My six likes – from Mum, Michelle, Holly, Liza and Fiona, plus someone I went to school with and haven’t seen for thirty years, who now has bunny ears and a garland of flowers around her head.
Being able to delete the comment from Mum asking me if I’ve scattered the ashes yet, thus ruining any attempt at pretending I’m on a romantic holiday with my lover in case Ethan looks.
Bikinis and Babies
I’m lying on a sun lounger by the hotel pool, flicking through the magazines I bought at the airport. On the cover of one, a soap actress is showing off her new baby, while inside, following a whole column devoted to celebrity baby bumps, is an eight-page spread detailing the birth story in full hair and make-up: ‘It was touch and go!’ ‘I’ve never known love like this!’ and ‘Now I’m a mother I’m finally a woman.’
So what does that make me? A non-woman?
I reach for the next mag, only this time the celebrity on the cover is revealing her recent weight loss in a bikini: ‘Now my life can really start!’ Exasperated, I get up from my sun lounger and head for a swim. Are we meant to believe a woman’s life only has value by being a mother or looking hot in a bikini? (Or the pièce de résistance; giving birth and bouncing back into a bikini weeks later.) What about having a job you love or fighting for a cause or pursuing your passion?
Or how about just living your life and loving your body any way you damn well want, and not having to prove anything to anyone?
Is that it? Just two choices: a bikini body or a baby.
I jump into the pool feet first.
Which begs the question: What if you have neither?
I’m grateful for:
The super fabulous Cricket: a. who doesn’t have children, and is not only a woman but a frigging goddess.
b. for pointing out, quite matter of factly, that if I want a bikini body, I just need to put a bikini on my body.
c. for proving that abs are seriously overrated by rocking a one-piece.
The little shop near the hotel where I bought a lovely red-and-white striped bikini.
The delicious Catalan meal of fresh gambas, grilled cuttlefish, patatas bravas and tortilla that we ate down by the harbour, followed by two giant scoops of gelato, which gives a whole new meaning to ‘bump watch’.
Letting Go
It’s day three of our holiday, and time has slipped and slowed into a gentle rhythm of morning coffees at the harbour, a delicious lunch at a little beach shack, followed by afternoons spent lazing by the pool.
We also manage to fit some exploring into our busy schedule. One time we drive up to a ruined church on a hill. Another time we discover a deserted beach, where Cricket goes snorkelling and I read a book, until we are joined by several hairy male cyclists who soon make us realize we’ve actually discovered a nudist beach.
‘I’ll never eat cuttlefish again,’ remarks Cricket.
Which is all you need to know about that.
But, hairy naked cyclists aside, it’s so beautiful here. The Costa Brava has such a bad reputation for mass tourism, but this small fishing village feels like an undiscovered jewel.
Cricket tells me not much has changed since she first came here with Monty over thirty years ago. She’s spent the last few days reminiscing, showing me their favourite spots and regaling me with anecdotes, relieved that any fears she may have had about returning here have been unfounded. At first she was worried the memories might make her sad, but if anything she’s been revitalized by them.
‘Spooks and shadows need to be swept away,’ she says. ‘Shine a light into them,’ she says. ‘Don’t live in the past,’ she says.
She’s also been busy making arrangements to scatter Monty’s ashes, and has hired a small sailing boat with a skipper to take her out to sea tomorrow. So as a send-off we decide to drive up to the lighthouse this evening, to watch the sunset and toast Monty. It doesn’t disappoint. Perched on a cliff edge, the view is incredible. There’s a small bar and restaurant so we buy beers and go to sit outside, where we discover there’s a band playing; a small group of musicians with Spanish guitars.
There are seats carved into the hillside and, finding two spots, we sip our beers and listen to the music, the warm evening breeze lapping our faces as the sunset forms a backdrop. It’s one of those moments you stumble across and want to remember forever. To capture in a bottle and keep for when it’s cold and dark at four o’clock, or life feels bleak or you’re just having a rough day, and you can reach inside and pluck it back out and be reminded of how brilliant life can feel.
