Because now you get claustrophobic in crowds and the music’s too loud, replies my forty-something self as we reach the sanctuary of Cricket’s house. And you’re dying for a cup of tea.
It’s been a long journey and, instructing Cricket to sit down, I put the kettle on. While I’m waiting for it to boil, I open the sash windows to let in some fresh air. The house is on the procession route and from here I get a great view of the floats going by in the street below, with their vibrant costumes and echo of steel drums. It’s family day, and absently I let my gaze slide over the excited faces of the children and their parents as my thoughts drift back to Spain.
So much happened in that week; it feels like we were away for much longer. I left a lot of stuff behind there, and things feel different now I’m back. I feel lighter, freer. Almost, dare I say it, a little excited about the future . . . My eyes land upon a small girl across the street. Sitting on her dad’s shoulders, she’s holding a balloon and waving at the crowds. I’m suddenly reminded of that feeling on my birthday, when I was walking Arthur past all the houses and looking through the windows. Me on the outside, looking in on everyone on the inside.
‘Here you go.’ I snap back to see Cricket passing me a glass with ice and lemon. ‘Bugger tea, I thought we’d have gin and tonics,’ she smiles, clinking her glass against mine. ‘Salud!’
‘Salud!’ I smile.
If only I’d realized then how great the view from the outside can be.
SEPTEMBER
#jomo
YOUR INVITATION
to
NATHALIE’S HEN PARTY!
Join us to celebrate the bride-to-be
September 8 & 9
at
A Luxury Spa Weekend!
It’s going to cost an absolute fortune! The hotel doesn’t do any single-room discounts and it’s in Manchester, which is miles away! But the bride-to-be can’t wait to see you and all her friends, who are at least a decade younger!
Lucky you will get to catch a delayed train from London and enjoy an array of expensive massages you can’t afford, and rejuvenating facials where the team of beauty therapists will put lots of creams on your face and wipe lots of creams off your face, as you relax to piped music and your stomach rumbling, while wondering if your credit card is going to get rejected and there’s anything to eat other than grapes.
Please RSVP when you’ve finished googling ‘100 ways to get out of a hen do’ and realized there isn’t one.
The Dilemma
There are big, BIG problems in the world right now. I mean, HUGE. So in the grand scheme of things, an invitation to a hen party spa weekend is not up there with, say, the destruction of our planet or the state of world politics. But in the World According to Nell, it’s been the cause of a few sleepless nights.
When the invitation arrived a couple of weeks ago, I did that thing of shoving it on my desk and trying not to think about it. As if somehow this would make the problem go away, which, as we all know, doesn’t work. Instead, it seems to have had the opposite effect and made the problem grow bigger.
As the days have crept by, it’s sat there, nagging me to RSVP. Made worse by the other guests Replying All. I keep getting these emails pinging in morning, noon and night from people I’ve never met telling me they ‘Can’t wait!’ and ‘It’s going to be amazing!’ and ‘Woo-hoo – bring on the party!’
I know I have to go; I can’t not. This is my brother’s wife-to-be, my future sister-in-law, the mother of my first niece or nephew. Not attending would be terrible! But I also know I can’t afford it. Weddings aren’t cheap, even when they’re not your own, and I’ve already paid for a new outfit and a wedding gift, plus train tickets and two nights in a hotel in Liverpool for the wedding itself. My credit card is maxed out and my current account is almost running on empty. How am I going to afford to pay for a spa weekend as well?
Of course I’ve considered coming clean and telling Nathalie the truth, but I’m too embarrassed. And it was really sweet of her to invite me. That said, all her other friends are so much younger than me. Do I really want to show up like the Ghost of Hen Parties Yet to Come? Single, childless, broke and forty-something, and in sleeves! I’m like a fearful warning of their future if they don’t meet Mr Right. My very presence will probably scare the living daylights out of them.
