Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up

by Alexandra Potter

Pulling the Trigger

  On Sunday I get to catch up with Liza. She’s in her car, stuck in traffic on the freeway as usual, and calls me on WhatsApp. We chat about random things – I recount the baby shower; she groans in all the right places – but after five minutes I get the sense that she hasn’t just called to chat. There’s Something Up.

  ‘So, I saw Ethan at the weekend.’

  My heart leaps at just the mention of his name. So this is what’s up. I’m both desperate to know all the details and desperate not to. Don’t ask, Nell. Don’t ask. No good can come of it.

  ‘How was he?’

  There’s a pause. I brace for impact.

  ‘He’s met someone.’

  It’s a head-on-collision. I’m hurled through the air.

  ‘I didn’t want you to find out from someone else.’

  A million questions whirl around in my head. I grab one. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Just some girl he met at a party.’

  Just some girl. She says it like it’s no big deal, but it feels like a grenade.

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  Immediately, I hate myself.

  ‘She’s not you, Nell, she’ll never be you.’

  A heavy weight is pressing on my chest. I feel like I’m going to suffocate. I want to burst into tears. I do neither.

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘How do you know?’ A ball of hurt rises up in my throat and I force it down. I should be over it. I should be just fine.

  ‘Because I’m talking about you, not him. It doesn’t have to mean anything to you.’ Her voice is determined on the other end of the phone. ‘You left, remember. You’ve moved on.’

  Liza’s certainty is like a net appearing beneath me. I feel her words catching me as I fall.

  ‘Have I, though? Have I really?’ My voice is almost a whisper.

  Like a runner in a relay, she passes me the baton.

  ‘Well, now that’s up to you.’

  I’m grateful for:

  Liza, who steers me through the plethora of dating sites and writes my profile, even though it’s a little too ‘yoga’ and I’m not sure I’d describe myself as ‘a spiritual life force’.

  Finally deciding to take the plunge and get back out there. Ethan has moved on and so must I.

  There’s no one to hear me scream when I discover my matches look the same age as my dad’s friends.

  The trifecta that is cheese puffs, a can of gin and tonic, and gallows humour. Hang on, I wonder if I could put that on my profile?

  Friday 13th

  In the true spirit of Friday 13th, I decide to scare the living daylights out of myself.

  Do I . . .

  a) Watch a scary horror film?

  b) Log on to my online banking and look at the balance of my current account?

  c) Attempt to take a photo of myself for my dating profile?

  I’ll give you a clue. It’s not A.

  The Bereavement Bunker

  It’s only been a week and, whereas I was expecting the only thing in my dating inbox to be tumbleweed blowing about, I’ve had quite a few responses. In fact, so far I appear to have got myself into three relationships! Well, I say relationships, but what I mean is online relationships, as they’re all with men I haven’t yet met in real life and I’m not sure I’m ever going to.

  Remember in the old days when someone would ask you for a drink or invite you to the movies? Now they ask to follow you on Instagram and invite you to like their Facebook page, and before you know it you’re having long WhatsApp conversations into the night and liking that cute photo of them with their cat. Emojis are flying back and forth. Flirty texts are being exchanged. Email links to funny articles are being shared.

  Until by the end of the week you’ve met all their family on Facebook and seen what they’ve had for lunch every day, but you’ve never actually spoken to them and they never want to meet up. It’s like none of it is actually real. It only exists on your screen, and if you shut your laptop and turn off your smartphone – poof – it all disappears, like some modern-day fairy tale.

  But at least Cinderella got left with a pumpkin. These days it’s more likely to be a dick pic.

  ‘A what?’ Cricket looks at me like she’s misheard.

  We arranged to meet at a cafe in Sloane Square and are sitting at a table by the window. We’ve been admiring the view and drinking tea and oohing and ahhing over the chocolate cake, which is all terribly pleasant, but now the conversation’s moved on to more of the nitty gritty stuff, so to speak, and I’m telling her about my dating experiences thus far. Well, she did ask. And I figured that with her attitude to the life drawing class, she could take the grim reality.

