As soon as I walk into the kitchen, Mum promptly tells me I’ve lost weight, puts the kettle on and shoves the biscuit tin under my nose.
‘Take two,’ she instructs. ‘There’s nothing of you.’
‘Mum, there’s plenty of me,’ I protest, but she ignores me and pushes a packet of digestives at me.
Then she shrieks at the sight of Arthur, who’s been sniffing outside in the garden, and makes his entrance, bounding into the kitchen, muddy paws and all.
‘This is Arthur,’ I say, grabbing him by his collar before he goes for the biscuit tin.
‘You’ve got a dog?’
‘He’s my landlord’s. It’s a long story.’
Hair is flying everywhere. I can already see muddy footprints on Mum’s newly washed kitchen floor. I quickly herd Arthur into the hallway, from where I can hear loud whispers in the kitchen – ‘I mean, I ask you, Philip. A dog! And a great big dirty hairy one too!’ – while Dad tries to placate her. A few moments later, he appears in the hallway.
‘Just keep him away from the lemon meringue,’ he warns. ‘It’s your brother’s favourite, she made it specially.’
‘Is Rich here?’
‘Not yet. Some last-minute business cropped up.’
I feel a niggle. Code for he’s slept in late, no doubt.
‘I’m going to the allotment. Why don’t you and your mum have a chat? I know she’s dying for a proper catch-up.’
‘In other words, she wants to ask me a million questions,’ I grumble.
‘Now then, go easy on her, she means no harm. She’s concerned, that’s all. It was a bit of a shock.’
‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘We’re your parents. That’s our job.’
‘I’m sorry.’
And now I feel bad. I’m taking it out on Mum. It’s not her fault.
‘What’re you sorry for?’
‘Everything. I know Mum was really looking forward to the wedding.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ he smiles, ruffling my hair. ‘It doesn’t matter. We just want you to be happy.
‘Nell?’ Mum pops her head out of the kitchen. ‘The kettle’s boiled.’
I hesitate. I’m trying not to dwell upon the fact that my next visit home was supposed to be as a newlywed with Ethan in the summer. We were planning to have a small ceremony in California, just family and friends, then tour the British Isles as part of our honeymoon. My insides twist.
‘Actually, I think I’m going to take Arthur out for a walk.’ Mum’s face falls, but I can’t help it. I’m just not ready yet.
‘OK, well don’t be late. Dinner’s ready soon.’
Luckily the rain has stopped and I walk along the river, throwing sticks for Arthur who plunges into the icy water as if it’s a warm bath, then loop back through the village. On returning to the house I find a shiny new car in the drive and my little brother, feet up on the coffee table, eating a large slice of lemon meringue pie while Mum fusses around him.
‘Hello, Rich.’
‘Nell,’ he grins, but doesn’t get up.
‘Is that your new car in the drive?’
‘Yes, I just got it. Do you like it? I couldn’t decide between an Audi or BMW, so I went for a Range Rover.’
‘Wow, you must be selling a lot of beer.’
‘We’re inundated with orders, we can’t keep up with demand,’ he smiles.
‘Now don’t you go working too hard,’ warns Mum, smoothing down his hair. ‘You need to keep your strength up.’
He nods dutifully. ‘Mmm, delicious pie, Mum . . . any more?’
She beams proudly as he eats the last mouthful. ‘Well, dinner’s nearly ready,’ she protests weakly, before taking his plate from him and disappearing into the kitchen.
‘Only a little one,’ he calls after her, from the comfort of the sofa. ‘Don’t want to spoil my appetite.’
He catches my look.
‘What?’ he protests as I jab him with my foot. He yelps loudly. Way too loudly.
Mum quickly reappears with another giant slice of lemon meringue. ‘Now, you two, stop it.’
‘She started it,’ he whines, and I glare at him.
This is going to be one very long weekend.
We’re interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the ceiling and a bedroom door opening.
‘I thought Dad was at his allotment—’ I stop mid-sentence as a pretty brunette appears in the doorway of the living room.
