The M Word

by Eileen Wharton

  According to Shoni, I’ve been having a mid-life crisis for years. That’s the pot calling the kettle grimy-arse. She was one of those teenagers who refused to eat meat or wear leather and wanted to divorce her parents because we smoked in the house. She said we were contravening her human rights by making her breathe our smoke, and she was going to seek legal advice. Turns out her friend’s father was a lawyer, but he doesn’t do pro bono work. (When I explained all this to Tammy, she thought pro bono was something to do with foreplay). I said Shoni contravened our human rights by making us listen to her bullshit. She wasn’t amused.

  She spent many a night in her bedroom dyeing her hair black, listening to seventies rock bands and pretending to self-harm. She wouldn’t slash a bicycle tyre, let alone her own wrists.

  Her father, of course, blamed me. Apparently, I’d spoiled her by allowing her freedom of speech and an opinion. A girl with an opinion? Where will it all end?

  His opinion ceased to matter when he took up with Terri-Ann from Thomas Cook. I didn’t see it coming, even though I’d found dinner receipts for two, and he’d started wearing Kouros again.

  It got a bit messy because we fought over who would have the kids.

  ‘I don’t want ’em,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I’m not having them.’

  ‘The woman always gets awarded custody.’

  ‘Not these days,’ I warned him smugly.

  He wanted to relax in his clean apartment with Terri-Ann from Thomas Cook, who I saw in Ann Summers buying a butt plug. Tempted to tell her they come in extra-large, I resisted and left the shop feeling violated. I made sure the kids went over that night and warned them not to touch anything that looked like a bottle stopper.

  The upshot was that Shoni was at the station, and could I pick her up? So, she wasn’t really ringing to ask if she could stay. The car was being moody again, so I had to get a taxi.

  Sonny from Krazy Kabs arrived. I hate it when Sonny picks me up. He always recounts in minute detail everything I said and did when drunk the weekend before. He’s one of those who enjoys watching you cringe. A plaque on the door of his cab reads, “Your comfort is my business”. It should read, “Your discomfort is my pleasure”.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked.

  ‘Train station please. I’m picking up my daughter.’

  ‘You wan’ me to wait?’

  ‘Em, yeah, otherwise, we’ll have to walk home again.’

  ‘Exercise will do you good,’ he said. ‘Your daughter a fat bird too?’ Now, he was really cruising.

  ‘Now, listen, sunshine, I know some things get lost in translation, but you’re really pushing your luck.’

  ‘My lock. I do not know this.’

  ‘Yeah, course ya don’t. Just drive.’

  When Shoni alighted from the carriage (carrying the bags, I might add, while the Dickhead from Dagenham waltzed off the train with his hands in his pockets), she looked two stone lighter, and her roots were showing.

  ‘You’re not pregnant, then?’ I said, motioning to her flat stomach.

  ‘No, I’m not bloody pregnant. Nice to see you as well, Mother.’

  Dagenham smirked.

  ‘Just asking. I thought that’s what you might be going to tell me.’

  ‘No,’ she said, tight-lipped and sour-faced. ‘Do you have to spoil everything, Mother?’

  ‘What do you mean, spoil everything? I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘We wanted to tell you over dinner.’

  ‘You’ve not won the lottery?’

  ‘No, I haven’t won the bloody lottery. We’re getting married.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. Well, what else is there to say? My eldest daughter thinks it’s a good idea to shackle herself to a southern druggie and waster. Surely, she didn’t expect congratulations.

  ‘Oh?’ she said. ‘Is that all you can say? I thought even you might have managed to congratulate us.’

  It seemed she did expect congratulations.

  ‘What do you mean, even me?’

  ‘Kevin, I told you this was a mistake. Let’s just get back on the train.’ She made to walk towards a train standing on Platform 1.

  ‘That’s going to Edinburgh,’ I said.

  ‘Piss off, Mother,’ she said.

  The cab ride home was silent and sombre, punctuated only with Sonny’s boring banter.

  ‘You are much thinner than your mother.’

  ‘Yes,’ Shoni said spitefully.

  ‘You have your father’s genes?’

  ‘Probably,’ she said. Traitor.

  ‘Thought so,’ he said.

  I slammed the door on the way out and left Dagenham to pay the fare. I’m sure he’d have made enough profit in his latest cocaine haul.

