The Big Five O
JANE WENHAM-JONES
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HarperCollinsPublishers
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www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2019
Copyright © Jane Wenham-Jones 2019
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover illustration © Robyn Neild / New Division
Jane Wenham-Jones asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008278694
Ebook Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008278687
Version: 2019-05-24
Praise for Jane Wenham-Jones:
‘Fresh, funny and wise’ Katie Fforde
‘I love Jane’s writing!’ Jill Mansell
‘feel-good’ Woman and Home
‘The book deserves a bloody magnum – I loved it.’ Judy Astley
‘Thoughtful, insightful and often laugh-out-loud funny’ Daily Mail
‘The story you’ve always wanted to read about infidelity’ Cosmopolitan
‘A perfect read’ OK
‘Frothy and funny!’ Woman’s Own
‘Humorous, warm-hearted and full of charm. We loved it.’
Woman’s Weekly
‘Great fun!’ Heat
A great read!’ Best
‘Funny and knowing … warm and thought provoking’ Daisy Buchanan
‘Wisdom, humour and real insight … poignant and funny by turns.’ Emma Lee-Potter
‘A delightful romp … You’ll be laughing out loud! Jane Corry
‘Warm, wise and funny’ Marina O’Loughlin
‘Made me laugh … Made me think … Made me want more!’ Julie Wassamer, author of The Whitstable Pearl Mystery
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Jane Wenham-Jones
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Jane’s twenty things you find out when you’re over Fifty
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About HarperImpulse
About the Publisher
For all those in their fabulous fifties. And beyond …
Chapter 1
Facing Fifty
Fighting Fifty
Nifty at Fifty
Shifty at Fifty
Fat at Fifty
Fit and Fifty
Fed up and fifty
Fucking Fifty!
They were all laughing like drains when we were writing the invite. So I tried to laugh too. Come to our Joint 50th Birthday …
Charlotte and Fay and Sherie and Roz. All four of us are hitting the half century this year, so it’s going to be a ball. We’ve been planning it for weeks. A big venue, lots of friends, banners, balloons, fizz and strictly no Oh-God-I’m-Fifty tears …
That’s what they tell me.
I am crying because that party is going to happen without me. I don’t know how this nightmare is going to unfold but I know in my heart it won’t end well.
I’m so afraid but I can’t bring myself to tell them. Sometimes I take a deep breath and my mouth opens but I always close it again. As if the very act of saying it out loud will make it real and I won’t be able to pretend any more that things might still be OK.
So each time we add to the arrangements, I have to keep smiling. I have to nod and look pleased and thrilled at the thought of every last bloom and fairy light.
I must be doing it well as they think I’m as excited as they are.
They have no idea at all what’s really going on …
Chapter 2
It was Charlotte’s idea, of course. Charlotte loved any excuse for a bash and she wasn’t going to let this one go.
‘Makes so much sense,’ she announced, tossing back her mass of fair curls. ‘We pool our resources, friends and legendary organisational skills and put on an extravaganza.’ She threw out her arms as if to include the multitudes. ‘I’m thinking the pavilion. Broadstairs won’t know what’s hit it.’
Wine had been taken so immediately a committee was formed. Charlotte would be Chair, because traditionally she threw the best parties. Fay would be treasurer as she ran her own business; Roz quickly offered to take the notes, grasping an excuse to say as little as possible, until she’d figured out how the hell she’d manage this, while Sherie had laughed and smoothed back her expensively-streaked blonde hair.
‘And I shall sit and look decorative.’
‘There’s a change,’ Fay had growled.
‘You can be Artistic Director,’ said Charlotte decisively. ‘Colour schemes?’
As they fell to discussing the various merits of silver and black against burgundy and grey, Roz had felt the familiar tightening in her stomach. Now, three weeks later, as she looked at the notepad on her lap where she’d rapidly listed the latest ideas tumbling from Charlotte’s mouth for a party she couldn’t begin to finance, her anxiety deepened. She could barely afford the coffee they were drinking and Fay had just waved her hand for more.
‘We need to fix this date,’ Charlotte was saying, lounging back comfortably on the squishy leather sofa in ‘Le Café’, the town’s latest coffee lounge. ‘The pav is knee-deep in weddings, of course, in June but they have got a Saturday in July–’
‘We could always do a Friday–’ said Sherie.
‘But people who are travelling a long way might be at work till six.’ Roz smiled tightly. ‘Some of us have fixed hours!’
‘The Saturday is the 28th,’ said Charlotte. ‘Shall I book it then?’
‘Depends who wants to wait and who wants to do it early,’ said Fay briskly.
Charlotte’s birthday was just four weeks away in May, Roz’s in late June. Fay’s birthday wasn’t until August and Sherie was the baby of the group, hanging o
n to forty-nine until late September. Or – knowing Sherie – several years longer.
