‘Sorry, have you been knocking long? I was painting and listening to my podcast.’
If I was imagining a frail, hand-wringing widow shuffling to greet me, I was sorely mistaken. Standing before me is a tall, vibrant woman with thick, grey hair cut attractively into a bob. She’s wearing red lipstick, paint-splattered dungarees and sequinned lace-up plimsolls.
‘Don’t tell me – you were imagining someone in mourning dress with a blue rinse.’ She laughs at my expression. ‘I much prefer a bit of sparkle, don’t you?’
Standing in front of her on the doorstep, I think I love her already.
‘Sorry, I’m forgetting my manners. Please, do come in . . .’ Opening the door wider to let me enter, she extends a bony hand with fingers full of rings and gives me a firm handshake. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’
I break into a smile. ‘Likewise.’
I’m grateful for:
Sadiq, for not only offering me a job but simultaneously saving me from the hell that is having a gong bashed in my ear for an hour whilst lying under a blanket.
Monty Williamson’s widow, for being so fabulous.
The barista at Starbucks, for making me the latte I drank on the way home. Who needs a love heart when you can have a smiling panda face?
FEBRUARY
#socialmediablackout
Death by Blue Rinse
OK, so it’s not exactly what I’d call my dream job. No one says ‘when I grow up I want to write about dead people’, but let’s face it, some of the most fascinating people that ever lived are now dead, and some of the most boring are still alive, and I know which I’d rather write about.
It’s Friday night and in lieu of going out, I’m at my desk putting the finishing touches to my first obituary. It’s taken a bit longer than I thought, as I got sucked into the vortex that is Google. One minute I was researching Monty Williamson’s plays and the next I was googling ‘signs of sepsis’ because I had an itchy rash on my elbow, or ‘can dogs eat apples’ because Arthur stole the apple core out of my wastepaper basket when I wasn’t looking.
Anyway, it’s almost finished. I press the recording on my iPhone from our interview a few days ago and his widow’s voice fills my bedroom . . .
‘Please, call me Cricket.’
‘Like the sport?’
‘Like the insect,’ she laughs. ‘It’s Catherine really, but it was my nickname as a child and it’s stuck. My husband always said I was chirpy.’
Cricket lives in the kind of house you imagine to be the home of a playwright. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases bursting with so many books they’re wedged into every available nook and cranny, walls lined with photographs and framed theatre posters, ornaments and artefacts from far-flung travels; a tribal mask, painted wall plates, exotic-looking rugs. It has that slightly chaotic feel of someone who lived an unscripted life.
Our interview was along similar lines.
‘Please – sit down, make yourself comfortable,’ she said, after I followed her through into the living room where we were to conduct our interview.
I looked around for a chair, but all the furniture appeared to be draped in paint-splattered sheets.
‘There’s a sofa underneath that one.’
‘You’re decorating?’ It suddenly dawned on me as I noticed the set of ladders and various pots of paint dotted around. ‘I thought when you said painting, you were doing oil or watercolours.’
‘Heavens, no.’ She laughed cheerfully. ‘The house needed a good lick of paint, so I thought no time like the present.’
I don’t know what I was more surprised by. The fact that a woman in her eighties was up a ladder with a roller, or that she was in such remarkably good spirits considering her husband had just died.
‘I always wanted this room to be yellow, but Monty would never hear of it – which do you prefer?’ She gestured to two paint samples on the wall. ‘The one on the left is Bumblebee and to the right is Tuscan Sun.’
‘Hmm . . . I think I prefer Bumblebee.’
She looked pleased. ‘Great minds think alike. Who wouldn’t want to sit in a room painted such a fabulous name?’ she grinned, before disappearing into the kitchen to make tea and bring biscuits: ‘Delicious chocolaty ones that are terribly bad for us.’
