‘That’s not about heartache,’ explains Josie earnestly. ‘We felt your pain you know.’
‘Her pain? What about mine? My bloody eardrums were bleeding.’
I bash Charlie over the head with a brochure. He ribs me all day long, but then he always does. Everything is back to normal and I did survive.
I guess the song was right after all.
Well almost.
‘Video this time, Mum, video the whole world can see. What were you thinking?’ Zoe is fuming. ‘I begged you not to do something like this. I mean four old women trying to recapture their youth. Why not go the whole hog, get four old bald blokes and form a boy band too? No wonder he left you.’
I go from sorry to angry with this last remark. I don’t get angry very often; I think most wives and mothers learn to grit their teeth at an early stage otherwise we’d explode on a daily basis.
What I want to say is: ‘I did this BECAUSE he left me. I’m hurting too you know. And I’m not old; I’m only fifty-three. Hell, we lived through some of the most hedonistic years ever. None of this austerity for us; we were punks, new romantics, glam rockers and ska-kids. We brought the banking system down way before you did. We had yuppies, huge mobile phones, political protests AND the boys wore more make-up than the women. We knew how to party.’
But what I actually say is, ‘Oh come on Zoe, it was only a bit of fun; it’ll be forgotten about by tomorrow. Anyway, I bet The Bangles look like us now.’
Getting on with It
I’m in a department store with Alan and Zoe; they’re choosing Hawaiian shirts of all things.
They’re discussing each gaudy option with great gusto but ignoring my desperate protests. I keep telling them the shirts are awful but they just won’t listen; it’s as if I’m not there.
Then I notice that I’m on the outside of the store shouting through the windowpane.
‘Alan would never wear these monstrosities,’ I yell, hammering on the glass.
Then Amanda comes into the shop and they all turn round to face me. I see that I’m in black and white while they’re in colour.
‘You don’t belong here any more,’ mouths Alan. ‘Go away.’
Smiling, he puts his arms around both women and turns them away from me.
And with that I’m banished from my own dream.
I wake myself up feeling shattered and newly bereft.
I have to make it up to Zoe otherwise she’ll end up being ashamed to see me. I call her and invite her for Sunday lunch. She’s reluctant to accept but I plead, saying that I have to apologise somehow. When she agrees I breathe a sigh of relief.
Rescued.
I make a real effort and Zoe looks surprised when I open the door to her. Following THAT video, I think she was expecting me to look like a text-book relationship car crash, but I put my makeover into full throttle and I can see she’s impressed.
‘Wow – you look amazing,’ she declares as she walks in, ‘really amazing. I wasn’t expecting this at all.’
For the rest of the day I keep noticing her looking me up and down.
After my dream I’d been ready to throw myself into Zoe’s arms and beg her to come and live with me for ever. I’d ask her to speak to Alan and tell him it had all been a dreadful mistake; we all needed to be together. That was the natural order and it had to be restored.
Instead, I feel a sense of pride in Zoe’s voice and decide to live up to my image.
‘Thanks, a quick G&T before dinner?’ asks my fake confident self.
I feel as if I’m working in First Class again; I’m the perfect hostess making polite conversation. Zoe tells me all about her work. The hotel is doing well but taking up all of her time.
‘A new career always takes up all your time,’ I tell her. ‘When people talk about work-life balance they mean that you get your first twenty years to yourself and then your last twenty years – but the forty in between you have to slog it out.’
‘Oh well, at least I’m enjoying it,’ she answers raising her drink to me.
I tell her about the book-club weekend away and our idea to try to do more events to boost sales. My daughter and I are having a grown-up conversation.
Rioja follows the G&T.
‘Don’t you want to know how Dad is?’ Zoe is very tentative in introducing the elephant to the room.
Thinks: ‘Of course I do, despite everything I’m desperate to hear that he’s missing me and that it’s not working out with that floozy or that he looks awful, is going bald and getting flabby. It’s all I’ve wanted to talk about since you got here.’
Says: ‘How is he?’
