The Birthday That Changed Everything

by Debbie Johnson

  Rick and Marcia were there, and they both looked amazing in very different ways. Marcia, still necking down the booze like Prohibition might be round the corner, had her thick grey hair tied in a long plait down her back. She was wearing a majestic peacock-blue maxi-dress that held her boobs up on a kind of shelf. They looked like a pair of ripe melons perched on silk. Every man in the vicinity was surreptitiously sneaking a peek, while trying hard to pretend they hadn’t even noticed.

  Every man except Rick, that is. Perhaps because they were married, and Marcia’s melons lost their novelty value a long time ago. Or perhaps because he was too busy chatting to all the handsome young barmen.

  And, of course, there was James. The Probably a Bastard, and Definitely a Player. Wearing a pair of just-tight-enough Levis that showed off his arse to perfection. Bet he hadn’t spent hours in his room, dislocating his neck to see if his bum looked too big. He was one of those comfy-in-their-own-skin people who always rubbed me up the wrong way. Just like Simon, in fact – so confident they’d probably not had a moment of self-doubt since they were six.

  Still, the Levis did look excellent. A pair of well-used 501s, on the right backside, is one of the sexiest sights on earth. Perhaps it’s a generational thing. I grew up watching those TV ads with the gorgeous hunk taking his pants off in the launderette and I don’t think I’ve ever fully recovered. He was probably an arrogant bastard as well.

  As if the jeans weren’t enough of a shock to my system, his short-sleeved white shirt was showing off that golden tan and those yummy biceps. You could see them flexing every time he lifted his pint. I couldn’t understand why all the other women hadn’t fainted on the spot.

  True to his word he did buy me a drink, and pulled a seat up by my side, but we didn’t get much time to talk. It was a group affair, with tables and chairs clustered together as everyone chattered away and started to catch up on what had happened in their lives over the last year. Births, deaths, marriages – a living tableau of newspaper small ads.

  James gave me a running commentary on who was who and what was what, so I’d ‘feel like one of the gang’. I replied politely, trying not to encourage him. Just because I’d been dressed like a sex nurse when we first met didn’t mean I was easy.

  Nothing about me was easy – especially not the strangely conflicting way I was feeling right then. One minute morose and wishing Simon was there with me; the next wondering what James would smell like if I leaned over and sniffed his neck. Confusing, yes. Easy? No.

  Luckily for my blood pressure, he had to leave early to pick up Jake from the kids’ club. Everyone waved him off, with a chorus of ‘see you in the mornings’ and ‘sleep wells’ and similar comments. They all seemed so comfortable together – like lifelong friends, rather than people who met each other for two weeks on holiday.

  Nobody seemed to think this was weird; the same groups of people had been coming to the Blue Bay for three – or in some cases four – holidays in a row, and were like an extended family who only saw each other once a year. I felt borderline jealous, and had to give myself a bit of a telling-off – these people shared friendship. Which was something I was capable of – even if Simon had dumped me, I could still be a friend. I just needed to try a bit harder. I was only one day in – I could do this.

  As James walked away, I noticed two things: how nice his backside was still looking in those jeans, and Miss McTavish giving me the beady eye. I prayed to God she wasn’t about to ask me if I’d glanced at the crotch of his jeans to estimate bulge size. Which of course I had. Instead, she just gave me a wee wink and a little smile.

  Maybe she was a mind-reader, or some kind of Scottish Dr Ruth-style sex guru. I should probably go to her for counselling. Lord knew, I needed it – why was I even noticing James’s backside in my current emotionally crippled state?

  Maybe it was a rebound thing. Or perhaps my ego needed boosting after its recent battering, and James’s mildly flirtatious kindness was doing the trick, despite my best efforts to ignore him.

  I couldn’t deny the fact that I fancied him, but I wasn’t going to act on it. It was way too soon for that kind of thing, and when I did act on it, it wasn’t going to be with a holiday lothario on the prowl for sex on the beach. He was gorgeous – but not for me. Even if he was sparking off some delicious feelings in places I’d forgotten existed.

