The Last Laugh

by Tracy Bloom

  ‘They’ll come,’ says Maureen.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ I shrug.

  ‘You would,’ she replies.

  I think about it. She’s right. Of course I would. If anyone from that time contacted me and said they were planning a reunion I would be in there like a shot. A chance to relive the memories from those days? It would feel like being offered a fizzing sparkling cocktail on a cold wet foggy winter’s afternoon. A chance to be uplifted and transported away from the gloominess of now to a happier, brighter past where the everyday monotony has been airbrushed away, leaving only the good times for us to fawn all over like they were our greatest achievement. Maybe they were.

  ‘But what if the others are still drinking cocktails every day?’ I say half to myself.

  ‘You what?’ says Maureen.

  I look up at her. ‘What if they’re all happy and leading great lives and don’t need the shot in the arm of their twenties to cheer them up?’

  ‘They’ll come,’ she says, with either the certainty of age and wisdom or sheer bloody-mindedness. ‘So who else?’

  ‘I guess I should invite some of the other school mums,’ I say without enthusiasm.

  ‘You should,’ agrees Maureen. ‘Don’t shut them out now. You need them and they might surprise you. Give them a chance at least.’

  I nod. I’ll have to somehow make up for my outburst last week but strangely I’ve missed the messed-up bunch.

  ‘Oh, and I’d like to ask Mark’s friends,’ I add. ‘Well, his old mates. You know, from way back. Not that he sees much of them now but they were good to me back then when I moved here with him. We had some good times – I couldn’t have a nineties party without them.’

  The gang Mark had arrived on the plane with in Greece all those years ago had proved to be good genuine lads, who were just out for a laugh, but when push came to shove, would do anything for you. I’d become really fond of them all until one by one they seemed to slip through the net of people’s lives moving in different directions. Mark had aggressively continued to climb the career ladder whilst the rest settled into more mundane roles, choosing to work to live whilst he planted himself firmly in the live-to-work camp.

  His long hours led to missed lads’ nights out, which led to them eventually not asking him until they only gathered for special occasions. Mark’s social life became more wrapped up in dinner with colleagues, where talk inevitably strayed to work whilst I was left to make small talk with wives about local shop openings or where to get a decent haircut. Dull, dull, dull. I longed for long nights down the pub with Mark’s proper mates that would inevitably end up in a visit to a kebab shop and a bottle of whisky in front of a recording of Eurotrash. That was fun, not the laboured three-course meals with matching crockery and napkins that wouldn’t iron. That was hard work. Give me a kebab in front of the telly any day.

  ‘So, food then?’ enquires Maureen.

  ‘Do we need food?’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  That makes me feel old. When did I reach the age that food at a party became a requirement rather than an afterthought?

  ‘I have an idea!’ announces Maureen.

  ‘We are not using Barbara,’ I say. Barbara is the cook at Shady Grove and knows only one texture, slop.

  ‘George,’ says Maureen. ‘You keep telling me how much he likes to cook.’

  ‘He couldn’t cater for a party!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s fifteen and he can barely say boo to a goose. I couldn’t put him under that kind of pressure, it would destroy him.’

  ‘Poppycock,’ says Maureen, bending over and ticking something on a list in front of her. ‘Bring him with you tomorrow, I’ll talk to him.’

  ‘You don’t know him, Maureen. You don’t know what he’s like. He’d never cope.’

  She looks up at me but says nothing.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘You do realise why he can’t cope?’ she says eventually.

  ‘Oh, do please tell, because we’ve spent hours in therapy waiting for someone to tell us why our son can’t cope.’

  ‘Because you don’t let him,’ she states simply. ‘The slightest problem and you cope for him. You dive in to solve it. He doesn’t cope because he never has to. It’s your generation all over. What do they call it – chopper parenting?’

  ‘I think you mean helicopter parenting.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it.’

  ‘I’m not a helicopter parent.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Who do you think you are, Dear Deirdre all of a sudden?’

  ‘She’s a waste of space if ever I saw one! Anyway, I like to model myself more on Judge Judy. She talks a lot of sense.’

  ‘You need to get out more.’

  Maureen looks offended. ‘I don’t need to get out more to be able to tell that you are compensating for Mark with George,’ she states.

  ‘What?’

  ‘George is a big disappointment to Mark and you are trying to compensate,’ she continues. ‘You’re overly protective; you’re smothering him, doing everything for him, trying to make it all right when all you’re doing is magnifying the problem.’

  I am beyond startled at Maureen’s outburst. Yeah, she’s blunt with her advice but I’ve never known her to stray into parenting territory – she hasn’t even got any kids of her own.

  ‘Why have you never said this before?’ I demand.

  ‘Don’t shoot the messenger, will you!’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are.’

  I feel sick – I think Maureen might have a point.

  I should walk out. I came here to organise a party, not discuss what a terrible mother I’ve apparently been. I stare back at her defiantly.

  ‘Bring him tomorrow after school,’ she says. ‘We need to agree the menu.’

  I nod, although I want to cry. I want to cry over all the times I’ve put my arms around George to comfort him, rather than telling Mark to acknowledge his existence as his son instead of the ball of issues we have nurtured within him.

