Take Mum Out (32 page)

I shrug. ‘There was no hint of anything else.’

‘Yes, because you didn’t put out signals …’

‘That’s what Viv’s always saying.’

‘Oh, never mind all that,’ she says, pulling off her shoes and tucking her feet up under her bottom. ‘Would you hate it if I asked you to put
Casablanca
on?’

‘’Course not.’ I jump up and pull it from the shelf, and we both settle down with our mugs of tea and a plate of misshapen violet-tinted meringues to watch the greatest film ever made. Only one thought is niggling, and that’s how on earth will I come up with a bitter orange flavour that actually works? Because, for some reason I can’t quite put my finger on, it seems terribly important to get it right.

I don’t expect handmade birthday cards or a wonky breakfast in bed. I don’t even expect anyone to be up and about at eight fifteen on a Saturday morning, so I’m startled by a rare sighting of Logan, not only out of bed but also dressed, in proper day clothes, not his beleaguered South Park dressing gown.

‘You’re up early,’ I remark, dropping toast into the toaster.

‘Yeah.’ He grins at me, and I wonder for a moment if he’s remembered.

‘Any plans for today?’ I ask pleasantly.

‘Nah, not really.’ He takes juice from the fridge and grabs the last variety box of cereal from the cupboard.

Hmm, no mention of my birthday then. I’m miffed, but determined not to show it. There’s such a fuss made over decade birthdays; last week, Jacqui at work showed me one of those ‘things you must do’ lists in a magazine. I expected it to be all about hang-gliding and swimming with dolphins. But it wasn’t like that. It was all, ‘Book an eye exam now so you can start monitoring for glaucoma’ and ‘Wipe out your credit card debts before you’re hit with the huge expense of seeing your children through college.’ Christ’s sake. I thanked Jacqui, handed back the magazine and vowed to make as
little
of a deal of my birthday as humanly possible.

Anyway, last night was lovely with Ingrid, and tonight the four of us are having cocktails in the bar in the refurbished Morgan, the hotel I made the meringues for.

Logan disappears from the kitchen, and Fergus must be up now as there’s some muffled chat going on in the hallway. They both reappear in the kitchen, brandishing a large Quality Street tin with a dented lid and chiming, ‘Happy birthday!’ the way they used to when they were little.

‘Thank you,’ I say, quite overcome. ‘You got me Quality Street? You know I love those, especially the green triangles—’

‘It’s not Quality Street,’ Logan retorts. ‘This is just the old tin from Christmas.’

‘Oh.’ I smile, taking it from him.

‘Logan made you something,’ Fergus adds, glancing at his brother.

‘Really?’ I am astounded. ‘You haven’t done that for years.’

‘It’s okay,’ he says bashfully, ‘it’s not one of those cards made from pasta …’

‘We forgot to get you cards,’ Fergus adds.

‘That doesn’t matter.’ I glance down at the tin, impressed that, without a father around to chivvy them into making an effort – which seems to be the way it generally happens – they’ve actually got
something
together.

‘It’s nothing much,’ Logan adds.

‘Open it,’ Fergus commands.

I grin, set the tin on the table and take off the lid. ‘Oh my God,’ I exclaim. ‘This is
amazing
.’

‘Logan made it,’ Fergus repeats.

‘I … I can sort of tell. In a good way, I mean.’ I stare at the extravagant construction: a sort of outsized meringue nest, filled with strawberries and passionfruit and further embellished with squirty cream, chocolate curls and silver glitter. It is
eye-popping
. ‘I need to take a photo,’ I exclaim, grabbing my phone and framing it in all its fruity, chocolatey glory.

‘Hope you’re not sick of meringues,’ Logan murmurs.

‘Of course I’m not. I’ll
never
be … honestly, I can’t believe you actually made this. Did you do the meringue from scratch?’

‘Yeah, of course,’ he says airily, as if this were a regular occurrence. ‘We thought of doing a proper cake, but we weren’t sure we’d get it right. And I’ve seen you making meringues so often I knew exactly what to do.’

‘So you made this together?’ I ask, glancing from Logan to Fergus.

‘Nah, it was me and Blake last night at his place.’

‘Wow.’ So Logan and his best mate had been hanging out together and chosen to
bake
. Next time I hear someone complaining that teenage boys are perpetually stoned, or getting girls pregnant behind hedges, I’ll show them the picture on my phone. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘I can’t tell you how impressed I am. Let’s have some now.’ I fetch plates from the cupboard, dish up three helpings and we all tuck in.

‘The meringue’s perfect,’ I murmur. ‘Lovely light texture …’

‘This is great,’ Fergus agrees, spooning in a huge mouthful.

