Love, Lies and Lemon Cake

by Sue Watson

  ‘Oh, Mandy, how sad she never made it.’

  ‘One of the last things she said to me was, “Go for it. Don’t wait to be asked. Don’t put anything off—do it now. None of us know how long we’ve got and you have to live every day.” That’s what she said.’

  Mandy’s story about her mum made me think about how I’d been playing around on the edges of life. Just like she’d kept putting off that school reunion through fear of being judged or rejected, I’d been doing the same with my life for years—playing safe, not taking any risks. Like her unworn dress in the wardrobe, my red one lay folded in the rucksack... two unworn dresses and lives unlived. As Mandy’s mum said, you have to go for it because you don’t know how long you have.

  I suddenly felt homesick for Emma, so when I got home checked my phone to see if she’d texted. She hadn’t and I considered texting her, but reminded myself Emma needed her own space now, her chance to live her life—which was ironic because for the first time in my adult life I had loads of space but nothing to do with it now she wasn’t filling it.

  That night, I lay in Emma’s single bed and gazed at the New York postcard. Who would dance with me in my dreams tonight? I kept thinking about Dan and his big blue eyes. He was younger than me, but seemed older he was so knowledgeable about food and he’d obviously travelled and experienced life. I was sure he would be a very pleasant dinner companion in my dreams; he’d wax lyrical about continental meats and olive trees, and hold my hand in the candlelight while explaining why cheese turned blue. It would make a nice change from Brad Pitt and the boys who, let’s face it, had all become a bit of a cliché for middle aged women like me. I was just another well-married woman, grateful to spend an evening with someone who bothered to make eye contact and whose pants I hadn’t washed a million times.

  The timing of Dan's arrival was perfect. He’d landed here from paradise, just a few doors down from the hairdressers, a post-Christmas gift from the eye-candy fairy for all of us girls to enjoy in the aftermath of tinsel and onslaught of nothingness.

  Walking home from work on those wintry dark evenings with the remnants of a rain shower threatening to ice the roads, I’d pass the lighted deli and see Dan in there, chatting with a customer or busy stocking shelves, and had to stop myself from going in. I found the savoury air and the warmth so comforting, along with his lovely sunshine smile. Some evenings I would power-walk past the deli, pushing away intrusive thoughts about cured meats and bronzed biceps. Yet my mind was often dragged back, kicking and screaming, to Dan in underwear (okay, I was thinking fitted, white Calvin Klein boxers if you must know).

  Perhaps with Craig at home and a nun-like existence at work, I was being starved of male attention and overcompensating? I’d definitely begun to look at men in a different, more sensual way; for example, I’d watch a film and whereas before I’d admire the leading man’s acting, my first thoughts were now, ‘I wonder what he looks like naked? Or, ‘I wonder what he’s like in bed?’

  I was shocked at my own thoughts as they came unbidden into my head. It was getting worse and I couldn’t count the times I’d come home to discover Kevin Bacon naked and ‘oven-ready’ on my kitchen worktops.

  Sue said it was hormonal and I was probably ‘peripausal.’ She often mixed her words up, so I googled it and I think what she meant was I was going through the peri-menopause—but whatever it was, I felt hot in the presence of men... and not in a good way.

  I had to ask myself, was I having a midlife crisis? Didn’t that usually involve a raging affair or a sports car? I was enjoying neither—but if a midlife crisis meant feeling old and insignificant and that life had lost its meaning, that’s exactly what was going on. Since Emma had gone, I was beginning to look at myself in a different way. I had more time to think about my life and where it was going, I also had time to consider the past, play old music, remember old friends and remember the old me. I hadn’t always been a married mum; I’d been young once—and I’d have given a year’s wages and more to feel that way again.

  4

  METAMORPHOSIS FOR A MARRIAGE

  ‘Oh, we had a wonderful evening...’ Sue was saying to Jackie, her client (single mum, double garage) as I returned to the salon the following day. Another day, another revolution of the hamster wheel, I thought.

