by Fiona Gibson
‘Yes, they really do!’ It’s clear now that this is how we have managed our conversations, since the split: muddling through the preliminaries before I’ve passed the phone to Izzy and everyone can relax. Whatever possessed me to call her from my work canteen?
‘Thanks for the beautiful bracelet,’ Cathy adds, which feels like another thud to the gut.
‘The bracelet?’
‘Oh.’ I can sense her frowning. ‘It’s just, the turquoise colours are so you, I assumed you chose it.’ What, like five months ago, when Andy and I were still together? Or does she think he keeps me on a retainer to take care of the choosing of gifts?
‘No, I’m sorry, Andy must have picked it.’
‘Right, well, it was lovely anyway,’ Cathy blusters, sounding relieved when I explain that I’m at work, and I really must go now.
Andy must have got it together to visit a jewellery counter, I decide, as I head back to my own floor. Or maybe Estelle buys Cathy’s presents now, and visits his parents to be festooned with cinnamon buns?
Chapter Sixteen
Tuesday, August 13
‘When are we starting your life coaching?’ Jules asks, as we meet while picking up our girls from after-school club.
I look at my friend, always perky and fresh, brimming with energy. I’m still feeling pretty crap after talking to my mum-in-law yesterday, and can’t seem to be able to shake it off. ‘Are you sure you want to take me on?’ I ask.
‘Yes, of course I do!’ She glances at me as we leave school together. ‘It’s normal to feel a bit apprehensive before your first session but I promise you, it’ll be great …’ She smiles encouragingly. ‘There’s so much you can do, Viv. How about we get started this Saturday? Just be open-minded and ready to chat. Is eleven any good for you?’
I pause and consider this. Izzy will probably be out with Andy, I figure. And if he has alternative plans, he can change them and fit around me for once. ‘Okay,’ I say hesitantly. ‘Do I need to prepare, or do anything—’
‘You just need to be there,’ she says, flashing another wide smile, and by the time Izzy and I arrive home I’ve begun to feel grateful to Jules for being so insistent. Although I’ve certainly been coping better generally, I’m still prone to bouts of self-pity and emotional outbursts over the most ridiculous things.
By rights, I should have no tears left in me – but as the evening progresses I find myself blubbing at a video clip of a seagull being detangled by experts from a wire on a building, and thus saved; plus another of a bride and groom – whom I don’t even know – having their photos taken outside a church (Q: How do you know if you’re menopausal? A: When you start crying at unknown people getting married).
I’m not sure whether tonight’s teary episodes are linked to Cathy’s birthday yesterday, and having my present-sourcing duties torn away from me, or are just part of the general hormonal shitstorm that seems to be going on. If it’s the former, I should be pleased that parental gifts are being taken care of. I’d hate to think of my mother-in-law’s birthday being forgotten, or for her to be palmed off with biscuits, even in a fancy tin. However, it has also occurred to me that, if Andy is such a whizz at shopping these days, then why did I spend twenty odd years haring about town, sweating like a horse as I sourced presents for his entire family and their billions of children, not to mention wrapping them with fancy bows?
‘Mum?’ Izzy cuts into my thoughts. She has just had her bath, and is pulling on her pyjamas as I gather up her dirty laundry.
‘Yes, love?’
She frowns at me across her room. ‘Why are there tears in your eyes?’
‘It’s just sweat, love. I’m hot …’
‘You’re sweating out of your eyes?’
I force a laugh. ‘I know. Weird, isn’t it?’ I rub at them, and quickly tuck her in and kiss her, relieved when no more quizzing comes. And it occurs to me, as I head downstairs, that I lost so much in all those years I spent with Andy: my spirit and, latterly, my dignity, plus all that time I spent running around, being the dutiful wife. Even if I’d fancied having a ruddy affair of my own, I’d never have had the opportunity. I was too busy choosing sheepskin slippers for his dad and a Winnie the Pooh mobile for his niece.
Wednesday, August 14
As Izzy has been invited to a friend’s house for tea, I have a little extra time on my hands after work. With a rough plan to spend too much money on unnecessary items, I detour to the vast shopping mall on my way home.
