Twice in a Lifetime

by Helga Jensen

  ‘I’ll go and get it from the car,’ he says.

  He walks in with a small branch in a pot.

  ‘What’s this supposed to be?’ I ask.

  ‘You remember your dad planted that tree in the front garden when you were born? You always talked about it… as well as the snowdrops he planted,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, I loved those plants. They all continued to grow after Dad died so many years ago. They were his legacy.’ I smile.

  I was the same age as the boys are now when my dad died. I think of Jamie and his dad. It is all so fresh for him, yet he seems so jolly and gets on with it all. I don’t know how he can be so brave.

  ‘Well, I drove past the house and noticed the new owners were cutting it down. I knew you’d be upset, so I asked if I could take a branch. I’ve put it in a pot and it says online that you should easily be able to grow the tree with a bit of TLC. Sorry, I couldn’t get the snowdrops for you. Maybe one dark January night I will sneak in and dig them up for you.’ Jamie laughs.

  ‘Oh Jamie, I can’t believe you would think of saving this for me. You are so sweet, thank you.’ I give him the tightest, heartfelt hug.

  ‘What are friends for?’ he says, letting me go.

  My mum and dad were so proud of that tree; it is devastating that after forty-eight years of being there the new owners would carelessly cut it down like that. To them it meant nothing.

  ‘I thought you could plant it in your garden here and always have a piece of your mum and dad with you,’ says Jamie.

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s exactly what I will do, wow. Thanks again. I am so touched. Are you okay? I mean after your dad and everything?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Megan’s been teaching me meditation to deal with grief. Apparently, it helps,’ says Jamie. ‘There are some benefits dating such a spiritual person.’ He smiles.

  ‘Oh, right. Well, if that helps that’s wonderful,’ I say. ‘But you know what else helps? Apple pie,’ I add. ‘I’d better pop it in the oven.’

  As we move into the kitchen, Jamie spots the Man on the Moon project.

  ‘It’s broken. Mum broke it,’ says Rupert.

  ‘Well, she didn’t mean to,’ says Jasper.

  ‘Yeah, but she did. She didn’t look where she was going,’ says Rupert.

  ‘Let me look at it,’ says Jamie.

  The boys watch curiously.

  He wiggles some things about, requests Sellotape and some string and within minutes the Man on the Moon is looking better than ever. We may even beat Isabel’s creation at this rate.

  ‘Well done, Jamie. That’s amazing,’ I say.

  ‘Uncle Jamie saved the day. Yay,’ says Jasper.

  ‘Yeah, not a bad job at all, Uncle Jamie,’ says Rupert.

  Finally, we tuck into our apple pie, which turned out golden and perfect. Maybe I should publish a cookbook with Mum’s lovely recipes. They don’t make them like they used to. None of this sun-dried tomato and basil nonsense. It’s all good old-fashioned dumplings, old school puddings and Bird’s Custard.

  ‘Well, I’d better be off,’ says Jamie. ‘Megan’s insisted on taking me to Bath tomorrow for a few days. She’s never been.’

  ‘Oh, it’s beautiful there. I went once with Dick,’ I say, trying to sound positive.

  ‘Yes, we’re booked into a lovely hotel. Megan said it would do me good to have a break… You know, after Dad,’ says Jamie.

  That’s nice of Megan. Maybe she isn’t as bad as I thought. I feel as though I haven’t done anywhere near enough to help Jamie, apart from attend his dad’s funeral and assist with some of the floral arrangements. At least I knew who to recommend after Mum’s service.

  ‘You know I’m here for you, Jamie,’ I say. ‘Any time you want to chat, please pick up the phone, visit, whatever.’

  ‘You have your own worries, Amelia. I wouldn’t dream of being a burden,’ says Jamie.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, you’d never be a burden. Don’t be silly. Don’t say things like that,’ I say. ‘Shame you’ll miss the divorce party though. Would have been great to have you there,’ I add, trying to lighten the conversation.

  ‘I know, but hey, you may have found your “Perfect Patrick” by the time I get back. And I know that Sian has a surprise in store for you at the party. I think it’s more of a ladies’ evening,’ he says.

  ‘What surprise? Oh no. What’s she done now?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait. It’s not scary, don’t worry.’

  ‘You have to tell me!’

  ‘No, it’s nothing to worry about. Forget I said anything.’

