by Fiona Gibson
I’m also a little suspicious of Tim’s father’s illness. Do people really contract dysentery on the Costa del Sol? My energies are flagging, and Ludo has already mooted the possibility of pancakes again. To ward him off, I decide to throw together whatever I can find in the fridge and present it to the kids as a picnic. As the days have gone on, they have at least tolerated each other, playing the odd muted game, watching cartoons together, inhabiting the same room without incident. On the rare occasions that Izzy has grumbled about him being here, I’ve explained that it’s hard for Ludo, his parents disappearing like that, and this monumental change about to happen in his life.
‘I want to have it outside,’ he announces.
‘Yes, that’s what I mean,’ I say. ‘A picnic in the garden. It’s a lovely evening for it.’
‘Can we have crisps?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Orange squash?’
‘Coming right up,’ I say, smiling.
‘D’you have straws?’
‘I think so.’
‘Curly ones?’
‘We might have one lying about somewhere, I’ll have a look—’
‘And I want to eat on the grass,’ he snaps, ‘not at the table.’
‘No problem.’ You can have your picnic on the grass, and then you can invade Poland, will you be happy with that?
Perhaps, I decide a little later, as the three of us sit there eating together, it’s just as well that Rose didn’t view me as being suitable for leading teams of youngsters to greatness. What chance of success would I have if I can’t keep a sole visiting seven-year-old under control? As it is, Ludo got hold of Izzy’s knitted sandwich – which she wanted to be part of the picnic – and has now dowsed it in orange juice and thrown it over the fence, into his own back garden. As she yells in fury I scramble over the fence to retrieve it.
That’s it, I decide as I clamber back. I’ve had enough. He needs to know what’s acceptable and it’s just not on, this rudeness, this behaving like—
‘Hi,’ Tim calls out, appearing at his back door and waving. ‘We’re back!’
About sodding time! ‘Hi, Tim,’ I exclaim, grinning. I’d never have imagined that the sight of a short, bald quantity surveyor would fill me with such joy.
He comes closer and beams over the fence. ‘Hey, guys. Hi, Ludo! So, how is everyone?’
‘Hi, Dad,’ Ludo mutters.
‘We’re good, Tim,’ I reply. ‘We’re great. How are Chrissie and the baby—’
Before he can answer she appears at the door, looking pale and drawn but blissfully happy, with their new, pink-faced daughter wrapped in a yellow blanket in her arms.
‘Ludo, darling,’ she cries, spotting him. ‘Look, it’s your new baby sister. Isn’t she lovely?’
He eyes her across the fence as if she’s showing him a new kettle.
‘Hey, Ludo,’ Tim blusters, sliding a hand over his shiny head, ‘we’ll come round so you can meet her properly. She’s so looking forward to meeting you.’
It’s lovely to see how thrilled Tim and Chrissie are and, naturally, my eyes brim with tears as I have a little hold of the baby. In fact I almost feel sorry for Ludo as we all coo and fuss over her. Her name is Lara. Tim and Chrissie gush thanks to Izzy and me for taking care of Ludo.
‘So,’ Tim announces, ‘we’d better get you home, Ludes, and leave these guys in peace.’
He glances round at the scattered remains of our picnic. ‘Don’t want to come home yet.’
‘C’mon, love,’ Chrissie says, ‘you’ve been here all week. Don’t you want our family all to be together?’
‘No.’ Ludo shakes his head. ‘No, I don’t.’
Chrissie sighs and ruffles his hair. ‘I guess you’ve had too good a time here, huh?’
‘Yeah, I have.’
She smiles wearily. ‘Well, look. Maybe Viv would let you stay one more night?’
Oh, no, no. I don’t think Viv would like that.
‘Maybe,’ she adds, ‘we could ask Viv if that would be okay, and you could come home tomorrow morning instead?’
Maybe Viv wouldn’t think that was okay? I look at Tim with a tight smile, teeth gritted, as I transmit the message – please take your son home – which, thankfully, he seems to receive loud and clear.
‘Nope, sorry,’ he says, grabbing Ludo’s hand, ‘Viv’s done more than enough for us this week.’
