Take Mum Out (13 page)

I sip from my mug. ‘Maybe.’

‘What d’you mean, maybe?’

‘Well, I’d like to,’ I start to explain, ‘and he said he’d call. But I can’t get away from the fact that he’s a whole decade younger and the woman at the next table thought I was his mum—’

‘What?’ she gasps.

‘Oh, that doesn’t matter. I don’t really care. But, you know – the age thing is an issue. I mean, he looked completely baffled when I mentioned Fuzzy Felts …’

‘Fuzzy Felts,’ she repeats. ‘Please don’t tell me I set you up on a date with Giles Henderson and you talked about Fuzzy Felts.’

‘I wasn’t talking
about
them,’ I say defensively. ‘They just came up in passing.’

She fixes me with a cool stare. ‘Did you mention playing hopscotch as well? And that you used to love watching
Swap Shop
?’

‘Of course not. Anyway, I’m not imagining this smell, am I? My senses haven’t gone all haywire?’

‘No, it really
is
pongy …’

‘Help me find out where it’s coming from – that is, if you’re not in a mad rush to get back.’

‘No, it’s fine. Could it be coming from Logan’s room, d’you think?’

‘Checked that already. Come on – let’s try Fergus’s.’ Compared to Logan’s quarters pre-clean, it really is a show room. All around his bed, Fergus has neatly Blu-tacked up his own hand-drawn comic strips; he’s a budding cartoonist, his vigorous drawings alive with bizarre humour and boyish jokes. In the corner sits the knotted carrier bag of the soft toys he rounded up for charity (Rex’s grimy visage is squashed against the clear plastic). His bed has been made, and books are neatly lined up on the shelf. The floor is eerily devoid of socks, pants or empty Lynx cans. But the smell is worse than ever: pungent and sour. ‘Ugh, it’s horrible in here,’ Viv exclaims.

‘I know. It’s definitely coming from something in this room.’ I get down on my hands and knees and start sniffing around the rug, like a dog. It’s even stinkier down here, as if the smell weighs more than normal air and is pooling invisibly at floor level. Then, under the bed, I spy a red and white striped milkshake carton bearing the Crispi Crust logo from our local pizza place. It’s lying on its side, lidless, its contents apparently having sunk into the sky blue rug.

‘Found it,’ I groan, scrambling up to show it to Viv.

‘That’s disgusting.’ In her aesthetically pleasing world, there’s no stinky, milky seepage; in fact I doubt if she’s ever had anything from Crispi Crust.

‘I know. God, how will I ever get rid of this smell?’

‘There must be something you can do …’ She turns to Fergus’s laptop at his desk.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Googling it – spilt milk on carpet.’

‘How did you get in? I’m sure he has a password—’

‘It was already on,’ she says, tapping away. ‘Ah, look. It says here that it smells because it’s a breeding ground for micro-bacteria but it’s okay, you can try baking powder or vinegar and if it’s really bad …’ As she rattles off various cleaning solutions, I decide that this kind of thing never happens in Tom and Patsy’s house. ‘Sounds like you’ll need some strong detergent to tackle the rancid proteins,’ she adds cheerfully.

‘Right, I’ll try that.’ I’m back to sniffing at floor level while Viv continues to tap away at the laptop, showing no desire to resume her working day.

‘D’you ever have the urge to check his browsing history?’ she asks casually.

‘Not really,’ I say, straightening up.

‘Oh, come on, you must do.’

‘Viv, you’re the nosiest person I’ve ever known. You even snuck off work to find out how it went with Giles. I don’t believe you were just in the area at all …’

‘If I were you I’d want to take a little look,’ she sniggers, clearly having no understanding of how wrong that would be. Okay, I’ve been
tempted
to check Logan’s laptop, especially as he too is lax about leaving it on, unprotected – but have always managed to wrestle myself away.

‘Well, I don’t,’ I fib, busying myself by fetching cloths from the kitchen and blotting up what I can of the milkshake. Viv remains at Fergus’s desk, where I assume she’s shutting down his laptop – but no, she taps a few keys and, up it pops … a woman’s naked bottom, with a smouldering cigarette poking out of it.

‘Look at this!’ she exclaims.

‘Oh, God, Viv.’ I stare at the image, feeling slightly nauseous and very, very sad. ‘A smoking bum, Christ. What’s that all about?’

‘It’s a cigarette butt,’ she cackles, clearly unaware of what this signifies: the end of my beloved boy’s innocence, basically. The corruption of a young mind which I’d naively believed was consumed with the fixing of old gadgets. ‘It’s pretty innocent,’ she adds with a shrug.

