by Fiona Gibson
‘Yes, fine,’ I mutter.
‘Okay, so that comes to, ah … £462.37.’
‘What?’
‘£462.37,’ she repeats primly.
I lower myself shakily onto the bottom stair. ‘It can’t be that much. Are you sure you don’t have someone else’s room?’
‘No, it’s definitely the honeymoon suite …’
‘But …’ I glare at my suitcase. Sure, it’s jammed with minibar presents, and I realise pecans aren’t cheap, and that each individual piece of that truffle popcorn was probably rutted out by a snuffling pig. But still …
‘I can run through it for you,’ she chirps, a trace of impatience creeping into her voice.
‘Er, if you wouldn’t mind …’
‘Right. So we have four boxes of stem ginger cookies, four packets of truffle popcorn, twelve packets of crisps …’ I tune out while she rattles away, realising that the last time I was presented with a list I didn’t want – jelly beans, unicycle tyre – I stomped off and booked the damn course instead of opting for the cash prize. Morgan was right. You chose a baking course over five thousand quid? What use is that gonna be?
‘Four jars of pecans,’ Genevieve goes on, ‘two Cokes, three sparkling waters, one bottle of champagne …’
‘Could you stop there please? I didn’t drink any champagne.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s definitely on your bill …’ Christ, she’s right. I didn’t drink it, it was sloshed into my belly button. What a criminal waste of good booze … ‘One gin, one tonic,’ she continues, ‘one scented candle …’
‘I thought it was okay to take the candle?’
‘Yes, of course, guests are welcome to purchase them, they’re £45 …’ Holy Christ, for a candle that burns away! ‘Four boxes of Kirsch Kisses …’
‘Thank you, that’s fine,’ I cut in, imagining a newly arrived guest – a dapper elderly man with a clipped silvery moustache – smirking to his wife whilst waiting to be attended to. Gosh, Daphne, what an absolute glutton! Probably never had access to a minibar before. Some people just don’t know when to stop …
‘… You didn’t have any newspapers,’ she adds helpfully.
Small mercies and all that. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Great,’ she says brightly. ‘I’ll just pop the transaction through now …’ My mind whirrs as I try to figure out how the bill could possibly amount to that much. But without knowing how much everything was – there was probably a price list in that leather-bound directory, I never bothered to check – it’s impossible.
‘I’m sorry,’ Genevieve says, ‘there seems to be a slight problem.’ Ah, so it is someone else’s bill! Or the ‘extras’, as she calls them, were in fact included in my dinner lady prize and I’m being let off and she’s going to apologise. Terribly sorry to have bothered you, madam …
‘I’m afraid your card’s been declined, Miss Pepper.’
‘Oh. Um …’
‘Do you have another I could try?’
I picture her, frowning, with more guests arriving, all waiting to be checked in. ‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ I murmur.
‘Not a credit card?’
‘No.’ Hell, I must have reached my paltry overdraft limit. ‘Could I send a cheque?’ I ask feebly.
‘A cheque?’ she repeats as if I’d suggested paying with plastic beads. ‘Um … yes, I suppose so.’
‘I’ll put it in the post tomorrow,’ I say, figuring that my pay from Mrs B should be in my account by the time she receives it, if I send it second class.
‘Great,’ she concludes. ‘I’ll pop a copy of the bill in the post to you.’
‘Thank you very much,’ I say tersely.
That’ll look fantastic framed on the bathroom wall, I decide. But what does a stupid bill matter when my son’s out there, crying, roaming the streets? I wheel my case to the kitchen and pace around, wondering whether to go out and look for him or whether he just wants to be left alone for a while. Yes, that’s probably the purpose of this ‘walk’ thing. Instead, I unzip my case and dump my clothes on the table, discovering that the loose Kirsch Kisses have oozed out of their red foil wrappers onto my orange print dress.
I unpack the ruinous snacks, set them out on the table and glare at them, as if they snuck out of the minibar and stowed away in my suitcase without me having anything to do with it. And I don’t even like soily popcorn! That imaginary man with the silvery moustache was right: I’m a foolish glutton who, even in rarefied surroundings like Wilton Grange, cannot manage to conduct herself in a proper manner. Those children politely selecting their yoghurt and pear at breakfast showed more restraint than I’ll ever have.
