In the mirror I catch Edward over my shoulder, watching me.
‘Thanks,’ I smile, ignoring his suggestion, ‘but I like it better this way.’
He looks self-conscious. ‘Oh, OK, well have a nice evening.’
Giving Arthur a final tickle behind his ears, I say bye, then head out of the door. Only when I’ve gone five minutes down the pavement do I reach up and undo the barrette, letting my hair fall loose. Shaking it over my shoulders, I keep on walking.
Morning After the Night Before
So, last night was fun.
Standing over my coffee pot, I wait for it to start bubbling, my mind replaying the last twelve hours. I flirted. I drank. I cracked witty jokes. I felt sparks and butterflies and not even a sniff of companionship. Johnny had tickets to a local jazz club, a darkened, cosy space where we listened to Ella Fitzgerald and drank red wine.
On the way home we shared a bag of chips and a cigarette. A cigarette! I gave all that stupid smoking stuff up years ago when I got old and sensible and decided I didn’t want to die of some horrible disease if I could help it, but last night it felt reckless and fabulous all at the same time.
So when Johnny told me how he’d wanted to sleep with me the first time he laid eyes on me and how it was now his turn to see me naked, I decided to do what it says in all those articles that tell us to live in the moment. Of course, the red wine helped. But I felt intoxicated in a different kind of way. I wasn’t thinking about the past or worrying about the future, I was just totally absorbed in the moment.
Apparently psychologists call it ‘being in the zone’. Personally, I call it finding myself naked with Johnny and not feeling invisible or nervous or laden with emotional baggage, but feeling like I was eighteen again. Admittedly I wasn’t parading around the room with all the lights on, but that’s what scented candles are for, right?
And he stayed.
I open the cupboard and take out two mugs. I’ve left him asleep in bed and come into the kitchen to make us both some coffee. While, of course, going via the bathroom to ‘freshen up’. I rub the lip gloss in a bit more with my finger and smile to myself. Then catch Arthur studying me from his basket. He’s used to me shuffling around of a morning, zombie-like in a dressing gown with bits of dried porridge on it. ‘I have a man waiting for me upstairs, how about that?’ I whisper, bending down and tickling his ears.
I only stop when my coffee starts bubbling. Pouring it out, I add some milk and make my way back upstairs. Halfway up I hear my bedroom door and see Johnny in his boxer shorts.
‘Hey, I thought you were asleep?’
‘I just needed the bathroom.’
I smile. ‘Well, you know where it is.’
As I get to the landing, he reaches for the door handle. ‘I think there’s someone in there—’
The words don’t even have time to register before the door opens and Edward appears in his boxers. We all converge on the landing. Two men in boxer shorts and a woman in a T-shirt that’s not long enough. It sounds like an entertaining rom-com.
It’s not.
What it is, is excruciating.
‘Edward! I didn’t know you were here last night.’
I’m standing frozen on the landing, still holding the two mugs of coffee, but my mind is scrambling. He was here? The whole time?
‘There was an accident and the trains were severely delayed, so I decided to catch the early train down this morning instead.’
Looks are flying backwards and forwards and I want the ground to swallow me up. This is SO awkward.
‘Edward, this is Johnny . . .’ Feeling the mugs burning my hands, I begin hastily doing the introductions. ‘Johnny, this is Edward, my flatmate.’
I can’t say landlord. I just can’t. Flatmate sounds better. More normal. Oh fuck. None of this is normal.
‘Hi, mate.’ Half naked in his boxers, Johnny is unfazed.
‘Hi.’
Half naked in his boxers, Edward holds out his hand to shake Johnny’s. This is completely and utterly surreal. And mortifying.
‘Edward’s married and lives in the country with his wife and twin boys,’ I gabble, finally passing Johnny his coffee.
‘Well, someone’s gotta do it,’ quips Johnny.
‘Excuse me?’ Edward frowns.
‘Live in the country,’ he laughs. ‘Only joking, I’m sure it’s beautiful.’
