Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up

by Alexandra Potter

  She’s quiet as she absorbs the concept.

  ‘Oh, I like that idea very much,’ she says finally. ‘Monty always said books weren’t meant to be owned, but to be shared.’

  ‘I can come over one day and we can do it. It wouldn’t take long.’

  We stop in front of an exhibit of Frida’s prosthetic leg, complete with an embellished red boot.

  ‘She never shied away from the truth, did she?’ marvels Cricket. ‘I think that’s what I find most inspirational about her.’

  My mind reflects on past events. It’s true. They say the truth hurts, but these past few months have taught me that the human spirit is stronger than it looks. More often, it’s the deception that destroys.

  ‘Cricket?’

  ‘Yes, my dear?’ She turns to me.

  ‘Let’s go somewhere quiet for a drink. There’s something I need to show you.’

  I’m grateful for:

  The truth, and having the courage to tell it.

  Cricket’s reaction when I gave her the envelope; she looked at the postmark, put it in her pocket, then simply thanked me and ordered another glass of wine.

  That she didn’t find the photograph until she was alone, because it wasn’t my secret to tell; it was hers to find.

  Museums, because unlike youth-obsessed society, they celebrate old things. Which is why I am going to start looking at parts of my body as if I am on a museum tour and viewing them as exhibits of interest, instead of shrieking at myself in the mirror.

  Frida Kahlo, for being a true inspiration.

  The Second Date

  ‘So how was the second date?’

  It’s the early hours of Sunday morning, and I’ve just got in from dinner with Johnny and am lying on my bed, still in full hair and make-up, FaceTiming with Liza. She’s on the beach and I can see the ocean and palm trees behind her. Usually that would tug at something inside, but right now I’m too excited about my date to feel anything else.

  ‘Better than the first!’

  Pushing her sunglasses onto the top of her head, she makes goggle eyes into the camera. ‘Nell, that’s awesome!’

  After picking me up in a cab, he took me to his private members’ club, full of achingly trendy people sitting on velvet sofas in darkly lit corners, and we drank cocktails with names like La Paloma and The Hemingway that were delicious and strong and went straight to my head, in that lovely way cocktails do. Followed by dinner reservations at a lovely French restaurant, where we ate incredible food and swirled red wine around in big glasses and flirted up a storm.

  ‘And then, like the perfect gentleman, he called a cab and dropped me home.’

  Liza, who has been listening the whole time, her mouth agape, just says, ‘Wow.’

  ‘He was even really sweet about sports day and said I should’ve won.’

  ‘I’m so happy for you, Nell, this guy sounds amazing.’

  I didn’t want to say it myself, for fear of jinxing it, but Johnny is pretty amazing. With my past history, I’m scared to let myself get excited, but there were moments during the evening when I found myself looking at him and thinking, ‘Could it be that I’ve actually MET someone?’ That this was the reason things didn’t work out with Ethan; that it had all been written in the stars after all?

  Well, I had drunk two very strong cocktails.

  ‘Oh, and get this, it turns out Annabel is one of his clients at the posh tennis club—’

  ‘Like that’s a surprise.’

  ‘No, but what is surprising is that she tried it on with him.’

  ‘What! When?’

  There are many reasons I love Liza, but one of them is her ability to invest and be interested in people she has never met.

  ‘I don’t know, but he says that happens with a lot of his married female clients. It’s a thing, apparently.’

  ‘So she’s a cheater in more ways than one.’

  I laugh and as I do, I feel my eyes droop a little. Tiredness has suddenly hit. I try to stifle a yawn and fail.

  ‘It’s late. I should go to sleep, but first I want to hear all about your date. You said you’d tell me later, but you haven’t mentioned it—’

  ‘Oh, it was just someone I met at yoga,’ she says dismissively.

  ‘I didn’t think teachers were allowed to date their students,’ I smile.

  ‘They’re not, technically . . .’ She shrugs. ‘It’s all a bit complicated.’