I liked Cricket from the get-go. She was sharp and irreverent, and as our interview got underway she brought out old photograph albums and regaled me with stories of scandal and intrigue from the fascinating career of her husband, sprinkling the names of stars of the stage and screen like fairy dust through our conversation. But she was also incredibly honest. Once the curtain came down, life wasn’t all glitz and glamour. Critical reviews. Financial hardships. Cancer. His suffering towards the end, and her relief and guilt at his death. The stuff real life was made of. The stuff that doesn’t make the photo album.
‘I met Monty when I’d given up on the notion of falling in love again. It was quite unexpected. I was about to turn fifty and assumed any recklessness was behind me. Marriage and children had evaded me . . . or had I, in fact, evaded them?’ She smiled, a flicker of mischief in her eyes, and it struck me that I was far more interested in Cricket than I was her famous late husband.
‘How did you both meet?’
‘I was an actress in those days – not a very good one, I might add – and I’d had my fill of passionate love affairs and doomed romances. I’d been engaged several times; once I even bought the wedding dress, a hideous netted thing I seem to remember . . .’ She shuddered, her mind casting back. ‘Fortunately the groom saved me from having to wear the damned thing by confessing he was already married a few days before the ceremony. And to think it caused such a ruckus at the time.’
She laughed heartily.
‘But that’s one of the good things about getting older: often the most terrible of things turn into the most amusing through the lens of time.’
My mind flicked to my own broken engagement. Would I really be laughing at that in decades to come?
‘After that I decided I was done. Love didn’t suit me. I would get myself a cat and take up the viola—’
‘Why the viola?’
‘Why not?’
I smiled. ‘Why not’ seemed like a good philosophy for life.
‘I was quite happy. But then some months later I auditioned for a play and met Monty and everything fell away. Which was lucky in some ways, as I later discovered I was terribly allergic to cats and couldn’t hold a note. More tea?’
So we drank more tea and, as the weak February sunshine gave way to dusk, Cricket told me that although they were together for over thirty years, they didn’t get married until they were in their seventies. ‘And only then because his health was failing and Monty wanted to avoid all that tax nonsense. We married in New York. No fuss. Just the two of us. I remember thinking, to anyone watching us on the steps of City Hall, we must look like a couple of old dears, me with my grey hair and Monty with his walker, but I felt eighteen again. You know, despite everything I was dippy about him . . .’
She trailed off, transported back to the steps of City Hall.
‘Have you ever felt dippy about someone, Nell?’
I faltered for a moment as the spotlight turned to me.
‘Yes,’ I nodded.
‘And?’
‘And he wasn’t dippy about me.’
Her eyes met mine. ‘My dear girl.’
She said it with such kindness it almost made me cry. I’d been bottling it up and putting on a brave face, being flippant and trying to make light of things, because it was the only way I could cope with what happened. Because I feared that if I started talking about it, I might just fall apart. But thankfully she didn’t ask for details, and I didn’t have to give any, except to say I’d recently broken up with my fiancé in America and moved back to London to start over.
‘And I’m forty-something.’
‘So? I’m eighty-something.’
I smiled, despite myself.
‘Don�
��t worry about getting older, worry about becoming dull.’
Somehow I couldn’t imagine Cricket ever being dull.
‘The only problem with getting older is you lose your friends and loved ones,’ she continued. ‘They die off all around you, one by one. Losing Monty has been very hard, but I lived a large part of my life before we met. When we did get together he was a workaholic and often away. I grew used to him not being here . . . But losing my girlfriends has in many ways been much harder . . .’
She stood up and plucked a photograph from a collection on a side table. It was of four women, all sitting in deckchairs and smiling. The one with dark hair was obviously Cricket when she was much younger.
‘They were my sisterhood.’ She gazed upon them for a moment, then pointed each of them out. ‘This is Una. She was my best friend. We used to share digs together in London and would speak every day, sometimes several times a day. Veronica I met when we were in a play together . . . we used to go to a matinee every Wednesday. And Cissy worked at the local library where Monty often liked to go and write. At first I was horribly jealous, you know. I thought he might take a shine to her. She was ever so pretty.’ She smiled. ‘But then we became the best of friends. She was forever giving me books she’d read and loved . . .’ She trailed off, remembering. ‘They were always here for me. I miss them all terribly.’
