The Mercury Travel Club: Getting your life back on track has never been more funny!

by Helen Bridgett

  Praise for The Mercury Travel Club

  ‘A joyfully warm and witty read with real sparkle and knowing’ – Helen Lederer

  ‘Engaging characters, heart-warming, inspirational storyline with witty dialogue and loads of laughs. I loved it!’ – Carol Wyer

  ‘A novel about starting over and living life to the full – I loved The Mercury Travel Club’ – Mandy Baggot

  ‘A truly wonderful and exciting debut, The Mercury Travel Club is crammed full of warmth, wit and poignancy. A lovely, witty story about life, love and winning at starting over. I loved it’ – Alex Brown

  ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary meets Last Tango in Halifax in this moving, funny and warm novel about falling apart, putting yourself back together, and living life to the full’ – Laura Lockington

  ‘Entertaining and uplifting’ – Lorelei Mathias

  The

  Mercury

  Travel

  Club

  HELEN BRIDGETT

  Published by RedDoor

  www.reddoorpublishing.com

  © 2017 Helen Bridgett

  The right of Helen Bridgett to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  ISBN 978-1-912022-09-0

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Cover design: Anna Morrison

  www.annamorrison.com

  Typesetting: Tutis Innovative E-Solutions Pte. Ltd

  For my wonderful family and friends – you’re always an inspiration!

  A Fresh Start

  A hearse drives out of the cul-de-sac as I drive in. I hope that’s not an omen.

  Cross Road: genuinely the name of this street. I didn’t pick the place because of the address but I have to confess to enjoying the irony. I couldn’t bear to stay in our old house during the sale; it wasn’t just the thought of people traipsing round judging my taste and rifling through my memories (which would have been bad enough), but no, he brought her into our house.

  ‘Never in our bedroom,’ he yelled at me when I found out, as if bedding your mistress in the spare room somehow puts you on a higher moral plane.

  The thing that annoyed me most was that she burned our only Jo Malone candle. It lived in the spare room, never actually meant to be lit – just to sit there and tell anyone visiting we had impeccable taste. Every woman knows this; I’d never set fire to a £40 candle in anyone else’s house, but she did it in mine. She lit the match that started the row and eventually brought us here.

  So here I am; I think they used to call these ‘starter homes’, small boxes for young couples. Given the obvious funeral taking place, maybe things have come full circle and they’re ‘finishing off homes’ now, last stop before the old fogey centre.

  I can’t see a single person peeking through the blinds to have a nosey at the new neighbour. I might have caught someone’s eye, maybe made a new friend and have someone to talk to. Maybe I’d even get invited to an impromptu party – but nothing. Probably for the best, I’m not sure I’m ready to start explaining myself yet.

  Hi, I’m Angela. My husband ran off with the caterer we hired for our daughter’s graduation party – pleased to meet you.

  It’s New Year’s Eve and I start wondering why they chose today to hold a funeral; I guess because no one is working tomorrow. It’s always best to schedule your exit around the bank holidays.

  They’re funny things, funerals; like all the big moments of life and death they take no time at all. A couple of words and that’s it, next please. I remember when Patty’s husband died, she looked at her watch as the congregation were leaving and said, ‘A few thousand pounds for twenty minutes? He wouldn’t have been happy with that.’

  It made us smile because she was right, he wouldn’t have been.

  Right then, Mrs (or I suppose its Ms now), stop this and perk up; this place is carefully designed to cause no offence: neutral magnolia walls, teal carpet and white gloss doors. The air has a whiff of industrial cleaning about it; the landlord probably bought the ‘new tenant’ package. Everything is packaged nowadays.

  Wash that man right outta your life? Certainly madam – would you like the bronze, silver or gold package? The gold comes with free mistress removal.

  I’ve bought a new bed and sofa, which were thankfully delivered on time, and I’ve unpacked what I need to: a ready meal, bottle of wine and a pint of milk. At the moment it still feels as if I’m staying in a holiday cottage for a few days. But this is it. This silent, easy to maintain house is all I have to show for twenty-four years and eleven months of marriage (yep, I didn’t even get a silver wedding anniversary bash). I mustn’t get morose. It’s over, but my life isn’t.

  Despite hankering after a party invitation, I do want to be alone on my first night here. I thought it would be a good time to reflect and make plans for the future; sitting here now, I’m not sure what I’m going to do. It’s a funny night to spend on your own. Ordinarily I’d just watch television, but tonight it’s all people having a wonderful time. I must definitely avoid alcohol at all costs: do not open the wine, do not get drunk or maudlin. Have a bath, an early night and wake up gloriously refreshed for a dignified start to the next stage of my life.

  The single years.

  Oh Lord, what just happened? I wake up with that scary sensation; I have no idea where I am or what I’ve done to get here and I don’t recognise the room at first glance. Out of habit, I peer across the bed at the next pillow but there’s still no one there. At least I didn’t throw myself on any random passer-by or accost a new neighbour. Or if I did, the vision of me drowning in my own drool wasn’t particularly attractive and he didn’t stay. I also bypassed the bath last night and collapsed fully dressed with a full face of make-up; my pillow case looks as if Robert Smith has slept on it.

