you go then,’ she says triumphantly. ‘You’ll have an empty flat. Perfect opportunity.’

‘For what?’ I ask, laughing. ‘I’m not planning to rush in, Viv.’

‘Why not?’

Because it’s too sodding traumatic, that’s why. Because – if truth be known – I can barely remember which bits go where.

‘I just want to take things slowly,’ I say feebly.

‘Hmm. So, who’s Kirsty found for you? One of her beardy single-dad mates?’

‘She didn’t mention a beard,’ I say with a smile, ‘but, yes, he is a dad …’

‘… Wears tie-dyed trousers, reeks of hummus …’

‘Actually, he’s a dentist.’

‘Ugh. Not very sexy, is it?’

‘What,’ I say, ‘being a dentist? I don’t see why not.’

‘Oh, you know,’ Viv goes on. ‘Cavities, plaque, poking about with other people’s rotting molars …’

I shrug off my cardi, lay it on the kitchen table and frown at the greasy patches which have seeped through the pockets. There’s a small lump in one of them; it’s the Tuc biscuit diet, scrunched into a tight little ball.

‘It was you who said I should keep an open mind,’ I remind her.

‘Well,’ she says, ‘I’ve a feeling mine’ll be much more your type.’

‘Not that this is a competition,’ I tease.

‘Of course it’s not. God. It’s all about you, not just cheap entertainment for us.’

I smirk and flick on the kettle.

‘In fact, we’ve all had a chat,’ Viv continues, ‘and we decided that, no matter how much you like the first one, or the second, you still have to go out with all three of them just to be sure.’

‘To give you all a fair chance of winning,’ I remark with a grin.

‘Yeah. No! Oh, you know what I mean. We feel it’s important to follow the whole process right through to its conclusion.’

‘Okay, so who d’you have in mind?’

Viv hangs off for a moment, in order to pique my interest. I picture her pacing around her small art-filled flat, drawing on a Marlboro Light. ‘Okay – his name’s Giles.’

‘Sounds posh.’

‘Well, he’s not. At least, not especially. He’s a new guy at work – cute, really fun, dark nicely cut hair and the most stunning blue eyes …’

‘Wow,’ I exclaim. ‘And you’re sure he’s single?’

‘Yes, absolutely.’

‘And you said he’s new …’

‘Yeah.’ Curiously, she has become a little reticent.

‘Is he a designer?’ I ask, faintly intrigued by the idea of someone who could give me tips on transforming our ‘space’.

‘Um … not exactly.’

I slosh boiling water into my mug – one hand-painted by Viv, incidentally, all cerise and gold swirls, almost too pretty to drink from. ‘Is he in the accountants department?’

‘Nooo …’

I blow out a big gust of air. ‘Viv, listen, you know I don’t care about job titles or how much someone earns. It really doesn’t matter.’

‘Yes, I know that,’ she says.

‘But you’re actually being really cagey, which is a bit weird. I mean, if you like him and think we’d get along, that’s fine – I don’t care if he’s the maintenance man …’

‘He’s the intern,’ she interrupts.

‘The intern?’ I repeat. ‘I can’t meet the intern, Viv. God.’

‘Why not? You just said you don’t care about job titles.’

I’m laughing so much now, Fergus pokes his head around the kitchen door to see what’s funny. ‘I don’t,’ I say, grinning and waving him away. ‘It’s not that. It’s about age.’

‘But he’s gorgeous,’ she insists. ‘He has amazing bone structure and great teeth …’

‘Yes, well, milk teeth usually are.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, he’s not that young. Just meet him, have a drink, go to a movie or something …’

I pick up Mum’s diet from the table and ping it in the vague direction of the bin. It bounces off it and lands on the floor which is currently littered with enormous, boat-like trainers and a smattering of orangey dust which I presume to be crushed Doritos.

‘I’m not sure a movie’s ideal for a first date,’ I say, ‘and I’m not really up for watching American Pie or the latest Pixar …’

‘Alice, he’s not a teenager. He’s worked for years, done this and that – taught English, travelled, hung out in Ibiza for a while … he’s a really interesting person.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ I reply, as a collection of gap year jewellery – leather thongs, yin yang symbols and the like – shimmers in my mind. God, I haven’t even been to Ibiza; the whole clubbing thing passed me by. In my younger days I was happier installed in a pub with my mates and a load of crisps and beer.

