by Fiona Gibson
I’m just curious, that’s all. It’s struck me that datemylovelymum.com might seem sweet and endearing in its concept – ‘I love my mum, and you will too!’ is its catchline – but might possibly attract the wrong sort. I suspect now that the three men I’ve met were all under the illusion that, as a single mother, I was so grateful to be out of the house, in male company, that I’d pretty much do it with anyone. How dare they?
And now, as I browse alternative sites, I discover that there are some amazingly specific ones out there: for horse lovers, bakers, Latin dancing enthusiast, even ‘mature skateboarders’, God forbid. Pausing at a rather bland-sounding site for the over-forty-fives – ha, just sneaked in there! – I discover that, even without signing up, I can access profiles within a ten-mile radius. I study the perfectly pleasant and approachable-looking faces of teachers, electricians, gardeners and IT types. No one seems obviously crazy. In fact, the profiles I study seem incredibly – perhaps suspiciously – normal. I fetch a pen and paper and start to draft out the beginnings of a profile for myself.
Hi, I’m Lorrie and I’m 46 years old. I live in East London and I am mother to two teenagers. I work for a beauty company …
The kids would say I’m not selling myself enough. Stu would tamper with it and put in some jokes. But he’s not here and, feeling irked now – there’s been no call, no text to explain what’s going on – I sign up for the site’s free trial, tweaking my profile and choosing a selection of pictures. And it’s done. Rather than wait for a ‘wink’ – a note of interest from a potential match – I potter around, checking Cecily’s Facebook (Amy refuses to friend me) and basking in the numerous pictures of my daughter and her best friend in the pool, on the beach and in various outdoor cafes in Portugal. With a surge of missing her, I fire off a text, to which she replies, Having the best time Mum. Love you xxx.
My mobile rings – could it be my daughter, missing me desperately? Ah. It’s my own mother. ‘Hi, Mum, how’s things?’
‘Well, you know …’ I wait for her to ask about my trip. ‘As good as they can be with the wedding around the corner,’ she adds. ‘Are you sure everything’s going to work out okay?’
Without a crystal ball, no. I close my eyes momentarily and conjure up Romilly Connaught-Jones’s reassuring face, her firm voice, her aura of self-assuredness. You can’t let people trample all over you, Lorrie! ‘Yes, Mum. Everyone knows about the new venue, don’t they?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s just, it is only four days away …’
‘Mum, I know that.’ I exhale fiercely.
‘Anyway, how was France?’
Ah, she is interested after all! ‘Great, thanks.’
‘Could he be your partner at the wedding?’
I splutter with laughter. As if my man-less status is as embarrassing to her as if I turn up wearing a triangle bikini. ‘I don’t think that’s very likely, I’m afraid.’
‘Ah, didn’t it go well? Anyway,’ she charges on without even waiting for my response, ‘I’m still not sure about that bleak little hall. Didn’t you find it stark? I did. The bleach smell, the cracked washbasin, all those old people having sandwiches and cake—’
‘Yes, but they won’t be there, will they? And we’ll decorate the place. Me and the kids, I mean. We’ll get there first thing – I’ll check with Walter to make sure we can get in – and we’ll bring bunting. I’ll make lots and lots of bunting’ – make bunting? What am I saying? – ‘in pastel colours for a sort of village fete theme, it’ll look really pretty—’
‘Village fete?’ she repeats, interest piquing.
‘Yes. Or perhaps more of a garden party, like the Queen has …’
‘Oooh, I like the sound of that.’
‘So we’ll have bunting, gingham tablecloths, casual bunches of flowers …’
There’s a beat’s silence. ‘Hmmm. Can I trust you to pull all that together?’
Well, why not? Apart from marrying Hamish I seem to be doing everything else for this wedding. ‘Of course, Mum – at least, everything apart from the flowers. Could you tell your florist you’d like wild flowers in jam jars? Would that work with the bunting, d’you think?’
‘I suppose so,’ she says guardedly.
‘Great. Now, just try to relax. Honestly – there’s absolutely nothing to worry about.’
