She was great. Didn’t chop off my balls.
No, she’s leaving that to the surgeon
Fuck off x
xx
AUGUST
#bikinibodiesandbabies
The Invisible Woman
When I was a child I used to wish I was invisible. Imagine how fantastic that would be? I could go anywhere, do anything, and I’d be completely unnoticed. Of course, it was only make believe. But now, guess what? My childhood wish has finally come true. I’m invisible!
It’s Thursday morning and I’m walking Arthur while keeping an eye out for Johnny. I haven’t seen or heard from him for several weeks, and the last thing I want is to bump into him by accident. With this in mind I decide to take a different route up to the park, past the new complex of luxury flats they’re building, which is full of scaffolding and construction workers.
In my twenties, I dreaded walking past workmen. I used to cross the road to try and avoid them and hurry along with my head down, eyes glued to the pavement, for fear of being noticed. I hated it when they would wolf whistle and shout out, telling me to ‘cheer up, love, it will never happen’. The feminist within would rage, ‘How dare they sexualize me!’ I felt violated. Embarrassed. Totally self-conscious.
Fortunately times have changed. I think it’s illegal now to shout things, though you can’t stop them looking.
Well, actually you can. Turn forty-something.
Walking along in my jeans and T-shirt, I pause to let Arthur sniff a lamppost. It’s not like you imagined as a child. It doesn’t happen overnight – it’s not as if one morning you wake up and you’re invisible – but gradually you start to notice it. The barman looks right through you as you stand at the bar waiting to be served; the person in front of you lets the door swing in your face as if you’re not even there; you can’t get the attention of the waiter to even bring you some water, yet he’s hovering attentively by the table with the pretty blonde.
And then one day you’re striding past a building site and – poof – you’re invisible.
‘Hey, watch out!’ I cry.
A workman nearly hits me on the head with a scaffolding pole, as he’s too busy staring at the girl in the crop top ahead of me to even look in my direction.
I have to duck for cover.
Seriously. WTF!
I’m grateful for:
Crop tops, because my old ones make brilliant dishcloths. #whoneedsyouthwhenyoucancleanthekitchen #joking #sortof
What’s Your Superpower?
‘He could have killed me!’ I complain to Cricket the next day, when we meet up in a cafe near her house. I’ve come to help replenish her little library with books as it’s almost emptied out, such has been its success, and we’re having a coffee before we start work.
‘Didn’t he see you?’
‘No, he was too busy staring at some young girl. It’s like I was invisible.’
‘It’s our superpower!’ she beams. ‘A reward for getting older.’
‘I’m not sure it’s much of a superpower,’ I grumble. ‘OK, yes, I admit it’s a relief not to be on the receiving end of that kind of unwanted male attention any more . . . I mean, seriously, who wants some idiot in a white van yelling at you out of his window?’ I grimace at the memory. ‘But that’s a lot different from being given a polite compliment, or being offered a seat on the tube—’
I break off as a waiter brings our coffees over to our table, then lower my voice. ‘Or being smiled at by the cute waiter who gives me my flat white.’ He puts down my cup without even looking in my direction and disappears. ‘See. He didn’t even notice I existed.’ I pull a face. What’s that saying about being careful what you wish for?
‘Johnny noticed you.’
‘Apparently Johnny notices anything with a pulse.’ I rip open two sugar packets and stir them into my coffee in an act of rebellion. I don’t quite know why I’m in such a bad mood.
Cricket studies me, her expression thoughtful. ‘I used to turn heads, you know. I would walk into a bar and men would crane their necks. I had legs up to here and I wasn’t afraid to show them.’
Thing is, it’s impossible to remain in a bad mood when you’re with Cricket.
I break into a smile. ‘I know, I’ve seen the photos. The one of you in that cocktail dress at the Savoy . . .’ I raise my eyebrows and pretend to fan myself. ‘Seriously hot.’
She laughs, her eyes dancing at the memory as she cradles her latte. ‘Back then I had a different kind of superpower.’ She takes a sip of coffee, then replaces her cup neatly in its saucer. ‘It’s called youth.’
