Take Mum Out

Who lives like this? Even Clemmie’s place, with its five bedrooms and two lounges – the annexe – looks a bit scruffy around the edges sometimes, despite her gargantuan efforts to keep it tidy (not to mention a cleaner three times a week). Now, I know homes magazines have stylists to make everything beautiful, but still. I’d thought a glimpse of perfection might offer some welcome respite, seeing as I’ll be up baking until at least two a.m., but instead it’s drawing my attention to the almighty clutter of the boys’ Clearasil washes and scrubs and lotions which are crammed on to the single shelf, plus, I notice now, a small white cloth with a brown smear on it tucked behind the loo. I’m not a high maintenance woman, and I like to think my tolerance levels are pretty high. But from where I’m lying – in this rapidly cooling bath – it would appear that someone has nabbed my Liz Earle Hot Cloth muslin square and wiped their arse on it. Dear God – they’re teenagers, shouldn’t the wanton destruction of my possessions have stopped by now? Maybe Erica had a point all those months ago when she looked alarmed by the concept of parenting boys. But they’re not all like that, smashing Danish glassware and using their mother’s sole face cloth because they’re too bloody lazy to reach for the cupboard where the loo roll is kept. Look at Blake, wiping down kitchen surfaces. Where have I gone wrong?

I glare back at the magazine, in which no less than ten pages are devoted to the stunning country home. Naturally, the garden is just the right side of wild, with cornflowers and poppies running rampant all over the place. ‘We designed our haphazard planting scheme to say, “Chill out and kick back on the lawn with us”,’ the caption reads. I glance at our bathroom windowsill where Fergus’s beleaguered cactus sits in its red plastic pot. We don’t design a planting scheme, we win it at the school tombola (along with a bottle of Lulu perfume which had actually gone off), and if it’s saying anything, it’s, ‘For Christ’s sake, dust me.’

I flick my gaze back to the mag. ‘Patsy grows fresh herbs to add zing to spontaneous suppers with friends’, it goes on. Well, good for Patsy. My own children are primed to reject suspect greenery; they can detect the snipping of parsley even from a different room. My heart slumps even further as I study my unpainted toenails poking out of the water. Spontaneous suppers. How long is it since I had one of those? Or a spontaneous anything, come to that? As I work school hours, five days a week, I tend to resort to that deeply unsexy thing of Planning Ahead. As a tactic, it works, in that the three of us generally wind up with something edible on the table at dinnertime. At least, Blake seems to enjoy my offerings. But I can’t deny it’s slightly joyless, knowing you’ll be eating lasagne in five days’ time.

I also batch-cook. How terribly … loin-stirring. I must remember to tell Giles-the-intern about my sessions with a steaming vat of bolognaise when we meet. That’ll get him all revved up – at least, if he nurtures secret dinner-lady fantasies.

In another photo, pastel-coloured bunting is strewn across the perfect garden, and a little blonde girl in a white dress is playing with a syrup-coloured spaniel. Bet he doesn’t devour his owner’s knitwear. ‘It’s a gorgeous spring afternoon’, reads the text, ‘as Patsy Lomax, founder of sleepwear company Dandelion …’

PATSY LOMAX??? It can’t be. But it is – it’s my ex Tom’s wife Patsy who grows herbs for spontaneous suppers, and the little girl in the garden is their daughter, Jessica. That’s their rose-strewn home, and their silk-covered notebooks artfully arranged on the coffee table. I flip through more pages, studying each photo in forensic detail, until I reach the final page of the never-ending extravaganza and here he is – Tom, no less, who’d happily inhabit the same ratty Smiths T-shirt for three days running when we were together, and would use our car keys to pick out dirt from between his toes while we were watching TV. Tom, who could barely operate a can opener without severing an artery, is now depicted wearing a chunky cableknit sweater, plus jeans and suspiciously pristine wellies, clutching an armful of veggies: curly kale, purple sprouting broccoli and some particularly knobbly-looking carrots. ‘Tom’s kitchen garden evolves with the seasons’ runs the caption beneath.

