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‘I never realised Anthony was like that,’ Ingrid exclaims later as I set down plates of freshly baked meringues on the kitchen table. ‘What a complete creep. I feel so responsible. If I’d known, I’d have warned you off.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ I assure her as Kirsty and Viv munch on my confections, equally dismayed by the outcome of my date. ‘You didn’t exactly throw us together and force me to go out with him. I thought he was nice, actually. A proper grown-up …’
I’m aware that I have this grown-up-in-a-good-way thing, probably as a reaction against all those years spent with Tom. I don’t mean grown-up as in, ‘Every Saturday will be spent trundling around Homebase until I drop down dead.’ More, ‘It’s okay – I can fix things and throw a meal together, and I’ll never expect you to remember my relatives’ birthdays.’ An in-this-together sort of feeling … like we’re equals. If I occasionally yearn for anything, it’s that.
‘I guess there was no way of knowing he likes being smacked with utensils,’ sniggers Kirsty.
‘Well, I thought he looked creepy,’ declares Viv, smoothing back her neat auburn crop. ‘I tried to communicate that to you every time I came into the kitchen.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ I tease her. ‘Whenever you glanced over you gave me an indulgent smile, as if to say, “Ah, that’s nice, Alice enjoying some adult male company for a change.”’
‘No, I didn’t. God, you’d have no end of male company if you wanted it, if you put out some signals. You’d be fighting them off with sticks …’
We all laugh, and I quickly shush them as Fergus scampers in to grab a bottle of Lucozade from the fridge and barks a speedy hello before disappearing again.
‘Does he know about your date?’ Kirsty murmurs.
‘Yep. Heard me muttering to myself about Anthony plunging his tongue down my throat …’
Viv splutters. ‘That’s the kind of conversation you have with yourself?’
A strawberry meringue dissolves in my mouth. ‘Sadly, yeah. I probably traumatised my poor boy …’
‘Bet he’d love you to meet someone, though,’ Kirsty suggests.
‘You really think so?’ I laugh dryly. ‘He interrogated me after Anthony called today. God knows how things would be if I dared to bring a man back to the flat. I’d have to smuggle him in, covered in a blanket, like a criminal being ushered into a police van. And then we’d lie in bed, as silent as lambs in case Fergus – his bedroom is next to mine, remember – got wind of some action and set off his translator to spite me: “I have been raped!”’
Everyone howls with laughter.Seriously, though, is it any wonder I find the very thought of sex rather anxiety-making?
I glance at Viv who, perhaps in an attempt to inspire me, has switched the topic to her current dalliance with some whippersnapper she pounced on in a bar. Although the four of us are close in age, Viv has by far the whizziest life these days. As studio manager at a textile design company, she easily passes for a decade younger with her Mia-Farrow-esque crop, which she carries off beautifully with her large brown eyes, pronounced cheekbones and the rosy complexion of the child-free. Viv married young, at twenty-one; the ring had barely been slipped on her finger when her husband started to micromanage the way she dressed (no hemlines above knee-length) and even her make-up (i.e. none). So jealous was he, she used to joke that he’d probably implanted some kind of tracking device in her while she slept – then he caused an almighty scene when she was chatting to some man at a party, and it stopped being remotely funny. Sick of being ‘under surveillance’ as she put it, Viv packed her belongings into two battered old cases and walked out. There’s been a dizzying amount of flings since, though nothing remotely approaching serious.
‘You need to cast the net wide,’ she instructs me now, smoking a cigarette at the open kitchen window. ‘Find yourself a younger man. Everyone’s doing it these days.’
‘You mean you are,’ I snigger. ‘Anyway, how young is too young, d’you think? I mean, what are the rules?’
She takes a drag of her cig. ‘Half your age plus seven is perfectly fine.’
‘And how did you work that out?’
She grins and drains her wine glass, refilling it to the brim from the bottle. Viv drinks fast, with seemingly no ill effects next morning; but then, my hangovers were child’s play before I had kids.
‘Well,’ she explains, extinguishing her cigarette under the running tap and dropping it into the bin, ‘that way you avoid people crowing that you’re twice his age. And think of the energy levels, Alice. Younger guys don’t need much sleep, and when they do it’s at the proper time – you know, at night, and not when you’re watching a movie together.’ My mind flashes back to Tom sleeping, seemingly for days on end, like a hibernating dormouse in his duvet nest on the sofa. ‘Although, I have to say, it’s not all good,’ Viv goes on, cheeks already flushed from the wine.
‘Sounds pretty good to me,’ Kirsty says ruefully. I know she and her husband Dan have been having problems lately; their three children are home educated, and he appears to have reneged on his part of the deal, which was to teach them science and maths. As Kirsty has pointed out, home educating is a cinch when you’re sitting in a peaceful office, ten miles from home.
‘I mean, look at the state of my face,’ Viv laments. ‘I’m so sleep deprived, I can’t tell you.’ She jabs at the faintest hint of under-eye baggage.
‘That’s normal,’ Kirsty retorts. ‘I’ve had mine for so long, they’re permanently etched on my face.’