‘And he’s always wanted to work in design,’ she continues, ‘so when his grandma died and he inherited some money, he decided to apply for an internship. He was so impressive at the interview, very passionate …’

‘Were you orgasming at this point?’ I enquire.

Viv snorts. ‘I was a bit distracted, I have to admit. Anyway, it’s a career change for him.’

‘A change from what? Sitting on beaches and taking shitloads of drugs?’

‘Stop that. He’s serious about this. Hopefully he’ll be taken on properly after a few months.’

I push back my dishevelled dark hair, detecting a faint chip-shop smell, and nibble a finger of Kit Kat that someone has left on the table. ‘So how old is he?’ I ask.

‘Er … twenty-nine.’

‘That’s ten years younger than me, Viv. I’d feel like his auntie or something. Like he’d expect me to suggest a game of whist.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re still young. Anyway, no one cares about age any more. Remember that half-your-age-plus-seven rule?’

I perform a swift calculation, rounding myself up to forty to avoid pesky fractions: ‘Twenty-seven.’

‘There you go then. He’s comfortably within range …’

‘Viv,’ I say thoughtfully, ‘why don’t you ask him out? He sounds far more your type …’

‘Because we work together,’ she says in an overly patient voice. ‘It’d be so awkward, especially with me technically being his boss.’

‘Oh, of course. So have you mentioned me yet?’

‘I might have casually said something,’ she teases.

‘But we only hatched this plan yesterday and you haven’t been at work …’

‘We had to finish off an advertising shoot this morning and he offered to help,’ she says. ‘He’s very dedicated.’

‘And, er … he’s up for meeting me, is he? I mean … he knows I have two sons, and that one of them will be old enough to drive a car this time next year?’

‘Yes, well, I didn’t go into detail, but he knows you’re a bit older and he was perfectly fine with that.’

I sip my tea. ‘Listen, he’s not one of those, “I love older women” types, is he? The kind who fantasised about his friend’s mum or his well-preserved biology teacher …’

Viv honks with laughter.

‘I’m not up for any of that creepy, “Oooh, you mature ladies, you know your onions” kind of crap,’ I add firmly.

She laughs some more. ‘I promise you, Giles will not be interested in your onions. He’s not that kind of boy – I mean man.’

‘Only just,’ I chuckle.

‘Well … yeah. So can I give him your number?’

‘Sure,’ I say, feeling suddenly, horribly conscious of my age, and spotting a whacking great frown line when I glimpse my reflection in the chrome kettle. Which, I fear, doesn’t bode terribly well for the actual date.

Chapter Seven

To clear a backlog of filing I’ve done an extra hour at school, so the boys are home before me on this blustery Monday afternoon. I can hear jovial chatter, dominated by my neighbour Clemmie’s booming tones, as I hurry upstairs to the flat. She is Logan’s best mate Blake’s mum, and often pops round to monitor the sorry state of my life. (Clemmie runs her own events management company and her husband Richard is something in property – he basically owns pretty much all of Scotland, as far as I can make out.)

‘Hope you don’t mind me dropping by,’ she says with a red-lipped grin as Blake sips on a Coke and Stanley, her Cairn terrier, snuffles around my kitchen. Flaunting health and safety regulations, but never mind that.

‘Of course not,’ I say, noticing Logan’s previously perky expression deflating, as if I have brought in something terrible stuck to my shoe. Why is it perfectly acceptable – enjoyable, even – to chat pleasantly with his best mate’s mum, but not the woman who birthed him? (And whose body has – to be frank – never fully recovered. Apart from the obvious sagging of boobs, we are also talking a knackered old pelvic floor, plus outbreaks of piles – glamorous, I know – from time to time.) Fergus, meanwhile, is too busy chomping on a biscuit to pay much attention to anyone.

‘D’you take milk, Clemmie?’ Logan asks, in the process of making her a cup of tea. This is astounding. He has never made me a hot beverage; I’ve never been sure if he’s capable of operating the kettle, to be honest. I have to clamp my mouth shut to stop myself from saying, And thank you for my much-needed cup of tea, Logan. Instead, I watch mutely as he shoves my raspberry cardi up to the end of the table – I’d laid it out to inspect the burger stain damage – and places the cup in front of her. ‘Biscuit?’ he asks, maturely.

‘Yes please,’ she replies. ‘What do you have?’

‘Only Rich Teas,’ I cut in, at which Clemmie’s enthusiasm wilts.

