by Fiona Gibson
‘That’s okay. Just thought, if I cleared the air, you might agree to meet me again, just for a coffee or something—’
‘I’m sorry, but no,’ I say firmly.
‘Ah. Okay.’
‘But there is something else,’ I add. ‘Something I’d like to say about our date, if that’s okay.’
He coughs. ‘Oh. Yes, of course.’
‘It’s about the cake thing.’
‘The cake thing? I’m sorry, I don’t—’
‘Remember when we were in the cafe?’ I cut in, emboldened now. ‘You said something that came across as rather rude, actually.’
‘Really?’ He sounds aghast.
‘Yes, you said, “You’re obviously a girl who very much enjoys her cake.”’
A small silence hangs between us. ‘Oh. Was that impolite?’
‘A little, yes.’
He sighs audibly. ‘I’m so sorry. I meant it as a compliment actually. It’s very attractive, you know, seeing a woman enjoying her food, tucking in with gusto …’
‘Really?’ I say, laughing now.
‘Yes. Women these days – the ones I work with at least – it’s all tiny trays of sushi for lunch, or maybe a dip and some crudités …’
‘I’m not a crudité sort of woman.’
‘No, I can see that.’
‘Because I am a larger woman, you mean …’
‘Well, yes, although I’d rather use the term curvaceous …’
Those few forkfuls of Thai green curry sit uneasily in my stomach. ‘Pardon?’
‘Or perhaps I should say voluptuous,’ he adds, and there’s a catch to his voice now that makes me shudder.
‘Perhaps you shouldn’t,’ I remark.
‘I meant it as a compliment. You’re very attractive. The way you carry yourself, your body …’
I frown, aware that his breathing has taken on a rasping quality. ‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable with—’
‘… When we interacted with the art,’ he adds. ‘I noticed it then, especially …’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I have stopped by the laundry detergents.
‘When we – you know – tried on that jacket. It was rather …’
‘Rather what?’ I bark, flinging a bottle of fabric conditioner into my basket.
‘It was, you know … quite stirring. I enjoyed interacting with you, Lorrie …’
It takes me a moment to process this. ‘You mean in an art way? You were stirred by the art?’
‘No, by being in such close … proximity to you. You see, when we were pressed up together I couldn’t help but notice your marvellous figure …’ Oh my God. ‘I’m sorry,’ he goes on, sounding a little breathless now. ‘You see, since Belinda left, I haven’t actually been physically close to anyone at all …’ I am standing dead still. An elderly woman gripping a gigantic pack of loo roll gives me a quizzical look. ‘… And there we were, so close together, and it was rather …’ His breath catches.
‘Stirring?’ I snatch a three-pack of yellow dishwasher sponges from the bottom shelf.
‘Well, yes.’ There’s a sharp intake of breath, then another.
‘Are you jogging, Ralph?’
‘Jogging? No, no, I’m still at work—’
‘But it’s nearly nine o’clock!’
‘Yes, I often work late,’ he pants. ‘Busy, you know. And I’ve been thinking about you. Been thinking how much I’d like to, uh, get to know you better—’
‘You sound out of breath,’ I cut in. ‘Are you ill?’
‘No, no—’
‘Are you saying all this in front of your colleagues? Or are you the only one left in the office?’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m being discreet …’
I frown. ‘Are you under your desk?’
‘No, no …’ His voice, I realise, has an echoey quality, as if he’s in a small enclosed space. ‘I’m in the gents’ actually.’
‘Oh!’
‘Bit of privacy,’ he adds as it dawns on me what he’s actually doing.
‘Are you in a cubicle?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
‘And what are you doing exactly?’ I ask sharply.
‘I’m just thinking about our date, about me and you all buttoned up together in that jacket …’
Oh, dear lord. ‘For God’s sake, Ralph. Do you know how vile this sounds? How completely creepy it is to talk to a woman in this way?’
He makes a choking sound. ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t help—’
‘I think you can help yourself actually,’ I snap, ‘unless you’ve stumbled into the office loo and your trousers and pants fell down and your hand has accidentally clamped itself around your penis.’
