The Mum Who Got Her Life Back. Fiona Gibson
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,