‘Yes, it is.’ Edward’s face doesn’t flinch.
‘I’m from the country,’ I pipe up, but no one’s listening to me any more.
‘Well, Richmond is hardly the city,’ continues Edward, the muscle in his jaw beginning to twitch.
Oh shit.
‘Johnny’s a tennis coach. Edward used to coach tennis.’ Hurrah, I’ve found a bond.
Wrong. I’ve found a competition. They weigh each other up like rivals.
‘Well, I must get on.’
And then, just when I think they might actually come to blows, Edward goes back into the bathroom and shuts the door.
As the bolt slides into the lock, Johnny and I retreat into my bedroom and back into bed. But if I was worried about what Johnny’s reaction would be, I needn’t have because he finds the whole thing hilarious.
‘Did you see his face?’ he laughs, pulling me down beneath the covers. ‘Someone needs to tell him to lighten up.’
‘Shhh,’ I whisper. ‘He’s all right.’
I feel disloyal talking about Edward behind his back, and oddly protective. It’s OK for me to moan about him, but not for anyone else to. Like with family.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be quiet,’ grins Johnny, kissing me. Then he throws the duvet over our heads and—
Well, let’s cut right there.
I’m grateful for:
The mindfulness movement, though I’m not sure if deciding to sleep with your date is exactly what they mean by living in the moment.
Candlelight, which is very flattering.
The return of my missing libido.
Feeling like things are turning around for me and something is finally going right.
My 10.5 tog duvet, as it muffles quite a lot of noise.
Group WhatsApp Message from Max
Our gorgeous son Tom was born this morning at 8.05 a.m., weighing 7lb 5oz. Mum and baby doing well. Dad is booked in for a vasectomy.
JULY
#throwbackupthursday
Summer Holidays
Summer, it turns out, is up there with Christmas at reminding those of us who have fallen through the net, of What Life Should Look Like. While all my married friends are getting ready to jet off somewhere hot and sunny or head to their coastal cottages with their families for their summer holidays, I have zero plans.
‘We fly to Bordeaux next week, I can’t wait,’ says Holly, after I drop Olivia off from Montessori on Monday afternoon. She rang me up earlier in a bit of a panic as her usual childcare arrangement had fallen through, and was there any chance I could do her a huge favour and go pick her up? Of course I could. If being freelance is good for one thing, it’s being the fourth emergency service. So I dropped everything and tubed it halfway across London with my siren blasting.
‘It’s the first time Adam and I have gone away by ourselves since Olivia was born, and the Dordogne’s supposed to be gorgeous – you can kayak past all these châteaux—’
‘Sounds amazing.’
‘Adam wanted a beach holiday, but you know me, I’m not a sit-on-the-beach kind of person.’
‘I’ll go sit on a beach with Adam,’ I quip. ‘It’s supposed to rain all next week here.’
She laughs. ‘What about you? Have you booked anywhere?’
‘No . . .’ I say, then add, ‘not yet.’
I’m still buzzing from Johnny’s sleepover and, well, you never know. Not wanting to get too ahead of myself, but if things carry on the way they’re going, it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that we might end up going somewhere together. For a few days. Maybe.
‘F
iona mentioned something about you seeing someone?’
I’d seen Fiona at the weekend, when I’d offered to take Izzy to a party after completely screwing up my godmother duties at the school sports day. It was the first time we’d seen each other since then and, apart from Fiona asking how my eye was and me asking how her ankle was, nothing was mentioned. From the outside you’d think everything was perfectly normal, but from the inside it was obvious things were not.
Normal would be laughing until our sides ached about me faceplanting on the playing field, and gossiping about the celebrity dad who was spotted by the tombola. Normal was not making strained conversation about her upcoming holiday to a rented villa in the Greek islands with Annabel and her family, while looking at new curtain fabric swatches she’d dropped over.