I make myself a coffee and, just to taunt myself further, fetch my laptop and Google Wilton Grange, just to gawp at the unadulterated luxury I’ve left behind. A lump catches in my throat as I survey the spa, the gardens, the sumptuous rooms. I slam my laptop shut and embark on a frantic tidying up session. How stupid, I decide, stomping through to the living room, to refuse to pick up pants. I mean, what’s the point of going on strike when no one notices or cares? All it results in is a faintly depressing home. So I gather them up and study the chalked shapes left behind: like the outlines of bodies left at a crime scene. I fetch a damp cloth and rub my frankly unhinged markings off the sofa, the carpet and rug, then throw the offending underwear into our hideously complicated washing machine with its baffling two knobs.
As it whirrs into action, I realise how seamlessly I’ve switched back from being Audrey lounging in her four-poster bed to ordinary, everyday me. My heart feels heavy as I realise that all I have to show for my Wilton Grange stay is a pile of minibar snacks I no longer want, and a colossal bill.
Still, things could be worse. At least they didn’t charge me for those lemon slices.
Chapter Twenty
Lacklustre Mousse
Morgan has returned to the nest with a bottle of Coke and a saveloy sausage from the chip shop. ‘Sorry, Mum,’ he mutters as I attempt to hug him.
‘It’s all right, darling. I was just so worried when you called.’
Despite his cry for help just a few hours ago, he now shrugs me off as if I am an irritating aunt. ‘You needn’t have been.’
‘Of course I was worried! I had six missed calls and you didn’t leave any messages—’
‘You know I hate leaving messages. I never know what to say. What would I have told you? “My girlfriend’s finished with me?”’
‘Well, that might’ve been a good starting point, seeing as that’s what had happened …’ He fixes me with a steady gaze. His hair, which is usually washed daily with the Toni & Guy shampoo he insists on – no pound shop products for his lustrous tresses – flops greasily around his hollow cheeks. Dark shadows lurk beneath his eyes, and there’s a tiny cold sore on his bottom lip, like a fragment of crisp. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, darling. I know how much you love her. But you phoned the actual hotel, you went to the trouble of finding the number. I thought you’d been in an accident or beaten up or—’
He shrugs. ‘It wasn’t that hard, Mum. I just did a search, y’know: hotel, French cookery course, Buckinghamshire …’
‘Really? I’m amazed you remembered.’
‘I do have a brain, Mum,’ he snaps.
I meet his hostile gaze, deciding that now isn’t the time to inform him that I’m missing tonight’s farewell drinks on his account, and that I’m not happy about him chomping at his sausage from its polystyrene carton whilst sprawled on the sofa either.
I perch beside him. ‘Look, hon, maybe it’s just a blip. Relationships go through all kinds of ups and downs.’ He darts me a look which suggests that, at my stage of decrepitude, I can’t possibly know the first thing about love. ‘I’m just saying,’ I add, ‘maybe she just needs a bit of space, and the two of you can work things out …’ He shuts the carton abruptly, sausage only a third eaten, his eyes wet with tears. ‘Oh, darling …’ I go to throw my arms around him but he lurches away
.
‘I’m okay, Mum!’
‘Honey, you’re not …’
Tears are falling now: big, splashy boy tears that I haven’t witnessed since he fell over a hurdle at school and I was summonsed to collect him, sobbing with a profusely bleeding knee, from the sick room. My own vision blurs, and my heart actually hurts, as if it’s me who’s been dumped, and driven to roaming around town with a carton of fried food. ‘Come through to the kitchen with me,’ I murmur, briefly squeezing his hand. ‘I’ll make you a hot chocolate.’
‘All right,’ he croaks, gathering himself up and following me like a dog. While I heat the milk, he prowls around the table, as if unsure where to put himself. In the hope of perking him up, I throw open the cupboard.
‘Look at all these snacks I brought back, darling. You can have anything you want.’
He narrows his eyes. ‘Crisps and biscuits.’
‘Yes, but not any old crisps and biscuits,’ I say, considering whether to tell him about the stratospheric extras bill, thinking it might amuse him. No, better not: he’s depressed enough without learning that several unicycle tyres could have been bought for the price of a load of fancy popcorn that no one’s going to eat.
