Then the kids come back and a chocolate cake appears with a candle in it, and everyone sings ‘Happy Birthday’ and tucks into the cake, which is truly delicious. After which David very generously pays the bill before any of us see it, and we all say our goodbyes as they bundle themselves into their cars, Fiona and Max apologizing that they can’t give me a lift because of all the car seats.
‘We’re going the other direction, but we can drop you at the tube?’ offers Holly.
‘It’s fine, don’t worry – I need to walk off this pizza,’ I smile, waving as they drive off with the heaters blasting.
Left alone on the pavement, suddenly it all seems so very quiet. That’s another thing about being on your own: you’ve got no one to gossip with on the way home. To laugh with about Adam’s new goatee, or to recount the funny thing Izzy said to the waiter, or to wonder exactly just how big David’s bonus was last year.
Or to glance across at you when you’re laughing, with a look in their eyes that says ‘I love you’ for no reason other than you’re theirs.
Automatically I check my phone. No messages.
Right, well, no point standing here freezing to death.
I put on my lovely new scarf and one glove, and set off walking to the tube.
I’m grateful for:
My lovely friends.
The choice of restaurant as I got to celebrate my birthday with all their kids too, two of whom are my godchildren and I never see nearly enough, which was really good fun.
The downstairs play area (for when it got a bit TOO much fun).
Ricolas, as I have a sore throat from all that yelling.
Arthur, who was waiting by the door to welcome me home.
The Battle of the Thermostat
Oh my God, he’s back. My landlord. Keeper of the thermostat.
The flat is FREEZING.
It’s been this way since his return on Monday. No doubt this is Edward’s way of offsetting his carbon footprint caused by flying a family of four to Verbier. He arrived back late on Monday night, but I didn’t see him as I was already tucked up in bed watching The Crown on Netflix on my laptop.
I am in love with that show. As a little girl I was obsessed with Princess Diana and her pie-crust blouses, but now I’m all over Princess Margaret. All that flouncing around, drinking and smoking and dating unsuitable men. That was me when I was younger. Though now I fear I’m more like the Queen. Standing around with my arms folded, looking disapproving in a cardie and a pair of comfy shoes.
Braving the icy temperatures, I venture into the kitchen to make something to eat. Aside from watching The Crown, I’ve spent the last couple of weeks firing off emails to various old contacts enquiring after (pleading for) work. I can’t believe it’s already the middle of January and I still haven’t finished unpacking, or got myself a job, or managed to turn my life around from Fuck-Up to Total Success. I’m going to have to really get a move on.
I’m just putting some bread in the toaster when I hear my landlord’s key in the latch. Arthur hears it too and races to the front door. We haven’t really seen each other since he got back, except for exchanging a few pleasantries as he rushes out of the door in the morning. Every day this week he’s arrived home late, by which time I’ve been in bed, but this evening he’s home early.
‘Penelope, hello,’ he beams, appearing in the kitchen carrying his fold-up Brompton bicycle, Arthur in his wake. Edward always insists on calling me by my full name.
‘Hi Edward,’ I smile. I tried Eddie, but he wasn’t having any of it.
‘How are you settling in?’
‘Good,’ I reply politely. ‘Still got some unpacking to do, but getting there . . . how was your trip?’
‘Excellent. Perfect conditions.’
His face is tanned beneath his helmet, apart from two big white circles around his eyes from where his ski goggles must have been. If he was a friend I’d tease him about them. But he’s not. So I don’t.
‘Great.’ I shift awkwardly on the other side of the kitchen island.
‘Do you ski?’
‘No, not really. Once. On a school trip.’
‘Oh. Shame.’
The conversation stalls and I turn back to the toaster. It’s really very odd, this sharing a house thing, in your forties. Here we are, two complete strangers with our own lives and nothing in common, except the fact that we’re both now living under the same roof. Which, now I think about it, is how my relationship felt towards the end.
‘It’s like a sauna in here, have you turned up the heating?’
I look up to see Edward taking off his bicycle helmet and reflective jacket. His eyes dart to the thermostat.
‘I haven’t touched it,’ I protest, suddenly back in teenager mode and living with my parents. My face floods. I am a horrible liar.
His face seems to relax as it’s confirmed that the thermostat is still set to Arctic, and he continues removing layers until he’s down to a T-shirt. Meanwhile I’m standing here looking like I’m trying to avoid paying for checked-in baggage at the easyJet counter, by wearing the entire contents of my suitcase.
What is it with men and women and the constant battle over the central heating? Growing up, I can remember how every winter my dad turned into Chief Inspector Stevens of the Heating Police, constantly policing the thermostat and turning down the dial a click. Only for him to go to work and Mum to turn it back up two notches. Back and forth it went for my entire childhood.
‘I think your toast is burning . . .’
Edward’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I snap back to see a plume of smoke. ‘Oh shit!’ I quickly press cancel at the same time as the smoke alarm starts wailing.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it.’
I finish jabbing the charred remains from the toaster to see my landlord fanning the alarm with a tea towel and opening a window.
‘Thanks.’ I smile apologetically and go to throw them away and start again, when Edward stops me.
