I can do this, I thought. ‘Love to. Leave it with me.’
The rollercoaster ride had just nudged its way upwards. I decided not to mention it to Cait just yet. So often these things came to nothing, and I didn’t want to get her hopes up.
14
Cait
3 a.m. Bedroom. Pushed Yoda off my head.
I’ve had an idea. Got up and crept into my study to scribble it down.
Title: Fairy Freak-Out.
The tooth fairy has hit the fairy beer after a bad year. She’s run out of money to leave under children’s pillows when they leave a tooth there, plus she’s running out of storage space for all the teeth she’s collected over the centuries – there are warehouses bursting with them. She tries to get a bank loan online but it’s rejected when she puts tooth fairy down as her profession on the online form – not an acceptable occupation.
She commiserates with her friend, Tinsel, the Christmas fairy, who has also had it with sitting on a pointy tree for twelve days every year and pine needles in her knickers while, beneath her, everyone’s having a jolly old time. Her other friend, the Good Fairy, is also fed up with being Miss Goody Two Shoes and wants to be bad for a change.
They rebel. It’s a fairy freak-out. All across the land, children are crying after leaving their teeth under their pillow and not getting any coins.
The fairy godmother gets to hear of the situation, decides to call in the big guns to restore order and brings Tinkerbell out of retirement.
However, Tinkerbell has let herself go, sits at home watching daytime TV and eating tinned rice pudding. She’s blobbed out and can’t get into her tiny Tinkerbell clothes any more, but the big boss fairy godmother persuades her to help so she starts a fitness campaign beginning with Zumba – for which Tinkerbell needs an oxygen cylinder.
When the new made-over Tinkerbell finally reappears, she thinks up a kick-ass campaign to make money from the mountains of teeth, save the day and get the fairies back to work. Her idea is to make the surplus teeth into jewellery, strings of teeth necklaces, earrings, bracelets. They call the brand Toothany.
The idea is a fantastic success and the tooth fairy is back in business.
While I was up, I checked to see if Tom had replied to my message. He hadn’t.
4 a.m. Back to bed. Zzzzz.
9 a.m. Tweaked the fairy idea and sent it to Lizzie. Phew. At least we’d have something to discuss on Friday. I felt hopeful about it and thought it would lend itself to illustrations. I decided not to tell Matt because I don’t want to get his hopes up. Last year, I’d had what I thought was a great idea about happy ghosts but it had been rejected. Matt didn’t need any more rejection in his life, even if it was mine.
Today I am going to be a new me and:
Be positive.
Get things done. Make contacts.
Buy Prescription H haemorrhoid cream for bags under the eyes.
Checked to see if Tom had replied. Nothing, but it was only morning and from what I remembered of him way back when, he never was an early riser.
9.30 a.m. Sent Matt links to Airbnb.
10 a.m. Job interview 2. Receptionist in firm of architects. Smart and Griffiths.
I got to the building and went up to the first floor where the company was based, but there didn’t appear to be a reception area. I looked around and finally a chubby man with white hair and beard came out. He was dressed in a tweed suit and waistcoat and I thought he looked a little like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Hello. Yes. I’m here to see Mrs O’Rourke.’
‘She doesn’t work here any more. She left us last week.’
‘But I had an appointment for a job. Isn’t there anyone else who can interview me?’
‘What was the job?’
‘Receptionist. Taking calls and so on.’
‘Ah. You were probably coming about replacing her, but we decided we could manage without and just use an answering service for our calls.’
‘More cost effective?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Why didn’t anyone call to tell me Mrs O’Rourke had left?’
‘No one knew you were coming.’
‘I’ll see myself out.’
11 a.m. DIY store to buy paints, brushes, roller trays.
12 noon. Met Debs for a coffee and told her about my resolution to be positive.
‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘You need to put The Secret into practice and put in a cosmic order. I’ll do the same. Mr Perfect Man for me and a perfect new chapter for you.’
