The Mum Who Got Her Life Back

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘“I like meeting new people!”’ he’d teased, mimicking a Miss World contestant. ‘No thanks, sweetheart. Because I have plenty of friends already – at home,’ he retorted, as if his quota had been filled, and that would satisfy him for life – or perhaps, more accurately, he’d surmised that none of those holidaymakers would be his ‘type’. Perhaps they might not be au fait with the lesser-known Hitchcock films, or maybe he was scared they’d quiz him mercilessly when his profession came to light: ‘Have you met anyone famous? Go on, you must have! Tell us all their dirt!’

  But unlike Danny, I wasn’t semi-famous, and even if I had been, I’d never have been like that. Surely being open to ‘meeting new people’ is one of the great joys of life?

  I look at the group, whose joie de vivre is oddly infectious; since the row with Jack that’s something that’s been lacking in my life. ‘That would be lovely,’ I tell the bald man. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Great! So, I’m Rico …’

  ‘I’m Nadia.’

  ‘And this is Fran …’ Ah, the one I was mistaken for.

  ‘Hi,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘This is Gerri, and Elsa …’

  ‘Welcome, Nadia,’ Gerri says, clutching at my arm, ‘to the Wasted Artists. Now, how about a lunchtime drink?’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Jack

  There are certain signs that someone isn’t into you anymore, and not answering your calls has to be one of the clearest. I tried calling Nadia as soon as I arrived in the city, emerging into the muggy heat from the station. Almost immediately I felt engulfed by the chaos of the Ramblas with its garish fast food outlets, the numerous kiosks cluttering the central pavement, and the street sellers flogging cheap sunglasses, handbags and trashy toys.

  Normally, I love finding myself in a big, brash, glittering city like this one. As a kid I was always itching to leave the farm behind, and for my real life to begin. However now, with Nadia’s phone simply ringing through, I don’t quite know what to do with myself.

  Find a hotel, I decide. It feels like a safer option than expecting to stay at the apartment, and if things go well and everything’s patched up, then I can always move over to the flat. It’s probably best to choose somewhere pretty close, I reason, remembering that ‘our’ Airbnb is in El Raval, an area that used to be considered rather shady, apparently – a keep-your-wits-about-you kind of place. But now it appears to be buzzing with cool coffee shops, boutiques and bookshops amongst the seemingly longer-established ethnic grocer’s stores, junk shops, barbers and workaday cafés.

  As far as I’ve gathered so far, Barcelona is an in-your-face kind of city: show-offy and grand, with a comfortingly scruffy edge, like the fancy dress costumes Lori used to wear when she went through a mercifully brief princess stage. In contrast my hotel is dark and cave-like, squished between a newsagent’s, with sun-faded guidebooks crammed in its window, and a shop selling what looks like flammable nightwear for ladies of a certain age. I like the look of the hotel, though. It seems more befitting my ‘mission’ than a faceless chain, and the fancier places are way above my budget.

  I check in by way of a grouchy receptionist – squat and stocky, her hair in a bun – and head up to my room, which is pleasantly spartan and undeniably clean, and I dump my bag on the light green candlewick bedspread. ‘You’re here now,’ I tell myself. Which begs the question: what next?

  After that last conversation with Nadia, I’d explained to Lori that ‘plans had changed’, that Nadia ‘wanted to focus on work’ and I wouldn’t be going to Barcelona after all. And then, suddenly, I was going: ‘But what about Nadia’s work?’ Lori asked, not unreasonably. ‘Doesn’t she mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I’d replied, jovially, but now, my worry is that she will mind, very much. Still, I decide, I can enjoy this city, and have fun and see interesting things! Feeling more positive now, I shower quickly and pull on a fresh T-shirt and jeans. And now, as I head out into the clammy afternoon, I’ve convinced myself that that’s what I’ll do. I shall explore this city, soaking it all in, immersing myself, like she would. Surely that’s a more attractive proposition than having someone say, ‘I’ve just sat miserably, in my hotel room and cafés, thinking about you’?

  So that’s what I do.

  Is there a cathedral in Aberdeen? Christ, I think, cringing at the memory. It’s a wonder Nadia even wanted to keep seeing me after that. And now, as I gawp at the awesome Sagrada Família – which looks more melting wedding cake than cathedral really – I wish she were with me, so I could remind her of that conversation and we could laugh about it.