  I’d been fighting off complete breakdown since Simon left. My life consisted of either crying, or mindless tasks to distract me from the pain. The house had never been so clean, and the dog had started to hide in the broom cupboard when he saw me approaching with the lead. I’d assumed that that was it for me and men: game over.

  My reaction to James suggested otherwise, but still…it would end in tears. Mine. Whatever was causing me to notice James – backside and the rest – was a momentary blip. I was barely holding myself together surrounded by all these new people; coming to terms with my new status as a singleton. Any more stress would be too much – I’d be like that donkey in Buckaroo! and do a complete flip-out.

  No. I was middle-aged, free and single – surely a cause for celebration, I’d decided, reaching for the rosé and topping up my glass.

  I got so busy celebrating, in fact, that I spent my first night in Turkey completely pickled. I’d woken up half an hour ago, still dressed and desperate for the loo. Now I was popping paracetamol with my croissants as the kids bickered across the table.

  ‘So, are you just going to lie on your fat arse all day and get shitfaced again?’ asked Lucy. Ollie, the traitor, laughed out loud.

  ‘Of course not!’ I said. ‘I’m getting stuck in to the activity programme today. And don’t talk to me like that.’

  ‘Yeah, right, whatever,’ she said, implying, ‘I know you’re lying’ and ‘I don’t give a fuck’ at the same time. ‘Maybe you’ll try some extreme sunbathing. Or the gin Olympics.’

  ‘No, come on, Luce, let’s go and sign up for something together now, it’ll be fun,’ I said, standing up and dusting myself down. Today’s ensemble was a very interesting combo of Jenny’s shorts, which were too tight, and Marcia’s bikini, which was slightly too big. Not haute couture, but circus clowns wouldn’t stop on the street to point and laugh either.

  Lucy didn’t even bother to reply, so I walked off without her. I marched over to one of the reps, full of indignant outrage and determination to find the New Me.

  ‘Hi! How are you?’ said the rep – a scruffy-haired surfer dude with wide blue eyes and an accent like Prince William’s.

  ‘I’m keen,’ I said, ‘but I can’t do anything and I’m really unfit. What do you suggest?’

  He laughed. As though he thought I was joking and I’d said something really funny.

  ‘I’m not joking,’ I said, just to be clear.

  ‘No, of course not,’ he replied, busying himself looking through the piles of papers and timetables on the desk.

  ‘What about windsurfing for beginners? That’s on this afternoon, should be a nice day for it as well.’

  ‘Yes, great, sign me up for that – what else? What about tomorrow?’

  ‘Ummm…tennis? There’s an assessment session first thing if you’re interested?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘put me down for that. Sally Summers. But I don’t need to bother with the assessment thingy. I’m rubbish, so put me in the lowest group possible. And have you got the times for yoga and Pilates and Boxercise there as well?’

  Fully armed with notes, class times and a set of safety instructions which I’d never look at, I wandered back to our breakfast table, planning to wave them in Lucy’s face. I’d show her what a super-fit super-mum I really was.

  When I got there Ollie had already left. He’d mentioned something about snorkelling earlier and said he’d see me for lunch.

  Lucy, however, was still there – sitting with a terribly good-looking teenaged boy. He had beautiful brown hair that caught auburn glints in the sun, and gorgeous green eyes.

 
Sylvia Plath was lying forgotten on the table. Lucy’s iPod was no longer attached to her ears. She was listening to him, talking to him, and even issuing the occasional girlie giggle. I almost fainted from the shock.

  ‘Hi!’ I said as I joined them. Lucy gave me a look that made me feel about as welcome as raw sewage, but the junior hottie returned my smile and actually stood up to greet me. Good looks, and manners too. What on earth was he doing talking to Lucy?

  ‘Hi, you must be Sally,’ he said. ‘I’m Max – Allie and Mike’s son. I thought I’d come and see how Lucy was doing, and whether she fancied coming swimming with me later – if that’s all right with you, Sally?’