  ‘How can I forget you said anything?’

  Jamie taps his nose. ‘You’ll find out tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, we’ll miss you and thanks again. I’m sure Mrs Jones will be thrilled with these little munchkins tomorrow.’

  The boys hold up the project, one each side.

  ‘You’d better put it down safely, yeah, guys. We don’t want it to have any further accidents.’ Jamie laughs.

  ‘Thanks. We’ll look after it,’ says Jasper.

  ‘Yeah, thanks,’ says Rupert.

  With the Man on the Moon safely by the front door, all set for its imminent departure to school, I check the latest text message from Sian.

  Have 976,680 shares on Facebook; 899,078 retweets, but still haven’t found Perfect Patrick.

  Chapter 9

  My house – divorce party

  I have been reading up on divorce parties and there are some suggestions that they are good for closure. When your very recently divorced ex-husband is about to get married again, there is no doubt that you are in need of some form of closure.

  I still consider it a little unconventional, but now that I am dressed up and Sian is here it feels a bit more exciting. Who cares what the party is for anyhow? It is a party thrown in my honour, I remind myself. It is a bit difficult to forget what the occasion is, though, since Sian has bought a divorce party pack. Scattered around the living room are signs saying things like, ‘Just Divorced’, ‘She’s No longer with Stupid’ and ‘We Always Hated Him’. Meanwhile, I am wearing a sash that says, ‘Back on the Market’. In some ways it feels like a hen party, only for a single, middle-aged person, which is a sobering thought. And then there’s the cake. Ah, the cake.

  In fairness, Sian ordered one of my preferred flavours: chocolate ganache. It is the wording and decoration that are a little less tasteful. It is decorated with a bride and groom, like you would see on any normal wedding cake. However, the groom has been decapitated. I do hate Dick but that is a little harsh. His marzipan head is beside the bride’s feet and what looks like a sparkly Jimmy Choo is kicking it. Scrawled in red-coloured icing is, ‘Congratulations, No More Dick’. Not that I ever had much of it in the first place, I think, smiling to myself. The inscription doesn’t read particularly well, and I am not sure if it is a double entendre or innocently meant that it is the end of Dick, as in the person. I think it is probably best that I start cutting up the cake as soon as possible.

  I have been pleading with Sian to tell me what the surprise is since Jamie let it slip. However, she has flatly refused and says the surprise will be here at any moment. Imagine if it was that she’d found Perfect Patrick! I do hope not; I’m not ready to meet him yet.

  There are ten of us waiting for the surprise to happen; Jane is one of them. She seems happy enough, although throwing back the drinks a little quicker than normal, but it is a party after all. It turns out that Markus had to cancel his fake date and so Jane is still none the wiser.

  I pour her a big glass of vodka and diet Coke since she deserves it.

  ‘How’s Markus?’ asks Sian. Personally, I can’t bear to bring his name up.

  ‘Oh yeah, he’s good,’ she says. ‘Doing a lot of overtime at the moment. Sometimes he doesn’t get home until midnight he’s working so late. He wants Jade and Trent to go to private school, so he’s working hard to pay for it.’

  ‘So
good of him,’ Sian says with a hint of sarcasm.

  ‘He’s amazing, my Markus. I’m so lucky. I’d hate to be like this – having a “divorce” party,’ says Jane, highlighting the word divorce. She looks at me pitifully as she says it.

  ‘It’s not that bad. At least I know Dick is a snake, unlike some people,’ I snap. I immediately regret it and can’t believe I said that in such a tone. It was the mix of alcohol and the way she said the D word that did it. Unsurprisingly, Jane gives me a bewildered look.

  ‘Anyway, someone is here for you, Amelia,’ says Sian, noticing the tension in the air. ‘Are you ready for your surprise?’

  ‘I’m ready,’ I say.

  ‘Now close your eyes.’

  I do as I am told, and everyone in the room starts screaming and cheering. Is it Patrick?

  ‘Keep your eyes closed,’ repeats Sian.

  What on earth can it be?

  I am instructed to open my eyes, and there in front of me is certainly not Perfect Patrick, but three male strippers who all look quite slithery. Oh no. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but a nice surprise would have been a voucher for a spa day, or a gift voucher to spend in M&S. I wasn’t expecting this. Once again, I suspect this is more for Sian than for me.