  She leans towards me. ‘I’m sorry, my hearing isn’t what it used to be.’

  ‘No, your hearing’s just fine,’ I assure her. ‘That’s what they call them.’

  ‘Are you meaning . . .?’

  I pass her my phone. On the screen is the text I’ve just received. She doesn’t bat an eyelid.

  ‘In my day they used to call it flashing. I remember it happening to Cissy and me one evening, on the platform at Baker Street. Quite unsolicited. Cissy told him to put it away at once.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘We didn’t wait to find out. A train arrived so we escaped onto the Bakerloo Line.’ She gives a little shake of her shoulders. ‘No one wants to see it.’

  ‘What I don’t understand is why a man’d think you would?’

  Cricket takes a sip of tea. ‘Well, I suppose it’s a bit like when I had my cat. Tibby would bring dead things in for me. He’d proudly leave them on the mat for me to find of a morning. I know the intention was to show off and please me, but it was quite revolting.’

  I can’t help but laugh. ‘I’m not sure he’d like being compared to a dead mouse.’

  ‘No, I expect not,’ she smiles, ‘but it does look rather like one, doesn’t it?’ She peers back at my phone, pinching the screen with her fingers to make it bigger.

  We both pull a face.

  ‘Catherine, what a pleasant surprise!’

  A voice causes us both to look up, to see a smartly dressed elderly couple standing by our table. He’s carrying a tray laden with tea and cakes, while she’s holding several shopping bags. A couple of small children are playing around their legs.

  ‘Lionel – Margaret,’ Cricket nods. I see she’s somewhat taken aback, but recovers quickly.

  ‘How are you? We were so sorry to hear the news about Monty . . .’ Margaret goes first.

  Followed swiftly by Lionel. ‘We meant to call, but we’ve just been so busy.’

  And back to Margaret. ‘You know how it is.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Cricket, smiling brightly, and I feel my heart break a little. I know just how lonely she has been since Monty died. Don’t these people have a clue?

  ‘We saw the obituary in the paper; a wonderful tribute.’ They both look at Cricket, with varying expressions of sympathy and pity.

  ‘Thank you. This is the writer and my dear friend, Nell.’

  ‘Oh, pleased to meet you.’

  There’s a flutter of hellos, how do you dos and shaking of hands, before our exchange stalls. I can see from Margaret’s body language that she’s desperate to leave, but Lionel gives the dying embers of the conversation one last stoke.

  ‘Everyone at bridge was asking after you.’

  ‘Well, tell everyone I’m still on the phone. And I still play bridge.’

  Lionel doesn’t know if that was meant to be a joke, and looks to Margaret to see whether he should laugh or not. She steps in quickly to rescue him.

  ‘Well, perhaps we should arrange a dinner, shouldn’t we, darling?’ She looks to her husband, stroking the lapel of his coat to remove some unseen thread, before turning back to Cricket. ‘I know everyone would love to see you, Catherine.’

  ‘That would be lovely.’ She smiles graciously.

  ‘Well, we must go, we’r
e with our grandchildren – Florence! Theo!’

  There’s a loud clatter of trays and a piercing shriek.

  ‘Little rascals,’ Lionel laughs, moving to catch up with Margaret, who’s hurrying over to the dessert counter and the unravelling scene of chaos.

  ‘Hurry, death might just be catching,’ quips Cricket, as we both watch them scuttling away. ‘Sorry, that was mean of me,’ she adds, turning back to me.

  ‘They deserved it,’ I reply. I feel suddenly and furiously protective of her.

  But Cricket merely shrugs. ‘They’re not bad people, really. People just don’t know what to do about death. It frightens them. They fear they may be next. I remind them of their own mortality, and nobody wants that now, do they?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Maybe, but it’s the reality.’

  ‘But that’s so unfair.’

  ‘They don’t do it to be cruel. Quite the opposite. I’ve found friends and acquaintances keep their distance because they don’t want to upset you or say the wrong thing. What they don’t realize is you’re already upset beyond anything they could ever say or do. It’s their silence that upsets you. You feel isolated. Abandoned.’