Shrieks of laughter come from the corner and we both glance over to see a crowd of twenty-something girls, all on their phones, a tangle of long hair and long legs.
‘You know, you never think you’re going to get old. I still feel like that twenty-five-year-old girl inside.’ She stops watching them and turns back to me. ‘Sometimes I even forget until I look in the mirror.’
‘But you still look amazing,’ I protest, looking across at Cricket, who is wearing a large piece of costume jewellery as a choker and her trademark red lipstick.
‘Oh Nell, you darling girl, you are sweet, but I don’t look amazing. I don’t want to look amazing. I just want to look good for my age.’ Her face creases into a smile. ‘You know, when I was an actress there was so much pressure on how I looked. Of course, talent is important, but as a director once told me, no one wants a wrinkled leading lady.’
‘What a bastard! I hope you gave him what for.’
‘I did more than that; I married him.’ She laughs delightedly at my expression.
‘That was Monty?’
‘It was indeed, and I made him eat his words for over thirty years. He ended up writing some very good parts for older women. “But no one wants a wrinkled leading lady,” I would forever tease, and he would always reply, “Oh, but I do, my darling, I do.”’
Abruptly her eyes fill with tears. She sniffs sharply, shaking her head. ‘Silly old goose,’ she mutters.
Reaching across the table, I place my hand on hers. ‘Silly old goose.’
Our eyes meet. We share a smile.
‘I’ll let you into a secret, Nell.’ She leans in and motions for me to come closer. ‘It turns out being invisible is just how you imagined it was going to be when you were a child,’ she confides. ‘It’s nothing to fear, just the opposite – it’s wonderful. It gives you an incredible freedom to do what you want, wear what you want, say what you want – well, most of the time.’ Pulling a sheepish expression, she leans back in her seat. ‘And nobody gives a damn.’
‘Are you sure it’s not you that doesn’t give a damn?’
‘Both.’ She laughs, taking another sip of coffee. ‘When I was much younger I used to be so concerned about how I looked, what people thought, how I was perceived. I used to worry all the time about trying to fit in.’ She shakes her head. ‘What a huge waste of time that was.’
‘But you met Monty, it’s different. I’m still single.’
She nods. ‘It’s true, I was very lucky. And I understand we all want to be visible in some respects . . . to be seen . . . to be acknowledged. It doesn’t matter what age you are . . . especially if you are looking to meet someone.’
Putting down her cup, she fiddles with her wedding band thoughtfully.
‘I don’t have Monty now, and as a widow I felt very invisible. And then you knocked on my door.’
We both smile at the memory.
‘I’m not saying this to be trite or to make you feel better, but believe me when I say this: the people who matter will see you, no matter what.’
She looks at me and I know she sees me, just like I see her. Maybe that’s our real superpower.
‘Now then, I wanted to ask you something.’
I sit back and drink my coffee. It’s getting cold.
‘It’s about Monty.’
‘More books? Clothes?’
‘It’s his ashes, ac
tually.’
‘Oh, Cricket—’ I begin apologizing, but she quickly silences me, telling me not to be silly.
‘I’ve decided where I want to scatter them and I wondered if you would join me. It’s a place that was very special to him; he took me there soon after we first met.’
A story Cricket once told me of Monty taking her to Hampstead Heath for a picnic comes flooding back.
‘Of course. I’d be honoured.’
‘I rather hoped you were going to say that.’ Reaching underneath the table, she pulls something out of her handbag. ‘So I took the initiative and booked two tickets.’
‘Tickets?’ I look at her in surprise. ‘Aren’t we going to Hampstead Heath?’
‘Good Lord, no, whatever gave you that idea?’ She hands me a British Airways ticket. ‘We’re going to Spain.’
I’m grateful for:
Never having to hear the words ‘cheer up, love, it will never happen’ again, because it already has happened and guess what, I’m actually fine.
The freedom that comes with being invisible.
