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

by Helen Bridgett

  My phone rings mid-biscuit and I have to leave the good detective to his work; Caroline is giving me no choice in the matter.

  ‘Well, the month is nearly over,’ she reminds me. ‘How are you getting on with your magic wand life?’

  ‘Really well,’ I try to convince her, mumbling through crumbs.

  ‘I went straight out and had my hair done, bought new clothes. The mirror exercise shocked me into action and everyone’s noticed the difference.’

  She isn’t fooled.

  ‘That’s fabulous but let’s be honest, it’s easy to sit in a chair and let someone make a fuss over you. Anything else to report? What about your career? Meeting people?’

  I get over the gentle scolding and tell Caroline about signing on to internet dating next month and the work idea I have but need to discuss with Charlie. It seems too simple to work, so I’m sure someone else must have tried it and failed.

  ‘You’re giving up before you start then?’ asks Caroline.

  I can now see that life coaches have to be benevolent bullies as well as magic-wand wavers.

  ‘Who do you know who has tried your idea?’ she continues to challenge.

  My silence leads to her next question.

  ‘So it follows that you know no one who has failed either?’

  ‘No – I guess not,’ I squirm.

  ‘And would it feel good to succeed, would it be fun?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, it would be brilliant.’

  ‘Louder.’

  ‘YES, IT WOULD BE BRILLIANT,’ I yell leaping up.

  ‘Then go do it,’ she tells me, ‘and no excuses.’

  Whoo-hoo, Angie Shepherd has left the sofa.

  I practise my ‘pitch’ overnight and on the way to work, but I’m still nervous when I present the idea, even though it’s only to Charlie.

  ‘OK then, here’s the thought...’ I take a deep breath. ‘There are lots of single people – like us – and older couples, empty nesters too. They’ve got time on their hands now but they’re not sure what to do with it. The same old beach trips bore them. The single people don’t know anyone to take and the couples have run out of conversation. We could bring people together with themed getaways, sophisticated but fun, like wine tastings in Bordeaux. On our trips there’d always be something to talk about and it doesn’t matter if you don’t know anyone at the start, you will do by the end.’

  I pause and watch the cogs whirring across the table.

  ‘And we could go along and make sure they’re fun – enjoy ourselves a bit more,’ I add.

  Charlie beams.

  ‘My Redcoat days return.’

  He gives me a big kiss on the forehead.

  ‘I love the new you,’ he says.

  I feel tingles of excitement. We get straight to work on the idea. As a trial run, I ask Caroline if we could do a themed weekend with the book club.

  ‘I hope this doesn’t look like I’m taking advantage of you because you’re my life coach,’ I tell her.

  ‘Not at all,’ she says, ‘I love it. We could both advertise it in our shops; it might drum up trade for me too.’

  I hadn’t thought of that, but it might also work for other local shops too. First things first. We’re reading a classic next time, Wilkie Collins’ The Woman in White. This calls for a gothic castle getaway I think, so I leave Charlie to it. It doesn’t take him long to find a perfect venue.

  Josie designs some posters and rushes over to the print shop to have them produced; I take some copies to Caroline and we all tweet the idea. Fortunately everyone else has more than three followers. Caroline contacts all the book-club members with the idea, they re-tweet and now we just wait to see what they say.

  We don’t have to wait long. Social media works its magic and people seem keen to have a little escapism. Before long we’re fully booked up and Charlie hugs me with delight as we confirm the final place.

  I’m on a high too as I walk home. So far this year has been non-stop and I’ve done so much more than I ever would have done in my pre-divorce days. I’ve joined a book club, seen a life coach, changed my looks and become more dynamic at work. From the outside, it must look as if I’m some kind of superwoman.

  This must be what they mean by getting on with it. I even have the theme tune to Wonder Woman running through my head as I trot along the street.

  Best Friends

  The post-adrenaline crash hits me as soon I as get home.