With a gulp of wine Zoe sighs.
‘He’s fine, put on a bit of weight with all that baking, but fine. Amanda takes the lead in most things. She’s got him entering this Entrepreneur of the Year competition and even ballroom dancing of all things. She probably takes the lead in that too.’
I smile picturing poor Alan being dragged around a glitter ballroom – serves him right.
‘Their apartment is nice.’ Her voice lowers. ‘But it’s not home...when the house sells, nowhere will be.’
And then it comes: the tears, the hugs, the relief.
We don’t have to pretend any more. I am no longer the professional hostess, the got-it-together divorcee. I’m Mum again and for a moment, Zoe is my little girl. It feels so good as I hold her close and inhale her very being. We eventually let go of each other when the snot threatens to subsume us.
‘I know it’s not much but wherever I am, you have a home. You can move in with me any time, right now if you like,’ I say.
‘I’m assistant manager, I can’t move back in with my mother. Besides, look at you, there’s no way you want me cramping your style. You’ve moved on, I can see that.’
I reassure Zoe that she can move in or stay or squat whenever she wants and promise to buy her some PJs that will always be here ready for her.
She’s staying the night now and as I clear away our dishes, I can’t help wondering just what people want me to do.
When I was a physical wreck, I was told to pull myself together. Now that I’ve camouflaged the broken bits, I’m told that I’ve moved on too much to share a home with. Do I have to fix everyone around me before I’m allowed to fix myself?
Come morning, I despatch my daughter back to work and within ten minutes of saying goodbye to her, Patty appears. I must get a security guard; no wait, that’ll encourage her even more.
‘How was prodigal daughter?’ Patty makes a beeline for the kitchen and helps herself to the cheesecake Zoe brought round. It is common knowledge that Zoe always brings a home-made dessert when she goes anywhere for dinner and I imagine Patty has been camping outside waiting for her to go so that she can get stuck in.
I sigh and let loose.
‘She thinks I don’t need her any more. Apparently, I look as if I’ve got it together and I’ve done all of these new things and...well I’m not old Mum I guess. She was quite upset.’
I pause for a reaction, but her mouth is full so I continue.
‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Fade away into the background in case I offend anyone? Give up, wear sweatpants and appear on Jeremy Kyle? I didn’t ask for this; I wanted to stay married. I can’t go back, I have to move on and I’m doing it the only way I know how – I’m not an expert in “how to be divorced” after all.’
I breathe and wait for the reply. Nothing.
‘Patty. Say something.’
‘Blimey. Just waiting for a gap. Nobody wants you to appear on Jeremy Kyle. We want you to be happy but you’ve got to admit that your transformation from housewife to hotty has been fairly rapid. Zoe isn’t used to thinking of her mum as a woman with a life of her own.’
‘Hotty? Me? That’s ludicrous.’
‘Remember Martin?’ asks Patty.
‘Plumber Martin, the one you wanted to look at your pipes?’
She nods. ‘That’s the one; he asked me out f
or a drink a few weeks back.’
‘Wow, tell all.’
‘Just before Valentine’s Day. I actually went out on a date for the night, one that didn’t involve you for a change.’
She laughs in despair.
‘I got dolled up, new clothes, underwear – the works. Got there fashionably late thinking, “Look at me in a fancy wine bar with a new man.” Honestly, I was the proverbial cat with the cream.’
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘He wanted your number.’ She prods me painfully as she says it.
My jaw and then the penny drops.
‘Surely we didn’t fall out over that?’ I ask.
‘I know,’ replies Patty, ‘I was being daft, but I’d plucked up the courage to have my first date in four years, as you kindly reminded me, and all he wanted was your number.’
Patty starts laughing and although I was trying to be sympathetic, I do the same.
‘Anyway, I thought about setting up a new business pimping you out: “Ancient but well-preserved skinny bird available for hire”. I could hand out leaflets on the street or build a website with a link to YouTube – no, on second thoughts your singing would put them off straight away.’
‘Cheeky cow.’
We wipe our tears.