  When I wasn’t menopausal, all of these things would have gone over my head, but now, I raged inside.

  I dried the cutlery that was on my draining board, flinging those with water stains back into the sink. The clatter brought Shoni into the kitchen, eyes wide and questioning.

  ‘Are you having a mid-life crisis, Mother?’

  ‘I should think it’s about fucking time for one,’ I said. ‘I’m sure I’ve earned it.’

  ‘I thought we could go shopping…for the dress… I’d like you to come with me. Obviously, Kevin can’t come, and my girlfriends will probably pick out ones that don’t suit me. You’re good at that kind of thing.’

  ‘Who’s paying for it?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, I thought that… I mean, we discussed before…’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘It’s customary for the bride’s parents to foot the bill,’ said Dagenham, creeping up behind her.

  I ignored him and turned to Shoni. ‘So, what’s Dickh…your father paying for?’

  ‘Things are a bit tight at the minute…what with the little one…’

  ‘You mean Terri-Ann from Thomas Cook is a bit tight. Well, he can pay his fair share. Right. Right?’

  ‘Yes, Mother, I’ll make sure he pays his fair share.’

  ‘Ok, wedding dress shopping tomorrow. I can look for a mother of the bride outfit.’ I started to get excited.

  Big mistake.

  Of course, it was not going to go well. Me, Shoni and a room full of meringues. It was a recipe for disaster.

  #manicmeringues

  Today’s selfie was taken in the changing rooms. I’m wearing a MOB outfit and a hat that looks like a giant cupcake (BTW, MOB stands for mother of the bride, not mafia). I upload it to Facebook and get forty-three likes, so I Snapchat it to Tammy, and she sends me a pic back of her looking radiant surrounded by daisies. The Twitter pic gets fourteen love hearts and two shares.

  The ride back to the station after wedding dress shopping is even more sombre and silent. Sonny has had an allergic reaction to cucumber (I didn’t ask what he was doing with it) and has ended up in A and E with a swollen tongue (divine retribution), so his sidekick is taking us, and he doesn’t speak a word of English.

  Wedding dress shopping was a bit of a debacle. Of course, I’m getting the blame. I wasn’t to know when she said, ‘I want your honest opinion’, she didn’t mean she wanted my honest opinion. People should say what they mean. The mermaid one did look more like a demented trout. I was just being honest. The sparkly one was a bit ‘Big Fat Gypsy’. If she didn’t want my honest opinion, why ask for it?

  ‘Tact, Mother,’ she said. ‘Diplomacy.’ Note to self for next time: just say, ‘That’s nice’, and smile.

  ‘Would it have killed you to be nice for one day?’ Shoni says in the cab. I have no idea what she’s talking about. I can’t help being honest. There’s nothing wrong with honesty. There’s little enough of it about. She should be grateful.

  ‘Grateful?’ she shrieks, pulling her luggage from the boot when I tell her as much. ‘Grateful for you murdering my self-esteem, stamping on my dreams, butchering my shot at happiness.’ Ever the drama queen. ‘I bet you wouldn’t have been like this with Carolyn.’ Oh, here we go. ‘Car
olyn can do no wrong. I bet you wouldn’t have said Carolyn’s dress looked like dried-up seaweed.’ She storms to the platform, and I have to run to catch up.

  ‘I don’t think those were my exact words,’ I say. I’ve never been so bloody grateful to see a train.

  Carolyn is my youngest. Shoni always maintains she’s the favourite, which is inaccurate, cos I can’t fucking stand any of them.

  To top off my terrible day, tonight’s date shows me a pair of sunglasses he shoplifted from a stall in the Metro Centre while we wait for a table at TGI Fridays. I nip to the loo and come straight home.

  I should just say I can’t make the company ball, and then, I won’t need to put myself through this torture.

  10

  #bellissimo

  At work, Tammy and I decide to substitute the word bellend with bellisimo. We can now get away with inappropriate language, and people will think they’re being complimented and not insulted. It’s genius.

  Today is just dire. Oldham’s in a foul mood. Rumour has it, his wife has run off to Krakow with a Polish refugee. Mick says he knows this is a lie as he saw her in Sainsbury’s this morning, and she wasn’t even buying kielbasa.

