‘You never told me you suffered post-natal depression,’ I say with concern.
‘I didn’t tell anyone,’ she shrugs. ‘I was too ashamed. I felt like there was something wrong with me. Like I was failing at being a mum.’
As I look at my friend, I realize I’m not the only one to have kept things buried inside.
‘But now they’re older, they don’t need me as much as they used to,’ she says, shrugging, ‘and we still have Francisca – she’s part of the family now and the kids love her. It’s just—’
‘You feel guilty,’ I say, finishing her sentence.
She looks at me in surprise. ‘How did you know?’
‘Because when we’re not beating ourselves up we’re feeling guilty about something,’ I quip, and she laughs.
‘And now, especially after what’s happened with Izzy, I’m worried about working full-time . . . how it might affect her. I could still do the drop-offs, so it wouldn’t be much of a change really . . .’
‘Well then?’
She shakes her head.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Nell. Am I being selfish? It’s not like we need the money. We’re lucky David does so well, but it means I can’t even use that as a reason. This is purely for me.’
I look at Fiona. I can see she’s completely torn.
‘Look, I’m no expert, but I say go for it. Surely it’s better for Lucas and Izzy to have a mum who’s happy and stimulated? And I’m sure David would think the same about it too. Talk to him, you might be surprised.’
‘Yes,’ she nods, her face brightening.
‘And well done.’
‘Thank you,’ she smiles. ‘Now, what about you? Are you still writing the obituaries?’
‘Yes,’ I nod, ‘but I’m working on a few other things as well . . .’ Glancing at my watch, I notice the time. ‘I’ll have to tell you all about it later.’
‘I’m glad we did this,’ says Fiona.
‘Me too. Maybe next time we meet for coffee you should invite Annabel,’ I suggest.
‘Extend the olive branch?’
‘Yes,’ I smile. ‘Only make it a chai latte.’
I’m grateful for:
Making up with Fiona, because things aren’t just back to normal; they’re better.
David’s reaction when she told him about the job; not only was he really thrilled for her, but he was also really thrilled for himself, as it means no more house renovations and having to look at curtain fabric swatches.
Izzy and Clementine being the best of friends again.
The Weirdest Thing
So the weirdest thing happened today.
I was doing my latest podcast episode, yakking away into the microphone as I do every week, when midway through I absently wondered if the twenty-seven people who had downloaded it were still listening. Or if I’d lost those as well by now and was, quite literally, talking to myself.
(This would also mean that it’s true what they say about turning into your mother; I grew up with her yelling, ‘Am I talking to myself?’ on a daily basis. To which, of course, no one ever replied.)
It struck me that it was ages since I’d last looked at the analytics, a fancy word that basically tells you if anyone has downloaded your podcast or, in my case, accidentally stumbled across my ramblings and by some miracle thought they’d listen to them. My initial (obsessive) excitement at checking the figures and discovering I had fourteen listeners, and watching them creep up to eighteen and then thirty-two (thirty-two whole listeners!) waned a bit when I got stuck on thirty-two for weeks, then lost five. It felt a bit like I’d been dumped, only in anonymous podcast land.
So I stopped checking. It was all a bit disheartening. I mean, seriously, who needs the rejection? Plus, I started the podcast just for me; what did it matter if no one was listening? Then life took over and I completely forgot about it. Until today, when I remembered.
So I logged in while steeling myself to see that I had, in fact, lost all my listeners and it was true, I was actually the only person in the world who felt like a forty-something fuck-up—
2,437.
The number on my screen stared out at me.
I looked at it, peered a bit closer, wondered if I was missing a decimal point somewhere, then suddenly it registered.
TWO THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVEN DOWNLOADS.
WTF?
For the latest episode of my podcast? No, that couldn’t be right. There must have been some mistake.
Surely?
Surely?
I’m grateful for:
This amazing, incredible, unbelievable news.
My wonderful listeners, who downloaded me and believed in me and make me feel part of an incredible tribe, and to all those who are out there and listening at home, thank you so much for making me feel like less of a fuck-up. I am so SO grateful, I couldn’t do this without you; this is for you.
Never winning an Oscar.
