When Life Gives You Lemons

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘I wish we could go camping again,’ Izzy adds, giving her father and me a wistful look.

  ‘You are,’ I say quickly, deliberately misunderstanding. ‘You’re going today.’

  ‘I mean with you and Dad.’

  Andy catches my gaze. ‘You’ll have great fun with the Brownies, honey,’ he says quickly. ‘You don’t want your parents wrecking your fun.’

  ‘You never wrecked my fun, Dad.’ She knows he’s joking, but is pretending not to.

  ‘Hey, Dad’s about to go,’ I say. ‘You’d better finish your packing, darling.’ She hugs her father goodbye and tramps back upstairs.

  I exhale slowly as I see Andy to the front door. ‘Thanks for coming over and helping with that.’

  He shrugs. ‘Like I said, it’s no problem.’

  ‘Well, it’s appreciated.’

  He nods and looks at me. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m good. It just felt a bit weird there, Izzy mentioning our camping trips …’

  ‘Yes, it did a bit.’ His voice catches. ‘Our last one was, what, about three years ago?’

  ‘That’s probably right. I’m surprised she remembers.’ I pause. ‘D’you think she’s doing okay?’

  ‘I hope so,’ he says. ‘She seems happy, and we always have a nice time together. And she’s pretty excited about this trip.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I sense a tightness in my throat. Why did you do this to us? I want to blurt out. What was so dreadful about our situation that you had to have a drunken fling and then carry it on for months on end, behind my back, and fall in love with her? If it had been a one-night stand, and he’d been genuinely remorseful, it might not have finished us off. I’d have been hurt and furious – but quite possibly, we might have got over it. I know lots of people do.

  I’m aware of Andy studying me. ‘You seem a bit down,’ he adds.

  ‘Honestly, I’m fine,’ I say as we stand there at the doorway, with him still looking concerned, and me wanting to talk to him, to someone, to anyone really – but not about us, or his new woman. Instead, I find myself telling him about the museum being in dire straits, and Isla and I coming up with the initial idea for the fashion show. I pour it all out: about my proposal, the crazy vandalism, the attempted freeing of the taxidermy – and now nothing. No money, no resources, no interest in Girl Friday; it’s just not the right time. Hannah Jeffers from the museum has since emailed me:

  We really appreciate all the thought and effort you’ve put into this. I think it’s a wonderful idea and perhaps it might have wide appeal across our city. But sadly, we are not in a position at present to take this any further.

  Andy sighs. ‘Sounds like you put an awful lot of work into it.’

  ‘I did,’ I say, ‘but that’s not the point. I don’t really mind about that. What I do mind is that I know it’d be great for the museum, and for Penny. I mean, her son thought it was a fantastic idea.’

  ‘Yes, but he would, wouldn’t he?’ Andy remarks.

  I frown. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, she’s his mum, isn’t she? And he’s obviously proud of her.’

  ‘Andy,’ I start, ‘she was a renowned designer. She was incredibly successful and influential. You’re making it sound as if she won first prize in the Victoria Sponge section of a village show.’

  He laughs, with a hint of exasperation. ‘I don’t mean it like that. I’m aware of what she did, Viv.’ He isn’t really, but never mind. ‘Of course her son would love to see her designs on a catwalk, and a whole exhibition dedicated to her …’

  ‘Not just her son, Andy. It could be huge!’

  He peers at me as if I have taken leave of my senses. ‘D’you really think so? I mean, isn’t it a bit niche?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I retort. ‘Every woman of a certain age remembers the boutiques, especially from round here. This is where it all started.’

  ‘Yeah, but …’ He winces, infuriatingly. ‘Seventies fashion, Viv. Think about it. The flares, the massive collars, the horrible synthetic fabrics, the ponchos …’ A maddening chuckle. So he’s quite the fashion guru now? ‘It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, is it?’ he adds.

  I blink at him, fury bubbling up in me now. ‘Well, I think it is.’

  He shrugs. ‘Yeah, well, I guess you know best.’

  ‘I obviously don’t,’ I say hotly, ‘because it was turned down, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Okay, Viv,’ he says, giving me one of those here she goes, going off on one looks. ‘If you say so.’

