Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up

by Alexandra Potter

  Still having fourteen podcast listeners, plus now there’s another four! I can’t believe it’s gone up to eighteen!

  Guilty as Charged

  A few days later, Edward and I had another one of our ‘domestics’. This time it was the ice-cube tray.

  ‘What’s this?’ he demanded, coming in from work on Wednesday evening and pointing dramatically at the ice-cube tray in the freezer drawer, like Hercule Poirot when he finds the murder weapon.

  ‘An ice-cube tray,’ I replied.

  ‘An empty ice-cube tray!’

  Oh shit.

  ‘Do you think it fills itself up?’ he accused.

  The thing is, no, of course I didn’t. It’d just been a rough few days, and when I used the last ice cubes for my gin and tonic, filling up the ice-cube tray from the water-filter jug (which always seems to want filling and you have to wait what feels like forever while it filters through, drip by drip) and balancing it carefully in the freezer drawer, so it didn’t spill when you tried to close it, was the last thing on my mind.

  Of course, I told none of this to Edward. Edward is one of those people for whom filling up an ice-cube tray is a duty not to be shirked. He would never dream of being so slovenly as to shove an empty ice-cube tray back in the freezer, regardless of what else is going on. He does everything in the order that you’re supposed to, whether it’s the small stuff in life or the big stuff. He grew up, got married, bought a house, had children; he didn’t miss any steps.

  Which is why Edward has not found himself at forty-something with his life in a mess. He is not being ghosted and wondering where he went wrong, and drinking gin and tonics straight from the can because there are no ice cubes left, because some useless idiot didn’t fill up the tray.

  ‘You’re right. I’m a terrible person.’

  ‘Well, thank you, but I wouldn’t say you’re a terrible person.’

  ‘I am. If I’d filled up the ice-cube tray, my life would not be in the mess that it is now.’

  Edward looked slightly alarmed by this sudden turn of events. One minute he was talking about the ice-cube tray and the next I was talking about emotions.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure how you reason that . . .’

  His body stiffened, as if bracing himself.

  ‘That ice-cube tray is a metaphor for my life. What did I think was going to happen when I ran out of ice cubes? Huh? HUH?’ I was upset about Johnny, and after bottling it up for the last couple of weeks, my emotions found an outlet and I suddenly burst into tears.

  Poor Edward.

  ‘Let me make you a drink. A proper gin and tonic, not like in those silly cans I keep finding in the recycling—’

  ‘But we don’t have any ice cubes,’ I wailed.

  He smiled kindly. ‘They do at the pub.’

  So now we’re here at the pub and it’s a bit weird, being with my landlord. We’ve never been out of the house together, and it’s strange to see him in a setting that doesn’t include the microwave or the fridge. Like the time in California when I saw one of my favourite Hollywood actors in the pasta aisle at Whole Foods. It was so odd. I’d only ever seen him looking gorgeous on screen, and there he was in a dodgy tracksuit with a jar of organic marinara sauce.

  ‘I wasn’t sure what gin you like, so I got Hendrick’s,’ he’s saying now, coming back to the table with two drinks. ‘I hope it’s OK.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I take a sip; it’s very strong and I haven’t eaten anything. I take another sip.

  ‘I trust it’s up to your usual standards.’

  It’s an attempt at a joke, but for once I can’t even manage a smile.

  ‘Oh, I’m not fussy.’

  Edward shifts in his seat and I feel immediately guilty. I owe him an explanation at least.

  ‘I’ve been ghosted,’ I blurt.

  ‘What?’

  I sigh into my drink. ‘Johnny. The guy I was seeing. He disappeared.’

  ‘As in, missing?’ Edward looks concerned.

  ‘As in I haven’t heard from him in nearly two weeks and I’m not going to.’ I stab an ice cube with my straw. ‘I think you could say I’ve been dumped, Edward.’

  He looks sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘And I keep wondering if I said the wrong thing, or appeared too keen, or slept with him too soon.’

