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

by Helen Bridgett

  I wasn’t surprised by this: Daniel Craig emerging from the ocean in his trunks is Josie’s screensaver.

  ‘This isn’t helping,’ I said to them, looking for a little more inspiration than this.

  ‘OK then, Little Miss Serious. Making what I have perfect?’ said Charlie.

  I nodded.

  ‘Well I started working in travel to have adventures and yet I’m in a shop all day worrying about keeping it open. So I’d get out more – join people on their trips and make sure they had a good time; that way, they’d book again.’

  ‘You’d be good at that,’ piped Josie, and he would.

  ‘I’d also have someone who loved me, we’d have the best dinner parties and you’d both be invited.’

  Great, I thought, I have somewhere to eat in Charlie’s fantasy life.

  ‘Hubby and I would be pillars of the community – we’d raise money for charity and live happily ever after.’ He bowed theatrically and we gave him a round of applause before cutting it short as a customer walked in.

  Throughout the week I found myself pondering the circumstances of everyone who sat in front of me, just wondering whether they were living their perfect lives, whether this trip around the Black Forest or to a Greek Island was part of that. In the end, Charlie’s hadn’t been that much of a stretch; I wonder why he hasn’t done it.

  I thought Patty might be slightly more ambitious when I ask her the same question but she ducks it by saying she wants ‘constant gratuitous sex’. As far as I know she hasn’t had sex since her hubby died four years ago, although she talks about it a lot.

  Anyway, back to today and my checklist. I glance at the clock; bugger, 1.30 and I’ve missed spuds-in time – so much for foolproof. I increase the temperature to compensate, not sure whether this is the right thing to do. My mother was annoyingly accurate about my cooking prowess; I’ve been on a prod-prod ping-ping diet since moving here. Anyway, the chicken is starting to smell wonderful – I hope she’s not a veggie. The doorbell rings.

  ‘Too late to ask now,’ I tell myself.

  Caroline is carrying a large hessian shopping bag and pulls out a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

  ‘I thought this might go,’ she says handing the bottle to me.

  ‘It will indeed,’ I reply, ‘follow me.’ We head into the kitchen and I pour us each a glass.

  ‘Nearly ready,’ I say, pretending to know what I’m doing.

  Caroline peers into the oven glancing at the temperature.

  ‘Smells delicious; shall I cover the chicken so it doesn’t dry out?’ she asks.

  ‘Just what I was about to do,’ I lie handing her the roll of foil. ‘Why don’t you supervise the oven while I tackle the veg?’

  Caroline happily accepts her new responsibility and I spy her turning the temperature down as I check the microwave instructions on the ready-prepared veg.

  After a pretty perfect lunch, we move into the living room.

  ‘Shall we start?’ asks Caroline and I nod.

  She reaches into her bag again and this time pulls out a magic wand.

  ‘Do you have a hatstand in there too?’ I ask as she hands the wand to me. It’s very pink and sparkly, not something I’d expect Caroline to own, but I’m happy to play along.

  Next out of the bag is a chart with different aspects of my life listed: my love life, career, finances, social life, and body and mind. Caroline lays it out in front of me.

  ‘I want you to think about each aspect of your life separately,’ she explains. ‘Tell me how you feel about your current situation and give it a mark out of ten. We’ll jot that number down in this box.’ She points at the chart.

  ‘Then you’ll close your eyes and wave your magic wand. You’ll tell me how you wish things were in a perfect scenario and what you would have to do to score ten for each aspect. We’ll jot down these actions here.’

  ‘Can I say “whoosh” every time I wave it?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s compulsory,’ she smiles. ‘Now where would you like to start?’

  I beg her to leave my love life to the end; I don’t want to start with such a low score.

  ‘No problem, let’s start by transforming your career, what would perfect look like?’

  I give it a six out of ten right now. I love travel, love the shop and the guys. They’ve been my salvation and it fills me with dread that one day they might not be there.

  And what would I do to get to ten out of ten? I have to confess, Charlie’s dream struck a chord. Travel should be a lot more fun – we have to put the pizzazz back into it and I want to play a bigger role in it all, somehow secure our futures.