FFS, what a predicament. It’s giving me a headache just thinking about it. In fact, I feel like I’m getting a bit of a sore throat too . . . and is it just me or is it freezing in here? I might have to lie down under the duvet. Boy, I’m exhausted. In fact, I think I’ll just close my eyes for a minute.
I’m grateful for:
The flu.
Nathalie being so sweet about it all, and sending me a voicemail telling me not to worry about missing her spa weekend but to get better soon, and thanking me for her pregnancy massage.
My bed, which I don’t get out of for a week.
Edward, for doing a great impression of Florence Nightingale.
No longer being scared of ghosts – past, future or otherwise.
Double Booked
On Thursday I get dressed for the first time in nearly a week. Which, to be honest, when you work from home is not that unusual. But no, really. I’m up and out of bed, and I’ve had a shower and washed my hair and everything. I feel SO much better. Practically human again. After a week of Lemsip I’ve even got my appetite back.
It’s when I’m in the kitchen heating up a pan of tomato soup that I get the text from Fiona inviting me to her birthday get-together. It’s next Saturday. The same day as Rich and Nathalie’s wedding. Apart from her liking my photo of Spain on Instagram, we haven’t been in touch since I dropped Izzy back from the party. Things still feel weird.
I start drafting my reply to say I can’t make it, but nothing sounds right, not even with a smiley face. Oh, sod it. I can’t do this over text. Deleting it, I call Fiona’s number instead. She never picks up, but at least it will sound better in a voicemail.
She picks up.
‘Oh . . . er, hi Fiona!’ Taken aback, I falter.
‘Did you pocket dial me?’
Probably not the best start.
‘No . . . of course not.’
‘Oh, OK, you just sound surprised.’
‘I was just about to leave a voicemail . . . about your birthday . . .’ And now it feels all stilted and awkward. ‘I’m afraid I can’t make it—’
‘That’s fine,’ she says before I can finish, in that way you know it’s not fine. ‘It’s all very last-minute.’
‘No, but I’d love to come. I’ve only ever missed your birthday when I was in the States, but it’s Rich’s wedding that weekend—’
‘Your brother’s getting married?’
‘Yes, didn’t I tell you?’
‘No!’
Fiona has known Rich since our first year at university, when she came home to stay with me over the Easter break and became an object of desire for my spotty teenage brother. He stalked her for the entire week, lurking outside the bathroom door when she was showering for a glimpse of her in her towel. It was mortifying.
‘Sorry, I meant to at Michelle’s shower . . . it’s just everyone was so busy, I didn’t get a chance to speak to you properly . . .’
I trail off and there’s silence at the other end of the line.
‘Yes, it was all a bit manic,’ she says eventually, sounding a touch guilty.
‘He’s having a baby.’
‘Who? Little Rich?’
‘Yes, Little Rich.’ I smile, feeling a sudden closeness to her as she uses our family nickname.
‘I thought he always said he didn’t want to settle down.’
‘He did, but then he met Nathalie.’
‘Wow. She must be quite some woman! I bet your mum’s thrilled.’
‘That’s putting it mildly.’ It strikes me how nice it is to finally be able to talk to Fiona about all this. If anyone understands my family dynamics, it’s her. She�
��s had years and years of it.
‘We should have a drink when you get back, celebrate my infirmity,’ she’s saying now.
‘Sounds good,’ I reply, feeling that bond again that I was so worried we’d lost. ‘So what are you doing for your birthday? Is it down to O’Leary’s as usual?’
O’Leary’s is an age-old tradition of Fiona’s. An Irish pub that serves Guinness and its famous fish stew and soda bread. Every year she invites the gang to celebrate her birthday. Something about her Irish ancestors, apparently. Though I have a feeling it’s more to do with the soda bread.
‘Actually, I thought I’d do something different this year; I’ve booked a table at a member’s club in Soho.’
‘Ooh! Very posh! I didn’t know you were a member of a private club.’
‘I’m not, Annabel is . . .’
Why did I not guess?
‘But you always loved O’Leary’s. It’s your favourite.’