‘Innocent? Of course it’s not!’

‘All boys have a look,’ she cuts in. ‘I read something recently. It said seventy-five per cent of thirteen-year-olds access porn at least three times a week …’

‘But this is
Fergus
.’

‘Yes, but he’s a boy, Alice. A growing male who’ll soon be a man. It’s part of life …’

I stare at her, wondering how to explain that I don’t want it to be part of
his
life. I’m fine with sex education at school, and I’ve always been happy to answer any body-related questions the boys have had, but I’ve never felt it necessary to explain that it is in fact possible for a woman to smoke a fag out of her bottom. In fact I’d never known it was, until now.

‘It’s probably not even real,’ Viv goes on. ‘Bet it was Photoshopped on …’

‘I hope so,’ I mutter. ‘Poor girl could’ve burnt herself.’

‘Ouch,’ she winces with a smile.

‘Please just shut it down, Viv,’ I say, landing heavily on the edge of Fergus’s bed. In fact, I am crushingly upset. It feels only yesterday that he was tucked up under his Buzz Lightyear duvet, cuddling Rex.

‘It’s only a bare arse,’ she says, perching beside me.

‘I just wish I hadn’t seen it.’ We sit in silence for a moment in the sour-smelling room.

‘Hey.’ She puts an arm around my shoulders.

‘Oh, I’m okay, really. Guess you’d better get back to work …’ I glance at her pretty, unlined face.

‘I should actually,’ she says gently. ‘
Please
don’t spend all day worrying about this. It’s pretty quaint, when you think what he could’ve been looking at …’

I laugh dryly. ‘Stamp collecting is quaint, Viv. Collecting
Famous Five
books and fantasising about running off to Kirrin Island is quaint. Not a bare bum with a Silk Cut sticking out of it.’

We both snigger. ‘He probably stumbled on it by accident,’ she adds, getting up and heading through the kitchen to collect her jacket and bag.

‘How would he have done that?’ I follow her, still clutching the milkshake carton, and clinging on to the faint possibility that she may be right.

‘Like …’ She shrugs. ‘A homework topic maybe?’

‘You mean like a report on why smoking is bad for you?’

‘Or something about Native Americans?’ she adds, trying to cheer me up. ‘They were big on smoking with their peace-pipe ceremonies and, what d’you call it … smudging, is it? When smoke is wafted around to ward off evil spirits?’

I can’t help smiling at that. ‘Obviously, that’s what she was trying to do in that picture. Trying to make bad things go away.’

She laughs and we hug in the hallway. ‘Not fed up, are you?’

I shrug. ‘Just a bit.’

‘Oh, come on, it’s not a big deal. Your boys are fantastic – you know that.’ She gives my arm a reassuring squeeze and trots off down the stone stairs.

In a blink, I’m back on Fergus’s laptop, checking everything he’s looked at during the past few days. There’s a web page about the construction of the Eiffel Tower, and another on the role of the viola in an orchestra. It’s all innocent, homeworky stuff. Maybe Viv is right, and it’s horribly normal, and so what if he fancied a quick peek at a naked girl? Doesn’t virtually every boy do that at some point? Tom once laughingly told me that finding a page ripped out of a porno mag blowing along the street on his way to school was one of the most memorable events of his childhood. He’d been ten, I recall – three years younger than Fergus is now.

Minutes later I’m lifting his bed to drag out the rug from beneath it. Then I haul it downstairs and round to the back of our block where I prop it up against the wall. Feeling better already, I grab my keys and drive to Ikea to buy a new one. That way, I’ll get rid of the stink
and
make Fergus’s room nicer, thus (hopefully) cancelling out the guilt that’s currently surging through my veins at seeing the thing in the first place. While I’m there, I also buy a chest of drawers for Logan and, back at home, set about building it.

In fact, I’m rather proud of my ability to construct flatpack without shouting or resorting to drink. It’s rather like baking: methodical, slightly tedious in parts, but generally okay if you can keep your nerve. And, when it’s done, it looks great. In fact both of the boys’ bedrooms are vastly improved – not quite
Stylish Living
magazine standard, but it’ll be a pleasant surprise when they get home.

My phone rings as I’m gathering up the cardboard packaging. ‘Hi, Alice?’

‘Hi, listen,’ I blurt out, ‘something happened today and I know what you’re going to say …’

‘Sorry?’

I blow out air. ‘I know I shouldn’t have looked. It was wrong of me. It just kind of happened …’ I clear my throat anxiously.

