by Maeve Haran
‘Tuesdays at eight. We go to the pub afterwards.’
That clinched it. She would definitely think seriously about joining. ‘Right. I think I’d better take my dog out of your basket.’
‘Nice little chap. Looks to me like a cross between a cocker spaniel and a Bolognese, by the way. Give my regards to your mother.’
‘Sam,’ Laura asked her horizontal son, who was lying on the sofa, under a rug, playing yet another computer game, ‘would you mind if I tried to find a job?’
‘Why should I mind?’
‘I suppose because you’re used to me being at home.’
‘Mum. I’m twenty-two. A grown adult and a graduate. I’ll probably move out soon, anyway – that’s if I can find a job myself.’
Of course it was natural that he should move out. It would probably be very good for him not to have everything done for him. But even so, it gave Laura a painful jolt. Instead of the future she’d imagined with Simon, their children off their hands, free to travel, go for long walks, stay in bed in the mornings if they felt like it, almost be young again, her future seemed empty and rather bleak. She was so used to thinking of her husband and her children before herself, Laura had forgotten what it was she wanted. And now she was finding that all the things she did want were somehow tied up with them.
Come on, Laura, get a grip. She still had a home, at least for the moment, Bella and Sam, friendship – and the prospect of a first grandchild. She was healthy and not bad-looking for her age. Besides, there were all the little things in life that were always there for you: sunsets and sudden smiles at strangers; frosty mornings; warm duvets; silly films; morning tea, even though each cup reminded her of the ones she’d shared with Simon; girls’ nights out; flowers from the garden.
I need to get out of here, Laura suddenly thought, I need to build a life again. On my own.
She was going to stick to that thought about getting a job, even a little job, however menial it might have to be; something to open the door to a world where people were ordinary and friendly and cheerful.
Sal had been looking for a job and had even found one. Maybe she would have some advice.
Laura reached for her phone and then remembered how angry she was with Sal for not telling her about Simon. Somehow it all seemed rather a long time ago and she missed Sal’s outrageous humour and instinctive defiance. Sal might well have some good advice.
Laura dialled Sal’s mobile and was surprised when it went to voicemail. Sal always answered her phone: her nature was too inquisitive to let any opportunity pass. Disappointed, Laura left a message that she had finally decided to get a job.
She was just sitting down in the kitchen, trying to shake off the thoughts of how empty her life seemed, when Sal called back.
‘Great to hear from you. I’ve been really busy for the last few days.’
‘Anything fun?’ Laura asked.
‘Oh, you know, work stuff. Getting ready for the new job. But hey, what’s this about you deciding to join the world of work? Won’t that make it harder to fleece the old ex?’
‘Don’t you start!’ Laura exploded. ‘Sorry, it’s just that I’m not trying to fleece him.’
‘Pity. He deserves it.’
‘I just need to get out there. I need structure. Some kind of job. Any kind of job. The trouble is, I haven’t worked for twenty-five years. Quite a gap in my CV.’
Sal had a sudden inspiration but hesitated to suggest it. Laura might be insulted after all, at such a lowly occupation. Still, beggars with twenty-five-year holes in their CV would find any job hard to find. ‘The thing is . . .’
‘Spit it out. It can’t be that bad. Sexagenarian pole dancer? Lunchtime Lollipop Lady? Junk Mail distributor?’
‘Well, actually, I noticed they were looking for shop assistants at LateExpress.’
‘The supermarket?’ Laura sounded dubious.
‘I know, I know. Not exactly what you had in mind. There is one advantage, though.’
‘And that is?’
‘It’s right bang opposite Simon’s office. Think of the potential for total embarrassment.’
Laura didn’t hesitate. The idea of Simon’s colleagues coming in to buy a chicken Caesar wrap and discovering the boss’s dumped spouse stacking shelves was too delicious to pass up.
‘I’ll pop in there later and take a look. At least it’d show a divorce judge I’m not a total parasite.’
‘Laura, they wouldn’t need convincing. Your kids would tell them how it was you who held that whole family together.’
‘Yes, but I don’t want the kids involved at all, if I can help it.’