  Sitting across from me, Edward’s face is impassive, but now the muscle in his jaw twitches.

  ‘I mean, what is it with me and relationships? You know, before I moved in with you I lived with my fiancé for five years, and look how that fell apart.’

  I’m on a roll now and I’ve already hoovered up my drink. Edward doesn’t say anything but offers to buy me another one. I don’t say no.

  As he goes to the bar, I think about Ethan. I can’t compare what happened between us with what happened with Johnny. I loved Ethan. I was completely in love with Ethan. We had a life together. I thought we had a future together. I was devastated when it ended. Johnny was a distraction from all that. He was handsome and charming and entertaining, but now I’ve had time to get some perspective I’ve realized we never had any proper conversations, never revealed our true selves. It was just banter and flirting and rosé and sex. And it was fun while it lasted.

  Edward returns with another gin and tonic and several packets of crisps. A man after my own heart. I dive into them hungrily.

  ‘I just liked him, that’s all, and I thought he liked me,’ I shrug, tearing open the cheese and onion.

  ‘I’m sure he did. But men like Jonathan McCreary like themselves a lot more.’

  I stop mid-mouthful. ‘Jonathan McCreary? Hang on, is that . . . Johnny? You know him?’

  Edward nods. ‘I know of him. We’d never been formally introduced until recently . . .’

  As he alludes to that awkward moment on the landing, I feel myself cringe with embarrassment.

  ‘But I’ve lived in the area long enough to learn of his reputation.’

  ‘His reputation?’

  I look to Edward for an answer, but none is forthcoming.

  ‘What reputation?’

  ‘Let’s just say he has an eye for the ladies.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘Well, it seemed a little late for that . . .’

  We look at each other and this time I can’t help but smile. It’s so bad it’s comical. Plus, the gin and tonics are really helping.

  Edward opens the salt and vinegar and offers me one.

  ‘At the end of the day, it’s the rejection, really,’ I continue, taking one and in turn offering him the cheese and onion. ‘Have you ever been rejected? I bet you haven’t.’

  ‘I’ve had my share of rejections.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t get into Oxford.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I thought you were going to tell me about a girl!’

  ‘Oh, it was much worse than any girl. Dad was horribly disappointed. He’d been at Christ Church and it was expected I’d do the same, and then follow him into banking and become a CEO or the chairman of a major financial institution.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I went to Bristol and set up my software company.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not for my father it’s not. Three generations of Lewises have gone into banking.’

  I watch Edward pause to take a large drink of his gin and tonic. To anyone else he has a successful career, but not, apparently, to his own father.

  ‘What about your mum?’ I ask, remembering Cricket saying it was important not to be afraid of mentioning loved ones who have died. ‘What would she have wanted for you?’

  ‘To be happy,’ he says, without missing a beat. ‘To do what I love. To follow my passion.’

  ‘So you did! Though I don’t know how anyone can be passionate about software,’ I joke, pulling a face.

  ‘Ah, now that’s where the perception of software is so misconstru
ed,’ he replies good-naturedly. ‘My work is focused on the environment, and creating and developing software to deal with renewable energy solutions. Today’s global challenges need new technologies and we’re at the cutting edge of providing the software that will enable this, so it’s really incredibly exciting.’

  He lost me at ‘renewable energy solutions’. I’m two large gin and tonics in, and I honestly don’t have much of a clue what he’s talking about. But seeing how passionate he is about what he does, I realize I’ve been wrong about quite a few things concerning Edward.

  And now I’ve finished another drink.

  ‘Same again?’ I stand up unsteadily. ‘This time it’s my round.’

  ‘Same again,’ he smiles. ‘And more crisps.’

  Funny how things have a habit of turning around, isn’t it? I was so upset before, and now look at me – I’m really quite cheered up.

  ‘More crisps,’ I nod, doing a little mock salute before making my way to the bar.

  ThrowbackUp Thursday

  I’m grateful for:

  The bucket next to my bed.

