Love Is a State of Mind: Nobody's Life is Perfect

by Knights, Sarah Catherine

  “Is she pregnant or something?” I said.

  “No, of course not … but the flat’s really small …”

  “Why didn’t you think of that, when you left? It’s hardly my fault, is it?”

  “Look, we don’t need to even think of it yet … but as long as you know, this is something we will have to address sometime soon. In the meantime, Anna, I need some clothes. By the way, did Adam get off okay?”

  “Yes, no thanks to you,” I said. “Why didn’t you insist on seeing him, before he went?”

  “I thought it was better that way … I know he’s really angry with me …”

  “Can you blame him?”

  “No, I know, but … I didn’t want to spoil his big moment. I’ll email him and explain everything once he’s settled over there.”

  “Maybe you could email me too – I’d be fascinated to hear your ‘explanation’.”

  We looked at each other across the chasm between us. Where had our relationship gone? It had been wiped out … swept away on a flood tide of bitterness.

  “One day, I’ll try and explain it all to you, Anna. I’m not sure I understand it myself at the moment. All I know is – I had to go and I’m sorry for what it’s done to you.” He stood up. “Can I have a couple of black bin liners? I realise I haven’t brought anything to carry my stuff …”

  I got up and went to the drawer where they live. I broke off two and shoved them at him. “Close the door on your way out,” I said and turning up the volume on the TV, I sat down next to Gaz.

  Monkeys were grooming each other, finding fleas and eating them. David left the room and I continued to watch, as a male monkey lorded it over a group of females. I suddenly saw myself as one of David’s harem. I decided I was going to have to break free – not at all easy at my age and in terms of the animal kingdom, maybe dangerous, but I was going to have to try.

  Chapter Eight

  So, the summer holidays stretch in front of me. Six weeks of freedom – to do whatever I want. I’ve done my swim – my first bid to get fit and lose weight – now what?

  Holly has suggested I go up to London for the weekend, which I’m looking forward to, but I’ve got five days to fill, in the meantime.

  I sit up in bed – I’ve woken late on my first free weekday of the holidays – a luxury that we both used to enjoy. I grab my mobile phone that’s sitting on the bedside table – it says it’s ten thirty – I can’t quite believe I’ve slept so long. I feel as if I’ve been drugged, my limbs are heavy and my eyes won’t open. The bedroom is a mess and I decide today will be the day I’ll clear out my cupboards, throw away clothes I’ve had for years and never wear any more. Shafts of sunlight are streaking through the closed curtains and I slowly get out of bed and shuffle over to pull them. The sunshine makes my eyes ache, the sky’s a piercing blue and I watch a magpie as it lands on next door’s willow tree.

  I realise Gaz must be crossing his legs, as it’s so late and I wander down the stairs into the silence of the hall. There is a pile of letters on the door mat, which I ignore, and go into the kitchen.

  Gaz gets off his bed slowly and wagging his tail, he plods towards me with a hurt expression on his face as if to say, you really are letting standards slip – I’ve been starving since seven o’clock. I feel guilty as I stroke his head and reassure him silently that it won’t happen again. I throw his unappetising dry biscuits into his bowl and place it down on the floor. Gaz hoovers the kibble up in about twenty seconds flat and then stands at the back door, waiting to go out into the garden. I let him out and watch him through the kitchen window, as he wanders off round the lawn, lifting his leg on various plants as he passes.

  *

  I take a cup of tea to the table, with my cereal, and sit down. Your presence flutters and drifts around, pervading my thoughts. You were always so bright and cheery in the mornings – not like me – you were a ‘morning’ person and whistled when you stood waiting for the toast to pop up and chatted animatedly about your forthcoming day. You’d joke with the children and read bits out of the newspaper you thought I might find interesting. You’d run back up the stairs to do your teeth and call out loudly ‘See you at school!’ when you left – we’d go separately, you leaving far earlier than me, most days. When you were in the house, there was always life and laughter and now you’ve gone, the house is quiet … so quiet.