‘Everything fine for you, love?’ Mum asks her.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she smiles. ‘Just freshening up.’
So this must be Nathalie, my brother’s new girlfriend. ‘Hi,’ I smile, ‘I’m Nell, Richard’s sister.’
‘Rich has told me all about you,’ she smiles nervously.
‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that,’ I grin, catching my brother’s eye. ‘Still, in that case it’s my turn to tell you all about him—’ I begin, but he hits me with a cushion.
The front door slams. Dad’s back. It’s Mum’s cue. As he washes his hands, she ushers us into the tiny dining room that’s laid for dinner. I notice she’s used her best silverware, and instead of the usual kitchen roll plonked in the middle of the table, there are napkins.
A large fish pie, browned on top, is placed on the table together with bowls of steaming vegetables. Mum does not do small portions. Meanwhile, Dad gets the wine out of the fridge and begins filling everyone’s glasses.
‘What shall we raise a toast to?’ he asks, when he’s finished pouring.
‘To the family being all back together,’ says Mum.
‘And to your mother’s fish pie,’ he adds, as we all raise our glasses.
‘Oh Philip, honestly,’ she tuts, but I can tell she’s pleased really.
The toasts over, I go to take a large gulp of wine, but my brother gets up from his chair and starts tapping his knife against the rim of his glass.
‘Actually, there’s something else.’
I glance up at him, expecting some kind of joke, but his expression is deadly serious. He clears his throat. I suddenly realize my brother is nervous.
‘Nathalie and I have a bit of an announcement.’
Mum visibly vibrates.
You are kidding. It’s been, what? Three months?
But Nathalie, who until now, I realize, has had her cardigan sleeves pulled down over her fingers, suddenly reveals her left hand. A diamond solitaire sparkles.
There’s a scream from Mum as she jumps up and begins throwing her arms around Richard and Nathalie. ‘Oh, is it true? You’re getting married! Oh, this is wonderful,’ and there’s a flurry of congratulations and lots of back slapping from Dad.
Slightly stunned, I watch for a moment from the sidelines. And then it’s my turn and I’m giving them both hugs and congratulations. OK, so it’s a little quick, but they seem very happy, and I’m happy for them, of course I am. I catch Dad’s eye. He smiles supportively. I swear I couldn’t be more thrilled.
‘But there’s more news!’
Seriously, I’m doing really well up until he drops The Bombshell.
So my baby brother is going to be a daddy. I still can’t quite believe it. I mean, I’m pleased for them, really I am, and Mum and Dad looked so happy. Their first grandchild and all that. It’s just – lying in my old bedroom, I feel a stab of such sadness I break down in tears in the darkness.
I let them fall, burying my head into my pillow, until I feel a wet tongue on my hand and turn on the light to see Arthur standing beside the bed, his sad eyes searching out mine.
‘Hey boy, I’m OK, really, I’m OK,’ I soothe, patting his furry head and feeling comforted until finally, satisfied, he returns to his blanket in the corner.
I pick up my book to read, but I feel unsettled. I can’t concentrate. My phone beeps. It’s a text from Holly and Adam in Spain, wishing me a happy Easter. I text back, then scroll through my feeds as a distraction, but just looking at all those perfect lives makes me fee
l even more lonely and inadequate. Of course I know it’s all heavily filtered and edited, but I’m yet to find the filter that can turn my old bedroom into a four-bedroom house in the country, or Arthur into a loving husband.
Instead I go to grab my headphones to listen to a podcast, and as I do I notice the little sign on the bedside table, telling me the Wi-Fi code and thanking me for not smoking.
And suddenly something snaps. Oh, bugger off, designer picture walls and oufits and gorgeous, Pinterest houses. Stuff all those white sandy beaches and yoga poses and sunset strolls with the handsome husband. I’m sorry but I’ve had enough.
My headphones are all tangled up and I start unpicking them, any sadness I felt giving way to frustration.
