Take Mum Out. Fiona Gibson
He’s right, though. This order alone could make the difference to us having a summer holiday this year – perhaps the last one with the three of us all together.
‘Absolutely,’ Clemmie says as Stanley starts barking fretfully. ‘Shush, Stan. Stop that. Anyway,’ she goes on, ‘let’s talk flavours, shall we?’
‘Sure. How about rose water, orange water, that sort of thing?’
‘Hmm, flower waters … sounds lovely. In fact a whole spring-like, blossomy feel would be great …’
‘Violet is pretty,’ I suggest, ‘and a primrosey shade would look …’ I stop abruptly as my cardi, which until now had been lying as still as you’d expect an item of knitwear to be, starts jerking to our left along the table. It’s moving faster now – so quickly, in fact, that Clemmie and I can only gawp as Stanley, who must have snatched a dangling sleeve, sets about savaging it on the floor.
‘Stanley, no!’ I shriek, leaping from my seat while Clemmie, who’s gushing apologies amidst hysterical laughter from the three boys, tries to yank it from her dog’s jaws.
‘Stanley, drop,’ she commands.
‘He’s eating your best cardi, Mum,’ Logan says cheerfully.
‘Yes, I can see that …’
‘He’s chewing it to bits!’
‘I don’t want to rip it any more by pulling it,’ Clemmie cries. ‘God, Alice, I feel terrible.’
‘Drop, Stan. DROP!’ Fergus commands.
‘Oh, he won’t,’ Blake says loftily. ‘Tug of war’s his favourite game, this is fun to him …’
Clemmie is pulling at it now, using her considerable strength to stretch my cashmere treasure about four feet long. Letting it drop, she bobs down to her knees and expertly prises open Stanley’s jaws.
‘There. Naughty dog. Honestly, he’s never done anything like that before.’ She picks up my cardi and examines it. ‘He’s actually bitten off both of the pockets. Where did you buy it? I’ll replace it as soon as I can …’
‘It’s years old,’ I say quickly, ‘and I hid Mum’s burgers in the pockets and hadn’t got around to washing it—’
‘God, Alice, your life,’ Clemmie splutters. ‘Are you sure I can’t buy you a new one?’
‘No, don’t be silly.’
Planting a hand on a hip, Clemmie throws Stanley an exasperated look. ‘Well, if you’re sure. Anyway, I’m so glad you can do those meringues for me. I’ll leave the final flavour choices up to you. And you must come over for lunch in the Easter holidays.’
‘Thanks, I’d love to,’ I say.
‘You can see what we’ve been doing to the house.’
‘Oh yes, Blake mentioned he’s getting a new bedroom …’
‘It’s an annexe, Mum,’ Logan corrects me, ‘with enough space for a full-sized pool table.’
‘An annexe?’ I repeat. ‘You mean an extension?’
‘Yeah! It’s got a little kitchen and everything, with a mini fridge and an oven …’
‘An oven?’ I repeat with a laugh. ‘What are you planning to do, Blake? Make Victoria sponges?’
‘Nah, just, like, pasta and stuff,’ he says with a shrug.
Clemmie smiles. ‘It’s not an extension, darling. It’s just the loft conversion we started in the autumn. It’s taken forever to get it right, and cost a small fortune, but we felt it was time Blake had his own space. And the idea of the kitchen is it’s a trial run for fully independent living. I don’t want him living on takeaways when he leaves home, not with their salt content.’ Yes, but couldn’t he learn to cook in the family kitchen?
Blake smirks and looks down at his feet.
‘He’s having the whole upper floor, Mum,’ Logan adds. ‘It’s like a flat, all to himself.’
‘Sounds great,’ I say.
Summoning the now obedient Stanley to heel, Clemmie turns to her son. ‘You coming home for dinner, darling?’
‘In a bit,’ he replies.
‘He’s welcome to stay and eat with us,’ I say, at which Blake looks genuinely delighted.
‘Thanks, you’re a darling.’ Clemmie flashes a bright smile before clip-clopping down the stone stairs, with Stanley at her side and a cloud of freesia fragrance in her wake.
Alone now in the kitchen, I drop my ravaged cardigan into the bin.
*
Blake Carter-Jones is the boy who has everything. My eyes watered when Clemmie let slip how much she shells out for his clothing allowance, and he’s never dragged halfway across Scotland to his grandma’s to be presented with rotting beef. However, he does seem to be extremely fond of our place, despite his palatial abode at the end of our street, which is pleasing. He also shames my own, slothful offspring by loading the dishwasher after dinner and wiping the table while I get cracking with the meringues.
By the time the third batch is in the oven, the flat is engulfed in a sweet-smelling blur. In need of a breather, I run myself a bath. Generously, Fergus had left one millimetre of the L’Occitane Relaxing Bath Oil Ingrid gave me (Ingrid is incredibly generous on the posh present front), so I squirt in the pathetic remaining drops. Why does Fergus use it anyway? A thirteen-year-old boy doesn’t need essence of geranium and tea tree, not when his entire life is relaxed.
Into the bath I sink, with a large glass of wine carefully placed in the little porcelain indent, meant for soap. If I were doing this properly there should be scented candles flickering in here too, but I’ve brought in one of Clemmie’s Stylish Living magazines and need decent light because, actually, I could do with reading glasses. (Shall I mention this to the intern on our date? Should I also inform him that Abba were at number one with ‘Waterloo’ when I was born?) Luckily, our bathroom is so bright, you could perform surgery in here. On the downside, it’s hardly flattering to one’s naked form, cruelly illuminating every dimple and vein.
Inhaling the sugary aroma drifting in through the gap under the door, I start to flip through the mag. Here we go: an impossibly beautiful living room with pale-grey walls – a shade which would look cell-like if I were to use it, but which in this instance is the height of tastefulness. There’s a darker grey sofa, scattered with cushions in fuchsia and lime, and an elegant wooden seventies-style coffee table on which sits a small stack of jewel-coloured silk notebooks.
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