  ‘Maybe that’s why he’s in a mood,’ I say, ‘because she hasn’t run off with a Polish refugee.’

  ‘Have you seen his wife?’ says Mick. ‘Believe me, no one would run off with her. Eddie Hall would struggle to lift her off the ground.’

  ‘Don’t be sexist. Why is it a woman has to be beautiful and slim to be considered desirable? We have other qualities, you know.’

  ‘I know, some of you can iron and cook,’ he says, winking at Tammy.

  ‘Men think they’re God’s gift, even when they’re fat and bald, but if we so much as gain a few pounds…’

  ‘A few,’ he says, looking me up and down.

  ‘Fuck off,’ I shout, and storm from the office.

  ‘Touchy,’ I hear Mick say as I leave. I want to punch him repeatedly in the head until his brains seep out of his ears. I have no idea why, but tears prick the back of my eyes.

  ‘You alright?’ Tammy says when she finds me in the canteen later. ‘Ignore Mick, he’s a–’

  ‘Bellissimo,’ I say.

  ‘Exactly, she says. ‘I dunno why you let him get to you.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘It’s not like you like him.’

  ‘Can’t stand him.’

  ‘Or value his opinion.’

  ‘God, no.’

  ‘Then, why don’t you just ignore him?’

  ‘I will,’ I say.

  So next time he speaks to me, that’s exactly what I do. Only he thinks it’s hilarious.

  ‘Sent me to Coventry?’ he says. ‘Ooh, I’ve really touched a nerve, haven’t I? Maybe you should join Fat Fighters, if you’re so touchy about it.’ I still manage to pay no attention to him, though my blood’s boiling at this point. ‘I hear Lloyds have a pretty good gym. Pamela goes. Do you know Pamela? Gorgeous girl. Body to die for.’

  ‘Well, go and die, then.’ Damn – why can’t I just ignore him? He practically skips down the corridor, and I imagine blowing poison darts at his back. I know why I can’t just disregard him. I’m hurt. I like him more that I would ever admit to anyone. I’d let my guard down and slept with him, and now, I’m just another notch on his bedpost. I hate that. I’m angry at myself, and therefore, I’m angry with him.

  I must get a date for the company ball and put him in his place once and for all. I spend the night trawling Tinder and talking to a number of eHarmony rejects. Frederick’s an Elvis impersonator who lives with his granny and can’t come on a date in Durham because a girl in Shotton Hall has a restraining order against him. Alrighty, then, let’s speak…er…never. Guy is a Gandhi lookalike who states his “likes” as collecting carrier bags and fly fishing in Folkestone. I can just imagine Mick’s comments if I turn up with someone like him.

  ‘Tinder is evil,’ I tell Tammy. ‘I am never listening to you again about dating.’

  ‘There’s a speed dating night at Wetherspoon’s tonight,’ she says. ‘Let’s go. Just this once.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Absolutely not. I mean it. Never again. Nope. Nein. Non. Nah. Not in a million.’ But I need a date for the company ball. I need to take someone who Mick can’t deride or show disdain at. I need to look like I don’t care about him.

  We’re parked on bar stools in Wetherspoon’s. Little tables are dotted around with a chair either side. A man with grey hair and sideburns is holding a stopwatch and a bell. We’re given numbers and allocated tables at which to start.

  ‘Isn’t it exciting,’ Tammy says.

  ‘About as exciting as dipping my fingernails in petrol and setting them on fire,’ I say.

  ‘Come on, Roberta, play the game.’

  ‘I’ve been playing the game. It’s called Frauds, Fruitcakes and Flakes.’

  ‘It’s three minutes of your life,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, ten times.’

  ‘You might meet Mr Right.’

  ‘And I might meet Mr Self-Righteous and Mr Look What I’ve Got in My Right Hand?’

  ‘You’re so negative,’ she says. ‘Put your name badge on and take your seat at table number one. When the bell goes, you don’t do anything. The men will come to you. Here’s your card. Remember to tick all those you want to see again.’

  The whole process is as painful as kidney stones.

  Mark sits in front of me and asks me how old I think he is.

  ‘I don’t know, how old are you?’

  ‘Guess,’ he says. Oh great, a three-minute guessing game, ffs.

  ‘’Bout forty,’ I say.

