Fiona Gibson - Take Mum Out

‘No, well – it’s a bit tricky,’ I explain. ‘Logan’s sixteen and he’d die if I suggested booking a sitter. I mean, most of the ones we know are in his school year so I could hardly ask them to come over and look after him.’

His eyes glaze briefly, as they did when I mentioned being a school secretary. ‘Well, that’s a real shame.’

‘So I really should get back …’

‘Right.’ He blinks at me, studying my face. I’m convinced now that every time he looks at me, he’s planning how to fix me up, like an over-zealous decorator about to be let loose on a clapped-out house.

‘It’s been a lovely evening,’ I add, ‘and thanks so much for dinner.’

‘My pleasure. We must do it again some time.’

Just how does a woman wriggle out of arranging a second date in these modern times?

‘I, er … I’ve got a lot on over the next few weeks,’ I explain.

‘Hmmm. Busy lady, are you?’

‘Er … yes, especially with the meringue thing taking off these past few weeks …’ I’ll be busy whipping up egg whites into the small hours, you see, with no room in my life for a weasly man who’s starting to look more and more doll-like. Not Ken, I decide. More Action Man with his angular jaw and painted-on hair.

‘Meringues.’ Anthony rolls the word around his mouth. ‘I’d love to try them. I’d imagine they’re quite delicious.’

‘Um … yes.’ I check my watch unnecessarily. ‘Well, they sell them in Peckery’s – you know the coffee shop in Hanover Street? And Betsy’s next to St Martin’s Church. Anyway, thanks again—’

‘Can I walk you home?’

‘Oh, no – you live miles away in completely the opposite direction.’

‘Let’s get you a cab then.’ He goes for my arm, clutching it as if, without his support, I might topple over. However, although I felt mildly pissed in the restaurant, the cool drizzle on my face has miraculously restored me to one-hundred-per-cent sobriety.

‘Anthony,’ I say firmly, ‘I only live twenty minutes away. I’d actually like to walk.’ I smile again, and this is when I make my crucial mistake. As I stretch up to give him a polite kiss on his waxy cheek, my brief, bird-like peck is somehow misinterpreted to mean that I desire him very much, and next thing I know, he’s got my face in his hands and has jammed his wet lips on mine as he goes in for the full-on, tongue-jabbing snog.

‘What are you doing?’ I exclaim, springing away from him.

‘Oh, come on, Alice. You’re a saucy minx – I can tell …’

I stare at him, speechless.

‘You older women,’ Anthony adds in a throaty growl, ‘I know what you’re like. You know your onions …’

‘I know my onions ?’ I bark. ‘How old d’you think I am?’

He shrugs. ‘Thirty-seven?’

‘Thirty-nine actually.’ I omit to mention that my fortieth is a mere month away. ‘How about you?’

He smirks. ‘You might be surprised to learn that I’m actually forty-five.’ And he’s calling me an older woman? ‘My last girlfriend was twenty-eight,’ he adds, ‘but I’ve finished with younger girls now. Their bodies are great but they can be so vacuous. It’s refreshing to spend time with someone who’s genuinely interested in what one has to say.’

‘I’m sorry, I really have to go,’ I say, cheeks blazing as I turn on my stupid heels and march away.

Mercifully, Anthony doesn’t protest or try to follow me. I walk briskly, overcome by the terrible realisation that, for a ‘woman of my age’, this is probably as good as it gets. God, if that’s a typical example of dating today, then it’s something I’ll avoid from now on. Ugh … the creep, with his foot-baskets and darting tongue, like a lizard trying to catch flies. My bouche is not amused. I walk faster and faster until, by the time I’m almost home, I have virtually broken into an ungainly trot. I take a quick left turn, hurrying past the grand, detached Victorian houses, then alongside the terrace of tenement flats. Although this is a fairly smart area, with an arthouse cinema and coffee shops galore, our block is rather shabby. I am beyond seething as I head in through the main entrance and clatter upstairs to my second-floor flat.

‘I’m home,’ I announce jovially, trying to sound as if I’ve had a perfectly enjoyable night out. In the darkened living room, Logan and Fergus continue to stare at the blaring TV. On the coffee table in front of them lies the detritus of a boys’ night in – greasy pizza boxes, milkshake cartons and a few stray socks. ‘Everything okay?’ I ask, tearing off one shoe, followed by the other.

‘Yuh,’ Logan replies, picking up his red and white stripy carton and taking a big slurp. In the absence of any further response, I commence a slightly deranged conversation with myself: ‘“Hi, Mum, did you have a nice time?” “Yes thank you, it was lovely …”’ In the kitchen now, I click on the kettle. ‘“Actually,”’ I continue under my breath, ‘“it was pretty shitty. But maybe I misread the signs, or I’m so out of touch with dating that, if a man has paid for the six-course tasting menu, he at least expects to ram his disgusting fat tongue down your throat …”’

‘Huh?’ Fergus is standing in the doorway, clutching the pizza boxes to his chest.

‘Nothing,’ I mutter, peering into the fridge so he can’t see my blazing face.

‘You were talking to yourself,’ he sniggers. ‘That’s the first sign of madness, Mum.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ I reply.

He smirks as I straighten up and pour too much milk into my mug. ‘What was that about a fat tongue?’

‘Nothing, take no notice of me, I was just babbling on.’

‘Who were you out with tonight?’ he asks.

‘Just someone I met at Ingrid’s party last weekend.’

He arches a brow. ‘Was it a man?’

Clutching my tea, I lower myself on to a kitchen chair. ‘Yes, sweetheart, but I won’t be seeing him again.’

Fergus cracks a grin, extracts a packet of Jammie Dodgers from the cupboard and rips it open. ‘Good. What d’you need a boyfriend for anyway? You’re a mum .’

His words are still ringing in my head when I wake up early next morning. While he may only be thirteen, and unable to tolerate virtually the entire vegetable food group, Fergus is absolutely right. I don’t need a boyfriend. I’ve managed perfectly well – well, I’ve managed – being by myself all these years, and have now reached the conclusion that any single men around my age are so baggage-laden they can barely face leaving the house, or are looking for girlfriends born in the early nineties or, as in Anthony’s case, are so clearly wrong for me that I shouldn’t have gone in the first place.

You only went because you were flattered , I remind myself, examining a tea towel which appears to have been used to stem the flow of ink from a leaking biro. In other words, I was momentarily grateful for a glimmer of male attention, which is no way to go about things. Also, that vile, slimy kiss – I can’t get it out of my mind. Is that how it happens these days? In agreeing to a date, was I sending the message, ‘I’m desperately starved of affection so, yes, of course I’ll welcome your fat, probing tongue into my mouth? In fact, you needn’t have bothered with the tasting menu. Half a cider would have done the trick …’

I worry, too, that it’s not just about Anthony, and that the real issue is I have become sex phobic. In fact, I suspect that the mere act of removing my underwear in front of any adult male would trigger a panic attack. It sounds ridiculous and it’s not because I’ve had terrible experiences in the past. Even when our relationship was in tatters, getting it together with Tom was always pretty good – but now, doing it with anyone seems wholly alarming and unnecessary. It’s like when you pass your driving test and think, this is amazing – I can finally do what all those other grown-up people have been doing all along. It’s incredibly exciting and liberating. Then months – years – pass by before you find yourself behind the wheel again, and when you’re suddenly thrown into the situation, it’s bloody terrifying. Only with driving, you can at least book a course of refresher lessons …