‘All he did was talk about you, it was quite boring.’
‘Gee thanks, Mum.’
‘Said he’d seen you in town and saw that you’d had your hair done. He heard about the book-club weekend and fancies going on one himself.’
News to me – he only ever read the sports section.
‘Even heard that you’ve been out on the town enjoying yourself; he said it was like seeing the old Angela again, that you had some good times together.’
I’m not sure what to say, especially as my daughter is seeing this as a ray of light.
‘He misses you, Mum. He’s made a mistake but realises it now,’ she tells me.
‘He didn’t say that, did he?’
I’m numb. Is this why everyone else is getting a date but not me? Are the heavens working to reunite us? Zoe obviously thinks so.
‘No, but he might next time.’ Then Mum realises she’s said too much.
‘Next time?’ I ask.
‘He’s invited me round for lunch. I won’t go if you don’t want me to,’ replies Mum.
Three thoughts enter my head simultaneously:
1. She will go anyway.
2. I’m as nosy as Mum and need to know what’s really happening here.
3. The new woman definitely won’t want the ex-wife’s mother in her house, especially if she asks for a doggy bag.
‘Go,’ I sigh, ‘but I want to know every last detail and do NOT get seduced by her cupcakes.’
We nod and seal our sacred pact.
No Place Like Gnome
With Mum and Zoe despatched to investigate his new love nest, this morning I start to wonder whether Alan will ever visit this house.
I find myself looking around objectively. If Alan ever falls on bended knee, does penance and begs forgiveness so that I deign to invite him over, what will he think of this place?
He might be expecting something more homely, more like we used to have. It’s not as if I haven’t tried; I painted, put up photos and bought some throws, but it’s difficult to stay enthusiastic when you’re only doing it for yourself and I have been rather busy with work.
I imagine Amanda launched herself into the full throes of romantic nest-building. I know that they’ve gone for an ultra-modern city apartment and I envisage it spotless yet filled with the aroma of baking. They’ve probably got an island in the kitchen and they stand chatting with a glass of wine while she ‘throws together’ something wonderful despite having been at work all day.
In my imagination, they’ve both got perfect white teeth too. This jars with the vision of them drinking lots of red wine but it happens on American TV shows. How does that work? On TV, they’re always drinking huge glasses of red wine before eating and yet they never get plastered and they never have stained teeth when they smile lovingly at each other. I must buy some of that magic wine.
Back to their love nest. I wonder if she makes him take his shoes off before he’s allowed near her perfect cream rugs and cushions (which I bet she has). They’ll have a balcony not a garden but she’s bound to grow herbs somewhere and they’ll all be perfect, not scraggy weeds like mine always seem to end up. Alan was always the gardener in our house, so I wonder how he’s coping with a balcony.
I look out at the scraps of lawn and earth that comprise my front garden and feeling guilty, I decide to take action. Two hours and an unjustifiable amount of money later, I return from the garden centre with plants, tools and a new doormat which shouts Welcome.
I know how ironic that is.
I get to work and am soon transformed into Angela Titchmarsh. Or Angela Sackville-West, because I don’t imagine that Mr Titchmarsh wears flowery gardening gloves or carries a lilac-handled trowel. I have the concentration of a surgeon as I plant the ready-flowering spring bulbs and shrubs that will transform this scrap of land into Kew Gardens. If I’d planned ahead, I wouldn’t have picked a very muddy day to start this and I might have tackled it in stages, but as it is, I’m filthy and groaning in agony when I eventually struggle up to survey my achievement.
Not bad at all. Alan will be impressed when he makes his inaugural visit.
One of my neighbours walks past and nods at my efforts.
‘You’ve got that looking good,’ he says as he strolls past.
I thank him, head indoors and then end the day by resting my weary body in a bubbling oasis of ylang-ylang – whatever that is.