‘Ah, I’ll just leave it.’ She pats an ample hip. ‘Meant to be fasting today but I suppose, if you have some of your lovely meringues, I wouldn’t say no …’ She runs a tongue over her lips. ‘I mean, they must be about ninety per cent air …’

‘Here you go,’ I say, offering her the tin with a smile.

‘Thanks, darling. Yum. Anyway, the boys were just telling me about their visit to their grandma’s …’

‘Oh, yes. A bit trying as usual.’

‘And I hear you had to intervene over lunch …’ She laughs, causing her spectacular breasts to jiggle like crème caramels.

I take the seat beside her. ‘Well, there was a bit of an incident with the Medieval burgers …’

‘So I heard. Gosh, she’s such a one-off.’

I chuckle uncomfortably, torn between my shameful feelings of irritation towards Mum, and a bizarre sense of loyalty.

‘Anyway,’ Clemmie goes on, indicating the small stack of magazines on the table, ‘I’ve finished with these and thought they might give you a few ideas.’

‘Great, thanks.’ I eye the uppermost title: Stylish Living.

‘But I’m really here to ask a favour,’ she goes on, adjusting her plunging neckline. ‘It’s a bit of a rush, I’m afraid. You know I’ve been working on the Morgan relaunch …’

‘Yes, you mentioned that.’ The Morgan is a sprawling Edinburgh Hotel. For years, it looked rather decrepit – all faded tartan carpets with a depressed-looking bagpiper droning away under the wonky awning outside – but it has recently undergone a major overhaul, for which Clemmie is masterminding the launch party.

‘Well, it occurred to me yesterday that it would be cute to have party bags,’ she says, ‘just like at a children’s party – only ours would contain something people would actually want to eat. And I thought, Alice’s meringues! The client thinks it’s a fantastic idea.’

‘Sounds great,’ I say. ‘So what were you thinking of?’

‘Those cute little ones you do in cellophane bags.’

‘Meringue kisses …’

‘Yes, those. They’re delicious. I was thinking five flavours in each bag, and I’ll need three hundred bags … could you do that by Wednesday morning?’

I frown, figuring out the logistics. ‘This Wednesday? Like, the day after tomorrow?’

‘That’s right. I know it’s a rush …’ She smooths the front of her rose-pattered wrap dress – Clemmie is never knowingly underdressed – while I perform a quick calculation: thirty meringues per tray, six trays per bake. That’s, um … eight bakes in total at an hour each … Christ, it’s doable – just.

‘That’s fine,’ I say, wishing Mum could have witnessed how speedily I worked that out.

‘What would you charge for that?’ Clemmie asks.

‘Er … well, a bag of five kisses usually sells at around three pounds but that’s retail, of course. I normally do them for one pound fifty …’

‘Four hundred and fifty quid for three hundred bags,’ chips in Blake.

‘God, that’s loads, Mum,’ Logan says, appearing to warm to me a little. ‘You could get me an iPad.’

I laugh dryly, momentarily distracted as Stanley starts sniffing at my cardigan sleeve, which happens to be dangling down from the table.

‘That’s not enough,’ Clemmie retorts. ‘The consortium that owns the Morgan has more cash than you can imagine. What they’re spending on the party alone would make your hair curl. You need to charge more – how about six hundred pounds?’

‘Wow,’ I gasp. ‘For meringues? Are you sure?’

‘That sounds good,’ Logan barks greedily.

He’s right, though. This order alone could make the difference to us having a summer holiday this year – perhaps the last one with the three of us all together.

‘Absolutely,’ Clemmie says as Stanley starts barking fretfully. ‘Shush, Stan. Stop that. Anyway,’ she goes on, ‘let’s talk flavours, shall we?’

‘Sure. How about rose water, orange water, that sort of thing?’

‘Hmm, flower waters … sounds lovely. In fact a whole spring-like, blossomy feel would be great …’

‘Violet is pretty,’ I suggest, ‘and a primrosey shade would look …’ I stop abruptly as my cardi, which until now had been lying as still as you’d expect an item of knitwear to be, starts jerking to our left along the table. It’s moving faster now – so quickly, in fact, that Clemmie and I can only gawp as Stanley, who must have snatched a dangling sleeve, sets about savaging it on the floor.

‘Stanley, no!’ I shriek, leaping from my seat while Clemmie, who’s gushing apologies amidst hysterical laughter from the three boys, tries to yank it from her dog’s jaws.

‘Stanley, drop,’ she commands.

