by Maeve Haran
Ella, on the other hand, was delighted with the news and instantly agreed to come and celebrate.
‘Sal, that’s fantastic!’ She hugged her friend as she sat down opposite her in the bar of the Fitzrovia Hotel. Sal had always loved this place. It wasn’t as hip as some media haunts or as busy and bustling as others but a firm favourite with the more mature media type, mainly because the prices were more reasonable, the glasses large and the acoustics such that you could actually hear a conversation without shouting ‘What?’ at embarrassingly frequent intervals.
‘When do you start?’
‘Pretty soon. Their current editor is having a sabbatical so it’s only for six months. I’m going in tomorrow to sign the contract. As Scott Fitzgerald said, “Happiness is the relief after extreme tension” and my God, am I relieved! I’ve spent so long trying to hide my age. Now I feel like a nudist who can finally take their clothes off and live!’
‘Steady on.’ Ella raised her champagne glass. ‘My advice is once you’ve turned forty it’s wiser to keep your clothes on!’
‘I just can’t wait to get my teeth into the magazine. I’ve got so many good ideas I’m itching to try out. And what I want most of all is really fresh new voices, people who can talk about getting older and be really funny and true.’
‘I know just what you mean,’ Ella agreed, flushed and vivacious after two glasses of Veuve Cliquot, ‘just this afternoon, I finished my second—’ She halted suddenly, spluttering into her drink. What the hell was she up to? She’d almost blurted to Sal about her blogs when the whole point of them was that her identity needed to be secret.
‘Second what?’ asked Sal.
‘Row of broad beans. I told you I was looking after my neighbour’s allotment. Allotments are full of wrinklies. You should definitely do something on them.’
‘Really?’ Sal’s eyes had glazed. ‘I’m not sure allotments really grab me. Not unless romance blossoms among the red-currants and the radicchio?’
Ella thought about Bill and his ardent artichokes. Actually, it might make quite a funny blog. ‘So,’ she changed the subject skilfully, ‘have you heard from Laura or does she still think you should have told her about seeing Simon at The Ivy?’
‘Zero communication. I wondered if I should try and apologize.’
‘I should leave it for now. You were right, which won’t make it any easier. Simon’s just broken the news to her that the stupid girl’s pregnant.’
‘Oh, no, poor Laura!’ Sal sympathized. ‘It’s completely ridiculous. I don’t know what the woman sees in Simon anyway.’
‘His sperm, stupid. When you’ve got the baby bug those little bastards are more alluring than millions or a Maserati. Simon might think it’s his looks and charm but it was his semen she was after all along.’
‘The scheming sperm-digger! Funny thing, fertility. Up till thirty-five you spend your life desperate not to get pregnant, then suddenly you can’t wait to be up the spout.’
‘Even by Simon.’
When Ella got home she was surprised to find the lights still on. It was Wenceslaus’ first week at work and he’d been going to bed early. As a newcomer he’d been landed with the really early shift and had to be busy behind the coffee bar by seven to catch the morning rush hour.
She looked around the kitchen and the ground floor but there was no sign of him.
Just as she was turning off the lights she caught sight of a parcel wrapped in pink tissue paper. She undid the wrapping to find a brand new iPhone with a message that read: ‘Thank you, Ella. Tomorrow we tweet!’
Ella felt herself welling up. It was such a surprise and so characteristically generous, that Wenceslaus, who had so little, had spent most of his first month’s wages on buying her this phone. She only hoped she’d be able to work it.
Laura was beginning to feel frantic. She’d tried Sam’s mobile a dozen times, rung his best friends to ask if they’d seen him, and still drawn a complete blank. She’d even driven around the streets in case he was wandering around somewhere.
Then in desperation she’d called Simon at 2 a.m.
‘He’s twenty-two, for God’s sake, Laura,’ Simon had replied angrily. ‘Old enough to deal with his own problems. He’s probably at a friend’s or gone to an all-night showing of Fellini or fallen asleep on a bus.’