The next morning I’m driven to ask myself why anyone bothers with gardening? One minute I have a perfectly potted green space and the next something resembling a rubbish dump. I know exactly when it happened; at 4 a.m. this morning I was dragged from my dreams by a raging storm. Outside the forecast gales had arrived a day early; wheelie bins were hurtling down the road in a bizarre break for freedom while fence panels and sheds battled to stay upright. There was nothing I could do at that time in the morning, so just turned over and lay awake while the cacophony raged on.
Now, on my way to work, I am exhausted through lack of sleep and truly hacked off to see several recycling bags and their contents flattening my recent efforts.
The ‘witty’ gnome I added to the welcoming décor looks as if he’s had a night on the town with several Stella cans at his feet and an empty hanging basket sitting on his head at a jaunty angle.
I give up and holding my lapels tight to my chest, I stomp into work; my hair also decides to get angry in the storm.
‘Love the Scissorhands look,’ says Charlie, admiring the coiffured rage on my head.
He is far too chirpy and in danger of wearing that coffee. I ignore him, sort out my troublesome hair, have a caffeine intake and calm down.
The gnome looked as if he’d had a really good night on the tiles I smile to myself. I think I’ll call him Norman – spelled Gnorman of course.
Today’s conversation is all about the dinner party; we want to know the details and fortunately Charlie is bursting to tell. We wait until the post-lunch slump and seat ourselves comfortably so the storyteller can begin.
‘He’s nice.’
Hardly a glowing reference, and not quite matching Charlie’s serene faraway smile.
‘Really nice, lovely. I feel as if I’ve known him all my life.’
This is sounding like love and as Charlie takes us through a night that ended with a little peck on the cheek and a promise of a ‘next time’, he looks like a puppy that’s just had his belly stroked. I think we’ll see much more of Peter; in fact, very soon, as it turns out that he’s offered to help us with the Mercury Travel Club.
‘They all liked the idea,’ Charlie says, ‘but Peter couldn’t see where we’d make any money.’
Peter is in banking, which is not something many people confess to these days. He helps people with ideas to secure funding, so knows his way around a business plan. He thinks my scrapbook needs ‘fleshing out a little’ – a very polite way of putting it. So, if I’m up for it, he’s going to help us work out whether the Mercury Travel Club could be profitable.
I never even considered that it might not be and all of a sudden I feel really stupid; it’s a scrapbook of pictures, that’s all. Peter wants me to bring along the costs and prices but I haven’t even thought about them or anything else that you might put on a spreadsheet. I’m sensing an evening of humiliation ahead – so much for Entrepreneur of the Year.
My guts are churning as much as they did when Patty told me the Grannies were reforming; now I’m thinking that a night onstage sounds a far easier option.
I feel a bit deflated as I walk home, but then I notice something rather bizarre as I approach the house. The debris from last night’s storm has gone. At first I think it must have blown on down to someone else’s garden but then I see that the plants have been tidied up and, most bizarrely of all, Gnorman has been joined by a female gnome. I look around to see if anyone is filming for You’ve Been Framed, but nothing. I sigh and go inside; I don’t know why I find anything unusual any more.
I’ll call h
er Gnora.
Pedal Faster
Perspective is a strange thing; one person’s disaster zone is another’s Shangri-La.
I meet Caroline in the hope that she’ll give me permission to get back into comfy clothes and hibernate for the rest of my life. I’ve done a little bit of everything on my wish list but seem to have ended up more terrified and confused than when I started. She’s having none of it.
‘So you’re saying that a top financier, who’s a good friend and very nice, is going to look at your business idea and that you’re having a real laugh with your girlfriends?’
Actually, what I think I said was that I was about to be humiliated by and in front of everyone I know, but she doesn’t seem to see it this way.
‘Isn’t this what you wanted? Some fun? Friends? An exciting time at work? That magic wand was working overtime on the day you waved it.’
‘Part of me wishes I hadn’t asked for all of this, it’s too scary,’ I tell her. ‘I need to know how it all turns out. If this were a movie, I could fast forward to the end just to check it ends happily.’