  Having joined a new online dating website for ‘wealthy men and gorgeous women’, Sue had been on yet another date and this time she felt she might just have cracked it.

  ‘I met him in the restaurant. It was very posh—he ordered for both of us... such a gentleman,’ Sue was saying. ‘Gestapo soup in a big latrine... but I had to send it back. I took one mouthful and it was bloody freezing!’ she screeched. ‘You’d expect something better for £100 a head, wouldn’t you Jackie? It wasn’t just cold, it was icy... I was furious. Keith (six-figure salary, hot tub, wife ran off with the plumber) said, “Oh, no it’s just right—you can’t send it back.” I said, “Watch me!” The wine was nice though; we had a lovely red—cost a fortune. Keith’s an expert... Now, what did he say...?’ She looked to the ceiling, lifting the hairdryer away from Jackie’s head, which apparently aided her memory. ‘What was it now...? Oh, yes. He said it was full-bodied with an afterbirth of oak.’ She nodded, smiled and carried on blow drying vigorously, delighted with her new boyfriend and his extensive wine knowledge.

  I was happy for Sue and glad that after all the dating trauma she may have finally found Mr Right. She’d been abandoned in so many restaurants and night clubs since the divorce, her perspective had become a little skewed. It had reached the point that if a man stayed for dessert, Sue called it an engagement, and if he went back to hers for coffee we were talking bridesmaid colours. Jackie was loving Sue’s account of the date, open-mouthed at the luxurious setting and millionaire companion. This must have been the tenth time I’d heard about it as Sue relived every moment, hairdryer in one hand, iPhone in the other, flicking through photos of Keith and close-ups of every plate of food and glass of wine they’d consumed.

  As she talked, I tried to remember how it felt to be in that first flush of love: the waiting for him to call, the anticipation of seeing him, and I realised I wanted that again. I wasn’t sure I’d survive this brave new world of dating though. Sue said these days it was all mapped out online first, with no opportunity for small talk. She said you already know their profession, marital history and views on Syria from their dating profile on the website. Despite being unhappy with Craig, I wasn’t ready for a life of dating partners who selected each other from a list of self-defined attributes on a page. If I had been single, I’d have wanted nothing less than heart-stopping passion, love at first sight and candlelit romance. Perhaps I was old-fashioned, but the dreamer in me wanted a more organic seduction—just eyes across the room and whispered nothings, without Internet access or Android kisses.

  Despite potential hook-ups with inappropriate men and the inevitable disappointment when they never called, I envied Sue her dates. I longed to wake up in the morning not knowing what was going to happen that day. The idea of going out with a stranger, hearing a new story, holding a different hand, and a stubbly kiss from strange lips thrilled me. Sometimes the thought of Sue’s dates made me feel quite tingly inside, until I remembered it wasn’t going to happen for me. I was going home to Craig, with the same lips and the same old story.

  * * *

  That night Sue let Mandy and Camilla leave at five p.m. as they all had an exciting weekend ahead. Saturday night was always party night in Mandy-land, Sue was going on a date and Camilla was off to a boat race early the next day. ‘Camilla’s jumper must have cost a week’s wages,’ Sue was saying as she wiped scum from the back washes. ‘She doesn’t mention her mum much and her dad must be rolling in it. I think I’ll ask her if they’re divorced,’ she said, clinging to every lifeline. She was so scared of spending time alone, she was becoming slightly desperate. I wiped down mirrors and swept up hair, contemplating how I would fill the next forty-eight hours at
home with Craig without going mad.

  ‘I wonder how many times I’ve cleaned this mirror?’ I said, rubbing hard on the smears. Close up it always looked perfect, but when I stood back, a million more smears would appear in other parts of the glass.

  I loved working at the salon but was beginning to think it had imprisoned me as much as my marriage.

  ‘There must be more to life than doing hair and cleaning up and going home,’ I sighed. ‘I mean, the hair regrows and the salon gets dirty again... it’s like being on a never-ending loop and the only time it stops is when you’re so old you can’t stand up anymore. Then someone else will do our jobs, start all over again, cutting dyeing, sweeping... cleaning... going home.’

