‘What are you on about?’ Fergus retorts.
‘You must’ve assaulted it,’ his brother exclaims as the darn thing starts up again: Ich bin diabetika. He touched my breast. Ich bin—
‘Fergus,’ I bark, ‘please put that thing away. We don’t need it right now …’
Logan rubs his upper lip where the faintest moustache is beginning to sprout. ‘We’ll never need it. It’s obsolete. What’s the point of a piece of crap like that when there’s Google Translate?’
‘Logan!’ I try to shoo him away with a fierce glare.
‘Well,’ Erica says dryly, ‘I suppose it has a certain retro appeal.’
‘What does non posso mangiare che mean?’ Fergus asks, mouth-breathing over the screen.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I mutter. ‘I don’t speak Italian.’
Erica clears her throat. ‘It means “I can’t eat that.”’
‘Great line for a meringue company,’ Logan snorts. ‘Maybe that should be your slogan, Mum.’
‘You can’t speak German either,’ Fergus reminds me, ‘or Polish or Dutch …’ No, because, clearly, I am an imbecile. There are many cockroaches in my hotel room, the translator bleats. I require police assistance immediately. Help! Help! Where is the nearest unisex hair salon? Ich bin diabetika—
‘Type in “goodbye”,’ I snap. ‘Type in, “It’s been very nice to meet you, Erica, but now I am going to leave you both to get on with important things.”’
I have been raped! the machine squawks, at which Logan honks with laughter.
‘Excuse me a second.’ Grabbing Fergus by his clammy hand, I march him out of the kitchen and into the living room where I hiss, ‘Stay here until she’s gone, okay? I’m trying to create a good impression and you’re really not helping.’
He fixes me with a challenging stare. ‘It’ll be useful on holiday if I can fix it.’
‘You’re going to the Highlands with Dad, remember? As far as I’m aware, they speak the same language as us.’
‘I don’t mean for Easter,’ he calls after me as I leave the room. ‘I mean our summer holiday. Are we going anywhere this year?’
‘Haven’t decided yet.’
‘We never go abroad,’ he bleats. He’s right – but how far does he think we’ll get on the bit of fluff I have left in my purse at the end of each month?
By the time I’m back in the kitchen, Logan has returned to his bedroom and Erica is clutching her brown leather briefcase in readiness for leaving. Meanwhile, I’m wondering if it would really be so terrible if the translator suffered an unfortunate accident, such as tumbling from our second-floor window and being run over by a car.
‘Well, Alice,’ Erica says coolly, ‘I’m pleased to tell you that your premises have passed.’
It takes me a moment to process this. ‘You mean everything’s okay?’
She nods. ‘Yes, you’re ready to go.’
‘Oh, that’s great! Thank you.’
Her clear blue eyes skim the room, settling momentarily on the scrunched-up piece of kitchen roll which Logan deposited on the table. Then, just as she makes for the door, another small object catches her eye. She frowns, and I follow her gaze towards the cooker – or, more precisely, to the small, turd-like object that’s poking out from under it.
It’s a bit of old sausage. Time seems to freeze as we stare at it. It hasn’t been there long, I want to explain. Or I could joke about cutting it open to date it, the way you can count the rings in a tree. But instinct tells me that Erica wouldn’t find that amusing so, mustering a brazen smile, I saunter towards it and send it scooting under the cooker with a sharp kick. Our eyes meet and she smirks. ‘Well, good luck with your meringues,’ she says. ‘I think it’s a great idea for a business. And I do hope your son manages to get his translator fixed.’
It’s a cool, breezy afternoon as I leave Middlebank Primary where I work as the school secretary. Having texted the boys, who’ll head straight home from their nearby secondary school, I take a short detour via Betsy’s, a smart, airy cafe housed on the ground floor of a converted chapel. In recent years, there’s been an explosion of quaint tea shops here in Edinburgh. While there is no shortage of cupcake suppliers, meringues appear to have novelty appeal, which has proved good for business. Betsy’s is owned by an eager young couple who look like they’re barely out of college.
‘Just wondered how it’s been going this week,’ I tell Jenny, who offers me tea in a gilt-edged china cup.
‘Really well,’ she says, ‘especially the tiny ones – the meringue kisses.’
‘People seem to prefer them with coffee,’ I tell her.
‘We’ll take more next week,’ she adds. ‘What d’you think, Max?’
Her boyfriend turns from the coffee machine and grins. ‘Oh, sure. If Alice can handle it.’
Jenny laughs. ‘We were just saying we don’t know how you manage to fit it all in. With your job and family, I mean …’
‘Oh, it keeps me sane, actually,’ I reply truthfully.
‘Well, you’re obviously doing something right,’ Jenny says with a broad smile. ‘They’re the new cupcakes, right?’
Max nods. ‘Far superior in my opinion. All that thick, cloying icing …’ I leave the cafe filled with optimism and pride. While meringues have always been a personal favourite of mine, maybe I’ve hit on a gap in the market here.
My mobile rings; it’s Ingrid. ‘So what happened?’ she asks eagerly, referring to her party on Saturday night.
‘We’re meant to be going for dinner next Friday,’ I tell her.
‘I knew it! I saw you two, huddled together in the kitchen …’
I laugh. ‘We weren’t huddled, we were talking.’
‘Talking intently,’ she remarks.
‘Well … it was just chit-chat really, but he seemed interesting …’ It’s true: while I don’t think either of us was bowled over, I could see no reason not to see him again. After all, my dating activity is roughly on a par with a solar eclipse these days.
‘Well, he seemed hugely keen,’ Ingrid goes on as I march up the hill at a brisk pace. ‘Every time you wandered off to talk to someone else, he was prowling about looking for you. I hope you’re going to give him a chance.’
I inhale deeply. ‘I don’t know, Ing. It’s just been a hell of a long time, you know?’
‘All the more reason then.’
‘And there’s the boys,’ I add. ‘You know what it’s like.’ She doesn’t really; happily married to Sean for a decade now, and with a charming daughter who plays no less than three musical instruments, Ingrid is more sorted than anyone else I know. There’s the matter of being unable, inexplicably, to conceive another baby after Saskia, but following a failed IVF cycle they are trying again, and Ingrid is always keen to stress that another child would merely be the icing on the cake.
‘That