Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up

by Alexandra Potter

  That I don’t have a corkscrew, and that my ex lives five thousand miles away.

  The Next Day

  My head feels like it’s about to explode.

  That’s it: I am never drinking again. I’m going to do dry January. OK, so it’s a bit late considering we’re a week in, but better late than never, right?

  Right?

  So, last night the plan was to stay in and attempt to cook my own fancy birthday dinner, only by the time I got home my desire to be a domestic goddess had deserted me. It was all too much effort for one person. Plus, once the buzz of the G&Ts started wearing off, it all felt a bit sad.

  So instead I took Arthur out for a walk. I hadn’t yet had a chance to explore my new neighbourhood and we zigzagged through unfamiliar lamp-lit streets. It felt strange to be back in London, though this was nothing like the London I remembered. Before I left for New York I rented a flat above a shop, slap bang in the middle of the city, with traffic, noise and pollution on all sides – but this was a much quieter suburb, with neat rows of flat-fronted cottages and smart Victorian terraces with chequerboard paths.

  As I walked past, my gaze brushed over all the different windows, like flicking through a picture book. Inside all the homes I caught snapshots of family life. A mum in an upstairs window brushing her little girl’s hair after her bath; a couple snuggled up together on the sofa watching TV, the screen reflected on their faces; a man with a backpack closing the front door behind him to squeals of ‘Daddy’s home!’

  I paused. If ever there was a metaphor for my life, this was it. Me on the outside, looking in on everyone on the inside. All these cosy scenes of domestic bliss. I gave a little shiver and pulled my woolly hat down over my ears. I was, quite literally, out in the cold.

  And yet . . .

  OK, so in the spirit of full disclosure, I have a confession.

  As much as part of me craves all of this, there’s another part of me that fears it. The part of me that swore in her diary she’d never end up like her parents. That read books by torchlight under the bedcovers and dreamed of passionate romances and travel to far-off lands. That was determined to lead a life less ordinary, filled with freedom and excitement and adventure, with something different—

  Yanked backwards by Arthur’s retractable lead, I turned to see him squatting on the driveway of a large house, doing a huge dump.

  Meanwhile, here I was picking up dog shit.

  I tried not to think about any more metaphors, but stuck my gloved hand in the poo bag and started scooping it up. I use the word ‘scoop’ as Arthur’s stomach is always off and it’s never a case of simply picking it up, but having to literally scrape it from the tarmac. I forced myself not to gag as the homeowner appeared in the window and both he and Arthur stood and watched me. I swear there’s something very wrong with this aspect of the man–dog relationship. If aliens ever did land on earth, who would they think was in charge? Not the humans, that’s for sure.

  I carried on scraping . . . there, I thought I’d got it all . . . I shone my iPhone torch on the drive to check. See, Mr Owner of the Big Grown-Up House. I might feel like a fuck-up, but I am a very responsible person! I felt a slight sense of triumph.

  Followed by a sickening horror as the beam of light swung from the tarmac onto the poo bag.

  Oh my God. It had ripped! My fingers had gone through it! It was all over one of the glittery cashmere gloves that I’d got for Christmas! I yanked it off. Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!

  I could have cried. Literally lain down and wept. It did actually cross my mind. I could imagine the owner calling through to his wife in the kitchen, ‘Darling, there’s a strange woman lying on our driveway covered in dog poo and weeping hysterically. I can’t quite hear through the double glazing but I think she’s saying something about how it’s her birthday. Perhaps we should call the police. She’s going to scare the children.’

  Only, Arthur had other ideas. Spotting a squirrel, he let out a howl and took off, taking me with him as he charged down the pavement while I hung on for dear life. He didn’t catch it, of course. It disappeared up a tree and Arthur stood at the bottom, barking his head off. Poor Arthur, I did feel a bit sorry for him. You’d think he would have learned by now. Then again, how many years did it take for me to learn that when a man disappears by not returning your call, barking my head off by sending him endless texts wasn’t going to work either.

  Which is kind of the same thing. Sort of.

