The Mum Who Got Her Life Back

by Fiona Gibson

  I pace the streets, passing glorious Gaudí buildings – all swirling curves and glinting mosaics – but I’m unable to appreciate them fully. I want to grab Jack’s hand and say, ‘Look at that! Imagine designing a block of flats with no right angles, just swooping curves and those crazy turrets!’ But I can’t do that, because Jack isn’t here, and when I arrive at Café Opera just after three, Alfie isn’t there either.

  *

  Two hours I spend, worrying myself senseless: an hour in the café, and another prowling the nearby streets and repeatedly popping in to see if he’s turned up yet. I keep spotting tall, gangly, dark-haired boys in grey T-shirts and thinking they’re him. I even consider calling his mobile from a public phone – if they still exist – but I’m not confident I could make one work, and anyway, in my agitated state, I’m not sure I can remember his number. Why are we all so dependent on mobiles? In the olden days, we used to arrange a time and somewhere to meet – ‘Boots Corner’, it was in Glasgow – and that would be that. Now, if someone’s running late, they just phone. It’s stopped people being on time for anything. No one cares.

  Of course nothing’s happened to Alfie, I keep trying to reassure myself. He’s nineteen, he’ll be fine; he’s probably waiting at the wrong café, he never listens to me. Perhaps he thought I meant the Opera House? I check its foyer, just in case – but there’s no Alfie.

  At just after five p.m., convinced that he’s been attacked down some shadowy alley, I consider telling a policeman what’s happened. However, they are large, intimidating men with huge guns. My son ducking out of coffee with me hardly seems like the sort of issue they’d involve themselves in. At 5.35 p.m., I decide to head back to the apartment to see if there are signs that he’s been back too; perhaps he dropped off his shopping? Maybe a pair of shorts were just too heavy for him to lug around, in this heat? And – bloody hell – there he is, lolling on the sofa in his pants!

  ‘What’re you doing here?’ I ask, aghast.

  ‘I was just awfully hot,’ he replies. ‘I was sweating buckets, Mum. It’s cooler in here.’

  I’m so mad at him, I have to take a moment to calm down slightly before I can speak. ‘It is hot,’ I snap, ‘but what did you expect? Polar bears sitting on glaciers?’

  ‘Uh?’ he says, looking baffled.

  ‘Never mind. But we did say we’d meet at three, and I’ve been worried senseless.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, yawning. ‘I did try to phone you.’

  ‘Well, I’ve lost my phone, left it in the café where we had lunch …’

  ‘Aw, Mum!’ He pulls a sympathetic face.

  ‘So, when you couldn’t get hold of me, wouldn’t it have been a better idea just to turn up at Café Opera, like we’d arranged?’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry.’ He nods contritely.

  I exhale. No point in going on at him now, even though he’s pretty much ruined my afternoon. With my head thumping and the beginnings of a blister having formed on my heel, I wander through to the kitchen.

  I had intended to just fetch a drink of water, but instead, I stop and stare. There was a rectangular glass chopping board on the worktop. Now – mysteriously – it has shattered into tiny pieces, like a windscreen. ‘Alfie!’ I call through. ‘Alfie! What’s this?’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Come here a minute, could you?’ I know it’s only a chopping board; it’s not as if he’s set the sofa on fire or smashed the toilet. But right now, after worrying about him for well over two hours, I’m hardly capable of keeping things in proportion.

  ‘What is it?’ He leans casually against the doorframe.

  I point at the broken glass. ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘Oh, erm …’ He winces. ‘Sorry about that. I was just peeling and cutting up an apple.’

  I stare at him. ‘But you’ve smashed it! Why did you—?’

  ‘I don’t like the skin,’ he says mildly.

  Oh, for crying out loud. ‘I don’t see how you managed to smash it, Alf.’

  Alfie shrugs. ‘I dunno either.’

  I glare at him. ‘Did you take a hammer to it?’

  He splutters in disbelief. ‘’Course not!’

  ‘Jesus,’ I say, my headache cranking up a notch now. ‘Well, you can clear it up.’