Instead, I hand him his hot chocolate in his favourite mug and open the posh cookies, placing a few on a plate – they deserve a plate.
‘No thanks, Mum.’
‘Come on, hon, they’re stem ginger …’ He shrinks away as if they might have been spat on.
As we sit across the table from each other, I try to figure out how I can help him. It’s so much easier when they’re seven and fall off the swing and you cuddle them and dust them down and everything’s okay. ‘So,’ I start gently, ‘you and Jenna … d’you want to tell me what happened?’
He sips his hot chocolate. ‘It’s just kinda … happened.’
‘Really? You had no idea she wanted to break up?’
Shake of the head. I reach across the table and place my hand over his, wanting to say, You’re only eighteen, you’re handsome and smart and a lovely person, you’ll meet someone soon … He places his mug on the table and gets up from his chair. ‘I’m going out,’ he announces.
‘What, for another walk?’
‘Nah, I’m going over to Dan’s …’
‘Are you sure?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. Haven’t seen him for ages. Might get a few beers in, crash out there for the night …’
‘Oh,’ I say, a little put out seeing as I’ve just made a 200-mile mercy dash to be with him. But he’s off – the front door slams – and of course it’s natural to want to spend time with a friend, whom he’s neglected, frankly, since he got together with Jenna, and who won’t patronise him with biscuits.
My phone trills. ‘Hi, Stevie,’ I say flatly.
‘Babe, hope I’m not interrupting your posh dinner …’
‘No, I’m home actually. I, er … decided to come back early.’
‘Really? Well, guess they weren’t really your type …’ What the heck does that mean? ‘Listen, Aud,’ he goes on, ‘sorry for leaving like that. I was just a bit hurt, y’know …’
‘And I was a bit mortified,’ I cut in.
‘Huh?’
‘You know: bedroom, curtain rope, that kind of thing …’
He clears his throat. ‘Oh yeah. Well, I was phoning to apologise but it sounds like you’re still in a mood …’
‘I’m not in a mood,’ I say tersely. ‘I’ve just had a long drive, that’s all.’
‘Aw, honey, you feeling blue? Get that son of yours to cook you a nice meal …’
‘He’s just gone out actually.’
A small pause. ‘You’re home alone? Can I come over?’
I consider this. I could spend the evening alone, perhaps scouring our unsavoury toilet whilst thinking of Hugo and Lottie and Tamara all chatting and laughing in the hotel bar, or I could have some company. Twenty minutes later, Stevie appears, all beaming smiles on my doorstep, planting a passionate kiss on my lips.
‘We’ve got the place to ourselves, babe!’ he exclaims, tossing his jacket onto an armchair and gathering me for another kiss.
I pull back and study his handsome face: the glinting greeny-blue eyes and the mischievous mouth that somehow always looks so suggestive. ‘You are allowed to come over when Morgan’s here,’ I remark.
‘Yeah, I know, but it’s not the same …’ It irks me, this unwillingness to at least engage with my son, and try to get to know him a little; plus the implication that, as enthusiastic sex is out of the question when Morgan’s at home, Stevie would rather not bother coming over. ‘Fancy going up to bed?’ he breathes into my ear.
‘Not right now, Stevie.’
He frowns. ‘Why not?’
‘Because …’ I pause. Because I’d like to do other things. You know, coupley things, like … Christ, I actually don’t know. Have a conversation, maybe? ‘It’s, like, only ten past eight,’ I mutter.
He laughs. ‘It’s, like, only ten past eight? Why’re you talking like a teenager, Aud?’
‘I’m not. It’s just … you know what? I’d actually like us to go out.’
‘Out?’ He looks startled by the concept. ‘Out where?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know, just a pub or something. I’m pretty hungry actually …’ Do something normal, is what I mean. To make up for you being such a petulant twerp and buggering off without saying goodbye …
‘Not keen on the pubs around here,’ he says sulkily.
‘Well, how about we drive somewhere, to that old watermill place maybe, the one that’s just been done up? It looks lovely …’
He pulls a comic frown. ‘Yeah, if you really want to.’