  If I say so! I think you’ll find it wouldn’t be to everyone’s taste …

  We exchange rather stiff goodbyes, and off he goes. It takes an almighty effort to appear normal, and to seem as thrilled about the Brownie camping trip as Izzy is, as I turn back into the house.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Late afternoon, with Izzy gone

  Maybe it’s the hormones again. Maybe I’ve swerved back down into ‘irrational alley’, as Shelley calls it – yet another symptom of being fifty-three with bugger all oestrogen remaining; a ‘trace element’, like limestone in rabbit food. Grab it now while stocks last!

  Or maybe I am just pissed off.

  How dare Andy imply that I was wasting my time with the proposal? Did he suggest that, or am I over-reacting? Perhaps I need to start recording my every conversation, so it can be analysed later, because now I have no idea. The fact that my anger is mixed up with gratitude (for Andy having accessed the attic), and possibly a little shame (for being such a grumpy, ungrateful arse; and for not buying Izzy a new sleeping bag) is only confusing things further. What I do know, however, is that swimming/jogging/cycling won’t be happening today, and nor will ‘culture’. I’d half-heartedly considered going to see an arty Italian film that Jules had been raving about, but fuck that. The only Italian I’ll be reading tonight is the label on a bottle of cheap Pinot Grigio. I have already stomped out to buy some, and I fully intend to neck it alone like the sad, dumped wife that I am. And now, at 5.38 p.m., far too early to start drinking, I am ceremoniously pouring my first glass.

  It’s insufficiently chilled, and has a hint of bubble gum and a lingering note of having been manufactured at a vast plant in Warrington – but what the hell. I take a big swig. Spotting my laptop sitting on the worktop, I consider googling Estelle Lang, but no, that would be a step back and I’m past that stage now. I sit drumming my fingers on the table, waiting for the urge to go away.

  I seem to have finished my glass of wine very quickly. What kind of mother sits there intending to get pissed the minute her daughter’s gone away on a wholesome camping trip? This one, obviously. I pour another glass, remembering that I haven’t eaten tonight, and check the fridge to see what I could throw together for my solo supper. Hummus, eggs, cherry tomatoes and half a tub of cottage cheese, with milky liquid pooling in it. Some out-of-date ham and a bendy courgette, which I bin. I decide to just have wine.

  By the end of the second glass, I’d have hoped to have felt more relaxed, and possibly pleasantly naughty, sipping away at my corner shop plonk that Andy would scoff at (‘You’d barely class that as wine,’ he’s observed on many occasions). However, I am not relaxed. I’m far from it. The booze seems to have triggered a powerful hot flush, and now, because I’m sitting here alone in my kitchen, fanning my face with a magazine, and with my laptop within arm’s reach on the worktop, it starts happening again: a small niggle, like a craving for a cigarette. Just the one, then I’ll stop and that’ll be the end of it.

  Just one little peek at those photos of Estelle Lang.

  But no – I definitely don’t do that anymore. I know it’s bad for my mental health, and I have better things to do, like getting sloshed on my own. I get up and bring my laptop to the table and sit there wondering what I could look at instead, to take my mind off staring at pictures of her.

  I pour more wine – a huge glass, well over half the bottle gone already. How did that happen? Mid-life women are self-medicatin
g with wine, I read the other day. I’ve never liked smoking a joint – it makes me agitated and paranoid – and I’m not about to start on the ‘party drugs’ at my advanced age. Even if I fancied a go, I wouldn’t know where to get them, and my mental capabilities feel impaired enough at the moment without being chemically altered. So what else, other than wine, am I meant to self-medicate with?

  I open my laptop and stare at the screen, sipping more wine and willing myself not to do anything stupid, not to torture myself in my empty house by peering at those pictures again. I need a substitute activity, that’s it; Penny has suggested several times that I could do with a ‘hobby’. She even brought me over a bag of wool and some needles a few weeks ago, to ‘get you started with crochet’, as she put it. ‘I’d teach you, but you seem more like someone who wants to learn at your own pace.’ (I’d told her about the hedgehog pincushion debacle at school.) ‘You might be better learning from YouTube tutorials,’ she added, ‘rather than from me.’

