The Mum Who Got Her Life Back. Fiona Gibson

Jack about his car,’ Sarah explains with a shake of her head. She turns to me. ‘Are the kids coming back for the whole summer?’

      ‘Yes – at least, Molly is. She’s been offered work at her friend’s dad’s garden centre. You know what she’s like. Loves to earn a few quid and doesn’t mind grafting.’

      ‘So that’s your fun spoiled, Nads,’ Vic remarks with a grin.

      ‘It’ll be fine,’ I say, aware of my cheeks flushing as I laugh.

      ‘And what about Alfie?’ Sarah asks.

      ‘He’ll only be around for a few days, then his girlfriend’s coming down to our place, and they’ll head off. They’re going Inter-railing around Europe …’

      ‘Oh, I’m glad he’s met someone nice, Nads.’

      ‘Me too.’ My sister and I exchange a look across the table. She knows how much I worried about Alfie as he went through secondary school. Whilst he had a couple of close friends, he was always quiet and studious, a sensitive type who enjoyed drawing and baking and had no interest in sport. Unfortunately, this made him a target for bullying in his early teens, and the fact that his father is a film director only seemed to attract more unwanted attention (Molly exuded such self-assuredness, no one ever dared to hassle her about it). On one occasion Alfie was hurt pretty badly in a fight after school. The school tried to deal with it, and the problem seemed to abate, but since that time Alfie has always been rather awkward socially. He’d never had a girlfriend until he met Camilla at university, so I suspect a new start, in a different city, has helped to boost his confidence.

      ‘It’s been good for Nadia, you know,’ Vic observes as he fetches Jack, the only non-drinker at the table, another ginger beer from the fridge. The rest of us are knocking back the wine with some enthusiasm. ‘Getting the kids off her hands, I mean,’ he adds. ‘I don’t mean that in a bad way, do I, Nads? It’s not like you were counting the days till the buggers were off your hands—’

      ‘No, you’re right,’ I concede. ‘It has been good for me.’

      ‘We’d started to think ours would never leave home,’ Sarah tells Jack with a smile. ‘Scott was twenty-three when he finally moved out …’

      ‘And Ollie hung on in there till he was twenty-bloody-five,’ Vic exclaims.

      ‘That’s nice, Dad,’ Ollie exclaims with a snort.

      ‘Too bloody comfortable, that’s why,’ his father adds.

      ‘Ollie still says he misses your gravy, Sarah,’ Morvern says, grinning, and it strikes me that this scene isn’t so different to that lunch at Jack’s, when I met Lori: an easy gathering, with friendly and generous people who are happy to welcome in someone new. I find myself hoping that I can create a similar atmosphere of relaxed jollity when my own offspring return home.

      There’s a clattering of crockery as everyone helps to clear up, and afterwards the TV is put on far too loudly, as per Vic’s wishes, with everyone talking above it, and over each other.

      ‘Go on,’ Morvern urges Jack, flushed now from the wine, ‘what’s the worst thing you’ve ever had handed in at your shop?’

      ‘There have been so many,’ he says, pausing, perhaps to choose an example that’s not too disgusting. ‘Um, last week someone brought in an ancient pressure cooker that still had soup in it. All fuzzy with mould …’

      ‘Ew!’ Morvern shudders.

      Jack is further quizzed until, finally, I suggest that we really should be going.

      After promises to visit again soon – and Vic’s parting shot of ‘Remember to catch that rust, Jacky-boy, before it catches you!’ – we drive home to Glasgow, chuckling over the rust issue, and how weird it is that some men find it impossible to comprehend that not every other male shares those typical masculine interests (i.e. cars).

      ‘They’re lovely people, though,’ Jack adds.

      ‘Yes, they are.’

      I think about how Sarah thought I was crazy to split up with Danny; or, rather, she reckoned I should ‘hang on in there’, as she put it, until our kids left home. It served only to crank up my guilt, because wouldn’t a break-up have hurt them at any stage? And what was the alternative: to sit tight, pretending, until our facade of togetherness crumbled in front of our children? A failed relationship is nothing to be proud of, I know, but I’m not so sure it was a failure really, when we have Molly, who excels at her studies despite her hectic social life, and Alfie who, despite his shyness, seems to have found his niche in Aberdeen.

      ‘So, d’you reckon you’re ready to meet them, then?’ I ask, studying Jack’s expression.

      ‘Molly and Alfie?’ He glances from the driver’s seat. ‘Yes, of course I am.’ He grins. ‘Although, if it’s easier, you could just pretend I’m a friend …’

      ‘Yeah,’ I say, smiling. ‘“This is Jack, my new friend, who I’m not remotely attracted to …”’

      ‘“I’m very fond of your mum,”’ he chips in, ‘“but don’t worry, there’s no physical attraction whatsoever …”’

      ‘They do know I’m seeing you,’ I remind him.

      ‘And they were okay about that?’

      ‘Of course they were,’ I say firmly, ‘although I’m not sure they were listening. Whenever we talk, it’s always, “yeah-yeah”, like they’re desperate to get off the phone …’ I look at him. ‘They’re nice kids, Jack. Alfie can be a little awkward like most boys of his age – but they’re decent, well-mannered people …’

      He touches my knee, which sends a ripple of pleasure right through me. ‘I’m sure they are.’

      ‘You do know Vic was winding you up, don’t you?’

      ‘’Course I do.’

      We fall into silence as we join the motorway, then I ask, tentatively, ‘Are you nervous about meeting my kids?’

      There’s a beat’s silence, and he glances at me with a teasing smile. ‘Absolutely crapping myself,’ he says.

       Chapter Ten

      The following weekend, it’s one of Jack’s rare Saturdays off work. Lori is with her mother, and Glasgow shimmers in the bright May sunshine beneath an unblemished blue sky.

      Jack and I have already browsed the shops in the West End, and strolled through Kelvingrove Park. We should stay out, we both know it, but after a quick lunch we end up back at my flat, kissing on the sofa. That was something else I used to assume had shut down permanently: my ability to enjoy kissing as a thing in itself. But God, no. Proper kissing, I’ve realised since meeting Jack, does not come under the same banner as crocheted bikinis and novelty hair accessories; i.e. it’s not just for the young.

      We are lying there together, entwined and naked now (at some point during the proceedings our clothes have come off). ‘We probably should go out,’ I murmur dozily, making no move to go anywhere.

      ‘D’you feel like we’re wasting the afternoon?’ Jack teases.

      ‘Totally,’ I say with a smile as he pulls me closer. And so we waste yet more time, delighting in our indulgence and the fact that no demands are being made upon us whatsoever. My heart soars as it did on Christmas Eve, on our first date, when Jack and I kissed in the pub, and then outside the subway station before we said goodbye. I replayed that evening over and over, all through the next day when Molly and I went to Sarah’s. As I tucked into turkey and all the trimmings, a single thought looped around my head: I kissed Jack last night! We snogged in the street, like young things, even though we both possess