I explode with laughter and sling the magazine on to the bathroom floor. Tom, cultivating legumes, when he used to refer to salad as ‘women’s food’ and had never knowingly ingested a tomato. Still sniggering, I clamber out of the bath and wrap myself in a large towel with all the softness of a gravel driveway, then snatch a bit of loo roll to give the cactus a cursory wipe. Maybe it’ll start evolving now. Perhaps vivid pink flowers will burst forth, like the tombola lady promised. Then I brush out my hair and pull on pyjamas and a dressing gown in readiness for baking the fifth meringue batch of the evening.

As I emerge from the bathroom, Blake is lacing up his trainers in the hallway (this boy even removes his footwear on entering someone’s house) while Logan fixes me with a stare.

‘Why can’t we extend our place?’ he enquires.

‘Because it’s a flat,’ I reply pleasantly.

‘Is there nothing we could do?’

I blink at my son, aware of Blake straightening up and smirking at us. ‘Well,’ I reply, ‘I suppose we could build a kind of sticky-out construction that pokes out over the street, like a giant shelf, and you could live on that.’

Grunting with mirth, Blake remarks, ‘You’re lucky, Logan. At least your mum’s not always on at you like mine is. She’s not obsessed with the house being perfect …’

‘Thank you, Blake,’ I say, wondering whether to take this as a compliment or not.

He grins. ‘Thanks for dinner’ is his parting remark. When he’s gone, I turn back to Logan, hoping to see a glimmer of a smile, or some realisation of how petulant he’s being.

‘I’m fed up with this place,’ he sighs.

‘Logan, you do have your own room. The biggest room, in fact.’

‘There’s not even a TV in it.’

‘So what?’ I counter. ‘There’s one in the living room that you have virtually free rein of. I hardly ever watch it.’

‘You watch Casablanca all the time …’

I blink at him, trying to keep a lid on the irritation that’s bubbling inside me. What is wrong with him these days? Why is he being so foul, and is it likely to stop anytime soon?

‘I happen to watch it about once a year at the very most,’ I inform him.

Fergus has appeared now, and is warming to the ‘teasing Mum about her old movies’ theme.

‘There’s that bit,’ he says, ‘when the guy says, “We’ll always have Paris”—’

‘And that’s when you start crying,’ Logan adds. With that, they both bark with laughter, and I stomp to my bedroom, reminding myself that I’m not one of those obsessives who sits glued to the same movie night after night, with a bunch of sodden tissues on her lap. Honestly – I only watch Casablanca about once a year, usually around Christmas time. Well, maybe twice. And, anyway, what business is it of theirs?

In the kitchen, I set to work, switching on the radio and cracking eggs until, gradually, my irritation begins to subside. At least Blake likes it here, I remind myself, so it can’t be that bad. As I pipe tray after tray of rosette-shaped kisses, I decide I don’t care that Tom has managed to grab himself a magazine-style life. Bet that picture was staged anyway, and someone brought along those gnarly vegetables that Tom was clutching lovingly to his manly chest. Anyway, it’s not as if I’d be happier if he were huddled in a miserable bedsit, warming his hands on a Pot Noodle; it was my decision to split, which has caused me no small amount of guilt over the years, and Patsy has been good for Tom. Somehow, she has managed to realise his potential. It’s a pretty safe bet that he no longer turns his boxer shorts inside out so he can eke an extra day’s wear out of them.

I’ve just filled the oven with another batch of trays when my phone bleeps – a text from an unknown number. Hi Alice, it reads, Giles here, I work with Viv. Hope ok to get in touch. Wondered if you fancy a drink sometime?

Hell, why not? Tomorrow I’ll be finishing off the meringues – at least, doing the packing and labelling – and it’s the boys’ last night with me before their trip with Tom, not that Logan will regard that as anything significant, but still … I pause before replying, wondering whether to play down my commitments, or to be honest from the start. After all, Viv has told him I have kids. No point in trying to pretend I’m just back from my gap year travels …

Sounds good, I reply. Maybe Wed eve as my boys are going away with their dad …

No, no, no! So we can come back here and have rampant sex, it implies. Jesus. I delete it, typing instead: Would Wed eve suit you, about 8?

Great, he replies. Will call you Gxx.

Two kisses? Seems rather forward, although I find myself smiling all the same.

Chapter Eight

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

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