‘So we’re good now?’ I venture.
‘We’re fabulous dahling, always have been.’ She embraces me in a bear hug and gives me a big kiss.
‘Why don’t you come with me next weekend?’ I ask. ‘It’s the book-club trip.’
‘Do I have to read something?’ she asks and I give her a sarcastic look in return.
‘It’s a ghost story, you’ll enjoy it,’ I tell her. ‘We’re taking everyone to a gothic castle. It’ll be nice and spooky.’
‘Well, I always did enjoy having the willies...’ she starts.
‘Stop now,’ I despair.
‘I’ll behave, I promise,’ she smiles. ‘And yes I’d love to come; you probably couldn’t manage without me anyway.’
‘True,’ I surrender. ‘Here’s the book you need.’
I hold out the copy I’ve just finished reading.
‘Is there a DVD I can watch instead?’
I throw the book at her and she catches it before sauntering out.
Having restored two of my closest relationships, I think I deserve some me time. That means a little Murder She Wrote with a bar of Galaxy. I pop to the corner shop and when I get back my new best friend is waiting on the doorstep.
She’s a tortoiseshell with little white paws. She seemed to adopt me a couple of weeks ago and I call her Socks (yes, I know – hardly imaginative) as she doesn’t wear a collar. I don’t think she’s a stray but she’s the only one who doesn’t seem to have an opinion on my state of being, so she’s a very welcome visitor. I invite her in to solve the crime with me and give her some tuna. In return I receive a grateful purr and a snuggle on the sofa.
Girl Power restored.
Let Me Out...
What a whirlwind. I’m officially hot (well according to one middle-aged plumber) and I’ve managed to upset those around me as a result. I could decide to keep my head down, and in fact that might be safer for all concerned. These thoughts are running through my mind as I sit in the office getting ready for the weekend. I determine to host this book-club retreat professionally but otherwise keep myself to myself. I picture myself as an elegant and respected hostess.
The only flaw in this plan is that I’m quite flattered. Me, hot. It doesn’t matter who pays the compliment, I’d defy anyone not to have a spring in their step after hearing that. I don’t want to retreat back into my shell; when I stop to notice, I realise I’ve started to enjoy myself.
I do so want this weekend to be good, for everyone to have fun, to tell other people and for it to lead to lots more business. Patty and I are heading up tonight so that I can check things out before Charlie and the guests arrive on Saturday. I have time to do something to make it extra special, I just need some ideas. I’ve already written welcome cards, had a little gift pack made and sent out the directions. It all looks great, but I’m wondering whether there is some icing missing from the cake.
A search around the internet and I have what I’m looking for: the hotel is apparently haunted. A tour of the cellars will be a perfect way to start the reading.
I’m on fire now, so I book myself a wee treat at the spa – a hot stone massage. Well you might as well give it a go – she who dares and all that.
I must remember to shave my legs before I venture into the spa. For a brief second I am lost in thought trying to remember the last time I did that. I think it may have been nearly a year ago.
I start by smearing a whole tube of extra-strong hair-removing cream on my legs and leaving it on for slightly longer than the packet advised. I shower it off and still look like Chewbacca; I’ll be making a case under the Trades Description Act tomorrow.
After that I try to master the art of waxing. ‘Simple, easy to use strips’ – no they’re not. Heat wax up, smother over leg and rip it off? It mentions nothing about how you get it off the towels and carpet when it drips everywhere. Who would do this regularly? And I know they don’t stop at their legs. Having cried out in pain trying to rip one strip off, I cannot imagine who decided this would be a good thing to apply to your privates. I cringe even thinking about it.
In the end I decide to go back to the old-fashioned method and take an industrial-strength razor with me to wield when I get to the hotel; my legs are already crying out for their human rights. The razor isn’t a girly pink one but a Macho Glide, the type I used to steal from Alan (light-bulb moment: that might be the last time I shaved them). Men don’t realise how lucky they are not having to do this; apart from Olympic cyclists and drag queens, of course.
