The Birthday That Changed Everything

by Debbie Johnson

  ‘I think I want to sing now,’ I said, staggering to my feet and downing the rest of my drink.

  ‘Mehmet!’ I yelled as I passed the bar. ‘Here it comes, baby!’ He threw his tea towel in the air and cheered as I headed up on to the stage. Somebody had definitely added a couple of extra steps, I discovered, as I stumbled up them and grabbed the mike.

  I chose my all-time ‘yes, I’m a drunk old child of the eighties’ song, ‘Like A Virgin’. Madonna has a lot to answer for, encouraging all us middle-aged women to believe we can cavort on stage doing slutty hip wiggles and get away with it. Some of us haven’t been doing power yoga for the last three decades and should really know better.

  Not that I stayed on the stage. Oh no, that would have been too tame by far. I danced my way back down those steps, in and out of tables, and right up to James.

  I smooched towards him, wailing for all the world to hear that he made me feel, well, like a virgin. Or a vir-ir-ir-ir-gin, to be exact. I hitched up my skirt and straddled his lap, telling him yet again, in fact a few more times than the song lyrics required. Madonna just couldn’t keep up with me.

  He held on to my hips as I gyrated, which was probably a good thing as I’d have fallen backwards on to my wupsy tupsy special if he hadn’t.

  As I bawled out my last ‘heartbeat’, I was dimly aware of tumultuous applause. Nothing like a drunken slapper to please the crowds; and who doesn’t love a blatantly fake virgin with a squirty-cream moustache?

  The applause was nice, but even nicer was the fact that I was sitting astride the rather magnificent man of my current dreams.

  I threw the mike down and gave him a big hug, burying my head in his shoulder. I was feeling tired and emotional, and thought I could quite happily live there, nestled in his arms, feeling safe and warm and slightly nauseous.

  ‘I don’t want to be just friends any more,’ I said, wiping my squirty cream on his shirt. What man wouldn’t want me?

  He locked his arms tighter around my back and kissed my shoulder.

  ‘I know. Neither do I. But you’re very drunk, and you won’t be feeling especially good in the morning. I’m going to take you back to your room, okay? I’ll make sure Lucy and Ollie get back safe. You get some sleep. Sound like a plan?’

  ‘Yes…’ I sighed, having no intention of moving. Ever again.

  James stood up, hoisted my legs round his waist, laced his hands under my bottom for support, and started off towards the hotel.

  ‘Madonna is leaving the building!’ he announced as he went. ‘She’ll be signing autographs at the airport tomorrow!’

  I waved to everyone over his shoulder, and everyone waved back. Rick looked a little tearful. Allie had physically fallen off her chair she was laughing so much. Mehmet was swigging from a bottle of vodka and giving me the thumbs-up. Miss McTavish was clapping her tiny hands in glee.

  Lucy – my lovely girl – had her head flat on the table, a beach towel draped over it to shut out the whole world. She probably loved seeing my extra-special performance – isn’t it every teenaged girl’s dream to see her mum flashing her knickers in front of her mates?

  I remember James struggling slightly to get me up the stairs, mainly because I was trying to kiss him as he did it, and he couldn’t see where he was going. And as he kicked open the door and staggered in with me, I know I tried to hold on to his neck and drag him into the bed in a very unvirginal way.

  Unfortunately, that’s where the memory train drew to a halt. I woke up the next morning with a banging headache and a mouth like the inside of a baboon’s armpit. I was also completely naked apart from one black jelly baby, which was stuck to my left bum cheek.

  I couldn’t be sure, but I didn’t feel like I’d had sex. It’d been a while, but I was positive I’d still be able to recognise the signs. I wriggled around a bit. No. Everything felt normal. I didn’t know whether I was relieved or disappointed. Relieved, I suppose – what a nightmare if I’d finally shagged him but been too drunk to even remember it.

