Take Mum Out (38 page)

‘I’m sure you can manage that,’ I say. ‘Come on, how many bedtime stories have you read in her lifetime?’

‘Yes, but she doesn’t want stories read from a book. She wants them told the way a storyteller did last time we went to the Museum of Scotland. They had professional actors in costume and she thought it was great.’ The poor man sounds exhausted.

‘Come on,’ I say, ‘she won’t mind when all her friends are there and the party’s actually happening.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll have a think about it, though – I’m sure we’ll be able to come up with something.’ He sounds reassured as we finish the call, but later a text comes:
Now she’s specifying a medieval cake! Any ideas?
With no expertise on such matters, I call Mum.

‘You mean that lovely, bright girl from the museum?’ she says. ‘Oh, what a wonderful idea! You always bought the boys’ cakes, didn’t you? I always think they have that rather sad, factory-made look …’

‘What about that spider cake I made?’ I cut in. ‘It took me
hours
to make, Mum.’

‘Oh, I’d forgotten about that.’ She pauses. ‘Anyway, for Molly’s party I think the best option would be a village scene …’

‘That sounds a bit complicated.’ While Stephen is impressive on many levels – the fixing of teeth, the plaiting of his daughter’s hair – I suspect that this may stress him unnecessarily.

‘It’s only
houses
, Alice …’

‘Yes, but what were they like?’ I ask, deciding now that I’ll offer to make the cake.

She sighs, as if to say,
Have you learnt nothing in all these years
? ‘If you mean peasants’ dwellings, they’d be made from a wooden structural support filled in with wattle and daub.’ I daren’t ask her to remind me what that is. Clearly, that particular info should be neatly filed within the historical facts department of my brain.

‘That’s great, Mum,’ I say, feigning confidence. ‘I should be able to get that together by Sunday. Oh, and Stephen’s also hoping for a storytelling session …’

‘How lovely! Isn’t he a thoughtful parent?’

‘He is,’ I say, smiling, ‘and I really want to help out. He’s been brilliant with Logan – there was, er, an accident the other day. He fell and smashed out his front tooth …’

‘For goodness’ sake,’ she barks, implying gross negligence on my part. ‘Is he all right now?’

‘Thanks to Stephen, yes, he is.’

A small pause. ‘Tell you what, Alice,
I’ll
come to the party. I can take care of the stories, okay? Sunday, did you say it was?’

‘Er, yes. It starts at one.’

‘Well, I have nothing else on and Molly’s a delightful girl. Pick me up early, about tenish?’

Jesus, Mum let loose at a children’s party. I’m thinking either stroke of genius, or one of those terrible occasions that’ll haunt me for the rest of my life.

Fortunately, Stephen is resoundingly positive.

‘Molly thought your mum was great,’ he enthuses. ‘She’s even asked if
that lady
will be at the museum next time we go.’

‘You’re absolutely sure we’re not muscling in?’ I know Logan, who’s currently installed in front of a movie in the living room – a ‘revision break’, I believe it’s called – will think it’s a bonkers idea.

‘No, not at all. Molly will be so pleased.’

‘Okay, and I’ll do the cake, if you’re okay with that …’

‘Really? It seems like so much work for you.’

‘It’ll be easy,’ I fib, ‘and anyway, I’ll enjoy it.’

Stephen pauses, his relief palpable. ‘Alice,’ he adds warmly, ‘I think you really have saved my life.’

*

Kirsty has been in practical mode all week, politely declining offers of visits from Ingrid, Viv and me.

‘We’re working things out,’ she told me last time I called. ‘He’s, er …
having to go away on business
.’ The children were clearly in the vicinity and she sounded determined. However, we do hook up in the park round the corner from her house on Saturday afternoon. While her children scale the climbing frame, she explains, ‘You know what the really galling thing is? He says he’s sorry, and that he despises himself for what he’s done to our family. But he still couldn’t resist adding that motherhood has made me lose my
sparkle
.’

‘He’s insane, Kirsty.’ I look at my beautiful friend with her tumble of wavy, light-brown hair, fresh-faced and gorgeous without a scrap of make-up. How can he not love her?

‘So what’s going to happen now?’ I ask.

She smiles, her pale eyes shining. ‘Well, I’ve applied for a nursing refresher course and so, in a bizarre way, it’s quite exciting.’

‘You’re incredible,’ I murmur. ‘Most people would fall to pieces.’