And that’s the truth. I am scared and the really scary part is that I’m doing it on my own. If I knew someone had my back, someone was cheering me on, it might be easier.
‘I wish I’d asked to go back to how it was, when things were dull but safe.’
‘Close your eyes,’ Caroline instructs and I do as I’m told.
‘Remember when you got your first bike, how did it feel?’
‘Exciting, incredibly exciting.’
I can picture our family room on Christmas morning. I’m seven years old and beside the tree is a brand new gold Raleigh bike with a huge bow attached. I remember wondering how on earth Santa got that down the chimney.
‘And when you first rode that bike?’ asks Caroline.
‘My dad held on to the back and I wobbled along the street. Then he let me go and I was on my own. I was terrified.’
‘So what did you do?’ coaxes Caroline.
‘Just kept holding on and turning the pedals until I realised I was actually cycling all by myself,’ I say.
‘And how did that feel?’
I’m taken back to the moment and can feel the bike stabilising then speeding up beneath me. I’m doing it, I’m really doing it. A breeze is blowing my face and a smile is spreading throughout my body. I go faster, panic when I wobble a bit then regain my balance. I feel as if nothing can stop me now.
‘It felt amazing,’ I tell her, ‘just amazing.’
I open my eyes and that moment is with me still.
‘And it will do again, Angela. You just have to keep faith and keep turning the pedals. You’ll get there.’
* * *
That sensation of finally achieving it has been with me all week. I’ve been turning the pedals as fast as I can and although I’ve hit some bumps in the road, I’m still upright.
First of all, we meet with Peter and I confess from the outset that I didn’t know how to do a business plan and that I feel a bit foolish. He dismisses my concerns kindly.
‘The important part is the idea,’ he says, ‘and you have that in spades.’
I now know why Charlie is smitten; Peter truly is the nicest man in the world and very clever. He shows us how to get started and answers every stupid question we’re brave enough to ask. Charlie and I are now working on the Mercury Travel Club together and will soon have a concept that Richard Branson will be proud of.
Second, I tell Zoe that I have to appear with the Granny-Okes just once more. She hates the idea but I tell her that it’s important to Patty and I just can’t let her down. Zoe asks me to try to stay in the background. I’m not sure how easy that will be; Patty has bought us all inflatable Zimmer frames to walk on to the stage with before casting them aside as we launch into song. Nevertheless, I promise to try to minimise the humiliation. I’ll think of a way.
The third event had me reaching for the stabilisers: I came face to face with Alan. He walked into the pub where Charlie and I were hunched over the laptop puzzling our way through the business plan. When I play this video back in my mind, I’m sure I look intelligent frowning over numbers with my glasses perched on the end of my nose. In reality, I probably looked short-sighted and confused.
‘I hope he’s paying you for the out-of-hours work,’ he says.
It’s his attempt at a joke but my foot comes off the pedal and I’m wobbling. Charlie jumps in.
‘Oh, she’ll be paying me if this joint venture comes off, she’s an amazing woman.’
He ignores the compliment but is staring at me, and despite the slight paunch forming around his midriff, he still looks good. Come on girl, pedal.
‘She always has been,’ Alan says. ‘I’ve heard good things about the book weekend you ran. Any chance of you giving me a call when you run the next one?’
Is he really asking me to call him? PEDAL! With calmness I do not feel at all, I hand him a piece of paper.
‘If you jot down your details, we’ll add you to our mailing list,’ I tell him.
He is stunned but does as he’s told then nods a goodbye.
Charlie high-fives me, or he would have done if my hand wasn’t shaking so much.
I take a deep breath and a gulp of wine; I didn’t fall off after all.
The Sprinkler
I’ve been playing back my encounter with Alan over and over again; did I look confident or cocky? Did I look like a woman who wanted her ex back or one who’d moved on completely? Should I have invited him to join us and been friendlier? Who knows? It’s done now, but I know that not even meeting the girls for practice will distract me enough to forget about it.