  ‘Are you going to see them again?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . more importantly, when are you seeing Johnny again?’

  ‘Not for a while. He’s got to go away for nearly two weeks to coach. It’s some pre-Wimbledon tennis thing.’

  ‘OK, well that gives you plenty of time.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘You know the third-date rule, right?’

  ‘Is that a millennial thing?’

  She laughs. ‘No, it’s a now-you-get-to-sleep-with-him thing.’

  I’m grateful for:

  Thirteen whole days to panic about the thought of getting naked and having sex with someone new.

  MISSING!

  LOST LIBIDO

  Have you seen Nell Stevens’ forty-something libido?

  Large reward for any information leading to its return.

  Missing since her last relationship broke up and her heart was broken.

  Last seen about six months before she moved out.

  Urgently needs to be found before her third date with a new guy.

  Owner is worried sick.

  IF YOU HAVE ANY HELP OR ADVICE PLEASE CONTACT: hello@confessionsofafortysomethingfkup.com

  IF FOUND PLEASE DON’T APPROACH. IT COULD BE PERIMENOPAUSAL.

  Plus One

  I’m deep asleep when the burbling of my phone startles me awake.

  What the—?

  My room’s in pitch darkness and I fumble for it on my bedside table. I peer blearily at the name flashing up on the screen.

  PARENTS.

  Panic rushes in. Oh God, it’s happening! That middle-of-the-night phone call you start to fear once they get past seventy. It’s happening right now—

  I snatch up my phone. ‘Is everything OK?’ I gasp into the handset.

  ‘Exciting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Have you heard?’

  My brain is doing a 180. ‘Huh, what? Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?’

  ‘It’s going on for half past seven. Surely you’re not still in bed?’

  I hold out the phone so I can squint at the time, whilst telling (deluding) myself that my eyes are only blurry because I’ve just woken up, and realize that while it might feel like the middle of the night because of my amazing blackout blinds, it’s actually 7.28 a.m. Whoever saw the need to invent an alarm clock has never met my mother.

  ‘No, of course not, why would I be in bed at half past seven on a Sunday morning?’

  ‘Haven’t you spoken to your brother?’

  Mum, however, does not do sarcasm.

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘They’ve set the date for the wedding!’ she announces, cock-a-hoop. Mum’s favourite thing in the world, next to Dad, is being the first one with the scoop. She was wasted as a mobile hairdresser; she should have been a newsreader breaking headline news.

  And now, like a sprinter off the blocks, she’s off, filling me in on all the details as I stumble into my dressing gown and into the kitchen to make coffee.

  ‘Oh . . . great . . . um . . . yes . . . fab . . . lovely . . .’ I mumble through the list of flower arrangements, place settings, wedding venue details and reception locations.

  ‘I rather thought they might go for a registry office do in Manchester, but they’re going to have it in Liverpool, where Nathalie’s from . . .’

  ‘Great,’ I reply, hearing the bubbling of my coffee pot on the stove and thinking there really is no nicer sound. I pour it into my cup, then turn to the fridge to get the milk, and notice the cleaning rota
on the door. It’s been there since I moved in and I’ve religiously ignored it, but now there’s a bright orange Post-it note stuck on top.

  This is not a fridge magnet.

  I break into a smile. Edward can be very funny sometimes.

  Mum, meanwhile, hasn’t drawn breath. ‘. . . they don’t want a church wedding, so at least your father will be pleased, being an atheist. I had to drag him up the aisle . . .’

  Arthur nuzzles my knees, wanting his breakfast, so I busy myself feeding him.

  ‘. . . it gives them a couple of months before the baby’s born, so she’ll be quite big by then, though of course it doesn’t matter these days, not like in mine . . .’

  It’s warm outside, so I sit on the little balcony outside my bedroom and lift my face to the morning sun. Life is so surreal. Who would have thought a year ago I would be back in London, single and listening to plans for my brother and his pregnant fiancée’s wedding, when it was going to be me getting married this summer?

