The Mum Who Got Her Life Back

by Fiona Gibson

  Jack and I scramble up. ‘Hello?’ I call out, more forcefully now as footsteps sound in the hallway. The front door closes with a heavy clunk, and Alfie’s voice rings out: ‘Hey, Mum, are you there? It’s me.’

  Chapter Eleven

  For a single, mad moment, I consider pretending we’re not in. We could duck down behind the sofa in the hope that Alfie might dump his stuff here, then go out. But where would he go? He’s only just arrived – a whole week early. And our clothes are strewn all over the floor …

  ‘Mum?’ Alfie calls out again, his footsteps growing closer in the hallway.

  Miraculously, Jack has already tugged his dressing gown back on.

  ‘Just a minute, love!’ I call out in an oddly tight voice as I snatch mine from the floor and clutch it in front of myself.

  He appears in the doorway and stares at us. ‘Oh God. Sorry!’

  ‘Alfie, um, this is a surprise …’ Our eyes lock and I force a smile.

  ‘Yeah.’ His gaze flicks towards Jack, an unfamiliar six-foot male, then he looks down at the knickers I’d flung off in lust, which are lying, a wanton scrap of black lace, in the middle of the floor.

  ‘This is Jack,’ I blurt out.

  ‘Er … hi,’ Alfie mutters.

  ‘Hi!’ Jack says brightly as I study my son’s face.

  I grip my dressing gown more tightly. ‘Is everything … okay, Alf? I thought you were coming next—’

  ‘I’m good,’ he cuts in, his mouth set in a firm line. Then, like an elderly person: ‘I’ll just go and put the kettle on.’

  I exhale loudly as he wanders off to the kitchen, and Jack and I stare at each other like teenagers caught copulating in a parental bed.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he says under his breath, gathering up his clothes and pulling them on: boxers, jeans, T-shirt.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Christ, Jack, I don’t know what’s going on …’ I snatch my knickers and pull them on, then struggle into the bra, jeans and T-shirt that were also scattered all over the floor. I’m aware of my cheeks burning hotly as I smooth down the sofa and arrange the cushions tidily, as if a little light housekeeping will make everything okay.

  Jack’s expression is unreadable as he sits heavily on the sofa and pulls on his socks.

  ‘I’m sure it was meant to be next weekend,’ I add. ‘That’s what he told me …’ Is it me who’s got it wrong? I’m wondering now. Have I been in such a funk of lust that I’ve made a mistake over Alfie’s homecoming date?

  ‘He’s not going to … mind, is he?’ Jack murmurs.

  ‘Of course not,’ I reply, and try to reassure myself that he won’t. After all, I’m a fully fledged, consenting adult, entitled to do adult things. Christ, I waited long enough. And what else am I supposed to do: take up crochet, or cultivate bonsai trees?

  I glance at Jack, who is up on his feet now, smoothing down his hair and possibly already spiriting himself away to another kind of Saturday – the kind he used to enjoy before I launched myself at him and forced him to buy an unnecessary lip scrub.

  As Jack laces up his faded Converse, I try to find more ways to apologise, but I can’t seem to find the words. It’s not that I don’t want to see my son – of course it’s not. As an empty nester, you build up your kids’ homecoming to a massive event; you run around the shops, locating their favourite peanut butter and breakfast cereal, buying The Big Milk again and cramming the fridge with so much food you can hardly shut the door. With a mixture of excitement and mild fear, you start anticipating the flat being full of noise and people again. It’s a little like waiting for your own party to begin.

  But no one wants a party guest turning up a whole week early.

  Aware of Alfie clattering about in the kitchen, I check my reflection in the mirror on the living room wall. My mascara is smudged, my hair matted at the back and bushed up around my face. With no brush to hand I try to flatten it down, but it springs up defiantly. I throw Jack a grim look.

  ‘I really am so sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t imagine you’d meet Alfie like this.’

  Jack looks at me and clears his throat. ‘Well, it’s happened now. C’mon, you go through and see him – and don’t worry. I’m sure everything’ll be okay.’

  And it is okay-ish … on the surface, at least, by which I mean that it might have been worse. Alfie could have barged in and caught us actually doing it, which would have meant I’d have had to throw myself out of the window, which would have caused a terrible scene in our street, and he and Molly would be motherless. As it is, Jack and I sort of glide out of the living room, all affected serenity as if we’d merely been watching TV. Thoughtfully, he swerves into the bathroom, presumably to give Alfie and me a few moments alone together.