  He frowns at me, then steps towards the broken glass, looking bewildered as to how he might dispose of it. Envisaging him managing to get glass fragments wedged in his skin, I snap, ‘Just leave it to me. You go and relax. You’ve obviously had a really shattering day.’

  ‘All right. Thanks, Mum,’ he murmurs, shuffling back to the living room where he clicks on the TV. A terrible pop song, possibly sung by a nine-year-old, bellows out. I brush the broken glass into a carrier bag, then set about tidying the apartment. This is just like being at home, I reflect. During his time back here this afternoon, he has managed to dirty three mugs and several plates, all of which have been dumped in the sink.

  In the bathroom, his socks, a T-shirt and a pair of boxers are lying on the floor, and he’s somehow managed to daub the washbasin with toothpaste. In keeping with tradition, he has also left the loo roll strewn on the floor.

  As music belts out of the TV, I sit on the closed loo lid and ponder the prospect of another four days, in this city, with my son.

  It’ll be fine, of course. I’m just agitated after losing my phone, and spending the rest of the afternoon searching for Alfie. But the thought of another day spent mooching around together – with him becoming more and more listless, and perpetually moaning about the heat – makes me feel quite desolate.

  Perhaps we simply aren’t designed to go on holiday together anymore. These days, we parents of teenagers like to think we’re pretty much the same as our kids – just a little saggier, and more likely to lock our windows and borrow library books. After all, we enjoy lots of the music and TV shows that they do. We buy our clothes from the same shops, we borrow each other’s shoes and can enjoy a glass of wine together; our tastes seem to have blended into one giant, for-all-ages pot. But it’s an illusion really. We are probably just as different as our parents were to us; we just think we’re hipper, more down with the kidz. And now I’m getting the feeling that Alfie only agreed to come with me – his tedious protein-obsessed mum – because he felt bad about what happened at Jack’s gathering.

  Should I have come on my own? Possibly. But perhaps it’s not a complete disaster. I could have a day to myself tomorrow. Clearly, Alfie wouldn’t be averse to being left alone for a while. He could lie about here, where it’s cooler, nibbling skinless apple slices. If he closed the shutters he could even pretend he’s in Glasgow! And I could head out of the city – visit somewhere that would hold little interest for him.

  I fetch my guidebook from the bedside table, and spend an hour perusing the ‘trips out of the city’ section. ‘Alf, I think I’ll go to Figueres tomorrow,’ I tell him as we tuck into a makeshift supper from bits and bobs we bought at the Boqueria. I simply couldn’t face hoofing around in search of a restaurant with exciting vegan options tonight.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s a town, about an hour or so by train. It means “fig trees”. It’s where Salvador Dalí lived.’ He nods, and for a moment it looks as if he’ll say he wants to come too. With his eccentric moustache and surrealist style, Dalí is the kind of artist Alfie is drawn to. But shamefully, I realise I don’t want him to come with me. I need a break, that’s all. A few hours where I’m not trying to gee him up, or feeling cross about the way he drags his feet along, like a four year-old enduring a trip to the supermarket. I don’t want to be wondering where the hell he’s wandered off to, or what he’s going to eat for his meals. He has already started to mutter, ‘Pasta with tomato sauce – again,’ whenever we’ve perused a menu. As if the restaurants of Barcelona have put it there merely to irk him.

  ‘I don’t think you’d like it,’ I say now.

  ‘No, I do like Dalí, Mum. He was pretty mad, wasn’t he?
’

  ‘Seems like it, yes.’

  ‘He used to paint his whole body blue, and drink cocktails made from his own blood!’

  ‘Wow,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘And he used to sit in his chair, falling asleep with a spoon in his hand, and when the spoon clanged onto the floor he’d wake up, and that’s the time he had his best ideas.’

  ‘Amazing.’ Christ, this is the perkiest he’s been since we arrived.

  ‘So, is it his actual house you’re going to?’ he asks, interest piqued.

  ‘Um, no – it’s a museum.’

  ‘With his paintings in?’