Still, afterwards I got to spend the afternoon with Izzy, which is always one of my favourite things. I’m sure I’m biased, but she really is the best little girl in the world. She chattered away happily as we walked hand in hand to the party, though once we arrived she became strangely quiet. I think it was the clown, which, to be honest, even I found a bit scary.
Later, I got talking to him; it turned out his name was Chris and he was an actor. Chris was at great pains to tell me that he’d performed Shakespeare at the Old Vic and was just doing this temporarily until work picked up – I probably recognized him from his recent role as Car Crash Victim in a certain popular hospital TV drama? Alas, I didn’t. Not even when he took off his curly red wig and nose in the kitchen and played dead, with his tongue lolling out.
‘Well, it’s early days,’ I reply cautiously to Holly. ‘I don’t want to jinx it.’
‘That’s great, Nell.’ She looks really pleased for me. ‘And you’re not going to jinx it! Any man would be lucky to have you. Ethan was an idiot.’
I know she’s trying to be nice, but calling Ethan an idiot doesn’t make me feel better, it just casts doubt on my judgement.
‘Well, I should be going . . . I’m meeting Max and Michelle’s new baby. Have a great holiday in the Dordogne.’
‘Oh, give them my love!’ Holly pulls me into a hug. ‘Keep me posted on everything, and thank you so much again for today. You’re a life saver.’
Tom is tiny and perfect and I’m scared I might break him.
‘Don’t be silly,’ laughs Michelle. ‘If Max hasn’t managed to break any of our four babies yet, I’m sure you’ll be fine.’
She tries to hand him to me, but I shy away and sit down in the chair opposite. ‘No, seriously, I’ll drop him.’
‘I tried that excuse for changing the nappies,’ jokes Max, bringing through several mugs of tea and handing me one. ‘Didn’t work.’
‘So how’s everything?’
‘Exhausting,’ they both say in unison, then look at each other and laugh.
‘I’m going back to work this week, so Michelle’s mum’s coming to stay for a couple of weeks to help out.’
‘Oh, that’s good.’
‘And then in August we’re going to Cornwall,’ adds Michelle.
‘You’re going on holiday?’ That didn’t mean to come out sounding so accusatory, but even Max and Michelle with a newborn and three children under ten are managing to go away? I feel even more sorry for myself.
‘Yes, we’ve rented a lovely house on the beach – the children are going to love it.’
At which point the children make their entrance and come rushing into the living room, bombarding their new brother and me with various hugs, kisses and glitter slime, and I make my escape. But not before offering to babysit, of course.
Truthfully, I’ve been too preoccupied by my fledgling relationship with Johnny to care too much that everyone is going away on holiday except me. After he left on Saturday, he texted to say how much fun he’d had last night and I texted back ‘me too’. It’s really quite amazing how young and alive a new romance can make you feel. It’s like the world just opens up, and instead of seeing closed doors and dead ends, you see exciting journeys and possibilities.
Of course, even admitting that when I record this week’s podcast, I feel a bit guilty. Like it’s a betrayal of myself and I’m failing somehow. Even now I can hear the rallying cries in my head and from my (most likely non-existent) listeners about not needing a man to complete me, and how I should be happy on my own. But the thing is, I’m in my forties. I’ve proved I can survive without a relationship. And no, I don’t need a man. But I do have a fundamental need for love. I think we all do, don’t we?
And while we’re at it, I wouldn’t mind a summer holiday either.
I’m grateful for:
The mute button, so I don’t have to see everyone’s holiday photos of sunshine and endless blue skies while listening to the rain lashing at the window.
Chris the clown, for reminding me that things could always be worse in the job department.
Cricket, who isn’t going on holiday either and texts to make plans to meet up at the weekend.
The fourteen people who downloaded my podcast. FOURTEEN ACTUAL LISTENERS!
Two Blue Ticks
The past week was spent working on a new obituary, recording a new episode of Confessions and looking online at flats to rent. And realizing that, unless renowned people start dropping like flies and Sadiq begins commissioning an obituary a day instead of three a week, I can’t afford my own place any time soon. Even poky studios are beyond my budget.