‘I know, but I thought it might be time for a change, something new.’
‘Who said that, you or Annabel?’
I can’t help it. It just comes out.
‘Nell—’ warns Fiona.
‘What?’ I say innocently, but I know exactly what.
‘Look, I know you don’t like Annabel—’ She sounds defensive.
‘It’s not that I don’t like Annabel –’ (OK, that’s a fib) – ‘but I don’t think she likes me.’
‘She’s tried really hard with you, you just haven’t been friendly to her.’
‘Me? Friendly to her?’ I’m indignant.
‘Look, I don’t want to argue with you, Nell.’
‘We’re not arguing,’ I protest, but I can feel our rediscovered closeness already slipping away. There’s a heavy pause and I switch subjects before we lose it all. ‘Anyway, how are the children?’
‘Really good, thanks . . .’ She sounds relieved to be off the topic. ‘Well, actually, Izzy’s been a bit quiet lately.’
‘Quiet?’
‘Yes, did you notice anything different when you took her to the party a few weeks ago?’
‘No, she was fine . . .’ I think back. ‘Actually, now you mention it, she was her normal chatterbox self on the way there, but once we got inside she did go a bit quiet. I assumed it was because of the clown. To be honest, I find them scary too and I’m a lot older than five—’
‘God, yes.’
‘Why? Do you think something’s wrong?’
‘Oh . . . no, I’m sure it’s something and nothing . . . she’s probably had another fight with her brother.’
‘I remember those,’ I smile. ‘Mum used to despair of my brother and me, and now look at us. I’m going to his wedding!’
‘Well, have fun,’ she says, getting back on topic, ‘and send him my love.’
‘I will. And have a happy birthday.’
I’m grateful for:
Our conversation; I’m glad I got to talk to Fiona, though things didn’t really turn out the way I would have liked and I’m upset about missing her birthday.
The flipside, which is not having to spend an evening with Annabel.
Heinz tomato soup. Forget smashed avocado on toast; after the flu there is truly nothing finer.
Fab Female Friday
There’s lots to hate about social media, but there’s also lots to love. Like #throwbackthursday and #flashbackfriday, which is a wonderful opportunity to post old photos showing the world we were all younger and thinner once.
Maybe we should rename all the other days as well? Just think, you could swap them around depending on how you’re feeling. For example, here’s what this week looked like for me:
#motherfuckingmonday
Less #motivational and more #dyingofflu #selfemployed #stillneedtowork.
#tellitlikeitistuesday
This week’s podcast was recorded from my sick bed, surrounded by snotty tissues and not a hint of a sunset. Which got me thinking; there should be a movement to start telling it like it is one day a week. I propose Tuesday. Just imagine if every Tuesday we got to do a reality check. To throw off the pressure to present ourselves in a certain way, and say we’re sick of this bullshit. A day to embrace our messy, flawed, unfiltered lives. Our true authentic selves.*
#gettingtherewednesday
As a child I used to love Chemistry on a Wednesday afternoon, as I knew it meant I was halfway through the school week. This follows the same theme, but it’s more about the feeling that you’re finally getting a handle on all the stuff you needed to get done this week – more ‘I’ve got this’ than wishing it was the weekend already.
#wishIwasstillyoungandthinthursday
Basically how I felt after looking through all my old photo albums to find something to post on #throwbackthursday.
#fabfemalefriday
Because there are so many fabulous females out there who inspire and motivate. Incredible, empowering, trail-blazing women, from Emmeline Pankhurst to Rosa Parks, from Malala Yousafzai to Jane Goodall, from Dolly Parton to Jane Austen. The list is endless.
And what about women like Cricket and my mum? Plus all the thousands of ordinary women who are quietly going about doing their thing, but are no less extraordinary. I want to be celebrating them every damn week, not just on International Women’s Day. These amazing women give me more motivation than any yoga video ever could.
#stayinginagainsaturday
Hey ho.
