The Mum Who Got Her Life Back

‘Yeah, there are about 800,000 people in this city, Nads,’ Gus adds with a smirk.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but once you take away everyone who’s too young, too old, married or crazy, that probably leaves about three, and what would be the chances of us fancying each other?’

‘There’s every chance,’ Gus insists. ‘You’re a very gorgeous woman, Nads.’

I laugh and look at Corinne. ‘And he’s not even drunk!’

He snorts in mock exasperation. All three of us are single but, unlike Corinne and me, he has no shortage of dates. A good-looking artist with bags of charm, apparently he has no desire to meet ‘the one’. While his lifestyle would be a little hectic for me, I envy him sometimes.

‘Don’t you ever look at a man and think, oooh?’ he asks.

‘It’s very, very rare,’ I say truthfully. In fact, I reflect as I get back to work, I’ve wondered if that part of my biological make-up has died, like a flat car battery. But that very lunchtime, when I pop out to buy a few last-minute presents, it becomes clear that that hasn’t happened after all.

The city centre feels jolly and festive, and I look around, feeling grateful to be part of this big, vibrant city where I grew up, and which I still love very much. In a few days’ time I’ll be installed at my sister Sarah’s on the Ayrshire coast, with Molly and Alfie and Sarah’s family for Christmas, and it’ll be lovely. We’ll all eat too much (Sarah is a wonderful cook, the self-appointed Queen of Christmas), play board games and kick back and relax. But for now I’m enjoying the festive build-up, the seasonal music blasting out from the shops, and the sense that quite a few shoppers have enjoyed a few drinks already.

Feeling the chill now, and regretting not putting on a jacket, I step gratefully into the warmth of a bustling shop. I’m perusing the shelves, looking for stocking fillers for Molly, when a dark-haired man – wearing jeans, a black jacket and a grey sweater – walks in. I know it’s weird to stare so blatantly, but I can’t help myself. Despite the marauding hordes, and ‘Winter Wonderland’ blaring out of the speakers, I cannot tear my gaze away.

Apparently, my ability to find another person wildly desirable hasn’t died after all. It has just jump-started.

He is tall and lean with a strong, proud nose and the kind of generous mouth that suggests he smiles a lot. From my vantage point some way across the shop, I can’t tell what colour his eyes are. But actually, it’s not just his appearance that’s stopped me in my tracks.

Normally, the word ‘aura’ makes me shudder, but this man has one. It’s one of quiet courage and calmness – the way he strolled into the melee without flinching. Clearly on a mission, a bold pioneer fearlessly navigating the store, apparently untroubled by people clamouring for highly scented goods. He wanders from one display to the next, then stops and looks around, as if assessing the terrain before deciding how best to proceed …

A man, in a branch of Lush, five days before Christmas: he deserves some kind of national bravery award for that.

I try to focus on what I came in for, but all thoughts of body lotions and bath oils have evaporated now. I edge past a boy with mauve dreadlocks who’s demonstrating some kind of product in a bowl of bubbly water. Girls cluster around him, squealing excitedly as if he might be about to pluck a live unicorn from the foam.

I’m closer to the man now, pulled towards him by a powerful magnetic force. Although he seems to be alone, I still scan his immediate vicinity for evidence of an accompanying female – daughter, wife, friend. There appears to be no one. This man looks like someone I absolutely have to speak to; all I need to do is figure out how.

Don’t be a lunatic, I tell myself. He’s probably married or gay or … my God, he made eye contact and smiled at me! It was a proper smile – warm and wide and perhaps held for a couple of moments more than you might expect from a stranger. Heat surges up my neck as I smile back, briefly, before turning away. Now I’m gazing around the shop as if I have never been to Lush before, and am considering writing a thesis on it. (I’d start it: How trustworthy are those labels on the products, depicting the person who made them? Can we be sure that Daria really created that massage bar, or could the labels be randomly generated?)

Pushing away such disturbing thoughts, I edge my way towards the man, pretending to examine the hand-cut soaps along the way. There’s just a display table between us now, bearing an outlandish rockery of pink and yellow spheres. He’s peering at bowls of gloop that are displayed on crushed ice, like fish. Feeling terribly stalkerish, I sidle around the table and position myself next to him. Now I’m close enough to register the colour of his eyes; they are a clear, piercing blue.