  Even more surreal is the realization I feel surprisingly fine about it.

  ‘So, do you think you’ll be bringing anyone?’

  I zone back in. Mum is fishing again.

  ‘Well, I haven’t really thought about it,’ I begin, only for my mind to suddenly shoot ahead. Maybe I could take Johnny?

  ‘Because at least now if you know the date, you can give whomever plenty of notice. It’s only June, so they’ve got a couple of months’ notice to make travel arrangements if, for example, they need to book flights or something—’

  ‘Ethan won’t be coming, Mum.’

  Boom. It’s like dropping the mic.

  For the first time since my phone rang, there’s silence on the other end of the line. But I’m not racked by my usual guilt at letting everyone down. Now Rich is getting married, I feel I can finally be honest. After all, there’s still going to be one wedding in the family.

  ‘Well, it’s not for a couple of months; people have a habit of changing their minds,’ says Mum after a moment.

  ‘I won’t change my mind.’

  ‘Oh, OK, well, it’s just, you never said . . .’

  My lack of guilt is short-lived. Mum sounds so disappointed. And now I feel awful for crushing her hope. She was so excited when I told her I was getting married; she showed all her friends the photo of my ring.

  ‘Actually, I’ve met someone,’ I blurt. ‘It’s early days, but we’ve been on a couple of dates.’

  I wasn’t going to say anything. I mean, two dates hardly merits a relationship – there’s still plenty of time for it to go wrong yet. But . . .

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely news, Nell.’ She sounds both surprised and delighted, and immediately cheers up. ‘Well, yes, maybe you can bring him as your plus one—’

  ‘Yes, maybe,’ I say, taking a gulp of coffee. It burns my mouth.

  The Naked Forty-Something

  In preparation for my third date, I go all out. No bristly area is left unwaxed. No dry skin is left unscrubbed and unmoisturized. No inch of cellulite is left un-body-brushed. (Is it towards the heart and clockwise, or away and anticlockwise? I can never remember. And if you do it the wrong way, does it make it worse?)

  I do so many squats and lunges I can barely get off the sofa, and my knee gives out going up the stairs. I even attempt yoga in my kitchen, but decide if I want to be alive on my third date, it’s probably best not to try and do a headstand against the fridge because those celebs make it look very easy and it’s not. Plus, I share a house with my landlord and he happened to walk in when I was dismounting; I narrowly missed kicking him in the face.

  I’m grateful for:

  Not passing out in the waxing salon.

  All those workout videos, which I actually do instead of scrolling past them eating crisps.

  Mastercard. Whoever said sex was free should look at my credit card receipts.

  Not breaking Edward’s jaw.

  Kegels.

  The Third Date

  Drum roll, please.

  It’s Friday night and I’m fiddling with my hair before leaving to meet Johnny. We haven’t seen each other for nearly two weeks and I’m so looking forward to seeing him, but I’m also really nervous. Not to put too fine a point on it: ladies, it’s been a while. Plus, I’m older now than when I met Ethan. Back then I was on the right side of forty and trust me, I wasn’t thinking about sleeves.

  I don’t know what’s happened. When I was a lot younger sex was no big deal, but somewhere along the line I’ve lost my confidence a bit. Maybe it’s having your heart smashed to bits. Or maybe it’s looking in the mirror and seeing a few more wrinkles. Or maybe it’s just getting older and feeling vulnerable, and knowing that when you like someone now it’s actually a really big deal.

  I’m planning on asking Johnny if he wants to stay over tonight. Edward is in the countryside so it’s the perfect opportunity, as we’ll have the place to ourselves. Which has got me thinking. I need to get my own place. It’s six months now since I moved into Edward’s flat, but it was only ever meant to be temporary, just until I got myself back on my feet again. I need to start looking around for something a bit more permanent, something with privacy. I mean, seriously, I’m in my forties renting a room when all my friends are married and settled into nice houses. Kissing on the doorstep was fun the first time, but I don’t want to make a habit of it.

