Take Mum Out. Fiona Gibson

country home. Naturally, the garden is just the right side of wild, with cornflowers and poppies running rampant all over the place. ‘We designed our haphazard planting scheme to say, “Chill out and kick back on the lawn with us”,’ the caption reads. I glance at our bathroom windowsill where Fergus’s beleaguered cactus sits in its red plastic pot. We don’t design a planting scheme, we win it at the school tombola (along with a bottle of Lulu perfume which had actually gone off), and if it’s saying anything, it’s, ‘For Christ’s sake, dust me.’

      I flick my gaze back to the mag. ‘Patsy grows fresh herbs to add zing to spontaneous suppers with friends’, it goes on. Well, good for Patsy. My own children are primed to reject suspect greenery; they can detect the snipping of parsley even from a different room. My heart slumps even further as I study my unpainted toenails poking out of the water. Spontaneous suppers. How long is it since I had one of those? Or a spontaneous anything, come to that? As I work school hours, five days a week, I tend to resort to that deeply unsexy thing of Planning Ahead. As a tactic, it works, in that the three of us generally wind up with something edible on the table at dinnertime. At least, Blake seems to enjoy my offerings. But I can’t deny it’s slightly joyless, knowing you’ll be eating lasagne in five days’ time.

      I also batch-cook. How terribly … loin-stirring. I must remember to tell Giles-the-intern about my sessions with a steaming vat of bolognaise when we meet. That’ll get him all revved up – at least, if he nurtures secret dinner-lady fantasies.

      In another photo, pastel-coloured bunting is strewn across the perfect garden, and a little blonde girl in a white dress is playing with a syrup-coloured spaniel. Bet he doesn’t devour his owner’s knitwear. ‘It’s a gorgeous spring afternoon’, reads the text, ‘as Patsy Lomax, founder of sleepwear company Dandelion …’

      PATSY LOMAX??? It can’t be. But it is – it’s my ex Tom’s wife Patsy who grows herbs for spontaneous suppers, and the little girl in the garden is their daughter, Jessica. That’s their rose-strewn home, and their silk-covered notebooks artfully arranged on the coffee table. I flip through more pages, studying each photo in forensic detail, until I reach the final page of the never-ending extravaganza and here he is – Tom, no less, who’d happily inhabit the same ratty Smiths T-shirt for three days running when we were together, and would use our car keys to pick out dirt from between his toes while we were watching TV. Tom, who could barely operate a can opener without severing an artery, is now depicted wearing a chunky cableknit sweater, plus jeans and suspiciously pristine wellies, clutching an armful of veggies: curly kale, purple sprouting broccoli and some particularly knobbly-looking carrots. ‘Tom’s kitchen garden evolves with the seasons’ runs the caption beneath.

      I explode with laughter and sling the magazine on to the bathroom floor. Tom, cultivating legumes, when he used to refer to salad as ‘women’s food’ and had never knowingly ingested a tomato. Still sniggering, I clamber out of the bath and wrap myself in a large towel with all the softness of a gravel driveway, then snatch a bit of loo roll to give the cactus a cursory wipe. Maybe it’ll start evolving now. Perhaps vivid pink flowers will burst forth, like the tombola lady promised. Then I brush out my hair and pull on pyjamas and a dressing gown in readiness for baking the fifth meringue batch of the evening.

      As I emerge from the bathroom, Blake is lacing up his trainers in the hallway (this boy even removes his footwear on entering someone’s house) while Logan fixes me with a stare.

      ‘Why can’t we extend our place?’ he enquires.

      ‘Because it’s a flat,’ I reply pleasantly.

      ‘Is there nothing we could do?’

      I blink at my son, aware of Blake straightening up and smirking at us. ‘Well,’ I reply, ‘I suppose we could build a kind of sticky-out construction that pokes out over the street, like a giant shelf, and you could live on that.’

      Grunting with mirth, Blake remarks, ‘You’re lucky, Logan. At least your mum’s not always on at you like mine is. She’s not obsessed with the house being perfect …’

      ‘Thank you, Blake,’ I say, wondering whether to take this as a compliment or not.

      He grins. ‘Thanks for dinner’ is his parting remark. When he’s gone, I turn back to Logan, hoping to see a glimmer of a smile, or some realisation of how petulant he’s being.

      ‘I’m fed up with this place,’ he sighs.

      ‘Logan, you do have your own room. The biggest room, in fact.’

      ‘There’s not even a TV in it.’

      ‘So what?’ I counter. ‘There’s one in the living room that you have virtually free rein of. I hardly ever watch it.’

      ‘You watch Casablanca all the time …’

      I blink at him, trying to keep a lid on the irritation that’s bubbling inside me. What is wrong with him these days? Why is he being so foul, and is it likely to stop anytime soon?

      ‘I happen to watch it about once a year at the very most,’ I inform him.

      Fergus has appeared now, and is warming to the ‘teasing Mum about her old movies’ theme.

      ‘There’s that bit,’ he says, ‘when the guy says, “We’ll always have Paris”—’

      ‘And that’s when you start crying,’ Logan adds. With that, they both bark with laughter, and I stomp to my bedroom, reminding myself that I’m not one of those obsessives who sits glued to the same movie night after night, with a bunch of sodden tissues on her lap. Honestly – I only watch Casablanca about once a year, usually around Christmas time. Well, maybe twice. And, anyway, what business is it of theirs?

      In the kitchen, I set to work, switching on the radio and cracking eggs until, gradually, my irritation begins to subside. At least Blake likes it here, I remind myself, so it can’t be that bad. As I pipe tray after tray of rosette-shaped kisses, I decide I don’t care that Tom has managed to grab himself a magazine-style life. Bet that picture was staged anyway, and someone brought along those gnarly vegetables that Tom was clutching lovingly to his manly chest. Anyway, it’s not as if I’d be happier if he were huddled in a miserable bedsit, warming his hands on a Pot Noodle; it was my decision to split, which has caused me no small amount of guilt over the years, and Patsy has been good for Tom. Somehow, she has managed to realise his potential. It’s a pretty safe bet that he no longer turns his boxer shorts inside out so he can eke an extra day’s wear out of them.

      I’ve just filled the oven with another batch of trays when my phone bleeps – a text from an unknown number. Hi Alice, it reads, Giles here, I work with Viv. Hope ok to get in touch. Wondered if you fancy a drink sometime?

      Hell, why not? Tomorrow I’ll be finishing off the meringues – at least, doing the packing and labelling – and it’s the boys’ last night with me before their trip with Tom, not that Logan will regard that as anything significant, but still … I pause before replying, wondering whether to play down my commitments, or to be honest from the start. After all, Viv has told him I have kids. No point in trying to pretend I’m just back from my gap year travels …

      Sounds good, I reply. Maybe Wed eve as my boys are going away with their dad …

      No, no, no! So we can come back here and have rampant sex, it implies. Jesus. I delete it, typing instead: Would Wed eve suit you, about 8?

      Great, he replies. Will call you Gxx.

      Two kisses? Seems rather forward, although I find myself smiling all the same.

       Chapter Eight

      By Tuesday evening, Clemmie’s meringues are ready to go. With no help from Logan, I might add – although Fergus has spent about ten minutes carefully packaging a few tiny, pastel-coloured kisses