Mummy Said the F-Word (10 page)

‘Really old?’ I said. ‘What sort of age exactly?’

‘Even older than you,’ he gloated.

Favoured terms when it comes to fashion for thirty-five plus: well cut, classic and investment dressing, all of which make me want to keel over with ennui.

This seems the sensible option. Unless Darren asked me out as some kind of prank, he must have found me attractive. It’s a startling concept, and suggests that I should just go as myself. I settle on the floaty top and trousers plus strappy sandals for a smidge of foxery.

At the back of the bathroom cabinet I find a pot of cream which promises a ‘youthful, dewy glow with visible results in one month’. Can’t it act faster? I need results in one
hour
.

Miraculously, my paltry selection of budget cosmetics seem to have a prettifying effect. My eyes look less dead, my mouth more shapely and wanton (steady!). I pull up my hair into a messy attempt at a bun, yanking out some kinky bits to ‘frame’ my face (see, I do skim
Bambino’s
beauty pages) for a less matronly look. At last, my appearance doesn’t scream, ‘Mother.’

Downstairs, our babysitter, Holly, is chatting to the kids. They love her visits. Unlike me, it is acceptable for her to use words like ‘cool’ and ‘wicked’. (Jake once informed me that I should never say ‘cool’, not even in a temperature context – e.g. ‘I could murder a cool drink.)’

‘Wow, you look lovely,’ Holly announces.

‘Thanks.’ I feel chuffed even though she, in contrast, is
naturally
lovely and doesn’t require a ten-step anything.

All that remains is to plant fleeting kisses on the heads of my sweet-smelling offspring and swish off into the night.

N.B. The aforementioned steps should ensure that even the shabbiest mother greets the outside world feeling pleasingly smooth-skinned and luscious. At least, that’s what the magazines tell you.

Unfortunately, they never say what to do when you’re shitting a brick.

By the time I reach Circa, the new bar in Shoreditch, I have managed to bring myself down to a calmer state. Breathing exercises during the short cab journey helped. Millie showed me how to inhale slowly and deeply, hold my breath for a count of three … and
release
. It’s a tactic she uses prior to stressful meetings. (How stressful can things become in a soothing office populated by immaculately coiffed adults?)

As I push open the etched-glass door, I feel nothing scarier than mild giddiness. After all, this is nothing to flip out about. It’s not as if I am remotely interested in getting involved with Darren, or have him lined up as a potential boyfriend. I have already written him off as sweet, undeniably easy on the eye and useful for sourcing a reconditioned TV, but, at a guess, around a decade too young for me. It’s a bit of fun, that’s all.

The dimly lit bar is around half full, and there’s a hum of low-level chatter. The barman is mixing drinks in a showy way, spinning round for spirits and lemon. I perch on a barstool, order a white wine (large) and scan the room, prickling with anticipation.

The first few sips slide down easily and I start to feel more positive about the evening’s possible outcomes. Maybe Darren and I will become friends. He might start coming round for coffee and fix various defunct appliances for me. When it’s warmer, he might lounge in our back garden with his T-shirt off. That’d make Mrs Catchpole next door choke on her false teeth.

I imagine him introducing me to his equally fresh-faced friends. They won’t blather on about the rigours of potty-training or the MMR jab. They’ll discuss music and film and
clubs
. (That part’s scary: I haven’t been clubbing since my twenties.) Their fridges will house only a bottle of vodka and a hunk of cheese for late-night snacking. None will own a pasta machine. I’ll have to guard against making any embarrassing gaffes, like starting sentences with, ‘When I was your age’ or talking about school, nursery, the Three Bears toddler group, Martin, Daisy, Poppy … (God, there’s a lot I won’t be able to mention. What the heck
will
I talk about?)

Somehow, I have managed to arrive early. I glimpse my reflection in an artfully tarnished mirror, relieved that the purplish lighting masks my under-eye shadows. The bar is filling up now, and I catch the eye of a man who’s standing with a cluster of similarly dressed males (casual work trousers, shirts, loosened ties) by the window. The man smiles and waves. I smile half-heartedly back and it takes me a moment to realise it’s Guy, Rachel’s husband, devoid of ginger beard.

His face looks scarily naked.

Still clutching his beer, he bounds towards me, grinning broadly. ‘Caitlin, I thought it was you! Out and about in a drinking establishment. Gosh, don’t you scrub up well?’ His eyes slide over my body.