‘Aw, Dad!’ Ludo exclaims, but for once, a parent takes charge as his possessions are gathered, and as they leave I hear Tim asking, ‘So, what did you like best at Viv and Izzy’s?’
‘When Viv put her keys in the postbox,’ Ludo replies.
Chapter Twenty
Saturday, August 24
Viv and Izzy’s, it is these days, which feels normal, I guess, to the point at which Andy seems like an awkward visitor whenever he comes to pick up our daughter. While Izzy’s up in her room, getting ready for her day out with Dad, he and I are obliged to make chitchat.
Thank God there is always information to be exchanged about Izzy. ‘Has she managed to shake off that cold?’ ‘Has that wobbly tooth fallen out?’ He pings questions at me and I answer with curt politeness. ‘How’s she getting on with that natural history project?’ he asks, sipping his coffee and leaning against the kitchen table.
‘It’s coming along really well,’ I reply.
‘Wetland habitats, is it?’ Ah, so he’s trying to impress with his knowledge of what’s going on in her life (when he was here he never seemed to have a clue about school-related stuff).
‘That’s right,’ I say, tempted to add, She could start right here, by examining my bed after a sweaty night. But I’m not sure Andy and I will ever reach the stage where we can laugh about that.
A small silence descends. ‘You’re looking well,’ he remarks.
I beg your pardon? ‘Am I? Thanks.’
‘Yeah, really well,’ he confirms. Christ, is he my hairdresser now? Is he going to ask if I’ve been away? He, on the other hand, is not looking his ‘best self’ on this fine summer’s morning. His hair is mussed up and outgrown, which is unusual for him, and clearly he hasn’t got it together to shave for a couple of days (also unusual). Dark shadows lurk beneath his eyes, and his lids are heavy. I’d surmise that he’s been up all night, shagging the foxy doctor, but there’s a distinct lack of joie de vivre about him. But then, he’d hardly bound in, announcing that they had a magnificent session last night.
Maybe they’ve had their first tiff? They’ve been together for around ten months, by my reckoning. Long enough for cracks to have appeared in his best behaviour facade. By this point, he might have slipped into a habit of ‘forgetting’ to flush the loo (i.e. it’s too arduous a task). There might even have been a flurry of careless farting. I’m still not sure whether she’s living with him, or what their situation is, and I don’t ask. The truth is, I still can’t bear the thought of them together, and the less I know about their situation, the better it is for me. On a happier note, I have managed to not look at any of those Estelle Lang pictures for ages now, which I’m proud of. Maybe I should mention it to Jules as an ‘achievement’, when she arrives for my next life coaching session in an hour’s time?
‘Izzy, are you ready?’ I call out. ‘Dad’s waiting for you, love.’
‘Coming,’ she replies, and I can hear her clattering about overhead. They’re only going to the cinema and for a curry. But a day out with her dad has to involve the packing of numerous items in her backpack, plus the careful selection of accessories, specifically hair-related, and she continues to refuse my offers of help.
Andy has finished his coffee, and our talk has turned to Spencer and his travels. Our son has spent much of the summer working at festivals, seemingly having a ball. Spain, France, Bulgaria: what it is to be young, and to be paid to do something you love. I should take a leaf out of his book. At least I have made a firm decision to turn down the Menopause Ambassador role, as soon as Rose is back from China. The
idea of at best being seen to be patronising my colleagues, and at worst, attracting derision and hostility? No thank you.
Conversation is waning now. We have discussed our offspring at length and now I’m more than ready for him to leave; specifically to stop contaminating our kitchen table by resting his Levi’s-clad arse on it. Funny how I use to lust after that butt, appreciating its cheeky curves, especially when clad in snug-fitting stretchy white boxers. Whereas now, if I think about it at all, I just imagine my booted foot colliding with it at speed.
‘Hi, Dad!’ Mercifully, Izzy has appeared and is ready to go.
‘Hi, angel,’ he says.
‘Guess what. Chrissie had a baby!’ she announces.