  Listening to her talking about her feelings of isolation, I remember how I felt when I first moved back to London, when I would spend weekends alone, not seeing a friendly face apart from Arthur’s. And then I met Cricket and everything changed.

  ‘They could have invited you to play bridge with them,’ I reason, annoyed that she’s letting them off so lightly.

  ‘It’s different now I’m no longer part of a couple. A single person upsets the numbers. We upset theatre rows. Hotel rooms. Sunday pub roasts for two.’

  Instinctively I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. I might not be a widow, but I know what it’s like to find yourself single when everyone around you is in couples.

  ‘That’s why you’ve got me,’ I smile.

  ‘Oh, you are a dear.’ She places her free hand upon mine and for a moment we just sit there like that, until suddenly I notice.

  ‘My phone. Where is it?’

  ‘Oh – I thought I put it down . . .’ Cricket frowns. ‘Has it fallen on the floor?’

  ‘Nope.’

  We’re both hunting around us when I spot a small boy sitting with Lionel and Margaret a few tables away, engrossed in a phone. He’s swiping the screen as though he’s scrolling through photos, and now Margaret has noticed—

  ‘Theo, what have you got there?’

  Oh no. Please God, no.

  I’m grateful for:

  Finding friendship in the unlikeliest of places.

  Not being afraid to send Cricket that email inviting her to the concert, even though at the time I was worried it might be the wrong thing to do, as now I realize it’s better to do and say something than nothing.

  My screen lock.

  A Slippery Slope

  I have a date! An actual date. And not just a hedge-your-bets coffee, but full-on committed make-an-effort drinks and dinner.

  ‘Is this what they mean when they tell you to set yourself a new challenge?’ I ask Liza, peering into my FaceTime camera and waving my hairdryer about, a bed strewn with piles of discarded outfits visible behind me. ‘Getting ready for a date over forty.’

  I’d already been getting ready for hours when she called. I can remember when all it took was a bit of flicky eyeliner and whatever was on the sale rack at Topshop, and you’d look amazing. Now it takes ages and costs a fortune, and that’s just to get you looking half decent.

  ‘You look amazing,’ encourages Liza.

  God, aren’t girlfriends great.

  ‘I should have kept on doing yoga,’ I protest, angling myself in the mirror to show her my outfit. I need to throw away half of my clothes. They’re too small, too short, or too revealing. I’m all for ignoring that rubbish about age-appropriate dressing, but I don’t want to show off any crinkle and sag. Yet I still want to look nice, and vaguely sexy, and not like I’m only a chin-whisker away from a polo neck and a pair of statement earrings.

  ‘You wouldn’t go to yoga,’ replies Liza.

  ‘You should have made me.’ I jiggle my arms.

  ‘No one can make another person do something they don’t want to. Anyway, I feared for the safety of my other students,’ she grins.

  I smile. Finally.

  ‘Are you done running yourself down? You’re just nervous. It’s going to be great. I’m proud of you.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘You’ve inspired me to get out there again. I’m going on a date too.’

  ‘What? When? With who?’

  But Liza just laughs. ‘I’ll tell you all about it later. You need to finish drying your hair. Those bangs are starting to kink.’

  I look at my fringe. It’s starting to curl up at the edges, like stale bread.

  Hanging up, I whack the hairdryer on full blast and start attacking it with my bristle brush, when suddenly there’s a bloodcurdling scream.

  WTF?

  I flick off the hairdryer. Silence. I feel relieved and slightly foolish. I must be hearing things. Or maybe it was next door’s TV. They always have the volume too high.

  There’s a loud thud.

  That’s not next door’s TV. I freeze. Is someone in the house? It’s Monday but Edward texted earlier to say he was away on business and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow night. I look for Arthur, but he must be downstairs. I didn’t hear him bark. All kinds of scary stories begin flashing through my mind like a newsreel. I unplug my hair tongs – these things are lethal – and gingerly open my bedroom door.

  ‘Hello . . .?’

  No answer. But then burglars don’t normally introduce themselves, do they?

