When Life Gives You Lemons

by Fiona Gibson

  So I’m sleep-deprived, yes, but also ‘jolly’. Perhaps all this excitement is even having the effect of magically balancing out my hormones. This morning, I didn’t even have to wring out my pyjamas.

  Sunday, September 8

  I have never owned a dog. My parents were cat people, and I was brought up to regard any hound as potentially dangerous and, as Mum put it, ‘likely to turn’. But I know Bobby well. Turning is not in his nature. He is a delight, pottering around our house in his schnoodly way, and whining at the bathroom door when I go to the loo to the point where it’s easier to let him come in and watch me. While it’s a little bizarre, it’s also heartening to be needed so much that someone wants to gaze at you while you’re doing your business.

  Penny and Hamish have gone for a jaunt on his boat, and Nick is apparently out of town filming, hence her asking if we could step in and help out. Naturally, Izzy and I were delighted. Unlike Ludo, Bobby didn’t bring foul-smelling toothpaste and hasn’t demanded that I sweat over the pancake pan for fifteen hours. As Nick intends to be back late tonight, the plan is for him to come round in the morning to pick up our canine guest. Before I left work on Friday, I managed to arrange to take a day’s holiday tomorrow, ostensibly to let a tradesman in but really to knock my proposal into shape.

  I am still a little mortified about Nick witnessing me shouting about my brilliance on the kitchen table, but what the heck; he makes ‘human interest’ documentaries, and I was certainly being very ‘human’ and possibly even ‘interesting’. And I’m sure he’s seen worse.

  It has also occurred to me several times that he is extremely attractive; i.e. fanciably attractive, which is a bit of a shocker to me. Not because I expected him not to be, with a good-looking woman like Penny as his mother. But from the sole picture she’d shown me, all I’d glimpsed was an indistinct lean, tall and beardy figure, taken from some distance across a beach. I hadn’t been prepared for the loveliness of his clean-shaven face.

  Since Andy left, I had assumed I’d never register a man’s attractiveness again. And the idea of involving myself with anyone, of letting down my guard and allowing someone into my life – at least, as anything more than a platonic friend – is too bizarre for me to even contemplate. I mean, practically, how could I ever think of introducing ‘someone new’ (argh!) into Izzy’s life? Hey, darling, this is my friend Stephen! The very concept of throwing an adult male into the mix seems as bizarre and unnecessary as having a hot tub installed on our patio. I’m sure it’s enjoyable to have one, and fun to start off with, but the novelty would wear off and pretty soon its maintenance would outweigh the positives.

  However, my ability to register a man’s attractiveness clearly hasn’t died. Perhaps it’s the novelty aspect; there hadn’t been a handsome newcomer in my house since the cute tiler redid our bathroom six years ago, and Jules kept making her ‘How’s the grouting going?’ jokes. So, with the prospect of Nick’s visit tomorrow being a little nerve-racking, I have already decided that the Bobby handover will be conducted in a brisk and businesslike fashion.

  ‘Is that Bobby?’ Ludo calls over the fence when Izzy and I are playing with him in the garden.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I reply.

  ‘Why’s he at your house?’

  ‘He’s just here for a little holiday,’ I say. ‘Penny’s away overnight.’

  He comes right up to the fence and peers over, blond hair falling shaggily into his face, and something like blackcurrant jam smeared around his mouth. ‘Hi, Izzy.’ He grins at her.

  ‘Hi, Ludo,’ she says, throwing Bobby’s tennis ball, which he scampers after gleefully.

  ‘Is it nice, having him to stay?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s lovely, yes,’ I reply.

  ‘What does he eat?’ Ludo wants to know.

  ‘Erm, he likes fresh meat.’

  ‘What kind of meat?’

  ‘It’s a kind of steak for dogs.’ In fact, being Penny’s dog, and adored to the point of distraction, Bobby consumes only the finest minced beef, which comes in plastic trays; no dry pellets or even canned dog meat for this little prince. It is virtually on a par with human food. I describe this in detail to Ludo, before moving on to questioning him about the baby (‘What does she do?’ ‘Poos and pees!’). Although he won’t divulge much more than that, it’s preferable to any further grillings about the whereabouts of my errant, soon-to-be-ex-husband.

  ‘Can I come round and play?’ he asks hopefully.