  ‘Is it too late?’ I murmur.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Maureen says flatly. ‘Just bring him with you tomorrow and let’s see what we can do with him.’

  ‘What shall I tell him?’

  ‘The truth,’ she shrugs. ‘We’re having a party and he’s being commissioned as chef.’

  ‘He sees his therapist on a Wednesday.’

  Maureen raises her eyebrows.

  ‘I’ll bring him,’ I nod.

  Twenty-Eight

  It’s five thirty when my mobile rings. I pick it up. It’s not anyone on my contacts list but I know straight away who it is.

  ‘Hello,’ I say.

  ‘Oh hello, is that Jenny?’

  ‘Karen?’

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s me.’

  I want to cry.

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad you’ve called me,’ I gush.

  ‘Well, how could I not? A party, you know I’m always up for a party,’ she laughs. And I laugh too. And twenty years melt away.

  ‘So how are you?’ I ask.

  ‘Good, really good, and you?’

  ‘Fine.’ My voice cracks. I’m not ready to answer this question truthfully yet. I wonder if I will ever be ready. There’s an awkward silence.

  ‘So what’s brought this on?’ she asks cheerily. ‘It’s a bit out of the blue, isn’t it? Especially after all this time. How long is it?’

  ‘Twenty years.’

  ‘Is it really?’

  ‘Yeah, 1996. You remember, it was Euro 96 year.’

  ‘Oh yeah, three lions on a shirt. I remember.’

  ‘We spent half the season with a St George’s flag painted on our faces.’

  ‘And Kev got one tattooed on his arse, do you remember? He said he would if we got to the semi-finals.’

  ‘Oh God, I’d forgotten that! He didn’t sit down for a week.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. He’s adde
d a few more since then.’

  ‘You still see him then?’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve kept in touch. We meet up every so often.’

  A pang of regret ripples through my entire body. I have to ask.

  ‘And any of the others? Do you still see them?’

  She pauses.

  ‘Yeah, actually. We all get together about every couple of years or so.’

  The silence hangs heavy. Images of missed raucous happy times go racing through my head. Images of people reminiscing time and again about the good times. The sparkling cocktail on a dreary winter’s afternoon. Oh, how I would have drunk it all in. How many reunions have I missed – maybe ten? What was I thinking?

  ‘We would have invited you but Dave has sort of been the one who’s organised it each time. I guess as you weren’t there at the end you kind of got missed.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I say quickly, trying not to mind. ‘I was the one who left. I was the one who needed to make the effort to stay in touch, not you.’

  ‘Well, I’ve already had a load of messages from some of the others you’ve tracked down. Wondering if I knew what was going on. I said I was going to call you. See how are you are, see what the crack is.’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, I’m fine. I just wanted to… I just thought I’d like to see you all, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s very short notice.’

  ‘Oh, I know. I’m sorry but… er, an opportunity came up at a venue and I thought I’d just go for it. The more you think about and plan these things the more unlikely they are to happen. So I thought I’d just do it and cross my fingers. And it’s just been my birthday so it’s sort of a belated birthday party.’

  ‘Well, it’s funny because we were due a gathering this summer and Dave hadn’t got round to organising it so you’ve given him a free pass. He’s delighted. I think quite a few can make it by the sounds of it.’

  ‘And you? Can you come?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’d love to come. I’d love to see you, I really would. It’s been far too long.’

  I let out a breath.

  ‘It’ll just be me. Julian will stop at home with Evie and Sienna – they’re my daughters.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ I say. ‘Well, I saw that you had children on Facebook. That’s great. And you’re married then?’ I ask tentatively.

  ‘Oh yes, second marriage actually.’

  ‘Really?’ I feign surprise. I get ready to roll out the sympathy over the demise of her marriage to shit-bag Sean.

  ‘Yes, well, life hasn’t exactly been straightforward since I last saw you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.’

  ‘So, do you remember Sean?’

  Do I remember Sean? Of course I bloody remember him! He still owes me rent. He still owes me the friendship I should have had with you for the last twenty years.

  ‘Yes, I remember Sean,’ I say.

  ‘Well, we ended up having a baby together.’

  ‘Wow, congratulations.’

  ‘A girl, Sienna, and he did the decent thing, he asked me to marry him. And so we did, by which time we were back in the UK and I was working in sales for a confectionery company full-time because Sean was struggling to get a job… And anyway, to cut a very long story short, Jules was my area manager. And, well, I’m not proud, Jenny, but we ended up having an affair and I ended up leaving Sean and eventually Jules and I married and had Evie.’

  ‘You left Sean?’

  ‘I still feel guilty,’ she says.

  ‘You left Sean,’ I say again.

  ‘I thought you of all people would be pleased. You never liked him, did you?’

  ‘I’m over the moon,’ I say, laughing, unable to help myself. ‘I knew you were not meant to be but I always assumed he’d do the dirty on you and leave you devastated. But you having an affair and leaving him is the best news I’ve had all year. Brilliant, just brilliant! Sorry, am I meant to say that?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ laughs Karen. ‘I didn’t realise you hated him that much.’

