Turning Forty

by Mike Gayle

  All feelings of liberation are curtailed however when my phone vibrates. It’s a text from Abi: There’s nothing on telly, entertain me Beckford! Really looking forward to coffee tomorrow, Abi xxx

  Abi. Somehow in the time that it’s taken me to arrive at a party and kiss a virtual stranger I have forgotten that I am supposed to be seeing her tomorrow. This is typical of the kind of luck that always comes my way. I go weeks without so much as a sniff of interest and then the one weekend in which I have a date with a funny, pretty and charming woman I have to walk into a party in Balsall Heath of all places and get jumped on by a girl like Rosa.

  The best I can do in the circumstances is to make the courageous decision not to make any decisions and so I tap out the following message: Can’t entertain you right now, am getting seriously hard stares from the people I’m out with who think it’s rude to text gorgeous and funny women when I should actually be soaking up the riveting anecdotes about their trekking holiday in the Himalayas. As I press send I look up in time to see Rosa returning holding a plastic beaker of wine and a bottled lager.

  ‘Texting your other lady friends are you?’ she teases, handing me the lager.

  ‘Hardly,’ I reply.

  She raises an eyebrow. Clearly I’m a much worse liar than I thought. ‘Are you sure you haven’t got a girlfriend?’

  ‘Hand on heart, guv, there is no lady in my life. But in the interests of transparency and because I’m a lot more drunk than I intended I have to tell you that I do have a sort of ex-wife.’

  ‘Sort of?’

  ‘We’re separated.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. How long were you together?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘But you don’t live together?’

  ‘She’s in London selling our house and I’m up here licking my wounds.’

  ‘I knew you were damaged goods the moment I saw you in the shop,’ says Rosa and she touches my hand briefly. It’s an unconscious act of pure tenderness that makes me want to kiss her all over again. ‘You just had that look about you.’

  She leads me to the hallway to get away from the music and we sit and talk in earnest. She tells me that her academic parents named her Rosa after the America civil rights icon Rosa Parks and I tell her that my parents named me Matthew because it was the only name they could both agree on. I also learn that Rosa’s a visual arts relationship manager at the West Midlands office of Arts Council England and when I ask what that is she explains that she OKs funding for visual arts projects and then checks in on them from time to time. She loves her job and I tell her that it’s good to love your job because otherwise it can really rain on your parade. Inevitably she asks me a few questions about the shop and what I’m doing in Birmingham. In the light of my date with Abi I try my best to keep it all vague and she seems to get the message. Before long we’ve left all the autobiographical stuff by the wayside and are getting stuck into films, music, places we’ve visited and places we’re desperate to see. Suddenly she stands up, and asks me if I want to dance.

  I’ve only ever been passable at dancing, just enough sway to look like I’m enjoying myself but nowhere near enough to be eye-catchingly cool. The last time I really danced was the night of my thirty-ninth birthday when after an evening in various bars with Lauren and our friends we ended the night in a club in the West End. Although my recollection is impaired I’m sure that I’d danced pretty well that night, all things considered, but given that nearly a year has elapsed who knows what might have happened to my dancing skills? And more to the point, now that I am nearly forty there’s every chance that I might inadvertently start dancing ‘from the knees’, and now is certainly not the time to debut my ‘dad’ dancing to the world.

  I briefly think about searching out Gerry but if I do this there is a danger that I will break the spell between Rosa and me. I need this girl to like me. I need for her to want to take me home. I need for her to believe that I’m not completely damaged goods and if dancing is what I’ve got to do to make that happen then dancing is what I’m going to do.

  ‘OK, you’re on,’ I say, and I allow her to lead me back into the living room. I have no idea what the song is. To me it sounds like twelve different songs being played simultaneously. I look over at Rosa and she flashes me a heartfelt grin as though my fulfilment of her request has satisfied something deep in her soul. Moving to the music I try to channel the spirit of my eighteen-year-old self who used to be a lot less self-conscious about this sort of thing and I think it works. Because while I’m not in receipt of a standing ovation when the song comes to an end on the plus side no one’s pointing and laughing. More importantly, Rosa’s fingers are now firmly entwined with my own and she looks blissfully happy. It feels like for ever since I’ve been able to make someone happy just by holding their hand and I find myself wishing that I might always be able to make her feel this good.