Someone needs to do the antidote. Someone needs to tell it how it really is when shit happens and life doesn’t work out how you expected. When your life doesn’t look anything like any of that. I give up trying to untangle my headphones and just stick in one earpiece. I hit the podcast app on my phone. Seriously, someone should do a podcast about feeling like a forty-something fuck-up.
Actually . . .
About to press play, I pause. That’s not a bad idea.
I’m grateful for:
My lovely dad who gave me my Easter egg, proving that chocolate really is the silver lining at Easter.
My podcast idea. Tomorrow I’m going to look online and find out what I need to do to get it started. So what if no one listens? I need to get things off my chest.
The gift that is my new niece or nephew, for whom I’m going to be the coolest auntie.
The Wi-Fi code and not smoking.
APRIL
#whosthefool?
1 April
OK, so I have a confession. I’m not really single, broke and over forty; back at my parents’ in my old bedroom with only a flatulent dog for company, eating the stale, broken remnants of my Easter egg for breakfast and feeling like I am really not winning at this thing called life.
God, no. I’m actually happily married and living in a lovely big house with my gorgeous husband and two adorable children, excelling in my career, having an amazing sex life, exercising regularly, practising mindfulness, wearing fashionable outfits of the day and finding time in my busy schedule to post them on Instagram, while green juicing daily and remembering to breathe.
Because of course, breathing is quite important.
And last, but certainly not least: Being Happy All Of The Fucking Time.
April Fool!!!
I’m grateful for:
My sense of humour.
My brother being too busy getting married and having a baby to want to play a ‘hilarious’ prank on me, which in previous years has invariably led to him accusing me of ‘not seeing the funny side’ and me wanting to kill him.
Panorama’s spaghetti-tree harvest, which has to be the best April Fool ever and brings a whole new meaning to fake news.
Chocolate. Did I mention chocolate?
Easter Monday
When my brother and I were children, our favourite game was Rock-Paper-Scissors. We would play it for hours. The rules are very simple, so simple that apparently in Japan scientists have taught chimpanzees to play it (not that I think chimpanzees are stupid – on the contrary, I think they’re smarter than a lot of humans, but that’s a whole other discussion).
In case you’ve been living under a rock (no pun intended), this is a game where each player simultaneously makes one of three shapes with an outstretched hand: ‘rock’ (a fist), ‘paper’ (a flat hand) and ‘scissors’ (a fist with two fingers extended). A simple rule determines the winner: ‘Rock breaks scissors, scissors cut paper, paper covers rock.’ If both players choose the same sign, it’s a tie.
Why am I telling you all this?
Because you can apply the same rules to life; only now it’s not rocks, paper and scissors, it’s a wedding and a baby and a broken engagement. And it’s no longer a game of chance. On the contrary. In the Rock-Paper-Scissors of life, an impending wedding and new baby trumps a broken engagement every time. It’s unbeatable. Which means my brother has emerged as the clear winner.
And I’m the loser.
On the plus side, no one is asking me any questions about my break-up from Ethan. In fact, since Rich’s announcement Mum seems to have forgotten about it entirely. Instead she’s consumed with excitement about the new baby and the wedding. When she’s not fussing around Nathalie or ferrying cups of tea up and down the stairs to my brother, who is holed up in the bedroom ‘busy working to a deadline’ (which apparently involves sharing videos on Facebook), she’s proudly telling everyone she’s going to be mother of the groom and a grandmother.
Including the cold caller who rang asking if she wanted to claim compensation for an injury and was forced to hang up, instead of the other way around. So you see, there are lots of positives.
But seriously, joking aside, the truth is I couldn’t be more relieved to have the spotlight taken off me. The last thing I want is to rake over the coals of my failed relationship and do a Q&A with my family on What Went Wrong. That said, I lived in California long enough to know that’s exactly what I should be doing: opening up and talking about it. Any good therapist will tell you it’s the key to recovery, and how only then will you begin the healing process that will allow you to truly move on.
