‘Me too. Nudge nudge, wink wink, eh?’ he laughs, tapping his nose and trying to wink, but closing both eyes instead. ‘Thanks for babysitting for us, Nell . . . really appreciate it . . . such a good friend . . .’
Then his head rolls, and he’s fast asleep.
I’m grateful for:
A slime-free bedroom, in which to collapse exhausted, bruised and starving, and covered in stickers.
Being child-free, so I can spend tomorrow busy sleeping until noon.
Having the maturity and wisdom not to feel hurt or annoyed that I wasn’t invited to the party, but to accept it with good grace and understanding.
WhatsApp Chat with Fiona
I can’t believe what happened at the weekend!
Who is this?
Nell!
Is that not Fiona???
Sorry yes, haven’t got my glasses
Hang on, reading
Ooh! Did you meet someone?!
No!
Michelle asked me to babysit as it was Max’s birthday and guess what?
What?
Afterwards I found out she’d thrown a surprise birthday party for him!
Yes, I know
And I wasn’t invited!!
Wait
How do you know?
Fiona is typing
Are you still there?
Fiona is typing
Fiona???
We went on Saturday.
What?? I’m calling you right now
Missed voice call at 09.28
You’re not answering!
I’m in Pies and Lattes
Where??
PILATES
Sorry. Autocorrect
Who else was there?
Just a few friends . . .
Did Holly and Adam go?
Yes.
I can’t ducking believe it
DUCKING
Argh.
Why didn’t Michelle invite me??!!
It wasn’t Michelle who arranged it.
What?
It was Annabel.
Annabel!
Fiona is typing
Michelle asked me for a restaurant recommendation, so I asked Annabel as she knows all the trendy places. She suggested this great new Mexican and knew the owners, so she made the reservation . . .
Fiona is typing
It was her idea to invite a few of their friends along as a surprise. I thought it was a great idea! You know how Max loves a party. And he was fifty!
I can’t believe I missed it.
She said she invited you, but you never replied to her email.
What email?
I gave her everyone’s email address.
Maybe yours went to your junk?
Hang on, I’ll look.
No.
How strange!
Yes, very.
I should have mentioned it, but when you said you were babysitting for Max and Michelle, I just assumed you knew all about it.
What a shame.
Yes
Annabel will be really upset when I tell her you never got the invitation
I bet
She’s so sweet and generous, she even picked up the entire bill as her birthday present! Max couldn’t believe it.
That’s so nice of her.
Look, better go. The teacher is giving me the dead eye. Let’s speak later.
xxx
XX
I’m grateful for:
Keeping my cool.
Not calling Annabel a total cow.
Pies and lattes. No, really. That is not autocorrect.
The Fear
It’s waiting for me when I wake up. Like a school bully, lurking in the corridor, ready to pounce. I can sense it before I even open my eyes, its tight fists tying up my stomach in knots and heavy boots pressing down on my chest.
It’s been a while since it last paid me a visit. I was at home, in bed, next to Ethan. He was sleeping soundly, but I’d never been more wide awake. California was in the grip of a heatwave, and despite a fan, the room was hot and claustrophobic. I lay naked in the darkness listening to him breathing. Trying, but failing, to find comfort in its steady rhythm. It was a year ago today. I remember, as it was the day we’d been to the hospital.
That time it beat me up pretty badly, leaving me feeling bruised and battered for weeks. I didn’t tell anyone, least of all Ethan. It was hard to describe my attacker when I didn’t know what it was. Worse, I felt ashamed I couldn’t fight it off. I blamed myself for being weak and pathetic. It was all my fault.
Some people might name this bully Anxiety or Depression. Others label it a Panic Attack. While many describe it as the famous Black Dog that you can’t chase away. But I simply call it The Fear. A nameless terror that scares the living daylights out of me. Because it’s not like feeling a bit down because you’re broke, or fed up because it’s March and still constant grey skies.
The Fear paralyses you. It grips you by the throat so you can’t breathe and makes your heart thump loud and fast in your ears. It makes you feel like you’re going to die and part of you wants to. That’s why it’s so horrible. Because after it’s finished beating you up, you beat yourself up even more. It’s your dirty little secret and I’ve kept mine for years.
I was a fresher at university when I first met The Fear. I remember being on a high, excited about leaving home for the first time, so it came as a shock to find a terrifying monster waiting for me when I arrived. Lurking in the shadows after lectures. Preparing to pounce late at night in the halls of residence.
I was too scared to tell my parents. I didn’t want to worry them or admit what was happening. Instead I tried to ignore it, and after a while it must have got bored and gone to pick on some other poor soul. I didn’t see it again until years afterwards, when it paid me a surprise visit at work and I tried to hide from it in the ladies’, crying. Now, most of the time it leaves me alone.
Until today.
I lie here for a few moments, willing it to go away. I’d hoped that by moving back to London I could leave it behind, with no forwarding address. But now it’s found me and it’s not giving up without a fight. But neither am I. Summoning my courage, I throw back my duvet. Because if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that you must never give in to a bully. And The Fear is the very worst kind.