I smile tightly and edge back on my stool. ‘Just waiting for someone actually.’ It’s odd, running into him here – out of context, in a young people’s bar – when I’ve only glimpsed him building sandpits and tending his herbaceous borders. He is also, I surmise, a bit pissed and is sweating profusely around the temples. It’s not a flattering look.

‘Night out with the girls?’ he enquires.

‘Um, no, I’m just meeting a friend.’

‘
Boy
friend?’ He makes a frog-like gurgle.

‘Not exactly, no …’ I glance around desperately.

‘Lucky fella. If you don’t mind me saying, Caitlin, you’re looking lovely tonight. Never understood why Martin went off with that, that … other woman. Met her at work, didn’t he? Secretary or something?’

‘No, he—’

‘Why go out for a hamburger when there’s steak at home, eh? Hurhur!’

I almost choke.

‘What time is he due, this fella of yours?’

‘Now, actually. Eight o’clock.’ I check my watch and try to transmit desperate go-back-to-your-colleagues vibes. One of Guy’s cluster keeps gawping at us, as if something outrageous might happen and he doesn’t want to miss it.

Guy frowns at his watch. ‘I make it a quarter past and my watch is
never
wrong. Looks like you’ve been stood up.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Actually, now he’s pointed this out, I do think so. My underarms are sweating and my glass is tragically empty.

‘That’s men for you. Heartless bastards. Come on, let’s get you another drink. Come over, join the party. Can’t have a lovely woman like you sitting all on her own. God knows who might pounce, hurhur …’

Unable to concoct a single reason why I cannot possibly do this, I sit, mute, while Guy orders another glass of wine for me and traipse after him across the room.

And what a desperate bunch they are. All around Guy’s age – late-thirties – laughing too loudly and clearly thrilled to be among young people at night-time. (Actually, I was thrilled too, until approximately three minutes ago.) There are brief hellos and the group resumes its conversation.

‘So where were we? Oh, yeah,’ says the one with greying Brillo-pad hair, ‘so I creosoted the fence, thought I could get away with one coat—’

‘Hope it wasn’t actually creosote, mate,’ Guy chips in excitedly. ‘It’s a banned substance.’

‘Yeah, no – it’s that other stuff, the green-and-white can with the owl on the front …’

‘Did you brush it on or use a spray?’ Guy enquires.

My eyes flick between them. Their faces are flushed, their eyes gleaming like polished jet.

‘I sprayed. Much faster,’ says Mr Creosote, his cheeks trembling like half-set jelly.

Darren has stood me up. It was a prank after all.

‘You get better coverage with a brush,’ Guy warns, and the others murmur in agreement.

I could weep. Here I am, having followed the ten-step programme
and
booked a babysitter, and for what? To be trapped in a debate about wood preservative. Jesus. All around us, people are laughing and chatting animatedly and greeting each other with hugs. I’m seized by a desire to be one of them. Not Caitlin Brown, dumpee, trapped with middle-aged men discussing their fucking fences. Will I ever care about such matters? I guess I should, if I am ever to become a Proper Mother like Rachel. Mrs Catchpole often enquires when I’m intending to cut back the cherry tree that overhangs her garden, as if it’s threatening the very fabric of her home.

A stunning girl with a curtain of golden hair drifts past and Mr Creosote stares pointedly at her legs. I wait for a gap in the conversation to announce that I am feeling unwell and need to rush home immediately for medication and rest.

‘So,’ Guy asks, as if suddenly remembering my presence, ‘what does he do, this fella of yours?’

‘He’s not my fella,’ I reply tersely.

‘I mean your date. Your
hot
date.’ He pronounces it ‘
hat
’.

‘He fixes TVs.’

‘Oooh!’ Guy’s eyes bulge a little. ‘Not a high-flying journo like yourself, then. Bit of rough.’

Creosote guffaws. ‘Useful profession, though, if you need your aerial adjusting.’

‘Or someone to
twiddle your knobs
,’ cuts in a man with a neat row of rabbity teeth.

I try to laugh, or at least smirk, to show that I can handle a joke, but my mouth appears to be paralysed. Guy and his buddies are in full swing now. They should be on the fucking stage.