  I was momentarily flummoxed by the thought of Lucy requiring my permission to do anything, and apparently so was she. ‘Yeah,’ she said quickly, ‘that sounds great! I love swimming. I’ll go and get changed and meet you back downstairs, okay?’

  And off she went. She started running, then remembered her cool and slowed down to a saunter. I swear there was an extra waggle in her hips as she went, like she knew she was being watched.

  Weird, weird, weird. Especially as she hadn’t been swimming of her own free will for the last two years.

  Chapter 11

  Windsurfing wasn’t for another few hours, so I followed the extreme sunbathing route. I needed to rest now, in advance, as I’d be using up a lot of energy later on. Preventative napping – I’m sure it made perfect scientific sense.

  Once I was creamed up, hydrated and reclining, the sun started to heat all the tension out of my bones, and I relaxed completely into a state of woozy wellbeing.

  All I could hear was the gentle slapping of the water at the pool’s edge, occasional laughter floating up from the beach, and the low-pitched singing of the cicadas in the palm trees. The haunting sounds of the call to prayer from the local mosque echoed around for a minute or two, reminding me that I was somewhere really quite exotic.

  Perfect.

  So perfect, I may possibly have drifted off to sleep for a little while. Or ‘rested my eyes’, as my gran used to say when she nodded off in the armchair.

  I jerked roughly awake when I heard Ollie shouting ‘Mum!’ in a tone that implied it wasn’t the first time. I leaped up, opening my eyes to be confronted by his plastic face inches from my nose.

  He pulled off his snorkelling mask, laughing away at his little joke, and said: ‘You were dribbling. And mumbling,’ then did a running jump into the swimming pool.

  I investigated my face for slobber, slapped on some more cream and turned over. I tan easily, but cooked on one side and not the other is never a good look.

  I was just drifting off again when a feeling of discontent started to swirl around me. I knew Lucy was standing there before she said a word – I could sense her dark aura chilling the air.

  I turned round, reluctantly, and looked up into the eye of the storm. Her black hair was wet and dripping round her shoulders. She seemed less tough without a coating of hairspray – like a tortoise without its shell.

  Her stance, though, was pure street fighter. Hands on hips, glaring down at me.

  ‘Yes?’ I asked cautiously, racking my brain for something I’d done to annoy her recently. Other than breathe.

  ‘You know it’s all your fault I don’t fit in here, don’t you?’ she said, in a quietly furious voice. From bitter experience I knew she’d get louder and louder from this point onwards. I should have dispensed earplugs to all my fellow hotel guests as soon as we’d arrived, out of common courtesy.

  ‘Erm…if I just say yes, can we leave it there?’ I asked, hopefully.

  ‘I look like a freak,’ she said, as if I’d never spoken, pointing at her own hair and the thick black mascara that was clumping her eyelashes together.

  ‘I look like a freak and it’s all your fucking fault! What kind of mother helps her daughter dye her hair black? And wear the kind of clothes I wear?’

  ‘I don’t know, Lucy,’ I said, ‘a supportive one? And to be fair I did draw the line at that tattoo of a spider’s web you wanted for your birthday—’

  ‘Shut up!’ she shouted – at about fifty per cent capacity, I’d say.

  ‘You’re a fucking nightmare! I’m sixteen! I need something to rebel against, but no, you’re always too busy being Mrs Fucking Understanding Sympathetic Parent, aren’t you? It’s all “yes, dear, of course you can dye your hair”, “yes, dear, of course you can paint your room black”, “yes, dear, of course you can shoot up fucking heroin at the dinner table!”’

  Cranked right up to seventy per cent now, and building to a big finale.

  ‘For God’s sake, what do I have to do in the madhouse you call our home to break the rules? Go teetotal or join the SAS? It’s a joke. You’re a joke. You’ve screwed up your own life and now you want to do the same to me! No wonder Dad left!’

  She stomped off, flip-flops smacking angrily against the concrete as she headed back to our room. Time for a bit more Sylvia Plath, I suppose.

  The woman lying on the next lounger was looking on in horror. She was far too polite to say anything, but her face was frozen somewhere to the south of shocked.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘My only consolation is she’ll be leaving home soon.’

