The Happy Endings Book Club

by Jane Tara

  Time was up and Selma led Tilda to the door.

  “Know who you are and express it—physically, emotionally, intellectually and spiritually.” Selma had looked at her, one dramatic eyebrow raised. “We’ve only touched on the external today, Tilda. Imagine when we get down to the real work.”

  Standing at her shop window, Tilda shuddered at the thought. She looked out, watching the world pass by. Did all of these strangers know who they were? Or had they lost sight of themselves as well?

  A woman of about fifty walked by with a shopping bag.

  A teenage girl strutted by with a boy her own age nipping at her heels like an eager pup.

  A couple hurried past holding hands.

  An old woman walked by slowly with her head held high. She was taking her time, and at one point she paused, and lifted her face to the sun and smiled.

  How lovely she looked, thought Tilda. And then she noticed the woman’s shoes. They were red, with a small heel.

  Tilda looked down at her own shoes. Selma was right. They were dreadful. Unless you were milking cows, there was no excuse for such footwear.

  Tilda grabbed her bag and keys and turned the sign on the shop door: Back in ten minutes. Then she headed toward a little shoe shop nearby that she’d noticed but never bothered to enter.

  The shelves were filled with beautiful winter shoes. She examined the loafers and pumps and boots of varying lengths, then ran her hand across a beautiful pair of red stilettos. Although breathtaking, they weren’t practical. But she smiled when she thought of the old lady with the red shoes. Then she saw them: a gorgeous pair of black ankle boots. They had a heel, but not too high.

  Tilda turned to the girl who worked there. “Can I try these on in a seven?”

  The girl glanced at Tilda’s shoes. “Absolutely,” she said as she disappeared out the back. She emerged a couple of minutes later with two shoeboxes.

  She handed Tilda the first box. “These are the boots.” And then she opened the second box and drew out a beautiful and very simple tan flat. “I thought you might like to try these on as well. They’ve just come in.”

  Tilda hesitated. She disliked pushy sales assistants, but the pump was lovely. It wasn’t unlike the shoe she was wearing. It was as if her shoe was the unfashionable country bumpkin and this shoe was the classy city cousin.

  Tilda took the shoe. “Thank you.”

  She tried the boot on first. It fit like a glove. She glanced briefly at the sales assistant and then removed her other old shoe, hearing a small gasp when the girl noticed Tilda’s missing foot. Tilda ignored her and pushed her foot into the second boot.

  She stood. She took a few steps. She circled the shop. She tapped her feet and then strutted a bit. Then, sitting back down, she took them off and replaced them with the flats. It was like Cinderella sliding into the glass slipper. They were born to fit. They looked so nice. What the hell had she been thinking wearing those other things?

  And then, because she was on a roll and it felt great, she walked over to the display and picked up the red stiletto and turned it over. It was her size. She bent down, removed the pump and placed the stiletto on her invisible foot. And then she stood up straight.

  “You have great legs,” said the sales assistant.

  Tilda turned to her. “You think so?”

  “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

  Tilda watched her for a moment. She was a pretty little thing, with dark hair pulled back into an elaborate ponytail.

  “It must shock you to see my invisible foot.”

  “Well, I can’t see it,” the girl tittered. “But yeah … it’s definitely weird. What happened?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m trying to fix it.”

  The girl nodded. “Whenever my mum gets depressed about her age, she goes to Paris.”

  Tilda stared at the girl. She hadn’t said anything about her age, yet the girl had simply assumed it was connected. “Does it make your mum feel better, to go to Paris? What do you think?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what she thinks.”

  How sweet, thought Tilda, she looks like a cheerleader but sounds like Yoda.

  She collected all three pairs of shoes and passed them to the girl.

  “I’ll take them all.” Then she handed her the old shoes. “And throw these out. I’ll wear the boots.”

  What happened next was totally out of character for Tilda. First off, instead of returning to work, she continued shopping. She had her new shoes, so was starting from the ground up—with her friend Amanda’s help.