  I scraped the jelly baby off and binned it. I planned to get up and get moving. Sometime very soon. Once the banging subsided and I regained feeling in all my limbs. I threw one arm out to the side – somebody had very kindly left a bottle of water right there on the bedside cabinet. I gulped down a few mouthfuls and felt marginally more human. Ugggh.

  After a moment or two of lying there, gawping at the ceiling and practising moving my eyelids, I realised that the banging was no longer just in my head – it was on the door. I ignored it. It was probably just the window cleaner looking for his money, and he’d go away in a minute.

  Except that was in a different reality, and the banging didn’t stop.

  ‘Sally! It’s James!’

  ‘Shit…’ I muttered, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

  ‘Hang on, won’t be a minute!’ I shouted, the sound of my own voice ricocheting around in my skull like a hand grenade.

  I grabbed a nightshirt and pulled it over my head, zigzagged into the bathroom and brushed my teeth at lightning speed. I wet my fingertips and rubbed them under my eyes to get rid of the thickest of the mascara. When I tried to brush my hair the whole thing got stuck in a tangle the size of the Isle of Wight, so I gave up.

  I had lost track of how long the complete process had taken – somewhere between two minutes and an hour.

  I opened the door and James was leaning on the frame, long and lean and every bit as luscious as usual. He was dangling one of my red high heels from his fingers.

  ‘I thought you might want this. I found it hanging off the flagpole in the gardens.’

  ‘Thank you. For the shoe. And for getting me back. And…we didn’t have sex, did we?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘we didn’t. Despite your best efforts.’

  He grinned and took a couple of steps towards me, putting his hands on my arms and pushing me gently back so I was resting against the wall.

  ‘We have to leave for the airport in ten minutes,’ he said, ‘and I wanted to say goodbye. Properly.’

  He ran his hands up over my shoulders, twining his fingers into my hair. He used his grip to tilt my head up, and I met his ocean-deep eyes. I think he was giving me a moment to make my protest. None came. I’d brushed my teeth and was ready to go. It was probably the wrong thing to do, and I was probably still drunk, but I wanted that kiss more than anything in the world. More than superpowers. More than chocolate cake. More than Simon coming home. More than my next breath. I’d figure out everything else afterwards, but for now…well, I was worth it.

  He leaned down and kissed me slowly, deliberately, and gently. His lips were like butterflies, nibbling and teasing and provoking until I put my arms around him, holding him tighter and standing on tippy-toes to get nearer to him.

  His body moved closer, his chest crushing my breasts. The bulge of his jeans was pressing into me and I rubbed myself against him shamelessly.

  He trailed kisses down past my ear, nuzzling his way to that super-sensitive spot where neck meets shoulder, then pulled away. I fell forward slightly, and thought I might cry. That just felt too nice to be finished so soon.

  ‘God…I’ve got to go,’ he said hoarsely. His chest was heaving slightly and the trouser issue made it obvious he’d been a very naughty boy. I’m not sure staring at the hard points of my nipples outlined against my shirt was helping.

  ‘All that stuff you did last night,’ he said, ‘try it again next year. When you’re sober.’

  And with that, he was gone. Walking, slowly and awkwardly, down the corridor and out of my line of vision.

  Chapter 23

  The airport looked like a refugee camp. Me and Lucy were sharing a seat, and Ollie had gone to get us Cokes. Nobody even had the energy to snipe at each other, which is usually cause for calling the paramedics in our household.

  Lucy had stopped crying and started texting.

  ‘Are you texting him already?’ I asked. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of playi
ng hard to get?’

  She didn’t look up or let her thumbs stop their tap-dance as she answered: ‘Yeah, right, Mum, like I’m going to take relationship advice from you. Anyway, you were hardly playing coy last night, practically shagging James in front of the whole hotel, were you?

  ‘Did you, by the way…you know, shag him? I know he came down and sent us to bed a bit later, but for all I know at his age it only takes a few minutes…’

  There was so much wrong with that whole speech, I didn’t know where to start.

  ‘On second thoughts don’t bother telling me. I know that technically you’re only human, and Dad’s at it like some demented middle-aged bunny on Viagra. So I understand if you…do stuff. Just don’t fucking tell me about it, though, ’cause it’s too gross to imagine.’