‘Well, if you’re not in the mood …’
‘Aw, c’mon,’ he says, grabbing my hand, ‘don’t be like that. Sure, we can go out. I just want to spend some time with you.’
He doesn’t mean it, though, I can tell.
His jaw remains firmly set as he drives. He fails to show any interest in my success with clafoutis, or the fact that I’m considering expanding my culinary repertoire beyond my usual vats of mince-based meals. He doesn’t even seem impressed that I know what to do with a gnarly old vanilla pod. ‘I might take Morgan on one of those French camping holidays,’ I muse. ‘Take his mind off Jenna. Maybe his mate Dan would like to come too. I’d give them plenty of space to do whatever they wanted – I mean, I wouldn’t tag along, forcing them to go to museums or making them come swimming with me. God, seeing a 44-year-old woman in a swimsuit, in a swimsuit with a slenderising panel, that could cause a teenage boy serious psychological damage …’ I glance sideways at Stevie. ‘They’ve split up,’ I add.
‘Hmm?’
‘Morgan and his girlfriend. She’s broken up with him.’
‘Well, that happens, doesn’t it? He’s only nineteen …’
‘Eighteen actually,’ I growl.
As we lapse into silence, it becomes apparent that Stevie is not really in the mood for chit-chat. Well, no wonder: we simply don’t know how to talk to each other. As far as I can recall, we’ve only had three normal dates; all the rest have been motorway stop-overs. It’s becoming apparent that we haven’t the faintest idea how to enjoy the normal things proper couples do. ‘Are you going away this summer?’ I ask, in the manner of a hairdresser making polite conversation with a client.
‘Nah, don’t think so, babe. Got an awful lot on.’
More silence. With a start, I realise I don’t know what else to say, and that I am mentally gearing myself up for our dinner. Is this right, to feel that a date must be ‘geared up’ for? My phone pings: a text from Paul. Hope you’re enjoying your last night. Mrs B seems to be really missing you. It’s not like Paul to text me. I hope it’s not his gentle way of letting me know she isn’t doing too well.
Came home early, I reply, will explain when I see you, hope all ok?
All ok, comes his brusque reply. In fact, it’s Mrs B who fills my mind as S
tevie and I arrive at the watermill and settle on a window-side table. Apart from an elderly couple in rain macs, the place is empty. As I gamely work my way through tepid battered cod – and peas which have the appearance of being recently liberated from a tin – I realise I’m looking forward to getting back to work and seeing Paul again. Maybe he’ll have put together a veg box for me, and I can try to tempt Morgan with garlic soup?
‘So, the course was fun, then?’ Stevie asks, toying with a chip.
‘Yes, it was, um … an experience.’
He nods and chews and sips his Coke. Maybe that’s why he’s put out – because he’s driving and therefore not quaffing wine – or, and this is more likely, he’s been denied sex since our session at Charnock Richard. We finish our mains, and I dip my spoon into a lacklustre chocolate mousse. It’s gluey, not terribly chocolatey and possibly from a packet; Angel Delight comes to mind. Brad would not be impressed.
‘It wasn’t really about the cooking,’ I explain. ‘It was about, well, meeting new people …’
Stevie smirks. ‘You sound like a Miss World contestant. “I enjoy meeting new people” …’
For some reason, this enrages me more than it should. ‘I just mean it was good for me to have a break from normal life …’ I pause to watch him shovelling in a hillock of apple crumble. ‘… and not feeling as if I’m just a mother and a dinner lady and a carer, you know …’ His mouth makes a slapping noise as he chomps down his pud. ‘And I felt, you know, that I could be anyone there. Does that make sense? No one knew me, you see. No one had any preconceived ideas about me. Oh, sure, they were amused by the dinner lady thing. But that soon wore off, and I felt accepted, and it made me realise how small my world had become – just working and cooking and cleaning, basically – and that, maybe, I should start thinking about, I don’t know, doing something different with my life …’ I tail off, suspecting he’s not listening. ‘Stevie?’ I prompt him. ‘D’you understand what I’m saying at all?’
He looks up and wipes his mouth on a napkin. ‘Huh?’
Christ, who’s the teenager now?
‘I’m trying to explain what it was all about for me …’
