Take Mum Out (17 page)

We all make our way through to the body parts room where I find myself next to Molly. ‘You obviously love coming here,’ I remark.

‘Yeah, it’s great.’ She peers intently at a human eyeball in a jar.

‘What other things d’you like doing?’

She frowns, as if considering this. ‘Um, I’m a pixie,’ she offers.

‘You mean, like a fairy?’

‘No,’ she says firmly, ‘pixies are
different
.’

‘They originate in Celtic mythology,’ Mum cuts in, heading towards us.

‘They’re Medieval,’ Molly adds.

Mum beams approvingly. ‘You’re right, Molly. They actually go right back to the fourteenth century …’

‘We meet every Wednesday and make things,’ Molly continues.

‘What kind of things?’ I ask.

She twiddles the end of her plait. ‘Um … we did cards last week.’

‘Oh, my boys used to make Mother’s Day cards for me, usually out of pasta sprayed gold.’ I stop, registering her unblinking gaze and small mouth set in a frown. Hell, what made me say that? Stephen mentioned that Molly’s mum is preoccupied with her new family; is it even okay to mention mothers at all?

‘I don’t do that,’ she says quietly. Oh, God. I have really upset her now. I glance towards Stephen, hoping he’ll jump in to jolly her up, but he’s chatting away with Mum beside a human skeleton. ‘Spray paint is bad for the planet,’ Molly adds gravely, ‘so we use ordinary paint instead.’

She was only concerned about the casual use of aerosols. Thank Christ for that.

‘D’you wanna see a book made of human skin, Eileen?’ she pipes up, beckoning my mother over. ‘It’s the creepiest thing I ever saw!’

Mum laughs, the first proper, genuine one I’ve heard coming from her mouth since, well, since
forever
really. I’d be no more surprised to see a pony laughing.

‘That sounds marvellous, Molly,’ she enthuses. ‘Lead the way.’

*

‘Well,
he’s
a nice man,’ she declares loudly, the instant we part company from Stephen and Molly outside the museum.

‘Yes, he is,’ I reply.

I can sense her giving me quick glances as we make our way down towards Princes Street. ‘Lovely daughter too.
Very
bright …’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘So he’s the one Kirsty introduced you to?’

I nod, a smile teasing my lips; out of my three oldest friends, Mum far prefers Kirsty, probably because she has devoted her
life
to the home educating of her children – and clearly regards her as a trustworthy assessor of men.

‘So … are you and Stephen getting along well?’ she wants to know.

‘Mum, I don’t really know him. I like him, yes, but I’ve only met him once before today, and that was for lunch.’

‘But you were chatting away in the museum …’

I blow out air. ‘Yes, he’s nice but—’

‘But what?’ She stops outside a beleaguered dry-cleaners.

‘But … I don’t know. It’s early days and, anyway, the whole point is that Ingrid, Viv and Kirsty are each setting me up on a blind date. I’ve also met Giles, who Viv chose …’

‘What was he like?’

An extremely hot twenty-nine-year-old.
‘He was … interesting.’

We start walking again, but no matter how often I try to change the subject, she keeps swerving it back to Stephen and what an almighty catch he is.

‘He seemed like a very interesting man,’ she offers with a sly smile.

‘I know, Mum,’ I reply, ‘but it doesn’t mean I’m going to dive on the first man who shows a glimmer of interest. Anyway, I don’t even know how he feels about me. I’m sure he just wants to be friends, if that. He has a pretty full life.’

Mum frowns, causing a little furrow to appear between her faint brows. ‘He said, “I’ll call you” when we left the museum.’

‘Yes, to be polite.’

‘He didn’t have to—’

‘Well, he sort of did. People say it just to be nice. Saying, “Goodbye” and then marching off would seem a little abrupt.’ Like I know
anything
about twenty-first-century dating etiquette …

‘Would it?’ she asks, a hint of sadness creeping into her voice. ‘I suppose I’m just out of touch.’

‘I just mean it probably wasn’t a declaration of love,’ I say, trying to lighten things up as we make our way to the shops. We have a little poke around, avoiding any places in which the clothes are suspiciously cheap, but I can tell Mum’s heart isn’t in it. Stephen-the-dentist hangs over us like a spectre, with Mum making it clear that I’m crazy not to have grabbed him by the hair and dragged him off to the registry office.

‘I think you should at least give him a chance,’ she ventures as we tuck into an early supper in a tapas bar. ‘Why would you let a man like that go to waste?’

‘Go to waste?’ I say, laughing. ‘He’s not a leftover egg yolk, Mum. And he’s hardly short of admirers. In fact he mentioned some woman who pops around with a casserole twice a week—’

‘There you go then,’ she declares.