  29

  Rosa tells me that her head is feeling a bit light and that she could really do with some air. I suggest that we go outside and she tells me to wait by the front door while she gets her coat. I’m about to leave the room when Gerry intercepts me. His grinning face says it all. ‘All right, stud? What’s going on here then?’

  ‘The truth? I have no idea.’

  ‘I couldn’t believe it when she just pounced on you like that. I had to be in a band to get that kind of attention! Who is she? Do you know her?’

  ‘About as well as you do. She’s Elephant-Dung Paper Girl.’

  Gerry raises a knowing eyebrow. ‘And she was on you like that just because you sold her novelty paper? I’ll have to man the tills more often!’

  ‘You, wish! I’ll have you know that Rosa and I have really good chemistry. Plus, she’s drunk a bucketload so I’m guessing her judgement’s not up to much.’

  I look over my friend’s shoulder and spot Rosa. She’s wearing a bright red coat and carrying two bottled beers. Even drunk she looks amazing. I look back at Gerry. ‘I’ll see you later, mate.’

  Gerry gives me a wink laden with innuendo. ‘I doubt it.’

  We walk down the front path past a group of smokers talking, laughing and joking with each other. One of them, a cool-looking young guy wearing a trilby, nods in Rosa’s direction as we pass calling out: ‘All right, Ms Logan?’ but she barely acknowledges him. He reminds me of a mannequin I’d seen in Top Man when I’d tried to update my wardrobe. It too looked as though it had dressed in the dark.

  ‘Who’s your friend?’ I ask as we sit down on the wall across the front garden.

  She hands me one of the beers. ‘You don’t miss a trick, do you?’

  ‘I’m oblivious to most things but this was impossible to ignore given the daggers being thrown in my direction. When did you split up?’

  ‘A while ago. This is his party and this is the house he and his friends rent.’

  ‘What did he do wrong?’

  She studies me carefully. ‘What makes you so sure he did anything wrong? It could’ve been me.’

  ‘Again, I refer you to the daggers. Guys don’t throw looks like that when they’re in the right. He wants you back because he did something for which you won’t forgive him. The daggers are for your benefit as much as mine. Yes, he’d like to punch my lights out but he’s actually more interested in letting you know that he knows you’re trying to make him jealous and it’s working.’

  ‘You’re pretty good at this, aren’t you?’ she says.

  ‘Not really, I’ve just been around the block a few times.’

  Rosa smiles mischievously. ‘And how many times would that be?’

  ‘For the sake of argument, let’s say forty. After all, what’s a month or two between friends?’

  It feels good to have got the age thing off my chest. I’d been wondering when it would come up. I had thought it might raise its head when I mentioned I was separated but it almost felt like she was deliberately avoiding the question, perhaps because she feared the answer. Anyway, it’s ou
t now, and there’s nothing I can do to put the genie back in the bottle.

  She looks at me disbelievingly. ‘You’re really forty?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘You don’t look it.’

  ‘I’d say thank you but the truth is it’s less about how you look than how you feel. And I feel old.’ I take a swig of beer. ‘How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘What if I do?’

  ‘Then I suppose I’ll have to guess.’

  She puts the beer bottle up to her lips and for a moment I think about following my current line of questioning with a kiss but having studied her youthful skin these past few minutes under the unflattering xenon glow of a Balsall Heath street lamp I have a horrible feeling that she’s much younger than I’d like her to be.

  She takes another swig of her beer and then sets it down on the wall: ‘Be my guest,’ she says.

  ‘I want you to be older.’

