Fiona Gibson - Take Mum Out

Avon

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2014

Copyright © Fiona Gibson 2014

Cover Illustration: Lucy Truman

Cover design: debbieclementdesign.com

Fiona Gibson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9781847563651

Ebook Edition © March 2014 ISBN: 9780007469383

Version: 2015-04-09

For Gavin, for setting me up on a very significant blind date

(‘I don’t think he’ll fancy you though’)

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One: Inspection day

Chapter Two: Four months later

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five: Seven months later: Inspection day

A Grown-up’s guide to dating

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

‘So you’re setting up a meringue business,’ Erica says as I show her into my kitchen.

‘That’s right,’ I reply. ‘I’ve been testing different recipes and I’m all ready to go – as soon as I have official permission, of course.’ I’m aware of this thing I do – of putting on an oddly posh, grown-up voice when I’m in the company of an Official Person. In her navy blue trouser suit, with her shiny auburn hair swinging around her pointy chin, Erica falls into this category. She is an inspector from the council’s environmental health department. Her job is to ensure that I don’t poison the public – i.e. that my fridge isn’t seething with listeria or my cooking quarters populated by mangy cats. They aren’t, of course, but still, Erica’s very presence is making me nervous. It’s like when you’re being followed by a police car while driving. Is something broken on my car? you start wondering. Could the wine I guzzled two nights ago still be swilling around in my bloodstream?

‘I love meringues,’ Erica enthuses, peering into my fridge which I’ve scrubbed so thoroughly even its light seems to shine more brightly. ‘It’s the texture, isn’t it? The crunchiness on the outside, the gooey bit in the middle …’

‘That’s right,’ I agree. ‘I imagine it’s impossible to feel depressed when you’re biting into a meringue.’

She laughs politely and marks a few boxes on the form attached to her clipboard. I try to sneak a look, but can’t read it. Anyway, I must stop feeling so paranoid. I spent the whole of yesterday preparing for her visit, and so far it seems to be going well. Erica caresses my cooker hob and ticks another box on her form. ‘D’you have a name for your business?’ she asks.

‘Yes, I’m calling it Sugar Mummy.’

‘Oh, that’s cute. That definitely has a ring to it. I assume you have children then?’

‘Yes, two sons.’

‘ Sons ,’ Erica repeats with a slight shudder. ‘Oh, I take my hat off to you. I don’t know how people cope with boys.’

‘Really?’ I say, acting surprised. In fact, I have encountered this anti-boy attitude on numerous occasions since Logan and Fergus were tiny; a fierce aversion to young males, as if they are not miniature humans but incontinent pitbulls, prone to violence and likely to pee wherever the mood takes them (as opposed to little girls who’ll quietly colour in and groom their teddies for weeks on end).

‘Well, I couldn’t,’ Erica asserts. ‘My sister has three and her place is a wreck. She used to collect Danish glassware and of course that’s all been trashed.’

‘Oh dear,’ I say, wanting to add, Why didn’t she put it away in a cupboard? However, it’s crucial to keep Erica on my side. I’m itching to get my business started, and need to convince her that Logan and Fergus won’t be constantly charging into my ‘professional’ kitchen, bringing in live bugs to show me or using my mixer to blend potions of rotting leaves and soil.

‘Well, they’re thirteen and sixteen,’ I tell her, ‘so we’re past that crazy stage now.’

‘Oh, teenage boys,’ she goes on with a dry laugh, ‘and their terrible bedrooms. Eugh . That horrible dank duvet smell …’

‘They’re actually incredibly helpful around the flat,’ I fib, trying to quash the defensive edge to my voice.

‘Really?’ Erica widens her eyes. ‘Handy with the Mr Sheen, then?’

‘Yes, very.’ Actually, they back away from it as if it’s pepper spray, and neither seem capable of operating the Hoover without choking it. Plus there is an underlying smell around here, which I’ve tried to obliterate by burning the sandalwood and ginger oil my friend Ingrid gave me, with the promise that it would ‘uplift the senses’. On this rain-lashed November afternoon, both boys are off school with streaming colds, and the flat is tainted with the whiff of the unwell.

‘D’you have any children yourself?’ I ask pleasantly as she peers into the oven.

‘Just the one, a little girl.’

Ah, that figures.

‘I was terrified she was going to be a boy,’ Erica adds, straightening up. ‘In fact, I paid to have an extra scan to determine the sex as early as possible.’

‘Really?’ I have no idea how to respond to this.

‘If it was a boy,’ she goes on, ‘I wanted to be prepared.’ What could she possibly mean? Line up an adoptive mother for him? Just as I’m about to say they’re not that bad really – I mean, look at me, I’m healthy and happy and alive (well, alive ) – Fergus, my youngest, yells, ‘Mum!’ and stomps along the hallway towards us.