Fellini! That showed how completely out of touch Simon was with his own son. Laura slammed the phone down and went straight round to look for Bella at her boyfriend’s flat.
After a long wait, a whey-faced Bella answered the door, her hair straggling in rats’ tails, wearing a black Iron Maiden T-shirt and tiny briefs with BITE HERE embroidered on them. ‘God, Mum, why didn’t you call first? This time of night when the doorbell rings the house is on fire or it’s a drug bust.’
Laura decided to ignore the worrying implication of this statement. ‘It’s Sam. He rushed out of the house this morning and I can’t get hold of him on his phone. The thing is, he was really upset about something and I’m so worried about him.’
Behind Bella the enormous half-naked figure of Nigel loomed, his koi carp tattoos even more terrifying in their scale, or rather scales, without clothes to cover them.
‘What was he upset about?’
Laura couldn’t face the revelation on the doorstep at 2 a.m.
‘We’ll go and look for him, Mrs Minchin,’ Nigel offered instantly. ‘He probably just wanted to be on his own for a bit.’
Laura looked at Nigel in amazement. It struck her that this was only about the second time she’d heard him speak.
‘I’d be so grateful. I’ll go and wait at home in case he comes back.’
Laura stayed downstairs in the sitting room for the rest of the night with the throw from the sofa wrapped round her, waiting for news, hopping from channel to channel watching endless out-of-sequence episodes of Friends. In some of them Chandler had long hair and in some short. Monica was both fat and thin and so was Chandler. Laura had no idea which of the episodes came first but it didn’t seem to matter. They were still oddly comforting. Like the rest of the population of the planet Laura saw the flatmates as her best friends too.
At around 6 a.m. a car drew up and she heard voices. She ran to the door to find Nigel and Bella on either side of Sam, who was exhausted and fighting back humiliating tears.
Speechlessly, Laura held him. ‘Come on, up to bed. I’ll bring you a hottie. You must be perished in this cold.’
Sam allowed himself to be led unresistingly away, too tired to raise an argument.
‘Nigel found him in the cemetery down by the river, the funny little one that isn’t attached to the church.’ She smiled up at the silent giant. ‘He used to go there himself sometimes.’
‘You can hear the river,’ Nigel added. ‘There are ducks and seagulls. An owl or two. It isn’t frightening or anything.’
Laura could imagine no circumstances in which spending most of the night in a graveyard could be peaceful but she was so glad to have Sam back. ‘Thank you, Nigel. I’m so grateful to you.’
‘You’re watching the one when Rachel finds out Ross has got engaged,’ Nigel pointed out. ‘That’s one of my favourites.’
A Goth giant who was a secret Friends fan. It could be worse.
‘Do you mind if we stay here?’ Bella asked. ‘We’re too knackered to go back to Nige’s.’
Bella took his hand and they went upstairs to bed, looking like escapees from the Addams family.
Finally, exhausted herself, she followed them with TomTom, who had been enjoying Laura’s unexpected late-night companionship, trailing behind.
Sal put a frozen pizza in the middle shelf of the oven, and Norah Jones on the CD player. She hadn’t been exaggerating. She really was excited about this job. She had edited so many magazines over the years, thought up a thousand ideas for features, forever trying to make the familiar sound fresh and to put a new twist on things and not be cynical when young journalists came up with a suggestion that had been
done a million times already. Her ex-colleagues would probably laugh at New Grey, apart from its circulation figures, but to Sal it seemed like a novelty, something she’d never ever done before.
She just had time for a quick bath before the pizza was ready and then – what heaven! – she’d have it in her dressing gown while watching a favourite box set.
While the bath was running she lit some candles and had a check through her wardrobe. She was going to need some new clothes for the job. Mature not boring, grown-up yet subtly stylish. Oh, and no leopard skin. This had been a parting shot from Ella. It was true she did have a weakness for leopard skin. ‘Leave the leopard to Jackie Collins and Bet Lynch,’ Ella had counselled.