  Whoosh – it will happen.

  ‘And your finances, how would they improve?’

  I give this seven out of ten as money isn’t an issue but the source of it is. I have a healthy divorce settlement and when the house sells I’ll have another lump sum. We’ve lived there since we were married and in that time the value of our big family house has risen so much that neither Alan nor I will struggle to buy a smaller place. If we’d still been together, we might have downsized and bought an apartment in Spain when we retired. Not that we ever discussed that; it’s just another thing we won’t do but they might.

  ‘I have enough, I just wish I’d earned it myself,’ I tell Caroline.

  I spent the many years of our marriage helping Alan set up his now thriving business, although I doubt he credits me with anything. He sells security systems and I persuaded him to aim for business contracts rather than domestic ones. I didn’t take a salary at the time or a share when we split up. I suppose I didn’t really believe it was actually happening to me. Now I can’t stop thinking about Amanda and her business; Alan probably respects her as a real businesswoman and she’ll never be waiting for a divorce settlement. I wave the wand.

  ‘In a perfect world, I’d like to prove my independence,’ I say with my eyes still closed. ‘I’m a successful businesswoman. Also, I’m not used to spending on myself, so in my perfect world, I’d not cling to every penny as if it were my last. I’d make my own money and enjoy it a bit more.’

  I open my eyes and wave the wand once more for luck – whoosh – oh this transformation lark is so easy.

  ‘Excellent,’ says Caroline as she notes down what I say. ‘Social life next?’

  I give this an eight out of ten as it’s not going too badly and if I keep up what I’ve started I’ll get to ten. Then we move on to body and mind.

  ‘Do you have a full-length mirror anywhere?’ asks Caroline.

  We head upstairs to my bedroom and Caroline guides me in with my eyes closed.

  ‘Before you score this aspect,’ she says, ‘I want you to picture what you look like right now.’

  I try to remember when I last looked at myself properly, probably my birthday night when I got dressed up to go out with Patty. I had to put on a little more make-up than I used to but I don’t recall looking too bad so I give myself a six out of ten.

  ‘Now keep that picture in your mind,’ instructs Caroline, ‘and open your eyes.’

  I gasp as I compare the real reflection with the imaginary one: the woman in front of me is at least ten years older. When did I get so old? And thin? No wonder people send me out for cake all the time. The clothes I’m wearing don’t help. When I threw on the grey marl sweater, I thought it said ‘casual and carefree’; instead it says ‘cast aside and careless’. I take it all in. My once glossy brown hair has stopped shining and now has a grey landing strip that a 747 could land on. I have a mono-brow that Frida Kahlo would be proud of and which scowls down hiding the green eyes that Alan used to love.

  After leaving the airline and having Zoe, I always carried a little extra weight on my tall frame but argued that it suited me, and anyway, it was recompense for having to fit into a stewardess uniform all those years. In my heyday, Alan once told me I looked like Catherine Zeta-Jones; now I look like her husband, pre-op.

  Why has no one told me I look this bad?
Have they got used to it? I promise to take myself in hand, although aiming for ten out of ten might be a bit too ambitious right now – I’ll aim for seven.

  ‘Shall we go back downstairs and look at your love life now?’ asks Caroline.

  As we leave the bedroom, I glance back at myself and reflect that it’s not surprising he left me. After all, I committed that most heinous of crimes: ‘letting myself go’. Caroline pulls me away from the mirror, trying to reassure me that the break-up resulted in my shambolic appearance and it was not the other way round. I wish I could believe her.

  ‘The question is do you want a relationship in the future?’ she asks when we’re safely back in the living room.

  I can’t contemplate having to find another man yet equally cannot envisage every day for the rest of my life being spent alone. I never thought I’d be facing this at my age.

  ‘If my magic wand life is perfect,’ I say, ‘then yes – there is someone who loves me.’

  ‘Then we’ll plan a few activities to get you out there – gently,’ she reassures.