#sodthissunday
The best day of all. When anything and all of it goes.
Cold Feet
A week later, I catch the train from Euston to Liverpool for the wedding. Sitting alongside me in the quiet coach is my plus one: Cricket.
‘I can’t remember the last time I went to a wedding,’ she’s saying excitedly. ‘I think it might even have been my own.’
I look up from my book: a copy of Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway that I borrowed from the little library for the train journey. I first read it at school and it’s even better than I remember.
‘What was it like?’ I ask, laying it down on the small, flip-down tray table in front of me.
‘Surprisingly wonderful, actually.’
‘Why is that surprising?’
‘Because neither of us was ever particularly sold on the idea,’ she admits candidly. ‘It was only when we were faced with death and taxes, the two things you can’t avoid, that we decided to make things official. When we were younger it didn’t seem necessary, or realistic. Who can make that kind of promise when you truly have no idea what will happen in the next thirty or more years ahead?’
‘Probably best not to share that view this weekend,’ I grin, and she lets out a hoot of laughter and claps her hand over her mouth.
The whole family is staying at the same hotel. My parents come down to reception to greet us, and Mum looks taken aback when she sees Cricket. Until last week she’d assumed I was bringing along a new boyfriend as my plus one, after my foolish snap decision in the summer to tell her I was dating someone. There will have been high hopes to meet him. When I told her I was bringing along a girlfriend instead, she didn’t say anything except, ‘Well, perhaps there’ll be some nice single men for you both.’
‘It’s lovely to meet you.’ I watch Cricket being as gracious as ever as she reaches for Mum’s hand. ‘Nell has told me so much about you.’
‘All good, I hope!’ Mum laughs self-consciously and I can imagine her desperately running through the seating plan in her head, wondering if it’s too late to move Cricket from the singles table to the elderly relatives one.
I can also imagine Cricket hoping very much that it is.
Dad, meanwhile, looks relieved to see me. He’s been forced into a smart shirt and a pair of trousers that look a bit tight.
‘She’s even made me wear a bleedin’ tie,’ he bleats out of earshot.
‘It suits you,’ I console.
‘It’s strangling me, more like.’
‘Where’s Rich?’
> ‘In his room. He’s been there ever since he checked in. I think he’s got a hangover. He was the colour of that rug.’
He gestures to the mustard carpet beneath our feet.
‘Is Nathalie staying with her parents?’
‘Apparently. Though it seems a bit of a daft tradition, considering she’s already in the family way.’
‘She probably wants to enjoy her last night of freedom,’ I grin, which makes my dad laugh and tug at his tie.
‘I swear, it’s going to bloody choke me,’ he grumbles.
‘Philip Gordon Stevens, that tie is not going to choke you.’ Mum appears at his elbow and hisses at him sharply. The use of his full name is reserved for special misdemeanours and her face is like thunder. ‘But if you don’t stop showing me up with all that complaining, your wife will.’
After we check in to our twin room, I leave Cricket to take a nap. ‘I prefer to call it a recharging of the batteries, if you don’t mind,’ she says, as I go to find my brother.
Dad’s right. He’s the colour of Colman’s mustard.
‘Have you got a hangover? You look awful,’ I say as he opens the door.
‘I feel awful.’
In case you haven’t noticed, my brother and I don’t do the usual hugs and greetings. We like to dive straight into the insults.
‘How many beers did you drink?’
‘I haven’t been drinking.’
‘Don’t tell me. A dodgy kebab.’
‘It’s nothing like that . . . it’s just . . . I’m not sure, Nell.’
‘Oh no, it’s not flu, is it? I was knocked out the other week.’
Having closed the door and followed him into his room, I look at him with alarm as he sits down on the edge of the bed and buries his head in his hands.
‘No, it’s the wedding.’ His voice is muffled through his fingers. ‘I don’t know if I can go through with it.’
Oh ha, ha. Very funny. Another one of my hilarious brother’s jokes. I play along.
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 25