  She arches one of her carefully maintained eyebrows. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because then it wouldn’t feel so weird. I was hoping you might have a really youthful face but be in your late twenties but you’re not, are you?’

  ‘How old would you like me to be?’

  ‘In an ideal world, you’d be over thirty-five and I’d fall in love with you right now . . . but in the real world I’d settle for anything over twenty-five. Please tell me I’m right.’

  She rests her head on my shoulder. Her hair smells unapologetically feminine. I inhale and hold my breath even though I know her answer is going to break my heart. ‘Looks like you’re out of luck. I’m twenty-three.’

  Twenty-three. Between her birth and my own there’s a whole seventeen-year-old who’s halfway through their A levels. No matter how much I like her it’s way too much of a gap for me to contemplate this going any further. After all I’m not Gerry. Or Jason Cleveland. Or for that matter Hugh Hefner.

  She kisses my cheek. ‘The age thing, it’s freaking you out, isn’t it? ‘

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘You shouldn’t let it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Age is just a number.’

  ‘And that right there is why this right here would never work. No one but the seriously deluded believes age is just a number. It’s not a number, it’s an incontrovertible fact. Like, I don’t know, being tall . . . having red hair . . . or being allergic to oysters.’

  ‘You’re allergic to oysters?’

  ‘Actually, no, but that’s not really the point.’

  Rosa laughs. ‘All night I’ve been thinking about what you remind me of and I’ve just realised that it’s a passage in The Velveteen Rabbit. Have you read it?’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘I used to have it years ago but I lost it somewhere along the way. I’d love to read it again.’

  ‘I’ll look out for a copy in the shop if you like.’

  ‘You’d do that for me?’

  ‘I like to look after my customers. What does it say?’

  ‘There’s no point in my half remembering it and spoiling the effect. When you find it, I’ll read the passage to you and you’ll see how right I was.’

  Rosa leans in and kisses me. It’s a good few minutes before either of us comes up for air and even then I’m less bothered about breathing than I am about wanting to kiss her again.

  ‘Look,’ I say, trying to come to my senses, ‘I’d better be going.’

  ‘Before you do something you’ll regret?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  ‘I’m like forbidden fruit to you, aren’t I? You have no idea how fantastic that makes me feel. I feel positively goddess-like. Is this some kind of reverse psychology trick that you learned from your twenty years in the dating world? Because if it is, it’s working.’

  ‘Sadly, it’s not a trick,’ I reply. ‘I really ought to go.’ As I stand up I catch a glimpse of Trilby Boy and his hard stare. ‘He’s still looking.’

  ‘That’s because he’s still jealous.’ She pats my jacket pocket, pulls out my phone and adds her number to my address book. ‘You know the Cross in Moseley? Well, I’ll be there next Friday with some mates, you should come along – you know, just as friends if that’s all you can handle right now.’

  ‘Friends?’

  She crosses her heart with the index finger of her right hand. ‘Why? Is that illegal too?’

  ‘You’re not making this easy.’

  ‘It’s not my job to. Having semi-seduced you once I sort of want to do it again. It was fun.’

  This is killing me. ‘And on that note. I’ll take my leave.’

  We head back inside, past Trilby Boy and his daggers, and she doesn’t let up with the flirting even for a second. I wonder briefly if her behaviour tonight hadn’t been about putting Trilby Boy in his place but decide against it. Even from the little that I know of her I can tell she’s not like that. Whether I want to believe it or not, there’s a good chance that she actually likes me and this knowledge alone makes me feel a million feet tall.

  I look around for Gerry while Rosa waits in the hallway but he’s nowhere to be seen. I think about calling him but all I want to do is go.

  ‘So,’ says Rosa putting her arms round me. ‘This is it then?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘We would’ve made a great-looking couple.’

  ‘Absolutely. We would’ve been the best.’

  ‘And I would have been an amazing girlfriend.’

  She leans in and we kiss briefly. If there ever was a kiss that had the power to change a mind, this is it. I can feel my resolve crumbling and if I’m not careful then anything I have even close to a conscience will be crushed.