‘Simon didn’t deserve you.’
Laura grinned, feeling better already, thrilled she was actually taking control of her life, however minutely, and glad that she and Sal were talking again. ‘You’re too right he didn’t.’
When the phone rang again a few minutes later, she thought it might be Sal with another job idea. But it wasn’t. It was Bella.
‘Hi, Mum. The thing is, I’ve got an ante-natal appointment tomorrow and I wondered if you might like to come with me? You know me, I’m hopeless at hospitals.’ It was true. Bella had always loathed the places ever since she’d had her knee stitched in A & E at the age of six and howled so loudly that they had to turn up the TV. But Laura knew it wasn’t really that. Bella was deliberately trying to involve her.
‘Of course I’d love to. If you’re really sure.’
‘I’m sure. I really want you to be involved with this baby, Mum. It may have pretty dodgy parents, but if it’s got you as a grandmother it’ll be OK.’
Ella had to confess, she was worried.
Ever since the incident in the car park she’d been watching herself closely. The truth was, she was getting quite forgetful. She tried to remember what she’d watched on TV last night and found she couldn’t. People’s names, even people she knew quite well, eluded her so often that she left everyone to introduce themselves at parties. She couldn’t even remember quite simple words at times. The other day she’d had to go on Google to retrieve the word ‘chicken’. And losing things! She spent part of each day trying to find her glasses, wallet, phone or lipstick. Yesterday it had been a piece of paper with a phone number on it. She had been absolutely certain she’d put it in her wallet, yet there had been no sign of it.
Sal had told her there was nothing to worry about. She was simply having a CRAFT moment.
‘What the hell is a CRAFT moment?’ Ella had asked.
‘It’s an acronym: Can’t Remember a Fucking Thing. Don’t worry, it happens to everyone.’
Worst of all was finding her way from A to B. Once this had been completely instinctive, now she had to sit in the car and mentally visualize the route. And it was quite a struggle.
To someone who prided themselves on being well-organized, efficient and still young it was all deeply irritating.
She had even thought of going to see her GP about it, but a few hours browsing on the Internet convinced her it was pretty common and probably more to do with ageing than Alzheimer’s.
Instead, she sat at her computer screen and started blogging. The time zipped by as she recounted to her unknown audience the story of losing her car, calling the police and the car being discovered exactly where she had left it, but in the adjacent car park, by her smug son-in-law; then there was her little problem with leaving her keys in the door; forgetting the name of her next-door neighbour whom she had known for twenty years, and having to look up the word for chicken.
This time she rang the changes by ending with an appeal:
AM I GOING GAGA OR ARE THERE SOME OF YOU
OUT THERE WHO DO THE SAME???
To Ella’s astonishment she had barely posted her query before the replies started to appear.
Dozens of confessions flooded in from people her own age, and sometimes even younger, who had not only forgotten where their cars were parked, but had also left the key in the ignition overnight,
locked it in the boot, forgotten their phone numbers or the name of their best friends and, in the case of one shamefaced Londoner, parked their car in a car park and gone home on the tube, only to panic the next morning wondering who had nicked it. Best of all was the reply from a geriatric psychiatrist who told her that forgetting stuff was quite common. She was simply suffering from Benign Senile Forgetfulness. Well, that was okay then!
Ella realized what fun it was to talk to total strangers and hear their reassuring tales of amnesia. The Internet was a wonderful place. Anonymous and friendly at the same time.
She was laughing out loud when a new response arrived that made her freeze and panic.
YOU ARE WONDERFUL, it read, WHAT IS YOUR NAME AND WILL YOU COME AND WRITE FOR NEW GREY MAGAZINE?
It was signed by one Sally Grainger.
Mr Ahluwalia, the manager of the W4 branch of LateExpress supermarket, universally known by staff and customers as Mr A, wasn’t accustomed to job applicants like Laura.
Most of the ladies who came to seek work were from the council estate over the road, had few educational attainments, wore unsuitable clothing, and often failed to turn up for the start of their shifts. So he was somewhat taken aback to be handed a CV which featured glowing examination results and a university degree.