  I remember switching on the TV and then convincing myself I’d stick to one glass of wine if I opened the bottle. There are some lessons you don’t learn no matter how old you get.

  Although every brain cell is begging me not to, I have to lift my concrete head up and take it downstairs to find the paracetamol. The kitchen is like a crime scene. I could imagine CSI dissecting the evidence.

  ‘Wine rack empty and lasagne not cooked,’ they’d note in their authoritative way.

  ‘Drinking on an empty stomach, nasty. How much wine?’

  They’d shine one of their torches into the recycling corner (even when plastered I seem to be environmentally responsible).

  ‘Looks like two empties – a champagne and a cab sauv.’

  (Did I really open the champagne too? And not just open but consume?)

  ‘Good taste, but a lot for one little lady.’

  They’d nod in knowing agreement.

  My phone is sitting on the worktop and with trepidation I check I didn’t make any drunken calls to my ex; I sigh with relief when I’m assured otherwise. It lights up with Patty’s daft photo and I realise I’ve had it on silent all night. I tell myself I wanted to avoid well-wishers, but the truth is I was more afraid that no one would ring. I hug my little phone as I see lots of missed calls around midnight and just as many text messages with kisses on the bottom; it’s like a v
irtual embrace and I’m so relieved that people care. Zoe tried to call so many times before and after midnight; she would have been working the room at the anointed hour.

  I feel terrible for not being sober enough to pick up the phone to my one and only daughter. Discarded wife and neglectful mother; the accolades are piling up this year. Zoe will be my first call as soon as Patty gets off the line. In my hungover state, the saving grace is that Patty talks so much I don’t usually need to think or say anything.

  ‘What did you get up to last night?’ asks Patty. ‘An orgy with the new neighbours?’

  I snort; it counts as an answer.

  ‘Guess where I ended up?’ she continues. ‘Onstage at the Rose & Crown. Guess what I sang? “Like a Virgin”. It was absolutely hilarious...’

  This is what a conversation with Patty is like. I can drift off for hours and she doesn’t notice. It’s very soothing, almost like being in a coma yet knowing that there’s someone on the outside trying to make contact.

  I’ve known Patty (she was actually christened Patience – it doesn’t fit at all) for over thirty years (ouch). She’s four years older than me and was my supervisor when I joined the airline (being a stewardess was a glamorous career back then, before budget flights). Patty has always been the biggest personality in the room. I’m sure if we were ever invited to the White House, all eyes would be on her. She’d also get the President singing; an ex-drama school student, she gets everyone singing and if The X Factor had been around when we were young, she’d have won. She frequently tells me that she still has time to be the next Susan Boyle.

  She usually does Cyndi Lauper numbers, but I suppose ‘Time After Time’ isn’t really a New Year crowd-pleaser. Also the Rose & Crown doesn’t have a stage, so she was in all likelihood standing on a table. I don’t mention this.

  ‘So have you?’ she asks.

  Blimey, a break in conversation, and I’m expected to reply.

  ‘Have I what?’ I say.

  ‘Made any resolutions? New Year, fresh start etc., there must be loads you want to do now you’ve lost all that baggage.’

  Invent a way of drinking wine without having a hangover? That’s the first thought to enter my head and I’d probably win the Nobel Prize for it. I drift mentally to the prize-giving where the room raises a glass of champagne to me; the imaginary smell of it makes me gag.

  ‘I’m not ready yet,’ I sigh. ‘I just want to unpack, recover and get my bearings first.’

  ‘I’m not going to let you stew,’ she replies. ‘No wasting your life away as divorce debris.’

  ‘Give me until the end of the month,’ I say. ‘You know what I’m like.’

  ‘You must be the only person who makes their New Year’s resolutions in February,’ says Patty. ‘OK, you’ve got till then or I’ll come round and sort you out myself.’

  Heaven forbid.

  With a final, ‘I’m always here for you’, she’s gone and the house is silent again.

  Years ago I came to the conclusion that January 1st is the very worst day to start any resolutions as you’re always too tired or hungover. So I give myself a month of grace and start in February. It’s worked so far; just as everyone else is giving up, I’m just getting going. And you only have to stick to them for eleven months. Well, ten months, because let’s face it no one sticks to anything in December.

  Now I have to redeem myself on behalf of all other errant mothers in the world and phone my daughter.

  Meet the Family

  Toad. What a complete and utter toad.

  Here I am, a fortnight in and doing just fine. I’ve been to the sales, I’ve bought cushions, I’ve bought some microwaveable vegetables, made healthy meals for one and I haven’t had a drink. I’m being mature and sensible; you might even say, acting my age. Then, I open the bloody paper and there they are:

  The A-Team: Alan Hargreaves and partner Amanda winning a luxury holiday at the glittering New Year Charity Ball.

  They are not the A-team: we were the A-Team – Alan and Angie. Doing everything together and sticking by each other no matter what. That was our nickname, I made it up. How dare he give it to his new slut.

  They’re obviously deliriously happy in the photo; all glammed up in black tie, sipping the champagne and nibbling hors d’oeuvres, no doubt. I bet she took her make-up off before she went to bed. That should have been me? How did we get here? The doorbell rings.