Ingrid leans forward. ‘You know the best treatment for those? Pile ointment. Alice, d’you have any old tubes kicking around?’
‘Thanks a lot,’ I scoff. ‘When you think of my bathroom cabinet, you’re not picturing a beautiful pot of Crème de la Mer. You’re thinking a mangled tube of Anusol.’
‘Well,’ she says with a smile, ‘you have had that … problem over the years, haven’t you?’
‘Not for ages,’ I insist, heading to the bathroom anyway and returning with the requested tube.
‘Great. Dab it on,’ she instructs Viv.
‘What are you doing?’ Fergus, who’s returned to the kitchen for further supplies, stares at us from the doorway.
‘Emergency beauty treatment,’ Viv explains, patting an eye-bag with a finger and waggling the tube. ‘This, Fergus, is your mum’s bum cream but as you can see, it has other uses. It multitasks.’
She is slurring a little, and he regards her with horror before backing out of the kitchen.
‘Thank your lucky stars you’re not a woman, Ferg!’ she cackles after him. ‘Our lives are so fucking complicated.’
‘Viv,’ I scold her, only half joking, ‘you’ve traumatised my poor boy. He’s thirteen. He doesn’t need to know alternative uses for haemorrhoid ointment.’
‘It’s good for him,’ Viv insists, ‘to learn about the quirks of womankind. You cosset those boys, keeping them all wrapped up in cotton wool …’ Christ, what is she on about? ‘Anyway,’ she adds, ‘never mind that. Who are we going to fix you up with after that disaster last night?’
‘No one.’ I crunch a rose-scented meringue.
‘Come on, there must be someone …’
‘What about Derek?’ teases Ingrid, flicking back expensively blonded hair.
I splutter with laughter. Derek is the janitor and sole male employee at my school, where Ingrid’s daughter Saskia is a pupil.
‘He’s lovely but he’s also pushing sixty, I’d imagine. I don’t want a boyfriend who’s twenty years older, thanks all the same.’
‘You don’t want a younger one either,’ Viv teases.
‘God, she’s choosy,’ Ingrid snorts as Logan barges in. He glances around, transmitting a silent message – Christ, pissed middle-aged women – even though Viv’s knocked back most of the wine so far, and is already grabbing another bottle from the fridge.
‘How are you, Logan?’ Kirsty asks pleasantly, causing his expression to soften. He likes her the best, approving of her earth-mummy credentials (although, when I jokingly asked if he’d like to be home educated, he shrieked, ‘God no!’).
‘Good thanks, Kirsty,’ he says gallantly, helping himself to a Tunnock’s teacake from the cupboard.
‘Not having any of these meringues?’ Viv asks.
‘Nah, maybe later.’
‘Poor boy’s all meringued out,’ Ingrid chuckles, sipping her tea as Logan beats a hasty retreat from the kitchen.
‘What a handsome boy,’ Kirsty declares.
‘Like his dad,’ I chuckle, and it’s true; however useless Tom may have been, he also happened to be one of the most striking men I’d ever met, if you go for that whole intense, brown-eyed brooding thing, which he – and now Logan – possess in spades. Plus, Tom is hanging on to his looks remarkably well. Due to a lack of stress or exertion, probably.
‘Anyway,’ Ingrid says, ‘I still feel bad about Anthony and his whisk thing.’
‘Oh, I don’t care about that,’ I declare, refilling Kirsty’s empty glass. ‘It did make me think, though, that I’m not going to bother going on random dates any more.’
Ingrid catches my eye. ‘And by random dates, you mean …’
I shrug. ‘Just some man who happens to ask me out.’
‘Why not?’ Viv asks, aghast.
‘Because …’ I shrug. ‘I’m not even sure I want to meet anyone. I mean, I like being able to please myself and not be answerable to anyone. And I kept thinking, when I was in that restaurant with Anthony with all the silly, tiny food, why am I doing this? I’d have had a nicer time at home with the boys.’
Kirsty gives me a concerned look. ‘That’s because you knew virtually nothing about him, apart from that he plays golf.’
‘We should vet the next man you go out with,’ Viv suggests.
‘I am thirty-nine,’ I remind them. ‘I can usually weed out the weirdos and whisk-pervs.’
‘I’d never have imagined a whisk could be considered erotic,’ Kirsty muses. ‘What d’you think he’d have made of your piping bag?’
We all snigger, then Viv adds, turning serious, ‘All I mean is, we could find suitable dates for you. If each of us picked someone – really carefully, I mean, putting lots of thought into it – then you’d have three really lovely, eligible men to choose from.’
I frown. ‘But surely, if you knew someone that appealing who you thought might be interested, then you’d have told me about him already.’
‘No, we wouldn’t,’ Ingrid declares, ‘because you’ve got this whole thing going on of, I am perfectly all right by myself, thank-you-very-much.’
‘You can even build flatpack furniture,’ Kirsty observes.
‘Well, yes – if you take it step by step it usually turns out all right.’
‘You’ve been single far too long,’ Ingrid observes. ‘Flatpack’s no fun unless there’s a load of swearing and someone storms out in a furious temper.’