As it happened she already had a few suitable outfits. A new dress in gunmetal grey with a high neck (no ageing tits!) and clever asymmetrical folds which looked both appropriate and flattering; a beloved ISSA wrap dress (the frock that never dates despite what fashionistas claim) and a gorgeous silk blouse in leaf green.
Sal smiled to herself, breathing in the exotic scent of patchouli in the bath gel. Finally, after weeks staring into the unemployment abyss, things were looking good. She’d have six months at New Grey to make herself indispensable.
She’d have to use it wisely.
She slipped into the warm enticing water, submerging herself in its fragrant embrace.
In a gesture of sudden joy she raised her arms above her head, launching into a shaky version of ‘It’s a Wonderful World’ and began to soap her breasts.
For a moment she enjoyed the luxurious feel of soap on skin. Then she stopped, the song dying on her lips.
She had found a lump as distinct and hard as a marble in the side of her left breast.
CHAPTER 10
Sal’s first instinct was to pick up the phone to Ella.
She wanted to hear Ella’s sensible, undramatic tones giving her advice. ‘Keep calm. You don’t know for sure. Just get down to your doctor first thing tomorrow.’
And of course that was what she would do.
Fear fought with anger as she tried not to panic. It was so bloody unfair!
She only had this job for six months. How could she go and tell them she had a lump in her breast?
Maybe the lump was benign.
Funny, that word. You hardly heard it in modern life except in relation to cancer. And its opposite, ‘malignant’. The word made the tumour sound like a Shakespearean villain, a deliberately evil character with a chilling and lethal intention.
Sal rushed to her laptop and googled ‘How to tell if you’ve got breast cancer’.
‘Only you know your breasts best . . .’ In Sal’s case that was particularly true; she admitted it with wry bitterness, since no man had been near them for years. The truth was she’d never been one for self-examination. In fact, she remembered guiltily that she’d cancelled her last mammogram because it clashed with a sudden meeting. Maybe the Almighty had an irrational prejudice against career women.
Did she have inverted nipples? Dimpling or redness of the skin? Sal rushed to the bathroom mirror, relieved to find she had neither.
Suddenly she smelled burning pizza and rushed to the oven. Inside was a blackened and inedible mess.
It didn’t seem a good omen.
It was after ten o’clock next morning and Laura was still in her dressing gown when Bella came into the kitchen bearing brioche from the café down the road. She must have got up early to go and get it. ‘For you and the runaway. His favourite.’
‘Thank you, darling.’ She was touched and relieved that Bella seemed to be coping so well.
Exactly how Bella made a living in the strange nether world of Goths was always a mystery to her mother, and a source of fury to her now absent father. Despite having a perfectly good degree she freelanced here and there, worked in shops for a stint, cooked food at weird festivals, ran up spidery fashions on her sewing machine and sold them in pubs with names like The Bat Cave or The Hobgoblin.
In fact, what sometimes upset Laura most was how very competent Bella was and how successful she would have been if she had chosen a more conventional way of life.
‘Mum!’ Bella took in the fact that Laura was still in a dressing gown and slippers. ‘You’re not dressed yet. Aren’t you feeling well?’
Laura turned away, not wanting her daughter to see that she had been crying.
‘I realize how awful it must be for you, the way Dad’s been behaving.’
‘I’m just so worried about Sam, and you as well.’
‘Don’t worry about me. You really don’t need to. I’m twenty-four, I’ll be OK. If Dad wants to go off with someone half his age and have babies, I just feel sorry for the babies.’
‘You know about this woman’ – Laura couldn’t bring herself to name her – ‘being pregnant, then?’
‘Sam told me. I think he minds more than me. He’s closer to Dad. All that staying up playing World of Warcraft together. Sam’s given it up for Call of Duty in protest.’
‘That is serious.’ Laura couldn’t repress a small sob.
Bella came and put her arms round her mother. ‘We’ll be all right, Mum. Bloody angry and a bit hurt, but OK. It’s you I’m worried about. Look, I’ve been online and found this great course you should sign up for. It’s called Relationship Recovery.’
