‘Well, tough. Your face is on the tea towels.’
‘Huh?’
‘Princess Di. Apparently that’s what her sister said before her marriage to Prince Charles.’
My brother looks up at me like I’ve gone mad.
‘Nell, why are you talking about Princess Diana at a time like this?’ He shoots me an anguished look, then buries his head further in his hands, scraping his fingernails across his scalp as if he’s literally tearing his hair out.
Which is probably not a good idea, considering he’s already thinning.
‘Oh, c’mon Rich, stop fooling around.’ I’m tired now. I could do with recharging my batteries myself.
‘I’m not joking! This is serious!’ he explodes irritably. Jumping up from the bed, he begins pacing around the hotel room.
Oh shit. A jangle of my own nerves starts in the pit of my stomach. Surely he’s not being serious serious?
‘This is just nerves, that’s all,’ I soothe. ‘You’ve got cold feet. It’s normal.’
‘But what if it’s not? What if I’m making a huge mistake?’
FFS. This cannot be happening.
‘Getting married, having a baby . . . I’m just Little Rich, I’m not equipped. I can’t do this.’
I stare at him, momentarily dazed by this sudden new turn of events.
‘Of course you can do this.’ My voice is sharp. He’s not going to bail out at the last minute. He can’t. I won’t let him.
‘But it’s such a big commitment. It’s for the rest of my life.’
‘So is supporting Carlisle football team, and I don’t see you having a meltdown about that,’ I snap.
‘Don’t be angry with me, sis.’
He suddenly looks like that ten-year-old who borrowed my rollerblades and broke his ankle by trying to skate down the slag heap at the local slate mine. I feel my anger fade as quickly as it appeared.
‘And if you don’t marry Nathalie tomorrow, what will you do instead?’
‘Is that before or after Nathalie’s father has killed me?’ Rich raises a smile.
‘I’m being serious.’
He props himself against the edge of the chest of drawers and shrugs. ‘I dunno. Maybe go travelling.’
‘What? And give up your start-up?’
He stalls as the reality is presented to him.
‘You haven’t thought this through, Rich.’
‘OK, but give me a break, will you?’
‘No, I’m not here to give you a break,’ I reply, pulling rank as his big sister. ‘I’m here to make you think about what it is you’d be gaining that’s worth throwing away everything you’ve already got.’
‘I love Nathalie, and the baby, it’s just . . .’ He shakes his head.
‘You’re scared.’
He looks at me, then nods slowly. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m scared.’
‘You know, when you were little you used to be scared of going to sleep, because of the monsters that lived underneath your bed. Every night I used to come in with my torch and check underneath for you. “All clear,” I would say, and only then would you let me turn off the light.’
He smiles. ‘Are you going to tell me not to be scared now that there aren’t any monsters under the bed?’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Life is scary. But it will be a whole lot scarier if you lose the person you love.’
Stream of Consciousness
At 2 a.m. I find myself wide awake; a combination of worrying about my brother and Cricket snoring. Unable to sleep, I finish reading Mrs Dalloway. It’s such a good book. I love how it all takes place on one day and is written in a stream of consciousness. It’s totally inspired me.
OK, so I’ll never be Virginia Woolf, but what better way for me to try and describe all my thoughts and emotions from the day ahead?
My Brother’s Wedding
It rains. Brother is nervous. Bride looks beautiful. Mum cries. Dad fidgets in his suit. Look like an idiot in my fascinator. Wish it was me. Cricket squeezes my hand in vintage Dior. Feel teary. Spill canapés down my new dress. Try to get the stain out in the toilets. Fail. Miss the best man’s speech under the hand-dryer. Have a total blast with Dad on the dance floor. Feel happy. Regret wearing these shoes. Try to cover up my grease stain in the wedding photos by crossing my hands across my chest. Look like Tutankhamun. Eat too much cake. Drink too much craft beer. Miss Ethan. Feel confused. Best man tries to snog me on the dance floor. Consider it. For a second. Cricket and Nathalie’s great-uncle wow everyone with their foxtrot. Hug my brother. Do the Birdie Song. Know all the moves. Feel like I belong. Love my family. Love Cricket. Love the waiter. Get all soppy. Drink more beer. Smile a lot. Remember to drink lots of water. A perfect day.
