Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up

by Alexandra Potter

  We reach for a handle each, and hoist the bag up between us. ‘Oof! It’s like carrying a dead body,’ I exclaim loudly.

  Oh no – did I just say—

  I look at Cricket, horrified. And she looks at me. Then together we burst out laughing.

  The librarian lets Cricket off with a slap on the wrist and her heartfelt sympathies: everyone loved Monty and he’s sadly missed. She points to where he used to sit, tucked away at the desk in the corner.

  It’s not the same without him, she says.

  No, it’s not, says Cricket.

  I hang back, not wanting to intrude, pretending to be interested in a book about engineering. A young guy with headphones and a laptop sits down at Monty’s desk, oblivious to the widow watching him from across the room. Life moves on. It has to. And yet . . .

  And yet how can the world keep on turning, business as usual, without them in it? As time moves on, the further away you become from the last moment you saw them. They retreat into your past as you travel into the future. The distance between you growing as their voice fades and the memories blur.

  ‘I’ve joined an art class. Do you want to come along?’

  I snap back. Am I thinking about Monty, or Ethan?

  ‘Thanks, but I can’t draw.’

  ‘Nonsense. Everyone can draw.’

  We turn to leave and begin descending the staircase towards the exit.

  ‘No, seriously, I really can’t.’

  ‘Didn’t you ever learn there’s no such word as can’t?’

  I used to hate it when teachers would say that and I open my mouth to protest – then I pause. After all, I’ve got nothing else to do.

  Reaching the ground floor, I push open the door and we walk out onto the street. ‘OK, but I can’t be long. I need to get home to feed Arthur.’

  Rule number one: Always have a get-out clause.

  Cricket pauses and turns to me. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You haven’t seen me draw yet,’ I smile.

  ‘I’m not talking about the class. I mean, up there. In the library.’ She looks back at the building. ‘It was harder than I thought. You being there meant I wasn’t alone.’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing.’

  ‘No, it was everything.’

  Turning to me again, her eyes meet mine. ‘I was joking when I said start your own club, but there’s a lot of truth in that . . . You know, I was always something of an outsider growing up. I had a very conservative upbringing, but I was allergic to conformity. My parents sent me to Catholic school but I never felt like I belonged. I didn’t believe in God, not their God anyway. I had friends, but I didn’t fit in . . .’

  She pauses, remembering.

  ‘Then by chance I discovered the theatre and found I wasn’t alone. That there were people in the world who were just like me. Strange, weird, wonderful people. People who inspired and challenged me. People who understood me . . . And do you want to know the best part?’

  I nod, listening.

  ‘I finally found myself . . . and in doing so, I found a different kind of faith . . . Does that make sense?’

  I look across at Cricket, a woman twice my age, and feel a sudden sense of connection. ‘Yes. It makes perfect sense.’

  She smiles, the well-worn creases around her eyes making her face come alive.

  ‘What I’m trying to say is, you need to find your own people, Nell.’

  I’m grateful for:

  All the amazing mums out there doing an incredible job, including my own wonderful mum, who has sacrificed so much for me; not just free Andrea Bocelli tickets.

  All those mothering in other ways, by caring, supporting and loving.

  A widow in her eighties, for showing me that you can find your tribe in the most unexpected of places.

  Getting through today.

  The Naked Truth

  When you get to my age, you start to think that there’s nothing left in life that can surprise you. I mean, you’ve seen it all, right?

  Wrong. I was so very, very wrong.

  Yesterday, after the library, Cricket and I got an Uber to her art class. The art school was inside an old warehouse with large arched windows and a black metal fire escape that spidered its way down the side of the building. It smelled of turpentine and paint. Overhead, fluorescent strip lighting led the way. I had no idea what to expect.

  ‘Why, hello again.’

  But it certainly wasn’t bumping into Hot Dad.

  ‘Oh . . . hi!’ It took me a moment to place him.

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ chimed Cricket.