  I hesitate, but decide to allow it, for the sole reason that I can’t think of a reason to say no, and don’t want to seem mean. And, surprisingly, the afternoon passes pleasantly, with me being on high alert, watching Ludo’s every move in the manner of a store detective shadowing a potential shoplifter. Chrissie seems overwhelmed with gratitude when I return her son, happy and tired, several hours later.

  ‘Say thank you to Viv and Izzy for having you,’ she says.

  ‘Thank you,’ he mutters to his chest. Then, as I turn back to our house: ‘Will Bobby sleep in your bed?’

  ‘No, Ludo. He has his own luxury basket,’ I say with a smile. ‘I wouldn’t let a dog sleep on my bed.’

  ‘Does he have a duvet as well?’

  ‘Er, no. It’s a fleecy blanket.’

  I take in Ludo’s eager, attentive expression. Something has happened since the arrival of his baby sister. He’s less shouty, less aggressive; less likely, perhaps, to try and stone the local cat population or smash down a shed. I’d like to think that being around a small, pink baby girl has softened him, but suspect he’s just shattered from all the crying during the night.

  Hours later, at around midnight, I’m aware of Bobby’s soft breathing close by, in-and-out, in-and-out, as I drift towards sleep. So much for him kipping in his basket. He made it clear he wasn’t having that, and who was I to argue when he sat there whining at my bedroom door? Now his head is on the pillow beside me, with one ear sticking up. Like a small, furry husband who doesn’t steal all the duvet, he emits the odd muted snore.

  As a bed companion he’s perfect. And, as a bonus, it occurs to me how disgusted Andy would be to see him here.

  Monday, September 9

  Nor does he wake up complaining about a swamp-like bed. He just gazes at me, eyes bright and adoring, tongue lolling as he pants in readiness for the day ahead. I can’t remember a morning when anyone has looked so happy to see me.

  Maybe this is my future, I reflect as I get dressed. Not with another man, taking up wardrobe space and commandeering too many hangers, but with a small affectionate animal with slightly stinky breath.

  Meanwhile, I have the prospect of Nick coming around later this morning, whom Penny seemed to have marked as a possible love interest for me. Never mind that he’s her own flesh and blood, who happens to live in New Zealand, and that the idea is as ridiculous as me trying to set up Spencer with someone. Even if he were single, he’d laugh in my face. He won’t even let me choose a T-shirt for him. My hooking up with our friendly lollipop man (whom I have since found out is seventy-eight years old – although admittedly well preserved!) is more likely. I thank him warmly as Izzy, Bobby and I cross the road on our way to school.

  Back home, I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror, unwashed and unkempt in my baggy grey sweater and jeans, hair stuffed into a scraggy ponytail; my default day-off-work look. Thirty minutes later I am showered and blow-dried (only for speed, not because I’m making a special effort), and wearing a blue cotton dress (first thing I put my hand on), and eye shadow, mascara, lipstick and a touch of blusher (only because the dress demands make-up) as I flit about the house.

  The doorbell goes. I stride towards it, with Bobby charging ahead of me, trying to settle my expression into bright/perky/not mad-looking in preparation for greeting my gentleman caller.

  ‘Hey, you’re all dressed up,’ says the postman with a grin, handing me a parcel. ‘Going somewhere nice today?’ He stoops to pat Bobby.

  ‘No, just hanging ar
ound really.’ I smile. I always wear a dress and full make-up for cleaning the kitchen. He leaves, having added that I have ‘brightened up’ his morning, and I check my face in the hall mirror again; those rogue facial hairs are only visible in certain lights. Not that I am concerned with impressing Nick. But I don’t want him to think his mother hangs out with a ragbag who could do with a shave.

  To keep myself occupied I let Bobby out into the back garden, regretting it immediately as Chrissie is out there, pegging out nappies (naturally a sage-toothpaste family opt for terry nappies). ‘Ooh, your hair looks nice today,’ she calls over with a smile.

  ‘Does it? Thanks!’ I feign surprise, as if no hairdryer has been utilised in the creation of this flouncy style.

  ‘You put me to shame, Viv,’ she adds. ‘You’re so glam!’

  ‘Not at all,’ I bluster, sensing myself flushing. ‘And you look great. No one would ever guess you’ve just had a baby.’

  She grunts and grimaces, muttering something unintelligible.