‘He’s eating your best cardi, Mum,’ Logan says cheerfully.

‘Yes, I can see that …’

‘He’s chewing it to bits!’

‘I don’t want to rip it any more by pulling it,’ Clemmie cries. ‘God, Alice, I feel terrible.’

‘Drop, Stan. DROP!’ Fergus commands.

‘Oh, he won’t,’ Blake says loftily. ‘Tug of war’s his favourite game, this is fun to him …’

Clemmie is pulling at it now, using her considerable strength to stretch my cashmere treasure about four feet long. Letting it drop, she bobs down to her knees and expertly prises open Stanley’s jaws.

‘There. Naughty dog. Honestly, he’s never done anything like that before.’ She picks up my cardi and examines it. ‘He’s actually bitten off both of the pockets. Where did you buy it? I’ll replace it as soon as I can …’

‘It’s years old,’ I say quickly, ‘and I hid Mum’s burgers in the pockets and hadn’t got around to washing it—’

‘God, Alice, your life,’ Clemmie splutters. ‘Are you sure I can’t buy you a new one?’

‘No, don’t be silly.’

Planting a hand on a hip, Clemmie throws Stanley an exasperated look. ‘Well, if you’re sure. Anyway, I’m so glad you can do those meringues for me. I’ll leave the final flavour choices up to you. And you must come over for lunch in the Easter holidays.’

‘Thanks, I’d love to,’ I say.

‘You can see what we’ve been doing to the house.’

‘Oh yes, Blake mentioned he’s getting a new bedroom …’

‘It’s an annexe, Mum,’ Logan corrects me, ‘with enough space for a full-sized pool table.’

‘An annexe?’ I repeat. ‘You mean an extension?’

‘Yeah! It’s got a little kitchen and everything, with a mini fridge and an oven …’

‘An oven?’ I repeat with a laugh. ‘What are you planning to do, Blake? Make Victoria sponges?’

‘Nah, just, like, pasta and stuff,’ he says with a shrug.

Clemmie smiles. ‘It’s not an extension, darling. It’s just the loft conversion we started in the autumn. It’s taken forever to get it right, and cost a small fortune, but we felt it was time Blake had his own space. And the idea of the kitchen is it’s a trial run for fully independent living. I don’t want him living on takeaways when he leaves home, not with their salt content.’ Yes, but couldn’t he learn to cook in the family kitchen?

Blake smirks and looks down at his feet.

‘He’s having the whole upper floor, Mum,’ Logan adds. ‘It’s like a flat, all to himself.’

‘Sounds great,’ I say.

Summoning the now obedient Stanley to heel, Clemmie turns to her son. ‘You coming home for dinner, darling?’

‘In a bit,’ he replies.

‘He’s welcome to stay and eat with us,’ I say, at which Blake looks genuinely delighted.

‘Thanks, you’re a darling.’ Clemmie flashes a bright smile before clip-clopping down the stone stairs, with Stanley at her side and a cloud of freesia fragrance in her wake.

Alone now in the kitchen, I drop my ravaged cardigan into the bin.

*

Blake Carter-Jones is the boy who has everything. My eyes watered when Clemmie let slip how much she shells out for his clothing allowance, and he’s never dragged halfway across Scotland to his grandma’s to be presented with rotting beef. However, he does seem to be extremely fond of our place, despite his palatial abode at the end of our street, which is pleasing. He also shames my own, slothful offspring by loading the dishwasher after dinner and wiping the table while I get cracking with the meringues.

By the time the third batch is in the oven, the flat is engulfed in a sweet-smelling blur. In need of a breather, I run myself a bath. Generously, Fergus had left one millimetre of the L’Occitane Relaxing Bath Oil Ingrid gave me (Ingrid is incredibly generous on the posh present front), so I squirt in the pathetic remaining drops. Why does Fergus use it anyway? A thirteen-year-old boy doesn’t need essence of geranium and tea tree, not when his entire life is relaxed.

Into the bath I sink, with a large glass of wine carefully placed in the little porcelain indent, meant for soap. If I were doing this properly there should be scented candles flickering in here too, but I’ve brought in one of Clemmie’s Stylish Living magazines and need decent light because, actually, I could do with reading glasses. (Shall I mention this to the intern on our date? Should I also inform him that Abba were at number one with ‘Waterloo’ when I was born?) Luckily, our bathroom is so bright, you could perform surgery in here. On the downside, it’s hardly flattering to one’s naked form, cruelly illuminating every dimple and vein.