  In the kitchen, I find my son studying a box of high-fibre cereal in the cupboard as if that might cleanse his mind of the horror he’s just witnessed.

  ‘Hi, darling!’ I arrange my face into a semblance of normality as I go hug him.

  ‘Hi.’ Our embrace feels awkward, as if we have too many arms.

  I step back and clear my throat. ‘Honey,’ I start, ‘I’m really sorry about that, but I actually thought it was next weekend you were coming. Did I get the date wrong?’

  He shrugs. ‘No, I just decided to come home a bit early.’

  ‘Oh, right!’ I pause. Couldn’t you have warned me? Couldn’t you have communicated this fact? ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask, frowning. ‘I mean, I thought you’d want to be there until the final weekend, before everyone headed off—’

  ‘Nah,’ he cuts in with a dismissive shake of his head. ‘I kind of changed my mind …’

  ‘Did you? Well, it’s great to see you. And, um, that was Jack, obviously …’

  ‘Um, yeah. You already said.’

  Alfie looks at me, and I take in his face, which looks rather gaunt, his cheekbones sharper than usual; he has definitely lost weight since I saw him a few weeks ago. ‘I did tell you about him,’ I add.

  ‘Er, yeah, I think you mentioned him,’ he replies vaguely. I definitely did, I want to add, wondering now if I mentioned Jack by name, or merely dropped in that I’m ‘seeing someone’. Not that Alfie ever seems particularly interested in what I’m up to. On the rare occasions I call him – rather than texting – he tends to bark, ‘Mum?’ as he answers, sounding startled, as if phone calls are only for announcing that someone has died.

  An awkward silence descends, punctuated by Jack flushing the loo, and now Alfie has opened the fridge and is staring into it as if expecting a full vegan banquet to materialise. At what age does it stop, this need to check on provisions immediately on arrival, as if food doesn’t exist in Aberdeen? I don’t recall that I ever did it myself as a student – flinging open cupboards and staring at my parents’ baked beans and Ambrosia Creamed Rice whenever I returned home to Glasgow from my various student hovels in Dundee.

  ‘Are you hungry, love?’ I ask. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘No. I’m starving.’

  ‘I’ll make you some pasta or something …’ I lurch for a pan.

  ‘I’m not really in the mood for pasta.’

  ‘Some pie then? I made a feta tart yesterday, there’s plenty left in the—’

  ‘I don’t eat cheese,’ he reminds me, frowning now, as if on top of rolling about with my boyfriend – in the living room, in the day – I am now trying to force my dairy products onto him. ‘I’ll make something myself,’ he adds, adopting a lofty tone now.

  ‘Okay. And we can do a proper vegan shop as soon as I’m, erm, more organised.’

  Alfie observes me levelly. ‘That’d be good.’

  Another silence descends as he sets about making himself a sandwich, perhaps to give him something to do in preparation for Jack’s inevitable appearance. Or, more likely, to underline the shabby standard of facilities around here. He delves into the bread bin and flops two slices of not terribly fresh granary onto the worktop. The fridge is peered into once more, accompanied by a heavy sigh, an
d a flaccid cucumber is extracted.

  I watch as he fashions himself a rather bleak-looking cucumber sandwich – no butter, obviously – and bites into it. ‘So, does Dad know you’re home?’ I ask, setting about making a pot of tea now as Alfie didn’t get around to putting the kettle on.

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Right …’ I pause. ‘Well, he’ll be glad to see you.’ Alfie nods and munches silently. ‘I’ve got quite a bit of work on,’ I continue, ‘but if I make early starts, we can still do some nice things together until you go away … you’re still going travelling, aren’t you?’

  ‘Um, yeah. At least, I think—’ He stops abruptly as Jack wanders in.

  ‘Hi!’ I exclaim as if his appearance is a delightful surprise.

  ‘Hi.’ Jack smiles tightly. ‘Um, hi, Alfie …’

  ‘Hullo,’ my son says glumly, pushing the rest of his sandwich into his mouth.

  ‘So, um, was your journey okay?’

  Still chewing, he nods. ‘Yeah-it-was-fine-thanks.’