Listening to her talking, I realized that in a funny kind of way we had something in common. I knew how she felt. My friends hadn’t died, they’d just got married and had babies, but I missed them too.
‘But let’s not be gloomy.’ She shook herself, and replaced the photograph. ‘I’m sure I’ve taken up quite enough of your time.’
‘Not at all,’ I protested, but it was late. I thanked Cricket for the interview and as we said goodbye, she called after me.
‘By the way, it was my friend Una who told me never to join the Blue Rinse Brigade.’ She waved cheerfully. ‘She said they might kill you.’
I’m grateful for:
Google’s 52.5 million results for ‘What questions do you ask a widow?’
Knowing that although death, like taxes, can’t be avoided, it’s not going to be by Blue Rinse.
It’s not sepsis.
An Unexpected Guest
After talking to Cricket, I’m more determined than ever to see my friends, so I arrange to meet Fiona at the playground. David’s taken Lucas to judo, so it’s a good chance to catch up and try to snatch a few bits of conversation in between throwing myself down slides and getting buried in the sandpit, as all good godmothers do.
The weather is cold and it’s raining, so I bundle up in several sweaters and a cheap waterproof jacket I recently bought in an act of desperation, after yet another umbrella blew inside out. It’s green and made of plastic and makes me look like I’m wearing one of those green bin liners that you put the gardening cuttings in.
I also find a pair of Edward’s old green wellies in the cloakroom under the stairs. They’re a little on the big side and splattered with creosote from when he once painted the fence, but they’re much better than my trainers. Or flip-flops, which seem to be the extent of the summer footwear I brought back from California.
As I dash out of the house, coat and wellies flapping, I catch my reflection in the mirror and look askance. I quickly console myself. Who cares about fashion? I’m going to a playground to see my best friend and play in the sandpit with my lovely goddaughter. Who’s going to see me?
Shoving on a woolly hat, I hurry to the tube. As long as I’m dry, that’s all that matters.
‘Oh look, it’s Annabel!’
WTF?
She appears like a goddess through the foggy mists of the local playground. A tanned vision of perfection in her Moncler jacket, skinny jeans and Le Chameau wellington boots. I watch as she glides towards us in slo-mo, children parting like the Red Sea, accompanied by a mini-me version who is clearly her daughter, and a French bulldog dressed in a quilted Barbour jacket that trots obediently beside her.
She warmly kisses Fiona on both cheeks, then turns to look over at me with the kind of fearful curiosity usually reserved for when you find something unsavoury in a salad.
Somewhere, silently, I feel the battle lines drawn.
‘This is my friend Nell,’ says Fiona, eagerly introducing me.
‘Hi.’ I look up from where I’m being buried in the sandpit by Izzy, and give a little wave.
‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ she smiles.
It’s perfect, like everything about her.
‘Likewise,’ I smile back, standing up and brushing off the clumps of wet sand as her daughter races over to say hi to Izzy.
‘Clementine, darling, not in the sandpit,’ instructs Annabel sharply, before adding sweetly, ‘Mummy doesn’t want you to get dirty. What about hopscotch? That looks like fun.’
Izzy glances up at me warily. I know what she’s thinking. Hopscotch does not look like fun. Burying Auntie Nell in the wet sandpit looks fun. ‘Go on, you can bury me later,’ I whisper, giving her a wink.
‘Even your head?’
‘Even my head,’ I promise.
Izzy grins happily and together the two girls race dutifully across the playground.
‘I’m so excited for you to finally meet,’ enthuses Fiona as I join them. ‘I’ve been telling Annabel all about how you used to run this amazing cafe in America.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t call it amazing.’ I pull a face, feeling a bit embarrassed as Fiona beams proudly.
‘Oh, is that the one you had to close down?’ Annabel shoots me a look of sympathy. ‘Such a shame.’
‘Yes, it was,’ I bristle.