Inhaling the sugary aroma drifting in through the gap under the door, I start to flip through the mag. Here we go: an impossibly beautiful living room with pale-grey walls – a shade which would look cell-like if I were to use it, but which in this instance is the height of tastefulness. There’s a darker grey sofa, scattered with cushions in fuchsia and lime, and an elegant wooden seventies-style coffee table on which sits a small stack of jewel-coloured silk notebooks.

Who lives like this? Even Clemmie’s place, with its five bedrooms and two lounges – the annexe – looks a bit scruffy around the edges sometimes, despite her gargantuan efforts to keep it tidy (not to mention a cleaner three times a week). Now, I know homes magazines have stylists to make everything beautiful, but still. I’d thought a glimpse of perfection might offer some welcome respite, seeing as I’ll be up baking until at least two a.m., but instead it’s drawing my attention to the almighty clutter of the boys’ Clearasil washes and scrubs and lotions which are crammed on to the single shelf, plus, I notice now, a small white cloth with a brown smear on it tucked behind the loo. I’m not a high maintenance woman, and I like to think my tolerance levels are pretty high. But from where I’m lying – in this rapidly cooling bath – it would appear that someone has nabbed my Liz Earle Hot Cloth muslin square and wiped their arse on it. Dear God – they’re teenagers, shouldn’t the wanton destruction of my possessions have stopped by now? Maybe Erica had a point all those months ago when she looked alarmed by the concept of parenting boys. But they’re not all like that, smashing Danish glassware and using their mother’s sole face cloth because they’re too bloody lazy to reach for the cupboard where the loo roll is kept. Look at Blake, wiping down kitchen surfaces. Where have I gone wrong?

I glare back at the magazine, in which no less than ten pages are devoted to the stunning country home. Naturally, the garden is just the right side of wild, with cornflowers and poppies running rampant all over the place. ‘We designed our haphazard planting scheme to say, “Chill out and kick back on the lawn with us”,’ the caption reads. I glance at our bathroom windowsill where Fergus’s beleaguered cactus sits in its red plastic pot. We don’t design a planting scheme, we win it at the school tombola (along with a bottle of Lulu perfume which had actually gone off), and if it’s saying anything, it’s, ‘For Christ’s sake, dust me.’

I flick my gaze back to the mag. ‘Patsy grows fresh herbs to add zing to spontaneous suppers with friends’, it goes on. Well, good for Patsy. My own children are primed to reject suspect greenery; they can detect the snipping of parsley even from a different room. My heart slumps even further as I study my unpainted toenails poking out of the water. Spontaneous suppers. How long is it since I had one of those? Or a spontaneous anything, come to that? As I work school hours, five days a week, I tend to resort to that deeply unsexy thing of Planning Ahead. As a tactic, it works, in that the three of us generally wind up with something edible on the table at dinnertime. At least, Blake seems to enjoy my offerings. But I can’t deny it’s slightly joyless, knowing you’ll be eating lasagne in five days’ time.

I also batch-cook. How terribly … loin-stirring. I must remember to tell Giles-the-intern about my sessions with a steaming vat of bolognaise when we meet. That’ll get him all revved up – at least, if he nurtures secret dinner-lady fantasies.

In another photo, pastel-coloured bunting is strewn across the perfect garden, and a little blonde girl in a white dress is playing with a syrup-coloured spaniel. Bet he doesn’t devour his owner’s knitwear. ‘It’s a gorgeous spring afternoon’, reads the text, ‘as Patsy Lomax, founder of sleepwear company Dandelion …’

PATSY LOMAX??? It can’t be. But it is – it’s my ex Tom’s wife Patsy who grows herbs for spontaneous suppers, and the little girl in the garden is their daughter, Jessica. That’s their rose-strewn home, and their silk-covered notebooks artfully arranged on the coffee table. I flip through more pages, studying each photo in forensic detail, until I reach the final page of the never-ending extravaganza and here he is – Tom, no less, who’d happily inhabit the same ratty Smiths T-shirt for three days running when we were together, and would use our car keys to pick out dirt from between his toes while we were watching TV. Tom, who could barely operate a can opener without severing an artery, is now depicted wearing a chunky cableknit sweater, plus jeans and suspiciously pristine wellies, clutching an armful of veggies: curly kale, purple sprouting broccoli and some particularly knobbly-looking carrots. ‘Tom’s kitchen garden evolves with the seasons’ runs the caption beneath.