I try extending my search area, but moving to the Shires when you’re married with a family is a bit different from doing it when you’re single. At least in London nobody stares and points and says, ‘Mummy, look, a lady without a buggy or a four-wheel drive.’
I’m joking. I’m not really single. I’m now seeing someone. Only, the thing is, I haven’t actually seen him this week. Or heard from him. The last time Johnny and I WhatsApped was last weekend, when he said he was going to be really busy for the next couple of weeks, with it being Wimbledon. Apparently the tournament inspires many of his clients to brush up on their serves, and he was booked in to do a lot of coaching.
But surely, even if you’re busy, a text only takes a minute to send. An emoji even less. Two seconds, actually. I timed it when I sent him one the other day. And I know he read it because of the blue ticks. Remember in the old days when you could never be sure if someone had got your text? Or when they could say they hadn’t read it? It’s different now. Now I can be out walking with Arthur and decide to send a quick text – nothing too heavy; I don’t want to appear too keen, but we have slept together, and there was lots of back-and-forth WhatsApping before – and watch the ticks turn blue and wait expectantly for a response. But nothing.
I hate those two fucking blue ticks.
Ghosted
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said, it sounds like you’ve been ghosted.’
It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m sitting on a bench with Cricket in Holland Park, enjoying the warm weather and admiring the flowerbeds, and telling her all about how I haven’t heard from Johnny in over a week and how it’s really weird.
‘Ghosted?’ I turn to look at her.
‘Yes, it’s when someone you’re dating just disappears without any explanation or contact.’
‘Yes, I know what it is.’ I don’t know whether to be more shocked that Cricket knows the term, or that it’s only just dawned on me that Johnny’s done exactly that.
‘They were talking about it on some chat show the other day.’
‘I can’t believe it.’
‘Well, I don’t usually watch TV in the day – Monty would be appalled if he knew – but sometimes I just like a bit of background noise—’
‘No, not that. About Johnny ghosting me.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that he had, just that it sounded like that . . .’ Cricket looks worried that she’s spoken out of turn and upset me.
‘No, you’re right.’
‘I am?’
‘Yes,’ I nod, my mind scrambling b
ackwards over the past week and realizing that this isn’t about him being too busy with coaching to arrange another date, and it’s not weird or odd that he’s been reading my texts but hasn’t got in touch; it’s deliberate. I suddenly feel like a total fool.
‘Well, what a complete shit!’ Cricket explodes.
I snap back to the present.
‘I’m sorry, excuse my language, but he is.’
Feelings of shock, hurt, disappointment and rejection are coming at me from all angles. My eyes prickle. I can’t believe it. I’m such an idiot. Anger flares, but I still want to cry.
‘You’re right, he is,’ I nod, finally.
Then I laugh – not just because it’s my default setting in times of crisis or because I still can’t quite believe it, but because in life there are a few, rare people who can always make you laugh, even when it feels like you’ve got absolutely nothing to laugh about, and I’m lucky to be sitting right next to one of them.
And I really don’t want to cry.
I’m grateful for:
An eighty-something widow who swears like a trooper and never fails to surprise me.
Johnny’s profile, which I never bothered to look at until now, where he says he’s only looking to date women up to thirty-five. Thirty-five! He’s five years older than me! No wonder he never came up in my search or as any of my matches. I feel annoyed and indignant and like a bit of an idiot, until I see his moody black-and-white headshot, which was taken about twenty years ago, look through his embarrassing bathroom-mirror selfies, and read the rest of his misspelled profile, which includes ‘your’ instead of ‘you’re’ and ‘there’ instead of ‘their’, and realize that actually, if anyone’s the idiot, it’s him.
It not being awkward between Cricket and me about the letter, which she didn’t mention and so neither did I, as she obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.
My stash of pre-mixed gin and tonics (probably easier if I have this on my gratitude list as a default setting).
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 19