  The Pantry was quiet, so Amanda could give Tilda her full attention. She was horrified to hear what her friend was going through.

  “Oh, darling, what a shit. Let me deck you out. Nothing like a new outfit to make you feel better about things.”

  Half an hour later, Tilda was handing over her credit card with only the slightest reservation. She had a pair of gray trousers, a black cashmere sweater, a gorgeous white blouse and a black coat. Amanda had insisted she try on an orange shirt, too. It wasn’t something she’d normally wear, but seeing as she’d been wearing milking shoes for a couple of years now, that was probably a good thing. She tried it on and was delighted with how she looked. She’d thrown that into the pile, as well as a scarf and a bracelet—and a pair of earrings (even though she only needed one of them).

  She decided to ignore the cost. She worked hard. She didn’t go over the top. She’d bought herself some long overdue pieces that would mix and match and made her feel fabulous when she was wearing them. Selma would be proud.

  Next stop, she stuck her head in at her hairdressers.

  “Hello, Tilda. Haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “And it shows. Any appointments today?”

  The hairdresser checked the book. “I can fit you in at two.”

  “Perfect!”

  Tilda lugged everything back to the shop, where Debra was loading deliveries into the van.

  “Deb, honey, can you run the shop tomorrow?”

  “I’d have to delay the deliveries until closing time, but that can work. Why?”

  “I’ve got to go to Paris.”

  Debra looked worried. “Did someone die?”

  “Do I look like the type of person who would only go to Paris in an emergency?”

  “Tilly, you never take time off. Well, not until your hand disappeared.”

  Tilda shook her head in disbelief. Debra was right. It took turning invisible for her to take some time to herself. She looked at her niece, who at twenty-two had style and panache. Deb’s daily uniform of cargo pants and zip-up hoodies wasn’t Tilda’s thing, but it was the way she carried it off, from her bulky boots to her short, spiky hair.

  “I need to go to Paris, Deb. Before the rest of me disappears too. I’ll leave this afternoon and be back early on Christmas Eve. We’re swamped with orders that day.”

  Debra’s face fell. “I know we’re busy on Christmas Eve … but I can’t work that day.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s something I have to do.”

  “Can’t it wait? We’re closed for Christmas and quiet then until New Year.”

  “It’s a bit like your Paris trip, Tilly.”

  Tilda looked at her niece. Usually she was so tough, but suddenly she looked incredibly vulnerable. She gave her a quick hug. “Okay, I’ll manage.”

  “And I’ll manage while you’re in Paris. The shop’s going to be mine when you cark it anyway.” Debra gave Tilda a kiss and marched back outside to the van. “You just go and find yourself.”

  Find herself? Was it possible to find herself in two nights? And more importantly, was she lost?

  Tilda got online and booked a seat on the 16:52 Eurostar to Paris. She pressed ‘accept payment’, and waited as her ticket was generated. Shit, what had she done?

  It doesn’t matter what I’ve done, she thought. It’s what I’m going to do.

  She looked down at
her missing hand. She needed this. Or something. She needed something. It was only two nights … one full glorious day. This was her Christmas present to herself. A new wardrobe, a new look, and a day in Paris, her favorite place in the world.

  She googled hotels around Notre-Dame. She already knew how she wanted to spend her full day in Paris, and Notre-Dame was a stone’s throw away from where it would begin. There were so many hotels to choose from. She flicked through a few. They all looked fine, but she wanted something special.

  It took her about ten minutes to find it. The Hotel Antoinette prided itself on its excellent service, spacious rooms, and the floral artworks in the hotel restaurant. It was perfect. She booked a room, as well as a table for dinner. Now all she had to do was pack. She’d take her bag to her hair appointment and head straight to the station from there.

  And finally, she’d call Patrick. She was putting that off until last. She had to postpone dinner. Patrick answered on the third ring and sounded so pleased to hear from her that Tilda was tempted to cancel her trip. Or to ask him to come with her. But she was also looking forward to a break alone, with no work, just Paris at her feet. Or foot, as the case may be.

