Fiona Gibson - The Mum Who Got Her Life Back

Jack and I have already had drinks with a couple of old schoolmates of mine, plus other friends I’ve got to know through the children, their various activities and the life modelling circuit. He’s handled it well, being his natural, extremely likeable self, despite his slight shyness and the fact that he might have started to feel like a new puppy being given his first tour of the park.

Naturally, he met Corinne and Gus early on. Corinne enjoys referring to him as Mr Lush, even to his face, which Jack always takes in extremely good spirit. A terrible flirt, she made a huge fuss over him that first time we all went out, and insisted on a selfie with him, crammed into the corner of our booth in the pub, later to be captioned: ‘Stole Nadia’s new boyfriend for five minutes, took him round back of pub and God he was GOOD.’

Jack pretended to be mortified when I showed him her Instagram post, but I could tell he was secretly amused. ‘Always nice to get a positive review,’ he chuckled. Meanwhile Gus, who seems to find it hilarious that Jack is all of two years younger than me, refers to him as my ‘toyboy’, a term I’d assumed had fallen into obscurity a long time ago. One lunchtime, when we nipped out for a sandwich together, Gus spotted a portly young man sauntering towards us wearing a T-shirt bearing the charming slogan: ‘MILF-CHASER.’

‘Get one for Jack?’ he whispered, swerving to avoid my punch to his arm. Later, we spotted another guy – bearded and lanky, sporting a wiry man-bun – whose T-shirt read: I’M RAISING A TRIBE. And that, we concluded, was far more offensive as slogans go. Gus took a candid picture of the man with his phone and sent it to me.

‘Look at this,’ I said later, showing it to Jack.

‘Oh, God,’ he groaned. ‘The smugness. It should be banned under some kind of offensive clothing bylaw.’

‘Yeah. We wanted to tear it off him and pelt him with rusks.’

He spluttered.

We just ‘get’ each other, Jack and I; and if we had raised a tribe, I’m pretty sure he’d have just got on with the job rather than wearing a T-shirt to advertise the fact.

And now, as the Ayrshire coast opens up before us on this clear-skied May afternoon, I allow myself a moment to reflect that perhaps this wouldn’t have happened if Alfie and Molly still lived at home. At least, it might not have seemed quite so easy. As it is – particularly as Lori spends at least half the week at her mum’s – Jack and I have been able to spend time together without being answerable to anyone. There was no one else hovering around in the morning the first time he stayed over at mine. I’ve been able to stay at his place without letting Alfie and Molly know I wouldn’t be home until morning. At first it was something of a novelty, waking up in Jack’s light-filled, airy bedroom, and sipping his far superior coffee while he pottered about warming up croissants and festooning me with his extensive selection of jams. (‘I have such a sweet tooth,’ he admitted. ‘The palate of an eight-year-old. It’s embarrassing really.’)

Of course, I do miss my kids, in that I’d love to see them more often. But I have to say it has also been extremely liberating , living my life unpoliced, in this way.

‘It’s the next turn-off to the right,’ I tell Jack, as we pass a familiar row of ancient stone cottages, then a farm shop and a B&B.

‘It’s lovely out here,’ he remarks. ‘I don’t really know this part of the country at all.’

‘We used to come here all the time when we were little,’ I tell him. ‘We loved the coast. It was only a half-hour drive from home but it seemed like a real treat. Sarah’s always stayed in the area.’ I wonder now when Jack might tell me more about his childhood; specifically, about his younger brother, Sandy, who died. Obviously, whatever happened must have been horrific, but whenever Sandy’s name has been mentioned, I’ve sensed Jack shutting down, as if sending out the clear message that he really doesn’t want me to ask about it.

Fair enough; I’d never want to pry. But I’d like to think that, at some point, he might feel able to tell me what happened.

I glance at him. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, of course.’ He smiles.

‘Like I said, Sarah’s lovely – but we’re very different …’

‘I’m ready for my interrogation,’ he teases.

‘She won’t interrogate you. She does enough of that at work.’ Although not remotely intimidating off-duty, I suspect that my sister can come over as pretty scary when in professional mode; she is in charge of a team who inspects care homes and children’s nurseries. Meanwhile, Vic, her husband, is a car auctioneer, which I’m sure Jack would never have guessed, as they come out to greet us and, after warm hugs and handshakes, my brother-in-law struts around Jack’s battered old Fiat, as if sizing it up for sale.

‘This is your motor, Jack?’ he asks with a smirk.

‘It is, yeah,’ Jack says with a nod.

‘Ha! Surprised you got here in one piece …’ He crouches to poke at a corroded wheel arch.

‘C’mon, Vic,’ Sarah says tersely, ‘leave Jack’s car alone.’

Vic grins at Jack. I’m fond of my brother-in-law; he’s a caring and generous husband of the traditional type. He barely cooks, but gardens enthusiastically, and their cars’ tyres will forever remain at the correct pressure whilst there is breath in his body. Plus, he’s a fantastic father to Scott and Ollie, who are in their mid-twenties and still live locally. Both boys are immensely practical; Scott rewired his parents’ house, and Ollie fitted their new kitchen. Sarah and Vic couldn’t hide their horror when, on a visit to my place, Alfie seemed utterly confused when I asked him to replace the bulb in the table lamp.

‘You’ve got a rust issue there, Jack,’ Vic observes, frowning.

‘Yeah, it is a bit of a wreck,’ Jack concedes.

‘You want to catch that before it goes any further. Got an abrasive wheel?’

‘Erm, I don’t think I have,’ Jack admits, as my sister and I exchange glances.

‘Well, you want to get one, or at least some sandpaper. Rub it down nice and smooth until it’s shiny metal. Get your primer on, then your paint and your topcoat …’

‘Yep, I’ll do that,’ Jack murmurs, and I’m overcome by an urge to hug him for playing along with this blokes’ talk.

‘I take it this old wreck’s just a stop-gap,’ Vic remarks.

‘Erm, well, not really,’ Jack admits, as Sarah tugs on Vic’s arm, coaxing her husband away from the car like a mother pulling her child away from the chocolates in the checkout aisle.

‘Maybe Jack’s perfectly happy with it,’ she retorts as we all head inside. Vic shrugs good-naturedly and fetches us drinks, and soon Scott and Ollie arrive, plus Ollie’s girlfriend Morvern, whom he lives with. I hadn’t expected such a gathering. Sarah had merely said the boys ‘might drop by’. But there are enthusiastic hellos and hugs, and it feels like quite a houseful as numerous dishes are brought from the oven, and we all settle around the huge kitchen table.

Occasionally, during my seemingly endless years as a single person, Sarah would call to ask, ‘Are you … okay?’ All by yourself is what she meant. Of course I was. In fact, I slightly resented the implication that I might be falling apart without a man to look after me. But then, Sarah has always been protective, and since our parents died, eight years ago now, she has edged herself into a sort of motherly mode with me, despite being only four years older.

As I chat to the boys and Morvern – whom I’ve met several times before – I become aware of my sister gently quizzing Jack about his life. ‘A charity shop? That sounds interesting. Oh, animal sanctuaries! That’s fantastic. Does all the funding come from the shops, or d’you have benefactors, or …’ On she goes, wanting to know all the details in the way that, when she inspects a care home, she leaves no stone unturned.