It’s a long drive up to the Eden Valley, so Patty has come equipped with the contents of Willy Wonka’s factory.
‘We’ll have diabetes by the time we get there with that lot,’ I say.
‘Rubbish,’ replies Patty. ‘Here, have a gobstopper.’
After a singalong to Absolute 80s radio, we hit a signal blackspot and no amount of twiddling with the knob helps to restore sound.
‘What shall we do now?’ asks Patty like a needy child.
‘We could play a game,’ I suggest. ‘When I was a kid, we used to try to make words out of the last three letters on a car registration.’
‘Sounds a bit dull.’
‘Well you come up with something better then,’ I tell her.
‘OK Bo, keep your knickers on, we’ll give it a go,’ says Patty scanning the cars that drive past.
‘Here you go – XPT – make a word out of that.’
We both sit silently for a moment.
‘Got one,’ exclaims Patty, ‘Sexy-Pants.’
‘That’s not one word,’ I say.
‘I hyphenated it,’ she tells me. ‘Anyway, you do better.’
‘Exasperated,’ I sigh.
At which point we leave the signal blackspot and Patty starts a duet with Billy Idol.
We turn off the M6, go through Kirkby Stephen and before long we turn into the long driveway of Craghill Castle. I tingle with anticipation as the building comes into view; it is stunning. I have a feeling that this is going to be a very good weekend.
We check in and are shown our rooms. The whole place looks perfect. We drop Patty off first and then I get to my room. The concierge opens the door on to a suite with a huge four-poster bed; they obviously want to impress the organisers. They’ve taken care with the décor, using contemporary colours and fabrics that complement the age of the building without being simply chintzy.
‘My room is FABULOUS,’ declares Patty as she bursts into mine. ‘Much bigger than this. I could get an entire rugby squad in there.’
It’s a big relief that the hotel is so wonderful because the March weather is awful: dark and stormy, yet perfect for a ghost story I suppose. If the sky could summon up some thunder and
lightning when people are safely here, that would be perfect.
Patty and I have a calm evening of good food and warming wine. I check a few details with the manager and we both retire to our bedrooms.
When I open my eyes and remember where I am this morning, a surge of happiness flows through me. I now know how cats feel when they do that big stretch. I snuggle down to enjoy the moment and drink it all in; the softest pillows, the firmest mattress, most luxurious linen and knowing that I don’t have to wash or iron any of it, I could live like this for ever. Eventually I have to get up, if only to take full advantage of further luxury, a breakfast beyond Weetabix.
‘Here’s to the magic wand.’ I raise a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice to Patty. ‘We wouldn’t be here without it.’
Patty picks up a silver fork. ‘I hereby command this wand to bring me the perfect book-club stud tonight: brains and brawn, handsome and humorous, charming and cheerful.’ She skewers a sausage on to it and waves it in the air just to ensure the spell is cast.
‘So just stay out the way missus.’ And she chomps off a warning-sized bite.
I’d love Patty to meet someone but I can’t remember anyone like that at the book club, maybe flirty Peter at a push.
The book-club members arrive throughout the day and Charlie calls me at lunchtime to tell me he’s in his room. From the joy in his voice, his room is every bit as gorgeous as ours.
We all gather together for drinks at six in the gothic dining room. Everyone’s delight over the accommodation is followed by excitement at the appearance of the hotel manager looking every inch the Victorian undertaker; this is my surprise for them.
‘We’re here to read about a haunting; a woman in white I believe,’ he declares as the book club hangs on his every word. ‘And while you may feel safe when the undead are confined to the pages of a book...’
Dramatic pause.
‘How will you feel when a troubled soul walks amongst you?’
Nervous laughter all round – this guy should be on the stage.
We’re given a lantern between two and the tour of the hotel vaults begins. Dark and draughty, it sees me clinging on to Caroline and I can see that Patty is doing the same with Peter (she grabbed him rather quickly). I can’t see Charlie anywhere; I hope he’s not going to miss this.
The Mercury Travel Club: Getting your life back on track has never been more funny! Page 5