‘And what is your perfect companion this week?’
Debs thought for a few moments. ‘Well, your old friend looked about right.’
‘In LA. Married with kids. Not an option.’
Debs sighed. ‘All the good ones are taken. OK, I want a man, maybe not for marriage, but someone who will be there at the end of a fraught day with a glass of wine, someone to listen, to ask how an appointment went, to take an interest, share my life and all the minutiae in it. Someone to look outside on a sunny day and suggest, hey, why don’t we go out for breakfast or a walk? Not to have to call round friends and see who’s free and make a date, like I do now. A companion, as you said, I guess that’s what I want; preferably one I fancy.’
‘That should be doable,’ I said.
‘The workshops on cosmic ordering all say that it’s a good idea to write down whatever it is you want, as though it’s already happening. My perfect man has nice hands, a good physique, is generous, good looking but not vain, is spiritual, financially independent, kind, intelligent, open minded … er what else?’
‘OK. Got it.’
She rummaged around in her bag and found two pieces of paper and pens. She spent the next five minutes writing while I doodled because, although I knew I wanted to be positive, I wasn’t sure what I wanted. In the end, I wrote: I look ten years younger. The world is at peace.
When Debs had finished her cosmic order, she sighed. ‘So what happened with Fabio? Him running off wasn’t part of my cosmic ordering plan.’
‘Maybe it was,’ I said. ‘Maybe part of you knew that you deserved better.’
‘What did you order?’
‘Youth and a coffee and croissant,’ I replied as the waiter arrived at the table.
‘Make that two,’ said Debs.
‘If only it was that easy.’
‘Apparently it is. Ask and you shall be given. Isn’t that what it says in the Bible?’
‘Think it does.’
Debs went back into her bag, pulled an envelope out and put it in front of me. ‘And these are for you. An early anniversary present.’
‘Oh Debs, that’s so kind,’ I said as I ripped open the envelope. Inside were vouchers for the spa. Maybe the cosmic ordering did work after all. Six sessions of aromatherapy or facials? They could take years off me. Perfect … but no, when I looked closer I saw that the vouchers were to see a marriage-guidance counsellor.
‘It was after our conversation the other day. As I said, we have some really good ones who use rooms at the spa.’
‘I … thanks, Debs. We weren’t expecting anything, you shouldn’t have.’ Really, you shouldn’t have, I thought as I tucked them into my bag and resolved to put them in a drawer to be forgotten about.
1 p.m. Matt opened the fridge and peered inside. ‘There’s no food,’ he said.
‘Of course there’s food. I only did a shop a few days ago.’
Matt went over to the coffee canister. ‘And no coffee.’
I went to the cupboard where I kept supplies. He was right. All gone. Our grocery bill had tripled in the last weeks. I drank one coffee in the morning then water for the rest of the day. Matt liked six coffees or more. He wanted lunch. Snacks. I usually had a cup of soup or salad midday. I couldn’t keep up. The moment the grocery bags arrived, he was in them, pulling out food, making a bacon sandwich, toast and coffee, more toast and coffee. It was like having
Sam and Jed back.
‘I’m sorry, Matt. I guess I haven’t adjusted yet. Apart from weekends, you haven’t had breakfast, lunch or dinner at home for years so I never got that much in for the week. In fact, how about, now that you’re here all day, we share some of the household tasks?’
Matt looked shocked. ‘What are you saying?’
‘You could do some housework. We could share it. Now that you have more time on your hands, perhaps you could do the grocery shopping, for example.’ As soon as I’d said it, Lorna’s warning not to emasculate him replayed in my mind. Too late.
‘But … that’s always been your domain and, while we’re at it, we’re out of loo paper in the cloakroom.’
‘So get some when you pass the Co-op.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
And now we’re discussing loo paper, I thought. I remember days, I remember nights we talked till the early hours about ideas, made plans, made love. How did it become a heated discussion over who’s buying the loo roll? ‘You’re at home now and not going out to work. We need more groceries. We also need to sit down and talk about our finances. Maybe budget until we get the B & B up and running.’