  Being self-employed, so I only have to make it two feet from my bed to my desk.

  My laptop, in case I can’t even manage that.

  Burnt toast and paracetamol.

  Edward, who calls me later from the office to see if I’m OK and to tell me there’s fresh orange juice and tomato soup in the fridge, that he was the one who put the bucket by my bed, not to worry about taking Arthur out as he’s arranged for a dog walker, and to just get some rest.

  Knowing there are kind people in this world.

  Secrets and Lies

  So I’ve decided: I’m going on a health kick. I swore I was going to turn things around this year, but it’s already July and I’m still single, broke, and surviving on crisps and alcohol. Er, hello, mind–body connection! How can I expect a fresh start and a new me when a smashed avocado on rye toast hasn’t so much as passed my lips? I need to ditch the sugar, stay off alcohol, avoid carbs, and eat wholesome nutritious meals involving lots of ancient grains and fermented things.

  No one said healthy eating had to be fun.

  That said, it looks fun in all those celebrity cookbooks. In lovely white kitchens, with full hair and make-up. But I’m not sure I believe it. I lived with a chef who did amazing things with tofu, but no one was worse than Ethan when it came to junk food. He would fight you to the death for that last slice of pizza.

  So anyway, I’ve spent the last week drinking green juices and eating salads. And I’ve never been as healthy, or as broke. Seriously, have you seen the price of a green juice in a glass bottle? Because, of course, I can’t buy plastic. Otherwise, in looking after my health I’m destroying the health of everything in the ocean, which seems a bit at odds somehow.

  ‘What can I get for you?’

  Standing in line at a juice bar, I look up at the chalkboard.

  ‘Can you tell me what’s in a Green Detox, please?’

  In keeping with my health kick, I made appointments this week to see my doctor and dentist for annual check-ups, and I’ve just finished at the hygienist, which is around the corner from the health food store.

  ‘Yes, it’s kale, spinach, broccoli, celery and apple,’ says the cheery bearded man.

  ‘Great, I’ll have one of those. But no apple, thanks.’

  They always try to sneak in apple, but I know that’s because apples are cheap and it’s a way of diluting all the good expensive green stuff. A little bit is fine, but if you’re not careful you’ll end up paying a tenner for what’s basically apple juice. So I always refuse all apple. Which means my juice always tastes absolutely revolting, but at least I know it’s healthy.

  ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I take a sip through my paper straw and wince.

  I leave the cafe and begin weaving my way back down the high street, looking in various designer shop windows and wondering what it must feel like to be able to afford all these expensive clothes. Imagine just walking in and not even having to look at the prices.

  My bladder twinges, interrupting my daydream. It’s all this green juice. It goes right through you.

  Spotting a pub on the corner, I hurry inside and head straight for the ladies’. It’s only on my way out that I spot a figure in the corner nursing a pint. Hang on, is that –

  ‘Max?’

  As he hears his name called, he looks up.

  ‘It is you! I thought I recognized you.’

  ‘Oh . . . hi, Nell.’ He looks surprised to see me. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I could ask you the same,’ I grin, giving him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be at work?’

  ‘Lunchtime,’ he replies, as I slide into the seat opposite him.

  I gesture to the clock on the wall showing it’s three in the afternoon. ‘You have long lunches,’ I smile, ‘is that part of your promotion?’ Then I notice his eyes are a little bloodshot. I feel a pulse of concern. ‘Hey, is everything all right?’ I lower my voice. ‘It’s not Tom, is it?’

  ‘No, I mean, yes, everything’s fine. Tom’s fine. He’s great.’

  I relax, but only for a moment.

  ‘It’s my promotion.’

  So there is something wrong.

  ‘What about your promotion?’ I ask, and then, because he doesn’t answer, I urge, ‘What is it? Too much pressure?’

  ‘I didn’t get it.’ He cuts me off.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t get the promotion. It went to another colleague. He’s fifteen years younger than me and hasn’t anywhere near my experience, but . . .’ He shrugs.