  “Patrick, I’m afraid I’ll have to take a raincheck on dinner tonight.”

  His voice was filled with disappointment. “Did something come up?”

  “I’ve got some things going on at the moment and—”

  “Sure, I understand,” he interrupted. “And dating me is just too much to take on right now.”

  “Oh god, no, Patrick. It’s not you. It’s me.”

  “Always is, Tilda.”

  Tilda almost snapped at him. “Listen, I’m going to Paris because I need some time to think through a personal issue. I’ll be back on Christmas Eve, and if you’re free, I would love to spend the evening with you.”

  “You would?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “So you’re not giving me the slip because the whole blind thing has freaked you out?”

  “Dating a blind man is the least of my problems, Patrick. In fact, let me rephrase that … It’s not a problem. At all.”

  “Paris, eh?”

  “I’ll explain when I get home.”

  “I’ve got plans to go caroling on Christmas Eve,” Patrick said.

  A wave of anxiety washed over Tilda. She hadn’t been caroling since she was a kid, when a neighbor told her that she was more off key than a lazy locksmith. In fact, she even stopped singing in the shower that day. There’s no way she could sing in front of Patrick.

  “Don’t think about it,” Patrick said. “Just say yes.”

  “Yes.”

  *

  A couple of hours later she was on the Eurostar. She was wearing blue jeans with her new boots and orange shirt, and she’d packed her other new clothes, as well as a lovely dress she’d had for ever but had never worn. Her hair was cut and colored and swinging around her shoulders after a blow-dry. As the train entered the Channel Tunnel, Tilda opened Selma’s book.

  What if we lived in a world where the young were invisible until they’d earned wisdom? There are many traditional societies around the world where this is the case. Instead, in our more modern society, those with hard-earned wisdom become invisible. They are devalued. It’s a frightening prospect, one we remain blissfully unaware of until we hit middle age.

  Middle age is a confusing period for anyone. Firstly, we are aware that our currency has waned. It’s also that big leap closer to the thing we fear most—death. When middle age arrives, we know about it. It’s there. It’s in our face … or on it. Our initial reaction is to reject it. Enter the midlife crisis. There are numerous ways this will play out. Trade in your spouse, subject your body to youth-enhancing treatments. We mourn what has passed without embracing what is. We miss the point completely. Yes, the flush of youth is over … but in its place should be, could be, true freedom.

  It’s this freedom that’s the key to becoming visible again. Not caring what others think is freeing. Expressing yourself any way you want is freeing. Having opinions, emotional wisdom, spiritual understanding … these things free you. And in freedom, we find power.

  People come to my workshops and I hear the same complaints over and over again: “I’m slowing down. Things don’t work like they used to.” I say to this, thank god! Yes, there are some dreadful aspects to ageing. But there are also some dreadful aspects to youth. We tend to lose sight of that.

  Hands up who wants to go back to the self-doubt, insecurity and blind ignorance of their youth? Age has taught me that what other people think of me is none of my business. I don’t care. That lesson alone is worth every wrinkle on my face.

  What’s the lesson that makes your wrinkles worthwhile? What has the pay-off been for you?

  Tilda closed the book, and before she even had time to ponder the question, the answer came to her.

  Labels. Oh how she’d struggled with labels. Everyone around her needed to label each other. No one was content to just be. They wanted her to be a dutiful daughter, a good wife, a mother.

  Her twenties were all about conforming to these roles. She’d married young, mainly because her parents had encouraged it and she’d spent her whole life trying to please them. Then she’d spent most of her twenties trying to be the perfect wife. God how she’d tried, and failed. She’d divorced Paul, never for a moment thinking that by doing so she was blowing her chance at motherhood. She was young and was sure she’d love again. But it didn’t happen. She never did meet “the one” and as a result, her thirties were a struggle, trying not to panic as her biological clock ticked more loudly and took her further and further away from possible parenthood.