Matt looked truly fed up. ‘Budget. I’m being a nuisance by being here, aren’t I?’
‘Of course not. No. I wasn’t saying that, but we do have to make adjustments and accept that things have changed. If you did some of the shopping, you could choose what you like and make sure we have enough of it in so,’ I indicated the cupboards, ‘so times like this don’t happen.’
‘I don’t know what you like to eat in the week any more.’
‘You could ask.’
‘You could ask me too. Nothing too fancy.’
‘Does that mean you’re not going to help shop?’
He sighed wearily. ‘Yes. I will. Do me a list of what you want me to do for you and I’ll do it.’
‘For us, Matt, we both live here.’
‘Not my choice.’
‘What do you mean not your choice?’
‘I mean I didn’t choose not to be working.’
‘OK. I’ll get some stuff when I’m out and we can talk about it later.’ I felt bad for Matt and I didn’t want to nag and make him feel worse but at the same time, I was frustrated. Our lives had changed and it seemed unfair to me that he’d expect me to carry on as before, running the house and looking after him in the way that I had when he was working full-time.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Town.’
‘What will you be doing there?’
‘Matt, stop monitoring me.’
‘I’m not. Just curious. Are you going now? I could come with you.’
‘In half an hour. I’m going for waxing, if you must know.’
‘Ah. Waxing. Maybe I could get my legs done.’ An attempt at humour. I smiled. He smiled back.
‘What would you do if you were retired, Cait?’
‘Not that much different to what I do now. I do a lot of classes and I have my writing to pursue. I’d fill my time. Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondering.’
‘I’d find a friend who was also retired. I think it helps to have a buddy to do things with.’
Matt nodded. ‘Buddy? Not husband?’
I laughed. ‘We spend enough time together, don’t you think? I’d have thought you’d want to get away from me.’
‘No. That’s what you want. You want to get away from me.’
‘Oh, Matt.’ I felt sad he thought that although maybe there was some truth in it.
He shrugged and left the room. That went well.
*
4 p.m. My study. Checked to see if Tom had replied. No but oh, my message to him was marked as seen at 3.30.
There was an email from Lizzie. Great. Feedback about my ‘Fairy Freak-Out’ idea. She doesn’t usually get back this quickly. It must mean she likes it.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Fairy Freak-Out.
Cait. Am on a long train ride so have had a chance to look at your book idea. Hmm. I like the premise and the title but it needs a lot more thought. You know if you create something like this, you have to make it all work. And I mean all. For instance:
Where were the children’s teeth kept before the warehouses stored them? How did they dispose of them? Where are the warehouses? And the fairies?
How would a fairy work a computer? Is there just one fairy, like one Father Christmas, or is there a tooth fairy in every country? Your fairy surely can’t be responsible for the whole world?
Where did she get the money to put under children’s pillows before she ran out of funds?
You have to create the world for these characters and the rules within it – where they live, etc. You know this. We’ll discuss it further when we see each other on Friday. Sorry to pour cold water on what is essentially a nice idea but it needs thinking through more. Lizzie. X
Oh. It hurt to have someone be half-hearted about something I’d been excited about. So, Lizzie. Nice? Nice idea? Needs more work? She was right. Grrr. And she’d done the bloody sandwich thing that she learnt to do when she was working as a literary agent. 1) Make a nice comment (I like the premise); 2) Go for the kill (your idea is basically crap); 3) End with nice comment to soften the blow (well done you, at least you’re still trying).
Of course, I should have worked out all the points she made before I sent the proposal off. I should have talked it all over with Matt. But she was right and I was lucky I had a friend with her eagle eye, annoying though she could be at times.
*
5.30 p.m. Checked to see if Tom had replied. He had. There was a private message from him. Cue violins, doves, rose petals, etc.