I’m grateful for:
Strong coffee, the love of a dog, and a sense of humour that never abandons me, even on the scariest of days.
Knowing that tomorrow’s another day.
Big Little Brother
It’s Mother’s Day tomorrow, so I text my little brother Rich to remind him to ring Mum. Instead he rings me.
‘Oh shit, I forgot.’
‘I know.’
‘How did you know?’ he accuses.
‘Because you forget every year.’
‘Did you send her a card?’
‘Yes.’
He groans.
‘And some flowers,’ I can’t help adding.
I hold the phone away from my ear as he groans even louder. He does this every year. Even when I lived in America and had to deal with the godawful post and trying to ring the local florist at the crack of dawn because of the time difference, every year I send a card and flowers. And every year he conveniently ‘forgets’.
‘Did you say they were from me too?’ he whimpers, despite knowing full well that I always put his name on the note that accompanies the flowers. For Mum’s sake, not his.
‘Sis?’ he says doubtfully when I don’t reply.
I toy with the idea of letting him suffer this time, then give in. ‘Of course.’
‘I knew you would have done,’ he says cheerfully, and I can hear him grinning down the phone. ‘So are you coming up for Easter?’
My heart sinks a little. Easter. Another family holiday when everyone gets together with their other half and children, whereas I get to go home to my parents’ to sleep in my old bedroom by myself.
‘I don’t kn
ow yet. Are you?’
‘Yes. I’m bringing Nathalie.’
‘Who’s Nathalie?’
‘My girlfriend!’ He sounds hurt.
‘I thought she was called Rachel.’
‘We broke up. She was crazy.’
‘Why do men always say their ex-girlfriends are crazy?’
‘Maybe because they are—’
‘So does that mean Ethan’s going to say I’m crazy?’
‘Total nut job,’ he quips, before realizing that I might not actually find that as funny as he does. ‘Nell, I’m sorry . . . about what happened with Ethan. Mum’s told me the wedding’s off.’
‘She’s dying to find out all the details.’
‘I know, it’s killing her,’ he replies, and I can tell he’s smiling on the other end of the phone. At least our parents are something we always agree on.
‘But he was a bit of a dickhead, let’s be honest.’
‘I thought you liked him?’ I say, shocked.
‘Well, I had to say that, you were marrying the bloke.’
‘You said he was fun.’
‘He was. But fun’s not the same as nice, is it?’
I fall quiet, thinking about Ethan, how he was always so charming and funny on the outside, but only I got to see the person behind the jokes.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I admit, probably for the first time in my life.
‘Crikey, you feeling all right?’ he laughs, and I laugh too, but to be honest, I’m not entirely sure any more.
Mother’s Day
I always think life’s a bit like an obstacle course. As soon as you’ve got through one, there’s always another waiting, and recently it seems to be in the shape of yet another Hallmark holiday to remind me of what I don’t have.
Last month it was Valentine’s Day; this month it’s the turn of Mother’s Day, and I wake up to find my socials awash with bouquets of flowers, breakfast-in-bed trays and cute handmade glitter-glue cards, all of which are lovely but make me feel a bit left out and less than.
Even if I have a sneaking suspicion there’s glitter glue all over the sofas, and a lot of panicked dads wondering how to entertain the kids while grateful Mummy gets a well-deserved lie-in.
To cheer myself up, I ring my own mum, who’s thrilled with her flowers. ‘Like I said to Richard, you really shouldn’t have,’ she chirps happily down the phone, and I try not to feel a familiar annoying niggle that my brother has been on the phone already, taking all the credit. It’s not a competition, I have to remind myself.
‘Did you get my card?’
‘No, when did you send it?’
‘Last week. Damn. It must have got lost in the post.’
‘Oh, well never mind,’ she soothes, before adding, ‘I got Richard’s.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes, he sent me one of those animated ones online. It was really clever and, like he said, so much better for the environment. Less waste.’
I am going to kill my baby brother.
‘So are you coming up for Easter, or are you too busy with work?’
I feel a stab of guilt. I still haven’t been to visit my parents. I’ve been finding excuses not to go. Not because I don’t want to see them, but because I haven’t wanted to face the barrage of questions from Mum, and Dad’s kind concern, which will annoy me and make me cry in equal measure.
‘Well, that’s the thing . . .’ I begin.
‘Because I just wanted to check as we’ve had lots of enquiries on Airbnb.’
My guilt swiftly evaporates. ‘You want to rent out my room?’ And there was me thinking this was about wanting to see her daughter.
‘Well, Easter is one of our busiest times,’ she replies, then proceeds to tell me about the elderly couple from Zurich that she’s struck up quite a friendship with on email: ‘. . . and when I told her I was a fan of Andrea Bocelli, she said he’s performing there in September and they have two spare tickets!’
Mum’s voice is breathless with excitement.
‘So I thought, if you’re not coming—’
‘Of course I’m coming,’ I interrupt, before my room is booked.
‘Oh, great!’ she enthuses, but I swear I can detect a flicker of disappointment. Mum’s had a crush on Andrea Bocelli for years. ‘It’ll be lovely to have all the family together again. It’s been forever.’
