Free Take Mum Out by Fiona Gibson Page A

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 me, Viv. I’d feel like his auntie or something. Like he’d expect me to suggest a game of whist.’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re still
young
. Anyway, no one cares about age any more. Remember that half-your-age-plus-seven rule?’
    I perform a swift calculation, rounding myself up to forty to avoid pesky fractions: ‘Twenty-seven.’
    ‘There you go then. He’s comfortably within range …’
    ‘Viv,’ I say thoughtfully, ‘why don’t you ask him out? He sounds far more your type …’
    ‘Because we work together,’ she says in an overly patient voice. ‘It’d be so awkward, especially with me technically being his boss.’
    ‘Oh, of course. So have you mentioned me yet?’
    ‘I might have casually said something,’ she teases.
    ‘But we only hatched this plan yesterday and you haven’t been at work …’
    ‘We had to finish off an advertising shoot this morning and he offered to help,’ she says. ‘He’s very dedicated.’
    ‘And, er … he’s up for meeting me, is he? I mean … he knows I have two sons, and that one of them will be old enough to drive a car this time next year?’
    ‘Yes, well, I didn’t go into detail, but he knows you’re a
bit
older and he was perfectly fine with that.’
    I sip my tea. ‘Listen, he’s not one of those, “I love older women” types, is he? The kind who fantasised about his friend’s mum or his well-preserved biology teacher …’
    Viv honks with laughter.
    ‘I’m not up for any of that creepy, “Oooh, you mature ladies, you know your onions” kind of crap,’ I add firmly.
    She laughs some more. ‘I promise you, Giles will not be interested in your onions. He’s not that kind of boy – I mean
man
.’
    ‘Only just,’ I chuckle.
    ‘Well … yeah. So can I give him your number?’
    ‘Sure,’ I say, feeling suddenly, horribly conscious of my age, and spotting a whacking great frown line when I glimpse my reflection in the chrome kettle. Which, I fear, doesn’t bode terribly well for the actual