Twice in a Lifetime

by Helga Jensen

  Her familiar happy face has been replaced by a look that tells me she is on a serious mission and I will not be getting out of this.

  Sian begins my registration, entering my name, which is followed by my age. I will admit, we agreed to take a few years off. I am sure guys lie all the time on there. One of the men I saw lurking on Sian’s account most definitely wasn’t 5 foot 10, and he did not look remotely like a hedge fund manager. Not that you can really tell, of course, and I don’t mean to stereotype, or anything, but there is usually a Hermès tie involved somewhere.

  Unfortunately, Sian is no stranger to dating sites. She has been single for the past three years, ever since her husband, Jack, was killed in a freak accident involving an inflatable sumo wrestling costume. It was such a shock when it happened, and Sian still refuses to discuss it. Instead, she makes a joke about everything and, if you didn’t know her, you would never know about the horrific accident involving the love of her life. It broke her heart, and I often wonder if she will ever truly get over it. I stayed with her for the first three nights after the accident to make sure that she at least had sips of water. Dick was very good at the time and happily looked after the boys. He told me to stay with Sian as long as it took to get her eating properly. I was so relieved to have such an understanding husband, but now I wonder if he just wanted me out of the house.

  Sian and I no longer discuss Jack’s accident. She would occasionally mention it after it first happened, but it’s not something that she likes to discuss.

  Since Jack died, I have noticed that Sian can’t talk about anything remotely morbid or sad. She can’t even watch Springwatch in case a weasel gets stuck in a log or a baby wood mouse gets captured by a murderous cat.

  Although she is familiar with Plenty of Sharks Out There, Sian hasn’t been on that many dates, but I think she secretly enjoys perusing the site and looks through it in much the same way that she used to look at her mother’s Freemans catalogue when we were teenagers. I don’t remind her, but I know full well that she used to turn to the pages of the men in their underpants first.

  I try to take my mind off this memory by reading Sian’s description of me. I am intrigued and slightly excited to see how she will describe me.

  Undersexed mum is looking for hot passionate man for steamy sex sessions.

  Don’t be shy, please apply.

  ‘Get that off, Sian! That’s horrible,’ I say as I almost choke on my cold cup of tea.

  ‘JOKE. Okay, how’s this?’

  She quickly types away, and I watch the screen in front of me, still finding it hard to digest the fact that I am about to go live on a dating site. This is not what I ever imagined I would be doing at this point in my life. I am forty-eight years old. I wanted to grow old with my lovely family, not go on dates with strangers making small talk and trying to rebuild a new life. I can’t imagine going on a date. Will I be one of those women who talks bitterly about her ex all night? Perhaps.

  The screen lights up with the description of the new me. The reluctant divorcee.

  Recently divorced, mum of twins, with brown hair and green eyes is looking for a loving relationship. I am tall and slim. (Okay that bit is a lie.) 42 years old. (Shush). Contact me if you like nice walks, good food and lots of wine.

  I am not sure about the ‘lots of wine’ part. Perhaps it is a little soon to introduce that bit. As I read through my dating profile with my photograph staring straight back at me, I freak out slightly. I hope nobody answers. The thought of a date with a stranger terrifies me. Maybe it would be nice to have someone who could unscrew the lid off my Marks & Spencer’s strawberry jam when it is stuck, but that’s about all I could use a man for right now. My plumbing is a bit dodgy too, I suppose. I am embarrassed to admit that I am not quite yet a strong, independent woman and am still used to Dick taking charge of such jobs.

  ‘Ooh, I don’t know, Sian,’ I protest once again. ‘I think this is a really bad idea. I mean what if the boys saw my photo?’

  ‘Well, if your boys are looking through Plenty of Sharks Out There, then something’s wrong somewhere. It’ll be fine, I promise. Trust me, my lovely bestie.’

  The last time she told me to trust her was when she went through a phase of wanting to be a hairdresser and insisted she use me as a real-life Girl’s World. The perm solution burnt my scalp, and I was left with a bald patch for six months. Ryan Smith in Year 4 even dumped me over it.