‘It’s better than
my
meringues,’ I say truthfully.

Logan snorts. ‘It can’t be, Mum. It was my first try.’

‘It really is,’ I say. ‘Or maybe it’s that thing when you eat something you haven’t made yourself. For some reason it always tastes so much nicer.’

‘In that case,’ Fergus sniggers, ‘all the dinners you make us should taste great.’

I laugh, spooning in more cream and meringue. ‘Maybe you could start doing something like this, Mum,’ Fergus adds. ‘I mean, meringue nests with fruit in.’

‘The thing is,’ I say, ‘it really has to be eaten pretty much as soon as it’s been assembled or everything goes soggy …’ I turn to Logan. ‘So when did you actually build this?’

‘This morning, before you got up.’

‘Really?’ I blink at him.

He shrugs. ‘It
is
your fortieth, Mum.’ Then he smiles, and both of my sons envelop me in the best birthday hug of my life.

‘Oh, Mum, I got you something too,’ Fergus blurts out, scampering off to his room and returning with a small present wrapped in creased tissue paper.

‘What’s this?’ It’s small and squashy, like a hankie.

‘Open it,’ he prompts me.

I do, and it’s a little muslin square – not just any muslin square, but a precise replica for my old one. ‘A cleansing cloth,’ I exclaim. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘I bought it, of course.’

‘But … how did you know what to buy?’

Both boys are laughing heartily now. ‘I researched it on that thing we call the internet,’ Fergus says in a put-on boffin voice. ‘And I discovered that John Lewis sell these special cloths for ladies’ faces.’

‘Yeah,’ Logan sniggers, bottom lip smeared with fresh cream, ‘he felt bad about using your old one to scrub some shit off his trainers.’

‘Sorry about that, Mum,’ he mutters.

‘It’s okay, darling. I don’t care. This is the most wonderful day.’ So my birthday starts brilliantly, and we spend the day just hanging out in the flat. I have no baking to do, and no crucial chores to tackle. We watch TV together and, for once, Logan does not seem appalled by having to share the sofa with me. We have a picky lunch of cold bits and bobs from the fridge, and chat about Logan’s looming exams, which he seems eerily calm about. ‘D’you want me to test you on anything?’ I ask.

‘No,’ he guffaws. ‘I’m fine, Mum, thanks.’

I cut myself a slice of cheddar, wishing we could afford French monks’ cheese every day. ‘I could help you,’ I add.

‘I don’t think so,’ he chuckles.

‘Okay,’ I say breezily, ‘I know I’m ancient, and back in my day we used slates and chalk and the teachers thrashed the living daylights out of us, but I do
know
things, love.’

‘What about
Beowulf
?’ Logan teases. ‘Tell us about that, Mum. We’re all ears.’

‘No,’ I say, ignoring the sniggering from both ends of the table, ‘I mean in organising your time effectively. I could draw up some revision timetables on the computer.’ Logan turns to gawp at me, as if I’d added, ‘While sitting naked in the middle of Princes Street.’

‘Stop trying to micromanage me,’ he says, not unkindly.

‘Am I?’ I blow out air. ‘I do trust you to work hard, you know. It’s just …’

‘You worry too much,’ he adds, patting my arm.

I smile, knowing he’s right as we clear up after lunch. This is probably the crux of why he wants to live with Tom; I do, admittedly, have control-freakish tendencies, probably due to being on my own all these years, and being conscious that I needed to keep a tight rein on the minutiae of our lives, otherwise everything would spiral out of control. Later, Logan and Fergus head off to the shops and return with a large bar of very posh French chocolate, from Pascal’s.

‘Thought it seemed a bit mean, just giving you a piece of material,’ Fergus says, handing it to me.

‘It wasn’t mean at all,’ I reply. ‘It was really thoughtful. But thanks anyway, darling. You’ve both been lovely today.’

And later still, as I pin up my hair in the hall mirror, Logan hovers around me. ‘So what are you doing tonight?’ he asks.

‘I’m meeting the girls in the Morgan for cocktails at seven, and Ingrid said she’d book some new sushi place for a bite to eat. I won’t be late, though.’

He follows me through to the living room where Fergus is flicking through a gadget magazine. ‘Is that
all
you’re doing?’ Logan wants to know.

‘Yes, hon. Unless we suddenly have a mad urge to go clubbing …’

‘
What?
’

‘I’m joking. God. Imagine.’ In fact, cocktails and sushi with my best friends feels just right; the four of us, having some time together out of the flat for once. ‘Sure you both want to hang out here and not stay over at Blake’s?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, I just fancy a quiet night in,’ Logan replies.