  ‘So about next weekend . . .’ she says as we part.

  ‘Somehow I don’t think that’s going to happen.’

  ‘I can’t say anything to change your mind?’

  ‘I’d prefer not to take the chance.’

  Rosa smiles. ‘You should never say never, Matt. Who knows what you might miss out on in life with an attitude like that?’

  30

  Gerry greets me the following Monday morning with a round of applause as he opens the door to let me into the shop. ‘And here he is – the man of the hour – the one, the only, Matthew Beckford!’

  The other volunteers all stop what they’re doing and look perplexed.

  ‘Is it his birthday?’ asks Odd Owen.

  ‘I think he must have pulled over the weekend,’ says Steve the Student.

  ‘Gerry’s just having his little joke,’ I reply, keen to keep news of my love life away from the other volunteers. ‘Morning all!’

  I dump my bag in the office and return as Gerry calls a morning meeting.

  ‘First order of business—’

  ‘We’re out of milk,’ says Odd Owen.

  ‘No we’re not,’ says Gerry. ‘I looked in the fridge just this morning. There’s at least two-thirds of one of those big bottles in there.’

  ‘It’s gone off,’ says Odd Owen. ‘I smelt it.’

  Gerry looks confused. ‘But you don’t drink tea, do you Owen?’

  Owen shakes his head. ‘Just Pepsi for me, thanks.’

  ‘So why are you smelling the milk?’

  Owen looks down at the floor and Gerry’s momentarily lost for words.

  ‘Right, well . . . I’ll definitely look into the milk situation.’

  Gerry soldiers on with the morning meeting. There’s a new notification about being on the lookout for dodgy twenty-pound notes, a warning that the card machine has been playing up again but the man won’t be out to fix it until next Monday, a memo from head office praising the shop for hitting its targets in the last quarter and the announcement that a new work rota has been pinned to the board in the stockroom.

  ‘Are you quite finished?’ asks Anne, in her usual no-nonsense manner, just as Gerry is about to wrap things up. ‘Only some of us have got quite a lot of stock to get through.’
/>   With that the meeting falls apart as Anne marches back to the stockroom, Steve opens the door to a large bearded man banging on the window and holding up several bags of donations and Odd Owen wanders over to the shelves, picks up a Stephen King novel, positions himself behind the till and begins reading.

  Gerry looks at me. ‘It’s going to be one of those days isn’t it?’

  ‘I think you may be right. Coffee break?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  We leave the shop and head to Annabel’s. I can see Gerry wants to ask about the weekend and much to my surprise he restrains himself until after we’ve been served and are sitting down at a table.

  ‘So come on then. How was it?’

  ‘How was what?’

  ‘Friday night! With that girl!’

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘What do you mean, nothing happened? She was all over you!’

  ‘And she was twenty-three!’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘What do you mean, “So what?” She would’ve been two years old the year Newhall Lovers came out. Doesn’t that freak you out?’

  ‘Of course it doesn’t! Kara’s only twenty-six and you don’t hear me making a big deal about it. Age doesn’t matter. It’s people that count. I’ve met women my age that aren’t even half as mature as Kara. The thing you should be asking yourself is, did you like her?’

  ‘I thought she was amazing. We didn’t stop talking the entire time we were together. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s like the biggest cliché in the book, does it?’

  ‘So you don’t want to see her because you’re afraid of being a cliché? I had no idea you were so fragile.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with being fragile and everything to do with not wanting to be the bloke that tries to hang on to his youth by dressing like a teenager and hanging out with girls half his–,’ I stop myself quickly. ‘Not like you, of course, you’re different. You can work it somehow and not make it look sleazy or desperate because it’s not a pose. I think what I’m trying to say is this whole being young when you’re not actually young is a bit like being able to pull off wearing a hat without looking like an idiot. Some people can do it, others can’t and I am definitely not a hat man.’