  After what you’ve done, you’d think I wouldn’t be able to look back with love, but I can. The moment I saw you that day, so many moons ago, I knew you were the man I wanted to marry. I was only twenty-one, just finishing my degree – a naive, young student, but I just felt I’d been waiting for you. They talk about love at first sight and it was definitely like that for me.

  You were sitting on that bus and you had the only spare seat, next to you. I can still remember walking up the aisle, nearly to the back, transfixed by your face. You were totally unaware of me coming towards you – you were staring out of the window – and as I sat down next to you on the narrow bench, you turned and smiled at me and shuffled up a bit, to give me more room. My shoulder was rubbing up against your shoulder and I was sure there was some sort of electric current buzzing and hissing through our sleeves. I hoped you weren’t going to get off at the next stop … and you didn’t.

  I, too, pretended to be riveted by the passing scene, just so that I could look towards you. I studied your profile – your angular nose, your cheek bones jutting, your floppy hair with its hint of gold. You turned and spoke to me. I still remember those words; they weren’t earth-shattering or anything, but they were the start of our life together, the beginning of a friendship that would go on and on. Because that’s how I saw us, as friends. You were my best friend and my husband. I told you everything and trusted you with my life.

  You said, I’m getting off at the next stop and on a whim, I said, So am I …even though my stop was way further. We smiled at each other and I stood up and let you go first down the aisle. I hadn’t thought it through, I had no idea what I was going to do when we both stepped off the bus, but I walked behind you, loving your back view, as much as your profile. You held onto a steel pole to steady yourself as the bus lurched forward and you looked back at me. Now I got the benefit of a face-on smile and my insides melted. The bus braked and I swayed forward and you caught me, as I was about to fall. We laughed and I could feel your hand burning the skin on my arm. After much hissing of airbrakes, the bus inched forward in the heavy traffic of the busy Birmingham road and slowed, more gently this time, as it eased its way into the bus stop. More hissing, as the doors opened and we both stepped out onto the pavement. I couldn’t bear the thought of you just walking away and laughing, I said, Thank you for catching me, just then. And you looked at me and said, Do you fancy a drink?

  In that moment, I knew I had met my soul mate. Such mundane words had been spoken, but it was as if I’d known you were there, somewhere in the world – and you’d just been trying to find me.

  *

  We have some fitted cupboards in our bedroom – his remaining things are on the left, and mine are on the right. My heart sinks when I open the righthand doors – I have a daunting task. If I remove all the things I now hate, there would probably be only one pair of jeans left – every piece of clothing hanging there, appears to be either black, charcoal grey or light grey; dullness jumps out and strangles me with its dull dullness.

  I get everything off its hanger and lay the clothes out on the bed; I start trying things on that I haven’t worn for years. One pair of jeans, I can’t get past my thighs; one grey skirt – I can’t even do the zip up; one smart pair of black trousers, I can get the zip up, just, but the button pops off as I attempt to put it through the hole. My only evening dress, in red chiffon, floats beautifully on the hanger, but on me, looks like some frightful, cheap catalogue dress. I realise I’ve turned into my mother, as I stare at myself with utter amazement. When did that happen? I look just like I remember her, when she and my dad went out t
o a works do – nicely ‘done up’ in her eyes, but looking frumpy and unsophisticated, in mine. And now, here I am, looking like her, but worse.

  I pull off the dress and throw it across the room in disgust, angry both at the dress, for making me look a fright and at myself, for allowing the rolls of fat to accumulate around my middle. I pull my rather large pants up over the rolls, in an attempt to disguise them, but to no avail. I vow to buy some magic pants that are said to be a wonder at sucking it all in and hiding it – but surely it’s got to go somewhere? Maybe I need one of those all in one underwear garments, as seen on Gok Wan’s TV programme, so there’s nowhere for the fat to escape. No VPL (visible panty line) because the pants end below the knees and the corset ends above the boobs. It sounds like torture, but maybe it’s the way forward.

  The process of trying on things goes on for an hour and by the end, I’m exhausted and depressed with the state of my clothes and my physical shape. There’s a huge pile of ‘definite throw outs’; a small pile of ‘possible keeps’ and very few ‘definite keeps’.