‘Really?’ he says, feigning interest. If it wouldn’t delay him further, I’d be tempted to foist all the details – the emergency caesarean, Chrissie’s cracked nipples, the early, mustard-coloured poos – onto him. For a medical man, he has always been oddly iffy about bodies (apart from Estelle’s, obviously).
‘Yeah,’ Izzy says. ‘She’s so cute. Ludo stayed with us.’
‘Did he? Wow.’
‘For a week,’ she adds.
‘A week? How was that?’ He glances, wide-eyed, at me.
‘It was fine,’ I reply. Is he planning to take his daughter out, or are we going to stand here yabbering away all day? My eyes flick to the wall clock. I’d prefer him to be well out of the way by the time Jules shows up. Occasionally, he has shown up when either she or Penny has been here, and the stilted politeness has been excruciating.
‘The baby’s called Lara,’ Izzy adds, at which Andy smirks.
‘Lara?’ he says with a snigger, ‘Not Cluedo, or Snakes and Ladders?’
I am dying of mirth here. Now please leave my house. ‘What d’you mean?’ Izzy asks, looking confused.
‘You know,’ Andy says. ‘Ludo’s a game, right?’
‘Is it?’ She frowns.
‘Yes, it is,’ I say quickly, fixing Izzy’s small spotty backpack on her back as a signal to Andy that I’ve had quite enough of his company today. To make doubly sure he gets the message, I indicate the door with my eyes, in a similar way to how I communicated telepathically with Tim yesterday.
‘Right, Iz,’ Andy announces. ‘We’d better be off.’ I must be getting better at transmitting my thoughts in this way. Perhaps I’ll arrive at a point where I don’t have to say anything to Andy at all?
As soon as they’ve left, I flit about tidying the living room, grabbing at sweet wrappers that Ludo apparently managed to scatter about the place – why bother with bins when the floor will do? – then try to smooth down my rumpled hair and assume a calm, reflective manner.
The day is sunny and breezy, and I make a pot of fresh coffee and open the kitchen window, as if to blow away the invisible traces of Andy’s visit. Chrissie is out there in their garden, sitting on their bench, feeding Lara. It’s 11 a.m. She catches my eye and gives me a little wave, and I smile and wave back, then go through to answer the front door to Jules.
‘Hey,’ she says, smiling, ‘you’re looking well.’ Coming from her, it feels like a genuine compliment.
‘Thanks. I feel good, actually. Shall we go through?’ I bring through our coffees and we settle on the sofa.
‘So, how have things been since last week?’ she asks.
‘It’s been kind of hectic,’ I reply, filling her in on the Ludo visit, the posted keys, the endless negotiations required in order to get him to do anything, and how I’ve had little chance to put my mind to anything else.
‘I’m impressed,’ she says. ‘That was some undertaking, but you coped, without any notice. You managed the whole thing brilliantly, it seems to me.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, a little overcome by her praise.
‘It might be helpful to take a moment to really acknowledge what you’ve achieved,’ she adds.
‘Right.’ I smile. ‘Um, well, yes, I suppose I am pleased.’
Jules shifts on the sofa and pushes back her cropped hair. ‘This might seem a little odd, but there’s a technique I suggest to clients sometimes that can really help to create a sense of positivity.’
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘Can we go through to the kitchen?’
‘Sure,’ I say, intrigued as she follows me through.
She smiles encouragingly. ‘Could you stand there, in the middle of the room, and say, “I’m brilliant”?’
I laugh involuntarily. ‘Oh, Jules. Do I really need to do this?’
‘You don’t need to,’ she says, ‘and I know it goes against human instinct to praise yourself out loud like that. But go on – give it a try.’
I hesitate, sighing like a petulant child, before positioning myself in the middle of the floor. ‘I’m brilliant,’ I say in a resigned voice.
‘A little louder, perhaps?’ Jules suggests. ‘With a bit more conviction?’
‘I’m brilliant,’ I say in a firmer tone. ‘I’m brilliant.’
‘Again, but louder.’