I am literally bursting to say something to him – but what? I no longer feel like a fifty-one-year-old menopausal mother of two. In fact, I seem to have reverted to my adolescent self, who gleaned her talking-to-boys tips from Just Seventeen. I try a conversation opener in my mind: D’you think the smell in here is just from the products, or do they pump something out of secret vents?

As he picks up a macaroon-shaped bubble bar, inspiration hits me. ‘You’re not planning to eat that, are you?’ I blurt out.

He looks momentarily shocked, then smiles. ‘Ha, no, don’t worry. They do look pretty edible though, don’t they?’

‘They really do,’ I reply, sensing my face simmering. Thanks, plummeting oestrogen levels. Fine time for a hot flush. I press a hand onto the crushed ice in an attempt to cool myself.

‘So hard to choose, isn’t it?’ I add, trying to establish common ground: i.e. we both find Lush confusing. Therefore, we must leave and go for a coffee together immediately.

‘To be honest, I don’t know where to start,’ he says.

‘Can I help at all?’ I ask eagerly.

‘Er, yes, maybe you can.’ Another disarming smile. ‘That would be brilliant, actually …’

‘So, um, is it Christmas presents you’re after?’

Of course it is, idiot. Why else would he be in here on December 20th? ‘Yeah.’ He rakes back his shortish hair. Noting the absence of wedding ring, I plough on: ‘Who for?’

‘My daughter.’ Yes! Not my incredibly sexy wife. ‘She’s kind of addicted to this place,’ he adds.

‘Ha, yes, mine too. So, has she given you any hints of what she’d like?’

‘Not really. Just bath stuff, I think. And maybe, uh, some creams and things for her face?’

‘You mean skincare?’ I offer, expertly.

‘Yes, skincare – stuff like that.’ He pauses. ‘She’s fourteen. Could you tell me what girls of that age tend to go for?’

I’m about to feign insider knowledge and say yes, of course – when I realise: he thinks I work here. Lush staff don’t have uniforms, a quick glance confirms, and in my black sweatshirt and jeans I could probably pass as a sales assistant (apart from being roughly thirty years older than these exuberant boys and girls, and having no interesting piercings or tattoos).

I press my hand further into the ice, reluctant to correct his mistake, as he’d probably hurry off to find someone to help him. ‘You could start with some bath bombs or bubble bars,’ I suggest.

‘Right.’ He looks at them thoughtfully. ‘So … what do they do, exactly?’

‘Er, well, they’re pretty spectacular,’ I start, trying to exude the enthusiasm of a genuine salesperson. ‘You drop them in, and there’s this explosion … ’

‘Explosion?’ He flashes a wide grin, and something seems to effervesce right here, thrillingly, in my stomach.

‘Like a sort of sherbet grenade,’ I charge on, ‘and it fizzles and turns the water pink or blue or whatever …’ He nods, apparently taking this in. ‘It doesn’t stain the skin, though,’ I add reassuringly.

‘Well, that’s good.’

‘But some are glittery. Perhaps avoid those, unless you want to look like a disco ball after your bath.’ His eyes glint with amusement. ‘I know they’re for your daughter, but the glitter clings to the tub, believe me. My daughter loves them. I always tried to choose her the non-glitter kind, but then there’d be secret glitter, lurking inside …’ I catch myself and laugh self-consciously. ‘That’s one thing you don’t miss when your kids leave home. The sparkly bath! Hours I’ve spent, picking it off myself …’ Stop ranting, idiot …

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he says, picking up a small brown nugget shaped like a Christmas pudding.

‘That’s a bubble bar,’ I explain, authoritatively, as Molly has had dozens of these too. ‘They’re more, er …’

‘Bubbly?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘And glitter-free?’

‘Yep,’ I reply, hoping that’s correct. Whilst I’m managing to wing it so far, I’m dreading questions of a more complex nature. But of course, he’s a man – a terribly attractive man with his lovely, warm, slightly wonky smile – and he’s hardly going to quiz me about the nourishing properties of cocoa butter.

Realising my hand has gone numb, I extract it from the ice and surreptitiously wipe it on my jeans. Under my protective gaze, he starts to select various items from the display. ‘I’ll get you a basket,’ I announce, flitting off to fetch one and zooming back before he can get away.

‘Thanks.’ He piles everything in. ‘Oh, what do these do?’ He indicates some candy-pink boulders piled up on a slate.

I speed-read the explanatory label. ‘They’re jelly bombs. They’re, um, supposed to surprise and bewilder in the bathtub …’

He laughs. ‘Is that what people want?’