‘I know how tough it can be running a business. So many fail.’
OK, I’m just being sensitive. She’s being nice.
‘Annabel used to run a really successful interior design business before she opened her shop,’ continues Fiona eagerly. ‘Maybe she can help give you some advice. Get you going again.’
‘Thanks, but . . . no, I don’t think so,’ I smile politely.
‘Very wise,’ nods Annabel. ‘Like I always say to my husband Clive, success really separates the wheat from the chaff.’
I’m still smiling as it takes a moment to register. Hang on a minute. Who’s the chaff?
Am I the chaff?
‘But if you need any style advice, I’d be more than happy to help,’ she continues, her gaze sweeping over my outfit as she takes a sip of her soy latte.
‘Annabel has incredible taste,’ continues Fiona obliviously.
‘You mean, you don’t think I’m stylish enough?’ I retort, ignoring Annabel’s disdain and pulling a face that makes Fiona laugh. ‘What about the bin liner I wore at Glastonbury that time?’
‘Oh God, how could I forget? I wore one too,’ she giggles.
‘We went through a whole roll of them!’
‘I was completely covered in mud the whole weekend. When I took my washing home to Mum, she put it through about ten cycles—’
‘Mine just threw all my stuff away!’
We both burst out laughing, remembering.
‘So Fiona, you must come over and swim in the new pool,’ interrupts Annabel. ‘Izzy will love it.’
Fiona stops laughing and turns back to her friend.
‘Annabel’s just moved into a house with an outdoor swimming pool,’ she explains for my benefit.
‘Won’t it be a little chilly?’
Annabel looks at me like I’m a total moron. ‘It’s heated.’
‘Right, yes, of course,’ I nod.
Like my electric blanket.
‘Gosh yes, Izzy would love that,’ says Fiona. ‘She’s getting quite good at swimming.’
‘Bring your bikini too. We’ll make a girly day of it.’
‘Ooh, yes!’ Fiona beams across at me. ‘Doesn’t that sound fun, Nell?’
I glance at Annabel, who shifts uncomfortably. It might not be apparent to Fiona, but it’s obv
ious to both of us that the invitation didn’t include a plus one.
‘And of course you too, Nell,’ she adds with a rictus smile.
‘Sounds great!’ I say.
Of course I’m lying. There is nothing remotely great or fun about being in a bikini next to perfect Annabel, but I know how much it means to Fiona for us to get along.
‘See! I knew you two were going to be the best of friends!’ says Fiona, as Annabel and I exchange withering looks. And, throwing her arms around us, she pulls us into a group hug.
I’m grateful for:
Being of an age where I don’t care about looking like something the bin men collect on a Tuesday.
Keeping my composure and not telling Annabel to stuff her swimming pool where the sun don’t shine.
My goddaughter, for: a. making me smile as I push her ‘higher, Auntie Nell, no HIGHER’ on the swings, which totally freaks me out, but makes her laugh like a hyena as she plunges towards the tarmac at a hundred miles an hour.
b. teaching me that this is probably how I should be approaching this scary mid-life business. Laughing like a hyena as I hurtle single, broke and childless towards one-piece bathing suits and hot flushes, the wind in my soon-to-turn-grey hair, and time running out fast before I go splat on the tarmac that is Too Late.*
Battle of the Dishwasher
Since when did it get to be so complicated?
Finishing rinsing the plates, I carefully slot them into the racks in the dishwasher, then make a start on the cutlery. Knives at the front, blades down, forks to the back, prongs up, teaspoons to the right . . . or, hang on, do those go at the front? I hesitate, trying to remember, then switch them around. I used to just bung everything in as it came. Higgledy piggledly. Wedging bowls against plates, chucking in fistfuls of cutlery.
But not any more.
I grab a large chef’s knife and looked for somewhere to stuff it. That was in my old life. When I had a life. One that included a house and a fiancé and my own dishwasher that I could load any damn way I liked.
‘Those knives don’t go in the dishwasher, Penelope.’
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 5