  Sian places one of my old records on the turntable as luckily we managed to fix the needle before the party. Man 2 Man Meets Man Parrish are now blasting out with ‘Male Stripper’.

  One of the strippers is sinuously gyrating his hips in front of me, while another two go around the room, dancing with each of the women in turn. Timed in perfect coordination, the three of them remove their tops to show their muscles, most of which are covered in what I’m sure are carefully considered tattoos.

  I am beginning to feel uncomfortable with this man’s groin in my face; I wish he would target Sian instead of me. I make an excuse that I need the bathroom and direct him towards Sian. She immediately seems pleased with the attention.

  I don’t want to be a spoilsport, but it has all been a little overwhelming. I think I need another glass of wine to get me in the mood and to escape for a minute.

  I close the lid of the toilet and plonk myself down. However, it doesn’t take long before I am interrupted.

  ‘Amelia, Amelia. Are you in there?’ shouts Sian with desperation in her voice.

  ‘What is it?’ I open the door to see a hyperactive Sian.

  ‘You are not going to believe this, Amelia.’ She looks in shock.

  ‘Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘Well, I have. Kind of. One of the guys has the same tattoo that Jack had. You remember the cartoon on his right shoulder?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I remember.’

  ‘This guy… well, his name is Rob… he has the same one on his left shoulder. How spooky is that?’

  I give Sian a hug.

  ‘Spoooooky,’ I say reassuringly.

  ‘Amelia, do you think it’s fate? Do you think Jack sent me this guy from heaven?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Sian. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.’

  I don’t know what to say to her, but I am not entirely sure that any husband in heaven would send a male stripper to their grieving widow, but it is a coincidence for sure.

  ‘Amelia, I’ve met the man I’m going to marry. I can feel it. You know how I always say I have psychic abilities,’ insists Sian.

  ‘You’d better get back to him then,’ I say. I am genuinely pleased for her, but these guys are probably charging by the hour, so she had better get on with it if she wants his number.

  I pour myself another Pinot Grigio and grab a willy shaped straw that is lying on the table. I was told that it was eco-friendly, so I don’t feel too guilty.

  The strippers are still dancing, but I notice that the good-looking, dark-haired one, with the cartoon on his shoulder, hasn’t left Sian’s side. Perhaps the feeling is mutual.

  Looking around I can see everyone is having a good time, which is the whole purpose of any party, so that can only be a good thing. There is only one person who doesn’t look so happy and that is Jane. I do hope it isn’t because I was a little snappy.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I think it’s the tequila. I feel sick. Can you get me a taxi?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. Try and eat something and have some water. I’ll get the taxi as soon as possible.’

  I tell the taxi to rush. I don’t fancy the idea of Jane vomiting all over my Laura Ashley sofa. I am such a terrible friend to her tonight.

  ‘Sorry, I’m sooooo drunk, Amelia. I know I’ve drunk too much, but it’s Markus. He makes me drink… He’s not really working all those hours. He stinks of perfume when he comes home. I’m not stupid. Did you know that Dick was being unfaithful? I mean before you found out?’

  Oh my, I don’t know what to say to her.

  ‘Well, there was his cycling. He did seem to go on long rides and never lose weight, or anything,’ I manage.

  I try to think how I can hint that her suspicions are correct, but now is perhaps not the right time with the state she is in. I am surprisingly relieved when she starts retching and is sick all over the sofa.

  At 11pm the strippers’ time is up, and Sian has Rob’s telephone number written on her hand. The taxi for Jane arrives at the same time. What must the taxi driver be thinking of this mad house? He is greeted with a middle-aged woman staggering towards him and three scantily clad men walking out with a bag full of massage oil and squirty cream.

  ‘Oh, that was brilliant,’ says Sian. ‘I’m missing him already.’

  She blows kisses to Rob from the window as he leaves in a small van with ‘The Banana Men’ in yellow vinyl all over it. What a name.

  ‘I haven’t felt like this since Jack, Amelia. I’m in love.’

  ‘Well, you’d better save his number on your phone then, before it rubs off your hand.’ I laugh. She is like a teenager, so giggly and excited, although that might be the number of Bullfrogs she has managed to quaff too.

  Sian pulls out her phone to put in the number. However, she starts screaming as she reads a notification.

