All That and Then Some

ALICE - Love Shack

BUDDY'S INSTA STREAM OFFERS a single new picture this afternoon, which I greedily absorb for clues. It confirms that he has, indeed, arrived in Montreal to surprise his husband, James. It's a grinning couple-selfie of them standing in the bar of the Place D'Armes Hotel, where I know James was staying. I suspect that if Buddy had detonated his truth-bomb, James wouldn't look quite so happy, so I assume Buddy has taken my advice and kept the accidental kiss to himself. At least, for now.

Good. But now, when is he coming home? I need to speak with him rather urgently about Joss Carvil's investment offer. Buddy and I have never talked about growing the business or opening other locations. We've definitely never discussed taking money from an evil food empire in order to assuage their karmic guilt. It feels both gross and an important encouragement of change at the same time.

I send him a quick DM outlining my conversation with "JosstheBoss."

His quick reply comes back:

< You're asking if we should consider saving the cafe from bankruptcy and expanding so we can do more good in the world? Is that an actual question? PS, j'adore Montreal! Sipping gorgeous martinis in the hotel bar. Dinner at Pied Au Cochon tonight. Back tomorrow to collect Angel and shower you with thank yous for saving our relationship with this surprise getaway! >

Well, it wasn't like I had much choice in the matter, I think. Still, it's nice to see my friend loved up and getting a proper break from being a primary caregiver. I'll let him have this one.

I ARRIVE HOME TO a chaotic domestic diorama.

Vivian, clearly depressed (in addition to being hungover), is lying face down on the living room couch, while Angel throws fistfuls of Tim's old lego at her.

"Angel!" I say from the doorway. "Don't throw. Not nice!"

She looks at me, beaming with pleasure.

"I frow 'gos at Vivi!"

"Yes," I say patiently, "I can see that you're throwing legos at Vivi. What I'm saying is that's not a nice thing to do. Especially when Vivi doesn't feel good. We need to be gentle with Vivi."

"S'ok, doesn't matter," comes Viv's groaning voice, muffled by couch cushions. She lifts her face and I'm shocked to see it covered in black lines.

"Is that... Sharpie?" I ask, horrified.

Tim enters the room behind me on a cloud of his father's cologne and bearing a wet washcloth over his arm. He brings it over to Vivian and starts gently dabbing at the marker lines on her chin.

"There, there, Vivian," he says. Do I detect a slight British accent?

"Tim, what's--"

He interrupts me calmly. "I prefer Timothy if you don't mind, Mother."

I feel like I've stumbled into a scene from Downton Abbey. Or, I would, if there weren't brightly coloured plastic blocks flying through the air at regular intervals.

"Angel! I said to stop throwing!" I repeat less patiently this time.

"I fell asleep," groans Vivian under the ministrations of the man-child who bears only a slight resemblance to the boy I know.

Now, Jeffry pops into the living room. He's wearing painter's coveralls and carrying a roller that's dripping with dark paint.

"Hey — watch the floor!" I say.

"Oh, sorry, Mrs. Mac," he says. "Just wanted to let you know we're fixing it. No worries. This navy will cover it right up."

"Cover what up?"

Vivian groans again. "Sorry. She sharpied the dining room walls too."

I close my eyes. The dining room had been professionally painted the perfect light ecru — a colour I'd consulted countless design articles, watched endless home decor videos, antagonized several local paint dealers to finally settle on. I imagine those beautiful, perfect walls covered in indelible black scribbles.

"The beige wasn't working anyway, Mother. Barbarically bourgeois," says Tim — sorry, Timothy.

"Yeah, I have to agree with the little guy," Jeffry says, receiving a scowl from my second born. "Beige is out. Bold, dark colours are on trend now. You'll see. Very dramatic. Very now."

"I don't want drama in the dining room!" I whine petulantly before I'm cut off by the opening bars of the B52s "Love Shack" which come screaming from the kitchen.

Angel squeals with glee and twerks out of the room toward the music.

Equally curious, I follow her (without twerking) into the kitchen, where I find my mother and her best friend Rita having some kind of choreographed fit. They are dressed like 1960s mods, too tight mini-dresses riding dangerously high up their seventy-something thighs and hair teased up into hairsprayed helmets. They're making these sort of swimming motions and giggling like girls.

At the helm of it all is my daughter, whose unblinking cameraphone's eye is capturing the whole scene.

"Cut!" shouts Maeve. "Mum walked into the shot. We have to start again."

"Bloody hell," growls Rita. "I can't do it again. My back is killing me!"

"Oh Rita, take an aspirin," says my mother. "This needs to be perfect!"

"Can I just ask... what you're doing here? And hello, Rita. Long time no—"

"We are making a TickTrap!" shouts Mum gleefully. "All the ladies in our retirement village have seen yours, and we decided to make our own challenge! We're going to be internet famous too! Isn't it exciting?"

I look over at Maeve, who just shrugs at me. It's clear she's been roped into this against her will.

"Alright, team. Let's take a quick break and come back in five," Mum shouts as if to an entire Hollywood set's worth of crew.

Rita gratefully slips her shiny knee-high boots off and takes a seat at the kitchen island. "Thank god. I'm blistering up!"

My mother purses her frosted white lips at Rita's apparent lack of commitment to the project.

"Why the sudden interest in TikTok?" I ask, opening a bottle of wine and pouring out three glasses.

"Your mother thinks it will impress her internet suitors," Rita offers without hesitation.

"Not suitors plural, Rita. Just the one." Mum grasps my wrist, pulling me closer. "I've met someone really special. A soul mate."

"On Tinder?" I ask doubtfully.

"Don't start that again, Alice. It's a perfectly legitimate way to meet someone in the modern day. Yes, you have to separate the wheat from the chaff, which is fun in its own right, but there are diamonds in the ruff."

"You're mixing your metaphors, Mum. So, who is this 'someone special?'"

"Here!" she says, plucking her phone from the counter and opening her app. "Here — look at him."

I take a long look at the man my mother believes to be her soul mate. His bio reads simply: I like Hawaiian shirts. His profile picture is most definitely Tom Selleck as Magnum P.I.

"Mum, you realize that's not really him, right?"

"Of course, I'm not stupid," she laughs. "Look at those sideburns! That photo's clearly from the 70s. He sent me a more current one."

She flips over to another photo of Tom Selleck as he is, I imagine, today. A little grayer at the temples but still the stuff of older-womens' fantasy.

"It's not about his looks anyway," she says. "He sends me the most wonderful messages. It's a very deep connection. Like our souls have met in a past life."

"Mmm. Just don't give him any money."