‘Er … Kirsty gave me your number. I’m Stephen …’

Oh, Christ. ‘You’re her dentist,’ I exclaim. ‘Sorry, I assumed you were someone else.’

‘Well, er, she suggested I call you. You sound busy, hope it’s not a bad time.’

‘No, not at all,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m just clearing up after building some flatpack.’

‘You can build flatpack? I’m impressed.’

Oh, for goodness’ sake. I could explain that the alternative would be to have to rope in a friend every time I need something building, or paying someone to do it, which would be ridiculous.

‘It’s not that difficult,’ I remark.

‘Well, no. But a handy skill to have, I guess.’ He sounds shy, and more than a little awkward. I regret sounding snappy and try to adopt a calmer tone.

‘So … did Kirsty explain, um …’

‘About your three dates?’ He chuckles warmly. ‘Yes, she did. So, would you like to meet up sometime?’

I scrunch up some clear plastic packaging. ‘Sure. That would be nice.’

‘Don’t suppose you’re free on Saturday?’ he asks.

‘Actually, I am.’

‘Great – shall we have lunch then? Grab a pizza?’ This sounds distinctly un-date-like, but that’s fine.

‘Sounds perfect,’ I say, wandering back into Logan’s room to admire my handiwork.

‘How about Mario’s in Leith Walk – d’you know it?’

‘I don’t think so, but I’ll find it.’

‘Great, see you at one then? I’ll book.’

Hmmm. Pizza with a shy-sounding dentist – he seemed nice, but my pulse is hardly racing.
Keep an open mind
, Kirsty urged me. I vow to do just that because, if nothing else, an impending lunch date will at least take my mind off the smouldering bum.

I spend the rest of Thursday and most of Friday up to my eyes in meringues. Clemmie reports that several of the guests at the Morgan expressed an interest in giving them out at their own events, so I’ve been making small batches in various flavours, as samples. Luckily, being so busy has helped to dispel the anchorless feeling which had set in when the boys left. By late Saturday morning, though, I’m a little put out that neither Logan nor Fergus has responded to any of my, ‘How’s it going?’ texts. While I haven’t been expecting hourly updates or, heaven forbid, an actual postcard penned by human hand, there has been not a peep since they left.

So I call Tom, and before I can stop myself it’s all poured out about the image on Fergus’s laptop.

Oh,’ he says, followed by silence. ‘God. Are you sure that’s what it was?’

‘Tom, I could hardly mistake a naked bum with a ciggie poking out of it for anything else.’

‘No, I suppose you couldn’t.’ There are outdoorsy sounds in the background; children playing, bursts of youthful laughter, and a dog barking in the distance.

‘So what d’you think we should do?’ I prompt him.

‘
Whoo
, I don’t know …’ He exhales. Then silence. What is it about the males in my life and their allergy to communication? I’m reminded of why I left Tom, why I broke up our family – for which I still have flashes of remorse, even now – because he cannot express an opinion one way or the other.
Doesn’t your arse get sore
, I often wanted to ask him,
sitting on the fence the whole time?

‘Never mind,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ll have a chat with him when he’s back home. Viv reckons he might have stumbled across it by accident.’

‘Er, that’s possible,’ Tom says vaguely.

‘So, anyway, how’s the trip so far?’

‘Great. I think the boys are enjoying it, but it’s hard to tell, isn’t it? They don’t give much away …’

Tell me about it. ‘Do they want to say hi?’

‘Hang on …’ There’s mumbling in the background, then, ‘Oh, come on, Mum wants to talk to you, just a quick
hello
…’ Further mutterings. ‘Er,’ Tom says, clearing his throat, ‘they’re both a bit busy right now.’

Something slumps inside me. My boys, who’ve been away since Wednesday, don’t even want to say hi.

‘Okay,’ I say, adopting a perky tone, ‘please don’t mention the porno pic, all right?’

‘Sure. I won’t say anything.’

‘I mean, there are worse things, aren’t there? When you think of the kind of stuff he could have been looking at.’

‘Yep, definitely.’

‘So I’d just prefer it if we didn’t blow this up into a huge thing.’ I pause. ‘Mind you, I hope it doesn’t give him any ideas about taking up smoking.’

We both laugh, causing the tension to ease.

‘Yeah,’ Tom chuckles, ‘they never show
that
on the packets, do they?’

I’m still wondering how to handle all this as I set out to meet Stephen for lunch. I’m wearing smart jeans, an embroidered cream top and flat shoes; it’s only lunch, after all. Plus, it’s a fresh, blue-skied day and I want to walk to the restaurant – hence no heels – to shake off any lingering irritation over bum-gate.