She shrugs, indicating the children who are now spinning at an impressive speed on the roundabout. ‘What choice do I have? I can’t crumble. It’s just not an option. Anyway, Dan’s staying with a friend from work, a
male
friend …’ She stops and gnaws at a fingernail. Although there’s so much I want to say, I am also aware of the unspoken rule of never slagging off a friend’s husband, cheating bastard or not.

‘Will you let him come back eventually?’ I ask.

‘Oh, sure, when I think he’s suffered enough.’ She laughs dryly. ‘But we’ll be doing it on my terms, which means school for the kids, back to work for me, and couples counselling for the two of us.’

‘Sounds like a good plan,’ I say as the children charge towards us. ‘But what if …’

‘If we
don’t
make it,’ she whispers into my ear, ‘then I might take a leaf out of your book and get out there and start dating again.’

My head is full of Kirsty’s predicament as I drive home; I can’t imagine her putting on heels and lipstick in order to get ‘back in the saddle’ (ugh – that terrible phrase). But maybe, I decide, there comes a point when it’s actually a good idea to at least give it a try. And I’ve had fun: I’ve been out with an older-woman-fancier and
almost
had sex in a Parisian hotel. And I’ve met a lovely, kind, devoted dad, which reminds me that the cake isn’t going to decorate itself. I haven’t made the meringues for Pascal either, or heard from him about going out to dinner. But there are more important matters to think about right now. I park my car and scamper upstairs to our empty flat; both boys have been asked over to friends’ houses today. It’s just gone six and, without stopping to eat, I lift the enormous, square cake I baked last night from its tin.

Wattle and daub consisted mainly of mud, horsehair and dung, according to Fergus’s
Horrible Histories
book. Hmmm. Would it be kind of hairy, like Logan’s spider cake, or smooth, or somewhere in between? As I can’t face calling Mum again, I gather together every decorating implement and edible embellishment I own, and set to work.

Five hours later, at just gone eleven p.m., my work is done.

‘This is the best cake I’ve ever seen in my whole life
.’ Molly looks up at me, eyes shining, a vision of beauty in her medieval sackcloth tunic.

‘I’m so glad you like it.’ I sense myself flushing with pleasure.

‘It must have taken all night,’ Stephen says. ‘It’s incredible, Alice. So detailed! All the little houses—’

‘They’re exactly the right colour,’ Molly agrees as her friends all clamour around it.

‘It’s not bad at all,’ my mother concedes.

‘It’s perfect,’ Molly corrects her, frowning as if to say,
Can’t you see?
The party has gone incredibly well so far, thanks in no small part to Mum, whose storytelling session was quite captivating. I’d almost forgotten the stories she’d read to me as a child, one aspect of parenting she excelled at.

Stephen, too, is doing a sterling job of keeping order while retaining a sense of fun. As I ferry out plates of sandwiches and cookies to join the cake on the garden table, I glimpse him being ‘the donkey’ on which the tail must be stuck – a game which isn’t quite in keeping with the party’s theme, but is clearly a favourite of Molly’s.

‘Hide-and-seek now,’ she announces when it’s finished. ‘Let’s hide in the house!’ She turns to my mother who is ‘resting’ on a garden chair with a large glass of wine. ‘You be the seeker, Eileen,’ Molly commands.

‘Not now, darling. It’s not really my thing. We can do more stories later, though, if you like.’

Molly turns to me. ‘Will you be seeker?’

‘Sure.’ I turn to Stephen. ‘Is it okay for them to play inside?’ However, his attention has been diverted by a statuesque woman with curiously set auburn hair, in white jeans and a navy blue lacy top, sunglasses perched on top of her head.

‘Molly, darling,’ she announces, ‘Daddy didn’t tell me it was your birthday!’

I take a moment to assess the scene. This newcomer has brought a large, burnished orange Le Creuset pot. So this is Casserole Kate, who’s clearly a little put out not to have been involved in the birthday proceedings.

‘I know how busy you are,’ Stephen says, raking back his hair.

‘Oh, you are silly. I’d love to have helped. You know you only have to ask …’ Her eyes light upon the cake on the table. ‘What on earth is that?’ she asks with a sparkly laugh.

‘It’s Molly’s birthday cake,’ my mother says tersely.

‘How unusual! What are all those funny little houses? Is it a farm?’

‘It’s a Medieval village,’ Molly announces, as her father remembers that Kate and I haven’t actually met.

