The Mum Who Got Her Life Back. Fiona Gibson
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fine, if you’re motivated enough to swot up on all the food groups and soak things for billions of years. I just couldn’t quite imagine my eighteen-year-old son, who used to virtually faint with delight at the sight of a steak, involving himself with pulses.
‘Aw, Mum, I’ll see you the day after Boxing Day, okay?’ he muttered a few minutes ago.
‘The day after Boxing Day?’ I exclaimed.
‘Well, there are no trains till then.’
‘I could come up and fetch you. How about that? Have Christmas with Camilla, and then I’ll drive up and—’
‘Yeah, but they have a massive party on Boxing Day,’ he continued blithely, ‘and Cam says it’s brilliant. Everyone brings musical instruments, there’s a whole jamming thing going on, it sounds mental. There’s so much food and drink, her dad saves his special wine for it and I really wanna be there for that.’ Ah, right. How fantastically fun. Clearly, the thought of us lot sitting around eating Twiglets and playing Pictionary can’t compare to Camilla and The Special Wine. ‘Your nut roast’ll keep, won’t it?’ he added, trying to placate me now.
‘I’m not sure,’ I huffed. ‘I’ll probably have to freeze it. It’s this gigantic boulder made from ground hazelnuts and about sixty-five other ingredients and it’ll take about three weeks to defrost.’
Alfie chuckled. ‘Sounds awesome, Mum …’ No, it didn’t. It sounded as if it’d have him hurtling to the lavatory. ‘So, I’ll see you on the 27th, all right?’ he added. ‘We’ll have a nice time then.’ Which felt like being offered the flat gold-wrapped toffee from the Quality Street tin after all the best ones have gone.
Never-fucking-mind, I think tearfully as I stride onwards now, my breath forming clouds as I exhale fiercely into the crisp evening air. I’m being silly, I know. It’s only Christmas, and Molly is home with me already; she arrived yesterday. But then so have her friends, so I’ve just seen her as a blur who’s darted in and clogged up the loo with an avalanche of paper before rushing back out again. She found me later, trying to unblock it with a wire coat hanger. ‘What’re you doing?’ she asked.
‘Panning for gold,’ I replied.
‘You’re pretty handy, Mum,’ she said, grinning. ‘Let me know if you find something we can sell.’
The thought of my daughter’s audacity lifts my spirits as I glance across the shimmering river. Christmas will work out okay, I tell myself. Perhaps I should be more like Danny, who never gets in a state about stuff like this; to him, the festive season merely represents an interruption to his work schedule. He spends time with the kids, and sometimes he even pops round to see me – minus Kiki, with whom I have a polite-but-distant relationship. She’s fine, actually. I only tend to see her occasionally, in passing, and apart from her obvious gorgeousness there’s absolutely no reason to feel iffy about her at all.
Anyway … sodding Christmas. It’s up to Alfie where he spends it, I guess, and I just want to kick back and enjoy the holidays with my family. I’ve been working flat-out lately, finishing jobs in the early hours, sometimes tumbling into bed when the birds had started to tweet outside. On top of the textbooks, I’ve completed a series of greetings cards, a travel guide to Scotland and a department store’s stationery range recently. When I finally cleared my workload, and with Molly and Alfie’s homecoming imminent, I scrubbed the flat from top to bottom (as if they’d notice and praise my efforts!). I even bought them new bed linen, as if they’ve been at sea for six months. I don’t plan to spoil our precious time together by moaning about their toast crumbs or tendency to lie in till noon, or constantly demand to know where they’re going and what time they’ll be home—
‘Hi! Excuse me?’
I stop and glance around. At first I’m not sure who called out, assuming it wasn’t directed at me anyway. But then I see a man in running gear striding towards me. As I pat my pockets instinctively, thinking I must have dropped something, and he’s kindly picked it up, it dawns on me that it’s him: the man I encouraged to buy numerous unnecessary products for his daughter.
Oh, God, he’s going to say he knew all along that I was a phoney! And he’ll ask me if I have any other hobbies, apart from impersonating the salespeople in Lush …
‘Hi,’ he says again, smiling hesitantly now as he approaches.
‘Hi,’ I say brightly.
He stops in front of me and wipes his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Erm, you probably don’t remember me, but you helped me in—’
‘Yes, I do remember,’ I cut in quickly as various thoughts dart around my brain, such as: Shall I admit I don’t work there, and how can I do so without sounding mad? And: How is it possible for a man to appear so attractive in jogging bottoms and a running top, all claggy with sweat?
‘Well, um,’ he says, ‘I just thought I’d say hi. Nice to see you again.’ He shuffles from foot to foot. ‘Guess you’re looking forward to your break?’
‘Er, yes. Yes, I really am.’ Because it’s exhausting, being trapped in the back room, slicing up soaps! I’m aware that my smile has set.
‘Pretty hectic in there, isn’t it? In the shop, I mean …’
‘It is, yeah.’ I laugh in a tell-me-about-it sort of way.
He looks up and down the riverside walkway and clears his throat. ‘So, erm, anyway, I just wanted to say thanks for helping me choose all those—’
‘Oh, it’s fine, really …’
‘Just doing your job, of course …’
‘Yes!’ I beam at him, wondering how my cheeks can possibly burn so hotly on a cold December night.
There’s a moment’s pause. ‘Er, so, are you heading straight home now?’ he asks.
‘Erm, yes, I s’pose I am.’
‘To wrap presents?’
‘All done …’
‘Well done you!’ We laugh awkwardly and look at each other, and now I’m thinking rather hopefully: yes, I am going home, but I don’t have to stay there all evening. I could come out later as Molly’s bound to be out again, and my son has chosen to be with his girlfriend whom he has known for all of five minutes instead of his family, and—
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying,’ he adds, ‘but you seemed a bit upset just then.’
Christ, he noticed? ‘Oh, that was just my son,’ I say quickly, ‘telling me he won’t be coming home for Christmas with me after all.’ I shrug.
‘Really? That’s a shame.’
‘The lure of the girlfriend. I suppose I don’t blame him really …’
‘Yeah. Hard for you, though …’
‘I’ll just have to manage without him.’ I smile, aware of that flat-toffee feeling ebbing away rapidly.
The man grins, rather shyly, and I sense that neither of us wants to move on. ‘Um, I don’t suppose you’d like to meet for a drink sometime?’ he asks, pushing back his sweat-dampened hair.
‘Oh.’ I realise I am beaming now, and wonder if he’s noticed the absence of a wedding ring – or perhaps it’s the way I said ‘Christmas with me’ and not ‘us’? ‘Yes, that’d be lovely,’ I say, even as I’m wondering what on earth I’m going to do about the Lush issue. How would I keep up the pretence, if he we did meet up? But what the hell – it’s just a drink he’s suggesting, and if the subject comes up, I’ll swerve him off it …
‘You’re not free later this evening, are you?’ he asks.
‘It’s Christmas Eve,’ I remind him.
‘Yes, it is.’