  I meander the streets, loving the feel and vibrancy of the city immediately, but feeling slightly out of sorts, as if something’s missing. No, not something. Someone. And this is oddly guilt-making as I know I should be appreciating being here. After all, I’m very lucky. I picture Lori’s face, if she were here with me, and decide I really must make the most of it.

  To ward off my lingering sense of unease, I march around at quite a pace, stopping for a beer at a lovely art deco bar, which I bolt down too quickly. Then it’s onwards again, into the Gothic Quarter with its tangle of dark, narrow streets and looming buildings, beautiful and fascinating but also rather oppressive.

  By the time I emerge into bright sunshine, I am gasping for more liquid, sweating profusely and regretting my choice of clothing.

  Who wears jeans in this weather? No one, it seems, apart from me. A quick scan confirms that, while there’s the odd pair of chinos being worn in the crowds around me – and naturally, the heavily armed police are in their uniform trousers – mainly it’s shorts. I’ll have to buy some today, as I cannot face another day hoofing around in my Levi’s.

  As there don’t seem to be any regular high-street-type stores in this area, I wander further towards Barceloneta, down by the water, figuring that there are bound to be beachy-type clothing shops close to the waterfront. And indeed there are, and the clothes inside them appear to be truly terrible.

  I am not a vain man, I remind myself as I flick through rails crammed with T-shirts in jarring designs. However, I know what I like, and it tends towards the basic: non-shouty colours, no logos if possible. I search through horrific shorts in cheap, rustly material and wonder what would Nadia make of me showing up to meet her in a banana-coloured nylon pair. As she has yet to call me back, it’s not an issue I need to trouble myself with now.

  I move onwards to another store. Again, it favours the loud and brash, only here the shorts all seem to be patterned with smiley faces and Pokémon characters, both of which I’d have assumed would have slipped into extinction. My charity shop has a more wearable selection than this. Where are the kind of shorts that roughly ninety-five per cent of adult males in Barcelona – basically everyone who isn’t a guard or a businessman – are strolling about quite happily in?

  I’m in the wrong part of town, I decide, turning to leave. I need to go to a normal shopping district and find the Catalan equivalent of Gap, or perhaps actual Gap. And that’s what I’m about to do, when a tall young man emerges from a curtained changing room – wearing a T-shirt and shorts.

  I cast the latter a quick look. They are a dull khaki green, baggy and roomy and perfectly acceptable attire. In the periphery of my vision I’m aware of him shuffling about, head bent, back towards me. ‘Uh, habla Iglesias por favor?’ he mutters. Iglesias – like Julio Iglesias.

  ‘Sí?’ the male shop assistant says.

  ‘Erm, d’you have more shorts just like these ones? ’Cause I think I’m gonna need two pairs …’

  I know that voice. The last time I heard it, it was spouting on about bovine lactation in my back garden. And as he turns towards me a stupid question pops out of my mouth: ‘My God, Alfie. What are you doing here?’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  As I explain that I decided to fly out and ‘surprise’ his mother, Alfie looks at me as if I am completely mad. ‘So … she actually doesn’t know?’ he asks,
frowning.

  No – because that is what I mean by a surprise. ‘Erm, no,’ I reply. ‘I’ve tried to phone her a few times since I arrived, but it’s just ringing—’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he says, picking up his chunky white coffee cup – we’re now installed at a pavement café – ‘that’s because her phone’s lost. She left it on a café table yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, Christ. Any chance of getting it back?’

  Alfie shrugs, as if it’s of no consequence to him. ‘Don’t think so.’

  We fall into silence, and I gaze around the pleasingly crumbly square, trying to pretend that we are sufficiently at ease with each other for the lull to feel comfortable. Perhaps anyone wandering by would surmise that we are father and son? However, as it is, the lull feels anything but comfortable. For one thing, Alfie has already explained that Nadia is out of town, having gone off to Figueres for the day, and he seemed not entirely enamoured with my suggestion that we have coffee together. But I had to ask, and in fact, I wanted to, if only to try and shift things onto a better footing with him, and, ultimately, with Nadia. I have no intention of bringing up his anti-dairy-farming rant today, if ever. The last thing I want is more hostility from him – although a proper apology wouldn’t go amiss.