I want a whole cupboard of those bottles. Stuffed with all these random moments, like my grandma used to do with all her jams and pickles and preserves.
‘I went to see him, you know . . . when we were in Barcelona.’
Cricket looks across at me and I don’t have to ask who. Ever since she said she was coming to Spain, at the back of my mind has been the letter from Pablo.
‘How did you know where he lives? There was no address.’
‘Google,’ she replies, as if it’s obvious, which I suppose it is, but somehow Cricket never fails to surprise me. ‘He’s a painter, quite a famous one now, it would seem. I found the gallery where he’s exhibited and went along there while you were sleeping—’
‘I was sleeping?’ So that explains why she didn’t answer when I knocked. ‘So what happened?’
‘He wasn’t there. I left a note with my name and the number of the hotel, saying I was here to scatter Monty’s ashes and inviting him to join me.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes,’ she nods. ‘I’m not sure I did the right thing, but I felt I owed it to Monty.’ Her gaze flicks to the horizon and the sun that is slowly beginning to set. ‘Did Monty first bring me here all those years ago because Pablo brought him? Because he wanted to share with me something that was beautiful?’
She shrugs absently. ‘I don’t know, but I do know love is love, at the end of the day. I wanted those who Monty loved and who loved him to have the chance to say goodbye . . . and I suppose, if I’m honest, I wanted to meet him.’
She turns to me now. Her face is tanned from the last few days, and her eyes seem bluer.
‘After all these years, I wanted to put a face to a name. To see who the other person was that Monty had loved, a part of Monty I never knew . . . It’s always felt a little bit like unfinished business. I know he wanted to keep Pablo a secret from me, but I don’t like secrets. You think you’re keeping the secret, but really it’s keeping you.’
Listening to her talking about Monty and Pablo, of life experiences I know nothing of, her words resonate unexpectedly.
‘Can I show you something?’
The words just come out. Impulsively, I reach into my bag and pull out my wallet. Tucked behind a photo of Mum and Dad, there’s a small piece of paper I’ve kept hidden. Unfolding it, I pass it to Cricket.
‘We called it Shrimp,’ I say quietly, as she gazes at the grainy black-and-white image on the ultrasound, ‘because it was too early to know if it was a girl or a boy, and Ethan said it looked like a little shrimp.’
She looks at me, her eyes searching out the truth in mine, slowly understanding what I’m showing her.
‘Nell, you don’t have to—’
‘No,’ I urge, pressing it into her hands. ‘I want to. You’ve shared all these things with me, you’ve always been so honest . . . about everything. Now it’s my turn. I want to . . .’
I’ve kept this secret for so long. I’ve never told anyone what happened. I just locked it away, tried to pretend it didn’t happen. She looks at me now and nods, knowing all too well that sometimes in life what you need is for someone to listen.
I start talking.
‘On our first date, Ethan joked that he wanted enough children to make a football team.’ As my mind casts itself back, I find myself smiling. ‘He’s from a large Italian family – babies are what the DeLucas do – but in the beginning we were both so consumed by falling in l
ove we couldn’t think of anything else but each other . . . Then we moved in together and started the business and we were just so busy . . . and as time went on I began to see lots of reasons for keeping it just the two of us – after all, we’d got this far and we were pretty happy, so why rock the boat?’
I’ve been gazing absently at the sun slowly sinking into the sea, but now I turn to look at Cricket. ‘Did you ever want children?’
‘Not enough,’ she says simply. ‘I thought about it when I was younger – it was expected of you in those days – but there were so many other things I wanted more. I was relieved when I discovered Monty felt the same way. Of course, by that time I was much older anyway so it wasn’t an issue. I was very lucky.’