‘You’re suggesting
I
make him casseroles?’

Her lips purse and she throws me an exasperated look. ‘I’d just like to see you happy and settled, Alice. If nothing else, he could probably do something about that overbite you have.’

Mum’s comment is still ringing shrilly in my ears next morning. I check my alarm – 7.14 – and peer into my dressing-table mirror to see if any changes have occurred without me realising. No, my face is precisely as I expect it to be: dark eyes, pale skin, a few faint freckles scattered across my long, straight nose. Teeth a little, well,
toothy
, but not overly protruding. They’re just sturdy and serviceable, all the better for nibbling on all those Tuc biscuits.

A thought hits me: I could call Stephen and ask his expert opinion. Heck, why not? It was lovely, spending yesterday afternoon examining preserved body parts together, and although he hasn’t shown the slightest sign of being attracted to me, I
would
like to see him again.

‘Of course you don’t have an overbite,’ he laughs when I phone after a full cooked breakfast with Mum. ‘Is this an April fool?’

‘No, not at all. I just, er, wanted to check.’

‘So what on earth makes you think you do?’

‘Something Mum said,’ I reply, keeping my voice low, even though she’s pottering about in Fergus’s room, getting ready for her grand day out. ‘And I know my top teeth overlap the bottom ones a bit,’ I add, now feeling faintly ridiculous: vain, shallow and appearing to be fishing for compliments, even though that wasn’t my intention at all.

‘I think you have very nice teeth,’ Stephen adds.

‘Like a show pony,’ I snigger, deciding I’m definitely warming to this man. Apart from his distinct
togetherness
, there’s also the plait thing, which I can’t quite get over. I mean, if he can manage that, what else might he be capable of – a chignon, or a ballet-style bun? Or am I being faintly patronising here, in the way that Stephen seemed amazed by my ability to build flatpack?

‘… With a true overbite,’ he’s explaining, ‘the top teeth overlap the lower ones by at least three millimetres. So I can promise you, you really have nothing to worry about.’

‘Great. Well, I just thought I’d consult an expert.’ I laugh awkwardly, leaving a tiny pause for him to ask me out for a drink.

‘Just a minute, Molly,’ he says. ‘I’m trying to have a phone conversation here.’ I wait for him to add,
I’m talking to Alice, that nice lady from the museum who didn’t know the difference between pixies and fairies
, but there’s just faint cartoony music in the background.

‘Um, so what are you up to this week?’ I ask, wondering how I might work around to suggesting we meet up.

‘Bit of a juggling act with the Easter holidays,’ he says. ‘How about you?’

‘Well, my boys are still away with their dad …’ I clear my throat. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy a drink sometime?’ My voice has risen a couple of tones higher than normal.

‘Sure,’ Stephen says brightly. ‘Can I call you, though? As I said, things are a bit—’

‘Daddy!’ comes Molly’s urgent tone. ‘Kate’s at the door.’ A woman’s voice rings out, clear and confident, in the background. ‘
Kate’s
here,’ Molly reiterates.

‘Oh, sorry, Alice—’

Kate? Ah, yes – Casserole Kate, with her bubbling hotpot …

‘Better let you go,’ I say quickly.

‘Yep, have a good week,’ is his brisk response. I stick the landline back on its cradle as Mum appears.

‘All ready then?’ I ask, quickly composing myself and fixing on a wide smile.

‘Yes, I think so,’ she replies, clearly relishing the prospect of a day out with her old friends. Her blue birthday sweater is being treated to a second outing and, not one to wear make-up normally, today she has applied a slick of peachy lipstick.

‘You look great,’ I add truthfully.

‘Oh, thank you.’ She checks her watch. ‘Well, I’d better be going …’

‘Sure you don’t want me to drive you into town?’

‘No, it’s a lovely morning and I’ll enjoy the walk.’

‘So you’re off to the gallery, then lunch and the theatre this evening?’

Mum nods. ‘I should be back by eleven at the latest.’

I go to give her a hug; for once, she actually returns it. ‘Mum, stay out as late as you like. I never go to bed early and anyway, I’ve got a big meringue order to do for tomorrow …’

‘Okay.’ She smiles. ‘Well, enjoy your day and …’ she pauses, looking almost embarrassed before adding, ‘and thank you, Alice. It’s good to spend some time together, just the two of us. I don’t think we do it often enough.’

I’m so taken aback that, after she’s gone, I sit at the kitchen table with my mug of tea, just to reflect on what she said. She’s right; sweatshop and overbite comments aside, we are managing to coexist without too much friction. Even so, without her the flat is pleasingly quiet and still. I have no crucial errands to run and, although I’ll need to start baking at some point, I have the whole of this fine spring day to do it.

