Twice in a Lifetime

by Helga Jensen

‘So, how did it embarrass you then?’ says Jamie. ‘Go on, I won’t tell anyone and I definitely won’t tell Megan, I promise.’

  Even the mention of Jamie’s girlfriend, Miserable Megan, doesn’t stop me smiling as I think back to that strange, yet wonderful day.

  ‘Okay, don’t laugh. I was so excited with my shopping that I unwrapped it all in the taxi on the way to Tiffany’s,’ I start.

  ‘You always have been impatient, Amelia.’ Jamie laughs. ‘Go on…’

  ‘Well, I was still inspecting it all when the taxi driver said we’d arrived at Tiffany’s. He was even more impatient than I am! I had to quickly find the money to pay him and try frantically to put everything back in the shopping bags simultaneously.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘The thing is that when we pulled up, there was the most handsome man I had ever seen. He had a beautiful suit and thick dark hair. I thought he looked like a movie star. Anyway, he was waiting for a taxi and I opened the door and he went to step in. He smiled at me as he jumped in and then he noticed I had left something. The thong…’

  ‘Oh no.’ Jamie laughs.

  I blush as I recall what happened next. I seem to remember that I was the same colour as the thong that day too.

  ‘This is where the story gets exciting, Jamie. This gorgeous man got out of the cab and handed me the thong. He said, “Is this yours?” I honestly wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. The cab driver got so irritated that he shouted at the guy to get another cab, and so we’re both stood on the sidewalk looking at each other with this thong in his hand. I think I eventually snatched it from him,’ I explain.

  I try to picture the guy precisely, but it was far too long ago to remember his exact features, only that he was extraordinarily handsome; too handsome perhaps. He was very forward I remember, which was a bit different to the boys back home.

  I try to think of his name and recall a piece of paper he gave me with his name and phone number. It was quite unbelievable as the most handsome man I had ever met actually asked me out on a date there and then. I didn’t have the courage to call him, like I promised, even though I had never seen anyone like him before. I mean, they say some things are too good to be true and he most definitely was. Why would someone like that be interested in a normal person like me? He could have been a human trafficker targeting Welsh girls, a cannibal, or anything. No wonder I caught him looking at my bum. He was probably working out how many meals he would get.

  Beginning to wonder if his telephone number is still in the suitcase, I dig around and find a piece of paper in one of the pockets.

  ‘He gave me his number. This must be it,’ I say to Jamie but, as I look closely, I notice that it is a scrunched-up dollar bill. I feel a wave of disappointment, but I guess I am now one dollar richer and he could have been a psychopath anyhow.

  I hunt through another pocket and pull out a thin silver chain with a horn of plenty dangling from it. I had totally forgotten that I had worn this around my neck in my twenties. Oh goodness, I thought I was so cool after buying it on our first day in Majorca one summer. Unfortunately, I couldn’t wear it from the third day of our holiday. Sian and I hired a boat and I got so sunburnt, after smothering myself in baby oil, that the sensation each time it bumped against my skin felt like torture. However, as soon as the redness subsided and I stopped peeling, it once again had pride of place on my décolletage. I thought I was the bee’s knees wearing it on a night out when I got back home, how embarrassing!

  ‘What’s that there, is this his number?’ Jamie asks, suddenly spotting a yellowing scrap of paper.

  I open it up and look at it in disbelief. The writing is faded now, but you can still see the name, Patrick, and a telephone number with what looks like zillions of digits that make up some kind of area code.

  My face lights up as I think of our short moment together. Perhaps this is how Dick felt when Tanja Tart reminded him of his student days.

  ‘Maybe you should call him,’ says Jamie.

  I laugh at Jamie’s crazy suggestion and hold the paper in my hand for a moment longer than I should. As I look at it, I instantly feel young again. It was a time when my mum was here and the thought of going through a horrible divorce would never have entered my mind.

  I pop the number in my pocket and start picking up the rest of the things. We need to pack everything away and get them back home, even the haunting portrait.

  I momentarily forget the New York trip, as this is the last time I will ever be allowed into my mum’s house. This time tomorrow the new occupiers will be spending their first night here. The thought of which makes me feel totally crushed once again.

