where his entire body appears to spasm. While I’ve never been one to derive pleasure from seeing an animal in distress, his actions – causing Mum to leap up and hurry towards him – give me just enough time to snatch all three of our burgers from their buns and ram them into the small side pockets of my cashmere cardigan.
‘Is he okay, Mum?’ I ask as Brian vomits and the boys convulse with silent mirth.
‘He’s been doing this a lot lately,’ she mutters, wiping up the small pool of puke with the cloth from the sink. ‘He’s been on a cheaper brand of food since your father left and it’s not agreeing with him.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘I can’t afford his trout pâté any more,’ she adds.
I take a big bite of roll, hoping that any beef residue is minimal. ‘That’s a real pity.’
‘Poor Brian,’ Fergus adds for effect. ‘Maybe he should see a vet, Grandma.’
‘As if I can afford that,’ she exclaims, rinsing out the cloth at the sink while I give my cardi pockets a tentative pat. Grease is already seeping through the fine raspberry knit. I could grumble about this, and point out that it’s the
only cashmere garment I’ve ever owned
– but its ruination is a small price to pay for my boys’ wellbeing.
As I finish my bare roll, my mobile rings. ‘Excuse me a sec, Mum,’ I say quickly, marching to the back door and letting myself out into the scrubby back garden.
‘You okay to talk for a minute?’ Kirsty asks.
‘Yes, but I’m at Mum’s …’ I fill her in on the rank burger incident, knowing that Kirsty, who hasn’t eaten ‘anything with a face’ for twenty-five years, will be sufficiently appalled.
‘And your lovely cardi’s ruined?’ she laments. ‘That’s awful. Ugh. Anyway, this’ll cheer you up. I think I’ve found a man for you …’
‘Who is he?’ I glance at the row of industrial beige knickers wafting gently on Mum’s washing line.
‘His name’s Stephen and he’s our new dentist …’
‘A dentist,’ I repeat.
She laughs. ‘Keep an open mind. He’s brilliant with the kids – they actually look forward to going now. And I ran into him again at a birthday do Hamish was invited to. You know how most dads tend to hide away in corners at kids’ parties?’
‘Tom never went to any,’ I say with a snort. ‘It’s a miracle he actually showed up to Logan and Fergus’s.’
‘Well, Stephen was great,’ she declares, ‘getting stuck in with the games, being the wolf in What’s the Time, Mr Wolf? and helping the kids to build a fire at the bottom of the garden. He had them all toasting marshmallows …’
‘Wow,’ I breathe, unable to decide whether this is a hugely attractive quality, or smacks of over-zealous and eager to please. Perhaps I’m just not used to party-fabulous dads.
‘His daughter Molly’s around eight,’ Kirsty goes on. ‘She’s in Hamish’s class. He’s a single dad, has been for years as far as I can make out …’
‘And you’re sure he wants to meet someone?’
‘Oh yes. We got chatting and I told him all about you. What else? Um, he’s tall, slim, fairish hair, greenish eyes … he’s just
nice
, you know? Good-looking but not intimidatingly so.’ She pauses. ‘I did warn him that you’re a pusher of meringues and he seemed fine with that.’
I laugh, my spirits rising as I fish the burgers from my pockets and fling them one by one, like miniature frisbees, over the drystone wall.
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘but can we leave it until the boys are away on their jaunt with Tom? I feel bad, expecting Logan to look after Fergus all the time.’
‘Yes, like, about once a month,’ she says, not unkindly.
I bite my lip. ‘It’ll just be simpler that way.’ This isn’t entirely true; after amuse-bouche night, I need time to rev myself back up into a dating frame of mind.
By the time I’m back inside, Mum has produced a collection of illustrations showing Scotland in the Middle Ages. The scene – of
‘Is he okay, Mum?’ I ask as Brian vomits and the boys convulse with silent mirth.
‘He’s been doing this a lot lately,’ she mutters, wiping up the small pool of puke with the cloth from the sink. ‘He’s been on a cheaper brand of food since your father left and it’s not agreeing with him.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘I can’t afford his trout pâté any more,’ she adds.
I take a big bite of roll, hoping that any beef residue is minimal. ‘That’s a real pity.’
‘Poor Brian,’ Fergus adds for effect. ‘Maybe he should see a vet, Grandma.’
‘As if I can afford that,’ she exclaims, rinsing out the cloth at the sink while I give my cardi pockets a tentative pat. Grease is already seeping through the fine raspberry knit. I could grumble about this, and point out that it’s the
only cashmere garment I’ve ever owned
– but its ruination is a small price to pay for my boys’ wellbeing.
As I finish my bare roll, my mobile rings. ‘Excuse me a sec, Mum,’ I say quickly, marching to the back door and letting myself out into the scrubby back garden.
‘You okay to talk for a minute?’ Kirsty asks.
‘Yes, but I’m at Mum’s …’ I fill her in on the rank burger incident, knowing that Kirsty, who hasn’t eaten ‘anything with a face’ for twenty-five years, will be sufficiently appalled.
‘And your lovely cardi’s ruined?’ she laments. ‘That’s awful. Ugh. Anyway, this’ll cheer you up. I think I’ve found a man for you …’
‘Who is he?’ I glance at the row of industrial beige knickers wafting gently on Mum’s washing line.
‘His name’s Stephen and he’s our new dentist …’
‘A dentist,’ I repeat.
She laughs. ‘Keep an open mind. He’s brilliant with the kids – they actually look forward to going now. And I ran into him again at a birthday do Hamish was invited to. You know how most dads tend to hide away in corners at kids’ parties?’
‘Tom never went to any,’ I say with a snort. ‘It’s a miracle he actually showed up to Logan and Fergus’s.’
‘Well, Stephen was great,’ she declares, ‘getting stuck in with the games, being the wolf in What’s the Time, Mr Wolf? and helping the kids to build a fire at the bottom of the garden. He had them all toasting marshmallows …’
‘Wow,’ I breathe, unable to decide whether this is a hugely attractive quality, or smacks of over-zealous and eager to please. Perhaps I’m just not used to party-fabulous dads.
‘His daughter Molly’s around eight,’ Kirsty goes on. ‘She’s in Hamish’s class. He’s a single dad, has been for years as far as I can make out …’
‘And you’re sure he wants to meet someone?’
‘Oh yes. We got chatting and I told him all about you. What else? Um, he’s tall, slim, fairish hair, greenish eyes … he’s just
nice
, you know? Good-looking but not intimidatingly so.’ She pauses. ‘I did warn him that you’re a pusher of meringues and he seemed fine with that.’
I laugh, my spirits rising as I fish the burgers from my pockets and fling them one by one, like miniature frisbees, over the drystone wall.
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘but can we leave it until the boys are away on their jaunt with Tom? I feel bad, expecting Logan to look after Fergus all the time.’
‘Yes, like, about once a month,’ she says, not unkindly.
I bite my lip. ‘It’ll just be simpler that way.’ This isn’t entirely true; after amuse-bouche night, I need time to rev myself back up into a dating frame of mind.
By the time I’m back inside, Mum has produced a collection of illustrations showing Scotland in the Middle Ages. The scene – of
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