  Still, he’s young, I remind myself: the age I was when I flew the coop and landed in Glasgow. And, although I thought I knew it all, I was an idiot back then.

  Probably still am, I reflect, conscious of Alfie checking me out from time to time across the table. He’s placed his phone next to his coffee cup. Its screen is cracked, the whole thing held together with badly administered yellowing Sellotape, all bumpy and curling up at the ends.

  ‘So, why did you tell Mum you didn’t want to come?’ he asks.

  ‘Because, erm …’ I stir my coffee. Of course, I am not about to go into the row we had on the phone, particularly as it was triggered by him, and nor do I want to explain that I behaved like a complete and utter arse to his mother.

  ‘She said you had, erm … a kind of thing,’ he prompts me, ‘on the phone.’

  ‘Yes, we did,’ I murmur. ‘And I regretted it and changed my mind and …’ I shrug. ‘And, well, here I am.’

  Although he’s been tending to avoid my gaze, his eyes meet mine now. He’s so similar to his mother, his eyes the same intense green, his nose and mouth echoing the face I’ve grown to love seeing. She is so unaffectedly, naturally beautiful, and I’m overcome by an intense wave of missing her.

  ‘Seems a bit weird,’ Alfie remarks, not unreasonably.

  ‘Um, yeah, I suppose it must do.’ Of course it’s weird; after all, I was urged to fly out here by a man who thinks it’s okay to boil an entire butternut squash in a pot. ‘So, how’s it been so far?’ I ask, twiddling a teaspoon now, the lactation issue hanging over us like a murky cloud.

  ‘Huh, all right,’ Alfie says.

  ‘Are you enjoying it?’

  He rakes at his mop of dark hair. ‘It’s okay. It’s very hot …’

  ‘Yes, but it’s a great city, isn’t it?’ I remark, gazing around the square again as if to demonstrate how much I am appreciating its beauty.

  ‘Yeah, it’s all right.’

  Just all right? I sense my jaw clenching. ‘What kind of things have you been doing?’ I ask, aware of sounding oddly formal.

  ‘Uh, just walking around and stuff.’ Jesus, is this the most enthusiasm he can muster? He might as well be in Hull – not that there’s anything wrong with Hull. In fact, I’ve never been there, and I’m sure it has tons to offer, but possibly not incredible Gaudí architecture with crazy mosaics and white, curvy roofs like melting icing …

  I picture Lori, who was thrilled when we went to Paris together, just the two of us, last Easter. I’d found us a cheap last-minute deal, a twin room in a grubby hotel near Gare du Nord; but it was brilliant, exploring with her, seeing her eyes shining with excitement as she photographed everything within sight: the bridges, Notre Dame, the iconic Metro signs, the portion of fries that came with her steak in a little silver bucket.

  This probably sounds as if I think I am a better parent than Nadia is, in that at least my child appreciates a trip. And I don’t at all. I have messed up in countless ways. Although I’ve worried about Elaine’s drinking, and Lori’s attitude towards school, and why certain teachers seem to dislike her (i.e. not allowing her to the Christmas dance), I have never managed to get to the bottom of what’s really going on.

  In short, I haven’t been able to fix things. And isn’t that what a dad is supposed to do? Make his child feel secure and safe and cared for? I’m not sure if I have managed to do that at all. But yes, Lori was thrilled to be somewhere exotic and wholly different from Glasgow. And now Alfie’s hand keeps twitching towards his phone, as if pulled by a powerful magnetic force, and he’s barely managing to resist it. At least he has manners, I suppose. I know some kids would sit there prodding away at it, even if they were out having coffee with their mum’s boyfriend (or, rather, ex). And maybe Lori will be like this in five years’ time – dull-eyed and listless, picking at a sugar packet the way Alfie is now, until it rips and the white grains scatter all over the table. Although I can’t imagine it, that doesn’t mean it won’t happen, and if it does it’ll serve me bloody well right.

  ‘So, um, how’s your mum doing?’ It feels weird, referring to her that way – and also as if she is ninety-seven years old and in hospital.

  ‘She’s all right,’ Alfie concedes.

