The Mercury Travel Club: Getting your life back on track has never been more funny!

by Helen Bridgett

  I suppose we’re the travel equivalent of the help and it seems to work.

  We’ve spent the morning putting up posters advertising our ‘Tanuary Sale’. Anyone who books their holiday with us this week gets chauffeur driven to the airport. It’s my idea; Charlie wanted to give them a course of sunbed sessions before their trip (hence Tanuary) but I persuaded him that exposing our customers to potential melanoma isn’t the best way of securing repeat business. Anyway, the drive to the airport is something people will value; parking costs a fortune and it’s a lovely way to start a trip, something the big companies just wouldn’t offer.

  We need to do something to compete with the bigger agencies as January is a crucial month for travel; everyone gets sick of the British weather and books something to look forward to. Hence the non-stop holiday adverts on TV. People tend to think that the bigger companies can offer better prices than us and don’t bother coming in. Here’s hoping the offer helps and I can avoid begging Alan for his business.

  As a bribe, Charlie is sending me to investigate afternoon teas at an exclusive hotel. I ponder why everyone so far this year feels the need to feed me. Are they afraid I’ll poison myself with my cooking? Anyway, it’s time to call my mum, a woman who definitely knows her choux buns from her millefeuille.

  On my way out I take some of our brochures. I still can’t get used to the idea that he’ll be picking a holiday without me. I wonder what they’ll choose. What would we have picked if we’d still been together?

  It’s a good day to be out and about, a stunning winter’s day – the type children draw, where a clear blue sky is dotted with perfectly formed clouds and complemented by a serene frost across the land – beautiful. Manchester is a wonderful city to live in and an easy city to escape from; within half an hour of leaving the office, I’ll be driving through the glorious Cheshire countryside. Later this afternoon, the sun will set with a warm smile and we’ll feel blessed by Mother Nature. I love this type of weather.

  I pick up my mum on the way out.

  ‘Now, this is work; you need to behave yourself,’ I warn her.

  ‘When do I not?’ is her shocked reply.

  For as long as I can remember my mother has promised to spend her dotage personifying the poem by Jenny Joseph, ‘Warning’. She particularly likes the part about gobbling up samples in shops. I swear that she knows when M&S are about to start their cake tasting. Dad has long given up trying to tame her and sits quietly in the background.

  Anything free and she goes for it, so I firmly expect to hear extra cake requests for her ‘poorly friend who couldn’t come’.

  We arrive at the hotel and are seated in a beautiful parlour where a dozen tables are waiting pristine in their white linen and silver cutlery. Oh to have lived in an era when one always ‘took tea’ in rooms like this. I turn to say this to my mother and find that she has taken on the alter ego of food critic; she has armed herself with a notepad and half-moon glasses, which she peers over every time the waiter arrives with something.

  ‘They’ll give us more if they think I’m going to rate them,’ she conspires with a wink.

  I shake my head and choose not remind her that the hotel already knows we’re from the travel agents. In an attempt to stop her checking each piece of cutlery for smudges, I start a conversation proving that I’m getting on with my life in a mature, sophisticated way.

  ‘I’ve seen a poster for a book club,’ I say. ‘I thought it might help me meet people.’

  ‘Are there men there?’ she asks without looking up from a teaspoon.

  ‘I don’t want a man, Mum, I was thinking of maybe getting a cat for company.’

  ‘Well at least a cat won’t walk out because of your cooking.’

  So they do think I’ll give myself gastroenteritis if left to my own devices.

  ‘I can cook,’ I protest, ‘and besides which Alan didn’t leave because of my cooking.’

  ‘Of course not, dear. What’s that old saying? Oh yes, the way to a man’s stomach is through a microwave. She can cook you know.’

  I know she can cook, everyone knows she can cook. Alan bloody well met her because of her cooking. I mean what sort of woman makes a pass at a bloke buying a cake for his twenty-two-year-old daughter? What did she think? The daughter has flown the nest so she might as well move in? And we gave her a bloody round of applause at the party.