While this seems to appease her, it strikes me that, as I am back at work tomorrow, I’d better make a start on the promised bunting. As I turn to close my laptop, a Facebook message appears: Antoine. This time, my heart doesn’t leap at the sight of it; I merely smile as I read,
Hope you enjoyed your time in Grasse. I know we said we might see each other again. I’d really like to – as friends. You’re such fun to be with and I enjoy your love of life very much. All those photos you took. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so enthusiastic about Nice! I should be in London close to Christmas – shall we meet for a coffee then?
That sounds lovely, I reply, deciding to leave it at that for now. Whether or not we’ll actually meet up, who knows? But I like to think there’s still the possibility of friendship after all these years.
Right now, though, I switch my attentions to the matter in hand. Burrowing in the airing cupboard, I find old sheets which, on closer inspection are rather depressingly – rather than charmingly – faded. So they won’t do for bunting. Instead, I gather up a couple of old cotton dresses from my wardrobe, plus several rolls of strong ribbon, and unearth my sewing machine from the cupboard under the stairs, bought to run up the amazing Halloween costumes I never got around to making.
Having installed myself at the kitchen table, I make a paper template and cut out a neat triangle from the skirt of a daisy-print dress. I put my foot tentatively on the pedal, flinching as it whirrs. Come on, I tell myself. You’ve just ‘taken on’ Geddes and Cox, so of course you can knock up a few lengths of bunting. I cut and sew, cut and sew, then pause, wondering what else I can cut up, as a mere six triangles of bunting will hardly create the promised garden party effect.
David’s shirts. There are dozens stashed in the attic in bin liners, waiting for … what exactly? A decision to be made; perhaps to be donated to charity. They’d be perfect for this, if I can bear to take the scissors to them. I haven’t even looked at them for years.
I head upstairs to Cam’s bedroom, from where the attic is accessible through a rather precarious hatch, and drag out the stepladder from the landing cupboard. I clamber up it, pushing the hatch to one side, always an awkward manoeuvre, and one which Stu has tended to take care of for me, bringing down the Christmas tree and boxes of decorations and putting them back when required. So why isn’t he here, helping me now? Stu has a life of his own, I remind myself. His sole purpose isn’t just to assist me with practical matters, and I don’t need a man to access the attic for me.
I click on the light, spotting a heap of board games, including Buckaroo and Ker-Plunk which David and the kids would play for hours. I tear a small hole in one of the numerous bin liners and glimpse pale blue fabric with a fine pink stripe. Down it goes through the hatch, bouncing onto the floor of Cam’s room. Then another, and another: three bags stuffed with faded cottons. Having replaced the hatch, I step carefully down the ladder, considering calling the one friend I need to talk to right now, to ask if it’s okay to cut up these shirts and make bunting from them. Or will he think I’ve gone mad?
I drag the sacks downstairs and tear one fully open, hit immediately by the smell of David. Perhaps it’s in my imagination. They have been bundled up in there for seven years, after all. The scent of a person must surely disappear in that time. I spread out a shirt I remember him wearing, casually slung on after a day’s swimming in the sea in Cornwall, and place my paper template on it. I start to snip, then pause. I am cutting up David’s shirts. It feels almost … violent. My vision mists and I try to carry on, but I’m making a mess here, cutting a jagged edge. My mobile rings and I answer it with relief. ‘Hi, Stu?’
‘You know I was back yesterday,’ I say curtly. ‘But you weren’t here.’
‘No, um, I just thought it might be best—’
‘What are you doing? Why are you at Bob’s already?’
The pause stretches uncomfortably. ‘I needed a bit of space, that’s all.’
‘Space? What for?’
I can hear his breathing. ‘I’ll be back this week, to sort out my stuff …’
‘Fine,’ I say tersely. ‘So how’s Bob’s place coming along?’
‘Uh, he’s having this urge to paint everything a terrible grey colour.’
‘Grey can be okay.’ I pause. ‘Must be nice, being somewhere uncluttered …’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You know – without all the books, the magazines, the sports kit lying about …’
He laughs. ‘Yeah, it’s a veritable bachelor pad.’
‘Since when have you started using words like veritable?’