  ‘Sorry, yes, this is Cricket,’ I said, before realizing that I had no idea of his real name.

  ‘Johnny,’ he smiled, saving my embarrassment.

  ‘A pleasure,’ she said, extending a hand, and I could have sworn she was flirting. ‘Are you here for the class?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll see you in there. I’ve just got a few things to do first.’ He motioned to the toilets.

  ‘OK, great,’ I said, for want of something better to say. ‘See you in there.’

  Of course, Cricket wanted to know all about him. So, after speaking to the teacher about joining the class and finding a spare seat behind the easels, I told her everything I knew. Which wasn’t very much, but it was enough to distract me from the chaise-longue in the middle of the room, until it suddenly dawned on me.

  ‘You didn’t tell me it’s a life drawing class,’ I hissed.

  ‘You didn’t ask,’ she shrugged.

  I looked around for Johnny, but he must have still been in the toilets. I searched a few faces, looking for a conspirator, but everyone was being very serious and earnest behind their easels. Teenage giggles threatened to surface.

  No one ever tells you that when you’re younger, do they? That inside all those boring-looking old people there still beats a teenage heart that finds the same things funny.

  I picked up a pencil and tried to compose myself; I was being immature. It was only a naked body. Then the model walked in and I couldn’t believe it.

  Oh my God, it was Johnny. It was the Hot Dad!

  We locked eyes, then he dropped his robe.

  ‘And?’ Liza stares at me, goggle-eyed, from my laptop screen.

  ‘Well, I didn’t know where to look.’

  ‘Are you kidding me? I’d know where to look!’

  It’s 2 a.m. and, unable to sleep, I’m FaceTiming Liza. Sometimes there are advantages to an eight-hour time difference.

  I laugh, reliving the moment he removed his robe and reclined, naked, on the chaise-longue. Talk about avoiding eye contact.

  ‘So, he’s a life model?’

  ‘Apparently he does it part-time.’

  Afterwards, I tried to hurry Cricket out of the building, as I was too embarrassed to know what to say if I bumped into him with his clothes on, but she’d already got the information from the art teacher.

  ‘So what does he do the rest of the time?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t asking questions. I was too busy sketching his penis.’

  Liza snorts with laughter. It’s like we’re back in LA, catching up over coffee. Only the blue sky and sunshine in the background of her window reminds me there’s five thousand miles between us.

  ‘Well, all I can say is lucky you. I haven’t seen a naked body in a while.’

  ‘What about Brad?’

  ‘We broke up.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘It’s for good this time.’

  She’s said it before, but something makes me believe her now.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘OK, you’re right, I’m not,’ I admit. ‘Still. Are you OK?’

  ‘At this moment, yeah,’ she nods. ‘It’s all good.’ Then she smiles. ‘What about you?’

  I pause and think about it, and for once my mind doesn’t flick sadly into the past or race fearfully into the future. It stays right where it is.

&nbs
p; ‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘At this moment, it’s all good.’

  I’m grateful for:

  Getting a lot more than a handmade glitter-glue card and breakfast in bed. #nakedhotdad

  Friends like Liza, for reminding me to stay in the moment, because the moment is all we ever really have.

  Let There Be Light

  Edward is still going on about the dishwasher and the heating. But now he’s added a third complaint: leaving the lights on.

  ‘I don’t understand why you can’t turn the light off when you leave the room,’ he complains, switching the light off in the hallway as he follows me into the kitchen.

  ‘Because I might go back in it.’

  Edward frowns at this piece of logic.

  ‘What do you think the on/off switch is for?’

  I ignore him. ‘I like leaving lamps on.’

  ‘I’ve noticed. So must have all the neighbours. As I cycled home down the street the house was lit up like a Christmas tree.’

  My jaw sets as I grab the kettle to make a cup of tea. ‘I don’t like being in a dark house.’ Turning on the tap, I fill it up noisily.