  ‘Is there anyone there?’ I call out, my voice wavering slightly.

  Suddenly there’s the rattling of a lock and the bathroom door is flung open. A figure appears through a cloud of steam, wearing only a towel.

  ‘No, I’m not OK!’

  ‘Edward!’ I gasp.

  ‘Are you trying to kill me?’ he demands.

  OK, so there have been moments when the thought has crossed my mind, but . . .

  I stare at him in shock. He stands bare-chested in the hallway; his hair is wet and has gone all curly, and he’s dripping all over the floorboards.

  I avert my eyes quickly. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I happen to live here, remember.’

  ‘But you said you were on a business trip—’ I begin, but he interrupts.

  ‘My plans changed. I’ve scheduled an important meeting first thing tomorrow, so I came back early and decided to take a shower and, in doing so, NEARLY BROKE MY NECK!’

  I open and close my mouth like a fish. ‘Why has that got anything to do with me?’ I manage finally.

  ‘So you wouldn’t know anything about the bath being so slippery I had to hang on to the shower curtain for dear life?’

  Suddenly I remember the long soak in the bath I just took, with the expensive essential oils I bought especially. ‘Actually, that might be the bath oil—’

  ‘Bath oil?’ Edward almost chokes. ‘It was like an oil slick!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why didn’t you clean it afterwards?’

  ‘I was going to . . . I didn’t think you’d be back until tomorrow . . .’

  ‘It’s completely irresponsible, not to mention dangerous!’

  ‘I said I’m sorry.’

  ‘I mean, who does that?!’

  ‘Will you stop shouting at me.’

  ‘I’m not shouting!’ he explodes, then, seeming to suddenly notice his temper, he takes a deep breath and clears his throat. ‘If you could just be a little more careful next time—’ He breaks off to stare at me.

  ‘Are you going out?’

  ‘Yes . . . I’ve got a date,’ I add in explanation.

  ‘Oh . . . I see,’ he nods. ‘You look very nice.’

  �
�Thanks.’ I realize I’m still brandishing my hair tongs. ‘Are you staying in?’ I let them fall to my side.

  ‘Yes, I just got back from a yoga class. Early night.’

  ‘In that case, if you could feed Arthur?’

  ‘Of course.’ There’s a long pause. ‘Well, have a good evening.’

  ‘Thanks, Edward. You too.’

  I smile, but his expression remains impassive as always, and for a moment we both just look at each other across the landing, before we both turn and retreat into our respective bedrooms.

  I’m grateful for:

  My nice trouser suit, which covers all the bits I need covering, reveals a bit of cleavage and, with a pair of heels, makes me feel like I’m still in the game.

  The shower curtain that saved Edward’s life, otherwise I could have been up for manslaughter.

  MAY

  #maydaymaydaymayday

  May Day

  Remember when you were a child and May Day meant twirling around a maypole? It used to be so much fun. Fast-forward to forty-something and it’s turned into Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.

  Sitting in an Italian restaurant in Soho, I desperately glance at my watch. It’s past midnight and the waiters are clearing up around us. One’s even mopping the floor. All the other customers have gone home, which is where I’d like to be. However, my date has other ideas.

  ‘Another two limoncellos, please.’

  ‘Of course,’ nods the waiter, putting down his mop.

  Forget having fun with coloured ribbons; it’s now an emergency distress call to rescue me from my online date.

  Nick seemed relatively normal in his profile. He works for a sports company and listed travel, red wine and running as his interests. I like two out of three, which isn’t bad. He also looked quite handsome in his photos, none of which were arty black-and-white headshots or involved him leaping out of planes and hiking up Everest. (I had no idea how many men who are online dating have climbed Everest. It almost seems a prerequisite to being on a dating app. That summit must be jammed with single men taking selfies for their online profiles.)

  Plus, most importantly, he was keen to meet up in real life. Which would seem kind of obvious to me, being from the old-fashioned dating world where you actually got dressed and left the house, and didn’t just loll about on your sofa with your phone sending nude selfies and emojis, which I always struggle to decipher, as I’m not fluent in Emoji.