‘Alice, um, this is Kate …’

‘Hello, Alice.’ She smiles tightly, her gaze skimming the cluster of children all waiting expectantly at the back door to the house. ‘So which one’s yours?’

‘Oh, mine aren’t here,’ I explain. ‘I’m just here to, er, lend a hand.’

‘And this is Eileen, Alice’s mum,’ Stephen adds, looking stressed now, for the first time since the party started.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ Kate says, her gaze falling back upon the as yet untouched cake. ‘That’s quite something, Stephen. I’d no idea you were so creative.’

‘Actually, Alice made it.’

‘Really? Gosh.’

‘Kate, I’m sorry,’ Stephen blusters, ‘I haven’t even offered you a drink.’

‘I’d love a glass of wine, darling.’ She flashes a big smile, showing top and bottom teeth, and parks herself at the garden table next to Mum. I watch as he scurries away to fetch her a drink, returning with a glass of chilled white.

He looks especially handsome today in jeans and a plain navy T-shirt; definitely school-gate totty. Making no attempt to engage my mother in conversation, Kate keeps her gaze fixed firmly upon him, as if she doesn’t quite trust him to behave.

And all at once, despite the success of the cake and the games and my own mother being here, I suddenly feel like an outsider.

‘Sit here, Stephen,’ Kate commands, patting the vacant seat beside her. ‘You must be exhausted from running about all afternoon.’

‘I’m fine, thanks, Kate,’ he says firmly, making no move to join her.

‘We want to play hide-and-seek,’ Molly prompts me. ‘Start counting, Alice!’ Spotting Kate getting up and placing a hand territorially on Stephen’s arm, I quickly cover my eyes with my fingers and start counting aloud. ‘Coming!’ I shout, catching Mum’s expression – it’s as brittle as my little icing houses – before turning and running into the house.

Immediately, it’s apparent that this is a welcoming family home. In the large, airy kitchen, the fridge is plastered with photos of Molly in various settings – sitting astride a decorated pony on a carousel, and blowing out the candles on a previous birthday cake. From the kitchen I make my way to the living room, where newspapers are scattered across the table. Light streams in through the tall Georgian windows and, with its well-worn leather sofa, the room feels laid-back and extremely comfortable. I check behind the sofa and several stuffed bookshelves, then peer into the tiny downstairs bathroom. Not a child in sight.

‘Coming!’ I call out, stepping lightly up the wooden stairs.

The first bedroom I check is clearly Stephen’s. It’s more orderly than what I’ve seen of the house so far. The bed is neatly made up with a snowy white duvet, and beside the pale oak wardrobe is the famous appliance. I blink at it, this slab of mock-mahogany for the flattening of trousers. Of course it’s
fine
to own one. Very practical, I’d imagine, if supreme neatness is required.

There are muffled giggles from another upstairs room.

‘I’m coming,’ I call again, but remain motionless, wondering if, just before he goes to bed with a woman, Stephen removes his trousers and carefully places them in the press. Or maybe he’s been single for so long, the issue of trouser pressing in a pre-romantic scenario hasn’t occurred? From the window I watch Stephen and Mum, now chatting at the garden table. They both look round as Kate reappears from the house, marching across the lawn with a large jug of water.

I leave the room, figuring that it’s none of my business whether he’s seeing her or not. While he laughs at the way she foists casseroles on him, perhaps he secretly enjoys it? After all, who doesn’t relish being made a fuss of now and again? Shaking off a sense of disappointment, and deciding that perhaps Mum and I should leave pretty soon, I peer into the next bedroom which is obviously Molly’s. Stifled laughter is coming from several hiding places.

‘Found you!’ I cry, discovering a little red-haired boy in fits of giggles under the bed, and Molly, plus three others, in a hysterical heap beneath the duvet. Everyone except Molly charges downstairs and back out into the garden.

‘I like you,’ she says. ‘No one ever made me a cake like that.’

‘Thanks, Molly,’ I say. ‘You know, I loved doing it.’

‘Daddy can’t do icing.’ Her voice has dropped to a whisper.

‘No, but think of all the things he
can
do …’ I stop as she tears out of the room, following her friends to the garden.

‘Whoa!’ Kate exclaims, shrinking back in her seat from the clamouring children. I loiter at the back door, wondering what to do now.

‘Cut the cake, Daddy,’ Molly demands.

‘Give me a minute,’ he laughs, ‘I’ll just grab a knife …’ However, his words fall on deaf ears as, the moment he leaves, the children snatch at the houses and peel sugar-paste from the top.