Take Mum Out Read Online Free PDF Page A

now on. Ugh … the creep, with his foot-baskets and darting tongue, like a lizard trying to catch flies. My bouche is
not
amused. I walk faster and faster until, by the time I’m almost home, I have virtually broken into an ungainly trot. I take a quick left turn, hurrying past the grand, detached Victorian houses, then alongside the terrace of tenement flats. Although this is a fairly smart area, with an arthouse cinema and coffee shops galore, our block is rather shabby. I am beyond seething as I head in through the main entrance and clatter upstairs to my second-floor flat.
    ‘I’m home,’ I announce jovially, trying to sound as if I’ve had a perfectly enjoyable night out. In the darkened living room, Logan and Fergus continue to stare at the blaring TV. On the coffee table in front of them lies the detritus of a boys’ night in – greasy pizza boxes, milkshake cartons and a few stray socks. ‘Everything okay?’ I ask, tearing off one shoe, followed by the other.
    ‘Yuh,’ Logan replies, picking up his red and white stripy carton and taking a big slurp. In the absence of any further response, I commence a slightly deranged conversation with myself: ‘“Hi, Mum, did you have a nice time?” “Yes thank you, it was lovely …”’ In the kitchen now, I click on the kettle. ‘“Actually,”’ I continue under my breath, ‘“it was pretty shitty. But maybe I misread the signs, or I’m so out of touch with dating that, if a man has paid for the six-course tasting menu, he at least expects to ram his disgusting fat tongue down your throat …”’
    ‘Huh?’ Fergus is standing in the doorway, clutching the pizza boxes to his chest.
    ‘Nothing,’ I mutter, peering into the fridge so he can’t see my blazing face.
    ‘You were talking to yourself,’ he sniggers. ‘That’s the first sign of madness, Mum.’
    ‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ I reply.
    He smirks as I straighten up and pour too much milk into my mug. ‘What was that about a fat tongue?’
    ‘Nothing, take no notice of me, I was just babbling on.’
    ‘Who were you out with tonight?’ he asks.
    ‘Just someone I met at Ingrid’s party last weekend.’
    He arches a brow. ‘Was it a man?’
    Clutching my tea, I lower myself on to a kitchen chair. ‘Yes, sweetheart, but I won’t be seeing him again.’
    Fergus cracks a grin, extracts a packet of Jammie Dodgers from the cupboard and rips it open. ‘Good. What d’you need a boyfriend for anyway? You’re a
mum
.’

Chapter Four
    His words are still ringing in my head when I wake up early next morning. While he may only be thirteen, and unable to tolerate virtually the entire vegetable food group, Fergus is absolutely right. I don’t need a boyfriend. I’ve managed perfectly well – well, I’ve
managed
– being by myself all these years, and have now reached the conclusion that any single men around my age are so baggage-laden they can barely face leaving the house, or are looking for girlfriends born in the early nineties or, as in Anthony’s case, are so clearly wrong for me that I shouldn’t have gone in the first place.
    You only went because you were flattered
, I remind myself, examining a tea towel which appears to have been used to stem the flow of ink from a leaking biro. In other words, I was momentarily grateful for a glimmer of male attention, which is no way to go about things. Also, that vile, slimy kiss – I can’t get it out of my mind. Is that how it happens these days? In agreeing to a date, was I sending the message, ‘I’m desperately starved of affection so, yes, of course I’ll welcome your fat, probing tongue into my mouth? In fact, you needn’t have bothered with the tasting menu. Half a cider would have done the trick …’
    I worry, too, that it’s not just about Anthony, and that the real issue is I have become sex phobic. In fact, I suspect that the mere act of removing my underwear in front of any adult male would trigger a panic attack.