‘I’ll eat it, I love burnt toast.’
‘You do?’
‘Sophie was addicted to it when we lived in France and she was pregnant with the twins; I was forever making it for her.’
I feel myself soften. See. He’s a nice man really. He doesn’t mean to freeze his tenant to death.
‘You lived in France?’
‘Yes. Sophie’s French; that’s where we met. We moved back when the boys started school.’
‘How old are the twins now?’
‘Fifteen . . . going on twenty-five.’ He smiles through a mouthful of blackened teeth from the charred toast. ‘Not my little boys any more.’
‘You must miss them during the week.’
‘Yes,’ he nods, then shrugs. ‘Though I’m not sure they miss me. Too busy with their heads buried in their phones to notice I’m gone, most likely.’
For a moment I feel a bit sorry for him. Perched on his bar stool, eating my burnt toast. It can’t be any fun for him either. Cycling home from a long day spent in the office to find some stranger in your kitchen, setting off fire alarms.
An icy blast blows in from the open window and I shiver. Actually, forget the toast, I’m too cold.
‘Well, have a good evening . . .’ Flinging the bread back in the fridge, I grab a couple of cans of pre-mixed G&Ts – I’ve bought a whole stash – then quickly head back upstairs. I’m going to spend the rest of the evening keeping warm under my duvet, swigging gin and imagining I’m Princess Margaret.
I’m grateful for:
Amazon’s one-click ordering, as my fingers are frozen solid.
My new electric blanket.
Gin and Princess Margaret (in no particular order).
To: Caroline Robinson – Shawpoint Publications
Subject: Editing projects
Dear Caroline,
Hope this email finds you well! It’s been a while since we last spoke as I have been living and working in America, but I’m now back in London and looking for new and exciting project
s. As you know from when we worked together, I have a wealth of skills and experience from my role as an editor and would relish the opportunity to bring these to your publications. I also have some exciting ideas I’d love to talk to you about. Let me know when is a convenient time to call, or maybe we can catch up over coffee?
Look forward to hearing from you.
Best wishes,
Penelope Stevens
To: Penelope Stevens
Automated Reply: Editing projects
Caroline Robinson-Fletcher is currently on maternity leave.
Sod This Sunday
Since breaking up with The American Fiancé I’ve begun to dread the weekends.
It was different when I was part of a couple; I used to look forward to Friday nights curled up together on the sofa with a movie and a bottle of wine; Saturdays spent catching up with friends after we’d closed the cafe; and Sundays – well, Sundays were always my favourite. We would get up early and cycle to the local farmer’s market, returning with bags filled with fresh ingredients from which he’d create new recipes in the kitchen, while I lazed in the garden reading a book and performing my role as official taste tester.
Now when Friday night rolls around, I’m left facing another weekend on my own. Funny, I used to think loneliness was just something that affects elderly people. A frail old lady sitting in an armchair. Not someone in their forties with 147 Facebook friends.
I tried rallying the troops, but as usual everyone had plans. Max and Michelle were visiting his parents, while Holly and Adam were cosying up to the vicar at a local church event. Since discovering the price of private school fees, atheist Adam has suddenly ‘got’ religion. Nothing at all to do with the fact that their local church primary was rated ‘outstanding by Ofsted’. A phrase I now hear bandied about by all my girlfriends with the same breathless urgency that used to be reserved for ‘he drives a convertible’.
As for Fiona, she and David had been invited to a dinner party at Annabel and her husband Clive’s new house. Not only does Annabel organize charity fundraisers and have amazing taste in cashmere scarves; apparently she’s also the most amazing hostess. Not that I’m jealous. Well, maybe a little bit, but only because she appears to have added stealing my best friend to her long list of achievements.
‘You need to meet some new people.’
I’m FaceTiming my friend Liza in LA. It’s 8 p.m. and I’m already in my pyjamas. Sitting in bed, I stare at my phone screen. Her face looms large against a backdrop of bright blue sky and sunshine. Rain drums against my windowpane and I feel suddenly homesick for my old life.
‘Make some new friends,’ she continues.
‘I have plenty of friends.’
I quickly pull myself together. Who needs life-affirming sunshine and tanned feet in flip-flops when you can have an electric blanket?
Determinedly I turn up the dial from one to three.
‘They’re all married with children. You need single friends. An activity—’
‘You mean, like a job?’
Liza waves that statement away like an annoying fly. ‘You’re just having some downtime. You need to practise patience.’
I know she’s right, but moving back to London has been expensive and, although the loan from my father was very generous, it won’t last forever: I’m practising panic, not patience.
‘No, what you need is to meet some like-minded people—’
‘I am not doing yoga,’ I cut her off.
Liza is a kickass yoga instructor and has just got back from teaching a retreat in Costa Rica. We met when I first moved to LA and, keen to adopt the lifestyle, I signed up to one of her classes. Luckily she didn’t hold it against me, and we’ve been friends ever since. Tonight’s the first time we’ve had a chance to catch up since I got back to London.
She lets out a loud cackle of laughter. ‘No one is going to be your friend if they see you doing yoga, sweetie.’
‘Namaste to you too.’
‘What about a book club?’ she suggests brightly.