  ‘Well, I imagine the Dalí place will be very good …’ And now I am speaking as if I am not fully au fait with the English language. He has this effect on me, this boy. I like to think I’m a normal, reasonably functioning man, but a few minutes in Alfie’s company turn me into a complete weirdo. Is there a cathedral in Aberdeen?

  ‘It does sound good,’ Alfie mumbles. Well, we’re agreed on that then!

  I drain my coffee. ‘D’you know when she’s heading back?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Sometime later on. Not that late, she said. We were going to have dinner …’

  ‘Ah, right. I wonder if she meant dinner like you’d have at home, at seven or eight, or much later like they do here?’

  Alfie gawps at me.

  ‘They eat very late, don’t they?’ I remark, sweating a little now.

  ‘Um, yeah, I suppose so,’ he says, and now he’s looking at me as if he would very much like me to pay for our coffees and fuck off and leave him alone, instead of chattering on weirdly to fill the silences.

  ‘I don’t think I could sleep if I had my dinner at eleven at night!’ Oh, for Christ’s sake. Shall we talk about my digestive system now?

  ‘Well, er …’ Alfie’s hand closes around his phone.

  ‘I’ll get the bill,’ I say quickly, checking my own phone for the time. ‘It’s just gone six. What’re you up to now?’

  He opens his mouth to answer, but is distracted by a text. He picks up his phone and peers at it. ‘It’s Mum.’

  ‘Is it?’ I bark, managing to restrain myself from reading it.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I thought she had no phone?’ That sounds accusatory and wrong.

  ‘She’s used someone else’s.’

  ‘Really? So she knows your number, then? I’m impressed! I don’t know anyone’s off by heart—’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘She memorised it so she can always keep tabs on me …’ He holds it out so I can read it:

  Mum here – I borrowed a phone. Hope all’s ok love? Met some lovely people, going for drinks, will catch a late train back. Any probs call this number – his name’s Rico. Love Mum xxx.

  ‘Who’s Rico?’ I ask, frowning.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Right.’ I smile tightly and pay the bill. As we get up, each of us clutching a carrier bag containing our identical shorts – there was nothing else remotely wearable in the shop – an idea occurs to me.

  Alfie is alone, probably without too much money and
will more than likely be hungry pretty soon. And I am alone too – and, I realise, starving now. ‘D’you fancy finding somewhere to eat?’ I suggest.

  ‘Um, I don’t really know where to—’

  ‘I’m sure there are plenty of places that have great vegan food,’ I cut in, feigning both knowledge and enthusiasm.

  He nods, taking this in.

  ‘My treat,’ I add. ‘C’mon – let’s go stuff ourselves …’

  His expression changes then, from a blank flatness to the slightest hint of a smile. I watch him, fascinated by the facial development, like David Attenborough observing a platypus chipping its way out of an egg.

  ‘I’m pretty tired,’ he adds. ‘I might go back to the apartment, have a nap …’

  Christ, what’s wrong with this boy? He’s in the flush of youth!

  ‘Okay,’ I say carefully, ‘so how about we swap numbers and meet up in a couple of hours, after your sleep?’

  He pushes his hair out of his eyes. ‘Yeah, okay,’ he says, albeit reluctantly.

  ‘Shall we meet here – on that corner – at, say, eight?’

  ‘Yeah. Sounds good.’ We exchange numbers and make our way back to the main street, where we part company. I glance back to see him loping off at a slight forward slant. Whilst I’m not madly enamoured with spending hours in Alfie’s company, I need to try to make things right between us. So that’s what I intend to do. We’ll have a fun evening somehow. I will not rake up the fact that he made my mother cry, and I will do my best to befriend this boy if it ruddy kills me.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Nadia

  If Jack’s mother favours pretty sketches of rural scenes, this group favours a different approach. ‘This is why we call ourselves the Wasted Artists,’ Gerri says with a throaty laugh as the barman at their hotel knocks up a second round of margaritas for us. By ‘us’, I mean Gerri, Rico, Elsa, Fran – and me. We had a late lunch at a lovely Moroccan place down the road, then strolled around Figueres, chatting and gazing at the shuttered houses in weather-worn pinkish stone. We wandered from the grand main avenues to narrow, tucked-away streets, until Gerri decided we all needed a restorative cocktail … or several.