I smile. ‘Personally, I’d rather just relax in the bath.’ Preferably with you in it with me … As this scenario flits into my mind, I sense my cheeks blazing again, as if he might have read my lewd thoughts. ‘So, you mentioned skincare?’ I prompt him.

‘Yes, if you possibly could help me with that …’

‘Of course,’ I say, escorting him now to the cleansers and moisturisers where I manage to suggest several potions his daughter might like, simply by dredging my memory for Molly’s preferred products. As I blabber on about aloe vera and mallow extract, dropping in words like ‘brightening’ and ‘invigorating’, I realise I’m starting to enjoy myself. ‘Fresh dove orchid helps to plump up the cells,’ I explain, thinking, hang on: his daughter is only fourteen, so, presumably she doesn’t want her cells plumping …

‘Sounds ideal,’ he says, dropping a tub into his basket.

‘Could we talk about blackheads?’ I venture.

‘Sure!’

And so it goes on, this stranger amazing me with his willingness to purchase a toner, a purifying face mask and something called a ‘spritz’. I’d never realised it was so easy to flog beauty products. Perhaps I should apply for part-time work here, instead of supplementing my earnings by posing naked for the art class. At any rate, he seems impressed by my knowledge and passion for the brand, and obediently selects everything I recommend. Glancing down at his laden basket, I try to ignore a twinge of guilt as I wonder how much it’s going to cost him. Still, if I am outed as fake employee, at least I’ve boosted the day’s sales.

‘You’ve been so helpful,’ he says, eyes meeting mine. ‘Thank you.’

‘No problem. Anything else I can help with?’

‘No, I think I’m all done.’

‘I’m sure your daughter will be pleased …’

‘Yeah, I hope so. Well, thanks again.’ He turns and navigates his way through the crowds towards the till. If I wasn’t afraid of my cover being blown, I’d accompany him, just to make sure he doesn’t get lost en route. Instead, I just dither about, feeling oddly light-headed, and make my way towards the door.

Outside, I inhale the crisp December air and stride along the busy shopping street. The sky is unblemished blue, the sun shining brightly. Veering off into a side road, I stop at a nondescript sandwich shop that I never go into normally. I emerge with my lunch, wondering now what possessed me to grab a cheese and onion sandwich, made with industrial white bread, like the ‘Toastie’ loaf Danny used to buy occasionally in an act of rebellion against my preferred granary. I’m clearly not thinking straight.

I walk briskly back to the studio and canter up the concrete stairs to the bright and airy top floor. ‘How’d you get on?’ Corinne asks, picking at a Danish pastry at her desk.

‘The shops are rammed,’ I reply.

‘That’s a surprise!’ Gus chuckles, tweaking his neatly trimmed beard.

‘I’ll have to go out again tomorrow,’ I add, perching on the chair at my own desk.

‘Why didn’t you do it all online?’ Gus asks. ‘It’s the modern way, you know—’

‘Yes,’ I cut in, a swirl of excitement starting up again in my stomach, ‘but there are benefits to going to the real shops.’

‘Such as?’

I’m smiling ridiculously, and now there’s no way I can resist filling them in on my impersonation of a Lush employee.

‘You should try that,’ Gus tells Corinne as they convulse with laughter. ‘Running to the aid of a confused and helpless male in a soap emporium—’

‘But did you get his number?’ she asks, looking at me.

‘No, of course not!’

Gus turns back to Corinne and smirks. ‘Yet she was absolutely fine, flogging him bubble bath under false pretences.’

‘Why didn’t you just give him yours?’ Corinne wants to know.

‘Because I was serving him. It would have been unprofessional …’ This sets them off again.

Okay, I decide, as I start to tuck into my unlovely Eighties-style sandwich: so I’ll probably never see that man again. However, something important happened today, in that I discovered I am still capable of fancying someone, after all. I am Nadia Watkins, a fully functioning woman with a working libido and everything. Which makes me think: maybe I will try to meet someone, and perhaps even find myself naked in the presence of another person, and not just the students at the life drawing class.

Chapter Three

Jack

Well, I messed up there all right. I completely forgot that Lori had asked for ‘that squidgy bath stuff’ and not bubble bars or face wash or any of the other stuff I ended up buying. It was just, the woman who’d helped me … I’d been so mesmerised. I’d completely forgotten what I’d gone in for. How could I focus on shopping efficiently when I was transfixed by the golden flecks in her greenish eyes? She’d been so patient and friendly, I’d just grabbed everything she suggested.