It was last summer. Ethan and I flew over to celebrate Mum’s seventieth. Richard and I threw her a surprise party. Well, I organized the party; Richard supplied the craft beer. All our friends and family came, and I wore a new dress and spent the evening proudly showing off Ethan and my ring, putting paid to a few of my older relatives’ whispers about my sexuality (‘well, she does live in America, you know . . .’).
We hired a DJ to play all Mum’s favourites, and I remember leaving Ethan to go to the bathroom and coming back to my parents dancing to Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Dad knew all the words to ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’, and Mum was laughing and blushing. I remember watching them and feeling proud at everything they had created together – even my gormless brother who’d drunk too much of his own beer and passed out in the rose bushes – and wanting that too.
But when I glanced across the room at Ethan, something inside me just knew we’d never get there.
Six months later I moved out.
I chat to Mum a bit longer, before we say goodbye. Afterwards she sends me a photo of her bouquet. It’s beautiful. As are all the Mother’s Day flowers and cards and presents my friends post pictures of. But it does make me wonder a bit, about where I fit in.
I mean, if I’m not a member of the Mummy Club, what club am I in?
‘You need to start your own club,’ suggests Cricket cheerfully, clutching on to the brim of her purple fedora as we turn a corner and it’s nearly whipped away by a sharp blast of easterly wind. ‘I’ll be your first member.’
It’s later that afternoon and we’re heading down the high street, carrying a blue IKEA bag brimming with books between us. I’d called her after getting off the phone with Mum. I knew she, unlike the rest of my friends, wouldn’t be busy celebrating the day with her husband and children and, with her own mother having died some years ago, I thought today might be hard for her.
She was delighted to hear from me, not because of the day’s significance, but because she had discovered ‘a few’ library books Monty never returned, and needed a hand taking them back. Most libraries were closed on a Sunday, but this one was open.
‘Are we nearly there yet?’ I adjust my grip on the handle, which is cutting into the palm of my hand. Unlike Cricket, I am not wearing lined leather gloves – ‘a present from Harrods’.
‘Not much further.’
‘This thing weighs a ton!’ I glance across at Cricket. She might be twice my age yet she’s got the kind of old-fashioned stamina that doesn’t come from any kind of gym, but rather from the school of not complaining and just getting on with it.
‘Here we are!’ She comes to a halt outside a Victorian red-brick building. Steps lead up to the entrance and we put the bag down on the pavement to catch our breath.
‘I thought you said it was just a few books?’ Heaving a sigh of relief, I flex my fingers gratefully.
‘Well, that’s the thing, you see. Monty never fully understood the basic principle that when you borrow a book from the library, you are supposed to return it.’
‘You don’t say.’ I look down at the bag, which holds enough volumes to stack a reasonably sized bookcase. ‘Most of them are hardbacks,’ I note.
‘He didn’t like paperbacks. He always said he liked the feel of a hardback book in his hands.’
‘Well, he does have a point,’ I agree, bending down and picking one up. It feels valuable, and not in the monetary sense. ‘I’ve got a Kindle, but it’s just not the same. I miss my books. I left most of them behind in America . . . it was just too expensive to ship them over.’ I run my thumb over the edges of the pages. ‘I le
ft a lot behind in America,’ I add as an afterthought.
Cricket gives me a sympathetic look and I force a smile. Cricket has a lot more to feel sad about than I do. If she can remain cheerful through all of this, then so can I.
‘You know, Monty brought me here on our first date,’ she says, looking up at the building.
‘What? To the library?’
‘He said I should meet his first love; he thought I should know what I was up against.’
I stand up, listening. ‘Surely you don’t mean your friend Cissy?’
Cricket looks amused. ‘Trust me, I did wonder. I remember him taking me by the hand as we climbed the staircase and me thinking what on earth . . .? When we finally reached the second floor, he took me into the far corner, by a row of arched windows, and introduced me to his beloved Shakespeare. A whole bookcase, filled with his work—’
She breaks off, remembering.
‘He came here since he was a small boy, when his parents were too poor to afford books. This is where his dream began, to one day grow up and be a famous playwright.’
Together, we both stare up at the grand facade. I wonder how many other people have walked through its doors over the years. How many other stories it has inspired.
As my eyes fall, my attention is caught by a notice erected outside. I step forwards, then frown. ‘Have you read this?’
She squints and shakes her head. ‘I haven’t got my reading glasses. What does it say?’
‘That the library’s closing . . . Something about redevelopment.’
Cricket’s face drops. ‘So it’s finally happening . . . there was talk of it being turned into luxury flats. I know Monty was very upset. He said the community needs a library, it doesn’t need flats no one can afford.’
‘Is there nothing anyone can do?’
‘There was a local petition to try and save it, but the council said it had to make cuts.’
I give her arm a squeeze through her thick winter coat, and for a moment we both fall silent.
‘OK, so shall we go and return these?’ I say after a beat.
‘I’ve got my chequebook at the ready.’ She pats her handbag with a rueful smile.
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 8