  It hadn’t been easy. She’d poured her love into Debra, and had been the best aunt she could be. But then somewhere around forty, something shifted. She began to accept things. She hadn’t just resigned herself to her label-less life—she began to recognize that it was her path and therefore the right path. For whatever reason, she was not, and probably wouldn’t be, a wife or a mother. There were people who would never allow that. Even now her parents, her sister, and some of her friends encouraged her to find the one, to marry and have children. At her age IVF was still an option, her mother said. Just.

  But Tilda dug her heels in now. People needed to back off. They needed to accept her as she was. To be fair, sometimes she wasn’t even sure of who that was, so no wonder her mother was confused. But she knew what she wasn’t. She’d worked through it, and it had taken time. It was there on her face. But she’d never trade in that knowledge for a second stab at youth. That much she was sure of.

  *

  Tilda arrived at the hotel at a little before nine that evening. Her room was lovely, with stone floors, whitewashed walls and wooden beams overhead. There was a large bed with an upholstered headboard and an embroidered cover in rich shades of burgundy. The room was filled with ornate touches like the bronze patina on the light fittings and doorhandles, and gold-framed watercolors. The bathroom was large enough to swing a cat—albeit one with a short tail. All in all, it was perfect.

  She opened the window. The sill had a wrought-iron railing that she could lean on and watch Paris below. And she did exactly that. She stuck her head out and looked down at the street, and then across at the twinkling lights of rooms in nearby buildings. She could hear a siren in the distance—a French one. The night air was icy and her breath came out in clouds. As much as the streets of Paris beckoned her, she wouldn’t be going out this evening. She’d chosen Hotel Antoinette because she wanted to have dinner downstairs and view the floral art.

  Tilda opened her case and hung her clothes in the small closet. Then she laid her dress for dinner out on the bed. She smiled when she saw it, as the memory of how she’d been duped into buying it flooded back.

  The local school was holding a fundraiser. The school mothers had offloaded their designer clothes and Debra had pulled this off a rack and shoved it at Tilda.

  “
Check this out, Aunt Tilly. A brand-new Burberry dress with the label still on it. And it’s only £100.”

  Tilda held the dress. It was lovely. It was black, knee-length, with a V-neck and three-quarter sleeves.

  “Do you want it, Deb? My treat.”

  Debra was busy looking at the Burberry site on her phone. “Holy crap, that dress is selling for £450.” She looked up from the phone. “You have to get it.”

  “Okay, I’ll get it for you.”

  Tilda paid for the dress and afterward found Debra waiting for her nearby.

  “Good score, Tilly.”

  Tilda handed the dress to Debra.

  Debra tried not to laugh and handed it straight back. “It’s not for me. I thought it would look great on you.”

  “But I got it for you.”

  “Tilly, when was the last time you saw me in a dress?”

  Something began to dawn on Tilda. “Not for a few years.”

  Debra nodded. “Because I’m not that sort of lesbian.”

  “You’re a lesbian?”

  “That bothers you?” Debra smiled at her aunt.

  Tilda laughed and reached out for her niece. “Why would it bother me?” She then drew back and whacked Debra playfully with the shopping bag. “It just means I’m stuck with this dress.”

  Debra linked her arm through her aunt’s. “That the point. You should treat yourself more often.”

  Tilda slipped the dress on and added some make-up, her new red heels and a black jacket. She looked in the mirror and barely recognized herself. That wasn’t true. She recognized herself. And it was the first time in ages.

  “I’m taking you out to dinner,” she said to her reflection.

  The hotel restaurant was lovely. Every detail was utterly perfect. The wallpaper was hand-painted, and the dark wood floors were covered in oriental carpets. A fireplace warmed the room. There was an assorted mix of lounge chairs and divans around small wooden tables. The whole place was an explosion of color, with unusual fabrics and lampshades. And scattered around the restaurant were the reasons she’d chosen the hotel: ten truly stunning flower arrangements. The shades, the form, and the combinations took her breath away.