  I nod. ‘A few, I think. It’s just a building with a few bits of stuff,’ I say, without enthusiasm. In fact, from what I’ve read, the Dalí Theatre-Museum is an eye-popping structure painted pinkish-red with golden croissants stuck all over it and enormous white eggs perched on its roof. It houses the largest collection of Dalí works in the world, including bizarre moving sculptures and an audacious sofa shaped like lips.

  ‘Would I like it?’ Alfie asks.

  ‘You’d probably find it a bit dull, to be honest.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And then there’s the train journey, in this terrible heat …’

  He winces. This clearly tips it for him. ‘God, yeah. Okay then. I’ll probably just have a rest day here. Sure you don’t mind going on your own?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine,’ I say.

  ‘Okay.’

  I perch on the sofa beside him. ‘Did you buy yourself any shorts, by the way?’

  ‘Nah, I couldn’t face the shops.’

  It occurs to me that I should ask for my euros back. But I must be feeling a smidgeon of guilt at not wanting to spend tomorrow with him, so I decide to let him keep the cash – and even hug him – before I head off to bed.

  Chapter Forty

  Jack

  Hey, where are you right now? Fancy a coffee? As the plane touches down at Barcelona airport, I rehearse in my head what I’ll say when I call her. Hi, darling. Guess where I am!

  No – not that. That’s a sure-fire way to make a person feel extremely uneasy. My parents did it once, shortly after I’d moved to Glasgow. They’d called me from a phone box when I’d woken up on my sofa one Saturday morning, unwashed and hungover, having blundered home horribly drunk just a few hours before. Guess where we are, Jack! We’re at the end of your road. We decided to drive down and surprise you. So … surprise!

  ‘Great!’ I enthused, while the voice in my head screamed, ‘What the fuck?’

  So I know better than to ever say that. The trouble is, though, it will be a surprise (or shock?) to Nadia when I show up. My decision not to tell her I’m coming seems rather rash now, but I figured there was too much potential for her to say, ‘No, please don’t!’ Or, worse: ‘I’ve met someone else. It all happened so quickly, and actually, he is here with me now.’

  The other possibility is that she decided not to come to Barcelona after all – perhaps she didn’t fancy mooching about on her own – and has forfeited the flight and Airbnb apartment. But I think that’s unlikely. She’s not the kind of person who’d freak out at the prospect of travelling alone. No, she’ll be here, I decide. Perhaps she’s brought a friend: Corinne or Gus, maybe. But that’ll be okay; there’s a tiny second bedroom, as far as I can recall. The place we hired is actually meant for three. Although I don’t have the address – as she booked it – I’ll phone her as soon as I’m in the city centre, and she’ll be thrilled.

  Or at least, quite pleased. Of course, there is the very real possibility that she’ll be extremely irritated that I’ve schlepped out here after her, with no warning. Will she think it’s presumptuous of me to just show up, expecting to stay with her as if nothing’s happened? Should I get a hotel instead, or would that just seem weird?

  Jesus. What the hell am I doing here? This is all Iain’s fault!

  I lift my wheeled case down from the cabin locker and join the line of passengers as we all begin to shuffle off the plane. Right now, I’m wondering whether I’m quite the adventurer, having flown out to make things right with the woman I love, or if I’m raving mad.

  So desperate am I to speak to Nadia, it’s all I can do not to phone her as the train hurtles from the airport towards the city. But I manage to resist. I’ll leave it until I’m actually there, when I’ve had a little more time to think things through.

  That way, I can do it properly. All I have to do now is figure out precisely what ‘it’ is.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Nadia

  ‘It’s just a building with a few bits of stuff in,’ I’d told Alfie, as if I was describing a branch of B&Q. But in fact the Dalí Theatre-Museum is stunning, filled with crazy artworks – melting clocks and eerie portraits – and bizarre inventions. I am transfixed by a grotesque portrait of Picasso with a giant spoon protruding from his mouth. There’s a golden nose sculpture, various voluptuous statues and a vintage taxi in which rain falls on the inside. The museum doesn’t even slightly resemble a large DIY store.

