Fiona Gibson - Take Mum Out

‘Yes, well, I didn’t go into detail, but he knows you’re a bit older and he was perfectly fine with that.’

I sip my tea. ‘Listen, he’s not one of those, “I love older women” types, is he? The kind who fantasised about his friend’s mum or his well-preserved biology teacher …’

Viv honks with laughter.

‘I’m not up for any of that creepy, “Oooh, you mature ladies, you know your onions” kind of crap,’ I add firmly.

She laughs some more. ‘I promise you, Giles will not be interested in your onions. He’s not that kind of boy – I mean man .’

‘Only just,’ I chuckle.

‘Well … yeah. So can I give him your number?’

‘Sure,’ I say, feeling suddenly, horribly conscious of my age, and spotting a whacking great frown line when I glimpse my reflection in the chrome kettle. Which, I fear, doesn’t bode terribly well for the actual date.

To clear a backlog of filing I’ve done an extra hour at school, so the boys are home before me on this blustery Monday afternoon. I can hear jovial chatter, dominated by my neighbour Clemmie’s booming tones, as I hurry upstairs to the flat. She is Logan’s best mate Blake’s mum, and often pops round to monitor the sorry state of my life. (Clemmie runs her own events management company and her husband Richard is something in property – he basically owns pretty much all of Scotland, as far as I can make out.)

‘Hope you don’t mind me dropping by,’ she says with a red-lipped grin as Blake sips on a Coke and Stanley, her Cairn terrier, snuffles around my kitchen. Flaunting health and safety regulations, but never mind that.

‘Of course not,’ I say, noticing Logan’s previously perky expression deflating, as if I have brought in something terrible stuck to my shoe. Why is it perfectly acceptable – enjoyable , even – to chat pleasantly with his best mate’s mum, but not the woman who birthed him? (And whose body has – to be frank – never fully recovered. Apart from the obvious sagging of boobs, we are also talking a knackered old pelvic floor, plus outbreaks of piles – glamorous, I know – from time to time.) Fergus, meanwhile, is too busy chomping on a biscuit to pay much attention to anyone.

‘D’you take milk, Clemmie?’ Logan asks, in the process of making her a cup of tea. This is astounding. He has never made me a hot beverage; I’ve never been sure if he’s capable of operating the kettle, to be honest. I have to clamp my mouth shut to stop myself from saying, And thank you for my much-needed cup of tea, Logan . Instead, I watch mutely as he shoves my raspberry cardi up to the end of the table – I’d laid it out to inspect the burger stain damage – and places the cup in front of her. ‘Biscuit?’ he asks, maturely.

‘Yes please,’ she replies. ‘What do you have?’

‘Only Rich Teas,’ I cut in, at which Clemmie’s enthusiasm wilts.

‘Ah, I’ll just leave it.’ She pats an ample hip. ‘Meant to be fasting today but I suppose, if you have some of your lovely meringues, I wouldn’t say no …’ She runs a tongue over her lips. ‘I mean, they must be about ninety per cent air …’

‘Here you go,’ I say, offering her the tin with a smile.

‘Thanks, darling. Yum. Anyway, the boys were just telling me about their visit to their grandma’s …’

‘Oh, yes. A bit trying as usual.’

‘And I hear you had to intervene over lunch …’ She laughs, causing her spectacular breasts to jiggle like crème caramels.

I take the seat beside her. ‘Well, there was a bit of an incident with the Medieval burgers …’

‘So I heard. Gosh, she’s such a one-off.’

I chuckle uncomfortably, torn between my shameful feelings of irritation towards Mum, and a bizarre sense of loyalty.

‘Anyway,’ Clemmie goes on, indicating the small stack of magazines on the table, ‘I’ve finished with these and thought they might give you a few ideas.’

‘Great, thanks.’ I eye the uppermost title: Stylish Living .

‘But I’m really here to ask a favour,’ she goes on, adjusting her plunging neckline. ‘It’s a bit of a rush, I’m afraid. You know I’ve been working on the Morgan relaunch …’

‘Yes, you mentioned that.’ The Morgan is a sprawling Edinburgh Hotel. For years, it looked rather decrepit – all faded tartan carpets with a depressed-looking bagpiper droning away under the wonky awning outside – but it has recently undergone a major overhaul, for which Clemmie is masterminding the launch party.

‘Well, it occurred to me yesterday that it would be cute to have party bags,’ she says, ‘just like at a children’s party – only ours would contain something people would actually want to eat. And I thought, Alice’s meringues! The client thinks it’s a fantastic idea.’

‘Sounds great,’ I say. ‘So what were you thinking of?’

‘Those cute little ones you do in cellophane bags.’

‘Meringue kisses …’

‘Yes, those. They’re delicious . I was thinking five flavours in each bag, and I’ll need three hundred bags … could you do that by Wednesday morning?’

I frown, figuring out the logistics. ‘This Wednesday? Like, the day after tomorrow?’

‘That’s right. I know it’s a rush …’ She smooths the front of her rose-pattered wrap dress – Clemmie is never knowingly underdressed – while I perform a quick calculation: thirty meringues per tray, six trays per bake. That’s, um … eight bakes in total at an hour each … Christ, it’s doable – just.

‘That’s fine,’ I say, wishing Mum could have witnessed how speedily I worked that out.

‘What would you charge for that?’ Clemmie asks.

‘Er … well, a bag of five kisses usually sells at around three pounds but that’s retail, of course. I normally do them for one pound fifty …’

‘Four hundred and fifty quid for three hundred bags,’ chips in Blake.

‘God, that’s loads, Mum,’ Logan says, appearing to warm to me a little. ‘You could get me an iPad.’

I laugh dryly, momentarily distracted as Stanley starts sniffing at my cardigan sleeve, which happens to be dangling down from the table.

‘That’s not enough,’ Clemmie retorts. ‘The consortium that owns the Morgan has more cash than you can imagine. What they’re spending on the party alone would make your hair curl. You need to charge more – how about six hundred pounds?’

‘Wow,’ I gasp. ‘For meringues ? Are you sure?’

‘That sounds good,’ Logan barks greedily.

He’s right, though. This order alone could make the difference to us having a summer holiday this year – perhaps the last one with the three of us all together.

‘Absolutely,’ Clemmie says as Stanley starts barking fretfully. ‘Shush, Stan. Stop that. Anyway,’ she goes on, ‘let’s talk flavours, shall we?’

‘Sure. How about rose water, orange water, that sort of thing?’

‘Hmm, flower waters … sounds lovely. In fact a whole spring-like, blossomy feel would be great …’

‘Violet is pretty,’ I suggest, ‘and a primrosey shade would look …’ I stop abruptly as my cardi, which until now had been lying as still as you’d expect an item of knitwear to be, starts jerking to our left along the table. It’s moving faster now – so quickly, in fact, that Clemmie and I can only gawp as Stanley, who must have snatched a dangling sleeve, sets about savaging it on the floor.

‘Stanley, no!’ I shriek, leaping from my seat while Clemmie, who’s gushing apologies amidst hysterical laughter from the three boys, tries to yank it from her dog’s jaws.

‘Stanley, drop ,’ she commands.