  ‘How are things going?’ I ask, strolling closer. ‘I’ve seen Tim out and about with Lara a few times. She’s absolutely beautiful. She’s so like you!’

  Chrissie smiles wearily. ‘We’re doing okay, I suppose, and Lara’s wonderful, of course. But it’s exhausting, and sometimes I don’t feel up to it – all the stuff you have to do. I guess I’d forgotten what it’s like.’

  ‘It’s all-consuming, isn’t it?’ I say, remembering it now: that weird, milk-and-nappy-scented bubble, the drifting around in a whiffy dressing gown, barely able to distinguish night from day. ‘The feeding and changing, I mean,’ I add. ‘I hope you’re managing to get some rest.’

  She rubs at her eyes. ‘Hmm. Chance’d be a fine thing with all the singing, the facial exercises and all that …’

  ‘Facial exercises?’

  ‘Oh, you know – the routine with the big smile, the sticky-out tongue, the whole range of movements …’

  ‘Really?’ I ask, genuinely intrigued, and remembering Penny mentioning her ‘benign neglect’ approach to mothering with Nick. ‘What’s all that for?’

  She gives me a startled look. ‘You know. So the baby can copy your expressions. It aids development.’

  Christ, is that what’s expected these days? Maybe – apart from the fact that I have no one to do it with – it’s just as well that I’m way past my reproductive prime. ‘I must admit, I never did any of that.’

  ‘Yes, well, you’re a relaxed mum and I admire you for that.’ Ah, we know what that means.

  ‘I’m not really,’ I start.

  ‘But you are,’ she insists, her eyes filling with sudden tears. ‘Ludo told me what it was like at your place. How you cooked whatever the kids wanted and let them have pancakes instead of a proper meal. And if they wanted to flop into bed, all dirty without having a bath, you were fine with that too …’ For Christ’s sake – did he file a full report on me? And, actually, Izzy did have her nightly baths!

  ‘That’s only because Ludo didn’t want—’

  ‘And you don’t mind mess,’ she goes on. ‘You’re not like me, always running around, picking things up, wanting the house to look decent …’

  ‘Chrissie … are you okay?’ Any defensiveness fades immediately as her tears spill over. She nods mutely. ‘You’re just exhausted,’ I add. ‘D’you want to come round and have a cup of tea with me, leave Lara with Tim for a little while?’

  ‘He’s at work,’ she says, sniffing.

  ‘Bring her over, then,’ I say, figuring that Nick is due any minute and, actually, having Chrissie and the baby here might help to defuse any awkwardness.

  ‘Thanks, but Lara’s napping and I don’t want to disturb her.’

  ‘Okay, if you’re sure. But any time you want to chat—’

  She rubs at her eyes again and smiles shakily. ‘Thanks, Viv. It’s so stressful, you know, trying to do everything right?’

  ‘Please don’t be hard on yourself. I’m sure you’re doing a great job.’

  She pushes back her dishevelled blonde hair. ‘Tim says so. The health visitor says so. But I never feel as if I am, you know?’

  ‘It’s natural to feel like that. Lara’s only three weeks old. Your body’s just been through a huge thing, and your hormones are probably all over the shop.’ Get me, the hormone expert all of a sudden.

  She nods. ‘I just feel … useless half the time. Ludo won’t listen to anything I say. I’m not giving him enough attention.’

  ‘I’m sure Ludo’s fine. He’s great!’

  ‘I guess my self-esteem isn’t too hot right now,’ Chrissie adds, turning back to her clothes pegging. ‘I should take a leaf out of your book, Viv, all blow-dried and wearing a lovely dress, not afraid to shout about how brilliant you are …’

  I blink at her. ‘Sorry?’

  She smiles another watery smile. ‘The day after we came home from hospital. I heard you shouting in your kitchen—’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry about that,’ I say quickly. ‘It was, um, a kind of exercise. A sort of self-empowerment thing. Jules made me do it …’

  ‘No need to apologise,’ she says, brightening a little now, clearly enjoying the memory. ‘But I won’t forget it. In fact I’m thinking of trying it too.’

  ‘You should! It’s good for the—’

  ‘Confidence?’

  ‘Yes, and for making a complete fool of yourself,’ I add, breaking off as my phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out: an unknown number. ‘Sorry, Chrissie, I’d better take this …’

  She nods. ‘Thanks for the pep talk. It’s helped, actually.’ I give her what I hope is an encouraging smile as I accept the call, and she heads back into her house.