I end the call, plunge my mobile into my pocket and stride up to the nearest available till, dumping my basket with a clatter onto the counter. The girl at the till gives me a startled look, and the customer at the next till – a huge bear of a man clutching a box of frozen toad in the hole – swings round to stare.
‘Good on you, darling,’ he says with a throaty laugh. ‘You bloody give ’im what for.’
Chapter Eight
It’s raining heavily by the time I leave the supermarket, causing people to duck into doorways or march quickly, heads bent against the weather. I hurry into the tube station, gripping my carrier bag tightly, the relaxing effect of those couple of glasses of wine having now worn off.
That’s definitely the end of datemylovelymum and me. Any dating at all, actually. If it’s adult male company I’m after, there’s always Stu: amenable, funny, requiring no effort whatsoever in the personal grooming or acquisition of fancy lingerie departments. He has seen all my pants anyway: the full range from fancy black lace to saggy and greying. Mine and his are often laundered together, and sit companionably on the radiator drying side by side. They are even touching, sometimes. No one thinks anything of it. I have seen him trimming his nasal hair with his clipper, and he has watched with interest while I’ve applied some kind of acid solution to my recurring corn. We might as well be an old married couple – apart from the fact that we probably like each other more than most long-term partners do.
Who needs sex anyway? No one died from a lack of it, as far as I am aware. Neither Stu nor I have had any for a thousand years – well, ages anyway – and he, at least, seems pretty chilled out most of the time. A celibate life seems preferable now to running the risk of encountering any more men like Ralph. That’s the thing with having big boobs, hips, bottom and all that: it tends to bring out the creeps. There seems to be an assumption that a larger woman is parading herself – ‘flaunting her assets’ in Daily Mail speak – and a certain type of man takes this as permission to make personal comments. ‘I love a woman with curves,’ growled Pete from electricals, kissing my stomach in his nicotine-hued flat, last time we were in bed together. ‘God, you don’t half give me an appetite, Lorrie. If we hurry up and get dressed we’ll be able to use my two-for-one Groupon deal for that Indian buffet down the road.’
I’m still fizzling mad – not about Pete Parkin, but Ralph – by the time the tube reaches Bethnal Green station. I stumble out of the carriage, glowering at an elderly man who stares pointedly at my chest as he waits to get on. ’D’you really think,’ I want to shout, ‘that women don’t notice when men are doing that?’ I hope to God Amy learns to handle this kind of thing better than I ever have.
It’s only when I’m halfway down my street, jacket damp from the rain, hair flat against my scalp, that I realise my bag of fancy cheese, fabric conditioner and chilli-spiked snacks is still trundling along on the Central Line towards Epping.
Damn it. Damn it all. I let myself into the house and call out a dull hello.
‘Hi, Mum,’ Cam replies from the living room. I find him lying prone on the sofa, TV blaring unnecessarily, seeing as he is reading a dog-eared novel. ‘All right?’ He delves into a family packet of crisps.
‘Yes, just went to Helena’s birthday do after work. You
look tired, darling. Why don’t you head up for an early night instead of lying here?’
‘Aw, no, I’m all right.’
‘D’you really need the TV on?’
‘Yeah, I’m watching it.’ His gaze returns to his book.
‘Is Stu around?’
He shakes his head, grudgingly shifting up on the sofa to make room for me to sit beside him. ‘Out on a delivery, I think.’ That’s disappointing. I need someone to offload to, about Nuala’s surprise visit to the store today and, more urgently, Ralph fiddling with himself in his office loo, ugh. I need to turn it into something funny and I know Stu will be able to make me laugh about it.
‘Hi, darling,’ I say as Amy appears, fresh from her bath, her long dark hair wrapped up in a towel. ‘What’ve you been up to today?’
‘Shopping for my holiday.’ She beams excitedly. ‘Bella said Portugal’s going to be even hotter than last year. Hang on, I’ll show you what I bought.’ She runs off and returns with a Topshop bag, extracting a couple of bikinis in her preferred sporty style: one plain navy, one jaunty red and white stripes.
‘They’re lovely. Bet you can’t wait.’
