Take Mum Out. Fiona Gibson
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I bark. ‘How old d’you think I am?’
He shrugs. ‘Thirty-seven?’
‘Thirty-nine actually.’ I omit to mention that my fortieth is a mere month away. ‘How about you?’
He smirks. ‘You might be surprised to learn that I’m actually forty-five.’ And he’s calling me an older woman? ‘My last girlfriend was twenty-eight,’ he adds, ‘but I’ve finished with younger girls now. Their bodies are great but they can be so vacuous. It’s refreshing to spend time with someone who’s genuinely interested in what one has to say.’
‘I’m sorry, I really have to go,’ I say, cheeks blazing as I turn on my stupid heels and march away.
Mercifully, Anthony doesn’t protest or try to follow me. I walk briskly, overcome by the terrible realisation that, for a ‘woman of my age’, this is probably as good as it gets. God, if that’s a typical example of dating today, then it’s something I’ll avoid from now on. Ugh … the creep, with his foot-baskets and darting tongue, like a lizard trying to catch flies. My bouche is not amused. I walk faster and faster until, by the time I’m almost home, I have virtually broken into an ungainly trot. I take a quick left turn, hurrying past the grand, detached Victorian houses, then alongside the terrace of tenement flats. Although this is a fairly smart area, with an arthouse cinema and coffee shops galore, our block is rather shabby. I am beyond seething as I head in through the main entrance and clatter upstairs to my second-floor flat.
‘I’m home,’ I announce jovially, trying to sound as if I’ve had a perfectly enjoyable night out. In the darkened living room, Logan and Fergus continue to stare at the blaring TV. On the coffee table in front of them lies the detritus of a boys’ night in – greasy pizza boxes, milkshake cartons and a few stray socks. ‘Everything okay?’ I ask, tearing off one shoe, followed by the other.
‘Yuh,’ Logan replies, picking up his red and white stripy carton and taking a big slurp. In the absence of any further response, I commence a slightly deranged conversation with myself: ‘“Hi, Mum, did you have a nice time?” “Yes thank you, it was lovely …”’ In the kitchen now, I click on the kettle. ‘“Actually,”’ I continue under my breath, ‘“it was pretty shitty. But maybe I misread the signs, or I’m so out of touch with dating that, if a man has paid for the six-course tasting menu, he at least expects to ram his disgusting fat tongue down your throat …”’
‘Huh?’ Fergus is standing in the doorway, clutching the pizza boxes to his chest.
‘Nothing,’ I mutter, peering into the fridge so he can’t see my blazing face.
‘You were talking to yourself,’ he sniggers. ‘That’s the first sign of madness, Mum.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ I reply.
He smirks as I straighten up and pour too much milk into my mug. ‘What was that about a fat tongue?’
‘Nothing, take no notice of me, I was just babbling on.’
‘Who were you out with tonight?’ he asks.
‘Just someone I met at Ingrid’s party last weekend.’
He arches a brow. ‘Was it a man?’
Clutching my tea, I lower myself on to a kitchen chair. ‘Yes, sweetheart, but I won’t be seeing him again.’
Fergus cracks a grin, extracts a packet of Jammie Dodgers from the cupboard and rips it open. ‘Good. What d’you need a boyfriend for anyway? You’re a mum.’
His words are still ringing in my head when I wake up early next morning. While he may only be thirteen, and unable to tolerate virtually the entire vegetable food group, Fergus is absolutely right. I don’t need a boyfriend. I’ve managed perfectly well – well, I’ve managed – being by myself all these years, and have now reached the conclusion that any single men around my age are so baggage-laden they can barely face leaving the house, or are looking for girlfriends born in the early nineties or, as in Anthony’s case, are so clearly wrong for me that I shouldn’t have gone in the first place.
You only went because you were flattered, I remind myself, examining a tea towel which appears to have been used to stem the flow of ink from a leaking biro. In other words, I was momentarily grateful for a glimmer of male attention, which is no way to go about things. Also, that vile, slimy kiss – I can’t get it out of my mind. Is that how it happens these days? In agreeing to a date, was I sending the message, ‘I’m desperately starved of affection so, yes, of course I’ll welcome your fat, probing tongue into my mouth? In fact, you needn’t have bothered with the tasting menu. Half a cider would have done the trick …’
I worry, too, that it’s not just about Anthony, and that the real issue is I have become sex phobic. In fact, I suspect that the mere act of removing my underwear in front of any adult male would trigger a panic attack. It sounds ridiculous and it’s not because I’ve had terrible experiences in the past. Even when our relationship was in tatters, getting it together with Tom was always pretty good – but now, doing it with anyone seems wholly alarming and unnecessary. It’s like when you pass your driving test and think, this is amazing – I can finally do what all those other grown-up people have been doing all along. It’s incredibly exciting and liberating. Then months – years – pass by before you find yourself behind the wheel again, and when you’re suddenly thrown into the situation, it’s bloody terrifying. Only with driving, you can at least book a course of refresher lessons …
Anyway, as Fergus so succinctly pointed out, I have no need of a man in my life. I have two big, gangly, gorgeous sons. We have a decent, three-bedroomed flat. (I’ll gloss over the fact that Logan describes it, inaccurately, as ‘poky, like our car – why is everything so mini around here?’) And yes, I do have a Mini – the car, that is, a bright-red model which I like very much. I also have a job I enjoy, at least some of the time (the kids are mostly fantastic, the insurmountable paperwork less so) and there’s my ‘little sideline’, which I absolutely love. So what do I need a boyfriend for really? I’m starting to wonder if meringues really do fulfil all my womanly needs.
For one thing, they are so pleasingly uncomplicated, requiring just two main ingredients: egg whites, beaten to a cloud-like froth, and caster sugar, whisked in until satiny smooth. Follow the correct method and a meringue will never flop disappointingly. There are no nasty surprises, like discovering a portrait of an ex-lover tattooed on the pale curve of a buttock (as glimpsed during an ill-advised one-night stand several years ago), or being informed that four grand’s worth of work might just about salvage my face. Yet they’re far from tedious, as the possibilities for flavourings are virtually infinite. As kitchen inspector Erica observed, the perfect specimen is satisfyingly crisp on the outside, and gooey within – where would I find a man to beat that?
To obliterate lingering thoughts of Anthony’s tongue plunging towards my tonsils, I busy myself by gathering up the jotters which Fergus has left scattered across the kitchen table, and remove the two bulging schoolbags which have been dumped in the middle of the floor. As it’s Saturday, the boys are having their customary lie-in. Perhaps I should be demanding that they get up and do something useful, but I actually cherish these peaceful weekend mornings when there’s no one to moan about my choice of radio station.
I set out my ingredients and start cracking eggs, separating whites from yolks. Humming along to some faintly familiar chart music, I whip up a batch of basic mixture to divide into three bowls, one for each new flavour I’m trying out: strawberries, pistachio and rose water, and little gravelly shards of buttery salted caramel. Kirsty, Ingrid and Viv are coming over later for a taste-in. That’s what we call our regular gatherings, suggesting that my friends come over not just to chat and drink wine – or, in Ingrid’s case, supposedly fertility-boosting raspberry leaf tea – but to ‘help’. I remind Logan