  In the office, I’d been on a real high celebrating the bookings with Charlie, but now I’m back in this empty house with no one to tell. There’s no one watching the sports too loudly, no one grunting a distracted ‘well done’ without looking up, no one waiting for dinner although he could have started it himself. All the niggles you think you’ll never miss, but you do. I miss having someone to come home to.

  It hits me so hard and I slump down on the sofa. This is it.

  It isn’t some temporary blip; this is the long term. This is how every day will be.

  Some people love living alone, they even enjoy it, but I’m not sure I’ll get ever used to it. It’s so hard to imagine the rest of my life alone. The house is so quiet and having the radio on constantly to try and hide the fact just isn’t working. They say life is short, but on the days I’m not working and don’t speak to a soul, it feels very long.

  I promised Caroline I’d work on my love life tonight and Patty is coming round later to look through the lonely hearts with me. Could I honestly face dating or getting to know someone new? I’ve heard that even online, the fifty-year-old men are looking for thirty-year-old women.

  It would be so much easier if things could go back to how they were. Did I try hard enough to keep the family together and get Alan back or did I just let her take him like the last loaf on the shelf?

  ‘No please, you have him, I insist.’

  I wonder if Alan knows how much I’ve changed. I wonder if the new dynamic me is what he was looking for when he went off with Amanda.

  Perhaps I should just let him know that we could give it another go.

  ‘Don’t you even think about it,’ is the warning I get from Ms P.

  She starts flicking through the dating ads.

  ‘See,’ she points out, ‘there are plenty of fish still in the sea without you having to go back to that washed-up walrus.’

  She divides the ads between us putting a little ‘A’ alongside some and a ‘P’ alongside others. I take a look through her selections; she’s allocated herself the handsome twenty-somethings and given me the retirees who like long walks and sunsets.

  ‘You like nature,’ she says by way of explanation before pouncing on one ad and circling it twice. ‘Look at this: handsome, sports car, own business. He could shake this cougar’s cage any day.’

  On behalf of all mothers of twenty-year-old men, I show my distaste. It’s ignored.

  ‘Or how about this one? Slightly older, likes fine wines, managing director. I’d keep him for best.’

  Exasperated, I ask, ‘What would you do if any guy actually asked you out?’

  A Mata Hari style swish of the hair and a deep throaty voice declares, ‘I’d have him covered in chocolate and sent to my room.’

  ‘No you wouldn’t, you haven’t accepted a date in four years. You’re a femme-fatale fraud Ms P.’

  ‘What did you expect? He did die, you know,’ she cries while stuffing everything in her bag and leaving.

  ‘Pats, wait, I’m sorry.’

  But she’s gone.

  The house falls silent again and I don’t know what to do. I can’t lose Patty too. I’d rather have her back than any man; after all, I’ve known her longer. I’ll date the retirees if that’s what it takes.

  I try to call her but it goes straight to voicemail. I say I’m sorry for being so insensitive and ask her to call me back. By the time I go to bed, she still hasn’t called. I leave one more message with another apology and say that I’ll stay out of the way until she wants to spea
k to me again. I hope it sounds understanding rather than dismissive.

  I fret about the tone of that message all night and am exhausted when I get up for work. I have a tediously long day waiting for some news. I try to focus and show a real interest in each customer but my heart isn’t in it knowing what I’ve done to her.

  This is worse than dating. Two days on and she still hasn’t been in touch. I’m pacing the shop floor, I must have cleaned the brochure shelves a hundred times. We’ve got a lot to organise for this book weekend and I also want to speak to the wine merchants to see if they’d be interested in designing a tour, but I won’t make a good impression like this. I have to do something because this is torture. Whatever happens next, I know that if someone had hurt me, I’d want them to keep saying sorry. So although I said I’d wait, I’ve sent a text to apologise. I’ve even put a little x on the bottom. I leave the phone at the office so that I’m not constantly checking it and trek over to the wine merchants to do my best to talk business, filling in the time until she calls me.

  When I get back, I’m relieved to see that she’s replied: ‘SRY – BEING DAFT – WILL CALL ROUND TMRW x’

  I will go to sleep happy tonight.