  I’m going to have to go shopping or I’ll have nothing to wear. Most women would love this prospect, but I view it with dread. I’ve never been good at buying clothes and now that I’ve confronted my body head on, I know buying clothes will be even more of a challenge.

  *

  Lisa and I arrange to go shopping on Wednesday, in Bath. It’s going to be a day out as well as a shopping trip – a chance for her to have a day away from her kids and for me to have some company. I don’t like shopping with other people, but we agree we’ll split up, do our own thing, and then meet up for lunch.

  I pick her up and we drive to the Park and Ride. The buses go every ten minutes, so you never have to wait long, but it’s annoying as one pulls out as we pull into the car park. It reminds me of my past, when I had to catch a bus to and from school every day; the bus drivers, I was sure, took delight in pulling away, as I ran like a maniac, shouting and waving my arms.

  A queue forms and we appear to be two of the younger ones – only OAPs and teachers on holiday have the time to go shopping mid-week. I don’t consider myself like those old people … yet.

  As we drive down Lansdowne, past all the Regency buildings near the bottom of the hill, I begin to wonder if living in Bath might be an option for me. It’s so beautiful and it would mean I was in a city, with everything on tap.

  “I wonder if I could afford to live here, with my half of the house?” I ask Lisa.

  “What? Are you thinking of moving? I didn't realise you …”

  “Well, if I retire and we have to share the assets, maybe a whole new start would be good for me? I’m sure there’s loads going on in Bath …”

  “I’d miss you …”

  “It would be a good excuse for you to come to Bath more often. Whenever I come here, I always wish I made the effort. It’s so … so … civilised. I could probably only afford a room, though.”

  I stare out of the window. The bus is just turning into Milsom Street and we stand up to walk down the aisle. A fleeting memory of David on that bus, all those years ago, flits into my mind.

  I must stop going back. Forward.

  We walk down the street, past all the expensive shops which I would love to go in, but where the shop assistants are all impossibly young and glamorous and regard you with utter disdain. I usually come out feeling ancient and anyway, their clothes are out of my rather meagre bracket – so we ignore them and go on down the main street to the more ‘normal’ chain stores. Lisa and I part company at the Roman Baths and arrange to meet in Marks and Spencer in an hour.

  As I walk on my own, I go past large groups of French kids shouting and running around; past stalls full of colourful scarves, pictures of Bath and jewellery; past a man holding a board saying Sale, This Way, with a large arrow; past a man dressed like a statue, standing so still, I momentarily wonder if he’s real or not – and I look at everything with an objective eye and wonder if I would like to be so anonymous. Where I live now, I recognise people and people know me, either through school or the tennis club or just fellow dog walkers. At least I feel as if I belong somewhere. Here, I would be invisible – is that what I want? I should weigh up the pros and cons, before I make any big decisions. I mustn’t rush into anything.

  When I go shopping, I tend to wander around in a stupor, with what I’m sure is a glazed look on my face. I touch random pieces of clothing, as if I’m going to be able to get inspiration, by merely touching the fabric. I have to be in a certain mood to even like things, never mind try them on.

  This day, I have a sinking feeling that I’m not in the mood and that I’m not going to like anything; the shops are full of autumn things, even though it’s the summer holidays. I go into Dorothy Perkins, TK Max, BHS and River Island and walk around, fuming – does no one cater for the older woman any more? I don’t want to look like mutton dressed as lamb, but I also don’t want to look like my mother. Where do people of my age shop, these days?

  A lot of the fashions are so difficult to understand – there are tops on hangers that I have to study – are they long tops or are they short dresses? I don’t want to ask, for fear of looking out of touch … and stupid.

  Then there is the trouser issue – am I too old to wear jeans? I sometimes look at other older women wearing jeans and think they look frankly ridiculous, but somehow manage to forget I’m probably their age and wearing jeans, myself. Are black jeans more acceptable? (The denim is less … denim). The shape of trousers is another huge issue – low waist, high waist, boot leg, slim leg, jeggings, treggings – the list is endless and they don’t all look the same in different shops, either. You need to spend a week in just one shop, to find the right pair.