‘Yes,’ I nod, my mind reaching further back. ‘I had doubts, but I pushed them aside . . . and so we rocked the boat.’ I take a sip of my beer. ‘I came off the pill and we waited for it to happen. But it didn’t. It’s funny, you spend your whole life trying not to get pregnant, you just assume that when you want it to happen it will . . . so we scraped together what savings we had left and tried IVF. But that didn’t work either.’
I stare out across the sea, gazing at the pink-tipped waves, at the sky turning a pale tangerine.
‘At the time, I thought I coped pretty well with all the injections and hospital visits and the sympathetic looks from the nurses, but it took its toll. Ethan was so disappointed when it was unsuccessful and I felt like it was all my fault. The doctors said my body failed to respond to the drugs . . .’
I smile ruefully.
‘We couldn’t afford to try again but we were determined not to be sad. So we shifted our focus and threw ourselves into the business . . . and on the surface everything was fine. Summer came and went. The cafe was doing great . . . but looking back now, I’m not sure we were fine at all. Underneath I think we both buried a lot of stuff.’
I pause, thinking back. I’ve buried it for so long, but talking about it now all the memories are coming flooding back afresh.
‘In the New Year we went camping for a few days in Yosemite. Have you been? It’s beautiful up there.’
‘No, never.’ Cricket shakes her head.
‘I think that’s when I must have got pregnant. When I found out it was such a shock. Neither of us could believe it. Not even when we went to the hospital and had a scan. I was only eight weeks, but there it was on the screen: our little shrimp.’
I smile, but already I can feel my eyes welling up and I swallow hard.
‘They said everything was healthy, but we decided to wait until twelve weeks to tell everyone, just to be sure. But instead of feeling happy, I was scared. I didn’t want to get my hopes up. I didn’t want to fail again . . .’
I pause. I know this story off by heart, but every time I tell it to myself, there’s a part of me that hopes it has a different ending.
‘A week later I started bleeding.’
‘My dear girl—’ Cricket reaches an arm across my shoulder and pulls me towards her. I feel a sense of relief as I sink into her.
‘I remember the nurse’s face when she couldn’t find a heartbeat. She was so sorry but I acted like everything was OK. Like it was my job to make everyone feel better.’ I roughly rub away a tear that’s escaped down my cheek, remembering the stupid jokes I’d cracked. It’s hard to believe now that my concern was for everyone else when I was the one whose heart was breaking.
‘Afterwards Ethan and I never really talked about it. We were both just too sad; we hid it from each other. I think we were trying to protect each other, but looking back all we did is shut each other out.’ More tears are falling, but now I let them. ‘Then a few months later we lost a big catering contract, and things started to fall apart. The business . . . us . . .’
The sky has turned a deep, vivid orange.
‘When I found the text on his phone, Ethan didn’t deny it. I’d gone to visit my friend Liza and while I was away he’d gone out, got drunk. He begged me to forgive him. He said it didn’t mean anything . . . but it meant something to me . . .’
I watch as the sun finally disappears beneath the waves.
‘I left a week later.’
For a moment we’re both quiet, neither of us speaking. I’m so grateful for Cricket’s silence. Not asking questions; just listening as I’ve talked. I’ve needed this for so long.
‘Sometimes I wonder if maybe it was for the best. I tried and I failed. Maybe deep down I didn’t want it enough. Like you said, not everyone does.’
‘True.’ Eventually she says something. ‘But is that really you talking? Or is it your grief?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shake my head.
‘And that’s OK,’ she says quietly.
I raise my eyes to meet Cricket’s.
‘I’m eighty-one years old and I’ve learned if there’s one gift you can give yourself in life, it’s the freedom and courage to say “I don’t know”. Because I’ll let you into a secret – you don’t have to know. You don’t have to know how you feel, or what you want, or if you’re happy or if you’re sad. Life is full of choices and decisions, and there is so much pressure on us to make all the right ones. But what if we don’t? What if we have doubts and misgivings? What if we make mistakes and contradict ourselves?’
She looks at me, her eyes shining.