‘I’m brilliant,’ I announce, my cheeks burning now. It feels ridiculous, but why not do as she asks? What’s the point of refusing when I’m supposed to be on this life coaching ‘journey’ with Jules, as she puts it? Some people – e.g. Andy – might scoff, but any port in a storm, I reckon. And no one forced me to do it. I asked for her help, and maybe it’ll enable me to become stronger and better at speaking my mind – so I’ll no longer endure Andy hanging about, drinking my coffee and saying I ‘look well’ when I can hardly stomach the sight of him.
‘Say it again,’ Jules commands.
‘I’m brilliant!’ I yell.
‘That’s better. Now, hop up on that chair and say it again, but louder. Really yell it this time.’
‘You want me to get up on the chair?’
‘Yes.’
‘I might fall off!’
‘I doubt it. Take the risk.’
Grinning, I clamber up and look down at her. She looks so neat and pretty in her little blue shift dress with bare legs and flats. Like a woman whose life is together, I decide. Like someone who somehow manages to be lovely and widely liked, yet doesn’t take any crap from anyone.
‘Now really shout it,’ she barks at me.
‘I’m brilliant!’
‘Up onto the table now.’
‘What?’
‘Get up on the table and shout it as loud as you possibly can.’
‘The neighbours might hear.’
‘Sod the neighbours.’
I glance to the window. ‘Chrissie’s sitting out there. I might scare the baby.’
Jules chuckles. ‘Or she might be subconsciously infused with a message of female empowerment …’
‘Or traumatised by a demented woman screaming …’
‘Which’ll stand her in very good stead growing up in a household with a big brother like that.’
What the hell, she’s probably right. I kick off my shoes – outdoor footwear on the table is a bridge too far, even if I’m about to make a spectacle of myself – and climb up. ‘I’m brilliant!’ I roar.
‘Shout it out,’ Jules enthuses, gazing up at me. ‘Think of how far you’ve come these past few months. Think of all the praise you dish out every day, to Izzy and Spencer and all your friends, and how that’s helped to make them the people they are. And now celebrate yourself. Yell it as loud as you can from the top of your lungs. Yell, “I’m fucking brilliant.”’
I laugh into my hands.
‘Do, it, Viv—’
‘I’M BRILLIANT!’ I bellow. ‘I’M FUCKING BRILLIA—’
I stop abruptly, staggering slightly as the kitchen door swings open. Penny is standing there in a bright pink dress, her mouth open in a delighted grin as she stares up at me. Beside her stands an unfamiliar man; a tall, dark-haired, clean-shaven and terribly handsome man, who looks astounded.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ I exclaim, scrambling down to the floor. ‘It was only, I was just—’
‘It’s fine, honestly,’ I bluster, face burning.
She beams at me, then turns to the bemused-looking man at her side. ‘Viv, darling, here’s someone I’d like you to meet. This is Nick, my son.’
Part Three
Moving On
Chapter Twenty-One
Twelve days later: Thursday, September 5
Rose isn’t best pleased when I explain that the role of Menopause Ambassador isn’t for me. I’d like to kid myself that it’s due to a reluctance to ‘be defined by my menopausal status’ (a phrase I played around with when I was planning what to say). However, what it comes down to really is that, even if I did want to take it on – which I strongly don’t – I’m not convinced that the women I work with would regard it as A Good Thing.
‘I’m just worried it could come across as patronising,’ I explain in her office.
Rose frowns across her desk. ‘Why d’you think that?’
‘Because …’ I start hesitantly. ‘I’m not convinced that women want to be approached about that kind of stuff at work, you know?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, there’d be no getting away from the fact that the basic message would be, “Hello, you’re a middle-aged woman, possibly menopausal, judging by the way you snapped at Belinda by the printer, and I saw you sitting there crying in your car in the car park the other day. And, actually, have you put on a little bit of weight lately? Around your middle? Maybe you’d like to talk about that?”’
‘Oh.’ Rose looks crestfallen. ‘Do you cry in the car park?
Only occasionally. ‘No, never,’ I fib.
She smiles briefly. ‘That’s good to hear. And I do understand your reservations, but I’d imagined it would be more of a positive thing.’
‘How would that work, though?’ I ask, genuinely baffled.
‘I just thought they’d like to feel supported.’ They, as if we over-forty-fives are a different species.