Not being a huge shopper generally, I rarely venture into its enclaves. However, occasionally I am seized by an urge to be somewhere dazzlingly artificial, with bland music playing, where you only have to set foot in a store for young women to hurtle towards you with fragrances to try.
The cosmetics hall here has a very different vibe to that wood-panelled department store where I was fussed over by pansticked ladies on my sixteenth birthday. Here, the atmosphere is more ‘skincare lab’ than ‘we cake stuff onto your face’. While I’m not expecting to shop my way out of my current malaise, everything is so shiny and beautiful and heavenly-scented that my spirits begin to lift immediately.
At an upmarket skincare counter I give the sales adviser – thankfully a properly grown woman, and not a mere child – carte blanche to start dabbing her wares onto me. She has one of those cheery faces you warm to immediately, and her rosy complexion is certainly a good advert for a decent moisturiser.
‘You have lovely skin,’ she assures me. I wait for her to add, ‘For your age’, or even, ‘For someone whose appearance is clearly not a priority’, but nothing else comes. Instead she sets to work, demonstrating the youth-giving properties of serums, eye creams, moisturisers, masques and something called a highlighter which, apparently, is making me glow like a halogen bulb.
‘What d’you think?’ she asks, smiling brightly as she hands me a mirror. I blink at my reflection, taking in my revitalised skin before noticing – Christ! – a ruddy black whisker sticking out of my left cheek. Instinctively, I go to yank it out.
‘Ooh, hang on a sec.’ The woman produces a tiny pair of scissors and hands them to me.
‘Thank you.’ I snip it off. ‘How embarrassing,’ I add.
‘Not at all,’ she says with a dismissive wave of her hand.
‘Honestly, I didn’t know it was there.’
‘It’s these lights in here,’ she says, as if they are to blame for accelerating its growth, like the Glo-faster lamp my dad bought, in the hope that it would boost his tomatoes in our greenhouse.
‘I think it’s more my time of life,’ I say with a smile.
‘God, tell me about it,’ she says.
I turn and study her seemingly flawless face. ‘Do you get them?’
‘All the time,’ she says with a chuckle. ‘Have to give myself a good going-over with the tweezers every time I leave the house.’ She pauses. ‘But it’s not all bad, is it, this mid-life business? I love it that I can blame any bonkers behaviour on my hormones being out of whack.’
So cheered am I by this woman’s positivity, I find myself slipping into dream customer mode as she recommends the products I might like to buy. ‘The super-charged Vitamin C capsules make a visible difference …’
‘Hmm, yes, I’ll take those …’
‘And the hyaluronic microspheres help with plumping …’
Plumping: not so great arse-wise but facially, yes.
‘Maybe a gentle exfoliant to refine the surface texture? I call it a holiday in a pot.’
Well, I haven’t had a holiday this year, have I? Sold!
‘Have you thought about hands?’ she asks now.
‘Hands?’ I repeat, holding up mine for inspection. Whilst not quite the claws of a crone, they could certainly do with attention.
‘Deep-nourishing serum is big news right now,’ the woman explains. And so it goes on, with the goodies stacking up rapidly – the toners and sheet masks and ampoules of joy, giving me an almost sexual frisson as I pictur
e Andy’s face. Not because I’d ever want to do it with him again – I wouldn’t, even if he were the last man on earth, begging me with a million quid stuffed in a pillowcase. No, the source of my pleasure is in imagining how aghast he would be, if he could see me now – spending something akin to the monthly grocery budget on my addled face.
As I glide out of the store, clutching my crisp white paper carrier bag, it occurs to me that perhaps the woman’s rosy glow was in fact induced by the commission she was racking up rather than any personal skincare regime. But what the hell, she earned it, and I’m boosted – to the point at which I have already decided to arrange a little get-together tomorrow night.
So what if I’m now bankrupt? If I had to justify my spending – which I don’t, and never will have to ever again – I’d just say my hormones were thoroughly to blame.