  Caroline leaves me with my chart and tells me that she’ll be checking up on me. After saying goodbye, I go back upstairs and put on my old jeans. They are way too big now; I guess six months of divorce does that to a girl.

  ‘Time to sort yourself out,’ I tell my rather forlorn reflection.

  Arise Bo Peep

  Today I take myself into my favourite department store, House of Fraser. There are more upmarket places I could go but I’m not quite ready for the uber-confident sales ladies of either Selfridges or Harvey Nichols. This store is more my level at the moment and I’m on a mission to try out one of their ‘eyebrow bars’; I’ve seen other people do it and let’s face it, Frida has to go.

  I pay my money and lean back in the chair as instructed hoping that my legs are not in an unladylike display. I let the beautician ply her trade. Wow it hurts; I’m not sure when being tortured in public became acceptable but these bars seem to be everywhere and no one seems to be screaming or cringing quite as much as I am. I now completely understand the notion that Beauty = Pain. I hope it’s worth it when the raging red soreness calms down.

  I thank her for torturing me and work my way through the beauty booths being sprayed with every fragrance available. I’m persuaded to buy an excruciatingly expensive moisturiser which contains plankton and guarantees to plump my skin and turn back the aging process, both of which I am in dire need of. I silence the inner voices who scream at me throughout the sales speech, ‘How are they allowed to get away with saying this? You know it’s impossible.’ Although in fairness, I have never seen a wrinkled whale and I believe they eat loads of the stuff. Yes, I do know that’s entirely down to the fact I’ve never actually seen any whales.

  Next, the hairdresser works her magic and achieves this without inflicting any pain at all. She dyes the landing strip and restores a bounce I haven’t seen in a long time. I get in the lift to go home but can’t stop staring at the reflection of a woman with shiny chestnut hair and perky eyebrows. She looks so good; she deserves some new clothes. Although the comfy knitwear department is calling out my name, I resist and press the button for the trendy floor. I splurge on a wardrobe Patty might approve of in a size smaller than either of us has ever worn.

  On the way home, I catch a glimpse of this new woman in shop windows; she looks like a stranger, a happy stranger. She looks a lot more confident than I feel.

  To help complete the metamorphosis, when I get home I take a bin liner to the contents of my wardrobe: all in all, a totally cathartic experience.

  I lie in bed happy that I’ve started on my magic wand list. I have one brief crisis of confidence where I hope I don’t look like mutton at work tomorrow, but then relax and will the moisturiser to work its miracles by dawn.

  I guess it does as I get second glances on my way in to the shop and it’s not just in my imagination. Even Josie notices something; she admires the new clothes and puzzles over what else has changed.

  Of course Charlie gets it straight away: ‘The caterpillars are gone – oh thank you sweet angels; I’ve been dying to take a waxing strip to you for ages. And the bird’s nest, you’ve said goodbye to that too.’

  I hadn’t realised I had so much wildlife about me (Patty would probably intervene right now with a ‘bush’ joke but I don’t have any – jokes that is). I hope to see Patty later on and can’t wait to show her the new look.

  Meanwhile, the shop is buzzing. You would not believe the knock-on effect one person’s life has on others; because I’ve had my hair done, Josie has hers done and emerges with a pixy crop that only someone with her cheekbones could carry. Then because he now has two gorgeous new ‘girls’, Charlie perks up and gives every customer a glass of Prosecco with their booking. Because all the customers feel very special and spread the word, we sell more holidays and so it turns out that because I had a hair colouring and my eyebrows plucked, we hit our January targets.

  Karma I think – or something similar.

  Later that evening, Patty listens while I fizz about my transformational day.

  ‘I always say, “Put yourself out there and the world is your oyster,”’ she reminds me.

  I haven’t always trusted her on that one but now I see what she means.

  I dig out some old photos and we look through them together over a takeaway. It is funny how you always remember more than is captured in the picture. I recall all the insecurities I had while posing for them. I remember us standing sideways trying to look thinner. I can remember all the emotions I had then: terror, embarrassment and probably guilt for having slipped on some ridiculous diet. Seeing them now, they show two beautiful young women in the prime of their lives – if I could go back and talk to the younger me, I’d tell her she was gorgeous. Of course she wouldn’t believe me.

