Читать книгу Take Mum Out - Fiona Gibson, Fiona Gibson - Страница 13

By Tuesday evening, Clemmie’s meringues are ready to go. With no help from Logan, I might add – although Fergus has spent about ten minutes carefully packaging a few tiny, pastel-coloured kisses into clear cellophane bags, and boy-hero Blake has hand-written the labels in beautiful calligraphy script. It’s almost eerie, a sixteen-year-old boy being able to write legibly, let alone scripting ‘Handmade for the Morgan Hotel by Sugar Mummy’ on three hundred tiny buff-coloured labels. I’d be no more surprised if his next task was to perform a complex medical procedure on a human eye.

‘They look great,’ I enthuse as Fergus, Blake and I set about attaching the labels to the cellophane bags while Logan hovers around in a supervisory role.

‘You should pay him, Mum,’ Fergus suggests.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Blake replies, ‘I like doing stuff like that’, while Logan guffaws as if he’s just admitted to a love of embroidery. It’s gone ten p.m. when the boys help me to carry the filled boxes up the street to Clemmie’s.

‘These are amazing,’ she exclaims. ‘God – the colours. So pretty! And the dusting of glitter on the lilac ones …’

‘Blake’s been a huge help,’ I tell her. ‘He did the lettering for all the labels.’

‘Well, he is very artistic,’ she says with a trace of pride, as it strikes me that perhaps I don’t boast about my own sons enough. Of course, I adore my boys; we are a gang, the three of us – yet so often I seem to fixate on small annoyances. I’d hate to think I’m turning into someone who puts down her kids, like Mum and her, ‘Ooh – you’ll be glad I gave you that diet’ remarks.

‘You will come to the party tomorrow night?’ Clemmie says, handing me a glass of wine which I accept gratefully.

‘You mean the Morgan do?’

‘Yes, I’ve put your name down with a plus one …’

‘Oh, I’m sorry – I’ve got something on.’

‘Where are you going, Mum?’ Fergus asks.

‘Just out,’ I say lightly, feeling my cheeks burning. I’d tell Clemmie, of course I would – she is always amused by my occasional dating forays, and I’m grateful that at least someone derives entertainment from them. But the boys are aware that I was out with Fat-Tongue Man a mere four days ago, and I don’t want them to think I’ve become frenzied.

‘Who with?’ Fergus wants to know.

‘Er, just a friend of Viv’s,’ I reply, relieved when the conversation swerves to the forthcoming party with its live music, vast seafood bar and savoury lollipop canapés. And by the time we’re getting ready to leave, I’m in pretty high spirits.

‘So you boys are off on a week’s holiday tomorrow,’ Clemmie says as she sees us out.

‘Yeah,’ Logan murmurs.

‘Hmm.’ She smirks. ‘Off the leash, eh, Alice? God knows what kind of debauchery you’ll be getting up to.’ At that, everyone sniggers for slightly too long. Is it really that funny, the idea of me doing something a little bit … well, not debauched exactly, but just for fun?

‘She’ll be having the girls round,’ Logan quips as we step out into the cool spring night.

‘What’ll you do really?’ Fergus asks as we head home.

‘Oh, just the usual. Bit of batch-cooking, catch up on a few jobs around the flat …’

While his brother strides ahead, Fergus ambles along at my side. ‘I’ll actually miss you, Mum.’

‘I’ll miss you too,’ I reply, only just managing not to take his hand. ‘It won’t be the same without you.’

‘Well,’ he adds with a sly grin, ‘you can always phone me if you get really lonely and depressed.’

*

School breaks up for Easter next day, meaning an early finish for me and the boys. Yet, although we’re all home by three, I’m wishing now that Tom and Patsy were picking up the boys tomorrow so it wasn’t so horribly rushed. As it is, Tom has already called en route to say they’ve passed Carlisle and should be with us by four. That gives me forty-five minutes. Christ.

To explain, I’m not usually a terribly appearance-focused person, as Botox-Anthony would testify. My hair, which is long and dark brown, is usually pulled up into a topknot affair, in the hope that its messiness will be interpreted as ‘artfully undone’ and not a complete state. As for daily beautification, we’re generally talking a speedy lick of brown mascara and tinted lip balm. (Unless we’re visiting my mother, in which case I’ll do my eyes properly – old school, using all three shades of an eye shadow trio, in the hope that it’ll detract from the size of my arse.) And there you have it. Except on the rare occasions when Tom and Patsy are coming, when we’re talking a level of grooming generally enjoyed only by a dressage horse.

So, while the boys gather together the last of their things, I apply a full face of make-up and give my hair a quick spritz and blow-dry. I even dig out a rather glitzy top to wear with my newest jeans. Why go to such lengths? Well, there’s the date with Giles, of course, but that’s hours away (and, to be honest, I’d rather not dress up too much for such a young pup in case it hints at middle-aged desperation). No, I am ashamed to admit that my efforts are entirely for Tom and Patsy’s benefit – to show that, even though my home is unlikely to feature in Stylish Living