‘I can’t,’ she says, stuffing them back into the bag and snuggling on the sofa beside me. ‘You okay, Mum?’ She turns to look at me.
‘I’m good,’ I fib. ‘Oh, there’s just something coming up on Friday. It’s on my mind a bit – a work conference thing. Only heard about it today.’
‘What’s that all about?’
‘No idea but I might have to do a little speech.’ I grimace. ‘D’you mind if I try something out on you? It’ll only take a few minutes …’
She recoils. ‘Mum, you’re not putting make-up on me!’
My daughter prefers the natural look; lip balm and a quick pluck of the brows and she’s ready to go.
‘No, no, not that. It’s just, I’ll feel better if I have some idea of what I’m going to say, in case they ask me. Can I just run through it with you?’
‘Aw, can’t we do it tomorrow? It’s late, Mum …’
‘It’s only just gone ten, and Grandma’s coming over for dinner tomorrow, remember?’
She eye-rolls at the prospect, which I choose to ignore.
Cam looks up from his book. ‘How’s the wedding planning going?’
I chuckle. ‘On a par with a royal wedding, judging by the way she’s acting …’
‘When is it again?’ Amy asks.
‘Honey, I’ve told you this. It’s just over two weeks away.’
‘And where is it?’ Cam wants to know.
‘At Hamish’s parents’ place, that huge manor house of theirs. C’mon, you’ve seen the pictures …’ They’re just winding me up, sniggering at the thought of their grandma and her fancy-pants toy boy getting hitched. My kids are fully aware that her fiancé is sole heir to the Sowerbutts’ ancestral home, nestling in extensive grounds in leafy Hertfordshire. From photos of Lovington Hall which Mum has proudly foisted on us, we’ve seen the lake, the stables, the panelled grand hall hung with eerie oil paintings of Hamish’s ancestors in their hunting attire. Now partly open to the public, it’s where he and Mum first met. She had taken a coach trip there with her friend Dolores to see an exhibition of historic textiles. Hamish had been pottering about in the tea room, and he and Mum had fallen in love over scones and a pot of Earl Grey.
If I was a little wary at first, it was only because Mum’s liaisons tended to end in tears and trauma and a sharp incline in alcohol consumed. Although I could see why Hamish was transfixed by her – with her clingy outfits and full make-up, Mum is incredibly glamorous – I feared she was just after his cash (‘and what attracted you to the millionaire Hamish Sowerbutt?’). However, they are clearly devoted to each other, and I’ve grown fond of Hamish: the way he twinkles as if enjoying an innocent, private joke, and the way Mum’s complaints and criticisms simply bounce off him. Or orf him, as Hamish would say: I do enjoy Great British Bake-orf. It’s tremendous fun! He is terribly, endearingly posh, and I don’t think he has ever had to work for a living, which probably explains why he’s been pretty useless on the wedding planning front; he simply doesn’t have a clue how to get anything done. Amy once mentioned Argos in front of him and he had to ask what it was. Even his hair radiates poshness: a luxuriant sweep of gingery brown, like duvet wadding, and not even greying, just slightly faded as if left out in the sun. I like the way he talks fondly about his childhood nanny – still referred to as ‘Nanny Bridget’ – despite him being in his late fifties. My only concern is how naive and sheltered he seems; there’s no ex-wife or children. I wonder if he’s even had serious girlfriends and whether he realises quite what he’s taking on in marrying Mum.
‘Hamish’s parents,’ Cam says with a snigger. ‘They must be, like, a hundred or something?’
‘Not exactly,’ I chuckle. ‘Remember he’s twelve years younger than Grandma.’
‘Ugh,’ Amy winces.
‘There’s nothing ugh about it, and it’s not that big an age gap …’
‘Yeah, you’d love it if I went out with a twenty-seven-year-old,’ she teases.
‘That’s different. Anyway, she’s happy, she loves him, that’s what matters …’ They’re both chuckling again as I head upstairs to fetch my clutch of La Beauté products in order to practise a little talk. I know it’ll thrill my children, listening to me burbling on about natural ingredients and skin-plumping properties.