  ‘Thirty-nine,’ he says. ‘No one ever guesses right.’ Kill me now.

  ‘I could be watching The Chase,’ I say in an aside to Tammy. ‘Or even better, waxing my bikini line.’ A bell rings, and the throng moves, and people take a seat at their next table.

  Joe sits opposite me. ‘I’m Joe,’ he says. ‘And you are?’ Read the freaking name badge, stupid.

  ‘Roberta,’ I say.

  ‘Tell me something interesting about yourself, Roberta,’ he says.

  ‘I crossed the Atlantic with Amelia Earhart.’

  ‘Really,’ he says. ‘That’s amazing.’ What a tit.

  ‘Tell me something interesting about you.’

  ‘I make drawing pins,’ he says. Great, give me some to stick in my eyes. Ding, ding. Saved by the bell.

  Rick is next. He takes hold of my hand and kisses it before sitting down. I imagine he thinks it makes him seem charming when, really, it just makes him seem creepy. ‘What would you like for breakfast?’ he asks and then snorts at his “joke”.

  ‘Arsenic,’ I say. ‘Death will be a relief compared to this.’

  ‘Oh, you’re not a Debbie Downer, are you? I like to keep things positive.’ Right now, I’d like to see a positive charge running from his testicles to his toes, preferably on the end of a rudimentary instrument of torture used in wartime by the Japanese army.

  ‘No, I’m a Roberta Realist. I like to keep things real.’

  ‘I’m hoping for lots of interest tonight,’ he says.

  ‘I wouldn’t be too hopeful,’ I say. ‘I think you might be like Simon Cowell’s dogs.’ He looks confused. ‘No ticks,’ I tell him. The bell rings again.

  Todd takes his spot at my table. ‘It bodes well for me that you’re impressed by speed,’ he says, then laughs.

  ‘Did you use that line on every girl in the room?’ I ask, stifling a yawn.

  ‘He used it on me,’ the girl at table ten says. ‘Wasn’t funny, then, either.’ I see him change the tick he’d put next to her name into a cross.

  ‘You don’t have a sense of humour?’ he asks.

  ‘Would I be here if I didn’t?

  ‘Do you always answer a question with another question?’

  ‘Has it been three minutes yet?’ Ding, ding.

  Boris wants to know my plans for the
future.

  ‘To make it through tonight without throwing myself from a very tall building.’

  ‘In five years’ time, I see myself as being the owner of twenty-four cats,’ he says. ‘I want one Siamese, two long-haired Persians, a Cornish Rex, three Tonkinese, a British short hair, an Abyssinian, two Burmese, a Bengal, a Siberian, a Sphynx, five Russian Blue, a Himalayan, a Turkish Angora and three Chartreux,’ he says. ‘I’m going to call them Hughey, Alice, Terri, Trevor, Lulu, Don Estelle, Elton, Sammy, Cheryl, Simon, Susan Boyle, Grindl, Gracie, Kelly, Diana, Beatrix, Eugenie, Diversity, Pumpernickle, Peppermint Paddy, Peanuts, Jellybean, Jim and Brady.’

  ‘How many cats do you have currently?’ I ask.

  ‘None,’ he says. ‘I’m in rented accomo, and the landlord is ailurophobic.’

  ‘I hate cats too,’ I say, beginning to hate Boris.

  Ding, ding.

  The next one is the worst. I don’t even get a look at his name badge or his teddy boy haircut before he lunges at me with his tongue. Bilal, “Call me Billy”, seems to think sticking his furry tongue in my gob is the way to get ticked. I want to tell him it’s the way to get twatted.

  The last one (thank the Lord), Bob (or Baab, as he calls himself in his fake American accent), wears satanic goat-head jewellery, has a tattoo of the Pope being shot on his wrist and is wearing a girdle. The only reason I’m aware of the girdle is because he’s developed an itch and doesn’t stop scratching for the whole three minutes. He calls me “dude”, asks me if I like surfing and says he could really use a BJ.

  ‘You could really use a personality,’ I say.

  Ding, ding.

  Afterwards, we’re supposed to mingle at the bar and exchange email addresses or bodily fluids with those people we’ve ticked. Even Tammy’s sheet looks like a game of noughts and crosses.

  ‘I gave them marks out of ten,’ she says. ‘There wasn’t even a solid seven between them.’