  Come the morning, I can’t focus on anything until I see Patty, so I decide to start unpacking some of the boxes I brought with me. It’s a fairly random selection, packed when I wasn’t thinking straight, so I have to smile to myself when I open one of them and find it full of my old fitness videos – yes tape and everything. Lord knows why I kept them in the first place never mind transporting them from house to house; I’m glad I did and I’m glad I kept our ancient video player for all our old family films.

  First of all I pull out the incredible Jane Fonda – all leotards and leggings – ‘feel the burn’ and ‘if it ain’t hurtin, it ain’t workin’. Like most people, I bought the video, but it turned out that you had to do the exercises, not just watch them. I remember Patty and I giggling at it while drinking a bottle of Frascati; we were yelling ‘clench that butt Jane’ at every sip. Not surprisingly, it didn’t work for us.

  I bought others hoping they’d suit me better. And I seem to remember every husband in the country buying their wives Cindy Crawford’s video; they obviously thought that the sight of a supermodel frolicking on the beach in a swimsuit would make their other halves feel motivated and good about themselves. It didn’t even have a good sound track – not like the one I find now: Paula Abdul’s video. I loved this one.

  I put it on and am immediately in full flow: Paula, ‘Straight Up’ and a rather energetic grapevine. I was always good at this aerobics step; I could put a bit of rhythm into it.

  Next I find Cher. This one is insane. She’s doing exercise in a dominatrix outfit! At least they play ‘Addicted to Love’.

  I have the broom handle slung low and am at one with Robert Palmer’s backing singers when there is a knock on the door:

  ‘Patty – I was just...’

  ‘I know, I’ve been watching you through the window for ten minutes. Pass me that mop, Bo Peep.’

  For the rest of the night Robert Palmer has two extra backing singers making him look good. Lucky man.

  Blimey, I’m stiff the next day.

  Several hours of 1980s fitness videos can do that to you. I creak my way to work grimacing with every movement. I’m sure someone is going to rush up to me any time soon and offer to oil my joints. When did I become this unfit? Surely once upon a time I was a fitness goddess? I shake that ridiculous notion away. That was never the case; I was just young.

  Patty rings the office the moment I lower my damaged body into my chair. I put her on speaker to avoid having to lift anything.

  ‘How are your thighs this morning?’ she asks.

  Not even a ‘hello’ then.

  ‘Mine feel as if I’ve done twelve rounds on a bucking bronco – either the horse or sugar-daddy version.’

  ‘Straddling the sofa arm doing an impression of Cher riding a cannon might do that to a girl,’ I remind her.

  The dirtiest laugh you’ll ever hear fills the office. When she recovers she remembers why she called.

  ‘I think we should go to a karaoke bar tomorrow night.’

  My heart sinks.

  ‘Oh Pats, I can’t. Zoe will disown me,’ I protest.

  ‘Oh, she’ll never know and anyway, you don’t have to get up – just stand in the audience and applaud me. Come on, it’ll be a laugh.’

  I’ve opened Pandora’s Box by getting those videos out. I weigh up my options and they seem to be:

  1. Turn Patty down and risk hurting her just when I’ve re-gained her friendship.

  2. Agree to go along, stay sober and applaud Patty’s efforts all night, thereby eradicating all memory of whatever I did to offend her.

  I have to go with the second option and Patty’s right, Zoe will never know.

  The Granny-Okes

  Patty has chosen Valentine’s Day for our night out arguing that the married men will be in restaurants so anyone we find in a karaoke bar is fair game; here was I thinking we were going for a singalong.

  I wonder what Alan is getting his new woman today. He always used to get me ‘one red rose for my one English rose’. I used to find it romantic but when I think about it now, he was probably just too cheapskate to buy me a dozen. Still, I’d have been ecstatic if either the postman or the flower store had knocked on my door this morning. I wonder if they can tell from the flower selections which bouquet is for a wife and which for a mistress?