In my bedroom now, I scoop together a selection of skincare and make-up and drop them into a towel to carry downstairs, like Dick Whittington with his sack. Back in the living room, I clear away the detritus of magazines and mugs from the coffee table and set out my wares.
Amy, whose long, silky lashes rarely encounter mascara, eyes them with disdain. ‘Why do people pay huge amounts of money for this stuff?’
I mute the TV and click into sales mode. ‘Okay, let me tell you about this – our new base. It’s so light, it feels like you’re wearing nothing. You can apply in the usual way, or if you twist the top, like this, it becomes a spray—’
‘Like you’d spray a car?’ Cam sniggers.
‘Well, the same principle, I suppose – easy application, smooth coverage …’
‘… Repels rust.’ He munches on a crisp.
‘How much is it?’ Amy asks.
‘Um, let’s not get into that. I won’t be talking about prices …’
‘Go on, tell us how much that stuff is.’ Cam leans forward with interest.
‘It’s £35.’
‘£35,’ Amy gasps, ‘for something that’s basically nothing!’
‘Well, yes, it feels like nothing because that’s what you want in a base. You just want it to smooth out imperfections …’
‘What about this one?’ She grabs a small white bottle from the table.
‘That’s our serum.’
‘Why do people need that?’ Cam asks, excavating an ear with a finger.
‘Serum has a higher concentration of active ingredients than moisturisers do. It helps skin to look smoother, firmer, more glowing …’
‘My skin is firm,’ Amy remarks.
‘Yes, honey, because you’re fifteen …’
‘But if I came to your stand you’d try to sell it to me anyway.’
‘No, I wouldn’t. I’d never sell a customer something she doesn’t need—’
‘Mum, you do! You do it all the time. That’s what the beauty industry’s about, to make women feel bad about themselves …’
It strikes me – and not for the first time – that if it were vegetables or fish or shoes I was selling, I wouldn’t have to defend myself like this.
Amy adjusts her head towel as Cam escapes to his room. ‘You’d never sell anything,’ she goes on, ‘if your customers didn’t feel insecure. You want them to feel crap …’
‘Of course I don’t!’
‘… So they spend a fortune, and then they go home and try it, and when it doesn’t work like it was supp
osed to, they come back and buy something else …’
‘Love, there is a positive side to it. You know, sometimes a woman might just need a confidence boost.’ I think of Gilda, perched elegantly on the stool. ‘She might have something important coming up,’ I continue, ‘and, believe it or not, a bit of make-up can make all the difference to how she comes across. Look, can I just run through my talk without you firing questions?’
She pulls off her towel and tosses out her hair – hair which she regularly deep conditions with La Beauté’s Nourishing Huile d’Amande Masque, I might add, in order to maintain peak lushness. ‘Aw, I think I’ll go up to bed. C’mon, it’s only talking about make-up. You do it every day. How hard can it be?’ Before I can protest, she’s scooted out of the room too.
Alone now, I glance down at my products, realising it was silly to expect her to respond to my sales talk with enthusiasm. She has never fallen for the allure of beauty products, the way I did when French Nicole took me under her wing, and I learnt that make-up needn’t be of the shimmery mask variety as favoured by Mum. Amy has never felt the need for lipstick. Her body is strong and agile, and while she has my dark eyes, she has also inherited her father’s fine bone structure and full mouth – a natural beauty through and through. At her age, I felt podgy and plain. Make-up helped me, and I still stand by the fact that there is some value in what I do, even if Amy won’t accept that. Okay, she’d probably respect me more if I was a social worker or ran a donkey sanctuary, but the truth is my job has kept a roof over our heads these past seven years.
Disgruntled, I carry my products upstairs and set them out on my bedside table, in the hope that they will somehow transmit inspiration into my brain during the night. I change into my PJs, replaying the evening’s events: those girls’ sarky comments about a supposedly gargantuan thirty-year-old woman (‘at least a size fourteen!’) in that dismal pub, topped off by Ralph perving over my ‘voluptuousness’. Ugh. I flip open my laptop and click to my datemylovelymum.com profile, then go to settings where, without a moment’s hesitation, I click on the red button.
Are you sure you want to suspend your account? the message reads.