  The fact that it’s milling with visitors doesn’t spoil it for me. There are numerous rooms and courtyards to explore, and although I’d have loved to have Jack here with me, I’m determined to absorb as much of this bonkers museum before I catch the train back to Barcelona this evening.

  Alfie might grumble on about ‘people of your generation’, as if we are one faceless mass, obsessed with vitamins and adequate house insurance, but there are people of all ages here, including the extremely elderly and delightfully eccentric. I spot a lady in a yellow sundress, a green satin turban and baby blue suede thigh boots. Thigh boots, in this heat! Another woman is strutting about in a sequinned leotard and a tutu made of netting, plus red patent platform shoes. A towering man in a sort of catsuit – which appears to be made out of bubble wrap – struts by me and shouts, ‘Hi!’

  In this wondrous museum, exhibits and visitors seem to merge, and it’s all so fascinating I actually stop wondering whether Alfie is okay (of course he is. He’ll be lying in the apartment, in darkness), and if all’s fine with Molly at home (why shouldn’t it be? She doesn’t even live with me anymore). While I’m pretty sure that Alfie would enjoy the spectacle for half an hour or so, I have to admit I’m relishing having hours to spend here, with no one yawning ostentatiously and demanding a snack and a drink before we’ve even had a chance to look at the artworks.

  Three hours drift by in a Surrealist haze, and I’m wondering what to do next when a woman’s voice, with a strong Scottish accent, cuts through the air. ‘Obviously he was genius, but barking mad,’ she exclaims to the small group who seem to be with her.

  ‘Obsessed with sex,’ another woman adds, ‘although he couldn’t actually do it …’

  ‘His wife was crazy,’ a man interjects. ‘She had tons of affairs. Always at it …’

  ‘Poor Dalí!’

  ‘Yeah. And he built her a grand secluded house, up in the mountains …’

  ‘She lived in it on her own …’

  ‘Wouldn’t let him visit!’ Someone taps my shoulder. ‘Did you know she tried to poison him …’ The woman breaks off. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry. I thought you were Fran!’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say, smiling.

  The woman beams. ‘Whereabouts are you from, then?’

  ‘Glasgow. How about you?’

  ‘Paisley,’ she replies. ‘So, what d’you think of this place?’

  ‘It’s pretty mind-blowing,’ I admit.

  ‘Sure is. We couldn’t decide on the Prado or here. It had to go to votes and I’m so glad this won. So, are you staying in Figueres?’

  ‘No, Barcelona. Just a few days with my son.’

  ‘Aw, lovely! Is he with you today?’

  ‘Um, no,’ I reply with a smile. ‘He fancied … a rest day.’

  She chuckles, clearly understanding the subtext, and I sense a kind of kinship with her. ‘How about you? Are you all family or friends?’
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  ‘We’re an art group,’ she replies. ‘Just amateurs – an old bunch of mates really. Art’s our excuse to come away together. A common interest, so we can say it’s a hobby trip – like a golfing holiday …’

  ‘But without the golf,’ says another woman with a laugh.

  ‘We drink and we draw,’ the first woman adds.

  ‘More drinking than drawing really,’ says a bald man in a striped T-shirt.

  ‘That sounds fun,’ I say.

  ‘You should join us,’ the first woman says, turning to the man. ‘She’s left her son in Barcelona!’

  ‘Teenager?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, and the man laughs.

  ‘Teenagers in museums. Bloody nightmare! Well, you’re welcome to come around with us, unless you prefer to be by yourself. I know some people do. We won’t take offence.’

  It’s Danny who springs into my mind now; specifically, how he would have reacted to a middle-aged man – or any stranger – inviting us into their group on holiday. When the kids were little, we went on a few package holidays to Spain and Majorca where apartments were all stacked up around the pools. All around us, adults on sunbeds would be chatting away, befriending each other while the kids splashed about in the water. By the end of the week, I’d notice that many of these families had merged into big, boisterous gangs, drinking and eating together, taking group photos, the children playing en masse. Please, Nads, Danny declared one evening, never expect me to make friends with other people on holiday.

  ‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘Don’t you like meeting new people?’