A Separation
It’s funny how things change. Back in January when I first moved into Edward’s flat, the thought of sharing a bathroom with him seven days a week would have been terrible. So terrible, in fact, I would have probably never moved in.
Truthfully, the bathroom situation is still not ideal, though there’s currently a ceasefire in The Loo Roll War. As for the Battle of the Thermostat, the days are still relatively long and warm so the heating’s off. For now. Plus, there was almost a crisis when he discovered I’d thrown away a battery instead of recycling it in those special bins at the supermarket, but I blamed forgetfulness (rather than laziness) and it was swiftly averted.
But the dishwasher and the lights are still a constant source of disagreement. I liken it to politics. The two sides will never agree and you just have to live with it. Though now Edward’s separation is official, I’m not sure for how much longer.
‘So the divorce should be finalized before the end of the year,’ he’s saying now, as we walk through the gate into the park.
It’s Thursday and we’re taking Arthur for his evening walk. Since I got back from the wedding we’ve started walking him together, and it’s actually a nice change. Dog walking can be quite solitary, especially when you have a dog that prefers to chase squirrels and ducks, and not trot obediently by your side like practically every other dog I see.
‘Wow, so soon.’
‘Yes and no,’ he nods. ‘It’s long overdue. We should have done it years ago.’
We begin to climb the crescent of the hill, towards the woods. Arthur bounds alongside us. After giving me the run around for months, it’s incredible to see the way he responds to Edward. With a few simple commands he sits, waits and comes to heel with perfect recall.
‘So, tell me, how was your brother’s wedding?’
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit odd to be talking about a wedding at the same time as a divorce?’
‘Not at all. It’s all part of life’s rich tapestry.’ He offers a smile and stops to admire the view. The evening light is just lovely. Warm and golden, it lights up the trees and our faces. ‘So c’mon, tell me.’
‘It was a great wedding, they both looked really happy.’ I gaze up at one of my favourite trees, a large spreading oak that sits by the entrance to the wood. For the first time I notice its leaves are starting to turn amber. The seasons are changing. ‘Though I think the happiest was my mum.’
Edward gives a sheepish laugh. ‘At least that’s one thing to be grateful about now; Mum not seeing me get married means she doesn’t have to see me get divorced.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t think—’ I feel suddenly insensitive.
‘What? Oh – it’s fine.’ He bats away my concern. ‘It was a long time ago.’
Sticking his hands in his pockets, Edward turns and I follow suit. Together we continue walking towards the wood.
‘So what happens now?’ I ask, changing the subject.
He shrugs. ‘It’s just a case of dividing up the finances really, selling off some assets. We’ve decided Sophie will keep the house. I don’t want the boys to have any more disruption than is necessary.’
‘No.’
‘While they’re still at school they’ll stay livi
ng with her, but we’ve agreed they’ll come and stay with me at weekends.’
‘Right, yes.’
‘So far, it’s all been quite amicable.’
I think about my question. So what happens now? Edward presumed I was asking him about the divorce and I was, but now I want to ask it again, only in relation to how it’s going to affect our living arrangements. If the boys are going to be staying with him in his flat in London, they’ll need two spare bedrooms. And with me there, it only leaves one.
Furthermore, is he even going to keep the flat? He hasn’t mentioned selling it, but surely this is one of the assets he referred to. But I don’t ask, and as we walk into the wood, I feel my stomach twist slightly. I don’t like uncertainty. It makes me nervous.
Yet one thing is certain: at some point I’m going to have to move out.
The Package
At the weekend, I catch the bus to Notting Hill to visit Cricket. She left a message a few days ago saying she wanted to speak to me about something and inviting me for Sunday lunch. When I called her back she refused to tell me over the phone. ‘Much better to talk about it over moules frîtes,’ she explained, which of course led my overactive imagination and obsession with Rightmove to conclude she was moving to a farmhouse in the South of France.