Stu sniggers dryly. ‘I use it all the time now. It’s my new favourite word. So, anyway, how was Nice?’
‘Not so great, actually.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity …’
‘You don’t mean that.’ I sit there for a moment, sensing there’s something he wants to say.
‘Um, maybe I don’t. So, what are you up to now?’
I scan the table, littered with bleached-out cottons in every conceivable pastel shade. ‘I’m … cutting up David’s old shirts.’ Without warning, a tear rolls down my cheek.
‘Christ, Lorrie. What are you doing that for?’
‘To make bunting for Mum’s wedding,’ I say, batting away more tears from my cheeks. ‘I needed fabric,’ I add, ‘and they’re just shirts, right? I mean, no one’ll wear them, it’s not as if Cam wants them—’
‘Lorrie, love, don’t get upset …’
‘But it’s awful,’ I exclaim, crying properly now. ‘I keep remembering him wearing them. I can picture his face, Stu, I can’t help it …’
‘Hey,’ he says gently. ‘It’s okay. Of course you’re going to be upset. Can I come over?’
I grab a piece of kitchen towel and wipe my nose. ‘Of course you can, if you want to.’ It’s still your home after all, I want to remind him as we finish the call.
In twenty minutes he’s here, first hugging me tightly, then surveying the tumble of fabrics on the table, the snippets scattered all over the floor. ‘Oh, Lorrie. This is some job you’ve landed yourself with.’ He pulls off his leather jacket.
‘Yes, I know. I must have lost my mind. I mean, it’s only a wedding, right? I could have just gone out and bought bunting … so why didn’t I just do that?’
‘Because you’re nuts,’ he says fondly, taking the seat beside me and beginning to cut out more triangles from the shirts. We soon fall into a natural rhythm of cutting and stitching, lulled by the whirr of the sewing machine.
‘I think my sister’s lost her mind too,’ he remarks.
I turn to look at him. ‘Why? Is she okay?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing awful. It’s just, the party’s off. She doesn’t want a big do for her fortieth after all.’
‘Really? Why not?’
He shakes his head and smiles ruefully. ‘She just got cold feet. Said she was only doing it because all her friends were pressurising her to …’
‘I assume you’re still going out to see her, though?’
‘No, I’m not, because she won’t even be there. She’s taking off on her own. Booked a ticket on the Orient Express, it’s running a special trip to Istanbul and she’s going to spend her birthday there.’
‘Wow – amazing!’ I exclaim. ‘But what about your flight?’
‘I’ve transferred it over to Bob. He could do with a break.’
I look at him, knowing I should still be cross with him for concocting a flimsy reason as to why he’s moving to Bob’s. Yet now, with metres of bunting already made, I feel only gratitude that he’s here. I pause, wondering if it’s okay to ask, or whether the very idea will horrify him. ‘So,’ I say hesitantly, ‘if you’re free, maybe you could …’ I cough awkwardly.
‘I could what?’
‘I was going to say you could come to Mum’s wedding, but I guess that’s the last thing you’d want, isn’t it? I mean, she’ll probably get tipsy, sexually molest you—’
He laughs and scratches at his bristly chin. ‘Lorrie, I’d—’
‘No, I’m not going to inflict that on you …’ I go to lift a bunting triangle from the sewing machine, spiking my finger on the needle. ‘Ouch!’
‘Hey, be careful!’
I smile and look at him, and something faintly unsettling seems to happen. Perhaps I look at him a moment too long, because my heart seems to turn over. I’ve just missed him, that’s all, and it feels so right, him being here with me now. I wish he’d stay here tonight – I just want him to be close by – but how can I ask him to without sounding needy?
Looking flustered, Stu turns away to select another shirt from the open bag. ‘Any you want to keep?’ he murmurs.
‘No, I think we should use them all up …’ I watch him, clearly unable to meet my gaze now as he pulls a selection of stripy cottons from the bag. What happened just then? I try to shrug off the feeling – I’m being ridiculous, even thinking there was some kind of spark there – and suck the bead of blood from my finger.
‘Yes, I’ll come to your mum’s wedding,’ he says quietly.