‘What if we try our best and fail anyway?’
As her words peg out before me, I think about myself, about everything that’s happened.
‘What then? Should we feel bad about ourselves? Why not just accept that we don’t know? Because if you accept that, my dear girl, it will give you such immense freedom. It will allow you to change your mind, to take a different path, to grab opportunities that come your way that you might never have thought of . . . to be impulsive instead of being stuck, to stop feeling guilty.’
Cricket looks at me, her face imploring.
‘To stop feeling scared.’
I don’t know.
I sniff hard, wiping away the tears that are spilling down my cheeks, turning this new concept around in my head, looking at it. Embracing it.
How do I feel? What do I want?
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
Gently Cricket presses the piece of paper back into my hand and I gaze upon it. At what was once my imagined future. For so long I’ve been keeping this secret, but now I realize it’s been keeping me. Keeping me stuck. Keeping me from changing my narrative from one of fear and failure.
I look out across the horizon, at this vast, wide open space, and I feel very small. In my hands I feel the paper fluttering in the breeze; all the sadness I’ve kept buried deep inside, all the ashes of my past waiting to be carried away on the wind.
And then I let go.
One Love
‘I mustn’t be late.’
‘You won’t be late.’
‘I should never have worn heels. What was I thinking with these cobbles?’
‘The boat won’t leave without us.’
‘I just wanted to look nice. Monty liked me in a dress and heels. He was old-fashioned like that.’
‘You look lovely.’
‘I should have worn my tennis shoes.’
‘We’re nearly here now.’
‘I wasn’t sure about this dress.’
‘You look lovely.’
I’ve never seen Cricket like this before. She’s tense, almost nervous. We’re making our way down to the harbour from the hotel. It’s mid-morning and I’ve offered to accompany her on the boat today. I’d assumed she wanted to be alone, that it was a private moment, but she seemed grateful, relieved almost, and readily accepted my offer.
The small red fishing boat is waiting for us. Andreas, the somewhat gruff captain, is standing on the dock and greets us with a respectful dip of his head. He’s decorated the wooden hull with bunches of fresh bougainvillea, bright cerise and blush pink, and their petals flutter and shine in the breeze like tiny butterflies. It�
��s a thoughtful touch and makes Cricket relax and smile. I feel a blast of gratitude towards him.
He’s taking Cricket’s arm to help her board when we hear a voice.
‘Catherine—’
Someone is calling her name. We both turn to see a figure waving as he hurries towards us. Smartly dressed, but for his espadrilles and straw hat. As he nears, I see his heavily lined face, darkly tanned other than his white beard and long hair, which he’s tied into a ponytail. He needs no introduction. Sixty years must have passed, but he’s instantly recognizable from the photograph.
Pablo.
He slows down as he reaches us, and for the briefest of moments I watch as they take each other in, before Cricket steps forward and together they embrace. It’s my cue to leave.
A few minutes later I sit on a bench away from the harbour, watching as the boat sails towards the headland. The waves glitter and bounce and I watch it getting smaller and smaller, carrying its precious cargo: two people, one love. They have so much to talk about and share, reconciling their ghosts from the past and celebrating the man they both loved.
The sun shines brightly and a warm breeze blows. It’s a beautiful day for it.
I’m grateful for:
Pablo, who only that morning received the note, and drove as fast as he could to reach us just in time to scatter Monty’s ashes.
All the questions to which Cricket finally got answers.
The peace that she found when Pablo told her, ‘Now I have met you I understand how he could leave me.’
No more secrets.
Notting Hill Carnival
It’s the bank holiday weekend, and we arrive back from the airport in a cab to discover it’s the carnival; we can’t get anywhere near Cricket’s house as all the roads are blocked.
How could I have forgotten it’s Notting Hill Carnival? I ask myself, as we have to get out and wheel our suitcases through the crowds of revellers. I used to look forward to the carnival for weeks. It was the highlight of the year!
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 24