  Chapter 4

  At home – Aunt Emily

  Dick is due to drop the boys off any second, which means I don’t have much time to go through the stuff from the attic. In fact, I am thinking about opening one of the boxes when Rupert and Jasper come bounding through the door.

  ‘We had the best time with Dad!’ Rupert says, carelessly throwing his overnight bag down on the floor. Jasper can hardly get in as it blocks the front door.

  ‘We played rugby with Dad at the park. He bought us our very own rugby boots. Dad says they’re designer,’ Jasper explains when he finally manages to get in. ‘Look!’

  He pokes his hand into his Minions overnight bag and pulls out the muddiest pair of boots I have ever seen. I can’t tell what make they are as the mud splashes off them and dirties the carpet. I’m not sure if I am more annoyed with the fact that Dick suddenly seems flush with money, or that there is mud everywhere. I really must think about a new job so that I can treat the boys to nice things too.

  I try to appear cheerful to everyone even though my heart still breaks when I think of how Dick and I divide our time with the boys. The way he drops the boys at the door and then drives off quickly stings every time. You would never believe it is the same person who shared such a big part of my life. The fact that we created these boys together and sometimes actually enjoyed each other’s company seems quite absurd when he now looks at me with such disdain. I don’t know what I did to make him hate me so much. Was it the job I took at the bookshop to give me some independence that made him look elsewhere? Did he always secretly hanker for a trophy wife who looked perfect all day and night, like Tanja? Whatever the reason, I wasn’t enough for him and Tanja is.

  There is no time for emotions though; I have two filthy children to sort out.

  ‘Boys, go and get ready for your bath and I’ll be up in a minute,’ I say.

  However, the boys obviously spot the portrait of their great-great-great-great aunt Emily and screams come in unison from the living room.

  ‘Arggggggggggghhhhhhh. What’s that? Is it from a haunted house, Mum?’ asks Rupert.

  ‘You found the portrait then.’ I laugh.

  They both come running towards me, each one grabbing a leg.

  ‘I’m scared,’ says Rupert.

  ‘Me toooo,’ says Jasper.

  ‘Me three,’ says a voice.

  Where did that come from?

  ‘I’d better be going,’ says Jamie. ‘Megan wants me to drop her off at Pilates. She’s going for a drink with the class after, so needs a lift there.’

  Ha, I bet she doesn’t post pictures of her drinking wine on her Instagram fitness account, in which she is normally seen slurping on kale or putting her teeny bottom in the air in her tight yoga pants. She forgets that Sian and I were in the same class as her. We all remember her going to the chippy every lunchtime and smoking Regal King Size with the boys. Jamie might not remember because he went to the Welsh language school in the next town, but Sian and I do. That’s the problem when people stay in the same village all their lives: they never forget anything.

  ‘Oh, well, thanks for today,’ I say, giving him a hug. ‘You really are the best.’

  I close the front door behind him, and the boys and I enter the living room to inspect Aunt Emily.

  ‘I don’t want
it in here,’ screams Rupert. ‘I’m going to stay with Daddy until you get rid of it.’

  ‘Yeah, it is scary, Mum,’ adds Jasper.

  I look at the portrait that has frightened me for many years. I don’t know what to do with it. She is, in fact, a beautiful lady, apart from the jowls, but she is very stern looking. I think that is why she scares everyone.

  ‘I know, I know,’ says Jasper, wriggling about, as if he has the answer to a difficult math’s question at school.

  ‘What, my darling?’ I ask.

  ‘You know how we watch Cash in the Attic, Flog It!, ooh, and Antiques Road Show? Let’s get rid of it. Let’s make some moneeeeeeey!’

  I can’t help but laugh as they repeat what I begged my mum for so many years. The boys jump around me now getting excited. A blob of dried mud, from Jasper’s shorts, disrespectfully splats Aunt Emily’s eyebrow.

  ‘Let’s make moneeeeeey, let’s make moneeeeeey!’ they chant together.

  I look at the portrait. I do wonder how much it is worth. I am not very good with antiques though. It could be £5 it could be £5 million. I really would have no idea.