I know she’d only been doing her job, but … had she been flirting a tiny bit?

No, that’s just called ‘being friendly to customers’, you fool. They probably have training days about it, with role-play and everything. Still, it had worked a treat. On my way out, I’d noticed a soap the size of a dustbin lid propped up on a shelf. I’d have bought that, too, if she’d recommended it.

Back at work now – I’m the manager of a charity shop a few streets away – I realise I forgot to pick up any lunch. But no matter. Iain, one of our volunteers, offers to grab something for me while he’s out. I ask for a chicken sandwich; he returns with a duck wrap and an enormous cheese scone.

‘That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’ he asks, ever eager to please.

‘Yeah, it’s fine, thanks,’ I say quickly, sensing a ‘situation’ brewing now as Mags, another volunteer, has emerged from the back room where donations are sorted, and is now slotting paperbacks onto the bookshelf.

‘Leave the books alone,’ shouts Iain, a keen reader of dated how-to manuals, who regards the book section as ‘his’.

‘I’m just putting new stuff out,’ Mags retorts, pink hair clip askew, lipsticked mouth pulled tight. Although it’s hard to put an age on her – our volunteer application forms don’t require a date of birth – I would guess mid-forties. She favours stonewashed jeans and floaty tops, usually made from cheesecloth, encrusted with beading around the neck. ‘You’re not the boss round here,’ she adds, glaring at Iain.

‘I’m deputy manager,’ he announces.

‘Says who?’

‘Says everyone, actually. Says Jack!’ He turns to me for confirmation, and I shrug. Although no such position exists, I – along with most of the volunteers – am happy to go along with his self-appointed elevated status, just as we willingly accept Iain’s instant coffees made with water from the hot tap. He works hard, coming in virtually every day, with utter disregard for the rota; he was visibly unsettled when I reminded him that we’d be closed for the days between Christmas and New Year.

During the couple of years he’s been volunteering for us, I’ve been to his flat several times. The last time involved escorting him home when he’d had ‘a turn’ whilst steam-cleaning some trousers in the shop’s tiny back room. As far as I’ve been able to gather, his only regular visitor is Una, the elderly lady upstairs who helps with his dog and tricky matters he struggles to deal with, like filling in forms and making calls on his behalf (Iain doesn’t like using the phone). Like with Mags, it’s hard to guess at his age, although I’ve surmised early thirties. He lives with his ageing mongrel, Pancake (‘’cause he likes to lie flat’), and has a liking for what he calls ‘found furniture’: i.e. the stuff people have left out on the pavement to be taken away by the council. Bookshelves, occasional tables and a wooden coat stand: Iain has dragged them all home, given them what he calls ‘a good sanding down’ (he means a perfunctory wipe) and then puzzled over where to put them.

The last time I was at his place, several shabby, mismatched dining chairs were lined up against a living room wall; it looked as if some kind of support group meeting was about to happen. ‘I’m going to sell them,’ he explained, with enviable confidence.

‘Piss off, Iain!’ Mags snaps now, swiping at him with a Galloping Gourmet cookbook. I stride over and suggest that she reorganises the plundered shoe section. ‘C’mon, Mags,’ I say. ‘You’ve got a real eye for it. No one makes it look as good as you do.’ As she beams with pride, Iain ‘straightens’ the books unnecessarily in order to re-establish his territory.

All afternoon, I keep thinking of the beautiful woman in Lush and wishing I’d asked her name or something. Christ, though – I don’t know what made me behave like some idiot male who’d never heard of a bath bomb. Lori’s been demanding the things every Christmas and birthday since she was about eight. I could probably sketch an accurate floor plan of that shop, the amount of times she’s dragged me in there. I’d never seen the woman who helped me, though. Maybe she’s new.

As closing time rolls around, I lock up and step out into the street, making my way through the revellers, many who’ve tumbled straight from all-afternoon Christmas lunches, by the look of it. We had our own last week, at an old-fashioned Italian in Merchant City. Mags demanded that the balloons be removed from the vicinity (she fears balloons). Iain shunned all offerings from the dessert menu and was finally appeased with a slice of Madeira cake adorned with squirty cream.

