Take Mum Out (39 page)

‘Steady on,’ Kate says, looking tense around the eye region now. ‘You’re making a terrible mess—’

‘It’s okay,’ I say, making my way towards her, ‘it’s meant to be eaten—’

‘Now look what you’ve done!’ she shrieks, staring down at her left thigh in horror.

‘Sorry,’ Molly cries, her eyes filling up as she surveys the huge, purple patch on Kate’s white jeans.

‘What is it?’ she demands. ‘Ribena?’

Molly nods, distraught. ‘I’m sorry …’

Kate is up on her feet now as Stephen reappears with a knife to cut the cake. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she announces. ‘Look what’s happened …’

‘It
is
a children’s party,’ Mum observes. ‘There are bound to be spillages.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Kate snaps, ‘but these are DKNY.’

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have worn those,’ she says tersely, turning to me. ‘You’d never wear white trousers to something like this, would you, Alice?’

‘Well,’ Kate announces, before I can answer, ‘if there’s any hope of getting this stain out, they’ll have to be washed right away. Stephen, would you drop off my casserole when you’ve finished with it?’

‘Of course,’ he says quickly, ‘and thank you, Kate. I’m really sorry about your jeans.’

‘White jeans at a children’s party,’ Mum mutters as soon as she’s gone.

‘I don’t think she knew the party was happening,’ I venture as the children cluster around her for another story. While she regales them with tales of Beowulf, Stephen and I find ourselves sitting together on the back step of the house.

‘So, that was Kate,’ he says with a grin.

‘She’s obvious very keen on you,’ I remark, at which he splutters. ‘Come on, Stephen. She could hardly make it more obvious.’

‘You think so?’ He looks genuinely baffled.

‘Yes. God, you mean you haven’t picked up on her signals?’

He smiles. ‘I’ve never been very good at that.’

‘They’re pretty obvious, you know. Like, in a sort of flashing neon sign sort of way …’

‘Oh, God,’ he says, shuddering. ‘She’s bloody terrifying.’

‘She’s just a woman who knows what she wants,’ I say, and we fall into companionable silence, watching the children listening with rapt attention to Mum.

‘You’ve been great today,’ he adds. ‘But I guess you’re an old hand at all this, aren’t you?’

‘Our parties weren’t quite like this,’ I say. ‘However organised I tried to be, they’d always descend into sheer chaos.’

He chuckles. ‘Your boys must be much easier now.’

I consider this and, without thinking, find myself telling him that teenagers are challenging in a different way, such as announcing that they don’t want to live with you any more, or accessing a smoking bum picture on their laptop.

‘A smoking bum?’ he repeats. ‘Seriously?’

I nod. ‘Yep.’

‘God.’ He blows out air. ‘That sounds …
ill-advised
…’

‘One of those don’t-try-this-at-home moments,’ I add with a smirk. ‘You know, sometimes I think my life’s full of bum …’

He looks at me incredulously. ‘Like, there are other things?’

‘Um, yeah.’ And because I feel so relaxed here, all worn out in that pleasant, post-party way, I tell him about my ravaged hot cleansing cloth, and how I’d managed to inform the pert French pharmacy lady that I had batteries up my bottom.

Stephen is convulsing with laughter. ‘Anything else?’

‘Er, that’s all I can think of at the moment.’

‘So,’ he says, shuddering with mirth, ‘you think your life is too bottom-focused.’

‘Yes, I really do.’

He wipes his eyes and smiles fondly at me. ‘But not today, I hope. I really hope it hasn’t been a bunch of arse for you.’

I shake my head and glance across the sun-dappled garden, overcome by an unexpected surge of fondness for Mum. Who else could captivate all these children like this?

‘Not at all,’ I say, turning back to him. ‘It’s actually been a wonderful day.’

I’m not stupid enough to think that all Frenchmen have that look, that Robert Doisneau Kiss thing going on – the mop of dark hair, the sharp cheekbones and chiselled jaw as featured on millions of posters. Yet that’s precisely what springs to mind, when I glimpse Pascal sitting in the corner in one of Edinburgh’s most beautiful Victorian pubs. He is the grown-up version of that boy I saw with his girlfriend from the hotel balcony in Paris. He hasn’t seen me yet, and I’m stealing a look before he does. A week has flown by since Molly’s party, and I’d almost forgotten about Pascal’s promise to call. Logan is now in the throes of exams – it has been a little tense, to say the least. Then Pascal finally called, throwing me into a frenzy of pecan and orange meringue production, the results of which I have with me in a small paper carrier bag.