‘The mid-way point,’ continued Fay, always the one they turned to for mental arithmetic, ‘is around the 20th July, so that would work. She looked at Sherie. ‘Are you OK with it being so long before yours?’
‘Absolutely! I can be smug. I’ll still be forty-nine.’
Sherie was smiling but Roz thought she looked anxious too. She was playing with a strand of her hair the way she used to at school when they had an exam looming that neither of them had revised for. Roz knew that for all the lightness of tone, that Sherie was the one struggling the most with her impending big birthday.
‘Yes, well you’re married and have children,’ Sherie had said sharply, when Charlotte had said that personally, she didn’t give a fig about age, wrinkles or being menopausal.
‘And I’ll be young for one more week!’ put in Fay. ‘I think that timing will be perfect for me – I’ll have just about got over the hangover when you all come round for cake.’
‘Cake!’ Charlotte’s eyes lit up. ‘Now what do we think? Are cupcake towers a bit passé – how about a profiterole mountain?’ She settled herself deeper into the cushions. ‘One of my clients had a sort of waterfall wedding cake with all these fish leaping down it – hundreds of them in different coloured sugar. They gave each guest one to take home. It was amazing – she’s got pictures up on Instagram if you want to see.’ Charlotte grinned. ‘It cost two grand.’
‘Lunacy,’ said Fay dismissively, as Roz shuddered.
Roz knew that if she said anything about being worried, Charlotte would pay. Charlotte had settled the bill in the wine bar last time, picking up on Roz’s unease as the evening wore on and the bottles kept coming, automatically being as kind and generous as she always was. ‘I’ve just had a fat commission,’ she’d said casually. ‘Let me.’
Charlotte always seemed to have just landed a lump of money – her one-woman estate-agency-come-house-styling enterprise was booming. Word was getting around that Charlotte could secure top prices for homes in Thanet – often from well-off city-dwellers looking to relocate, referred to locally as the DFLs (Down from London) – and her bold, de-cluttering approach to getting the property ready for sale was going down a storm.
‘Are you manic as well?’ Charlotte asked Fay now, as the empty cups were cleared.
Fay rolled her eyes. ‘Crazy. April’s always busy but we’re working flat out.’
Charlotte nodded. ‘Did a woman from Waldron Road contact you? Place stuffed with antiques – I told her you were the best in the business.’
‘Yes, thanks – I’m quoting tomorrow. Going to Sevenoaks. Thrilled with you. Thought you were bloody marvellous.’
Charlotte laughed. ‘Even though she ignored most of my advice. You’ll have your hands full moving her.’
‘Can’t be worse than Sir Wotsit with his grand piano …’
Roz felt her usual pangs of inadequacy. There was Fay with her removal business and a dozen men working for her, Sherie with her jet-setting life as an art consultant, Charlotte with not only her own success but Roger bringing in a ton as a corporate lawyer. And then there was her. Single mother, lowly gallery assistant, struggling to find her council tax let alone the French school trip Amy had set her heart on …
‘You OK?’ Sherie was looking at her.
Roz nodded as Sherie turned to the young man who’d arrived with a tray. ‘Have you brought soya milk?’
Roz saw Fay roll her eyes.
Charlotte was still talking. ‘I’m thinking of taking someone on to help with the practical stuff – especially as I’ve got a couple of empties. I haven’t got time to keep lighting flaming candles and changing the flowers–’
‘I’ll do it!’ Roz heard the squeak in her voice. ‘I’d enjoy that,’ she added, trying to sound casual. ‘If it would help you out …’
Charlotte beamed. ‘Really? God that would be fantastic – I’ve been worrying about how to find someone I could absolutely trust. Even with half the stuff in Fay’s storage, the contents in the North Foreland house are still worth a bloody mint. It’s just a case of opening the windows, changing the perfume oils, maybe a little light dusting–’
‘I can do that.’ Roz breathed deeply, not wanting to sound desperate. This could be the answer to everything. She met Charlotte’s eyes. ‘I was thinking of looking for another small job …’
Charlotte nodded. ‘I would be very grateful.’
Roz exhaled slowly. Charlotte was lovely like that – making it sound as if it were she, Roz, who was bestowing the favour. Charlotte knew things were tight for her but she didn’t know how bad it had got.
Fay was rummaging in her handbag. ‘Fag?’
Charlotte rose majestically to her feet, and stretched out her neck, pushing back her curls again. ‘I think so!’ As they both headed for the door, Fay’s tall angular frame dwarfing Charlotte’s much shorter, rounder one, Roz looked at Sherie.
‘How’s things?’ she said lightly.
‘I’m off to the States next week. Some hot young artist in Brooklyn is the next big thing and I’ve got three clients after him, and then I’ve got Mum coming at the weekend–’ She shook her head. ‘You know what she’s like – I’m not sure I can cope. And I’ve had a stream of builders round giving estimates, because I really am going to get the fireplace knocked out–’
Roz put a hand on her arm.