  We turned to head home, and I was already mentally running the bath and getting into bed with my iPhone to scroll through photos of sunsets and what everyone had eaten for dinner, when I caught a waft of fish and chips coming from a pub on the corner. Well, it was my birthday.

  Inside there looked to be a few locals enjoying a quiet drink. I tied Arthur to a table leg in the corner while I went to wash my hands and order a glass of wine and fish and chips at the bar. When I reappeared five minutes later, I half expected him to have dragged the table across the pub. Instead he was sitting there obediently, having his ears scratched by a small boy in a beanie.

  ‘He likes that,’ I smiled.

  The boy looked up, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. ‘Oh, is he your dog?’

  I was about to say no, that he belonged to my landlord, when something changed my mind. ‘Yes, he’s my dog.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Arthur.’

  The little boy grinned wider, revealing a missing tooth. ‘Like King Arthur?’

  ‘Exactly.’ I nodded, glancing at Arthur, who was sitting there looking quite regal while having his head stroked. It wasn’t a bad prefix considering who seemed to be in charge around here; it certainly wasn’t me. ‘King Arthur.’

  The little boy’s eyes lit up and he buried his hands deep into Arthur’s fur. ‘I want a dog but Mummy won’t let me. She says I can only have a hamster.’

  ‘Well, hamsters can be fun.’

  He looked unconvinced. ‘But it’s not like King Arthur,’ he replied.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ I admitted.

  ‘Oliver, there you are!’

  A male voice caused us both to look up.

  ‘I wondered where you’d got to—’

  A man appeared from the other side of the pub, looking like he’d just come in from outside. Wearing a down jacket, a thick scarf and gloves, he had short dark hair and was the spitting image of Oliver. So this must be his dad.

  Oliver reached for his sleeve excitedly. ‘Guess what his name is! It’s King Arthur. Like in the movie we saw!’

  ‘He’s not bothering you, is he?’

  ‘No, no . . . not at all.’

  He had really nice eyes. Pale blue, the colour of faded denim.

  ‘That’s good,’ he smiled, then winked at his son. ‘Come on, we’re late.’

  He was attractive, in a dad kind of way.

  ‘Scratch his ears! He loves it!’

  He dutifully squatted down, took off one of his gloves and scratched Arthur’s ears. Arthur was loving the attention. ‘Now, do you think he’ll scratch mine,’ he said with a straight face, tilting his head sideways and sending Oliver into fits of giggles.

  ‘OK, come on you, we really must go or your mum will kill me. She’s waiting for us at the cinema.’

  ‘Bye, King Arthur . . . bye.’ Oliver waved to us both.

  ‘Bye.’ I waved back. ‘Enjoy the movie.’

  ‘Thanks.’ His dad smiled and took his son’s hand.

  I watched them walk out of the pub together, and for a moment I couldn’t help wishing I was the lucky woman waiting at the cinema. Not just because they looked so cute, father and son, hand in hand. But because I couldn’t help noticing how he filled out those jeans—

  Whoa, Nell!

  It took me by surprise. This was the first man I’d noticed since The American Fiancé, never mind found attractive. Followed by resignation that he was someone’s husband, which sadly did not take me by surprise because at my age a
ll the good ones are taken.

  But somewhere, deep inside this wounded soul of mine, it also ignited a little flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t over for me yet.

  I’m grateful for:

  My wine, which was so delicious I had to order two more glasses.

  Arthur knowing his way home.

  Ibuprofen.

  The flashback from last night, otherwise I would not have just remembered that in all the mayhem of shit-gate I left behind the offending poo bag and glove, and will have to go back and retrieve them while leaving a grovelling apology.

  The fact there are not ‘Wanted’ posters of me up in the village already.*

  Sunday Lunch

  This morning I wake to a group WhatsApp from my friends, inviting me to lunch at an Italian in town. Belated birthday and all that.

  Fab! What time?

  Holly

  Can we do 11.30? Olivia naps at 2.

  Max

  Freddy’s got football first. We can’t make it till one.

  Fiona

  Swim club is 12–2, but any time after is good.