  ‘You always posed like that.’ I pick up a picture and point it out to Patty.

  She was the blonde to my brunette; she had the boobs and I had the legs. She never stopped smiling and laughing; you’d have thought she was on commission to prove the saying that ‘Blondes have More Fun’.

  ‘Tits and teeth,’ she replies, immediately replicating the pose. We’d been taught that at training – the key to having a good portrait shot; I can’t imagine anyone getting away with that advice these days.

  I look again at the pictures of me, smiling, with my whole life ahead of me. I had gorgeous long chestnut hair back then; later, when I got married, I had it cropped in a very sensible ‘Diana’ style which matched the awful pussy-bow blouses I took to wearing. I felt the need to be sensible and grown up like a proper wife. Patty came round to dinner shortly after I married and was horrified to hear me discuss the virtues of a Kenwood Chef we’d received as a wedding present; she told me that I’d gone from twenty-nine to forty-nine overnight. We fell out over that but she was right. I hadn’t even unpacked the damn thing anyway.

  I look more like the young me now. The hair’s not as thick but it’s long and wavy, not at all sensible older woman. I want to be rid of her and have the adventures I always said I would. I haven’t been dumped, I’ve been liberated.

  ‘I’m no longer going to be dull old Angela Hargreaves,’ I declare.

  Patty waits.

  ‘From now on I’m Angie Shepherd – back from the ashes.’

  ‘Bo Peep returns, hurrah,’ toasts Patty.

  I’d forgotten about that nickname.

  Wonderwoman

  My mum is delighted to hear I’ve ditched Hargreaves and re-taken the family name.

  ‘It tells him you’ve moved on,’ she asserts.

  Patty and I nod at her sage words. They’ve both come round to help me assemble two bedside tables which turned out to be flat pack. Patty brought a screwdriver and Mum a packet of chocolate digestives.

  ‘I tell you what else you should do now you’re a single woman in the modern world,’ Mum continues.

  We wait for the oracle to speak.

&n
bsp; ‘That thing Stephen Fry does...what’s it called again...twerking.’

  Patty snorts her coffee.

  ‘I don’t think you mean that, Mum,’ I say.

  ‘Yes I do; all the celebrities do it, including her with the huge bum. Go on, look it up.’

  I try to stop Patty but she’s having too much fun. She pulls up a video and we stare at the rather instructional video.

  ‘Stephen Fry never does that does he?’ asks my horrified mother.

  Of course Patty has to give it a go and it isn’t pleasant.

  ‘You mean tweeting, Mum,’ I explain and yank the tablet from Patty to show her our National Treasure’s Twitter account.

  I’ve never bothered with social media but sign up just to keep Mum happy. I’m @AngieShepherd53 and have a picture of little Bo Beep as my avatar. I follow Josie, Charlie, Sarah Millican and the bookstore. Patty and Mum also join up and start following me. Now I must think of a witty first tweet. Patty doesn’t want to be seen following dullards so I must not just say Hello. Here goes...

  @AngieShepherd53 Hello everyone out there

  Oh well – it’s a start.

  February is fast drawing to a close and I need to get a move on with the rest of my magic wand actions. I really want to start helping Charlie with the business. You’d think with it being so cold and dark, people would want to book holidays and get away. However, many of our customers are already away at their winter retreats and the store was a bit too quiet today.

  The new dynamic Angie Shepherd wouldn’t settle for that: she’d be thinking of ideas to drum up trade, she’d put down the remainder of the choccy biccies and leaflet the streets or something. She’d save the travel industry single-handedly and be showered with business awards. That’s the type of woman I imagine her to be.

  I put the TV on mute and start scribbling some ideas down. Gradually though, I get more and more engrossed in the crime drama unfolding. I love a good murder mystery even if it’s a twenty-year-old episode of Columbo like this one. Perhaps I’ll be dynamic from tomorrow.