Thursday, August 15
Isla is here for dinner on this warm summer’s evening, along with Penny and Hamish, her boat-dwelling boyfriend. My thinking was that we could sound out Penny about whether she’d be willing to offer her fashion expertise, and possibly even help come up with potential events to put on at the museum. Apparently, things are so dire, there needs to be some kind of urgent action plan.
Izzy was chuffed to be allowed to chop the vegetables for a huge goat’s cheese lasagne, and we have eaten at the garden table. Thankfully, there’s been no sighting of the Lesser Spotted Ludo tonight – and Izzy feels terribly grown-up to be allowed to stay up a little later than usual, on a school night too.
My plan, of course, is for Penny to be persuaded to go in for a meeting with the museum’s management team. ‘They’re really excited,’ Isla is telling her, when I reappear after taking a reluctant Izzy up to bed. ‘Obviously, you were a huge player in Seventies high street fashion – but there’s the Glasgow connection too. They’re thinking a fashion event could really work for us, and maybe Girl Friday could be a part of that. D’you have any original clothes from your shops?’
‘Oh, they’re all long gone,’ Penny says.
I look at her. ‘Really? Didn’t you keep any original pieces at all?’
She shakes her head. ‘It was a very long time ago, you know. We’re talking forty years, remember?’
I nod, a little taken aback. I’d have thought she’d have kept a few key pieces; after all, the business was a huge part of her life. ‘So what?’ Hamish booms. ‘This could really rev up some interest in you, Pen. Don’t you think it could be a real opportunity?’
‘An opportunity to do what?’ she asks.
‘To get involved, of course,’ he says with a barely perceptible eye-roll.
‘I don’t need to get involved with anything,’ she says tartly. ‘I have quite enough going on in my life as it is.’
‘But we’re only talking about a meeting,’ I say quickly, sensing things veering in the wrong direction. ‘You could really help out here. You’re a mine of information—’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ She purses her lips, and I decide to let the matter drop as Isla and I clear the table and we all make our way indoors.
‘Why are you so against this, Penny?’ Isla asks lightly. ‘Maybe we were being presumptuous, but Viv and I thought you’d love to be involved.’
She throws me a quick look and laughs dryly. ‘I very much doubt if I could help to turn around the fortunes of your museum, darling. That’s all.’
Disappointment settles over me as I fix drinks for everyone in the living room. In her red top and shimmery gold, knife-pleated skirt, Penny cuts an extremely glamorous figure tonight. I’m utterly baffled by her reaction. Perhaps she’s just content with pottering around with Bobby, and can’t see the point of involving herself with a faded institution?
Hamish beams around at us, flicking on the charm, the old let’s-face-it-I’m-still-terribly-attractive demeanour with the glinting brown eyes and manly jawline that brings to mind 1970s aftershave adverts. In truth, though, I’m not entirely sure about him – although he clearly adores Penny. Over the year or so that she’s been seeing him, I’ve heard all about his days as a highly successful composer of TV theme tunes. Anecdotes from his world travels and endless name-dropping pepper his tales.
It’s not the fact that he lives on a boat that makes me wonder whether he was as successful as he claims. It’s the fact that his boat appears to be held together by sticky tape and hope, and that I’ve been able to find nothing about him by googling. And if he was so renowned back in the day, why isn’t he still composing now? I haven’t mentioned any of this to Penny; it’s none of my business, and she seems to accept him as he is (and, as has recently come to light, maybe I’m not the best judge of character anyway).
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t just come in for a chat, Penny?’ Isla persists. ‘They’re really keen on a Seventies fashion angle. It’s recent enough to bring back memories, and retro enough to be properly vintage. People our age – and older – will remember the styles, and fashion students will love it—’
‘Sure,’ she cuts in, ‘I think it’s a great idea. I just don’t see what I could bring to it …’
‘Oh, Penny,’ Hamish exclaims. ‘You were a Seventies icon. A pioneer! You’d be a fantastic resource—’
‘I’m not a resource,’ she says, her patience clearly fraying now, ‘and I’m not just about the Seventies either.’