‘And do what? Rattle around with chickens and miss London?’ she scoffs, when I mention it to her as she serves up lunch. Ladling out steaming hot mussels from the large pot on her kitchen stove, Cricket gives a little shudder.
‘Mmm, this smells delicious.’ She passes me a bowl and I inhale the aroma of garlic, white wine and shallots.
‘Oh, I forgot the parsley.’ No sooner has she sat down than she promptly stands up again to coarsely chop a large bunch, before returning to the table and scattering a handful of leaves onto the shiny black shells.
‘Oh, and the fries—’
‘Sit down,’ I insist as she goes to get up again. ‘I’ll get them.’
‘They’re in the oven,’ she instructs. ‘If I can give you one bit of advice, it’s never to make your own fries. Buy frozen. Life is too short to be peeling potatoes.’
I smile and sit back down at the table with the tray of fries, which we both reach for even though they’re too hot and burn our mouths. Cricket pours the bottle of wine I’ve brought and we say cheers, then break open the shells and scoop up the delicious garlicky broth.
‘These are amazing.’
‘Aren’t they,’ she nods, without false modesty. ‘I haven’t had them for a while. There doesn’t seem much point cooking them just for myself.’
I nod, understanding. Since Ethan and I broke up, I’ve lost count of the number of ready meals I’ve consumed. Cooking has never been my strong point, but there seemed even less reason to make the effort when there was no one to share (or commiserate) with.
But recently, with Edward living at home full-time, we’ve cooked for each other on a few occasions. It makes more sense – especially for me, as he’s actually a great cook, whereas I can only do two recipes, despite buying all the cookbooks: stir fry and an omelette. But still, it’s a really good omelette.
‘So, what did you want to tell me about?’
Twenty minutes later, all that’s left is a pile of empty shells. I clear the bowls as Cricket refills our glasses.
She reaches over to the chair next to her, tucked under the table, and retrieves a large, brown A4 envelope. She pulls out its contents and places them in the middle of the table. It’s a sheaf of papers, tied together with a piece of string.
‘That looks like a manuscript. An old one,’ I observe, taking in its yellowing edges. ‘I’ve seen enough in my time as an editor.’
‘It is. An unfinished one.’
I wait for her to explain.
‘It came in the post this week. From Barcelona.’
I frown. ‘Pablo?’
Cricket nods. ‘In his note he says he wanted to give it to me when we met in Spain, but there was no time to go back to his apartment and collect it. After getting my message, he came straight from the gallery . . .’ Her eyes fall to the pages. ‘He’s had it for years. It’s a play Monty wrote when they were together.’
I listen, what she’s telling me sinking in.
‘He worked on it for over a year, apparently, when he lived in Paris, but when he moved out of his studio he threw it away. Pablo discovered it later in the bin and rescued it.’
‘And Pablo never told Monty he’d kept it?’
‘Once, years later when they got back in touch, but Monty just laughed and told him to make a fire with it. He was his own harshest critic.’
‘Have you read it?’
‘Yes.’ She nods and there’s a pause.
For a moment I forget to breathe.
‘I think it’s his best work.’
A hush falls as we both gaze upon the typewritten pages sitting on the table. It feels monumental somehow. An undiscovered play by the award-winning playwright Monty Williamson. Since meeting Cricket I’ve read several of Monty’s plays. No wonder he won so many awards. He was a skilled writer.
‘May I?’ I gesture towards it.
‘Of course.’
I carefully slide it over the polished wood towards me. Untying the string, I pick up the title page. I can see the indentations from the typewriter keys. I trace them with my fingertips, then lay the page down and pick up the next. ‘Act One.’ My eyes flick over the text, which is covered in pencil scribbles. I can see the wine stain where he’s rested his glass; a smudge from where the ink wasn’t dry. I imagine him in Paris as a young man, hunched over his typewriter, smoking Gauloises, drinking red wine, the clacking sound of the typewriter keys, his fervent imagination . . . I flick to the last page. The type stops and instead there are handwritten scribbles.