  I get a bad feeling about all of this.

  ‘There, all done.’ Sian smirks as she presses the dreaded confirm button. ‘Now let’s see who’s on there at the moment.’

  I have to admit this bit is quite funny. I didn’t even know sites like this existed before Sian showed me. The internet was hardly around when I met Dick. So I still find it astonishing that, with the flick of a button, there are rows and rows of men in front of me. It feels like some kind of marketplace. There are columns of men in all sorts of different poses. Some are dressed in fancy dress costumes; if I had to guess I would say they are the fun-loving ones. A few guys are with their dogs; I like that. These would be kind, I suspect, as it shows they love animals; although they could have borrowed someone’s dog, I suppose, or be some horrible dognapper person.

  I look a little harder to try and work out which ones the psychopathic murderers would be. There seem to be lots of those on dating sites nowadays. You only have to read the Daily Mail or Take a Break to prove my theory.

  Some of the men on the page look serious and are unsmiling. However, this look doesn’t appeal to me at all – they appear far too moody. I have already had one of those men in my life. I certainly don’t need another.

  My favourite profiles are the ones of the men who mention their children – some of them sound nice. One man, who has a beautiful photo, stands out from the rest. It has been taken on a beach, and a man in shorts is holding hands with two little ones, a boy and a girl. They all have their backs to the camera. It looks like a very precious moment as the sun sets in front of them.

  ‘Awwww, look, Sian,’ I swoon. ‘How cute.’ I surprise myself with this positive reaction. Perhaps internet dating isn’t so bad, after all.

  We click on the man’s profile for a closer inspection. It says he is David Thompson, who works in accounting and he is 41, widowed with two children and a dog. Widowed, children and a dog! Perfect. He is a bit youthful at seven years younger than me, but he wouldn’t know that since we lied about my age.

  ‘Come on. Let’s look at his other photos,’ says Sian.

  I have to admit that I am now very curious and a prickle of excitement rises from within me.

  ‘Oh my god,’ Sian screams as we pull up his photos. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  I look at the photo aghast.

  ‘It can’t be. It must be a mistake?’

  Sian and I look at each other curiously. She quickly pulls up another photo and, yes, there he is. It is definitely him and his name is certainly not David.

  ‘Markus Thomas!’ We both scream at the same time.

  We stare at each other in disbelief, neither of us able to speak for a while.

  Sian is the one who eventually breaks the silence.

  ‘THE Markus Thomas who is always boasting on Facebook about how much he loves his beautiful wife.’

  ‘Perhaps someone has stolen his photos off Facebook, or something,’ I say. We have to give him the benefit of the doubt. He can’t have done this by himself; he is the most loving, faithful man possible.

  ‘They just renewed their vows in Montego Bay, and he bought Jane that beautiful sapphire ring. Amelia, he is The Perfect Facebook Husband; this can’t be happening.’

  It has to be a mistake, as Jane is very much alive for a start. I saw her in Tesco on Monday.

  Sian quickly stalks Markus’s Facebook page and does some investigative work to see if the photos have been taken from there. Sian and I make the best private detectives. I think men underestimate a woman’s stalking powers, quite frankly.


  ‘It has to be his own doing, Amelia. Look, it even says, “longest relationship: over ten years”. He’s been married to Jane for ten years.’

  Oh, Markus. Of all people. This can’t be happening.

  ‘Let’s wind him up,’ giggles Sian as she starts to type: Well, hello, fancy meeting you on here… ‘No, wait,’ she adds. ‘Let’s make up a fake profile and arrange to meet him for a drink, and then we will tell Jane anonymously, and she will turn up and find out the truth about him. We will be like vigilantes for sneaky married men.’

  Sian lets out a Machiavellian laugh, like a witch about to cast a spell, as she sets about opening her fake account.