  ‘But why? I don’t understand. It was a reward for all your hard work the past year. You deserved that promotion!’

  But Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even meet my eyes. He just tips the rest of his pint down his throat.

  ‘Hang on – does Michelle know about this?’

  He holds his empty glass and continues staring at it.

  ‘Oh Max, you’ve got to tell her. So you didn’t get the promotion – so what? It doesn’t matter, you’re being too hard on yourself.’ I reach out and rub his arm supportively.

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Finally he brings his eyes up to mine and meets my gaze. ‘When I didn’t get the promotion, there was some restructuring within the company . . .’ He trails off, shaking his head. ‘My role wasn’t needed any more.’

  I’m looking at him, trying to make sense of what he’s telling me.

  ‘You mean –?’

  ‘I’ve been “let go”.’

  Max looks so broken I don’t know what to say.

  ‘When did this happen?’ I manage, trying to hide my shock.

  ‘Weeks ago.’

  Abruptly I realize he’s probably been in here all day. Every day. For weeks now.

  ‘But they can’t just do that—’

  ‘They can, and they did.’ Wearily, Max rubs his face with the heels of his hands. ‘I’m self-employed. We were all on freelance contracts. They don’t have to pay out redundancy. They don’t have to do anything.’

  As the reality of the situation sinks in, anxieties begin mushrooming. Max has got four kids . . . he’s the sole breadwinner . . . they’ve just had another baby . . .

  ‘So Michelle doesn’t know about any of this?’ My voice is calm but my mind is racing. God knows how Max must be feeling. Getting up every day, putting on a suit, leaving the house as if everything is normal.

  He shakes his head. ‘No, and you mustn’t tell her either. I don’t want her stressing out, not with the new baby.’

  ‘But you have to tell her.’

  ‘I know, but not yet. It will only worry her. I need to figure something out first.’

  ‘Have you tried looking for another job?’ As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn’t. Max looks at me as if I’m a complete moron. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Just don’t say anything, OK, Nell? Promise me.’

>   I look at Max, fifty years old and a father of four. His dark brown eyes are all crinkled around the edges now, and he’s got grey flecks in his hair, but he’s still that gangly twenty-something who I caught the ferry with across to the Greek Islands. Who lent me his sleeping bag because I was cold and he wanted us to sleep out on the top deck and watch the sunrise, and talk about the future and how great our lives were going to be.

  My chest tightens as he meets my gaze. He’s imploring me.

  ‘I promise,’ I say quietly.

  He was right about one thing. It was a beautiful sunrise.

  Be Happy

  Am I the only person in the world who’s sick of being told to be happy?

  This morning I woke up feeling a bit crap and looked at my phone . . .

  Be Happy! Choose joy! Find your bliss!

  And felt even more crap.

  Can’t we just be allowed to feel a bit bleugh sometimes without this constant pressure? Max certainly isn’t happy right now. Cricket wasn’t feeling joyful when she cleared out Monty’s clothes. And bliss to me right now would be something to take away this awful PMS, and crawling back underneath my duvet. Sometimes life is crap, and wrapping it up in an inspirational quote isn’t always going to make you feel better. On the contrary, sometimes it just makes everything feel worse.

  Take the other day, for example. I was reading another article online about how important happiness is and all the different ways you can achieve it. But reading it just made me feel depressed. Which is a bit ironic when you think about it. I felt like there must be something wrong with me because, as hard as I tried, I wasn’t feeling happy. Even worse, none of the author’s suggestions helped either. So then I wasn’t just abnormal, I was a failure too.

  See, that’s why I get annoyed. We’re encouraged to be our true, authentic selves, but being told to feel happy when you’re just not feeling it, only encourages us to be the exact opposite. Life can be wonderful but it can also be scary and hard. We should be free to feel sad or gloomy or just downright bloody miserable, without feeling like there’s something wrong with us