Take Mum Out. Fiona Gibson
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and licking it.
‘Hey, hands out of there,’ I exclaim.
He pokes at the caramel bowl.
‘Stop sticking your fingers into everything!’
‘Why? I’m starving. I’m about to keel over, Mum, and you just don’t care …’ He sniggers and makes for the pistachio bowl but I manage to swipe him away.
‘Uncooked meringue mixture isn’t proper breakfast food. If you can wait two minutes I’ll make you some eggs.’
‘Not too runny,’ he warns.
‘No, sweetheart,’ I reply, feigning subservience, ‘I’ll try to do them properly this time.’
‘You doing scrambles, Mum?’ Logan has emerged now, rubbing his bleary, pillow-creased face.
‘Yes, love.’
‘Can I not have mine rubberised like his?’
‘Of course! I’ll do both differently, according to your precise wishes.’ With a smirk, I grab my piping bag and start to pipe out strawberry kisses on a paper-lined tray, frowning as Logan starts jabbing his fingers into the mixture. ‘Please stop sticking your fingers into my bowls,’ I bark.
‘Whoa.’ He backs away, turning to Fergus. ‘You’d think I’d spat in it.’ They both chortle as I swap the two trays of cooked meringues in the oven for the freshly-piped batch.
‘So,’ I say, now turning my attention to their eggs, ‘what are you two up to today?’
‘I’m going to fix my translator,’ Fergus says confidently.
‘How about you, Logan? Is Blake coming over?’
He sighs loudly, clearly overwhelmed by my relentless questioning. ‘I’m going out.’
‘Where to? Who with?’
‘Just out, Mum, with people.’ No further information supplied.
‘Logan,’ I say, stirring their eggs on the hob, ‘you’ll have to be a bit more specific than that. I need to know where you are, hon.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m your mum, dearest.’
‘Yeah, and I’m sixteen, I’m an adult—’ He stops short as my mobile starts trilling; I don’t recognise the number but take the call anyway.
‘Hi, Alice?’ comes the strident male voice. ‘It’s me.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s me – Anthony from last night. Don’t say you’ve forgotten already.’ He chuckles disconcertingly.
‘Oh, er … right.’ I shudder. It takes years, and probably living under one roof, before you’re allowed to announce yourself as ‘me’.
‘Thought you might like to come and see a movie later,’ he goes on.
‘You mean today?’
‘Well, yes, if you’re not doing anything. I’ve checked out the Filmhouse …’
God, that’s a little presumptuous. Maybe he interpreted me leaping away from his suckering lips as a sign of being unable to manage my yearning for him – like when you nudge away a chocolate cake in case you lose all control and end up devouring the lot. Or maybe he’s just eager to give me a good going-over with his roller.
‘Sorry, I can’t today,’ I reply, wondering what possessed me to add ‘today’ – ever is what I should have said.
‘Ah, yes, busy with your meringues, I’d imagine,’ he says with a snigger.
The boys are shooting me curious looks. ‘Actually, yes, I’m making a batch right now. Sorry, better go. Can’t leave the uncooked mixture sitting around too long …’
‘Oh, what’ll happen?’ he asks leeringly. ‘Will it lose its stiffness?’
‘What?’ Something sour rises in my throat; sixteen hours later, that amuse-bouche is still fermenting away in my gut.
‘Or are we talking more the texture of soft peaks?’ Anthony enquires.
‘Yes, sort of,’ I say tersely.
‘I’d like to see you brandishing your whisk,’ he growls. ‘I imagine it’d be handy for a little light beating …’
‘Logan, keep an eye on those eggs in the pan,’ I order him, striding through to the living room so as to distance myself from the boys’ flapping ears.
‘They’re rubberised,’ Logan shouts after me. ‘These are, like, teeth-bouncing eggs.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I hiss into the phone.
‘I mean,’ Anthony drawls, ‘a little tap on the bottom would be pleasing.’
I peer at a small muddy smear on the white wall and wonder, briefly, how it got there. ‘You mean with my whisk?’
‘Mmmm, yes …’
The small pause is filled by the sound of his rhythmic breathing.
‘You have a thing for kitchen utensils,’ I say flatly. He whispers something I don’t catch. ‘Speak up, I can’t hear you.’
‘I said,’ Anthony whispers, ‘I’ve been a very naughty boy …’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ I splutter, ‘you’re not a boy, you’re a forty-five-year-old man, and I hate to tell you but I use an electric mixer. D’you honestly think I could whisk up twenty-four egg whites with a hand whisk? I’d get repetitive strain injury or tennis elbow—’
‘Yes, but I just thought—’
‘Goodbye, Anthony.’ Having ended the call, I return to the kitchen, trying to emit an aura of serenity as I grab my mug of milky coffee and take a big gulp.
‘Anthony?’ Logan repeats with a smirk.
‘Was that Fat-Tongue Man?’ Fergus sniggers.
‘Who’s Fat-Tongue Man?’ Logan enquires.
‘No one you know,’ I say quickly, serving up the eggs, even though no one seems especially interested in eating them.
‘Who’s got a fat tongue?’ he persists.
‘No one, Logan. It was just something stupid I said without thinking.’
‘Anthony’s the man she went out with last night,’ Fergus announces, ‘and he tried to kiss her. That’s why she’s on about tongues. He tried to stick it in her mouth—’
‘For God’s sake,’ I cut in, ‘of course he didn’t. I barely know him …’
‘He snogged her,’ Fergus adds with a shudder, ‘and now he’s calling her at home.’ I dump the egg pan in the sink and blink at my sons. Now, although I still have no plans to see Anthony again – and can’t believe I found him pleasant company as we snacked on Ingrid’s canapés – I do take exception to the suggestion that no man should phone me ‘at home’.
‘Where else would anyone call me?’ I ask mildly.
‘Dunno.’ Fergus shrugs.
‘I mean, I assume it’s okay for me to take private calls here,’ I add, aware that I’m verging towards overreacting now, ‘seeing as I pay the bill and the mortgage on our flat in which our phone resides.’
‘Yeah, all right, Mum,’ he says, shoving aside his substandard breakfast and swaggering out of the kitchen, closely tailed by his big brother.
‘Why does she do that?’ Logan’s