Anyway, off to Patty’s. As I drive up to her house, I’m astonished to see she’s cleared her garage out and this is now our rehearsal ‘studio’. It’s huge, has a concrete floor to absorb the dancing and is far enough away from anyone to risk disturbing the spring birdsong. It’s also freezing cold, so I don’t care how much I’m mocked today, this cardigan does not come off.
Patty’s hubby died four years ago of cancer; he was diagnosed in the January and gone by summer. He was older than Patty but you wouldn’t know it – jogging, tennis, golf – he did it all. Larger than life, people used to say. That’s probably why the gap he left was so huge; Patty and Nige would feed off each other constantly – like Morecambe and Wise or Ant and Dec.
Patty hasn’t touched the place since then. She moved into the spare room and time stood still in the rest of this colossal house. So clearing out the garage is quite a big step for her and I’ve also noticed that she’s moved his old stereo equipment out of the den.
‘You set this up yourself?’ I ask nodding at the stereo.
‘The sound system?’ she says.
(Blimey it’s not just a garage and a CD player; we have a studio and a sound system now.)
‘I moved it but got the lads next door to show me where all the cables went. I’m convinced cable sockets are taught to boys in secret school lessons.’
‘Along with advanced TV programming and leaving clothes on the bathroom floor,’ I add.
I don’t know when it happened but at some point in Alan’s affair, he started picking up after himself. Every morning for the past twenty years, I’d find last night’s undies discarded on the bathroom floor. Then suddenly, there was nothing. At first I thought he must finally be taking notice of my nagging but later I realised that he was tidying them up himself because they were new. Otherwise, it would stand out too much. Stupidly he thought he could still bury them in the washing basket and I wouldn’t notice them there.
It’s funny the things that really anger you when you find out your husband has been unfaithful:
He took her to dinner – that was annoying.
He slept with her – that was hurtful.
He bought new underwear to impress her – quite frankly astounding.
He left me to bloody wash his FILTHY WHORING PANTS – INFURIATING.
Remembering this puts all thoughts of being nice to him out of my head.
Come on, let’s rehearse.
Blimey they’re good, Sheila and Kath can sing and Patty has real stage presence – she’s funny without being ridiculous.
I’ve been trying out the classic 1980s dance moves; Moonwalking is far too hard and the Robot is for men who really don’t have any rhythm, but there are a couple I can suggest.
‘This one’s called the Cabbage Patch.’ I do the move – circling my rib cage in one direction and arms in the other – I get a round of applause from the girls.
‘And this one’s the Electric Slide,’ I say. Sliding one foot along and following with the other – very easy even for me.
‘The Clone made famous by Molly Ringwald, a classic 1980s combination,’ I continue.
‘From The Breakfast Club. I know this one,’ says Kath as she joins in.
‘And of course the one and only, Flashdance.’
Patty flicks on the music and the rehearsal becomes a free-for-all. The title track belts out and Irene Cara-style moves are attempted randomly and badly. No one tries the knee slide on the concrete floor but we’re all exhausted by the end of the track.
‘Someone should put together an eighties aerobics class, it would be brilliant,’ suggests Sheila.
‘As long as it’s in the upstairs room of a pub, I’m knackered.’ Patty is a lovely shade of pink. ‘Energy drink anyone?’
I hadn’t realised that a large Chardonnay counted as an energy drink, but it must be true as it certainly perks all of us up.
As I get older and try new experiences, I like to think I am gathering wisdom to pass on to my dearest daughter. The first lesson I must bestow is that one should not drink wine in the afternoon before any food (I think I knew this but must have been testing it out).
The second lesson is that attempting The Sprinkler (it’s a real dance move – honestly) after said copious amount of wine can only lead to trouble. I will probably have a scab on my knee from falling over. How awful, getting a scab on your knee at the age of fifty-three.
The Mercury Travel Club: Getting your life back on track has never been more funny! Page 8