  ‘Great. Erm …’ Jack pauses, as if trying to think of something interesting to say about the Aberdeen-to-Glasgow train journey: the catering facilities, maybe, or the scenery en route?

  ‘Have you ever been to Aberdeen?’ I ask Jack, ridiculously.

  ‘Uh, yeah,’ he replies, eyebrows shooting up as he leans against the fridge. ‘Mum and Dad took us to a B&B once, when we were kids. Rained the whole week. The B&B lady chucked us out after breakfast and we weren’t allowed back until teatime.’ He snorts. ‘Saw the same matinee at the cinema three times …’ I see his mouth twitch with tension as I place three mugs of tea on the table and add milk.

  ‘Mum, that’s cow’s milk!’ Alfie yelps.

  ‘Oh God, love, sorry.’ We all stare at the unwanted tea as if it might be radioactive. ‘I don’t have any soya milk in yet,’ I add. ‘Will you have a black one?’

  I catch him glancing at Jack, who’s standing awkwardly, seeming even taller than usual in his creased T-shirt and jeans. ‘I won’t bother,’ Alfie says.

  ‘Oh, okay! I’ll have it.’ I smile. ‘I’ll have two, I’m quite parched actually …’ Christ, shut up. What are you going on about?

  ‘So, d’you like Aberdeen?’ Jack asks my son.

  ‘Yeah, it’s okay,’ Alfie replies airily.

  ‘I’m sure it’s not always raining,’ Jack adds, as if worried that he might have caused offence.

  Alfie glances towards the window in confusion.

  ‘Jack means in Aberdeen,’ I say quickly, as if my boyfriend is incapable of expressing himself. ‘Actually,’ I add, ‘I think Glasgow’s rainier, being, um, in the west …’

  Just when it looks as if we’re about to lurch into a fascinating discussion about the varying precipitation in Scotland, Jack remarks: ‘Aberdeen’s the most northern city in Britain, isn’t it?’

  ‘Or is that Inverness?’ I muse, picking up a mug of tea and blowing across it.

  ‘Or Lerwick?’ Jack frowns. ‘I suppose it depends on how you define a city – like whether it’s based on population or if it has a cathedral …’ He smiles brightly at Alfie. ‘Is there a cathedral in Aberdeen?’

  Alfie narrows his eyes at Jack as if he asked, Do people crap in the street in Aberdeen? ‘I’m not really sure,’ he says levelly.

  ‘We should look it up,’ I suggest, because that’s what I always used to do when Alfie was little: get the laptop out, turn a question into a learning experience, which he seemed to enjoy back then – discovering which planets are made of frozen gas, how earthworms reproduce.

  As my laptop’s sitting there on the kitchen table, I flip it open and google cathedrals Aberdeen. ‘There are three,’ I announce, realising I’m sounding quite mad.

  ‘Really, Mum?’ Alfie asks dryly.

  ‘Yes. I never knew that,’ I say. My son looks blank. I look round at Jack, hoping that at least he will show interest, but his mobile trills in his jeans pocket, and he snatches at it.

  ‘’Scuse me,’ he mutters, striding out to the hallway to take the call.

  I clear my throat. ‘So, love. What made you decide to come back early?’

  ‘Uh, there didn’t seem much point in staying on after the last exam,’ Alfie says, looking shifty now as Jack conducts a mumbled call.

  ‘But I thought you had plans for this weekend?’ Alfie had mentioned a party before everyone headed off for the summer. I’d been delighted to hear that he’d formed friendships fairly quickly in his uni halls. I’ve even met a couple of his new mates when I’ve been up for visits; they seemed far more confident than I remember being at their age. I have yet to meet Camilla, whose dad has kindly offered to pick up Alfie’s stuff from his room, and store it at the family pile, until the start of next semester when he moves into a new flat with a couple of friends.

  I will meet her soon, though. Apparently, the plan is for Alfie to show her the highlights of Glasgow before they head off on their trip.

  ‘Just fancied coming home and chilling out,’ he replies now, idly fiddling with the sugar bowl.

  ‘Right.’ I pause, considering this. ‘Has something happened, Alf? I mean, is everything really all right?’

  Before he can answer Jack reappears, shoving his phone into his pocket. ‘Well, I’d probably better be off …’

  ‘Really?’ I ask.