‘Sounds like roadside assistance. Will they come and tow me off to the scrap yard for discarded spouses? Maybe I can be recycled into a hopeful single.’
‘Woah. That might be asking a bit much, but, it’s kosher, honestly. I read all the reviews.’
My God, Laura wondered, is there anything that doesn’t get graded on the Internet any more? Great funerals? Top ten car accidents?
Bella pressed a piece of paper into Laura’s hand. ‘There’s one starting next week. In town, just near that art gallery you like, so you can go and look at paintings afterwards.’
Reluctantly, Laura read the flyer.
RELATIONSHIP RECOVERY
Relationship Recovery will help you to recover from marriage or relationship breakdown in only six sessions.
Getting through marriage or relationship breakdown is enormously painful. It’s one of the most common reasons people come to counselling. Whether you stay stuck in self-pity or learn to move on will determine your future happiness. Seek help now from our experienced counsellors.
St Alphage’s Church Hall
Montague Street
Tuesdays 11 a.m.–1 p.m.
Booking in advance only. Max 10 people in group.
Laura was about to throw it in the bin when the cloud of pain and misery descended again. It was almost physical how much it hurt. And the worst thing of all was the loneliness. Laura knew she was luckier than some, her children were not being taken from her, she wasn’t out on the streets or fearing for her safety from a vengeful partner. But she was alone. Alone in her sense of loss. Alone in her sense of failure.
In fact, just alone. For twenty-five years every aspect of her life had been woven together with Simon’s from the moment she woke up, knowing he was next to her, to the moment when they switched off the light. There had been times over the years when she’d resented him, when he’d irritated the hell out of her, as well as when she’d loved him and enjoyed his physical closeness. But she had never pictured life without him. And she had never imagined this aching, yawning, painful void.
She hadn’t got anything to lose. If she hated it, she didn’t have to go again.
Before she could change her mind she dialled the number at the bottom of the sheet and booked herself in.
Now she’d better go and get dressed before Sam came down and started worrying about her as well.
Much to her surprise, Ella was having great fun with her new phone, signing up for all sorts of apps and even taking the occasional photo.
Of course it helped having technical support on tap in the form of Wenceslaus. Otherwise she would be endlessly bothering those poor people at the call centre
in Bangalore asking them for the nineteenth time: ‘Sorry, which button did you say I needed to press?’
She was especially delighted with the GPS app because, although she hadn’t admitted this to her daughters, she did get lost quite a lot while driving. Whatever synapse there was in your brain which informed you how to get from A to B had got disconnected in hers and she had to think quite hard about even familiar routes. She hadn’t mentioned it as Cory and Julia would start thinking Oh my God, Mum’s got Alzheimer’s and start deciding she wasn’t safe to go out unaccompanied, whereas she was perfectly fine in every other way.
For the moment she was enjoying following the GPS as she walked down the familiar streets of Old Moulsford on her way to the allotments. Viv and Angelo had decided to stay away for even longer and the allotment would be hers for as long as she wanted. How nice to be so well off and free of ties that you could just extend your holiday semi-permanently.
The red cabbages were almost ready and Wenceslaus had let it fall that it was his birthday at the weekend. She knew he liked red cabbage and intended to cook him some with roast pork. When she’d asked him if there was anything he’d like to do to celebrate, the surprising answer had been ‘Go hunting for wild mushrooms!’
Ella, who could write all she knew about mushrooms on a Sainsbury’s till receipt, was surprised to learn this was such a popular hobby.
As it happened his shift on Saturday didn’t begin till ten, so now, much to her surprise, Ella had been signed up to go foraging in Moulsford Woods, starting at six tomorrow. No one could say her life as a sexagenarian was without its excitements.
Wenceslaus, she had discovered, was very much a country lover. Last week he had suddenly insisted on taking her carp fishing. Which was how Ella had found herself, dressed in khaki, sitting on the bank of a sunlit pond, surrounded by herons, moorhens, coot, and Canada geese. To her delight there had even been the electric-blue flash of a kingfisher.