by Polly James
I think I might be, actually. Having a heart attack, I mean. My breathing’s gone all funny and now I feel genuinely sick. I’ve got pins and needles in both my arms as well, though I suppose that could be because my fists have suddenly clenched so tight.
Dan doesn’t seem to notice there’s something wrong with me. He’s too busy looking down at his hands, which he’s fiddling with in his lap.
“If we’re getting on each other’s nerves so much,” he says, inspecting his fingers as if his life depends on it, “then it seems the only sensible thing to do. Doesn’t it?”
Well, if that’s how he feels, it obviously does.
“Yes,” I say.
Then I run upstairs to the bathroom, and am sick. I never believed it when people in films threw up after they’d had a shock. Now I know it happens in real life too.
When I finally come back downstairs, still shaking and clammy, Dan glances up at me, then says,
“You okay? You don’t look good.”
I forgot that was the explanation, or rather, I must have blanked it out. Dan said he doesn’t fancy me any more the other night, didn’t he? And you can’t make someone fancy you again, once they’ve stopped. At least, I don’t think you can … and what’s the point in being married to someone who doesn’t want to be married to you, anyway?
I reach for the remote, and turn the TV back on.
“I’m fine,” I say, staring back at Dan without blinking, so he’ll believe I’m telling the truth.
I’m not going to cry. I am not. Not when the only thing left to salvage is my dignity.
* * *
Well, my no-crying resolution didn’t last long. I’m standing by the coffee machine this morning, when the Fembot starts holding forth about her date last night.
“I don’t usually fancy older men,” she says, “but I think I’ve been missing out on something. They really know what they’re doing in bed, and they appreciate younger women, too. Probably because the ones their own age are so bloody hideous. They give up bothering about how they look, once they’ve been married for a while.”
She means women like me, doesn’t she? And men like Dan. I hadn’t thought of that. Now Dan’s probably going to start dating a hot-panted child, while I’ll be stuck on my own, consigned to the scrapheap just in time for my fiftieth birthday.
“I think your coffee’s ready,” says someone behind me, so I make a grab for the cup, catch it against the top of the machine, and then drop the damn thing on the floor, narrowly missing the Fembot’s feet – which is a tragedy when she’s wearing her favourite pair of Louboutins.
My legs are covered in hot coffee, though I’m not too worried about that. I’m more concerned about the funny noise that’s just started escaping from my chest. It sounds like the beginning of what could easily end up being a full-blown sob, if I don’t choke it off. I bite my tongue, hard, which seems to do the trick, though the Fembot’s already noticed that something’s up.
“All except you, Hannah,” she says, looking a bit shocked. “I didn’t mean you, even though you are a lot more mature than the rest of us. Like Taste the Difference cheddar, you know.”
Cheddar? Now I’m like cheese? I can’t speak, in case another one of those funny noises makes its presence felt. Luckily, I don’t have to: the person behind me intercedes on my behalf.
“Hannah’s fine,” she says. “Though she may have scalded her legs a bit. I’ll go with her while she puts cold water on them.”
Then she takes me firmly by the arm and shepherds me out of the office.
“Thanks, er … um,” I say, as we make our way along the corridor towards the ladies’ loos. Who is this Good Samaritan?
“Esther,” she says. “We met when I came for my interview, a couple of weeks ago.”
I must have been on another planet at the time as I don’t recall ever meeting this girl before, even though I can see her more clearly now my eyes have finally stopped being so inexplicably watery. Girl is a bit of a misnomer, actually, as Esther is definitely a lot older than the Fembot, at first glance. On second thoughts, though, maybe she isn’t. I think it’s just her clothes and hair which give that impression: she’s probably only about thirty-five.
“Nice to meet you, Esther,” I say, shaking her hand. “And thanks for coming to the rescue, too. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Listening to your boss, I should think,” says Esther, pretty much hitting the nail on the head. “All the other staff seem nice, but does she really despise anyone older than her as much as she just sounded as if she did?”