  ‘Oh, Faye, you’re depressing me. You really need to jizzy yourself up, love. I know how you feel, but I told you, it’s your hormones—too much cholesterol. You’ll be growing a beard next.’

  ‘How can I jivvy myself up?’ I didn’t correct her—she used the phrase all the time with customers and though it often took them by surprise, we were used to it and spoke ‘Sue’ well after all these years.

  ‘Mandy’s twenty-one and Camilla’s only nineteen; they both seem so young and it makes me feel so old, Sue. Bloody hell—my own daughter thinks I’m a dinosaur, but I don’t feel old. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I’m not nineteen anymore, but inside I feel nineteen: skinny with long hair and a lust for life... Don’t you feel the same Sue?’

  ‘Yeah. Inside... Oh, to be nineteen again. I’d do things so differently. The trouble is when we were young, we didn’t realise how gorgeous we were. We thought we were fat and no one would ever ask us out...’

  ‘Oh, you are so right. I was going through my old rucksack the other day and found a photo of me at sixteen. I’d always thought I was so ugly, and there I was, a beautiful, blossoming teenager... Why didn’t anyone tell me?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have listened, babe. You were a teenager...’

  I nodded and kept scrubbing at the mirror; ‘How does it feel, Sue... you know, to kiss someone after Ken?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, after only kissing your husband all those years, to kiss someone new, on a date... what does that feel like after all this time?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t kiss them. I wouldn’t do it to Ken. It would kill him.’

  ‘Christ, Sue—he’s been doing it to you with the queen of the skies, not to mention all the others over the years. How on earth do you have sex with someone without kissing them... that’s what prostitutes do, don’t they?’

  ‘That’s how I feel with anyone other than Ken. And one day he’ll be back, with my cushions and my throws. Glad I had them Scotchguarded... God only knows what stains would have been on them by now.’

  I ignored this comment. This was about more than cushions. ‘Sue, until you accept he’s gone and isn’t coming back, you will never move on. You have to face what’s happened and embrace being single.’

  ‘I don’t want to be single; I want to be married, with everything as it was. You’re lucky—at least you’re not spending your weekends going from one disaster to another, always hoping this next one will be it.’

  I looked at her. Sue was obviously under the impression that, as I had a husband, all was fine in my world. Here was a sensible, financially independent, attractive woman who was wasting her best years waiting around for Ken who’d betrayed her all their married life. She still believed she needed a man, a husband at any cost.

  ‘Stop looking for another Ken. Just enjoy the ride. If it makes you feel any better, I think you’re the lucky one, Sue. Husbands strangle your dreams and turn you into mush. I can’t even drive with Craig in the passenger seat because I go to pieces waiting for the criticism; I just sit there like an empty vessel waiting for his instructions. It’s not his fault—it’s mine for becoming that way and it’s stupid. I drive perfectly well on my own—but sometimes being married makes you stop believing in yourself.’

  She stopped scrubbing the basins and looked up.

  ‘Is that driving story a metamorphosis for your marriage to Craig?’

  I smiled. ‘I suppose it is a metaphor for our marriage. I’ve always seen being married as safe, cosy... but these days I just feel trapped. I’d give anything for just one more kiss with someone else before I die. I’m not saying I’m giving up on men or the idea of love—I just want something different... before it’s too late.’

  ‘Oh, God. You’re not yourself are you, love?’

  ‘That’s the thing, Sue: I’ve never felt more like me than I do now,’ I said, realising it was true and wanting everything, before it was too late. ‘I want to sit on a white sun lounger by a pool in LA and be seduced by a handsome stranger. I want to dance on a rooftop in New York and be kissed under the stars. I don’t want to die and never have that wonderful rush again.’

  She gave it a moment and carried on scrubbing. ‘When you put it like that, I can see what you mean. You need to decide what you want before it’s too late.’

  Before it’s too late was a phrase I’d been thinking a lot recently.

