Take Mum Out - Fiona Gibson

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dormouse in his duvet nest on the sofa. ‘Although, I have to say, it’s not all good,’ Viv goes on, cheeks already flushed from the wine.

      ‘Sounds pretty good to me,’ Kirsty says ruefully. I know she and her husband Dan have been having problems lately; their three children are home educated, and he appears to have reneged on his part of the deal, which was to teach them science and maths. As Kirsty has pointed out, home educating is a cinch when you’re sitting in a peaceful office, ten miles from home.

      ‘I mean, look at the state of my face,’ Viv laments. ‘I’m so sleep deprived, I can’t tell you.’ She jabs at the faintest hint of under-eye baggage.

      ‘That’s normal,’ Kirsty retorts. ‘I’ve had mine for so long, they’re permanently etched on my face.’

      Ingrid leans forward. ‘You know the best treatment for those? Pile ointment. Alice, d’you have any old tubes kicking around?’

      ‘Thanks a lot,’ I scoff. ‘When you think of my bathroom cabinet, you’re not picturing a beautiful pot of Crème de la Mer. You’re thinking a mangled tube of Anusol.’

      ‘Well,’ she says with a smile, ‘you have had that … problem over the years, haven’t you?’

      ‘Not for ages,’ I insist, heading to the bathroom anyway and returning with the requested tube.

      ‘Great. Dab it on,’ she instructs Viv.

      ‘What are you doing?’ Fergus, who’s returned to the kitchen for further supplies, stares at us from the doorway.

      ‘Emergency beauty treatment,’ Viv explains, patting an eye-bag with a finger and waggling the tube. ‘This, Fergus, is your mum’s bum cream but as you can see, it has other uses. It multitasks.’

      She is slurring a little, and he regards her with horror before backing out of the kitchen.

      ‘Thank your lucky stars you’re not a woman, Ferg!’ she cackles after him. ‘Our lives are so fucking complicated.’

      ‘Viv,’ I scold her, only half joking, ‘you’ve traumatised my poor boy. He’s thirteen. He doesn’t need to know alternative uses for haemorrhoid ointment.’

      ‘It’s good for him,’ Viv insists, ‘to learn about the quirks of womankind. You cosset those boys, keeping them all wrapped up in cotton wool …’ Christ, what is she on about? ‘Anyway,’ she adds, ‘never mind that. Who are we going to fix you up with after that disaster last night?’

      ‘No one.’ I crunch a rose-scented meringue.

      ‘Come on, there must be someone …’

      ‘What about Derek?’ teases Ingrid, flicking back expensively blonded hair.

      I splutter with laughter. Derek is the janitor and sole male employee at my school, where Ingrid’s daughter Saskia is a pupil.

      ‘He’s lovely but he’s also pushing sixty, I’d imagine. I don’t want a boyfriend who’s twenty years older, thanks all the same.’

      ‘You don’t want a younger one either,’ Viv teases.

      ‘God, she’s choosy,’ Ingrid snorts as Logan barges in. He glances around, transmitting a silent message – Christ, pissed middle-aged women – even though Viv’s knocked back most of the wine so far, and is already grabbing another bottle from the fridge.

      ‘How are you, Logan?’ Kirsty asks pleasantly, causing his expression to soften. He likes her the best, approving of her earth-mummy credentials (although, when I jokingly asked if he’d like to be home educated, he shrieked, ‘God no!’).

      ‘Good thanks, Kirsty,’ he says gallantly, helping himself to a Tunnock’s teacake from the cupboard.

      ‘Not having any of these meringues?’ Viv asks.

      ‘Nah, maybe later.’

      ‘Poor boy’s all meringued out,’ Ingrid chuckles, sipping her tea as Logan beats a hasty retreat from the kitchen.

      ‘What a handsome boy,’ Kirsty declares.

      ‘Like his dad,’ I chuckle, and it’s true; however useless Tom may have been, he also happened to be one of the most striking men I’d ever met, if you go for that whole intense, brown-eyed brooding thing, which he – and now Logan – possess in spades. Plus, Tom is hanging on to his looks remarkably well. Due to a lack of stress or exertion, probably.

      ‘Anyway,’ Ingrid says, ‘I still feel bad about Anthony and his whisk thing.’

      ‘Oh, I don’t care about that,’ I declare, refilling Kirsty’s empty glass. ‘It did make me think, though, that I’m not going to bother going on random dates any more.’

      Ingrid catches my eye. ‘And by random dates, you mean …’

      I shrug. ‘Just some man who happens to ask me out.’

      ‘Why not?’ Viv asks, aghast.

      ‘Because …’ I shrug. ‘I’m not even sure I want to meet anyone. I mean, I like being able to please myself and not be answerable to anyone. And I kept thinking, when I was in that restaurant with Anthony with all the silly, tiny food, why am I doing this? I’d have had a nicer time at home with the boys.’

      Kirsty gives me a concerned look. ‘That’s because you knew virtually nothing about him, apart from that he plays golf.’

      ‘We should vet the next man you go out with,’ Viv suggests.

      ‘I am thirty-nine,’ I remind them. ‘I can usually weed out the weirdos and whisk-pervs.’

      ‘I’d never have imagined a whisk could be considered erotic,’ Kirsty muses. ‘What d’you think he’d have made of your piping bag?’

      We all snigger, then Viv adds, turning serious, ‘All I mean is, we could find suitable dates for you. If each of us picked someone – really carefully, I mean, putting lots of thought into it – then you’d have three really lovely, eligible men to choose from.’

      I frown. ‘But surely, if you knew someone that appealing who you thought might be interested, then you’d have told me about him already.’

      ‘No, we wouldn’t,’ Ingrid declares, ‘because you’ve got this whole thing going on of, I am perfectly all right by myself, thank-you-very-much.’

      ‘You can even build flatpack furniture,’ Kirsty observes.

      ‘Well, yes – if you take it step by step it usually turns out all right.’

      ‘You’ve been single far too long,’ Ingrid observes. ‘Flatpack’s no fun unless there’s a load of swearing and someone storms out in a furious temper.’

      I nibble a salted-caramel meringue; good, but the caramel shards should be ground finer so as not to stick to the teeth.

      ‘Okay, so you reckon I need someone to say, “Stand back, fragile maiden, allow me to fly into a complete rage while building this bookshelf for you.”’

      Viv shakes her head. ‘No, you just need some fun.’

      ‘You mean I’m a miserable trout?’

      ‘No!’ everyone cries.

      I laugh, appreciating their concern, but eager to swerve the conversation away from my sorry love life.

      ‘So what d’you think of these flavours?’ I ask, indicating the shattered remains of the meringues on the plate. ‘Can we put them in order of favourites?’ Everyone starts debating, and I scribble down comments and suggestions.

      ‘Our flavours sort of match us,’ Viv observes when everyone has nominated their favourite. She’s right; I’d have guessed she’d nominate pistachio and rose water, the on-trend flavour combination

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