  I bite my tongue and catch the eye of the manager to agree the deal we’ll offer our customers. He then signals the waiter.

  ‘Thank you that was lovely,’ I say as he starts clearing the table.

  He nods politely and tries to escape, but Mum is in there before he can get away.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could put another one of those éclairs in a doggy bag?’ she smiles. ‘It’s for my friend who’s very poorly at the moment.’

  She never fails.

  Ever.

  Mid-life Crisis

  It’s my fifty-third birthday and I’ve taken the day off to celebrate.

  I spread my birthday cards out along the mantelpiece (so that it looks like I got more than I did) and arrange the beautiful bouquet from Zoe.

  Patty is ranting away.

  ‘A cat and a book club?’ she asks. ‘How old are you today – ninety?’

  She’s brought birthday bubbly and olives, both of which she is quaffing voraciously.

  ‘So he gets to bonk and you get a book? He gets pussy and you get a cat?’

  I grimace at the unsavoury connotations.

  ‘He gets a trollop and you get Trollope?’

  We both nod acknowledgement of that one.

  ‘Any more?’ I ask.

  ‘No, I’ve run out for now. But seriously, that’s your plan?’ says Patty.

  ‘It’s a start,’ I reply.

  ‘It’s not a start, it’s a finish,’ she warns. ‘You’re saying, “Just walk all over me; I’ll hide in the corner and keep out of your way.” Cats, books and cardies? That’s your fresh start?’

  I’m about to protest about the cardigan-swipe but then I look down at my sensible knitwear and close my mouth. Patty hands me an article.

  ‘Here read this. Fifty is the new forty and, get this: fifty-three is the new middle age. You’re perfectly entitled to a mid-life crisis. Get a Porsche, a toy boy, even a vibrator – but please not a cat.’

  After briefly considering that I doubt I’ll live to 106, I have to admit I’ve always fancied a mid-life crisis but was never sure what to do. I don’t want a toy boy; I’d have to have a Brazilian (I imagine). And I don’t want a Porsche; I like my Mini.

  In fact, I’ve never considered what I do want out of life; Alan and Zoe always came first.

  ‘Come on girl, don’t go maudlin on me,’ says Patty, ‘tonight, we are going to party.’

  And we do.

  Patty pours us both a glass and puts on Now That’s What I Call Music 1983; she turns up my ancient CD player as high as it will go and ‘True’ by Spandau Ballet fills the house. Tony Hadley serenades me as I take off the cardie and put some lipstick on (daring stuff, I know). I empty my glass of Prosecco for courage and put myself in Patty’s hands.

  We’re lucky enough to have every type of restaurant you could ever want within walking distance, but Patty reminds me that there’s more danger of bumping into someone we know if we stay locally, so we get the tram into the city centre. We start at a tapas bar I’ve read about but never visited. We enjoy copious cava along with tortilla, serrano, chorizo, patatas bravas and Manchego – even the words make your mouth water – and we’re soon reliving our stewardess days. We do the spoof safety talk for the gorgeous waiter and then torture the poor guy by making him pose for selfie after selfie, which Patty posts on her Facebook page to prove to the world we’re having a good time. The waiter doesn’t realise how lucky he is: Patty used to be in charge of mouth-to-mouth training so it could have been far worse.

  We get a cab home and Patty serenades the poor driver with ‘Joe Le Taxi’ f
or most of the journey despite knowing only those three words of the song. Thanks to the bubbly, I find this hilariously funny and my jaw is aching through smiling when I eventually turn the key in the door. There are worse injuries.

  My birthday continues into the next day. Still high on life I go to work and find the shop decked out to celebrate my special day.

  Charlie likes to back the underdog, and since the divorce that’s me. After being reassured the cake is not from Amanda’s shop, I blow out the candles and make a wish to my fresh start – whatever that might be.

  Maybe fifty-three is the new thirty-three after all.

  It takes a phone call from my daughter when I get home to bring me crashing down to earth.

  ‘Who was that on Facebook?’ she asks. ‘He looks young enough to be your son.’