  She called me later that night after I’d eaten dinner, drunk two glasses of wine and eaten far too many Maltesers. I was half watching a film and leafing through a brochure for Greece I’d picked up earlier that week for recreational purposes only. Craig had gone to bed and I was languishing by an Olympic-sized pool in Mykonos with Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp and a large Greek salad when the phone rang. I was suddenly thrust into the here and the now by the shrill noise. I leapt on the phone hoping it might be Emma—even though I knew it was Saturday night and she would be out with her friends.

  ‘Faye, my love, I’m worried about you,’ was Sue’s opening gambit. ‘What you were saying about the dating and it being exciting and I should go for it. You’re right and... I want that kiss too. I want the earth to move and my heart to flutter and all my insides to turn to jelly, but it never gets that far. And if Mandy makes you feel old, you want to try meeting a stranger on a Friday night in a wine bar full of teenagers. While you’re making small talk, he’s eyeing up the eighteen-year-old in the mini skirt and looking straight past you. Don’t envy me the dates, love. I’m a Gemini; I talk them up... the view’s just as bad from here.’

  I was aware that, by many people’s standards, I was very lucky. I was married with two salaries, our daughter was happy and healthy and I should perhaps have got on with it and stopped longing for something I couldn’t have. But the other side of me (the one who slow-danced with Kevin Bacon and slept with Brad while Angelina was away on UN business) said life’s too short and you have to grab it while you can. ‘Putting up’ with your husband is not a marriage and ‘getting on with it’ is not a life. And to top it all, Ryan Gosling was mixing us a couple of dirty martinis and telling me straight: ‘Take what you want Faye and stop putting everyone else’s happiness before your own,’ he urged. Ryan was a listener and always good with advice... then again, he is a Scorpio. And you know what they say about Scorpios...

  I held the phone but Sue had gone—no doubt to pour herself another glass and think about Ken and his current mistress. We were both as sad and lonely as each other, I thought. Sue and I were living the same life in different houses. But surely Sue’s life wasn’t the only other option open to me was it? There must be something better?

  5

  CAKES, COKE AND A CUTE AUSTRALIAN

  It was a Tuesday morning and I told myself we needed cake in the salon, so I went into the deli on the way to work.

  ‘Cake is like coke to me,’ I heard myself telling Dan as he placed six cupcakes into a lovely brown cardboard box.

  ‘Yeah?’ he sniggered. Those eyes were still smiling at me, making my knees feel empty, just waiting to collapse. I hadn’t met a real-life man I’d found this attractive for a long, long time. The last man I actually fancied in the flesh was a teacher at Emma’s school when she was about eight, so this was big for me and I had to keep it
in perspective. I knew it was a harmless crush. I just loved looking at this guy who had come from halfway around the world, and hearing sunshine and beaches and barbies in his voice, and as I’d walked in that morning he'd seemed pleased to see me. It was all relative—I’d had a whole weekend with Craig and anyone would look gorgeous and pleased to see me after that. Perhaps Dan smiled because he just knew I would say weird things that would make him laugh, and if that was the case it looked like this was his lucky day as I’d only just arrived and was already comparing cupcakes to A Class drugs.

  ‘When I say cake is like my coke... I’ve never actually had cocaine,’ I felt it necessary to point out. ‘I mean, I’m not a drug addict or anything... it’s just, cake is like a drug to me. Not that I’d snort it... I wouldn’t put the cake anywhere other than in my mouth.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ he smiled. Oh, how cute he was. Oh, and how I wished I could stop talking. ‘So I hope you’re going to forget your stupid diet and eat one of these yourself?’ he asked.

  Oh, he remembered I was on a diet. But he didn’t think I should diet.

  ‘Yes, I am definitely going to have one of those,’ I said, pointing to them. He said to come back and tell him what I thought and I smiled, leaving the deli with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. I walked to work thinking how Dan from the deli was the only man I’d ever met who could possibly match up to my fantasy stable of Hollywood hunks.