  I’m tempted to say I’m napping at three, which isn’t a lie, considering I still haven’t fully shaken my godawful jet lag, but instead I stay silent and let them fight it out between naps and swimming classes and football. Which, judging by the number of WhatsApps that ping in, makes negotiating Brexit look easy.

  Finally we reach a solution and, pleased, I jump in the shower. I’m really looking forward to seeing everyone, but as Arthur watches me getting ready I feel suddenly guilty about leaving him.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t be long,’ I promise, giving his ears a tickle as he looks at me with his big brown eyes.

  I head into town. I haven’t been out properly since I got back to London, so I’ve dressed up. I’m even wearing a bit of a heel. Well, it is my birthday, even if it’s belated. So my heart sinks a little when I arrive at the Italian to see a pile of double buggies by the door and a sign saying there’s a children’s play area downstairs. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids, but I was hoping for something a little more . . .

  I open the door to a crescendo of noise . . . quiet?

  A waiter rescues me, and I’m shown to our table where I order a carafe of wine and pour myself a large glass.

  ‘Gorgeous birthday girl!’

  I look up to see Fiona charging across the restaurant, her children in tow. She swoops upon me, giving me a big bear hug. ‘I’m so sorry about cancelling on Friday, I felt terrible—’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s fine, I know you’re busy,’ I say, hugging her back.

  ‘I just completely forgot I’d promised Annabel I’d help with her invitations—’

  ‘Annabel?’

  ‘She’s a mum at Izzy’s new school. She’s organizing this big charity fundraiser.’

  ‘That sounds a lot more important than my birthday,’ I laugh. ‘Anyway, I’m just happy you could all make it today.’

  ‘Me too. So, how are you?’

  ‘Old,’ I smile.

  She swats me. ‘Nonsense! You look the same as you did at twenty-five.’

  Fiona’s a sweetheart, but she’s also started holding things at arm’s length and squinting at them. I probably look a little fuzzy too. Which is no bad thing. My theory is that’s why our eyesight goes as we get older: to protect us from seeing ourselves in sharp focus.

  ‘Izzy, give Auntie Nell our card.’

  Izzy is wearing a pair of fairy wings and she jumps into my lap, thrusting a card at me with her chubby fingers.

  ‘Thanks, fairy,’ I grin, tearing it open. ‘Wow, neat handwriting.’

  ‘Can I see?’ She pushes her blonde curls out of her eyes, which are big and blue and framed with the longest of lashes, which sweep over her cheeks. Izzy has skin like a peach and has nothing to fear from being in sharp focus. But then she is only five.

  ‘Thank you, Izzy.’

  ‘And Lucas, have you got the present?’

  Lucas is seven and is clutching his Matchbox cars as if everyone in the restaurant might want to steal them. He shakes his head.

  ‘Oh no, it must still be on the kitchen table,’ groans Fiona. She looks at Lucas. ‘Did you forget to bring it, darling?’ He nods. Lucas is a man of few words, like his father.

  Fortunately, at that moment David appears from parking the car, brandishing a beautifully wrapped box that he found on the back seat. Fiona always does really lovely presents. When we first met, we were both as broke as each other and our go-to gift was a scented candle, but then she married David and things changed. She’s still the same girl in so many ways, but now her gifts come from those expensive boutiques that I daren’t even go into as everything spontaneously falls off the hangers when I go near, and the assistants give me the stink eye as it’s quite obvious I can’t afford anything anyway.

  ‘Oh wow, it’s gorgeous,’ I gasp, as I unwrap a butter-soft cashmere scarf. ‘You shouldn’t have—’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Like it? I love it!’ I shriek, giving her and the children big hugs.

  Fiona looks pleased. ‘It’s from Annabel’s shop; she helped me pick it out. She’s got the most amazing taste. I can’t wait for you to meet her. You’re going to love her!’

  ‘I can’t wait either,’ I smile, but at the mention of her name again I feel a slight niggle. I catch myself. The scarf’s beautiful. I’m being ridiculous.

  ‘Oh look, everyone’s here!’