‘Okay, old man,’ I snigger, checking my make-up in the hall mirror and wondering if I should trowel on a bit more. I’m actually of the opinion that, at my age, overloading the slap seems to
add
years. So I’ve kept it light, while hoping that my simple jade shift dress doesn’t look too ‘cheap piece of cloth’, and that the highest sandals I own – in strappy black suede – don’t tear my feet to pieces.

‘You look nice, Mum,’ Fergus concedes from the sofa, takeaway pizza menu in his hand.

‘Thanks, honey. Now, you’re absolutely sure you want to stay here? I could still call Clemmie—’

‘Stop going on, Mum,’ Logan retorts.

‘Nah, we’re fine,’ Fergus says quickly, arousing a smidge of suspicion in me.

I pause in the living room doorway. ‘You’re not
planning
anything, are you?’

‘Like what?’ Logan snorts.

‘Like … I don’t know. Jacqui at work told me that Kayla had a party when she left her at home overnight. She’d even photographed the furniture and knick-knacks so she could put everything back in exactly the right position. Jacqui only found out because a curtain pole had come down …’

‘But you’re only going out for a few hours,’ Fergus reminds me.

‘And we couldn’t have a party here,’ Logan adds. ‘There’s not enough space.’

‘Oh, you’d be surprised how little you need—’

‘I think that’s clever,’ Fergus adds, looking impressed. ‘The photography part, I mean. I’d never have thought of that.’

‘Well, don’t be getting any ideas,’ I say, grinning, realising how idiotic I’m being. The boys have never given me any reason to distrust them.

‘Shouldn’t you be going now, Mum?’ Fergus asks.

‘You’re desperate to get rid of me,’ I say, planting a kiss on the top of each of their heads before heading for the door.

‘Yeah, because it’s your birthday,’ Logan calls after me. ‘Now go
out
.’

*

I flag down a cab into town and climb out in front of the Morgan Hotel. Some refurb it’s had. Its foyer is all smart and modern in black, white and red, with enormous chandeliers constructed from clusters of clear glass globes, like bunches of grapes. My heart quickens with anticipation as I follow the red-carpeted spiral staircase down to the cocktail bar in the basement.

‘Whoa, look at you,’ Viv cries, leaping up.

‘Hi,’ I say, hugging everyone in turn, and beaming with pleasure at being out, at night-time, with all three of my closest friends. And they all look gorgeous: Kirsty all springlike in a sweet blue and white cotton dress, Ingrid in an elegant white shift which would make me look like a medical person, and Viv in a clingy black top, displaying her pert cleavage to great effect, and a hip-hugging red skirt.

‘What are you having?’ Ingrid thrusts me a menu.

‘Oh, God.’ I focus on the tiny print. ‘I forgot my reading glasses …’

‘What?’ Viv guffaws. ‘You never told us—’

‘I’m joking,’ I snigger, then read aloud, ‘Tanqueray gin, triple sec, orange bitters … God, that reminds me, the French guy called. Pascal, remember, from the deli? He wants to stock my meringues, asked for a pecan variety which is fine, but also bitter orange …’

‘Not sure about that.’ Viv wrinkles her tiny nose.

‘No, me neither.’

‘Weird request,’ Ingrid agrees as a waiter comes over, so generically handsome in a modelly way that it’s almost comical, and takes our orders. The place is buzzing with chatter and laughter, with all the tables taken; the waiter returns with our drinks, plus a fine selection of snacks in glass bowls.

‘Ooh, thank you,’ says Kirsty. She’s always the most delighted among us to be let off the leash.

‘Lovely nibbles,’ Ingrid says as the waiter departs. ‘Are we allowed to call them nibbles these days?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ Kirsty retorts. ‘I haven’t been out at night since 1987.’

‘Me neither.’ I sip my cocktail and pick at the toasted pistachios.

Ingrid chuckles. ‘You’re
always
out these days.’

‘That’s not true!’

‘Yes you are. Since you started dating—’

‘My God,’ I hiss. ‘Talking of which – don’t all stare …’

Everyone follows my gaze to the far end of the bar. ‘Who is it?’ Viv hisses.

‘It’s Charlie.’

‘So it is,’ Ingrid exclaims.

‘You mean Paris-Charlie?’ Kirsty asks.

‘The very same,’ I say, fortifying myself with a gulp of orangey gin as we all try to be discreet in our peerings. He is perched on a high stool next to another man with ill-advised long hair, floating weedily down his back like a black net curtain. They are chatting animatedly and there are frequent bursts of loud, blokeish laughter.