  ‘But you can only be in one room at once,’ he argues exasperatedly.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  I switch on the kettle, then grab two mugs from the shelf and throw in two teabags. I dare him to say anything about using a teapot and only one bag.

  ‘It’s spooky.’

  ‘Spooky?’ He looks at me like I’m bananas. ‘How on earth can a living room be spooky?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen all those true-life murders on TV? They always seem to happen in your own home.’

  ‘And leaving a lamp on is going to save you?’

  He stares at me across the counter-top, scraping his hair back to stop it falling in his eyes. I notice it’s grown quite long.

  ‘I’d see the intruder.’

  ‘Then what? You’d hit him over the head with it?’

  ‘Well, it worked for Colonel Mustard with the candlestick.’

  He cracks a smile. Finally.

  ‘Are you really telling me you’re scared in the house alone?’ he says, softening.

  ‘No, not really,’ I admit, getting the milk from the fridge. ‘Especially not with Arthur. I just like the lights on, that’s all. I mean, there’s not always a logical reason for everything, is there?’

  I glance at Edward but, judging by his puzzled expression, it’s obvious the concept is new to him. The kettle boils and clicks off and I fill up the mugs, before putting it back on its stand.

  ‘And that’s another thing.’

  Oh no, what now? I mash the teabags against the sides of the mugs.

  ‘Can you please switch off the kettle after use.’

  ‘It is switched off.’

  ‘No, at the wall. It consumes energy and wastes money. And it’s better for the environment.’

  ‘Edward, it’s a kettle.’ I put milk in the tea and pass him a mug.

  ‘Every little counts. It’s the same with all the kitchen appliances,’ he continues, going around the kitchen with his tea, flicking switches.

  ‘Because the digital clock must be really adding to our carbon footprint,’ I say as he turns off the microwave.

  He shoots me a look, but I swear I saw a flash of amusement in his eyes.

  ‘Anyway, about Easter.’

  Not him as well. Everyone is going on about Easter.

  ‘What are we going to do about Arthur?’

  ‘I’m going to my parents’.’

  ‘Can you take him with you?’

  I’m about to say yes, then think about his constant complaints about the heating and the dishwasher and the lighting, and feel a twinge of stubbornness.

  ‘Actually no, I can’t. You’ll have to take him.’

  ‘But you said you would look after him at the weekends.’

  ‘It’s a bank holiday. It’s different.’

  Edward and I appear to have got ourselves embroiled in a dog custody battle. We face each other across the kitchen counter, mugs in hand.

  ‘Don’t your sons want to see Arthur? Surely they must miss him.’

  Edward looks suddenly uncomfortable. ‘They do, but it’s just very difficult.’

  And now I feel bad. It must be really hard for Edward, with Arthur and his wife’s allergies and everything. ‘OK, Arthur can come with me.’

  He smiles then. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Taking my tea, I walk out of the room, remembering to switch the light off as I leave.

  ‘Hey!’

  As he calls after me in the darkness, I smile to myself.

  Feeling Inspired

  Embrace your new life! Don’t look back! Every day is another chance to change your life! When nothing is certain everything is possible!

  Who doesn’t love a daily affirmation? Especially when it’s written in vintage typewriter font and given a filter. Though to be honest, the more people post inspirational quotes, the more I worry about them.

  Here are a few of mine today:

  Embrace a freezing cold house!

  Don’t kill your landlord!

  Every day is another chance to watch Grand Designs and realize that the couple building their amazing architect-designed eco house on the side of a mountain are almost half your age!

  When nothing is certain, everything can go tits up!

  But my favourite has to be:

  Embrace your sense of humour, don’t ever take yourself too seriously, every day is another chance to laugh instead of cry, and when nothing is certain, everything is a hell of a lot less scary when you make fun of it. Amen.

  Good Friday

  As I walk into Euston station to catch the train to my parents’, I’m determined that today is indeed going to be a good day. I’m going to have a lovely Easter with my family. Mum and I are going to have lots of mother–daughter bonding conversations that don’t involve my break-up or other people’s grandchildren. My brother is not going to annoy me. Dad will buy me an Easter egg. It’s going to be fab.