‘I need someone to finish it.’
Cricket’s voice brings me back from the 1950s and the Parisian garret. I raise my eyes and see her studying me.
‘Gosh, well, I haven’t worked in publishing for a few years but I could try to find someone for you . . . I could get in touch with some old editor colleagues, ask for recommendations. I’m sure they know some good writers—’
‘I already know a good writer.’
All of a sudden it registers.
‘Oh God, no!’ I throw back my head and almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it. ‘You’re not suggesting—’
‘I’m not suggesting, I’m asking.’
‘No, that’s just crazy.’ I’m leaning back in my chair and shaking my head in protest at the sheer preposterousness of such an idea. ‘I write obituaries. I’m not a real writer.’
‘Yes, you are – you wrote a wonderful piece about Monty.’
Momentarily I fall silent, remembering. Her gaze meets mine. It doesn’t flinch.
‘Look, I’m really more of an editor.’
‘Well, that’s fortunate, as it needs a good editor too – in fact it’s mostly editing, apart from the ending, which needs a bit of work.’
My chest tightens. I start chewing the inside of my lip. I want to protest, but deep down I can feel the faint tingle of something. A pulse beating.
‘No one knows Monty as well as you do now.’
‘What about you?’
Now she’s the one to laugh and throw back her head. ‘Monty would turn in his grave if I tried, considering how hopeless I was at editing him when he was alive. So to speak.’ She smiles. ‘And anyway, I’m too close to the narrative.’
There’s a pause as a battle rages inside me. Neither of us speaks.
‘I’ll pay you.’
‘No, you will not!’
‘Of course I will. I’m not asking you out of the goodness of my heart, Nell. I’m asking you to do a job, because I think you’re the best person for the job. Because there’s no one I trust more with my husband’s words than you.’ She looks at me, her jaw set firm, then sighs. ‘Will you just think about it?’
The excitement is palpable.
<
br /> ‘Yes,’ I nod, ‘I’ll think about it.’ But even as I’m saying that, both of us know I don’t have to think about it. Because the answer, of course, is yes.
I’m grateful for:
The double act that is moules and frîtes.
Cricket not moving to a farmhouse in the South of France any time soon.*
Someone believing in me.
A Development
The week flies by. I can’t believe it’s Friday. Already!
After getting back from Notting Hill on Sunday evening, I stayed up into the early hours reading Monty’s play. Cricket was right. It’s brilliant. Of course, I immediately called her the next day and told her I couldn’t possibly begin to try and step into his shoes to finish it. Even with his detailed notes, it needed a much better writer than me. There was no way I could do this.
She told me I was talking bollocks and my cheque was in the post.
So I began. Terrified but excited. More excited than I’ve been about anything for as long as I can remember. Sitting at my desk, my fingers hovering above my keyboard as if they were levitating, I felt almost giddy with anticipation at the task ahead. I think I stayed like that for about ten minutes, until finally I took the plunge and started typing.
Monty’s pages are heavily annotated in parts. Pencil scribbles decorate the margins and dance between the lines of typewritten text: notes about plot and characters, words crossed out, new dialogue, ideas about themes . . . reading them, I can almost hear his rapid-fire thoughts jumping out at me. I begin a careful line edit, checking for typos and punctuation, before concentrating on crafting the rhythm and the pace, the development of character, the story arc.
The first and second acts are mostly written, but the third act . . . that could go so many different ways.
Just like my life.
How is this story going to end? It’s a question I’ve asked myself a lot this past year. Often, when lying in bed at night, my restless mind has begun pacing up and down, trying to knock on the door of my future, demanding to know what’s going to happen. How will my story end? How will my life play out? Before, I thought I knew. I had it all mapped out and then – boom. It’s a scary thing, stepping into the void. It can overwhelm you; fill you with panic and fear.
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 26