“Not everyone,” I say, as I finish taking off my tights, then stick one foot into the sink and turn the cold tap on. “Only older women, as far as I can tell. Older men seem to be in a different category: the lust-worthy one. Oh, sod it all to hell and back.”
I’ve turned the tap on too far and now there’s water all over my dress, as well as on my leg. The Fembot will probably assume I’m incontinent, and order a Tena Lady dispensing machine for the loo, clearly marked for my use only. Then she’ll ask Dan out on a date … or someone even younger will.
“A-a-arrhhh,” I say. Out loud, despite biting my tongue again, which just makes the sob more hiccupy. Then, before I know it, I’ve taken my foot out of the sink and am sliding down the wall onto the cold tiled floor, where I sit wailing like a baby. In front of a brand new member of staff. I think I’d better ask for permission to go home. Again.
* * *
That’s better. I’ve got a grip now, thanks to back-to-back episodes of Friends on Comedy Central, though I’ll probably get fired if I take any more time off work. The Fembot made that pretty clear before she told me I could go home early “yet again”.
It was worth her disapproval, though. After four hours of lying on the sofa and watching how much fun you can have when you’re single, I am fine with this. Absolutely, completely fine. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I think it’s going to be exciting, which is one thing life with Dan hasn’t been for donkey’s years.
All I need to do is find somewhere to live – a house-share with a few cool, fun people, preferably my age – and then Bob’s your uncle! Before you can say, “hot pants”, I’ll be youngish, free and single, and having a ball. (I ruled out “middle-aged, free and single” because it didn’t have the same ring.)
I can see my new life now, as clear as day. After work (where I’ll be responsible for something that doesn’t involve icons), I’ll rush home to get changed into something simple and chic (but dazzlingly sexy), then I’ll swig a quick glass of chilled white wine in the kitchen while my funny, affectionate new friends quiz me about whether tonight’s date is “good enough” for me.
Then my taxi will arrive and I’ll waft off into the night, leaving behind a trail of Chanel or whatever’s cool these days, and arrive fashionably late at a little Italian restaurant: one that only the most sophisticated man would know about. It’ll be intime, and the maître d’ will not only know my date’s name, but he’ll give him the thumbs-up approvingly when he thinks that I’m not looking.
I suppose I might have to eat from one of those stupid wooden chopping boards with handles (the ones Dan always calls “totally pretentious”), but the food will be great, and – who knows – being single might prove so good for my cholesterol levels that I won’t have to pull a bottle of Benecol out of my bag and swig it as soon as I’ve finished eating, for once.
And there’ll be conversation, too – proper conversation, not just moaning about work, and Joel, and why he and Dan never throw toilet-roll inners into the bin – and there’ll be eye contact, as well. Lots of eye contact, so intense it’ll fire up all those neurons or whatever those things are that give you the shivers when you’re filled with lust. If my neurons aren’t all dead from lack of use, of course.
Afterwards, my date will say, “I don’t want the night to end yet, Hannah. Your place … or mine?”
I’m having a hot flush just thinking about it. We
ll, not a hot flush, because sexy single women don’t have hot flushes. It’s a bit humid for January, that’s all.
Where was I? Oh, yes – so while I’m playing at being Charlize Theron or Keira Knightley in one of those perfume ads, and staring deep into Mr Suave’s gorgeous eyes, Dan’ll just be lying on the sofa watching TV, and only remembering that I don’t live with him any more when he glances across to see if I’ve noticed the covert nap that he’s just woken from. No more watching his eyes glaze over when I tell him about the Fembot’s latest idiotic idea, either, or when I ask him where we’ve gone wrong with Joel; no more being “mum” first, and a woman second, and no more boring Hannah without anything resembling a social life. I’ll get a makeover, and become a cougar or whatever Courteney Cox is called these days. It’s all going to be better than fine.