  In theory.

  Greeted by the bank holiday chaos, Arthur and I have to push our way through the crowds and onto the train to Carlisle. Luckily we get our seats, but my heart sinks when I realize I’ve accidentally booked us a table. Whoever designed those tables obviously envisaged a utopian scene of strangers sharing their space with their neighbours. Not being pinned to the window by a businessman’s elbow, huge laptop and charger that stretches its tangled wires all over me; and opposite a young couple who like gazing into each other’s eyes while he brushes invisible hairs from her face.

  Meanwhile, I’m getting texts from Fiona who’s having a lovely time in the Cotswolds. She and David have taken the children on their first camping trip, though judging by the photos of the rainforest shower, white feather beds and hay bales round a firepit, it’s a slightly different experience to the soggy anoraks and baked beans welded to the frying pan that were my childhood camping trips.

  I glance out of the window. Outside, the city has given way to countryside. I look at my watch – still hours to go – and stick in my headphones. I’ve downloaded a new podcast Cricket has been raving about and, resting my head against the window, I press play.

  After a couple of train changes, we pull into the station. It’s raining and there’s a mist rolling in from the fells. I rub a hole in the condensation on the window and peer out. California suddenly seems so far, far away. It’s hard to believe it even exists. That somewhere, on the other side of the planet, Ethan is waking up and pulling up the shades on our bedroom window, looking out at blue skies and desert sunshine. It feels like one of those old movies where the screen splits. Him on one side, me on the other.

  Oh, Sod This.

  As my mind starts wandering down a very dangerous path, I snatch up my wheelie bag and Arthur’s lead, and clamber out onto the platform. Constant blue skies and sunshine are totally overrated. And as fo
r all that desert heat, it’s horribly ageing.

  As the horizontal rain hits me full blast, I march determinedly to the exit. Give me fresh air and the English countryside any day. So what if I’m soaked to the skin already? Or that poor Arthur just nearly got blown onto the train tracks? This is wonderful. I am so blessed. There are not enough hashtags in the world to say how much I am embracing my new and fabulous life.

  Dad’s waiting for me outside in his old Land Rover, engine running.

  ‘Hello, love.’

  ‘Hi Dad.’

  We greet each other as if we only saw each other yesterday, as is the northern way. A quick hug. Not too much fuss. But my heart swells to see him.

  ‘You didn’t mention you were bringing this one,’ he says, motioning to Arthur who’s already jumped in the back. ‘Your mother will have a fit about her carpets.’

  ‘I know.’

  We both look at each other and break into a grin.

  ‘Well, at least it stops me being in the doghouse,’ he laughs, holding the door open for me as I climb inside. The seats are all split and it smells of muddy boots, rolling tobacco and topping soil. I fill my lungs with it.

  Then we’re rattling and jolting our way home along winding lanes. Past scenery that is as magnificent as it is familiar. The Lake District is just as I left it. Not much changes here, except the seasons. Funny, I used to hate that when I was younger; now it comforts me.

  ‘So – how’ve you been?’

  Terrible. Awful. Heartbroken. Terrified.

  ‘All right,’ I shrug.

  The windscreen wipers creak backwards and forwards, clearing just one small triangle for Dad to peer through. My side isn’t working. I can’t remember it ever working. I glance across at Dad. At his strong hands on the steering wheel. Dad has big, capable hands. I remember now that I never liked Ethan’s small, slim fingers.

  ‘How are you for money?’

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ I fib. I’m just about managing to get by. The obituaries aren’t paying a huge amount and Dad’s loan won’t last forever. Still, it’s only March. It’s early days.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Dad.’

  ‘You too, love.’ Glancing across at me, he takes one hand off the steering wheel and gives my knee a gentle squeeze. ‘It’s good to have my little girl home again.’