  I’m slightly offended. On the night I didn’t feel the age gap was that big (I wonder if it ever does) but have to confess that if I’d met the poor waiter while sober, I’d have been more tempted to give him a hot meal and iron his shirts. Fortunately Patty has mainly posted pictures of herself and him; I’m only peeking out of the corner of a couple. Surely this is some recompense for Zoe.

  ‘I was just having some fun, getting on with my life like everyone tells me to,’ I protest.

  ‘You need to stay away from that Patty,’ she says. ‘Everyone can see those pictures, you know; once things are uploaded to the internet, they’re there for ever. What will Dad think?’

  I hope he thinks, ‘Wow, she’s having fun with a hot young guy’ or even ‘Dammit, I want her back’, but I suspect he hasn’t even seen them.

  I put the phone on speaker and go to make a coffee while my daughter continues to tell me about the perils of the internet.

  ‘I do know how the internet works,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve only been using it for twenty-odd years.’

  She wouldn’t be the first person I’ve heard saying over fifties don’t understand technology and while I’m not Einstein, I’m not Joey Essex either.

  ‘Then you should know better,’ scolds Zoe.

  I’m so dumbfounded, I tell her I’m sorry and promise not to do it again.

  The Book Club

  I’ve been reading all day while outside it pours down.

  In order to restore my daughter’s faith in me, I’ve decided to go to the book club after all. I’m cramming in A Thousand Splendid Suns before tonight and although I wouldn’t have picked this title if it weren’t for the club, I love it. It’s about a woman in Afghanistan in the seventies. She’s married off to an older man when she’s fifteen and is completely trapped but eventually her spirit breaks free. I know how she feels.

  Zoe’s call has been playing in the back of my mind. Of course I knew that it was a cheeky thing to do – that was the point of it. Am I too old for a night out? It doesn’t seem so long ago since I was a carefree stewardess travelling the world. If I’d been in the restaurant watching, would I have disowned the two women taking pictures? I’d probably envy their courage wishing I could let it rip with good friends.

  And asking: ‘What will Dad think?’ was unfair of her. He lost his right to comment on my lifestyle a few months ago, but then again, maybe he did look at them and recall the fun-loving woman he originally fell for. From Zoe’s response I imagine he’d be more likely to recoil and think, ‘Thank God I got away from her when I did.’ Is this not what they all meant by ‘getting on with my life’? If not, then what?

  I sigh and snuggle down. Today, I just don’t care; no one can get to me. I’m cosy, have a lovely mug of coffee and a good book. What more could I want?

  It’s funny, if I tell people I’ve spent all day on the sofa reading a book, they’ll say, ‘Oh I couldn’t sit still for that long’ or ‘What a waste of a day’ and yet all week long, I sell trips to people who spend thousands of pounds, buy holiday clothes, queue at airports and then lie on loungers for two weeks reading.

  I guess I won’t have to persuade this crowd of that. I don’t quite finish but I have to leave if I’m going to get there on time. It’s dark and the street lights shine down on to the wet pavement but there are no raindrops reflected in their glow, a small break in the weather to help me get to the pub without looking like a wet dog. I pull on a raincoat and armed with umbrella cross the small park to reach The Crown.

  I’m hit with a blast of warm air as I walk in and I feel my cheeks ripen. I look around and see a group of a dozen people sitting at one of the dining tables. Many are holding the book, so I inhale some confidence and walk over.

  ‘I guess this is the book club,’ I chirp.

  ‘That’s us,’ replies one of the women and pulls out a chair so that I can join them easily.

  I’m told there are more people here than usual because of everyone’s New Year’s resolutions to get a life. As I look around the table I see a very definite ‘type’ of person, probably every bookish stereotype you could imagine. Amongst our numbers we have the quiet intellect (Ed), the twinkly-eyed flirt (Peter), the eccentric bookshop owner (Caroline) and of course the divorcee (me!).

  As soon as the drinks arrive, Caroline asks if anyone would like to start.