‘Watch he doesn’t give you any interference,’ roars Creosote.

‘Or try to turn you on,’ cackles the rabbity one.

I have deteriorated from revelling in my new-found youthfulness
to
feeling about 300 years old and on a fast track to Mimosa House. My wine is lukewarm, but I still swig it desperately.

‘So,’ Guy cuts in, ‘who’s looking after the kiddies tonight?’

‘No one,’ I reply. ‘I stuffed them into the cupboard and chucked in a couple of biscuits. They’ll be fine.’

He drops his gaze to my breasts. ‘Oh, really, haha …’

‘Um, Caitlin?’

I swing round. It’s Darren, an extremely cute and appealing prospect compared with Guy’s entourage. Cute and appealing, period. Perky smile, fudgy-brown eyes, hint of stubble around the jaw.

‘Hi, Darren.’ I smile, and he kisses my cheek.

‘Sorry I’m late – a few problems at work …’

‘That’s OK. Nice to meet you all,’ I say, managing the fakest of grins as I steer Darren away from the comedians.

‘We can have a drink with your friends if you like,’ he says.

‘They’re not my friends. And no, I don’t like.’

We both laugh, and I glance over my shoulder. Creosote makes a poking motion with his index finger, like someone turning on a TV.

The night can only get better.

And it does, with Darren’s banter offering a delightful contrast to Guy’s entourage.

‘So this woman came in to pick up her video,’ he tells me, ‘blaming me for the fact that it was stuffed with money. As if I’d put it there – two or three hundred quid’s worth of coins, which was why, of course, it was broken—’

‘Travis does that,’ I cut in. ‘He has the posting fetish, this desire to push things into little slots.’ I clamp my mouth shut. Children are supposed to be off the agenda tonight.

‘She says, “I don’t know how that got in there,”’ Darren continues, ‘and I say, “I assume you have kids …” And she goes, “Yes, but little Sweetiebums would never do that …”’

I laugh, trying to blot out the spectre of Guy and Creosote from the periphery of my vision.

‘So,’ Darren says, ‘how come a nice girl like you ended up single?’

‘How did you know I’m single?’ I ask, twirling the stem of my glass. ‘I mean, what made you phone me?’

He smiles. ‘I kind of took a gamble.’

‘Don’t believe you.’ I smirk.

‘OK … I realised I’d seen you before, in that posh deli by the museum …’

He’d noticed me? I always assume I’m invisible when out and about. ‘You were buying lemons,’ Darren continues, ‘and talking about pancakes, and your little girl was saying, “Do I have to go to Daddy’s this weekend?”’

‘Right,’ I say, a little startled.

‘That sounds a bit stalkerish. Sorry.’ He grins ruefully, and his eyes hold mine.

‘No, it’s OK.’

‘And after you’d been in the shop with your old telly, I kept looking at your number and thought, Well, she can only say no.’

I don’t know how to respond. I’m not used to this. It’s not like riding a bike or swimming: you really do forget how to behave in this kind of situation.

‘Well,’ I tell him, ‘I’m glad you did.’

Dear Pike, I muse, as we stroll past Guy’s gang, who are guffawing drunkenly by the cigarette machine, what would you recommend as proper etiquette at the end of a first date?

We’re on our way to dinner now – a cheap Italian. I was too harassed and nervy to eat with the kids before I came out and now I’m ravenous.

Darren’s hand folds around mine as he chats about his East London family and the business his dad passed on to him. He mentions stuff he gets up to at weekends: like clubbing (yikes). Bit of DJing (double yikes). It feels slightly odd, holding hands with someone over the age of seven, but I try to relax and do the breathing thing again, although more subtly this time. Don’t
want
Darren thinking I’m having a seizure, being old and everything.

Who cares that I was probably in secondary school when he was in nappies? I haven’t asked his age. Haven’t dared to. Maybe it doesn’t matter. It feels like both of us are keen for the evening to go on and on. But what happens at the end? I feel too long in the tooth for snogging down some dark alley, much as I’d like to, as Darren has the most delicious-looking mouth. In fact, I’d be up for kissing him, absolutely. I wouldn’t even worry about Holly detecting a just-snogged look about my lips. Heck, I think my libido’s woken up.

My mobile starts ringing. I snatch it from my bag, panicking that it’s an emergency at home. Christ, it’s Mimosa House.