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‘Hello, Mum!’
‘Darling! How are you?’
‘Good thanks. Remember the Bath people I went to meet? They’ve just signed up!’
‘That is good news. You’re doing very well, Sophie. How’s my Lila?’
As per usual with conversations with my mum these days, we don’t linger long on me because she’s desperate to hear more about her only grandchild.
‘This morning Lila told me that she was never going to listen to me ever again when I asked her to put her school shoes on. And then she was so completely recovered that she wouldn’t let go of my leg while I tried to get us out of the house.’
Mum laughs. ‘Ah, those were the days. Lila has definitely got some of my exuberant genes, just like Poppy. You were always much calmer when you were little. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose!’
‘Mum, I’ve been invited by the new clients to celebrate on Thursday. Is there any chance you can you do pick-up and babysit? Poppy can’t.’
‘Oh I’m afraid I can’t make Thursday either. Dad has decided to take me out for supper. He’s taking some new tablets which really have put a spring in his step, if you see what I mean.’
Eep.
‘Okay, no problem, Mum.’ I rush to fill the gap before she gives me any more information. ‘I’m so pleased you’re going out. What’s the plan?’
‘You know The Royal Oak?’
‘The village pub?’ It’s not the most romantic venue. Last time Poppy and I went in for a drink they were serving local teens alcopops and the whole place smelled like stale cider and sweat.
‘It’s had a makeover. Rumour has it that the new owner is an international rugby star. Used to play for a big team, apparently. Fiji? Or New Zealand? I don’t know. Anyway, the builders have been working on it for months and Thursday is the grand reopening. Apparently there’s a new menu and your father’s a bit concerned that they won’t have chicken in a basket any more. I’ve told him he can’t live in the Eighties forever.’
‘Poor Dad.’
‘What will you do about Lila? Please don’t say you’ll look for a babysitter?’
Mum abhors the idea of babysitters. She’s convinced that their sole purpose in life is to traumatise her progeny.
‘Actually,’ I say, an idea forming, ‘there’s a parent at school I could ask.’
Maybe Joe wouldn’t mind taking her for a couple of hours? I think she’d love to see Sid again, unless they’re still arguing over tooth fairy millionaires.
‘That’s what the other mums and I used to do when you and Poppy were at school. We’d take it in turns to help each other out with pick-ups or ferrying children to parties at weekends. I’m still good friends with a few of them now.’
Even my sixtysomething mother has a more thriving social set-up than I do! At least I’m working on it, I remind myself.
‘Not a mum actually, a dad.’
‘A dad?’ I can practically see my mum’s ears pricking up. ‘Well I never. Is he single, this young man?’
I decide it’s best to sign off hastily before I get a grilling or, WORSE, hear any more about Dad’s tablets.
‘Better dash, Mum, love you!’
Right then, no time like the present. I compose a possibly long-winded message to Joe in which I ask him if he’d mind terribly picking Lila up from school on Thursday and suggesting that she’d love to have a playdate with Sidney and would it be super inconvenient if he also gave her some tea because I’ve agreed to early drinks with clients but I’ll be back before bedtime and apologising profusely for having to ask.
His reply:
Sure no prob.
Huh. That was easy. This fauxmance is coming in very handy.
‘Guess what,’ I say to Lila over dinner that night.