As Lush comes into view – happily, it’s still open – I decide, what the hell, I could just nip in buy the squidgy stuff Lori asked for, which I forgot all about. I clear my throat, smooth back my hair as if about to go in for a job interview, and stride in.

The heady scent engulfs me as I scan the store for the gorgeous dark-haired woman. But there’s no sign of her now. With the help of a shiny-faced teenage girl, I locate the product. It’s called ‘Fun’ and, as the girl explains its many uses, I put on a fine show of listening whilst conducting one final scan of the shop.

Nope, she’s definitely not here. And anyway, I reflect as I travel home on the packed subway, what would I have done if I’d seen her again? Lurched over to thank her one more time, when she’d probably attended to fifty more customers after me and would have assumed I was just some random nutter? Hello again! You probably don’t remember me, but a few hours ago you patiently explained the purposes of Tea Tree Gel … I imagine her at home now, with her attractive, fully functioning family: handsome husband, delightful kids, wrapping presents and putting the final touches to the Christmas tree …

Get a grip, Jack McConnell, I chastise myself silently, and possibly try to get out more.

Chapter Four

Over the next few days, I venture nowhere near the overly scented store. It’s not that I want to avoid looking like a weirdo stalker. Okay, it is partly that – but, perhaps handily, there’s no time to take lunch breaks anyway. A deluge of donations has arrived at the shop, suggesting that the whole of Glasgow is clearing out its old tat ahead of Christmas.

If the shop is going to be able to function, then all of this stuff has to be sorted. Despite the sign in our window reading ‘We welcome your sellable donations’, we’re gifted an alarming amount of skanky underwear and used toothbrushes with bristles splayed (sometimes harbouring ‘bits’). Because naturally, such items will bring in the money we need to build and support our network of animal sanctuaries. In fact, I think people sometimes forget that we are a charity at all, and regard us as a gigantic bin. Thank you kindly for your ancient knitting pattern that might possibly have been used to line a budgerigar’s cage! But then, happily, there is the odd pearl among the dross, and we actually do a tidy trade.

As the volunteers and I separate the good stuff from the ripped lampshades and filthy sandwich toasters, I find myself wondering why my lovely helper in Lush chose to work in what seems like a particularly youthful environment.

It’s not that she’s old, not at all; I’d put her at around the same age as me, and I don’t feel old. At least, sometimes I don’t (when I plucked a cracked glass dildo from a box of donated goods I did, admittedly, feel about ninety-six – and on more than one occasion my ex Elaine has ‘jokingly’ asked if I ever worry that being surrounded by so many old things might somehow seep into my consciousness and accelerate the ageing process). It’s just that she didn’t seem to quite fit with the other, multiply pierced and tattooed assistants in there. It’s bizarre, the way this stranger keeps sneaking into my thoughts. Perhaps it’s the time of year; it always unsettles me a bit.

‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay over the holidays?’ I ask Iain, who’s stayed on to help on our last day before we close until the new year.

‘I’ll be fine,’ he says breezily, carefully checking that all the components are present in Home and Away: The Board Game.

I glance at him. ‘You’re going to your mum’s, right?’

‘Yeah.’

Together, we begin to stack up the boxes of donations we haven’t yet sorted, in order to leave the back room in a reasonably orderly state. ‘What about the rest of the time?’ I ask. Who will you see, is what I mean, and what will you do to fill the days?

‘I’ll be fine,’ he says again.

‘Yes, but …’ I pause, wary of sounding patronising. ‘You won’t be on your own the whole time, will you?’

‘Of course not,’ he says with a trace of defensiveness. ‘I’ll be with Pancake … and I’ll finally have time to read,’ he adds, with a note of triumph, as if his life is too hectic normally.

‘Well, that’s good,’ I say as I lift a basket of hairdryers, their cables entangled, onto a shelf.

‘Yeah.’ He beams at me. ‘I’m going to learn some new stuff. Expand my mind …’ He indicates the scruffy hardbacks he’s stacked on the fridge, set aside for him to take home.

‘What kind of stuff?’ I ask, now wiping down the worktop of our tiny kitchen area.

‘All kinds of stuff!’

I turn and look at him. Whenever Iain’s in the shop, he’s never far from my side. Today he’s wearing one of his customary V-necked sweaters – tufts of chest hair are poking out – and his curious old-mannish trousers that always look a little too tight for his belly. Dropping the sponge wipe into the sink, I check the books he’s chosen. ‘Vehicle Maintenance for Beginners,’ I murmur.