‘Ah, here we go,’ Hamish teases her. ‘Don’t get her started on the Rolling Stones thing.’
‘What Rolling Stones thing?’ Isla looks at him quizzically.
‘You know.’ He grins. ‘You go and see them in concert and they insist on playing the new stuff – the entire latest album – when really all anyone wants are the old hits that everyone knows.’
Penny looks aghast at this, and we all fall silent for a moment. He has a point, of course; after Girl Friday’s demise, apparently she tried to kick-start numerous other ventures. But her various stints at working as a fashion illustrator, print maker and interior designer seemed to fizzle out. Girl Friday was her golden era, which strikes me as incredible when she was a single mother to a young son at the time. We don’t know how she does it, read a headline of a magazine interview with her back then, accompanied by a photograph of her in a fabulous white floppy hat.
Well, I don’t know either. But she won’t be persuaded, and, as everyone gets ready to leave, I realise there’s no point in trying to cajole her. Once Penny’s mind is made up, that’s that.
Later, as I pull on my pyjamas, it occurs to me that perhaps her reluctance to be involved might simply be due to her age. Lines and wrinkles – the bugbears of ageing, which I spent an obscene amount on trying to eradicate yesterday – Penny never seems to give the time of day to. But perhaps she does care, deep down, and it’s a sensitive issue? After all, she was a teenage model, then a fashion designer – and both careers are obviously appearance-focused. And maybe the idea of being called upon as an expert on Seventies fashion would make her feel, well … old?
Although it’s entirely feasible, it’s a possibility I’d prefer not to dwell upon. Because if Penny is insecure about ageing, what hope is there for the rest of us?
I apply an extra layer of my new night cream before going to bed.
Chapter Seventeen
Saturday, August 17
‘So,’ Jules says, ‘let’s start by talking about where you are now.’ We are installed on my sofa, with a coffee each, having just started my first life coaching session. Of course, she doesn’t mean where I am physically. She means mentally, emotionally – all the inner stuff.
With Izzy out with her dad for the day, I’d hoped that Jules would march right in and give me an extensive list of instructions for how I might fix my life. Now I realise it doesn’t work like that. She has explained that a coach’s role is to help you to identify where you are now, what’s going on around you and where you would like to be. I guess it’s a little like finding yourself in an unfamiliar city and stopping to ask a passer-by, �
�Excuse me, d’you know the way to the railway station?’ And they look thoughtful and say, ‘Well, it might be that way. Or it could be down there. Which way do you think it is?’ Which is sod all use, when you think about it. You’d miss your train.
‘I don’t really know where to start,’ I admit.
‘Well, we could talk about how you’re feeling generally,’ she explains, looking relaxed and about twenty-five in indigo dungarees and a fresh white T-shirt. ‘And then we can take things from there.’
I clear my dry throat and adjust my position in an attempt to appear more at ease. ‘Well, you know a lot’s happened over the past few months,’ I begin. ‘Andy’s gone. Izzy seems to be coping fine, which I’m grateful for and pretty amazed by, to be honest.’ I hesitate, and Jules nods encouragingly. ‘Shall I talk about work too?’
‘Yes, if you’d like to. Feel free to mention anything that comes to mind.’
‘Erm, well, there are huge changes going on. Since the rabbit food scandal the whole company is being given a major overhaul. It’s a way of rescuing our reputation, I suppose. And Rose has promised that she has something in mind for me, something new and exciting, but she hasn’t told me what that is yet.’ I pause and sip my coffee. Even though we’re friends, or possibly because of that, it feels odd, talking to her like this.
‘How do you feel about that?’ she asks.
‘Oh, really happy,’ I say. ‘I’m so ready to move on with work, Jules. I feel like I’m treading water, to be honest, but I don’t know what to do about it.’
‘I’m not surprised, with everything that’s happened in your personal life these last few months. Would you say that’s taken priority lately?’
‘Yes, definitely,’ I reply.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘So, without thinking too hard, can you describe, in just a couple of words, how you would like to be, right at this moment, in an ideal world?’