  I forget all about it as the door swings open, and Holly and Adam arrive with Olivia at the same time as Max and Michelle with their three, and we spend the next five minutes kissing cheeks and giving hugs and remarking on how tall everyone’s children have grown and how wonderful it is to see each other again.

  Because it is wonderful. Truly, there’s nothing better than being with old friends. You just pick up where you left off, as if you were in the middle of a conversation. Except we’ve not seen each other since last summer and there’s lots to catch up on. New houses, new promotions, new babies.

  ‘Number four, we must be mad!’ laugh Max and Michelle, grinning at each other over plates of penne arrabbiata, while Adam tries to wangle free legal advice from David about the holiday home in France they’re considering buying by offering him the salami from his pizza, and Fiona and Holly unpack towers of Tupperware boxes filled with rice cakes and blueberries that go flying everywhere.

  I order another carafe of wine.

  ‘So what about you, Nell?’

  After the waiters have cleared away our plates, the children go downstairs to the play area, supervised by Freddy who’s been bribed with his dad’s new iPhone, and the table falls quiet.

  ‘What’s new?’ asks Holly, who I met when we were first temping in London. We bonded immediately over microwaved baked potatoes and Excel spreadsheets. Tucking her dark, neat bob behind her ears, she looks at me expectantly across the table.

  I hesitate. The only new things I have to report are a broken engagement, a rented room and my recent unemployment. Not quite the same as new promotions and babies.

  ‘I want to hear all about the cafe—’

  ‘How are the wedding plans coming on?’

  ‘When are you flying back?’

  As my friends fire me with questions, I brace myself to tell them my news. When I told Fiona, I swore her to secrecy. I felt like such a failure. But they’re my oldest friends. They won’t judge me.

  That’s my job.

  ‘Well, you see, that’s the thing. When I made that joke about forgetting to pack my ring, it wasn’t actually a joke . . .’ I hesitate, wondering how to put it, then blurt it out. ‘We’ve broken up and I’ve moved back to London.’

  There are a few shocked expressions around the table.

  ‘Did you know about this?’ accuses Holly, glancing at Fiona, who reddens and buries her face into her wine glass. ‘Nell, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I’m telling you now, aren’t I?�
��

  I don’t want to remind Holly that whenever I’ve tried calling her she’s always busy. Holly is something of a wonder woman. When she’s not taking Olivia to something, she’s training for another triathlon, or rushing into an important meeting at the hospital where she works as a manager, dealing with life-and-death stuff on a daily basis. She’s so successful and sorted out and capable, I didn’t want to bother her with my pathetic tales of relationship woe.

  ‘Don’t tell me, another woman,’ says Max.

  ‘Max!’ gasps Michelle, swatting him on his shoulder.

  ‘How do you know it’s not another man?’ I counter.

  ‘Fuck. He’s got another man?’

  ‘MAX!’ the whole table yells, and David throws a napkin at him.

  Trust Max. Always the joker.

  ‘Nell doesn’t have to tell us the reasons why,’ says Michelle, scowling at her husband. Michelle might only be five foot, but she inherited a fiery Latin temper from her tiny Sicilian grandmother, and it can be terrifying. Max looks suitably chastened.

  ‘It’s OK, it’s no big deal,’ I fib, trying to shrug it off. ‘Just a case of cold feet.’

  ‘In California?’ demands Holly.

  That makes me smile, even though inside I feel wretched.

  ‘Well, he’s a bloody idiot to let you go,’ says Max, loyally.

  ‘His loss is our gain,’ adds Fiona, giving my hand a little squeeze. ‘I know Izzy will certainly be thrilled to see more of her godmum.’

  ‘Freddy too,’ says Michelle, ‘as long as you don’t mind freezing on the edge of a football pitch. He’s obsessed.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ I smile.

  ‘He’s not obsessed, he’s talented,’ corrects Max, ‘like his father. You know I could have turned professional if it wasn’t for my knee injury—’

  ‘Argh, Max, no! Not the knee story again!’ The whole table erupts rowdily, and the conversation moves swiftly on to making fun of Max for his insistence that he could have been better than Beckham if it hadn’t been for his dodgy knees. Which is way more interesting than my disastrous love life, frankly.