Fiona Gibson - The Mum Who Got Her Life Back

I’m sure it’s her – the woman who helped me in Lush. Yes, it’s definitely her. With her creamy skin and abundant dark brown hair, there’s something incredibly striking about her. She is strolling towards me, head slightly dipped. I slow my pace, wondering if she’ll recognise me and thinking perhaps it’s best if she doesn’t, given I’m wearing my ratty old running gear and slathered in sweat. Of course she won’t; she’s on her phone, seemingly deep in conversation. She stops and rakes a hand through her hair. I stop too, and pretend to check the sports watch I bought in the hope that it would turn me into a bona fide athlete, but which serves only to plague me with its mysterious vibrations and bleeps.

We’re closer now – close enough for me to catch her conversation. ‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ she exclaims, phone clutched to her ear. ‘It sounds like you’re being pressurised, love …’ I fiddle with my watch, wondering why a picture of a weight lifter has appeared on the screen. ‘For God’s sake, Alfie,’ she blurts out, ‘what about the nut roast?’

There’s more muttering, and just as I’m thinking, What d’you think you’re doing, eavesdropping on a stranger’s personal conversation? she finishes the call and shoves her phone into her bag. She stands there for a moment, staring out over the river as if trying to gather herself together, then strides on.

My watch bleeps again. I look down, still catching my breath but cooling rapidly now. Inexplicably, the word ‘Move!’ is flashing on the screen. It’s so bossy, this hideously expensive gadget. I couldn’t make head nor tail of its functions as I squinted at the instructions with the ant-sized print. But now I’m thinking: perhaps it is useful after all? Maybe, on top of monitoring my pulse rate and pace, it can sense my indecision and give me some indication of what to do next?

‘Move! Move!’ my watch commands me.

I move.

Well, that’s just great. Alfie, who has already delayed his homecoming by some days, isn’t spending Christmas Day with me after all. ‘You don’t mind if I spend it at Cam’s, do you?’ he just asked me, when I was expecting him to be rattling towards Glasgow on the train. Cam – Camilla – is his new girlfriend with whom he appears to be smitten.

Do I mind ? Of course I bloody mind!

‘So when will I see you?’ I asked, feeling horribly needy as I marched along by the river. I only came down here because he called, otherwise I’d have headed straight home on the subway. Now I’m so agitated I’m just stomping along, trying to calm myself. But there’s no point in getting angry; I know that. He doesn’t care about the nut roast I’ve already made to take to my sister Sarah’s tomorrow.

In truth, I’m not entirely happy about this vegan business – especially as he let slip that Camilla happens to be vegan too. ‘Don’t make yourself anaemic just to impress her,’ I wanted to say when he declared his new dietary principles a few weeks ago – but I had the good sense not to. Instead, I merely suggested that he should read up on nutrition and treat it seriously. Of course I will, he retorted. I’m doing it properly, y’know. I’m not an idiot … Hmmm. I still wasn’t overly delighted. I’m sure veganism is fine, if you’re motivated enough to swot up on all the food groups and soak things for billions of years. I just couldn’t quite imagine my eighteen-year-old son, who used to virtually faint with delight at the sight of a steak, involving himself with pulses.

‘Aw, Mum, I’ll see you the day after Boxing Day, okay?’ he muttered a few minutes ago.

‘The day after Boxing Day?’ I exclaimed.

‘Well, there are no trains till then.’

‘I could come up and fetch you. How about that? Have Christmas with Camilla, and then I’ll drive up and—’

‘Yeah, but they have a massive party on Boxing Day,’ he continued blithely, ‘and Cam says it’s brilliant. Everyone brings musical instruments, there’s a whole jamming thing going on, it sounds mental. There’s so much food and drink, her dad saves his special wine for it and I really wanna be there for that.’ Ah, right. How fantastically fun. Clearly, the thought of us lot sitting around eating Twiglets and playing Pictionary can’t compare to Camilla and The Special Wine. ‘Your nut roast’ll keep, won’t it?’ he added, trying to placate me now.

‘I’m not sure,’ I huffed. ‘I’ll probably have to freeze it. It’s this gigantic boulder made from ground hazelnuts and about sixty-five other ingredients and it’ll take about three weeks to defrost.’

Alfie chuckled. ‘Sounds awesome, Mum …’ No, it didn’t. It sounded as if it’d have him hurtling to the lavatory. ‘So, I’ll see you on the 27th, all right?’ he added. ‘We’ll have a nice time then.’ Which felt like being offered the flat gold-wrapped toffee from the Quality Street tin after all the best ones have gone.

Never-fucking-mind, I think tearfully as I stride onwards now, my breath forming clouds as I exhale fiercely into the crisp evening air. I’m being silly, I know. It’s only Christmas, and Molly is home with me already; she arrived yesterday. But then so have her friends, so I’ve just seen her as a blur who’s darted in and clogged up the loo with an avalanche of paper before rushing back out again. She found me later, trying to unblock it with a wire coat hanger. ‘What’re you doing?’ she asked.

‘Panning for gold,’ I replied.

‘You’re pretty handy, Mum,’ she said, grinning. ‘Let me know if you find something we can sell.’

The thought of my daughter’s audacity lifts my spirits as I glance across the shimmering river. Christmas will work out okay, I tell myself. Perhaps I should be more like Danny, who never gets in a state about stuff like this; to him, the festive season merely represents an interruption to his work schedule. He spends time with the kids, and sometimes he even pops round to see me – minus Kiki, with whom I have a polite-but-distant relationship. She’s fine, actually. I only tend to see her occasionally, in passing, and apart from her obvious gorgeousness there’s absolutely no reason to feel iffy about her at all.

Anyway … sodding Christmas. It’s up to Alfie where he spends it, I guess, and I just want to kick back and enjoy the holidays with my family. I’ve been working flat-out lately, finishing jobs in the early hours, sometimes tumbling into bed when the birds had started to tweet outside. On top of the textbooks, I’ve completed a series of greetings cards, a travel guide to Scotland and a department store’s stationery range recently. When I finally cleared my workload, and with Molly and Alfie’s homecoming imminent, I scrubbed the flat from top to bottom (as if they’d notice and praise my efforts!). I even bought them new bed linen, as if they’ve been at sea for six months. I don’t plan to spoil our precious time together by moaning about their toast crumbs or tendency to lie in till noon, or constantly demand to know where they’re going and what time they’ll be home—

‘Hi! Excuse me?’

I stop and glance around. At first I’m not sure who called out, assuming it wasn’t directed at me anyway. But then I see a man in running gear striding towards me. As I pat my pockets instinctively, thinking I must have dropped something, and he’s kindly picked it up, it dawns on me that it’s him : the man I encouraged to buy numerous unnecessary products for his daughter.

Oh, God, he’s going to say he knew all along that I was a phoney! And he’ll ask me if I have any other hobbies, apart from impersonating the salespeople in Lush …