I stare at him. ‘Really? Are you sure?’
He smiles wryly, and then turns his attentions to cutting out another perfect triangle. ‘Honestly, there’s nothing I’d like better,’ he says, then mimics that painting, The Scream, with his hands at his cheeks and a look of sheer terror on his face.
*
It’s Stu who fills my mind as I travel to work the next day. He stayed the night in his room here – without me even having to ask – and we had a companionable breakfast together as if everything was normal. However, he made it clear he was heading back to Bob’s today, and I made a decent job of hiding my disappointment. I’m just grateful to him for being there when I needed a friend last night.
I join the crowds surging from the tube station, grateful, too, for being able to get on with my job without any more Sonia Richardson meetings hanging over my head. It’s a hot and humid Tuesday morning, and as I’m approaching the store, Nuala calls.
‘Are you all right?’ she exclaims. ‘I heard what’s been happening. Well, I found out eventually. Sonia was pretty cagey about things but I gather you went in there after seeing a hotshot lawyer and absolutely floored them?’
I laugh. ‘Well, sort of – but how d’you know that? I can’t imagine that’s how Sonia put it …’
‘No, I managed to get it out of the top woman in HR. Deborah someone. I’m very proud of you, Lorrie. I’m sorry I couldn’t have stepped in and helped—’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Nuala.’
‘No, well, I just hope they’ll let us get on with our jobs now, and do what we do best.’
I thank her and step into the store, where I am greeted warmly by Helena who’s desperate to know what’s been going on. But now’s not the time. There is work to be done. I am determined to prove to Sonia and the suits that it is possible to adhere to our relaxed and friendly approach, whilst still managing to achieve healthy sales.
Spotting a woman with a little girl in tow, I rev myself up to invite her over to our counter. However, there are no longer any colouring packs in the cupboard; heaven forbid we might be viewed as a creche. The little girl tugs hard on her mother’s arm, and before I can even make an approach, they are gone. I make my way back to the counter and busy myself by checking stock levels and catching up on what’s been happening in the store since I’ve been gone.
‘Excuse me, could I ask your advice on something?’
I spin around. The customer, who’s probably in her early forties, is wearing
a rather shabby khaki jacket over a stripy T-shirt and jeans. ‘Yes, of course. How can I help?’
She scans the counter. Her skin is in good condition, blemish-free and with few lines, but a little sallow. ‘I just …’ She shrugs. ‘I’ve sort of given up on make-up but I thought, well, I have a job interview coming up. I just think it might …’ She tails off. ‘It might help, you know?’
‘Great, so what sort of make-up d’you wear normally?’
She looks blank. ‘I just said – I don’t wear any.’
‘Oh, of course. Sorry. Well …’ I start to select a few products: a light base, a selection of browns for her greyish eyes, and an easy-to-wear natural shade for her lips. Oh, and blusher. Her rather washed-out complexion could do with a lift … ‘Could you hop on the stool for a moment for me, please?’
She smiles wanly as she does so, and I start by applying a light moisturiser to her face, ‘Just to soften your skin, plump it up a little … so, what sort of job are you going for?’
‘Just an admin thing,’ she says.
‘And you want to feel well presented.’
She laughs quietly. ‘Yeah, that’s the idea.’
‘Always nerve-racking, aren’t they, interviews? Feeling under scrutiny like that?’ My meeting with Sonia, Nigel and Dennis flits back into my mind.
The woman nods as I squeeze a little base onto a cosmetic sponge. ‘It’s my first one in years, actually,’ she murmurs. ‘I’ve been out of work for a while, doing a bit of studying, trying to … you know. Retrain. Get myself together.’ She tails off as I start to apply the base. Already, her skin looks brighter.
‘Oh, yes, I do know that feeling. Well, you’ve come to the right place.’ I move to the eyes now, applying a beige base to the lids, followed by a brownish shadow. ‘Open your eyes, please.’
I check the shading, the dark, nutty brown against the soft grey of her eyes, and that’s when it hits me: those eyes. I know them. I know this face. It’s the face I pored over obsessively, even though I knew it wasn’t helping – it only made things worse – until it haunted my dreams.