  I’m definitely too tipsy to try to learn to crochet now. But I decide to have a browse on YouTube anyway, and soon I’m swigging yet more wine, tucking into the hummus, some crisps and the baggy-skinned cherry tomatoes, as I watch all kinds of daft stuff: a sped-up film of someone making a pizza (not a patch on Izzy Cooks!, in my opinion), and then a traybake incorporating Maltesers and bashed pretzels (interesting!). Stuck for what to watch next, I sit through a few news clips of Flaxico’s bunnygate fiasco. There’s a chilly-looking young female reporter standing in front of our headquarters, and interviews with mums who are using words like ‘disgusting’ and ‘horrified’ and vowing to never buy anything connected to Flaxico again. In one segment, a child of eight is crying because she is afraid of the snack’s effects on her health. This is neither fun nor soothing, which is surely what a hobby is supposed to be. Perhaps I should give macramé a go? Or, alternatively, what would happen if I put ‘Estelle Lang’ in the search bar?

  Nothing, I tell myself. Why would Estelle Lang be on YouTube?

  I type in her name – and, bloody hell, she is on there. In fact it looks like there are several videos of her, being a ‘leading endocrinologist with a wealth of insight and advice for any woman at this rewarding, yet challenging, stage of life.’ That’s what it ruddy says. She even appears to have her own channel. I can’t imagine how she finds the time, what with being a medical superstar and shagging other women’s husbands – but she’s obviously highly efficient on top of everything else.

  I cram more crisps into my mouth and wash them down with more wine, ready to watch.

  This isn’t the same as looking at pictures of her, I reassure myself. It’s an entirely different thing. I’ll have a tiny peek, just to see what she’s like when she’s moving and talking. It doesn’t mean I’ll get addicted.

  I click ‘play’ and sense my lifeblood dwindling a little. It’s just a static image to start with, and some ripply harp music. She’s sitting on a pale grey sofa, poised and chic in a crisp white shirt. Then the video starts.

  ‘Hi, I’m Dr Estelle Lang,’ she says, leaning forward and beaming. ‘Thanks for joining me today. I’d like to talk to you a little about menopausal symptoms …’ I watch, disgusted, munching away on my cheese and onion crisps. ‘Not the obvious ones like hot flushes,’ she continues. ‘We covered that last time. Today, I’m focusing on the general sense of low-level irritation, and those bursts of anger that can overwhelm you when you least expect them. There are ways of handling these,’ she goes on in her soothing tones, ‘and the good news is, there are plenty of alternatives to medication …’

  I should be irritated now, watching her looking all polished in her shirt, which is probably from somewhere like Jigsaw, her cheekbones thieved from Meryl Streep and her shiny blonde hair hanging neatly at her chin. I should be seething with rage that, despite the fact that she and my husband were meeting secretly over several months, she still sees fit to sit there and tell other women how to manage their lives.

  And yet … I actually want to know what she’s going to say. I’m genuinely interested in how to be like her (calm, attractive) rather than me (dishevelled, drunk). So I sit there, alternatively munching and sipping as she talks about ‘owning the menopause’ and ‘acknowledging that these feelings and symptoms are quite normal, and incredibly common, rather than something to be ashamed of, or even to think of as a problem at all.’

  Quite right, Dr Lang! Who would ever regard the menopause as a problem when they’re as glossy and unsweaty as you appear to be? I bet she’s never even had a hot flush. Is she menopause-proof, like some kind of android? Is she on HRT, or those bio-identical hormones I’ve often wondered about going on, which Andy wouldn’t even discuss with me?

  ‘A big factor,’ she continues, ‘is having supportive people around you, who understand, and who take the time to listen sympathetically …’

  Ah, right! Like starting the day with a cob on and blurting out, ‘Christ, it’s like waking up in a swamp around here’? ‘Fuck off,’ I say out loud. ‘Just fuck off and leave me alone.’ I shut my laptop abruptly, tip the last of the wine into my glass and down it in one, before opening a second bottle and pouring some more.

  Sod her and Andy, the perfect ruddy doctor couple who have upended my life. I think I’m coping, and manage to convince myself that life is so much better without that ugly lampshade/temperamental fan heater – but it’s not really, is it? He lied to me for months. He patronised me by feigning interest in how to make omelettes. Bloody omelettes! I leap up from my chair, open the fridge so forcefully it makes the bottles wobble on their shelf on the door, and stare at the eggs.