  As for me, I can’t begin to see the funny side, as I have now lost every single romantic bone in my body. If The Perfect Facebook Husband, Markus Thomas, is on here, saying such an awful thing, then there is absolutely no hope left in this world.

  Romance is officially dead, unlike Jane.

  Chapter 3

  Mum’s house – the end of an era

  Following a good sleep and the revelations on Plenty of Sharks Out There, I have deleted my account and decided that I will never consider dating anyone, even if Sian does accuse me of sarmassophobia. It is time to invest in myself and the boys and certainly not in any relationships. Then, when the boys grow up and no longer need me, I shall go to India and live in a yoga retreat. Do they have wine at yoga retreats? I presume they must, otherwise they wouldn’t be so calm about everything.

  Yes, I shall become a healthy-living, super-fit, chilled-out yummy mummy. As I keep reminding Sian, I do not need any man in my life, not now, not ever. Seeing Markus on there is further proof that men can’t be trusted.

  I really don’t want to sound like a man hater. I am not really; I mean I still think Robson ‘Gorgeous’ Green is cute. I know normal women like men such as George Clooney and Tom Hardy, etc, but Robson seems like the perfect man to me, even if he does do boring man things like fishing. I suppose it might be fate that we never meet, though, as even if it was love at first sight, he might come home with a massive trout and expect me to know what to do with it. He would then subsequently dump me when he discovered that I actually have no idea what to do with a fresh fish, except want to try and revive it and throw it back into the river. I do like Tim Peake too. He’s lovely, the way he goes around schools and teaches children about space. I wish he’d come to our school and do a talk on being an astronaut, then it might motivate me to help with the reading sessions a bit more.

  Aside from ‘Ravishing Robson’ and ‘Terrific Tim’, Jamie Lewis is the only other man I have any time for right now. He might not have a massive fishing rod or educate the world about space, but Jamie has the kindest heart I have ever known.

  Take today, for example. Jamie is helping me clear out the last remaining things from my mother’s attic, as he knows how much I have been dreading it.

  The thought that her house has been sold is so difficult to accept, as it is the one thing I have clung onto. I know it is only bricks and mortar, but it was a home. A place we lived throughout my childhood, where she taught me to bake Welsh cakes and bara brith and, when I was older, she would stay up late waiting to make sure I got home okay after a night out. The house has always been a safe place; a cocoon full of memories – happy, cosy memories. The thought of a new family moving in breaks my heart in two.

  For weeks I tried the lottery so that I wouldn’t have to sell it, but it was futile. I was left with no choice but to sell up, as the salary I earn at the bookshop, along with Dick’s small maintenance allowance (when he is forthcoming with payments), doesn’t leave me with too much left over each month. There was no money left in the marital pot either, after the timely collapse of Dick’s stocks and shares in the middle of the divorce. Then there was the cost of the dementia care home that Mum was in before she died. I still feel terrible that she had to stay there for the last year of her life, but Dick was adamant that she couldn’t live with us. What with the boys’ school, his demanding job and me in the bookshop most days, he said we would never be able to cope. I was finally persuaded when he asked me how I would feel if she stepped onto the busy main road outside our front door whilst I was at work. She was getting more and more forgetful and was often found at a bus stop waiting for her ‘school bus’. Dick said I wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt if something happened to her and so I agreed to move her to the care home. What I didn’t know then was that two months after her death he would no longer be living with me either.

  * * *

  A sense of dread washes over me as I open the door to the bungalow for the last time. The post has piled up a little, and I step on the latest David Nieper catalogue. Mum used to love ordering her slippers from the catalogue. There are no slippers here now though. Her home is practically empty. Her much-loved possessions removed. Many of them I kept in my house, others were donated to the dementia charity. I wonder if they ever did manage to sell her size 2 shoes. I wish I shared the same petite build that she had been blessed with and not my mammoth size 7 feet.

  ‘Come on, you, let’s get this stuff down,’ says Jamie as I stand there thinking of Mum.

  Quite skilfully, he has managed to lower the attic ladder on his first attempt – something nobody has ever mastered.