Realizing that as superpowers go, youth is totally overrated because you never really know you have it until you lose it, which is a pretty crappy superpower if you ask me.
Being able to fly . . . TO BARCELONA!
The Horrors of Overhead Lighting
But first things first: I need some new clothes.
A week later I find myself in a shopping mall, held hostage in a changing room, surrounded by clothes that seemed so full of promise but are not living up to their potential.
Which, now I come to think of it, could be a description of my love life, career, or indeed life in general.
But sod it, who cares? I’m going on holiday!
Guilt clears its throat loudly and taps me on the shoulder, reminding me of precisely why I’m going to Spain. It’s not exactly a holiday. It’s to accompany a widow on her journey to scatter her husband’s ashes.
My phone beeps with a text. It’s from Cricket:
Don’t buy any sun tan lotion. I’ve bought plenty!
Well, maybe it’s OK to be a bit excited.
We’re going away for a whole week. It was Cricket’s idea. ‘I think we could both do with a nice break. Get some sunshine. Swim in the sea. It will do us the world of good.’ It sounds glorious. After recent events, I can think of nothing I would like more than to escape London for the Mediterranean. Plus, there’s nothing to rush back for. I can work remotely on my laptop and, the rest of the time, pitch up on the beach with a book. I can’t wait.
I just need a new bikini.
Just. It’s such a misleading word, isn’t it? It implies something quick and simple. A minor problem to be easily surmounted: just getting a coffee, just parking the car, just need to let the dog out for a wee. Nowhere in the word ‘just’ do I see a carnage of bikinis around my ankles, the horror of my reflection in the overhead lighting (over which I shall draw a veil), and struggling to contort myself because the top and bottom are fixed together by those annoying plastic security tags, and in order to try them on at the same time, I’m having to bend myself double and twist, Quasimodo-style, to see myself in the mirror.
No, just doesn’t do any of that justice.
Plus, I still haven’t managed to find any summer outfits. They’re all too short! Says a twenty-something never. The only ones I like are comfy but frumpy.
Feeling myself wilting, I FaceTime Liza. I need the advice of a millennial.
Thankfully with the time difference she’s awake, and we quickly sift through a mountain of clothes.
‘The blue dress is nice . . . not sure about the stripes . . . way too big . . . seen you in better . . . be nicer in white . . . LOVE the dungarees!’
‘Thanks, Liza, it’s like having a personal shopper.’
She grins. ‘I’m so excited for you. Spain is going to be awesome. You deserve a vacation.’
‘Well, it’s not really a vacation.’ I tug on a floral playsuit.
‘Yes, you said. The old lady sounds really sweet.’
It feels strange to hear Liza call Cricket an old lady. At eighty-something I suppose she is, yet she feels anything but to me.
‘Definitely no. That fabric makes you look like someone’s curtains . . .’
I look at my reflection. It looked nice on the hanger, but in real life I look like I’ve been styled by Maria von Trapp. And now the zip’s got stuck. Putting down my phone, I start trying to yank it over my head, but it gets wedged around my shoulders. Is it me or have they made the sizing smaller?
There’s a ripping sound and I emerge red-faced, like a cork from a bottle, just as my phone chimes to signal a text.
‘Hang on, I got a message, it might be Cricket about the trip.’ Relieved to have my arms free, I snatch up my phone and quickly switch screens.
Hi Nell, how are you? Hope you are enjoying the sunshine. Johnny X
‘What an asswipe!’
As I read it aloud, Liza reacts in the way you want your friend to react when the man who ghosted you a month ago just sent you a text message out of the blue. I’ve told her all about what happened and she feels guilty for encouraging me to online date. Not that it’s her fault. I seem to have a habit of falling for the wrong men.
‘I can’t believe it.’ I stare at my screen in disbelief.
‘Just ignore him,’ says Liza firmly.
And she’s right. Of course she is. But my hurt pride won’t let it go.
Who is this?
Ha. That will show him.
Johnny
Is he really that oblivious? I’m tempted to write back Johnny who? but I am a mature adult.