  Cardigans – that’s another problem – they’re either too long, or too short. Too long, and they look as if you’ve gone out in your dressing gown by mistake; too short, and they leave your rather large bottom exposed to the elements. Why doesn’t anyone actually ask us what we want?

  I do what I always do, go to Marks and Spencer. I feel ‘safe’ there; it’s part of our culture and I always feel as if I have more chance of finding something there, than anywhere else. I wander through the ladies clothing.

  What is it with all the different brands within M and S these days? Per Una, Autograph, Indigo – I just don’t get it. I think the powers that be, think it helps, but it just confuses me and makes things worse.

  I look at my watch – I’ve already wasted half an hour, so I try to get to grips, shake off this negativity and grab some likely things off the shelves. I go into a fitting room with armfuls of stuff, strip off and look aghast at myself, from every angle. There’s no discipline to the things I’ve got with me, nothing goes with anything else, but I start the process of pulling things either up over my thighs or down over my head. I begin to look as if I’ve just had a particularly active session in bed – red faced, hair tousled, underwear askew. I wish …

  “Can I help you at all?” the assistant says through the door, and I hand her a pair of promising black bootleg jeans, that are just a tad too small.

  “Could you see if they have them in a bigger size?”

  “A 16?” she says, loudly.

  “Mmm,” I say, wishing she could have said it a little quieter. I know the ‘average’ woman is a size 14, not the waif-like size 8 that models are, but still 16 sounds elephantine, to my ears.

  She comes back with the right size and they actually look good on. I appraise myself in the mirror and I feel a lifting of my spirits, as I think I look acceptable in them. They slim me down and elongate my legs. I realise that I’m meant to be breaking out from my black/grey obsession, but I can always wear a colourful top, can’t I?

  I put on a loose fitting, black and white top (ignoring my own advice) and together, they look surprisingly nice. Perhaps I’m not past it, yet, I think to myself. If I’m going to find myself a new man, I’m going to have to start taking more interest in my appearan
ce.

  And then it hits me … perhaps David was right. Perhaps we had both become too complacent, too relaxed. Maybe Suzie Barton did give him something I didn’t? I have to admit that for years, I’ve been wearing the same clothes, year in, year out, never really caring what I look like. I peer forward at my face – I hadn’t even bothered to put makeup on, to come out to Bath, for goodness sake. What’s wrong with me? I could at least make the effort.

  I try on three other things; none of them are right, but I’m pleased with the jeans and top and go to find the payment desk. I pass the jewellery section and treat myself to a necklace and matching earrings and suddenly I feel buoyant and light, adding them to my purchases.

  As I go up the escalators to the café, the store looks somehow different – full of possibilities. Lisa is already in the queue and I join her. We get some sandwiches and I order a large cappuccino and we find a table. She’s clutching several bags – none from M and S.

  “So, any luck?” she says, flopping down on her seat and placing her bags at her feet.

  “Well, yes, surprisingly … I’ve got some black jeans and a top so far. I couldn’t find anything at first, but I suddenly started to enjoy it, towards the end of the hour. I even bought myself some jewellery. I’ve now got to find an excuse to wear it. Maybe when I go to London at the weekend. Holly’s got us tickets for War Horse.”

  “Brilliant. There you are – you’ve got to start finding reasons to go out, get dressed up, start enjoying yourself.”

  I stare into my huge cup of coffee, lost in my own thoughts. Life seems so daunting sometimes, on your own. Looking up, I say, “How did you cope when you found yourself on your own?”

  “It was hard, I won’t lie. But I had the kids to keep me occupied and I was often so tired, I didn’t have time to think. It’s different for you, with both the kids off and gone. It’ll get easier; you’ve just got to take every opportunity to get out there. You’re doing really well, Anna. It’s early days … and already you’re making plans for London … and we’re here today. You’re doing much better than I did. I hid away for months.”