  ‘Oh my god, Oh my god.’

  ‘Has he messaged already?’

  ‘No, it’s to do with Patrick. It’s a Twitter notific… noticification…You know what I mean… I need to sit down. There’s been over one million shares, Amelia. One million shares!’

  ‘How on earth?’

  ‘Facebook has 1.2 million shares, just over one million retweets.’

  ‘And the story isn’t even in the paper until tomorrow,’ I say, remembering that I emailed the journalist her answers back.

  ‘I know. But there’s something else I need to tell you… You’d better sit down. Get a glass of wine first though; you’re going to need it.’

  I grab my wine and sit beside her.

  ‘Are you ready for this?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘I think we’ve found Patrick.’

  ‘You think you found Patrick?’

  ‘I know we have found Patrick, Amelia. I can feel it in my bones. I have officially found your Perfect Patrick! Look, here he is…’

  Chapter 10

  Laugharne/New York – is this Patrick?

  I wake up with a thumping headache and a house full of glasses, many still with remnants of wine floating about in them. It is going to take forever to clean this lot. I am beginning to wish we had held the party at Sian’s house; after all, it was her idea. As usual, it’s up to me to clean the mess she makes. I decide the cleaning will have to wait though; I can’t face tackling it until I have had at least four cups of coffee and another sleep. Besides, this morning I have fifty messages waiting for me and even those seem easier to tackle right now.

  One of the first emails I spot is from Roxanne, the journalist in New York. She has sent me a PDF of the newspaper article she wrote. I read over it.

  Help Find Perfect Patrick

  In August 2000, it wasn’t only the suns
hine that was sizzling hot that summer’s day. British tourist, Amelia Simpson, was on vacation right here in New York, when she met a gorgeous stranger on the front step of Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue. A transatlantic love affair should have begun that day; however – this is the sad part – Amelia lost the number of this tall, dark and exceedingly handsome man. We know that his name is Patrick and he worked near the Fifth Avenue district, but that’s about all.

  Have you ever passed someone and your eyes connected and you wondered if that was your soulmate? You glide up an escalator and see someone and your eyes meet? It’s happened to us all, right? No? Well, this movie-worthy moment happened between Amelia and Patrick, so it is devastating that Amelia lost his number.

  Come on, Manhattan, let’s think. Are you Patrick? Were you waiting by the phone for Amelia to call you? Do you know Patrick? Maybe he told you about the time he met the woman of his dreams and she never called. He might be your colleague in work, your brother or uncle. Someone must know of a Patrick that worked around Fifth Avenue in 2000 and remembers this story. Patrick, we know you are out there somewhere.

  Get in touch, please.

  Okay, that’s not too bad, although it is factually incorrect and besides, Sian thinks we have already found him. I don’t have the heart to tell Roxanne that piece of information in my reply to her, as she is so excited in her email and seems to feel personally responsible for finding him. I build up an image of Roxanne in my throbbing head. Something tells me she is single and dreams of meeting her soulmate. She is young, I would imagine, and still enthusiastic about love. She is definitely not divorced or she wouldn’t be quite so ebullient about it all.

  Sian forwarded me Patrick’s message last night, but I wanted to read it through properly again with a clear head. She is absolutely convinced it is him because Sian has yet another of her ‘feelings’, and he fits my description of him precisely. Whilst very drunk after the party, she also consulted her spirit guide who confirmed this is the man we are looking for. I’m not sure that Sian in a drunken state talking to a spirit guide would give me any reason whatsoever to believe it is Patrick, but he most certainly has the exact same broody look that I remember. There is something about the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles that feels so familiar. Although I may not share Sian’s spiritual beliefs, she could well be right for once. Even with a raging hangover I can see from Patrick’s photo that he is as good-looking as ever. Forgive me for sounding so shallow. I secretly felt that he wouldn’t have changed much, but I am surprised to see that his teeth aren’t quite as perfect as I remembered. I assumed all Americans had perfect teeth. They are quite white, as you would expect; however, they are slightly crooked on top. They look cute though and quite suit him. His hair is exactly as I had imagined it would be now. Dark, with a slight wave, a hint of grey at the sides and thick on top. In his photo he is wearing his trademark well-cut suit, everything about him screams out that he is an older version of my Patrick. His message is short, but it certainly sounds like the man I met in 2000.