All I need to do to get to Friends-cum-perfume-advert land is take control. No more wallowing in self-pity, and no more keeping what’s happening to myself, in the hope that it will go away. Dan and I will tell Joel when he gets home from work tonight – just like we agreed we would last night. Then, as soon as I’ve found somewhere to live, I’ll move out, leaving the pair of them free to fill the whole house with empty toilet-roll inners, if they like. That’s if they can spare the time to go to the loo while binge-watching episodes of Half-Naked Brits in Ibiza. I won’t care. I’ll be too busy drinking, dancing and being interesting again. Just like I used to be when I married Dan, all those years ago.
Chapter 3
By the time I wake up from another very uncougar-like nap on the sofa, Dan and Joel are both in the living room, though they’re not talking to each other. Joel’s too busy yelling abuse at a faceless stranger who’s annoyed him by killing him when he wasn’t looking. (Young guys are so rude to each other when playing Call of Duty online, I’m sure it’s a major factor in the lack of world peace.)
I pull a disapproving face, then tell Joel to shove up and make room for me on the sofa.
“Keep quiet, Mum,” he says. “I’ve already messed up once, thanks to Dad.”
“I had the temerity to ask him what he fancied for dinner,” says Dan, before he stands up and moves towards the door. He can’t bear to be in the same room as me for more than five minutes at the moment.
“Hang on a sec, Dan,” I say. “I thought we were going to speak to Joel together.”
“But –” says Dan, as Joel throws the controller onto the floor and sighs as if the world is ending. Which I suppose it’s about to, in a way.
“What?” says Joel. “This had better be important.”
I don’t know whether it is, or isn’t, actually – to Joel, anyway. Who knows what’s going on in his head? Sometimes I think he can’t stand either me or Dan, but then sometimes – especially if he comes into a room unexpectedly, and catches me when I’m feeling a bit tearful, or lonely – he’ll say, “Mum! What’s wrong? Come over here.”
Then he’ll give me a big hug, and tell me that everything’s going to be okay, even when he has no idea what I’m sad about. It helps much more than you’d think it would – but I can’t let myself think about feeling lonely at the moment. I have to get this nightmare over and then I can focus on making my Friends fantasy come to life.
“We’ve got something important to tell you, Joel,” I say, “so pay attention.”
“Um, Hannah,” says Dan, shifting about from foot to foot, and looking extremely uncomfortable. “There’s something else I should tell you first.”
I take no notice, as delaying tactics are typical of Dan. He’ll always put off doing anything tricky or emotional if he can, but he’s not getting away with it this time. We said we’d do this together, and we said we’d do it tonight – and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Even if “together” means him standing there like a spare part while I do the difficult bit.
“Your dad and I are splitting up, Joel,” I say.
Joel doesn’t react at all, but when I look across at Dan and catch his eye, he shakes his head and swallows, then decides he’d better help out, after all.
“Joel?” he says. “Did you hear what your mother said? We’re splitting up.”
Dan’s voice sounds deadly serious, if a bit shaky, but Joel just laughs.
“Yeah, yeah – very funny,” he says. “Pull the other one. You two would never split up.”
It takes ages to persuade him that we would – and are – and then he’s incredulous, and extremely upset.
“But why?” he says. “Why the hell would you do that?”
I suggest Dan explains, seeing as the whole thing was originally his idea, but that doesn’t help at all, because he takes so long to get to the point. He starts by telling Joel about the argument, and what it was about.
“You argued about what?” says Joel, staring at Dan and me in turn. “A television programme? Have you both gone senile overnight?”
For a split second, I wonder if we have, but then Dan tells Joel that we haven’t. He adds, “I suppose we’re trying to make our lives happier, before we do.”
When I hear that, I excuse myself by saying I need to make an urgent call. I suddenly can’t face hearing why Dan’s so unhappy with me and, anyway, it’s always good to check that the Speaking Clock still exists. I give myself a talking-to at the same time as I discover it is 7:32 exactly, and then I replay the Mr Suave scenario several times in my head, just to remind myself that everything will be all right, eventually.
It almost works, until I go back to the living room, to find Dan sitting slumped in a chair with his head in his hands, and Joel pacing round and round the room in circles.