But I just don’t want to. For these few days back home, all I want to do is forget about it all and curl up next to Dad on the sofa, my head resting against his scratchy woolly jumpered shoulder. I want to eat too many Easter eggs, drink too many cups of sugary tea, and be too hot for the first time since I left California, as Mum has taken control of the thermostat and the house is like a sauna.
And I want to almost die laughing when we get out the old family albums at breakfast to show Nathalie, and uncover photographic evidence of the time I stole Mum’s make-up bag and covered my little brother in silver eyeshadow and lip gloss.
‘No way! Richard, is that you?’ shrieks Nathalie, staring goggle-eyed at the photo.
Rich goes bright red. ‘It wasn’t my idea,’ he grumbles.
‘You loved it!’ I protest. ‘You begged for more blusher!’
Nathalie snorts with laughter and pounces delightedly on another photo in the album. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, that’s when our Nell was desperate for a dog but we wouldn’t let her have one,’ grins Dad, appearing fresh from his morning shower and peering over her shoulder.
‘She made Rich a pair of ears and a tail, and led him around the living room with the belt from my dressing gown.’
‘He used to follow Nell around like a puppy dog for hours,’ chimes in Mum, passing Dad a mug of tea as he sits down at the dining room table.
Rich glowers and continues buttering a slice of toast. For someone who prides himself on being a ‘bit of a joker’, he hates it when the joke’s on him.
‘Oh, c’mon babe, we’re only teasing,’ smiles Nathalie, reaching for his hand and squeezing his fingers. When my brother’s not happy, he has a tendency to sulk, and nothing anyone says can snap him out of it.
‘My bark was always worse than my bite,’ he smiles contritely, giving her a kiss.
I watch them across the table. If I wasn’t sure about Nathalie before, I am now. It’s like she has the key to my brother that none of us could ever find.
As Mum goes into the kitchen to make more tea, Dad reaches for another album. ‘Look at my moustache,’ he laughs, pointing at a picture of him and me standing in the driveway next to his old estate car, which is filled to the brim with cardboard boxes.
‘Never mind your moustache, look at my big hair!’ I gasp, peering at the photograph. I almost don’t recognize the skinny girl in black leggings and an oversized jumper, wearing too much make-up and an excited smile to mask her nerves.
‘When was that taken?’
‘The day I left for university.’
I gaze at my eighteen-year-old self and it’s l
ike looking at a different person. Staring defiantly into the lens and a future that lies ahead of her, she thinks she knows everything when, in fact, she knows nothing at all. I feel affection and an overwhelming protectiveness towards her.
‘Any toast left?’
I snap back to see Dad waving the butter knife around like a conductor.
‘Oh sorry, I took the last of it. Mum said you were just having muesli,’ says Rich, finishing off a large buttery slice.
Mum has recently put herself and Dad on a healthy eating regime, as there was an article about it in ‘one of her magazines’. My mother’s magazines are famous in our family, and the reason for our wallpaper borders, macramé plant hangers, and a city break to Amsterdam where my father smoked a ‘funny cigarette’ and fell off his bicycle, narrowly missing a canal.
Which apparently was not on the recommended tourist list of ‘things to do’.
Dad’s face falls. ‘How’s a man supposed to do a day’s work on hamster food?’ he grumbles, glaring at the box of muesli sitting on the table as if it’s actually attacking him.
‘That hamster food is good for your cholesterol!’
My mother’s ears are like an elephant’s and she shouts from the kitchen. We do this a lot in our house; shouting at each other from different rooms. It’s our family’s way of communicating. Why speak to each other when you’re in the same room, when you can wait until the person goes into another one then start yelling through the door?
‘And you’re not doing a day of work, you’re retired.’
My mother returns brandishing the teapot, resplendent in its new hand-knitted orange mohair cosy. Which had been in July’s issue.
‘I’ll have you know I work harder down that allotment than I ever did at the council.’ Draining his mug of tea, Dad gets up from his chair. ‘Right, well, if anyone wants me that’s where I’ll be.’
‘On an empty stomach?’ Mum looks flustered as he gives her a quick peck on the cheek. ‘And what about your packed lunch?’
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 10
