Take Mum Out

‘Mmmm, yes …’

The small pause is filled by the sound of his rhythmic breathing.

‘You have a thing for kitchen utensils,’ I say flatly. He whispers something I don’t catch. ‘Speak up, I can’t hear you.’

‘I said,’ Anthony whispers, ‘I’ve been a very naughty boy …’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ I splutter, ‘you’re not a boy, you’re a forty-five-year-old man, and I hate to tell you but I use an electric mixer. D’you honestly think I could whisk up twenty-four egg whites with a hand whisk? I’d get repetitive strain injury or tennis elbow—’

‘Yes, but I just thought—’

‘Goodbye, Anthony.’ Having ended the call, I return to the kitchen, trying to emit an aura of serenity as I grab my mug of milky coffee and take a big gulp.

‘Anthony?’ Logan repeats with a smirk.

‘Was that Fat-Tongue Man?’ Fergus sniggers.

‘Who’sFat-Tongue Man?’ Logan enquires.

‘No one you know,’ I say quickly, serving up the eggs, even though no one seems especially interested in eating them.

‘Who’s got a fat tongue?’ he persists.

‘No one, Logan.It was just something stupid I said without thinking.’

‘Anthony’s the man she went out with last night,’ Fergus announces, ‘and he tried to kiss her. That’s why she’s on about tongues. He tried to stick it in her mouth—’

‘For God’s sake,’ I cut in, ‘of course he didn’t. I barely know him …’

‘He snogged her,’ Fergus adds with a shudder, ‘and now he’s calling her at home.’ I dump the egg pan in the sink and blink at my sons. Now, although I still have no plans to see Anthony again – and can’t believe I found him pleasant company as we snacked on Ingrid’s canapés – I do take exception to the suggestion that no man should phone me ‘at home’.

‘Where else would anyone call me?’ I ask mildly.

‘Dunno.’ Fergus shrugs.

‘I mean, I assume it’s okay for me to take private calls here,’ I add, aware that I’m verging towards overreacting now, ‘seeing as I pay the bill and the mortgage on our flat in which our phone resides.’

‘Yeah, all right, Mum,’ he says, shoving aside his substandard breakfast and swaggering out of the kitchen, closely tailed by his big brother.

‘Why does she do that?’ Logan’s voice rings out from the hall.

‘Dunno.’

‘Clemmie doesn’t. She never talks to Blake like that.’

‘Nah, I know,’ Fergus agrees.

‘She respects him,’ Logan observes, then the TV goes on in the living room, cranked up to its customary old person’s volume, so I can overhear no more.

I stand there, heart hammering in my chest, as a TV advert for fence preserver blasts through the flat. Only when it has returned to a relatively normal speed can I concentrate on the matter in hand. I resume piping meringues, wondering why any interaction between me and an adult male is viewed as tawdry, whereas their father is regarded as the height of respectability. Having put the last batch to bake, I clear up the kitchen, and find the boys still lolling on the sofa.

‘You know Dad’s coming to get you at lunchtime tomorrow,’ I remind them, ‘so you really should start packing today.’

No response. They are watching a programme about the building of an eco-house, a dazzling wedge of glass clinging to a hillside in a remote part of Wales.

‘Look at that,’ Logan murmurs. ‘Imagine living somewhere like that.’

‘Yes, imagine,’ I say distractedly, surveying the scattering of shoes, batteries and backless remote controls on the carpet.

Fergus turns to me. ‘It’s an eco-house, Mum. It’s hardly got any carbon footprint.’

‘Amazing,’ I agree.

‘We should be more eco-friendly,’ he goes on.

‘In what way?’

‘Well, like, our oven’s always on, isn’t it?’

‘Not always,’ I correct him, ‘but quite a lot, yes, when I’m baking, obviously …’

‘It’s on so much, Mum! Think of what it’s doing to the planet.’

I take a moment to digest this. ‘Meringues take a long time to bake, Fergus. There’s not much I can do about that.’

He scowls, as if I might be making this up, and enjoy consuming vast quantities of electricity just for the hell of it. ‘Couldn’t you make something different? Something that cooks quicker?’

I burst out laughing. ‘What d’you have in mind?’

‘I dunno, you’re the baker.’ With that, he turns his attention back to the TV where the presenter is extolling the virtues of a composting toilet.

‘Oh, and just so you know,’ I add, my voice drifting like tumbleweed, ‘the girls are coming over later to test flavours.’

Logan throws me a bemused look. ‘The girls,’ he sniggers.

‘Okay,’ I say, my voice rising a little, ‘the women are coming over. Is that better?’

Fergus chuckles. ‘That sounds as if you don’t actually like them very much.’

‘So when are they coming?’ Logan wants to know.

‘About seven-ish.’

‘Ugh, all that talking and laughing …’

‘I know – hideous,’ I snigger, catching Fergus’s eye who grins in return. ‘We shouldn’t be allowed to congregate en masse.’

But thank God we do, I think, leaving him to ogle the eco-house while Logan gets up and heads out, to meet his people.