On the other hand, Laura’s manner was, in Mr A’s view, very much a recommendation. She seemed friendly, down-to-earth, and reliable. Unlike some of his staff who wore ridiculous stilettos to work, Laura favoured smart trousers, a jumper with a shirt underneath, and sensible, flat shoes. He felt his wife would greatly approve of this lady, a definite advantage as she was prone to come and inspect the staff at random intervals in case, as she put it, any slag or Jezebel had insinuated herself into her husband’s employ and, since they lived above the shop, this could happen at any time without any warning.
Even better, Laura seemed happy to work the early morning shift starting at 7 a.m., which few of his ladies wanted to do, since they were trying to get their idle children out of bed, shovel unsuitable foodstuffs down them, and try – often unsuccessfully – to deliver them to school.
All the same, Mr A decided he must rein back his enthusiasm and conduct an on-the-spot interview. His wife, he knew, would question him on this matter.
‘Do you have any experience of working in a shop at all?’
‘Yes, I do. When I was a teenager I worked as a Saturday girl in Boots the Chemist.’
‘Ah,’ Mr A was impressed at the name of a nationwide chain. ‘But what is a Saturday girl?’
‘When I was growing up nearly every teenager who needed money worked on Saturdays in a shop or café, hence “Saturday girl”.’ Laura gave him the benefit of one of her most wholesome smiles and hoped he wouldn’t work out that her stint in Boots had been more than forty years ago. ‘My mother said it was a good way of bridging the world of school and the world of work. It’s a great pity it’s died out, in my view.’
‘Indeed, yes. Now teenagers spend Saturday hanging round shopping centre. What is it they call them? Mall rats. Some shopkeepers even have device to make noise like angry mosquito and get them to go away. My wife would like me to purchase one. What did you do at Boots the Chemist?’
‘Everything from stocktaking and stickering to serving behind the counter. But I liked being on the till best.’
‘How many shifts would you like to work?’ enquired Mr A.
Laura thought about this. She wasn’t looking for a full-time job, just a way of earning a bit and keeping herself sane. Of course she could try for something more socially acceptable but it was the fact that working here was of its nature temporary and anonymous that appealed to her. She saw it as doing a few shifts rather than having a real job, which suited her injured state of mind.
‘Maybe three days a week?’
Mr A nodded in satisfaction. That happened to suit him well at the moment. Even so he dared not make an offer without first discussing the matter with Mrs A. ‘You leave me mobile number and I ring you back tomorrow.’
With her usual intuition Laura swiftly followed his thinking. ‘Would you like me to come in and meet anyone else first?’
Mr A stood on his dignity. He did not want to incur his wife’s wrath but he was not going to ask her permission. ‘Thank you but not necessary.’
‘May I ask the pay for the job?’
‘Six pounds fifty an hour.’
Laura gulped. She’d paid her cleaner more than that. When she’d had one.
He started to walk her towards the door, indicating that the interview was over. ‘Very nice meeting you. I call tomorrow and let you know.’
CHAPTER 15
‘Good morning, group.’ Suzanne’s determined cheeriness evoked the usual mumbled response of ‘Good morning, Suzanne. Good morning, Stephen.’
My God, Laura couldn’t help thinking, how old does she think we are?
‘And now, just to vary the format, today we’re going to have a little quiz.’
Laura caught Calum’s eye and they both grinned.
‘In this session,’ Suzanne looked encouragingly at each member of the group in turn, ‘we want you to move to the third stage of our programme. At our earlier meetings we acknowledged our own role in what happened to our relationship. We’ve also looked for reasons why we are actually better off without the other person. This week it’s the Big One: have we actually accepted the relationship is over? Are you ready?’
Some people responded enthusiastically, though others were clearly less evolved in their own personal route to relationship recovery.
Stephen began to hand out sheets of paper and pencils to the people sitting round in a circle. ‘Be honest now!’