‘Hey, how are you?’ He is out of his seat now, kissing me Frenchly – not
French
kissing, obviously, but a peck on each cheek.

‘I’m good, thanks.’ I glance at the bar. ‘What would you like?’

‘No, I’ll go,’ he says quickly. ‘Glass of wine? They have a nice Burgundy here.’

‘Oh, yes please.’ He returns with a glass and sits back in the seat opposite me. ‘So how was your son after the party? It looked pretty bad.’

‘He’s okay now. I took him to A&E for his lip and a friend, a dentist, fixed his tooth the next day. His mouth’s still pretty sore but it’s healing well, and you’d never know anything had happened to his tooth.’

Pascal shakes his head and lifts his tall glass of beer. ‘Some end to your party.’

‘I know, but I loved it anyway.’

He smiles. ‘It was kind of your sons to invite me. Hope you didn’t mind?’ A distinctly flirtatious tone has crept into his voice.

‘No, of course not. I was delighted you came.’

‘D’you think they were trying to set us up?’ he adds, dark eyes glinting.

My entire head is now a perfect orb of hotness, and I keep glimpsing the glowing oval reflected in the huge copper pan hanging on the wall behind him. I try to cool down with a sip of wine.

‘Probably,’ I say. ‘But I’m not sure – you know how hard teenagers are to fathom.’

‘Um, not really. I don’t see much of my daughter these days.’

‘That’s a pity …’

‘I suppose so,’ comes his perplexing reply. ‘It’s just the way things are.’ Pascal shrugs. ‘My life is here now.’

But what about your daughter?
I want to ask.
Doesn’t a teenage girl need her dad too?
And another father creeps into my mind: Stephen, being a brilliant sport last Sunday when, clearly, the prospect of Molly’s party had been causing him no small amount of anxiety.

‘I nearly forgot,’ I say quickly, placing the paper bag on the table between us. ‘I made these for you.’

‘What’s this?’ He raises a brow in surprise.

‘Those meringues you asked for. Pecan and bitter orange.’

‘Wow.’ He opens the bag and takes out one of each flavour: small, perfectly formed kisses, if I say so myself. I put untold effort into these samples. ‘Unusual flavours,’ he adds, nibbling the orange one. ‘Mmm, this is lovely.’

‘The pecan ones were easy,’ I explain. ‘Crushed pieces with a little honey and the tiniest amount of ginger. The orange one was harder. That was quite a challenge you set me.’ I smile, watching as he finishes the meringue in a second bite.

‘Is that what I asked for?’ He chuckles. ‘I’d forgotten. I just said the first flavours that came into my head. Didn’t want to seem, uh, unimaginative …’

‘So you didn’t really want bitter orange?’ I ask, replaying my endeavours in the kitchen two days ago: first with finely chopped fresh orange (big fail), then, more successfully with a bitter orange peel meant for cake decorations, which had taken me an entire lunch break to track down.

‘Well, I thought it would be fun to see what you could come up with,’ he says, popping one into his mouth. ‘And I was right, wasn’t I? These really are delicious.’ I prickle with annoyance, realising I could have knocked up a tried-and-tested flavour and saved myself from ruining a batch.

I clear my throat. ‘You know, that’s why Logan and his friends were so out of it at the party. Meringues, I mean. They’d cooked up some hash ones, would you believe?’

‘Now
they
sound interesting,’ Pascal laughs. ‘Had your friend had some too?’

I frown. ‘Which friend?’

‘The woman in the tight red skirt …’

‘Oh, you mean Viv. No, we’d had some pretty potent cocktails, then she’d tanked into the wine.’ I laugh. ‘Just a little overexcited, I guess.’

He shakes his head. ‘Not a good look in a woman that age.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You know – a middle-aged woman making a fool of herself like that. Dancing, throwing herself around, trying to kiss everyone …’

I frown and shift in my seat. ‘She’s just affectionate—’

‘Is that what you call it?’ He emits a scathing laugh. ‘And wasn’t she crying at the end?’

‘Pascal,’ I cut in, ‘Viv’s one of my closest friends. I’ve known her since college. I know she goes overboard sometimes, but it
was
a party, and virtually everyone was there as a couple. I think she just finds that a bit difficult sometimes.’

‘But you’re single,’ he points out.

‘I know,’ I say, trying to shake off my annoyance. ‘And I’m fine with that. But occasionally, I get the feeling that Viv isn’t …’

He meets my gaze, and although his eyes are stunning – deep chocolate brown, fringed by long, outrageously curly black lashes – they are ceasing to have any effect on me at all. ‘It just looks a bit …’ He pauses to find the right word. ‘Desperate.’