  Jack nods. ‘Stuff to sort out …’

  Although their exchange is perfectly polite – ‘Good to meet you, Alfie’; ‘Yeah, you too’ – I can’t help feeling relieved when Jack says, ‘Bye, then!’ from the kitchen doorway, as if he’s a BT guy who’s come around to investigate a faulty line.

  With Jack gone now, Alfie checks the cupboard for vegan biscuits – apparently, there are none – while I sweep up the crumbs he dropped all over the floor. I know I should ask him to do it, but now’s not the time; something’s wrong, I’m sure of it. There must be a reason why he’s shown up like this, unannounced.

  Picking up the second mug of now-tepid tea, I sit down and look at him across the table. ‘So, love,’ I start, trying to meet his gaze, ‘can you please tell me what’s going on?’

  Chapter Twelve

  Jack

  What the hell was I thinking, quizzing Alfie about the architectural features of Aberdeen? Does it have a cathedral? What did I expect him to say, ‘Yes, Jack, and I believe it’s one of the best-preserved examples from the pre-Reformation era’?

  Jesus wept …

  I drive home from Nadia’s, trying to shake off the lingering image of Alfie gawping at us from the living room doorway: a tall, gaunt boy with a shock of messy dark hair, horrified at the sight of me in my dressing gown and his mother clutching hers in front of herself. Still, it’s happened now, and maybe it’s one of those things Alfie and I will chuckle about, once we’ve all got to know each other, perhaps when he’s around thirty-seven years old. I try to summon up an image of us all together at some kind of gathering, our families merged and Alfie wandering over to me, beer in hand – because, naturally, we’ll be firm friends by then – and saying, with a smirk, ‘Remember that time I walked in on you and Mum? Nearly scarred me for life, that did!’

  And I’ll reply, ‘Sorry about that. You can send me your therapist’s bill.’

  Oh, how we’ll laugh. At least, I hope we will. In the meantime, I try to reassure myself that surely things will be better with Molly, when she comes home next weekend. Even if it is a bit awkward, Nadia’s told me that Molly has a full-time summer job lined up, and Alfie is planning to go travelling with his girlfriend pretty soon. So things should soon settle back down.

  Is that awful of me to wish Nadia’s kids out of the way, to want to spirit her son off to another country? Oh, I don’t really. They’re part of her life, of course they are – and it’s up to me to be pleasant and patient and, hopefully, get to know them at least a little. However, rather selfishly I suppose, I have loved these past few months with Nadia, and, well … things are going to change, aren’t t
hey?

  Jack hates change. That was a favoured declaration of Elaine’s, when we were together, because she loved to ‘switch things around’, as she put it. On one occasion she came home pissed after a boozy lunch with her mates via a shop that sold tile paint. Because of course that’s what you do after a bucket-load of Prosecco. You totter into a home decor store and buy tile paint – ‘It was on offer! Weren’t you saying we should try to save money?’ – and instead of waiting until you’d sobered up, you cart it home and start slapping it on right away, because won’t murky green tiles look fantastic?

  ‘You know what Jack’s like,’ Elaine chuckled to her friend Ginny, when I came home to find her balancing precariously on a stepladder, waving a dripping paintbrush as she finished off the highest bits. ‘He hates change!’

  ‘All men do,’ Ginny agreed.

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ I insisted. ‘Really, I don’t. But I’m not crazy about dark green, and actually I thought the white tiles were perfectly—’

  ‘Aw, look at his face, bless him,’ Ginny giggled. ‘Oh, Jack. You are hilarious …’

  When you’re with someone like Elaine, who’s always the first up dancing – often on tables and bar-tops, knocking over glasses – there’s only one direction you can go in, really, and that’s down Boring-Fucker-Avenue. Oh, she was fun all right, which is one of the reasons I’d been so attracted to her in the first place. We’d met at a music festival near Dumfries. She was twenty-five; I’m four years older. I’d gone with a bunch of mates, hoping for a distraction from the worst thing that had ever happened to my family. The guys had been brilliant with me, up to a point: ever-patient, even though I was a drunken belligerent mess at the time. However, things had boiled over and there’d been a stupid row.

  I really shouldn’t have gone to the festival at all, but they’d persuaded me. ‘It’ll be good for you,’ my friend Fergus had insisted, adding that I needed to kick back and have a laugh, to try and get over what had happened.