  That said, this arrangement has ended up working out great for both of us. Edward is hardly ever here, just a few nights during the week, and the reduced rent for looking after Arthur has been invaluable. And so has Arthur. What began as just an arrangement has turned into something so much more, and now he’s my constant companion. I don’t know how I would have got through the year without him.

  As for Edward and me; for the most part we get along, though we have our ups and downs, like any other couple who live together.

  But I won’t lie. There are times when he drives me crazy. Like, for example, when he went on about the recycling, or turning off the lights, or me trying to kill him in the bathtub. And don’t even get me started on the loo roll argument, which from here on in shall be renamed The Loo Roll Wars.

  ‘There were two extra ones in the bathroom and now they’ve both gone.’

  It was last week, when I was in the kitchen. I was making a salad and trying to be healthy (with the added benefit of hopefully losing a few pounds before I had to get naked) when Edward appeared and fired the first shot.

  I looked up from slicing cherry tomatoes. ‘I can’t believe you’re counting loo rolls,’ I fired back.

  ‘I can’t believe you can go through a loo roll a week.’

  ‘Do you really expect me to explain?’

  ‘Well, I’m just curious. What are you doing with all this toilet paper? There’s an exorbitant amount going through the household each week. It’s a complete mystery.’

  ‘It’s basic biology,’ I said, incredulous, and then because he was still looking at me blankly, added, ‘You shake. We wipe.’

  But if I thought that was going to embarrass him into shutting up, I was mistaken.

  ‘Are you grabbing handfuls? You only need to use one sheet each time you go.’

  ‘No, I am not grabbing handfuls.’ I waved my knife around a bit and wondered if I should kill him, or tell him about the practice of wrapping used tampons in toilet roll before putting them in the bin. Actually, that might kill him. He’d probably choke to death at the mention of, shock horror, sanitary products.

  ‘Well, in that case, even if you go to the bathroom five times a day, that’s only five sheets, and there’s 240 sheets in each roll, so that’s forty-eight days. I mean, it’s simple maths.’

  I looked at him in disbelief. Not just at him, but my situation. How had this happened? How did I miss the turning that led to successful adult lives with lovely homes and husbands and conversations about which fabulous summer holiday to go on, and instead take the one that led me here?

  ‘Are you for rea
l?’ I cried. ‘I am not having this conversation with you. I am not having to account for my loo roll usage! Do you do this with your wife?’

  At least he had the decency to blush at this point.

  But it did trigger my thinking that I need to get another job that pays better, as I can’t afford my own place on my obituary salary – but doing what? I have no idea. I keep reading about how we should all be ‘following our passions’, but I can’t exactly make a living out of looking online at property in the South of France . . .

  But seriously – actually, I am being serious. I think about all my married friends. It’s so much cheaper to be part of a couple. I remember when I lived with Ethan, our rent and bills were halved and he never mentioned the loo roll. Though he did other things. Worse things.

  But that’s all in the past now.

  I look at my reflection in the mirror. After spending ages fussing around with my hair, I’ve decided to wear it up in a barrette. I pull a few tendrils down by my ears, then, grabbing my jacket and bag, close my bedroom door behind me and head into the hallway.

  To hear a key in the latch and see Edward appear.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you home tonight,’ I blurt, experiencing a crash of disappointment as he walks in the door with his folded-up bike. ‘It’s Friday.’

  ‘I forgot something. I needed to come back and get it,’ he says, taking off his helmet. ‘I’m going to head back out soon, there’s an eight thirty train from the station.’

  There is a god.

  ‘Going out?’ He takes in my outfit.

  ‘Yes, I’m meeting Johnny.’

  ‘Oh good,’ he nods, but his expression is as unreadable as always. Well, unless he’s talking about loo roll or the environment.

  As he goes into the kitchen and begins fussing around Arthur, I do a final check in the hallway mirror. I’m really not sure about my hair. I fiddle with it.

  ‘It suits you better down.’