  ‘You’ve seen it?’ asks my daughter.

  Zoe can see me holding the offending article but has a copy with her just in case I’m the last to find out. She always was a daddy’s girl and was devastated when this first happened, especially as her graduation party had been the incendiary event. Since the divorce finalised she has tried her best to be neutral, but she knows the photograph and him using our family nickname can only hurt me.

  ‘Why didn’t you mention it when we spoke?’ I ask.

  ‘I didn’t want you to think that I’d chosen to spend New Year with them; I didn’t have a choice. You know that, don’t you?’ she pleads.

  ‘Et tu, Brute,’ I think to myself, rather unfairly.

  She’s the hotel assistant manager, so I knew she would be there, but still I feel the knife twisting.

  ‘You’ve got this place looking nice,’ she says looking round.

  I’m not going to change the subject or do small talk. I really can’t. Not with my daughter. It must come across as surly and she lets out an exasperated sigh.

  ‘It’s happened, Mum. He’s a bastard...’

  Yippee.

  ‘... but it’s happened. Dad’s getting on with his life, you need to now.’

  Three thoughts enter my head:

  1. What the hell does ‘getting on with your life’ actually mean? (What precisely do I get on with?)

  2. Why do people say it when the life you knew is over?

  And...

  3. I’m getting advice from a twenty-three-year-old. Shouldn’t she be having the relationship crises and turning to me?

  ‘... come on, Mum, forget him. Let’s go to lunch, I’ll drive,’ says Zoe.

  I find myself drifting in and out of most conversations these days, then suddenly they’re over and, like today, I’ve agreed to something.

  ‘I’ll wait until you’ve had a shower, you’ll feel better,’ she adds.

  I must look worse than I realise.

  Half an hour later I’m refreshed and presentable. I get into Zoe’s stylish Fiat 500 and giggle to myself as I see many residents of Cross Road being picked up by their kids. The old folks’ weekly outing; I hope they’ve all remembered their teeth.

  When we get to the restaurant, Zoe insists on a table by the window. I watch her as she glances through the menu and then asks about the provenance of the beef. I know this isn’t a vanity: she loves her food and the hotel she manages is gaining a reputation for dining since she joined it. She checks that I’d be happy with a chateaubriand before ordering it.

  ‘After all, we’re celebrating a new start,’ she says when I try to insist she doesn’t need to spend this much on me.

  I can see that an assertive young woman has taken over my baby girl’s body and I approve wholeheartedly.

  It shouldn’t surprise me. When she was five years old she took hold of a menu and very calmly ordered ‘soup then peas’ from the waiter who was offering her fish fingers. At eleven, she made her sports teacher go through the rules of hockey while she wrote them down before the game. She then held them out to the referee each time she thought there’d been an error.

  At university she got a first in hospitality management and now she’s on a fast track programme with the DeWynter Hotel chain, looking every inch the professional that she is.

  Yes, my daughter has grown into a very kind but serious young woman, the image of her father with her hazel eyes, dark blonde hair and dimples. I haven’t seen the dimples much recently as she’s all but stopped smiling since the divorce.

  I think back to my tw
enties with Patty, all the fun we had, and just hope Alan and I haven’t destroyed her chances of that.

  ‘Work is fun,’ she replies when I ask her about it.

  ‘What about laughing, dancing, friends and boyfriends?’

  ‘The last thing I want is a relationship,’ she says.

  ‘We did have some good times you know. I did love him,’ I remind her.

  ‘It’s not enough though, is it?’ she whispers and I take her hand.

  She looks up at me and smiles with her mouth but not her eyes.

  * * *

  I’m back in the office today and Charlie has the same article open on his desk.

  ‘Any chance of your Alan spending those holiday vouchers with us,’ he asks.

  ‘You’re not suggesting I ask him?’ I say.

  ‘You could get Zoe to drop a hint,’ he suggests. ‘It’d be nice to get a few thousand pounds worth of sales in the till. Didn’t you want to do a few more days’ work?’

  And that’s the truth; right now I work part-time, which was fine as a second income, but I could do with a bit more now I’m an independent woman.

  Charlie started Mercury Travel ten years ago when he finally realised that his Rep days were over. I joined eighteen months ago and there’s also a young Australian girl, Josie, working here. She came to England backpacking hoping that one day she’d meet the perfect English gent; the business is a bit like a sanctuary for losers in love.

  I used to help Alan with his business, then one day he persuaded me I should have my own interests and perhaps find a job which would ‘get me out of the house’. Now that I think about it, that was probably the start of the disintegration and he was lining things up to leave. I shake the thoughts away – can’t dwell on that now.

  We’re a boutique agency in a bohemian suburb of Manchester where independent shops tend to thrive. We specialise in a more personalised service for older clientele but that doesn’t protect us from the internet completely. Our customers like something a bit different, so we’re often searching out empty-nester adventures, but they could replace us with their teenage kids if said children could be prised away from games and social media for long enough. We tell our clients, ‘Yes you could do this online but you can also afford to let us do the dreary searching.’