As we sit in silence for a moment, I try to work out why this irks me so much. I doubt if he’d be so aghast about a man being that drunk; it would be regarded as acceptable party behaviour and probably not even commented upon at all. In the cocktail bar at the Morgan, no one else seemed to register the fact that Charlie was out of his mind. Certainly, I’m not sure anyone would have labelled him as ‘desperate’.

Having finished his drink, Pascal gets up from his seat. ‘Same again? Another glass of wine?’

I look up at him, figuring that I could stay for another, and that it might help me to shake off the waves of irritation which are coming thick and fast. We might even have a fun evening. But, I realise, I want more than that. Now, more than anything, I want to be with the man who has lifted my heart, and who I can’t get out of my mind.

‘I think I might call it a night actually,’ I say firmly.

‘You don’t want to find somewhere for dinner?’

‘No thanks.’

He looks mildly nonplussed, then kisses my cheeks again, simultaneously checking his watch. ‘Well, I’m going to stay for a while. Some friends of mine usually come here on a Saturday night.’

‘Enjoy the rest of your evening then,’ I say, mustering a broad smile. ‘And I’m glad you enjoyed the meringues.’

‘The bitter orange,’ he calls after me as I make my way to the door, ‘is sensational.’

Out in the street, I wonder what to do next. The sensible thing would be to head home, and start baking – although I suspect that Logan and Fergus are having an enjoyable boys’ night in, and appreciating some time on their own. They’ve grown closer lately, spending more time hanging out together, with Logan no longer regarding his younger brother with disdain – at least, not
all
of the time. Besides, I don’t really want to go home quite yet. Still smarting a little over Pascal’s comments about Viv, I pull out my phone from my bag. It’s Logan who picks up.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask.

‘Yeah,’ he says. There’s muffled sniggering in the background.

‘Are you sure?’

‘
Yes
, Mum.’ His voice shakes with mirth.

‘So what are you laughing at? What are you up to?’

‘
Nothing
. Blake’s here. Is that all right?’

‘Of course it is,’ I say firmly, ‘as long as there’s no baking going on …’

‘Mum says no baking,’ he guffaws, and there’s an explosion of laughter in the background.

‘Logan, you’re
not
, are you?’

‘No,’ he says emphatically. ‘Hang on a minute.’ I wait, hearing the background voices recede as he takes the phone to another room. ‘Mum … d’you remember that … that
thing
on Fergus’s laptop?’

‘In graphic detail,’ I say dryly.

‘It was Blake who told Fergus to do it. He said, “Google hot chicks” and that’s what came up …’

‘God, did he?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Hot chicks?’ I repeat.

‘Yeah, that’s why it had a ciggie in it, ’cause she was hot …’ He starts laughing again. ‘And he’s telling him to do it again, right? But we won’t let him …’

‘He’d better not, okay? Turn the laptop
off
.’

‘It is off,’ he protests. ‘Honestly – d’you think he’d do that again, after what happened last time?’

I pause, sensing that I really should head home to see what’s going on. Will I
ever
manage to have a proper grown-up life of my own?

‘Logan,’ I say firmly, ‘I was calling to say I’ll be out for a little while longer. Until ten or so – not too late. But now I feel completely uncomfortable with the idea of leaving you boys alone in the flat. I thought I could trust you …’

‘You can,’ he declares. ‘I promise, Mum. You were brilliant about the party thing. Still can’t believe how Clemmie reacted …’

‘Okay,’ I say, a little taken aback by his outburst.

‘You
can
trust us,’ he repeats emphatically.

‘Well, I hope so.’ I smile, thinking what a gang we are, the three of us – we don’t manage too badly, considering. I hear our door buzzer in the background, some high-pitched yapping and then a woman’s voice. ‘Who’s that?’ I ask.

‘Clemmie’s just arrived,’ he hisses. ‘She says she’s just popped in to drop off some magazines for you but now she’s here, she might as well stay for a bit.’

My mouth quivers with mirth. ‘She’s babysitting you, Logan. She’s making sure you don’t get up to any mischief.’

‘For God’s sake,’ he exclaims. ‘We’re sixteen! We could get married, join the army—’

‘Buy a lottery ticket,’ I add. ‘Never mind, darling. Say hi for me and tell her I won’t be out too late.’

We finish the call, faint drizzle starting to fall as I head away from the pub. Edinburgh is bustling tonight. There are smart couples, gaggles of students and the odd hen and stag party group. The streets are filled with wafts of perfume and laughter. Still clutching my phone, I call another number.