  ‘You stay there and I’ll pass things along to you, okay?’ he shouts.

  I gingerly move to the left of the attic entrance as I see a daddy-long-legs heading towards me. He climbs up Mum’s pink flowery wallpaper, which has faded with the years of sunlight, and then disappears into a hole in the coving. Lucky thing, he gets to stay here.

  ‘Ready?’ shouts Jamie as I’m oblivious to him passing something down.

  A picture frame appears through the gap. It is a portrait of Aunt Emily. This picture has been passed down to us through the generations, ever since Victorian times. I always found it so spooky that my mother had to banish it to the attic. I asked her countless times to contact Antiques Roadshow, or Flog It!, but she said we have a duty to keep it in the family. I have never understood why old-fashioned people look so scary.

  I study Aunt Emily and worry about taking it home. The family obligation has now been passed to me, but it will completely freak the boys out. It still scares me and I am grown-up. For once, though, I can see the family resemblance and realise that I am getting the same saggy jowls. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the portrait that was handed down through the generations.

  Two large boxes appear next, the contents of which I have no idea about. However, one of the boxes is not quite sealed properly, and I notice that poking out from some loose masking tape is Lippy, my favourite childhood stuffed lion. The little lion I took everywhere with me. My mother had kept him all these years. The tears start to form now. The realisation that I have lost Mum forever and that she had kept Lippy and oh… It’s just too much. I break down and start to sob.

  ‘Hey, are you okay?’

  Jamie clambers down the ladder and puts his arm around me.

  ‘Come on, let’s get out of here as quickly as we can. It’s bound to be emotional. There’s only one thing left… Let me grab it and take you back to the car.’

  I wipe the tears against my faded black T-shirt, leaving it stained and crumpled and resembling my inner emotions.

  ‘Can you grab this for me?’

  I look up at the attic hatch to discover a bright pink suitcase being lowered and am immediately transported to 2000. It was the year that I won a ‘Spot the Ball’ competition in the local newspaper, and the prize was a trip to New York for two. My entry turned out to be the winning one, and I had two weeks’ notice until my trip to the Big Apple.

  Sian begged to come with me and went out and bought lots of new clothes ready for our trip of a lifetime. However, things didn’t go to plan and Sian got a bout of appendicitis right before the flight. It was too late to arrange to take anyone else at that stage and I had to be brave and go alone. Of course, I was apprehensive
but, even from her hospital bed, Sian encouraged me. She told me I would be fine and she was right. I must have been a lot braver in those days. Sian begged me to take lots of photos for her, which quite possibly made me do more sightseeing than I would have normally done. She also insisted that I visit Tiffany’s, her favourite shop in the world. I was given strict instructions to report back every single detail.

  As I think back to New York, the suitcase becomes too tempting. I have to open it. Immediately I see the pink-haired troll my mum gave me, as the plane would have certainly crashed had it not accompanied me. There is also a New York baseball cap, and a dark navy Virgin Atlantic jumper that I bought on my flight. I had wanted that colour, as Princess Diana had one similar and always wore it to the gym before she died a few years earlier.

  ‘And what is this?’ asks Jamie, lifting the mood by pulling out a bright red thong from the open suitcase.

  I laugh as I quickly try to hide the offending pants in my pocket.

  ‘This thong embarrassed me twenty-odd years ago too, I remember.’

  I think back to how I got so carried away in Victoria’s Secret all that time ago. It was the most glamourous shop I had ever seen. I was immediately struck by the enormous selection of jewel-coloured matching sets of underwear, which were displayed besides stuff I never knew I needed. It was very different from the items I impulsively bought in British Home Stores; no wonder I splurged. I must have bought a dressing gown, matching nightdress, bras, and this, the red thong. Those were the days when this thing could fit me. I look at the size, XS. Was I ever an XS? Perhaps they never did fit me and I was trying to show off to the skinny girl who was working there. That explains why they are still in the suitcase with the tags on, unlike the other items I bought, which are long worn out.