When my mobile rings, I only pick it up to see if it’s Tom or one of the boys. It’s not, though – it’s unknown. Giles, maybe, as I haven’t saved his number?

‘Hello?’ I say.

‘Hi, is that Alice?’

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry to call you out of the blue like this. Hope it’s not a bad time. I’m Charlie, your friend Ingrid gave me your number …’

‘Oh, yes, she mentioned you …’

‘We got chatting at that gym she belongs to, the one with, what d’you call it? A
hypoxic chamber
…’ He laughs amiably, an infectious chuckle that makes me smile.

‘What
is
that?’ I ask.

‘Something to do with reduced oxygen so you can experience the effects of high altitude.’

I snigger. ‘What fun.’

‘But I wasn’t there for that,’ Charlie goes on. ‘I was writing a piece about some torturous thousand-calorie workout which nearly fucking finished me off …’

I can’t help laughing. He talks fast, with a twangy accent – south of England, but not London, I can’t quite place it. ‘A thousand-calorie workout? Is that actually possible?’

‘So they say. Anyway, I was chatting to Ingrid in the cafe, and we got around to talking about you and this
thing
your friends are doing – finding all these men for you to date …’

‘Only three,’ I say quickly.

‘Yeah. Well. I was wondering, how are you fixed this evening?’

Hmm. Better not, in case Mum comes home earlier than expected. ‘Tonight’s not good,’ I say.

‘Could you do lunch then? My treat, got a review to knock out. You can be my companion.’

Despite his distinct pushiness, I’m intrigued. ‘You mean today?’

‘Yeah.’

Should I? It’s short notice but why on earth not? Yes, I could start baking, but then, it would be a terrible waste of a sun-filled Easter Monday, and there’s all evening for that.

‘You mean you’ll be reviewing the restaurant?’ I ask.

‘Yep, it’s serious work, you know. The public needs to know where to find the best lemon sole …’

‘So,’ I say, ‘when you write, “My companion had a savoury mushroom amuse-bouche”, that person will be me?’

‘That’s it,’ Charlie laughs, ‘only there won’t be any amuse-bouche ‘cause it’s not that kind of thing. It’s that rooftop place opposite the castle – the Terrace – d’you know it?’

‘I’ve heard of it, yes …’ A sliver of sea bream costs about the same as my ewe cheese, I believe.

‘Fantastic fish – meant to be the best in Edinburgh. So it’s probably worth us checking it out.’

Hmm. He’s so cocky, so sure I’ll agree that part of me thinks, hold back a bit, tell him you’re busy. But Charlie sounds fun, and the girls are always urging me to be more spontaneous.

‘What sort of time?’ I ask.

‘Table’s booked for one.’

Right. So he knew I’d say yes, or perhaps there’s always a spare person knocking around who’s delighted to have lunch with him at a moment’s notice.

‘Okay,’ I say, ‘I’ll see you then.’

‘Fantastic. I’ll be the one sitting outside on the terrace, looking terrified at the prospect of your vetting.’

Well, there it is. I’m going for lunch in a beautiful rooftop restaurant overlooking the castle, which I’ve read about in the magazines Clemmie gives me (they employ foragers, I believe, to gather mysterious greenery). By the time I turn up at the Terrace, having jumped on a bus so as not to arrive all red-faced and sweaty – it really is unusually warm today – I’m in a state of high excitement. A little antsy too, despite this being my fourth date in less than a month … is there a point at which, like with public speaking, you stop feeling nervous and breeze through it? Will I become a practised dater, treating each encounter as if it’s no more extraordinary than popping out to buy a newspaper?

I enter the foyer, press the lift button and wipe my slightly clammy hands on my skirt. Damn, they’ve left a faint mark on the fabric. The lift arrives, and I step in, taking in my reflection in its mirrored interior and hoping I’ve got it right this time. Charlie didn’t strike me as someone who’d berate me for possibly supporting child labour, but as you can never tell, I’ve chosen a plain white shirt (no embellishments which might have been stitched by infant hands) plus a simple, bias-cut black linen skirt. Legs are bare – rather pallid of hue but that’s preferable, I think, to hastily applied cheap fake tan and its inevitable gravy-coloured tidemarks. I look smart, I decide. Grown-up yet not stuffy … possibly even a little sexy, with my hair hastily blow-dried and worn loose? It’s impossible to tell. Certainly, I realise as the lift doors open, several other women are all carrying off the look, as they too are wearing the white-shirt-black-skirt combo – the waitresses’ uniform here. As if to confirm this, a gangly man with a sculpted, rich-person’s jawline (and possibly an
underbite
?) shoots up a hand in my direction and calls out, ‘Excuse me, we’re just waiting for that glass of Sauvignon?’