Hi Johnny. I would be grateful if you don’t contact me any more. Thanks, Nell.
‘No kiss,’ instructs Liza, ‘he’s just fishing.’
‘Of course not.’ I press send. ‘Trust me, that will be the last I ever hear of him.’
My phone chimes.
Just wondering why you disappeared on me?
‘He’s gaslighting you!’ Liza gasps.
‘I thought he was ghosting me?’
I’m so confused – so much has changed since I was last single – and now I have a headache. Probably from skipping lunch and being starved of oxygen in a floral playsuit.
Putting my phone on silent, I thank Liza for all her help and emerge from the changing room blinking into the daylight, where I’m reprimanded by the sales assistant for not putting everything back on the hangers properly, and end up buying the ripped floral playsuit out of guilt.
I still haven’t found a bikini.
I’m grateful for:
Being able to block people, so now Johnny can’t ghost or gaslight me.*
Keeping the little freebie sewing kit I got when I upgraded with air miles, so I’m able to fix the zip on the playsuit and give it to Max’s daughter Lily, who wears it with a belt and the sleeves rolled up. Lily is seven.
70% off summer sales online
An Inspector Calls
Saturday night and I’m home alone with Arthur doing my laundry. I fly to Spain on Monday and I still haven’t packed. I’m hopeless with packing. I never know what to take and always seem to pack the wrong things. With all the travelling I’ve done, you’d think I would have figured it out by now, but I’m forever reading those holiday articles about capsule wardrobes and rolling up a Breton top and a couple of scarves to make ten different outfits.
I did try it once when I went to Italy, but by mid-week my Breton top was covered in pesto and my feet in blisters (who on earth can take just one pair of sandals?). And trust me, there is only so much you can do with scarves.
This time I’m adopting more of a ‘take as much as you can ram in your suitcase’ approach and am washing my entire summer wardrobe, draping it all over the flat to dry. Edward refuses to have a dryer – he says it’s bad for the environment – so despite it being August, I’ve whacked on the heating full-blast and now the house is like a sauna. Poor A
rthur is pegged out in his fur coat on my balcony.
I’m just taking out one load and shoving in another when the home phone rings. It’ll be another one of those nuisance calls we keep getting.
‘Sorry, we’re not interested,’ I say, before they’ve had a chance to try sell me something. I go to put the phone down.
‘Is that Mrs Lewis?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘This is Chief Inspector Grant from Brooksgate police station. I’d like to speak to a Mrs Edward Lewis?’
‘Oh . . . er, no . . . I’m his flatmate . . . well, his tenant, actually. He’s my landlord.’
‘And who would I be speaking to?’
‘Nell Stevens . . . Penelope Stevens,’ I quickly correct myself. This calls for four syllables. ‘Is Edward all right?’
‘Mr Lewis was involved in an incident and is currently being held in custody for questioning—’
‘Edward?’ I’m in disbelief. ‘Is this a joke?’
‘I’m a police officer, Miss Stevens. I am not in the habit of making prank phone calls.’
‘Sorry, yes . . .’ I step out into the hallway, away from the noise of the washing machine, to try and think straight. ‘Is he OK?’
‘We need someone to come down to the station and bring a spare pair of his glasses.’
‘Why, what’s wrong with the ones he’s wearing?’
There’s a pause, as if the inspector is considering how much information to give me. ‘Unfortunately Mr Lewis’s glasses were broken in the altercation leading up to his arrest.’
Altercation! Arrest! Edward?
I’m still in shock an hour later as I reach central London and push open the doors to the police station. These are not words you associate with Edward. I half think they’ve got the wrong person, but it turns out the bedraggled figure with the black eye and bust lip is indeed Edward. Albeit he’s almost unrecognizable.
‘Holy shit!’ As he’s led out of the holding cell to greet me, I jump up from my plastic chair.
‘Penelope?’
Abruptly, I realize he can’t see me properly as he’s not wearing his glasses.
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 22