  ‘I enjoyed finding out some of the history of the region,’ I offer – not quite knowing what you’re supposed to say at book clubs.

  ‘She was so young to go through all that. I just wanted to rescue her,’ adds Caroline.

  ‘Like Lawrence of Arabia, whisking her off her feet and riding away on his trusty steed.’ Peter’s comments come with an elaborate sweep of his scarf.

  ‘You do realise T E Lawrence never went to Afghanistan?’ Ed corrects.

  Peter responds with a huge open-mouthed exclamation, ‘Reeaaally.’

  Ed smiles graciously and we all relax a little more into the evening.

  Conversation flows easily considering we’ve never met before and it occurs to me that the book is just a focal point or excuse; we could be talking about anything. I could have joined a wine club or a flower club, the point is to just get out and meet people.

  ‘Are you local?’ asks Caroline as the evening draws to a close and a small number of us start drifting into more personal conversations.

  I tell her that I live and work less than ten minutes away.

  ‘It’s amazing how many people we must see every day and yet never meet,’ she comments, ‘although I’m ashamed to confess that I book my travel online.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ I laugh. ‘I didn’t want to admit I’d used Amazon.’

  ‘That’s perhaps why none of us ever meet. What made you come tonight?’ she asks.

  ‘Recently divorced,’ I answer without further explanation and she seems to understand.

  ‘So starting over,’ she says.

  ‘Whatever that means,’ I shrug. ‘I’m sure I don’t.’

  In films, the newly divorced or bereaved tend to rediscover their childhood passion for painting or playing the piano then make a fortune out of it. I was never any good at either of them. Caroline sits quietly while I ponder.

  Needing to break the silence, I offer, ‘I thought I might have my hair done.’

  ‘It’s always a good start,’ she says, then adds, ‘I might be able to help.’

  She tells me she’s training to be a life coach. I’ve never heard of them and as she’s explaining what she does, I can’t imagine how you train to be one. It seems to consist of getting people to make lists and stick to them. But...nothing ventured and all that. I agree to let her practise on me. As we’re getting dressed to leave the pub, we arrange to meet at my house on Sunday. I’m going to make lunch and then I’m going to have my first life-coaching session. Somehow I think Zoe might approve of this; it’s her type of thing.

  ‘Do I need to do anything in advance?’ I ask.

  ‘Just one thing,’ says Caroline, switching to the soft therapist-style voice which I think comes free with the training, ‘and I don’t want you to think too hard about the answer to this question – just da
y dream.’

  I get butterflies and wonder if I should be writing this down.

  ‘On Sunday I’ll bring a magic wand with me and on Monday when you wake up – your life will be perfect. What does that perfect life look like?’

  And with that she gives me a peck on the cheek and heads off into the rain like a Disney fairy godmother. I put my umbrella up and start to head home feeling quite elated. After a few steps I take the brolly down and let the rain fall over my face; rather than soaking me, it seems instead to be washing away some of my woes.

  I’ve made a new friend for the first time in years.

  Perhaps I will be OK after all.

  Magic Wand

  The checklist under the fridge magnet has today planned to such military precision that even I can’t fail:

  12.30 put chicken in oven

  1 p.m. parboil spuds

  1.20 roast spuds

  1.40 steam veg

  1.45 pour sneaky glass of courage before Caroline arrives

  2 p.m. eat and drink heartily

  3 p.m. relax and sort life out

  I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the question all week and, dreading that I’d get the answer wrong when she asked, I decided to question everyone at work.

  ‘If you had a magic wand, what would your perfect life look like?’ I asked them realising how stupid the question sounded out of context.

  It didn’t put Charlie off and he was straight in there. ‘Ooh – I’d run a beach bar like Tom Cruise in Cocktail. Maybe even with the man himself; people would come for miles for my Slippery Nipple.’

  Josie chipped in twirling her shoulder length earrings. ‘I’d move to the Bahamas with James Bond. He’d have been shipwrecked without his suitcases and have nothing to wear but those little speedos all day, every day.’