Fiona Gibson - The Mum Who Got Her Life Back

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, that’s good.’

‘But some are glittery. Perhaps avoid those, unless you want to look like a disco ball after your bath.’ His eyes glint with amusement. ‘I know they’re for your daughter, but the glitter clings to the tub, believe me. My daughter loves them. I always tried to choose her the non-glitter kind, but then there’d be secret glitter, lurking inside …’ I catch myself and laugh self-consciously. ‘That’s one thing you don’t miss when your kids leave home. The sparkly bath! Hours I’ve spent, picking it off myself …’ Stop ranting, idiot …

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he says, picking up a small brown nugget shaped like a Christmas pudding.

‘That’s a bubble bar,’ I explain, authoritatively, as Molly has had dozens of these too. ‘They’re more, er …’

‘Bubbly?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘And glitter-free?’

‘Yep,’ I reply, hoping that’s correct. Whilst I’m managing to wing it so far, I’m dreading questions of a more complex nature. But of course, he’s a man – a terribly attractive man with his lovely, warm, slightly wonky smile – and he’s hardly going to quiz me about the nourishing properties of cocoa butter.

Realising my hand has gone numb, I extract it from the ice and surreptitiously wipe it on my jeans. Under my protective gaze, he starts to select various items from the display. ‘I’ll get you a basket,’ I announce, flitting off to fetch one and zooming back before he can get away.

‘Thanks.’ He piles everything in. ‘Oh, what do these do?’ He indicates some candy-pink boulders piled up on a slate.

I speed-read the explanatory label. ‘They’re jelly bombs. They’re, um, supposed to surprise and bewilder in the bathtub …’

He laughs. ‘Is that what people want?’

I smile. ‘Personally, I’d rather just relax in the bath.’ Preferably with you in it with me … As this scenario flits into my mind, I sense my cheeks blazing again, as if he might have read my lewd thoughts. ‘So, you mentioned skincare?’ I prompt him.

‘Yes, if you possibly could help me with that …’

‘Of course,’ I say, escorting him now to the cleansers and moisturisers where I manage to suggest several potions his daughter might like, simply by dredging my memory for Molly’s preferred products. As I blabber on about aloe vera and mallow extract, dropping in words like ‘brightening’ and ‘invigorating’, I realise I’m starting to enjoy myself. ‘Fresh dove orchid helps to plump up the cells,’ I explain, thinking, hang on: his daughter is only fourteen, so, presumably she doesn’t want her cells plumping …

‘Sounds ideal,’ he says, dropping a tub into his basket.

‘Could we talk about blackheads?’ I venture.

‘Sure!’

And so it goes on, this stranger amazing me with his willingness to purchase a toner, a purifying face mask and something called a ‘spritz’. I’d never realised it was so easy to flog beauty products. Perhaps I should apply for part-time work here, instead of supplementing my earnings by posing naked for the art class. At any rate, he seems impressed by my knowledge and passion for the brand, and obediently selects everything I recommend. Glancing down at his laden basket, I try to ignore a twinge of guilt as I wonder how much it’s going to cost him. Still, if I am outed as fake employee, at least I’ve boosted the day’s sales.

‘You’ve been so helpful,’ he says, eyes meeting mine. ‘Thank you.’

‘No problem. Anything else I can help with?’

‘No, I think I’m all done.’

‘I’m sure your daughter will be pleased …’

‘Yeah, I hope so. Well, thanks again.’ He turns and navigates his way through the crowds towards the till. If I wasn’t afraid of my cover being blown, I’d accompany him, just to make sure he doesn’t get lost en route. Instead, I just dither about, feeling oddly light-headed, and make my way towards the door.

Outside, I inhale the crisp December air and stride along the busy shopping street. The sky is unblemished blue, the sun shining brightly. Veering off into a side road, I stop at a nondescript sandwich shop that I never go into normally. I emerge with my lunch, wondering now what possessed me to grab a cheese and onion sandwich, made with industrial white bread, like the ‘Toastie’ loaf Danny used to buy occasionally in an act of rebellion against my preferred granary. I’m clearly not thinking straight.

I walk briskly back to the studio and canter up the concrete stairs to the bright and airy top floor. ‘How’d you get on?’ Corinne asks, picking at a Danish pastry at her desk.