  ‘Mum! Luce!’ said Ollie excitedly as he returned with cans of Coke that cost about £5 each. ‘Look at them – that couple over there!’

  He pointed at a well-dressed man and woman in their early sixties. She had a very tidy bun, matching pearl earrings and necklace and wore expensive-looking cream slacks. Her husband had neat grey hair, a perma-tan, and a yellow Argyll golfing sweater on. There was nothing at all to distinguish them from any other well-to-do, middle-class grey panthers enjoying an active retirement.

  ‘What about them, dimwit? Are you hoping they’ll adopt you?’ said Lucy, voice dripping with sarcasm.

  ‘Fuck off, cow-face – listen, honest, this is hilarious! I was behind them in the queue in the shop, and I got a look at the tags on their hand luggage. That’s Mr and Mrs Smith from Solihull!’

  ‘No way!’ said Lucy and I at the same time, jumping up for a better look. That was just too weird.

  ‘Do you want to go and give them their Clit Stick back? I’ve still got it in my bag,’ I said.

  ‘No thanks. Disgusting. They shouldn’t even be having sex at their age, never mind extra-weird sex. I think I might puke if I think about it any more.’

  Ollie threw himself down on his rucksack, using it as a chair for his skinny backside. He looked a little tired and deflated after sharing his revelation. He got out his phone and started untangling the wires.

  He sighed like the world had just crash-landed on his shoulders.

  ‘That was a great holiday, Mum. How many more sleeps until we can go back?’

  Lucy snorted with laughter.

  ‘God, you’re such a baby Ollie…and anyway, retard, it’s 364.’

  Phones on. Ear pods in. Eyes closed. Full teenaged zombie state resumed.

  I smiled to myself as I looked at them. They were happy. And so, bizarrely, was I.

  PART THREE

  Heading to Turkey – almost 364 sleeps later…

  Chapter 24

  ‘And that,’ I typed, ‘is what I would do to you if I had you face down on a massage table covered in baby oil. Bye for now!’

  I signed off the email with a trio of winky-faces, including one with devil’s horns and one wearing sunglasses. I had recently discovered emoticons, and was very much enjoying overusing them.

  I laughed as I sent the e-mail, imagining poor James’s reaction when he read it, and hoping he wasn’t in the office when he did. It was past midnight now, so the chances were he wouldn’t open it until the next day. But, I thought, leaning back and taking a probably unnecessary sip of wine, I’d keep the laptop on just in case.

  Our fond farewell from Turkey had developed into an even fonder virtual relationship since we’d got home. He’d already messaged me by the time I’d unpacked the suitcases, which had certainly made the seventh load of washing go with more of a swing.

  To start with, it was friendly. ‘How are you?’ type stuff. Enquiries about our kids. The journey. Settling in to life back home. That kind of thing.

  And it stayed like that for quite a while, neither of us fully committing to anything more, but neither of us willing to quite let go of the connection. For me, it was a thread of sanity and optimism that made life back in Oxford so much more bearable.

  Despite his under-the-influence birthday phone call, Simon – at first – had shown no signs of regretting his decision to leave us. He turned up on the doorstep a few days after we’d come home, looking suntanned and fit, his usual ‘worried-for-the-ex’s-sanity’ expression on his face as I let him in.

  That same look had driven me mad before the Blue Bay – the way it suggested that he still cared about me, but not enough to come back. That he felt sorry for me, more than he saw me as a life partner. It made me feel – simultaneously – hopeful that there was still some underlying affection, angry that he’d left me, and pathetic for still wanting him back.

  But, as he wandered in behind me and took in the heaps of laundry with a raised eyebrow, stroking the dog (who was always the most pleased to see him) and asking how I was, I felt different. It wasn’t just the messages from James. It was the fact that Allie had called the night before, and we’d chatted for hours. That Jenny had tagged me in a load of photos of us all from the holiday. That Rick and Marcia had joined in a lengthy and hilarious Facebook conversation about our last-night karaoke, and what we should sing next year.