  ‘Hi, Viv? It’s Nick here. Penny’s son.’ Penny must have passed on my number without my permission. That shouldn’t surprise me. She never knocks or rings my doorbell either – she just barges right in – but of course it makes sense, with the Bobby handover being imminent.

  ‘Hi, Nick, how are you?’ I say, stepping into the kitchen with Bobby close at my heels.

  ‘Good,’ he says, ‘but yesterday’s filming ran over and I ended up staying here in a B&B last night. I’ve just stopped at services. I’m so sorry. I should be with you in a couple of hours.’

  ‘No problem,’ I say. ‘I’m here all day so there’s no rush.’

  Keep it speedy and businesslike, I remind myself as I pace about with Bobby following me. I try to kid myself that I am merely ‘exercising’ him, and not marching around, unable to settle to anything due to Nick’s impending arrival. There’ll be no need for a big chat, I remind myself, quickly checking my reflection again and wondering if my hair is in fact overly bouffed up, and might startle him. He’s probably busy anyway and will just want to grab Bobby and go.

  At one o’clock precisely, Nick is sitting at my kitchen table, and I am serving us lunch.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Lunchtime

  Well, it would have been rude not to, considering he arrived just as I was starting to feel peckish. I had already decided that I didn’t want him to witness my usual home lunch of hummus, cherry tomatoes and crackers, and maybe a pear or a tangerine if I’m feeling really fancy. Not that I remotely cared what he’d think – but I’d happened to spy some parmesan, bacon and cream in the fridge, and we always have plenty of garlic for Izzy Cooks! Anything savoury has garlic in; it’s the law.

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’ I asked after our slightly awkward hellos, how are yous, and gosh, that was embarrassing when you arrived here with your mum (‘Your mum’! As if he’s nine years old). He’d said no thank you at first, but I soon wheedled it out of him that he had just driven up from Keighley, in Yorkshire, where he’d been filming his documentary about steam locomotives. And he’d had nothing apart from a dismal croissant about three hours ago.

  ‘That does smell really good,’ he conceded as I made a sauce, which happened to be enough for two people.

  ‘Oh,
it’s nothing really.’

  With a jolt, I realised what I was trying to do: give the impression that this is how I roll, like blinking Nigella, throwing together a sort of carbonara when I’m home alone on an ordinary grey-skied Monday.

  And now here we are, tucking into my pasta, while he asks, ‘So, have you and Mum been friends for long?’

  ‘About five years,’ I reply, going on to fill him in on our initial chats in the park, our meet-ups, and how fond my daughter is of her too. ‘She’s a wonderful person,’ I add.

  ‘Yeah, she really is,’ Nick says. ‘She’s a bit of a one-off. I wish I could see more of her, obviously.’

  ‘How long have you been in New Zealand?’

  ‘Coming up for ten years,’ he replies.

  ‘Did you move there for work, or—’

  ‘Um, not really.’ He smiles. He has her cheekbones, I realise, and those soft grey-blue eyes. His short dark hair is flecked with a touch of grey, his build slender, verging on rangy; he looks young for his years in a black T-shirt and jeans. There’s a touch of shyness about him, and it’s clear that he is unaware of how attractive he is. ‘I was on holiday in San Francisco,’ he goes on, ‘and I met someone there. It was a bit of a whirlwind thing. She’s from Auckland, and we moved there and got married, but it didn’t work out.’ He does a sort of shrug thing as he lays his fork in his bowl.

  ‘But you decided to stay there?’ I prompt him.

  ‘Yeah, work had sort of taken off for me there. I hadn’t had much luck over here.’ He smiles self-deprecatingly. ‘I don’t know what it was – maybe a bigger fish in a smaller pond, kind of situation? Anyway, I got lucky, and this latest thing – the steam railway project – was ideal. It meant I could combine work with spending some proper time with Mum.’

  I nod, now picturing the two of them way back; the depressing flat with the barking dogs below, and the brothel above. Penny moving them back to Glasgow, and finding that first shop and, when that took off, somehow persuading a backer to fund the opening of further stores. And while I’d love to ask Nick more about his childhood – and his mother – I manage to hold back. I’m sure he’s been quizzed about his mum all his life.