  I have a flick through the local paper smiling at all the romantic messages in the classifieds; it’s a strange place to declare your love.

  My jaw drops.

  Amanda, A Single Rose for My English Rose, Alan xx

  I’ve always known he could be pretty thoughtless but does he not have an original idea in his head? Is it any wonder middle-aged women are turning to alcohol in droves? Our husbands and ex-husbands are practically pouring it down our necks with their thoughtlessness.

  Furious, I call Patty. I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks. I was demure and wife-like for years – look where it got me.

  ‘Can we leave now?’ I ask her.

  Come the early evening, we’re in the karaoke bar having already enjoyed a glass or two en route. Despite the fact that I know I’m tone deaf, I start to feel the bravery that comes free with every bottle of wine.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ I whisper much to Patty’s delight.

  ‘True Colours’ follows ‘Material Girl’, which follows ‘Hey Mickey’. We have to be forced off the stage in the end.

  A century of womanhood being thoroughly shameless and we feel not a shred of embarrassment about any of it. It is a truly wonderful night.

  The morning after...

  Patty came back here last night but I can’t remember much more and I think we went to bed pretty quickly after a bloody good night out. I’m still smiling as I put the kettle on and my phone beeps to tell me that I have lots of texts and emails.

  I flick through the messages. Some people lament that texting is very impersonal, but let’s face it – it saves conversations you don’t want. Anyway lots of people are telling me I was hilarious last night, not sure how they know that. One from Charlie says: WAY TO GO CYNDI!!;) How bizarre.

  I pop the phone in my dressing gown pocket then fill two cups and take them up to Patty.

  ‘Wakey, wakey,’ I call.

  Patty is already awake, staring at her phone with her mouth wide open.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re only bloody trending.’

  I know this means there are lots of people talking about us on the internet, but why would people want to talk about us?

  I sit down beside Patty and look at all the comments. It’s not just us they’re talking about; after all, there are two other members of the new singing sensations – the Granny-Okes.

  The finer details of last night start coming back to me, and with each memory, I
die a little; Zoe will surely disown me. The karaoke bar turned out to be quite sophisticated and hi-tech with a live YouTube stream (and to think a stream used to be a lovely babbling brook not a source of live humiliation).

  So I know for sure that we did blast out our favourite tunes and now it appears that we did this with two other fifty-somethings, Sheila and Kath (who were actually rather good), according to their morning messages. YouTube is a wonderful invention: not only can people watch us plastered but they can comment on our efforts too – hence the new band name.

  Our bleeding hearts followed ‘Don’t You Want Me’ (which I do remember) with ‘Tainted Love’, which involved lots of slurring and a big chorus. The crescendo of the night was no less than that female anthem, ‘I will Survive’ or ‘Sh-ur-vive’ as we sang it.

  Well having seen this I’m not sure that I will survive.

  I don’t go outdoors or take any calls over Sunday and manage to avoid speaking to anyone. I have a very long bath to try to wash my embarrassment away. I eat salad and drink herbal tea as penance for any humiliation I may have caused and when I go to bed unscathed, I pray that my daughter hasn’t had time to watch YouTube.

  Monday unfortunately arrives and I can hide no more; I have to go into work knowing that Charlie and Josie have already viewed my performance because they’ve commented. I’m dreading it, really dreading it.

  I walk in and smile as if nothing has happened.

  ‘Morning – lovely day,’ I call out and for those first five minutes, I think I might have got away with it as they just politely nod back.

  I’m about to sit down when Charlie beckons me over.

  ‘Could you just take a look at this?’ he asks as he hunches over the PC with Josie, their backs to me.

  I walk up to them and they spin around, whipping off their jackets to reveal T-shirts printed with downloaded photographs of the Granny-Okes stage performance. Oh Lord, can something be horrifying and hilarious at the same time?

  ‘You were so funny, I’ve told everyone that I know you,’ gushes Josie.

  ‘Why didn’t you do any Culture Club?’ asks Charlie doing his best Boy George sway.