  I walked over to the pool’s edge and shouted Ollie over. ‘What’s wrong with Lucy?’ I asked.

  ‘Do you want a list?’ he answered. I put on my no-nonsense face and folded my arms in front of my chest.

  ‘Okay, okay…I don’t know. She went swimming with Max and then his mates came and it was no big deal but I think one of them might have called her Morticia.

  ‘Don’t see why that would bother her, she’d normally just break their arm, but I think it might be ’cause she likes Max so she flipped and got embarrassed. It’s girl stuff, Mum – I don’t understand girls. You should go talk to her.’

  Yeah, right. Whatever, as Lucy might say. That was not going to happen. She’d said her piece. She currently hated me. I’d been here before, bought a shop-load of T-shirts, and knew she needed time to calm down before I went anywhere near her. A year or so should do it.

  Instead, I walked to the bar. Allie was sitting there under an umbrella, her bare feet propped up on the chair opposite her, a paperback that looked to be about serial killers splayed across her lap.

  She glanced up as I arrived, and cracked open one of her best smiles.

  ‘Trouble in paradise?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow and closing her book.

  ‘Oh,’ I replied. ‘You heard that, did you?’

  ‘Yes. Because I’m not deaf. Don’t let it get to you – she doesn’t mean it. She’s probably in her room regretting it right now.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ I said, looking yearningly at her cold bottle of Peroni. ‘That would be what a normal human being would do. Lucy, though, will be upstairs plotting evil acts that wouldn’t be out of place in that book you’re reading. But don’t worry – I’m used to it. And I met your Max earlier, Allie – how lovely is he?’

  ‘On a scale of one to ten,’ she said, smiling proudly, ‘he’s probably a twelve. But that’s what he’s like now – you should have met him when his dad first left, years ago. He was a monster. He was caught shoplifting bags of Wotsits from the corner shop; got into fights at school – the works. I felt so guilty – I knew it was all because of what we, the alleged grown-ups, were doing, messing with his poor little head. I suspect that’s something you understand.’

  I pondered it and, while I did so, she kindly pushed her Peroni over and gestured for me to have a swig. True friendship.

  ‘I do,’ I eventually replied. ‘I do feel guilty. Even though it’s not me who had the affair, or me who walked out. Even though I’d be willing to try and make it work if he wanted to come home. Probably. But…well, it’s complicated, isn’t it? I didn’t walk out – but maybe I switched off. Maybe I didn’t give him what he needed. Maybe I didn’t notice how miserable he was, because I was so busy leading our
perfect suburban middle-class life. Maybe it’s at least partly my fault.’

  ‘And maybe,’ said Allie, grinning across the table at me, ‘he’s actually just a complete wanker.’

  ‘That is also a distinct possibility,’ I answered, feeling laughter bubble up inside me.

  I realised, as I drank my pilfered lager and laughed with my newfound pal, that it was the first time I’d felt genuinely amused, or even capable of anything approaching ‘fun’, for a very long time.

  Perhaps the holiday magic was starting to work.

  Chapter 12

  Windsurfing looks really, really easy. I could see loads of people doing it – gliding effortlessly along in the choppy blue bay, like humans who’d been transformed into graceful swans.

  All of which made it especially galling that, so far, the only technique I’d mastered was falling into the sea and coughing up litres of salt water. I couldn’t get enough balance to even stand up on the board, never mind heft the sail upright.

  I wanted to give up and go for a little lie-down, but my instructor, Mo, was having none of it. Mo was about thirty and must have weighed in at a good seventeen stone, half of which was made up of ratty brown dreadlocks.

  ‘You can do it, Sally,’ he said, after my third drenching. ‘You’ll get it eventually and then there’ll be no stopping you. Concentrate. Don’t let it defeat you!’

  I tried again. And again. All around me, there were giant splashes, occasional shouts of triumph, and the sound of sails whooshing down to hit the water. Clearly this was a class full of people who were probably also picked last for their netball team during PE lessons.