  That they were already assuming I’d be there next year made me feel part of something – something that hadn’t just disappeared the moment we all got on our respective planes back to the UK. They’d all urged me to book again straight away, and I started to understand the way they were all so close. Two weeks in Turkey – and the rest of the year to look forward to the next trip.

  For the first time since I’d met him, Simon wasn’t at the centre of every single part of my life. I still missed him – there’s only so much that a group of long-distance friends can compensate for – but it was less raw. Less desperate. When I felt the black moods descending, as I settled in for yet another lonely night in front of the TV when the kids were out, I had something to help me snap out of it.

  I had people to e-mail, to call. I had James to fantasise about. I had an alternative reality that I could dip into when I needed it – it wasn’t only about Simon, and what Simon might do next.

  He noticed the slight difference in me straight away, and I think at first he was relieved. Felt as though some of the burden of worrying about me had been lifted, freeing him up to enjoy his newfound liberation with Monika even more.

  As the months went by, though, and especially in the run-up to our first Christmas apart, he seemed to not only notice, but be slightly more curious. He was asking more questions, showing more interest. I had a weekend away with Allie – an alleged spa break in Hampshire that actually turned into a giant piss-up – and I had one delicious day in London with James. Both events prompted a flurry of messages from Simon, on various blatantly made-up pretexts, usually involving the kids.

  Lucy’s continuing romance with Max gave him the apparent reason to be so nosy – but I sensed it was more. Slowly, but very surely, the balance of our relationship was changing. With typically frustrating timing, the less I cared about what he was doing, the more he cared about what I was doing.

  He’d turned up on 1 December, looking as though he’d been dressed by Lumberjacks R Us, and announced that he’d come so we could go and choose our Christmas tree. This had been a family tradition for as long as I could remember – he, the kids and I piled into the car, heading to a forest in the Oxfordshire countryside where we squabbled over which pine to strap to the top. It had been lovely when the kids were little, but over the years it had descended into an annual grump-fest.

  The Christmas before he’d left, Lucy had sulked for the whole journey, Ollie had sprained his ankle when she’d pushed him out of the car, and I’d been overly bright and chirpy, desperately trying to compensate for it all. Simon had sullenly followed us around, clearly hating every minute of it. Now, with the clarity of distance, I could see how miserable he’d actually been. It was still, after all this time, a memory that could provoke me to tears – a parody of a happy family outing.

  So to say
that I hadn’t expected a repeat performance now he’d actually left the marital home was something of an understatement. I’d broken the news to him that we’d bought one already, and invited him in when I saw the forlorn expression on his face. In fact, I’d felt so sorry for him, he’d stayed for dinner – a takeaway in front of the telly, laughing our backsides off at a Will Ferrell movie.

  Ollie had joined us, Lucy luckily hadn’t, and it had felt…nice. Enjoyable. Almost normal – apart from the fact that we hadn’t spent pleasant nights like this together for a long time before he left. When he finally drove away, and Ollie went up to bed, I’d smiled at the whole thing. At the fact that it possibly – just possibly – showed a way that we could be in each other’s lives without him feeling trapped, or me feeling desperate to have him back.

  If that evening had happened without me going to the Blue Bay, I’d have probably begged him to stay. Clung on to him on the doorstep. Spent the whole night lying awake, wondering if it meant he was coming home.

  But I had better things to do by then. Like send my Irish cyber-boyfriend rude e-mails. We’d progressed to that stage within a month of coming home – and now, with just a few days to go until we all returned to the Blue Bay, we were still going strong.

  I heard a ping from my laptop. Smiled as I opened his reply.

  ‘Dear Sally,’ it said. ‘I was very much intrigued by your plans for an alternative massage, and also by your masterly use of emoticons. Would you care to log on to Skype to discuss this matter further?’

  I finished my wine. Realised I was grinning at the prospect.

  Why, I thought, clicking the Skype icon, the hell not?