“You tell him why we’re doing this, Hannah,” says Dan. “I’ve run out of reasons, and he thinks all the ones I’ve already given him are ‘total crap’. He says we’re both going to be lonely, too.”
“No, we won’t,” I say. “We’ll be fine, Joel. We’ll have our friends to keep us company – and you, of course. You can come and see me whenever you like.”
“You two have ignored your friends for so long, you haven’t got any real ones left,” says Joel, at the same time as Dan says, “What d’you mean he can come and see you, Hannah? See you where? He’ll be here – with you – every day. You’ll need him to pay rent to help with the mortgage, once I move out at the end of this week.”
Oh, dear God. When Dan moves out at the end of this week? This week? And Dan’s the one who’s moving out, not me? I don’t know what to say to any of that, but Joel does.
“I’ve never heard such a dumbass reason for splitting up, in all my life,” he says. “And I think one of you is lying, or both of you. Which one of you is seeing someone else?”
That possibility hadn’t occurred to me until now, but if one of us is, it isn’t me. Not when Mr Suave’s not real. I think I may be about to cry again.
Chapter 4
It seems that one of Dan’s colleagues had a spare room going – really cheap – so Dan says he’d have been a fool if he hadn’t taken it. He also insists that Joel was wrong about him seeing someone else, though he was right about the other thing: I’ve got no friends. Well, I have, but even though I’ve rung all of them over the last few days – while Dan’s been supposedly working late – they all went on so much about how long it had been since the last time I called, that I ended up not telling any of them that he and I were splitting up. They might have thought it was the only reason I was bothering to phone them now.
It was, I suppose, but that’s not the point. They’ve all posted that thing on Facebook about it not mattering how long it’s been since you last spoke to an old friend, so I’d assumed that was genuinely how they felt. Obviously, it wasn’t, so things are already looking pretty desperate on the friends front by the time that Joel gets home from work.
He sits down on the sofa next to me, and kicks off his shoes while I stare in disbelief at his socks. One says, “Fuck” and the other says, “Off”.
This is what you have to endure when your son
refuses to go to university, and insists on working in a super-hip streetwear store instead, one where all the staff are required to talk in gangsta-speak even if they’ve never been anywhere near a gang. The whole thing drives Dan mad, and Joel’s still in the middle of a fairly incomprehensible explanation of how he uses the socks to swear at his boss without him being aware of it, when I lose the will to listen and decide to phone Theo and Claire, instead.
They’re neighbours, rather than friends, but Dan and I have probably socialised more often with them than with anyone else over the last ten years (mainly because that keeps us close enough to home to prevent Joel throwing parties while we’re out). I think they’re all right, though Dan’s never been keen on Claire.
When she answers the phone I tell her my news straight away. There’s no point giving myself the chance to chicken out, even though I know it’ll make the whole thing feel much worse once someone other than Joel knows.
“Good God,” says Claire, and then she repeats herself. After that, there’s quite an uncomfortable pause before she adds, “I assume you won’t be coming to our dinner tonight, if that’s the case?”
I’d forgotten all about it, what with what’s been going on with me and Dan, and I’m about to confirm we won’t be there when I wonder if I’m being stupid. You’re probably supposed to start as you mean to go on, when you’re trying to rebuild your messed-up life.
“Well, I guess I could come by myself,” I say to Claire, after taking a few deep breaths. “Seeing as I’m still going to be your neighbour, at least until Joel decides it’s time to move out.”
It sounds as if Claire snorts at the remoteness of that ever happening, but then she pulls herself together and says, “That’s great! See you in a couple of hours.”
Her voice sounds a bit weird when she says it, but I don’t give that any further thought, until the phone rings ten minutes later, and Joel answers it. He sounds very charming and un-gangsta-like while doing so, which is reassuring, but what happens next isn’t reassuring at all. The caller is Theo (of Theo-and-Claire), and he’s obviously drawn the short straw, given that he’s the one making this call.