I explode with laughter and sling the magazine on to the bathroom floor. Tom, cultivating legumes, when he used to refer to salad as ‘women’s food’ and had never knowingly ingested a tomato. Still sniggering, I clamber out of the bath and wrap myself in a large towel with all the softness of a gravel driveway, then snatch a bit of loo roll to give the cactus a cursory wipe. Maybe it’ll start evolving now. Perhaps vivid pink flowers will burst forth, like the tombola lady promised. Then I brush out my hair and pull on pyjamas and a dressing gown in readiness for baking the fifth meringue batch of the evening.

As I emerge from the bathroom, Blake is lacing up his trainers in the hallway (this boy even removes his footwear on entering someone’s house) while Logan fixes me with a stare.

‘Why can’t we extend our place?’ he enquires.

‘Because it’s a flat,’ I reply pleasantly.

‘Is there nothing we could do?’

I blink at my son, aware of Blake straightening up and smirking at us. ‘Well,’ I reply, ‘I suppose we could build a kind of sticky-out construction that pokes out over the street, like a giant shelf, and you could live on that.’

Grunting with mirth, Blake remarks, ‘You’re lucky, Logan. At least your mum’s not always on at you like mine is. She’s not obsessed with the house being perfect …’

‘Thank you, Blake,’ I say, wondering whether to take this as a compliment or not.

He grins. ‘Thanks for dinner’ is his parting remark. When he’s gone, I turn back to Logan, hoping to see a glimmer of a smile, or some realisation of how petulant he’s being.

‘I’m fed up with this place,’ he sighs.

‘Logan, you do have your own room. The biggest room, in fact.’

‘There’s not even a TV in it.’

‘So what?’ I counter. ‘There’s one in the living room that you have virtually free rein of. I hardly ever watch it.’

‘You watch Casablanca all the time …’

I blink at him, trying to keep a lid on the irritation that’s bubbling inside me. What is wrong with him these days? Why is he being so foul, and is it likely to stop anytime soon?

‘I happen to watch it about once a year at the very most,’ I inform him.

Fergus has appeared now, and is warming to the ‘teasing Mum about her old movies’ theme.

‘There’s that bit,’ he says, ‘when the guy says, “We’ll always have Paris”—’

‘And that’s when you start crying,’ Logan adds. With that, they both bark with laughter, and I stomp to my bedroom, reminding myself that I’m not one of those obsessives who sits glued to the same movie night after night, with a bunch of sodden tissues on her lap. Honestly – I only watch Casablanca about once a year, usually around Christmas time. Well, maybe twice. And, anyway, what business is it of theirs?

In the kitchen, I set to work, switching on the radio and cracking eggs until, gradually, my irritation begins to subside. At least Blake likes it here, I remind myself, so it can’t be that bad. As I pipe tray after tray of rosette-shaped kisses, I decide I don’t care that Tom has managed to grab himself a magazine-style life. Bet that picture was staged anyway, and someone brought along those gnarly vegetables that Tom was clutching lovingly to his manly chest. Anyway, it’s not as if I’d be happier if he were huddled in a miserable bedsit, warming his hands on a Pot Noodle; it was my decision to split, which has caused me no small amount of guilt over the years, and Patsy has been good for Tom. Somehow, she has managed to realise his potential. It’s a pretty safe bet that he no longer turns his boxer shorts inside out so he can eke an extra day’s wear out of them.

I’ve just filled the oven with another batch of trays when my phone bleeps – a text from an unknown number. Hi Alice, it reads, Giles here, I work with Viv. Hope ok to get in touch. Wondered if you fancy a drink sometime?

Hell, why not? Tomorrow I’ll be finishing off the meringues – at least, doing the packing and labelling – and it’s the boys’ last night with me before their trip with Tom, not that Logan will regard that as anything significant, but still … I pause before replying, wondering whether to play down my commitments, or to be honest from the start. After all, Viv has told him I have kids. No point in trying to pretend I’m just back from my gap year travels …

Sounds good, I reply. Maybe Wed eve as my boys are going away with their dad …

No, no, no! So we can come back here and have rampant sex, it implies. Jesus. I delete it, typing instead: Would Wed eve suit you, about 8?

Great, he replies. Will call you Gxx.

Two kisses? Seems rather forward, although I find myself smiling all the same.

Chapter Eight

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

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