1. HOW MANY TIMES A DAY DO YOU THINK ABOUT YOUR EX?
2. DO YOU CHECK PHONE OR EMAIL TO SEE IF THEY HAVE CALLED?
3. DO YOU BLAME THE PERSON WHO BROKE UP YOUR MARRIAGE RATHER THAN YOUR PARTNER?
4. DO YOU EVER FANTASIZE ABOUT A REUNION?
5. DO YOU THINK OF THE FUTURE WITHOUT THEM?
6. ARE YOU HAPPY OCCASIONALLY?
‘Surely they won’t announce who’s recovered the most?’ Laura whispered to Calum. ‘Half the group will want to kill themselves.’
‘Or kill the person who’s most recovered.’ Calum grinned.
In fact, the group leaders simply marked the quiz and gave it back.
On Laura’s page they had written: ‘Congratulations, Laura, you are well on the way to relationship recovery.’ Despite the silly jargon Laura felt a definite lift of the heart. She didn’t know if it was impending grandmotherhood, no matter how unsuitable, or the possibility of a job, even a lowly supermarket job, or just being able to see a life beyond her present misery, but things were looking up.
A deep sigh coming from beside her told her that things weren’t going so well for Calum. ‘I have to try harder to move on, apparently.’
Laura felt a wave of sympathy. He was a good man, she was sure of it. ‘Why don’t we go for a coffee one of these days?’ she found herself suggesting. ‘We could promise we’ll neither of us mention our ex-partners.’
When he smiled, the deep lines etched either side of his mouth seemed suddenly rather attractive.
Watch it, warned an inner voice which sounded like a combination of Bella and Suzanne, you don’t want to risk where you’ve got to.
But Laura just smiled to herself. She reckoned she could manage a cup of coffee without imagining it would lead to another relationship fiasco.
‘I’d really like that,’ Calum replied softly, hoping the others hadn’t heard, which was rather naïve of both of them.
When Laura got home she found a phone message from Mr A asking if she could start the day after tomorrow.
Laura found herself doing a little skip round the kitchen. If you’d told her six months ago that an offer of working in a supermarket would make her happy, she would have laughed.
But the funny thing was, it did.
In the end Claudia to
ok her mother to the doctor on her own because Don came down with a nasty dose of man flu.
In a way she was glad. It meant she got to spend a little time alone with Olivia in the strange confessional-box atmosphere of the car. She had noticed with Gaby, especially if her daughter happened to be sitting in the back in the dark while Claudia drove, that her daughter would tell her things on the way home from school or a party that she would never have told her under other circumstances.
The same was true today with Olivia.
‘How have you been, Mum?’
There was a long silence.
‘Mum?’
Olivia was staring out the window. She turned an anguished face towards her daughter. ‘Not so good, Claudie.’
The childhood name, so rarely used in recent years, pierced Claudia’s grumpiness with Don and his flu symptoms.
‘I can’t sleep. My mind races and keeps me awake. I don’t have any of my old energy.’ She reached out and touched Claudia’s arm as she drove. ‘There’s something the matter with me, isn’t there? Maybe the doctor’s right.’
In the waiting room Olivia sat quietly by her side looking ahead. Once she would have struck up a conversation with a fellow patient or at least found something to complain about in the running of the surgery. Claudia, used to being embarrassed by her mother’s urge to interfere, felt a sudden wave of protectiveness.
In the consulting room it was almost as if Olivia wasn’t present. Claudia found herself answering the questions for her, explaining the racing thoughts, the impulsiveness coupled with overconfidence, and the chronic lack of sleep that characterized her mother’s personality.
The doctor nodded. ‘Relatives often find the manic phase very disturbing, yet the sufferers themselves can’t see it. They just feel positive and can’t see the problem. Often they get angry with anyone who criticizes them. It’s only when the depressive phase sets in that the sufferer tends to seek help.’
Claudia nodded, her gaze fixed on the silent Olivia. It did seem true of her mother that only now was she more open to being helped.
‘Mrs Williamson, may I call you Olivia? You need to take things quietly, take care of yourself, avoid agitation, try and sleep a lot. This will definitely help.’ The doctor wrote out a prescription. ‘As will these. Perhaps you could come back in a few weeks?’