  Instantly, I have an idea of how to make myself feel better, and how to salvage this dismal night. I know it’s a mad one, and I’m also aware that I wouldn’t be even considering it if I wasn’t drunk. But what the hell – Izzy is away on her camp, and no one’s going to figure out that it’s me. It seemed to work for Penny; she admitted it was neither big nor clever but that egging some mystery person’s car made her feel a whole lot better about whatever it was she was angry about.

  My heart is pounding excitedly now. Intending to put my own personal twist on it, I hope it’ll do the same thing for me.

  Around midnight, drunk

  Taking a taxi diminishes the drama somewhat, but there was no way I could drive, and I decided not to risk cycling either; I wasn’t ready to die for my cause. So a cab it was, with the driver asking, perkily, ‘Off on a night out?’

  ‘Sort of,’ I replied, conscious of my boozy breath.

  ‘Anywhere nice?’

  ‘Just seeing who’s around,’ I said, which probably made it sound as if I were some lone woman, without friends or plans, who had decided to head out just before midnight in the quest for company or possibly even love.

  ‘Have fun, then,’ he said with a smirk as I paid him.

  Now here I am, standing outside Andy’s flat, the cheesy whiff teasing my nostrils. A sign in the window, printed in elegant script, explains to customers that the shop has been specially fitted out with slate tiling and a foot-deep concrete floor, to mimic cave-like conditions and offer the perfect storage conditions for the 52 varieties on offer.

  Although I love cheese normally, after too much vinegary wine and a sackload of crisps, the smell is making my stomach shift uneasily. I glance up at Andy’s flat; a light is on in what I presume is the living room. Is he home, I wonder? And is she there? Are they doing it now, or engaged in something altogether more humdrum, like washing up? Unlikely, I know, at midnight – but who knows how he rolls these days.

  Anyway, whether she is there or not is of no consequence to me right now. She might be the big-shot doctor with her own YouTube channel, but hey, there’s that photo of me in the net tutu and bunny ears floating about in the ether, and at least that showed courage, and a willingness to have a go when the mums’ race probably ranks as the low point in my ‘sporting calendar’. And I’d like to see her haring across the field, amid
st the pack of ferociously competitive women, some of whom take the event so seriously that training commences six months in advance.

  That’s my epitaph, I decide, as I move away from the cheese shop and wander unsteadily down the street: She had a bloody go. She worked on and on without making a fuss. What a thrilling specimen I’ve become in my fifties: unexpectedly single, with a job that bores me rigid – and was only meant to be a stopgap until I found a theatre company that could utilise my talents. Here I am, five years later, tottering drunkenly with a carrier bag with the thing in it; the thing I have transported across Glasgow in a taxi for the purpose of … what exactly? To do something mad. To show him I’m still angry about his reaction to my Girl Friday rejection, and that it’ll take more than him scrabbling about in the attic for us to become ‘friends’ (or whatever arrangement he hopes to arrive at, coming round with his hangdog face).

  That is, if he even realises it was me who did this tonight. He might not. He might think it’s just a random nut-job, which, actually, would be preferable: to put the fear of God into him that he has a crazy, omelette-depositing stalker! Because that’s what’s in my carrier bag: a four-egg omelette devoid of cheese, seasoning or any flavour at all; I wasn’t prepared to waste a speck of black pepper on that fuckwit. But I didn’t begrudge the eggs. If my omelettes are so bloody great – and he was at pains to praise them – then see how he likes this one, slapped on his precious car!

  I scan the street for it. It hadn’t occurred to me that it might not be parked conveniently outside his flat. It takes a few minutes’ strolling to find the black BMW, which Andy adores, and keeps as clean and shiny as a snooker ball (pigeon shit is regarded as a personal affront, as if the bird had specifically targeted his bonnet out of spite). Maybe that’s the real reason why I’m doing this – to violate his precious motor – or maybe it’s the cheap Pinot Grigio’s fault.

  Whatever the reason, I’m pulling the cold, flabby omelette from the carrier bag now, lifting a windscreen wiper carefully and sliding my eggy offering under it, then rubbing my greasy hands on the front of my jeans and running away. As I ride home in a taxi, I try to picture his face when he sees it, but I can’t quite bring it into focus.