  ‘I didn’t hate him, I just hated the way he treated you.’

  There’s a silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘I’m sorry I never called,’ she says quietly.

  ‘No, no,’ I say. ‘It’s not your fault. Like I said, I was the one who left. It was down to me to make the effort. I guess I was so wrapped up in trying to make a new life and forget what I’d left behind, I didn’t want to hear what you were up to. I’d have been so jealous.’

  ‘So what’s happened with you then? You still with Mark?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘We got married, two kids, nice house, a dog…’ I pause, hopefully we still have a dog, I think. ‘All good.’

  ‘Well, it was all worth it then,’ she says.

  ‘Oh totally. Living the dream, Karen.’

  ‘And are you working?’

  I laugh.

  ‘Yeah, kind of. I’m a tour rep for geriatrics.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I run activities at an old people’s home. I use everything I learnt in Greece. Still spend half my time in toilets and half my time sorting out petty arguments.’

  ‘Sounds like a riot.’

  ‘It has its moments.’

  There’s a silence neither of us knows how to fill. A strangeness descends as we both weigh up how much of the last twenty years we want to rake up right at this moment. Blind. Without the aid of sitting in front of each other with the lubrication of wine.

  ‘You look well on your photos,’ I say eventually. It feels too soon to sign off just yet.

  ‘You mean I’ve put on weight,’ scoffs Karen.

  ‘No, I don’t. I mean you look well. You look happy. You look like you are having a good life.’

  ‘Mostly I am,’ she replies. ‘I can’t complain. But it’s all edited highlights on Facebook, isn’t it? Even Victor Meldrew would be having a whale of a time on there. I tend not to post pictures when I’m screaming at the girls because they are driving me demented, or of the third time I’ve fed them pizza that week because work has kept me out late again and I’ve not got round to doing a food shop, or my face when Jules tells me he’s going away with work the following day, like I should have read his mind and organised a babysitter because I want to go to book group because for the first time this year I’ve actually read the flippin’ book. I don’t post those pictures.’

  ‘We eat a lot of pizza,’ I reassure her.

  ‘Thank God for that! If I see another picture of a green salad I might throw the iPad away.’

  ‘I’ll put up pictures of our pizza if you want.’

  ‘Will you? Every time you have pizza?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘That would make my day. So how’s time treated your body?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I panic.

  ‘Don’t tell me, you haven’t put on a pound since I last saw you, you lucky bitch! Mind you, can you imagine if we ate and drank now what we used to, how enormous we would be. I only have to look at a bottle of wine now and I can feel it clinging to my thighs. So go on then, tell me. You’ve not gained any weight, have you?’

  I shouldn’t be surprised that talk has drifted to our bodies. Our weight and the way we looked was something we obsessed over and had many a late-night conversation about.

  ‘Well, I did,’ I admit. ‘Back to the land of pastry and cream cakes didn’t do me any favours and then of course two kids. I was enormous. Truly. But I have to admit that it’s more under control now.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. You’ve done Weight Watchers, haven’t you? I’ve tried it but I just can’t get on with it. Does my head in.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t a specific diet. Just a change of lifestyle, I guess.’

  ‘Bloody hell! You got into Pilates, didn’t you? A lot of women swear by it.’

  I’m about to deny any addiction to any form of exercise but I realise it might be easier to agree with Karen at this stage.

  ‘Yeah,’
I say. ‘I do a lot of Pilates. It’s changed my life.’

  ‘Wow. And we couldn’t even get you down to do aqua-aerobics. Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘I know,’ I mutter. ‘Who’d have thought it? I guess it can’t help, working in confectionery,’ I say, trying to be sympathetic.

  ‘Oh, I don’t do that any more. Jacked that in years ago. I run my own events company now. We’re doing really well actually.’

  I’m afraid to say this hurts. I know my congratulations should be spewing out of my mouth at a rate of knots but they’re not. It hurts to hear this because I am jealous. Jealous as hell. She’s doing the thing she loves, she’s successful and she’s healthy. Everything I am not.

  ‘Wow, that’s brilliant,’ I manage to utter. I must sound positive then cry about it later. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘We can give you a hand if you like. With your party. Did I hear someone mention sumo suits?’ She giggles. ‘You got hold of any yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can get one of my girls on to it if you like. No problem. Anything else you need?’

  Girls! She’s got girls who work for her.

  ‘A foam gun, maybe a few gazebos, oh, and a bouncy castle would be good,’ I say.

  There is silence on the other end of the phone then a roar of laughter.

  ‘I’ll sort it,’ she says. ‘Send me a list. Just like the old days, hey?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘Just like the old days. Thanks, Karen.’

  ‘Look, I gotta go,’ she says abruptly. ‘I need to pick Evie up from her dance class.’

  ‘Well, thanks for ringing and for your help.’

  ‘It’s so good to hear from you. Seriously. We’ll speak soon, yeah? Twenty years, eh?’

  ‘Twenty years. How did we let that slip through our fingers?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replies. ‘Let’s make sure we don’t let the next twenty pass us by. Promise?’

  ‘Of course. Promise.’

  Twenty-Nine