  ‘Sell it… Sell it… Sell it!’ the boys chant.

  ‘We could go to Disneyland,’ Jasper pipes up, giving me an especially cute face that nobody can ever deny.

  ‘Okay, well, let’s look at antiques on the internet and see what we can find.’ I decide. Even for insurance purposes I need to know roughly how much it is worth, I suppose.

  Do I look up Sotheby’s or the local car boot sales though?

  I am looking for inspiration when I come across a website called Value My Stuff.

  It asks for details about the item, and we have to measure the length and width of the portrait. I have never seen the boys move so fast as when I asked for the tape measure. They are convinced it is worth millions and that they will now practically be moving to Disneyland full-time and possibly never go to school ever again.

  We enter all the details and have to wait for a response. I don’t know how the boys are even going to sleep until we get that reply. We have had to pay a nominal fee, so I only hope the picture is worth more than that. A message appears on the screen that it will take 48 hours to get the valuation.

  ‘If it’s worth five million pounds, then I promise to kiss the scary face.’ Jasper laughs.

  ‘Urgh, you’re disgusting,’ says Rupert. ‘I wouldn’t kiss her no matter how much she’s worth.’

  ‘Right, boys. Now get ready for that bath,’ I order, as there is nothing else to be done now that we have to wait.

  The boys groan and head upstairs. While they get ready I peek my head into the big box that I still haven’t had time to open.

  Lying on the top are some old clothes from the 1980s. Why on earth would I have kept those? I find a jelly bag, bright pink ankle warmers, a hideously bright orange skirt, which must have made me look like a highlighter pen, and a white T-shirt with ‘Choose Life’ emblazoned across it. I even find Roland Rat and Gordon the Gopher cuddly toys. Finally, I come across dozens of records.

  First I pick up ‘Kiss Me’ by Stephen Tintin Duffy, then records by XTC, Frankie Goes To Hollywood, Scritti Politti, Rick Astley and Nik Kershaw. Oh, how I loved listening to these vinyls.

  I delve a little deeper into the box and discover a mix of albums and singles. There are Chart Attack albums full of one-hit wonders, along with Paul Young’s brilliant album, No Parlez. No eighties record collection would be complete without Wham!, and I fortunately find ‘Club Tropicana’. Then I discover something quite shocking and disturbing: there in front of me is Keith Harris and Orville’s ‘I Wish I Could Fly’. I accept that maybe my taste in music wasn’t always that good. Still, I can’t wait to show them all to Sian.

  It will have to wait until tomorrow, though, as I am utterly exhausted and need my bed. Today has been tough and I am drained, both physically and emotionally. It has been a real mix of emotions. I have encountered both happy memories, but also incredibly sad goodbyes. It doesn’t stop me picking up the yellow scrap of paper that I put on my bedside table for safekeeping though. I snuggle under the duvet and study the handwriting. I can’t help but notice how neat it is. Every letter is perfectly formed and elegantly written. Patrick, so that was his name.

  Once again, I think about how breathtakingly handsome he was. Was he really that beautiful? Or has my mind, and the absence of time, played tricks on me? I know that I don’t remember every detail, but he was certainly tall, dark and very handsome. I will call him Perfect Patrick. I bet he hasn’t aged and is as handsome as ever. I wouldn’t think that he would be the type to sport a beer belly. I imagine that he has a full head of soft, dark hair, perhaps peppered with grey at the sides by now. He won’t be completely grey, definitely not, and if he is, he will be the type to dye it, so nobody would ever know. He would look even more distinguished and elegant with symmetrical grey streaks in front of his perfect little ears. His eyes, the colour of the Mediterranean Sea, will be encircled by laughter lines which portray the beautiful life he has led since we met.

  Of course, he has a Manhattan apartment, probably overlooking Central Park. I wonder if he has a dog and if he takes it for walks there. Does he have adorable little children? Perhaps a demanding ex-wife. I bet he has a high-flying career. He may even have a driver and one of those cars you see in the movies that drive him from meeting to meeting, while he sits in the back making important phone calls. So many thoughts run through my head.

