Take Mum Out. Fiona Gibson

      ‘Yes, we’re discussing the best way to fold tea towels,’ I call after him. ‘God,’ I mutter to Viv. ‘I’ll never be able to bring a man back here with those two policing me. I’ll have to wait until Fergus leaves for uni.’

      ‘How long away is that again?’ she asks.

      Heading for the relative privacy of the kitchen, I pull off my jacket which retains its fuggy smell from Mum’s house, mingling with the vinegary tang of the chippie. ‘Only five years. Half a decade. I’ll be forty-four by then.’

      ‘Isn’t Tom taking the boys away soon?’

      ‘Yes – on Thursday, when they break up. But I’m not planning to bring anyone back and jump on them the minute they’re gone, Viv.’

      ‘No,’ she giggles, ‘you’d better at least wait until his car’s gone round the corner.’

      ‘Camper van actually. He’s hired some amazing, top-of-the-range model …’

      ‘He’s moved up in the world, hasn’t he, from that leaky two-man Argos tent?’

      ‘Yes, but he married well, remember …’

      ‘There you go then,’ she says triumphantly. ‘You’ll have an empty flat. Perfect opportunity.’

      ‘For what?’ I ask, laughing. ‘I’m not planning to rush in, Viv.’

      ‘Why not?’

      Because it’s too sodding traumatic, that’s why. Because – if truth be known – I can barely remember which bits go where.

      ‘I just want to take things slowly,’ I say feebly.

      ‘Hmm. So, who’s Kirsty found for you? One of her beardy single-dad mates?’

      ‘She didn’t mention a beard,’ I say with a smile, ‘but, yes, he is a dad …’

      ‘… Wears tie-dyed trousers, reeks of hummus …’

      ‘Actually, he’s a dentist.’

      ‘Ugh. Not very sexy, is it?’

      ‘What,’ I say, ‘being a dentist? I don’t see why not.’

      ‘Oh, you know,’ Viv goes on. ‘Cavities, plaque, poking about with other people’s rotting molars …’

      I shrug off my cardi, lay it on the kitchen table and frown at the greasy patches which have seeped through the pockets. There’s a small lump in one of them; it’s the Tuc biscuit diet, scrunched into a tight little ball.

      ‘It was you who said I should keep an open mind,’ I remind her.

      ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I’ve a feeling mine’ll be much more your type.’

      ‘Not that this is a competition,’ I tease.

      ‘Of course it’s not. God. It’s all about you, not just cheap entertainment for us.’

      I smirk and flick on the kettle.

      ‘In fact, we’ve all had a chat,’ Viv continues, ‘and we decided that, no matter how much you like the first one, or the second, you still have to go out with all three of them just to be sure.’

      ‘To give you all a fair chance of winning,’ I remark with a grin.

      ‘Yeah. No! Oh, you know what I mean. We feel it’s important to follow the whole process right through to its conclusion.’

      ‘Okay, so who d’you have in mind?’

      Viv hangs off for a moment, in order to pique my interest. I picture her pacing around her small art-filled flat, drawing on a Marlboro Light. ‘Okay – his name’s Giles.’

      ‘Sounds posh.’

      ‘Well, he’s not. At least, not especially. He’s a new guy at work – cute, really fun, dark nicely cut hair and the most stunning blue eyes …’

      ‘Wow,’ I exclaim. ‘And you’re sure he’s single?’

      ‘Yes, absolutely.’

      ‘And you said he’s new …’

      ‘Yeah.’ Curiously, she has become a little reticent.

      ‘Is he a designer?’ I ask, faintly intrigued by the idea of someone who could give me tips on transforming our ‘space’.

      ‘Um … not exactly.’

      I slosh boiling water into my mug – one hand-painted by Viv, incidentally, all cerise and gold swirls, almost too pretty to drink from. ‘Is he in the accountants department?’

      ‘Nooo …’

      I blow out a big gust of air. ‘Viv, listen, you know I don’t care about job titles or how much someone earns. It really doesn’t matter.’

      ‘Yes, I know that,’ she says.

      ‘But you’re actually being really cagey, which is a bit weird. I mean, if you like him and think we’d get along, that’s fine – I don’t care if he’s the maintenance man …’

      ‘He’s the intern,’ she interrupts.

      ‘The intern?’ I repeat. ‘I can’t meet the intern, Viv. God.’

      ‘Why not? You just said you don’t care about job titles.’

      I’m laughing so much now, Fergus pokes his head around the kitchen door to see what’s funny. ‘I don’t,’ I say, grinning and waving him away. ‘It’s not that. It’s about age.’

      ‘But he’s gorgeous,’ she insists. ‘He has amazing bone structure and great teeth …’

      ‘Yes, well, milk teeth usually are.’

      ‘Oh, for God’s sake, he’s not that young. Just meet him, have a drink, go to a movie or something …’

      I pick up Mum’s diet from the table and ping it in the vague direction of the bin. It bounces off it and lands on the floor which is currently littered with enormous, boat-like trainers and a smattering of orangey dust which I presume to be crushed Doritos.

      ‘I’m not sure a movie’s ideal for a first date,’ I say, ‘and I’m not really up for watching American Pie or the latest Pixar …’

      ‘Alice, he’s not a teenager. He’s worked for years, done this and that – taught English, travelled, hung out in Ibiza for a while … he’s a really interesting person.’

      ‘I’m sure he is,’ I reply, as a collection of gap year jewellery – leather thongs, yin yang symbols and the like – shimmers in my mind. God, I haven’t even been to Ibiza; the whole clubbing thing passed me by. In my younger days I was happier installed in a pub with my mates and a load of crisps and beer.

      ‘And he’s always wanted to work in design,’ she continues, ‘so when his grandma died and he inherited some money, he decided to apply for an internship. He was so impressive at the interview, very passionate …’

      ‘Were you orgasming at this point?’ I enquire.

      Viv snorts. ‘I was a bit distracted, I have to admit. Anyway, it’s a career change for him.’

      ‘A change from what? Sitting on beaches and taking shitloads of drugs?’

      ‘Stop that. He’s serious about this. Hopefully he’ll be taken on properly after a few months.’

      I push back my dishevelled dark hair, detecting a faint chip-shop smell, and nibble a finger of Kit Kat that someone has left on the table. ‘So how old is he?’ I ask.

      ‘Er … twenty-nine.’

      ‘That’s ten years younger than