‘Sticks?’
Sherie shook her head.
‘Nothing.’
It was their joke. Sherie was gorgeous. All blonde hair and cheekbones and glossy lips – she spent more on facials than Roz put by for the gas and electricity bills combined – with a fantastic figure. ‘You should be beating them off with sticks,’ Roz had once said. Yet Sherie’s relationships never lasted more than a few months. She’d been internet dating on and off for years but never seemed to meet anyone with that special spark.
‘Too damn picky,’ Roz had heard Fay say. Roz knew it was more than that, but certainly Sherie had an exacting set of criteria. Mr Right had to be a good-looking, highly intelligent, kind but appropriately macho, tall, liberal cat-lover who shared Sherie’s taste in music and films, with a penchant for salad. The last hapless applicant for the role had been despatched in short order when it was revealed that he did not fully appreciate the beauty and brilliance of Cillian Murphy in Peaky Blinders and also took three sugars.
‘A sort of possible on Meet-your-match,’ Sherie said now. ‘But listed one of his interests as junk food. I really can’t be doing with–’
‘It may have been irony,’ interrupted Roz. ‘Or he might be writing a dissertation on the subject. You can’t dismiss someone before you’ve even met him, just because he might like the odd Big Mac.’
‘Hmmm.’ Sherie pursed her lips. ‘Charlotte’s putting it on again, isn’t she?’
‘She looks the same to me.’
‘She really shouldn’t be smoking.’
‘No. But she won’t stop if you nag her.’
‘Fay’s such a bad example.’
‘Charlotte would smoke anyway – if she wanted to. In any case,’ Roz was trying to be reasonable, ‘don’t they say that stress is the killer? Charlotte’s the most laid-back person I know.’
‘Well she hasn’t got anything to worry about, has she!’
Roz glanced at her oldest friend. ‘I expect she has her ups and downs like most of us,’ she said mildly.
Sherie didn’t have an awful lot to worry about herself, as far as Roz could see. She had a beautiful apartment, a fabulous job, good friends and she looked a million dollars. But Roz knew there was little point debating it. As far as Sherie was concerned, Charlotte had the husband so Charlotte had nothing to complain about, ever. Nor did Fay, who had chosen to unceremoniously kick her husband Dave out, and since Roz said frequently that she barely gave men a thought these days – too tied up with Amy and trying to keep their heads above water – Sherie reserved al
l her sympathy on the relationships front for herself.
Sherie could be thoughtful and funny but Roz had noticed a bitterness creeping up in her as she got older on her own. She looked again at the list in front of her. ‘Char’s certainly wanting to push the boat out for our birthdays!’
She waited, hoping Sherie would say it was all too extravagant, that they didn’t need to supply champagne on arrival or hand round the sort of canapés Charlotte was after. That the cash bar could start sooner, and a live band wasn’t essential. So she, Roz, didn’t have to.
Sherie nodded, flicking through the various pieces of paper Charlotte had left on the table. ‘Yes, when she comes back, I really must say something about the catering.’ Sherie smiled at the young man proffering a small jug, took it and began to pour soya milk carefully into her coffee. ‘It’s rather a lot to spend per head–’
Roz nodded. ‘Yes it is. That’s what I–’
‘–if we don’t accommodate all tastes.’ Sherie lifted the cup to her lips, looking disapprovingly over the rim. ‘Has she even thought about gluten-free?’
‘So, the Princess is lactose intolerant now, is she? I thought it was yeast or wheat or something that was the devil?’ Out on the pavement, Fay leant back against the bricks, inhaled sharply and blew out a long stream of smoke.
Charlotte shook her head. ‘I don’t keep up with it. When she comes to mine I let her inspect all the packets and bottles in case there’s any fatal additive lurking in the gravy that might strike her dead and then she eats what I’ve got or she doesn’t.’ She took another drag on her own cigarette. ‘Bless her!’
Fay rolled her eyes. ‘Funny how nobody had food allergies when we were kids. I can just imagine my mum buggering about with tofu on a bed of quinoa or whatever it’s called.’ She laughed. ‘Meat and two veg we had and God forbid if you didn’t finish your potatoes.’
Charlotte laughed too. ‘Becky’s a veggie now. They all are on her floor apparently. I’ve told her she’ll be cooking for herself in the holidays.’ She blew smoke out. ‘Unless it means I can finally get Joe to eat something green! If we can agree on 28th that will be great actually,’ she went on. ‘Becky will be home from uni – Joe will have broken up. Oh and so will Andrew of course. It will make it more relaxed for him and Laura – maybe they and Stanley will stay a few days. I miss Lu so much since Andrew got that bloody headship in Gateshead. I can’t wait to see them.’
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