My heart sinks. There’s something about a book club that screams middle-aged women. A thought strikes. I am a middle-aged woman.
‘How’s things with you and Brad?’ I change the subject.
Brad is her fellow yoga teacher and on-off boyfriend. Though recently it’s more off than on.
She shrugs. ‘He says he’s confused.’
‘About what?’
‘Whether he wants a serious relationship.’
I really don’t get what Liza sees in Brad. She’s funny and kind and smart. She has the kind of yoga body that makes you want to weep. Plus she’s a millennial. She only just turned thirty! Which means there are still plenty of empty seats in the musical chairs of romance, and there is absolutely no need to date an insecure little twerp, who tries to bully and control her while wearing Buddha beads and pretending to be Mr Spiritual.
Namaste.
‘Our couples therapist says he’s got intimacy issues.’ Liza looks embarrassed. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘What am I thinking?’
‘That I’m an idiot and I should leave him.’
‘You’re not an idiot. He’s the idiot.’
She smiles gratefully. ‘Hey, I’ve got an idea! What about a sound gong bath? You’ll meet all kinds of awesome people.’
‘I will?’ I ask dubiously.
‘They must have one in London—’
But before she can google it, a text beeps on my phone. It’s from Sadiq, an old journalist friend of mine. I open it.
Stevens, your email went into my junk folder!
Call me. I have a job for you.
Life and Death
‘You want me to write about dead people?’
We met this morning near his office, in one of those artisan-style cafes. All scrubbed wooden tables and chalkboards and freshly baked brownies left out on the side where everyone can cough and sneeze on them.
Sadiq paused from eating his grilled halloumi flatbread. ‘Well, that’s kind of the rule with obituaries, Nell. The people have to be dead.’
I’ve known Sadiq for nearly twenty years. He was one of my flatmates when I first moved to London, and back then he was a junior reporter at one of the tabloids. Now he’s lifestyle editor at one of the big Sunday papers.
‘Our regular freelancer just moved on to the travel section, so I immediately thought of you.’
I smiled. Though I wasn’t sure if I should take that as a compliment.
The waitress put down two more flat whites between us. Sadiq’s had a little love heart in the foam. Mine didn’t.
‘I didn’t get a heart.’
‘Huh?’ Sadiq finished his flatbread and took a sip of his coffee.
I felt a clang of doom. It was a sign. That was it for me. No more love. Just death to look forward to.
I watched as he swallowed the little heart without even noticing. Well, why would he? Sadiq isn’t looking out for signs from the universe. He’s happily married, with two gorgeous children and an impressive career. His life is a success by anyone’s standards. I bet he doesn’t even read his horoscope.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I said quickly, shaking my head with an embarrassed smile. ‘I really appreciate you thinking of me.’
‘So, are you interested or not?’
‘Absolutely,’ I nodded. ‘But are you sure I have the right experience? I’m a book editor, not a journalist.’
Sadiq batted away my concerns. ‘It’s basically editing down someone’s life into a thousand words. You’ll be perfect. Plus, the good thing about obituaries is the work’s never going to dry up,’ he added cheerfully.
‘Now I remember why we are such good friends,’ I smiled.
‘And anyway, I owe you a favour.’
‘You do?’
‘If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be with Patrick. Remember how you told me he was the best thing to happen to me when I couldn’t see it?’
My mind flicked
back twenty years; Sadiq and me sitting on my futon night after night, talking into the early hours with a cheap bottle of wine and a packet of Marlboro Lights. It was during one of those conversations that Sadiq came out to me, even though of course I already knew. Just as I knew he was in love with the shy, blue-eyed Irishman who worked behind the bar at our local pub.
I smiled. ‘You just needed a nudge.’
He passed his credit card to the waitress to pay the bill, then grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘Well, now I’m giving you one.’
We agree the fee, which isn’t much, but together with Dad’s loan and my cheap rent is enough to live on. So now I’m on the tube heading to my first interview with the widow of an esteemed playwright. His obituary was originally scheduled to be published next week but the newspaper has decided to make it into a full-length feature for February, so I’m hoping to get a little bit of what Sadiq described as ‘life’. An ironic choice of words, considering the subject matter, but apparently the risk with obituaries is they can easily turn into a dull shopping list of achievements.
At least that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about. At this rate my obituary could be written on a Post-it note.
The address is just off Portobello; a tall skinny house painted lilac. Climbing the front steps, I rehearse my introduction. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss . . . I’m so grateful for you taking the time to speak to me . . .’ I spent the tube journey quickly reading through some research that Sadiq had provided and, by all accounts, Monty Williamson was quite a character. Together with his wife, he led a fascinating life, travelling all over the world and meeting lots of famous people. I feel a beat of nervous excitement. I’m sure she’s going to have lots of amazing stories. Still, I have to be mindful. The woman is in her eighties and has just lost her husband. She’s probably very fragile.
And hard of hearing, the poor thing, I decide after ringing the bell for several minutes and not getting any answer. I knock loudly on the door. There’s the sound of footsteps and abruptly it’s flung open.
‘Hello, I’m Nell Stevens, here to do the interview—’
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 4