‘This Friday. Perfect. 1.30. Chelsea Arts Club. OK for you?’
It would be perfect. I was meeting Lizzie at twelve for coffee and would probably be with her an hour. I could just about make it over to Chelsea in time. I messaged back. ‘Fine. I know where it is. C u in there. Cait.’
And then came the doubt. What the hell am I doing? Should I cancel? Yes. Probably. No. Why should I? It’s an innocent meeting with an old friend, OK, lover. He’s probably married and just wants to meet up, that’s all. What should I wear? I should cancel. He might be disappointed about how I look now. Cancel. I will. I’ll cancel. I could wear that pale green OSKA outfit I wore to Jed’s degree ceremony meeting. Light, quirky. Everyone said I looked good in it. Makes my eyes look greener. Better whack the Preparation H cream under my eyes.
I could tell Matt about meeting Tom then I needn’t feel guilty. No, that would be a disaster with things as they are between us at the moment; the last thing Matt would need to hear about. I’ll go and meet Tom and we can catch up and that will be that.
What would Sam and Jed think if they knew I was going to meet an old boyfriend? That’s it. I’m going to cancel. I am. I will.
15
Cait
And there he was. Tom Lewis, leaning back against the bar, just as I remembered, his body turned towards the room; still wearing jeans, sneakers had replaced the cowboy boots. He was older, a lot older, but still oh so attractive. As soon as he saw me, his face lit up and he strode over and gave me a bear hug that almost lifted me off my feet. We were ridiculously pleased to see each other, and all my worries about him being disappointed to see how I’d aged, faded in a second. He shook his head as if in disbelief. ‘Cait Mackenna. Well I never.’
‘Cait Langham now.’
‘Of course. You married. How long?’
‘Only thirty years.’
‘Same man?’
I smiled. ‘Same man.’
‘I think I did hear on the grapevine, but couldn’t remember his surname, which is why I couldn’t find you. I had looked for you before but of course you go under your married name, then last month I saw a comment of yours on John Barry’s Facebook page and recognized you from your photograph.’
&nbs
p; ‘Of course. We stayed in touch, John and I, if only in cyberspace. You recognized me even though I had chopsticks up my nose?’
Tom laughed. ‘Yes, about that … Is there something you need to tell me? Some strange religion you’ve joined?’
‘No. Just haven’t properly grown up, despite the wrinkles.’
Tom studied my face. ‘Not so many, you look great. Still got those beautiful eyes.’ He grinned. ‘So how the hell are you, Cait?’
‘Good. I’m good.’
‘Hardly changed a bit.’
‘Hah. You were always the charmer.’
‘I mean it. You’ve aged well. Not everyone does.’
‘You? Are you well?’
‘Usual stuff. Creaking bones, not as agile as I was. Come on, let’s sit down, get a drink, then we can grab a bite to eat and compare our medical histories.’
‘The one on the lowest medication gets a prize,’ I said.
Tom ordered drinks – a beer for him, a glass of Prosecco for me – then we went to sit in the walled garden at the back.
I took a brief look at the other people there, many around my age. I knew the club was the watering hole for artists, cartoonists, writers, sculptors. Many look like they have a story to tell. Bohemians, people who’ve done something with their lives, I thought, had adventures. The walls were covered in paintings and the place had an air of faded grandeur. ‘I like this place,’ I said. ‘It has a decadence about it.’
Tom nodded. ‘Like the people in it. I had lunch here last week with a table of old members, about five of them, all artists. It came to light that they had seventeen ex-wives and one driving licence between them.’
I laughed. ‘Sounds about right.’
‘So,’ said Tom. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘Kids? Work? What did you do …’ He paused and looked sheepish. ‘Guess we have a lot of catching up to do.’
‘We do. Give me your edited highlights. What happened to Chloe Posh Girl?’
‘Ah, that was an interesting time. She took off with a rich banker soon after we split up.’
‘Why did you split up?’
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