I nibble a salted-caramel meringue; good, but the caramel shards should be ground finer so as not to stick to the teeth.
‘Okay, so you reckon I need someone to say, “Stand back, fragile maiden, allow me to fly into a complete rage while building this bookshelf for you.”’
Viv shakes her head. ‘No, you just need some fun.’
‘You mean I’m a miserable trout?’
‘No!’ everyone cries.
I laugh, appreciating their concern, but eager to swerve the conversation away from my sorry love life.
‘So what d’you think of these flavours?’ I ask, indicating the shattered remains of the meringues on the plate. ‘Can we put them in order of favourites?’ Everyone starts debating, and I scribble down comments and suggestions.
‘Our flavours sort of match us,’ Viv observes when everyone has nominated their favourite. She’s right; I’d have guessed she’d nominate pistachio and rose water, the on-trend flavour combination in confectionary circles. I expected Kirsty, fresh-faced with her tumble of light brown curls, to go for strawberries, while Ingrid – all languid beauty with her refined features and salon-fresh waves – is definitely a salted caramel girl (sorry – woman).
‘Shows how different we are,’ Kirsty agrees.
‘And how we’d all pick a very different sort of man for you,’ Viv adds with a grin.
There’s a burst of laughter from the TV in the living room. ‘I’m just not keen on the idea of being set up, you know?’ I venture. ‘It feels too … forced.’
‘But almost everyone’s set up at our age,’ Ingrid points out. ‘How else d’you think it happens, apart from online dating, which you won’t even consider?’
‘I just don’t want to turn it into a project,’ I say, feeling ever-so-slightly bossed around now. ‘Anyway, if you did all pick someone, what if none of them were right? I’m not being negative here, but it’s pretty likely, isn’t it? I mean, three isn’t that many.’
‘We’re thinking quality over quantity,’ Viv explains.
I nod, considering this. ‘But then, if it didn’t work out, I’d feel bad because each of you had put so much thought and effort into it.’
Kirsty shrugs. ‘It wouldn’t matter a bit. You could reject them all if you liked. It’s just a bit of fun.’
‘For you lot, maybe,’ I snigger, topping up my glass.
‘Oh, come on,’ Viv says, ‘just give it a try. I mean, who knows you better than us?’
‘We’ve known you for twenty years,’ Kirsty points out.
‘That’s sixty years’ combined experience of Alice Sweet,’ Ingrid says with a throaty laugh.
I crunch a pink-flecked meringue. Kirsty is right; the combination of heady strawberries, and the chewy sweetness of the meringue, are a perfect match. ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘I’ll give it a try.’
‘Brilliant,’ Ingrid exclaims.
‘We’ll start thinking of candidates,’ Viv announces as everyone starts babbling excitedly. ‘My God! You might even love them all …’
I laugh, buoyed up by the wine and being with the women I love most. ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘but let’s hope they’re not too appalled when they meet me.’
‘They’ll think you’re gorgeous,’ Viv declares, shaking her head. ‘God, Alice, what’s wrong with you? Have some belief in yourself.’
Chapter Five (#ulink_c7d768fa-4477-5c53-a50a-4c13ca531c1b)
‘Now, Alice, I’ve been thinking about your weight,’ my mother announces as the boys and I arrive on her doorstep next morning. It’s a thing with Mum – my appearance, I mean. Considering her fierce intelligence – until her recent retirement she was a university professor of Medieval Studies – she places an awful lot of emphasis on how people look. It’s probably why I’m wearing my favourite skirt and top, plus a cardi I absolutely love; cashmere, in a beautiful deep-raspberry shade, bought for my last birthday by Ingrid.
‘Have you, Mum? I’m kind of fine with the way I am,’ I say as the three of us follow her into her ancient, low-slung cottage. It stands alone, as if sulking, in the treeless landscape of the North Lanarkshire moorlands and seems to sag in the middle, as if someone has sat on it.
‘Well,’ she goes on, smoothing back her pewter-flecked hair which she wears in a long, low ponytail, ‘I just thought you might be interested in this diet I cut out for you. You know, if you wanted to lose a few pounds.’
Logan suppresses a snigger as we blink in the gloom of her kitchen.
‘What sort of diet is it?’ I ask pleasantly. The one where you exist on some terrible, fart-making soup? Or staple your mouth shut and eat nothing at all?
‘Oh, I’ve got it here somewhere …’ She frowns and starts flicking through mountains of ratty old paperwork on the gnarled oak table. We’ve been here for less than five minutes and already I can sense a vein throbbing violently in my forehead. It’s my fault; I should have spent the forty-minute drive mentally revving myself up into the sparkling game-show hostess persona that’s required on these occasions, instead of berating the boys for moaning about visiting Grandma. ‘It’s my Sunday,’ Logan kept lamenting, as if he’d been slaving away at the coalface all week. ‘I was gonna do stuff.’
‘I don’t mind going,’ Fergus conceded, ‘but we’re not staying long, are we? Like, we’re not gonna be there all day?’