  Finally, I am curious: does his phone number still work? What would happen if I called him? I mean, surely, you can’t ring someone up and tell them that you are finally ready for that date they asked you on over twenty years ago, can you? Of course not. For a start, anyhow, I am off men for life and I am off to a yoga retreat to drink wine. Plus, I am sure his phone number wouldn’t be in service by now. If I was interested in dating and he did answer, what would I say? If his phone number doesn’t work, how far would I go to find him? I picture myself on Good Morning America, explaining about my dream man, who I only know as Patrick. It would be rather romantic I suppose.

  To be reunited with Perfect Patrick, the handsome stranger I met outside Tiffany’s. It would be more exciting than anything ever seen on Surprise Surprise and the like.

  But what if I went on there and he didn’t know who I was and millions of people were watching? Imagine the embarrassment. Tanja Tart would love that; she would be laughing so much she might even lose one of her veneers. God forbid, Dick may even think I have lost the plot and insist on custody of the boys.

  No, finding Perfect Patrick wouldn’t be at all romantic; it would be a disappointment and I would make the biggest fool of myself. Besides, someone like that is certain to have a beautiful wife with toned legs that go on and on. Although, I suppose that he could be completely hideous now and then it would shatter my romantic illusion of him. Perhaps the past is best left there. It is fun to daydream but, whilst I am sworn to singledom for the rest of my life, I am also a firm believer that what is meant to be is meant to be. If he was meant to be in my life then something would have brought us together a long time before now.

  Besides, nobody is perfect, so it is better that we never meet. I don’t want to know if he has any flaws. What if he has a penchant for stripy pyjamas and velvet slippers? What if he wears tight trunks on the beach? No, definitely best that I never know. Instead, I shall dream of Perfect Patrick and how my life could have been had I taken a different route. This feels excitedly like my favourite movie, Sliding Doors. What if it could have been me living in a Manhattan apartment? I bet he would be the type to bring me breakfast in bed, on a perfectly presented tray; he would even add a rose on the side. He would make me proper English tea (because I would have trained him well) and then he would kiss me and put his arms around me. It would be nothing like my marriage to Dick, where he turned his back on me every night. Patrick’s arms would be those strong arms I have secretly desired for years, and then he woul
d make love to me. None of this Christian Grey stuff. Oh no. It would be passionate and steamy. He would grab me so tenderly and, oh my god, then he would…

  ‘Muuuuuuum! Muuuuum! I’ve been calling you for ages.’ I suddenly hear Jasper’s voice as he bursts into my room. ‘Rupert has wet the bed!’

  ‘I have not wet the bed, Mum. Jasper, stop lying. You know it was my glass of water. Muuuuuum! Muuuuum! Where are my clean pyjamas? I’m soaking wet. I’m getting pneumonia.’

  I jump from the bed and search in the ironing basket for Rupert’s clean pyjamas and think once again how very different my life could have been. Oh yes, for a start I would have probably paid someone to do the ironing.

  Chapter 5

  The living room – reminiscing

  ‘Bloody hell, that has to be worth something, surely?’ says Sian, looking at the portrait.

  I have been thinking much the same thing for the past 24 hours. I wonder how much it can be worth.

  I suppose in some ways it would be handy if it wasn’t anything of great value. That way I can keep it in the attic, without the children knowing, and then I am not the evil family member who parts company with it after so many generations. On the other hand, I can’t help but wish it were worth thousands. Okay, maybe millions. Then the boys could have everything they have ever dreamed of, all because of Great-great-great-great Aunt Emily.

  ‘Anyway, there’s more. Come and check out the other boxes I have,’ I say.

  I knew Sian would love this stuff.

  ‘Noooooo! Hazell Dean, Simple Minds, we loved them,’ she says, picking up some of the vinyls.

  ‘I know and look what else I have.’

  I show her one of our favourite records ever: Sister Sledge, ‘Frankie’.

  We sing the lyrics together. Still remembering every word faultlessly. It is one of those perfect moments, like when those little iPods came out and you could download all the songs you hadn’t heard for years. There is nothing quite like dancing and singing around the lounge with your oldest friend who you have been through so much with.