Love Is All You Need
A few days later, I’m still trying to get my head around the amazing discovery that there are actual people out there who are listening to my podcast, when Liza FaceTimes me. It’s been a while since we last caught up, what with going to Spain, my brother’s wedding and Monty’s play, and her being busy with her own life, and teaching yoga – and the not-so-small fact that we’re on opposite sides of the Atlantic, with an eight-hour time difference that can be a real pain.
But then by some miracle our universes collide; a class gets cancelled, she’s got a break earlier in the day, my battery’s charged, and here we are FaceTiming.
‘It’s been ages!’
‘You were trying to find a bikini. Did you?’
‘Yes, a lovely one, I’ll show it to you—’
‘And that asswipe texted.’
‘Johnny.’ I groan at his memory.
‘Did you ever hear from him again?’ Liza’s asking now.
‘No,’ I laugh (I actually laugh), ‘and I don’t expect to.’
‘Good,’ she nods firmly. ‘So c’mon, tell me all about your trip!’
‘You first,’ I say firmly, ‘I want to hear all your news. How are you?’
‘Really good,’ she smiles, and I know immediately. It’s not one of those smiles that says you got a promotion at work, or you’ve lost five pounds or bought a new dress; it’s the smile that says you’ve met someone.
‘Who is it?’ I demand.
Liza doesn’t even attempt to deny it. Her face flushes. ‘How did you guess?’
I raise an eyebrow and she laughs.
‘It’s my yoga student, the one I told you about.’
‘That’s great!’ I smile. ‘So how did you manage to get around the whole ethics dilemma?’
‘She stopped being my student.’
Just like that it’s dropped into the conversation. And just like that I pick it up.
‘So c’mon, tell me all about her.’
‘You’re not shocked?’
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Because you’ve fallen in love with a woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, are you?’
For a moment she’s quiet, then she shakes her head.
‘That’s the strangest thing. No, I’m not. I’m not shocked at all. I mean, I’ve never been attracted to a woman before. But then I met Tia and it was like I wasn’t seeing her as a female, I was just seeing her as a person . . . and one I was really attracted to. It was weird, but it was also not weird at all, and that’s what made it so weird—’ She breaks off. ‘Am I making any sense?’
‘Perfect sense,’ I nod.
‘But initially, I admit I was freaked out by my feelings . . . I feel bad about how I pushed her away.’
Her face stares at me from my screen, and I can’t help thinking how so often we resist what our emotions are trying to tell us, because of some stupid belief that we shouldn’t feel a certain way.
‘But then, I just couldn’t stop thinking about her.’
‘That’
s how you know.’
‘Yeah,’ she nods, ‘so after being totally miserable for a while, I thought, why am I doing this to myself? Why am I not being with the person I want to be with? So I called her up and I was lucky that she didn’t tell me to fuck off and go away because, believe me, I’d been a total jerk.’ She grins. ‘But she didn’t, and so we went out and she came back to mine, and, well, basically she hasn’t left.’
‘So I’m not the only one who’s been busy,’ I smile, and she laughs.
‘Oh, Nell, I’m so happy, but I’ve been scared to tell people, because it’s not how I thought it was going to look – me and a relationship, I mean. It’s certainly not going to be how my parents thought it was going to look—’ She breaks off again. ‘But I have to do what feels right for me, no matter what everyone else does and thinks . . .’ She shrugs. ‘What the fuck, right?’
Silently cheering her on as I listen to her bravely pouring her heart out and following her own path, I raise an imaginary glass.
‘What the fuck,’ I smile.
I’m grateful for:
Liza finding the courage to give up what she thought would make her happy, so that she could fall in love with someone who makes her truly happy.
Living in a part of the world where we are free to follow our hearts, regardless of gender and race.
She’s not with that fuckwit Brad.
Independence Day
‘Sorry, I must have mixed it up with mine.’
I walk into the kitchen from a trip to the supermarket, to have a large envelope thrust in my face.
‘Edward, can you just . . .’ Exasperated, I wave my shopping bags around to show him I have no free hands.
‘Right, yes, of course.’
In normal households, comings and goings have a sort of grace period, a buffer where you get to enter, take off your coat, put your bags down and say hi, and perhaps exchange a few pleasantries; while leaving follows a similar routine of putting on your coat, calling out goodbye, and maybe having a little chat about what time you’ll be back. It’s a natural winding up and down of conversations.
Edward does not do buffers. Or grace periods. Or winding up and down of conversations. Whatever is on his mind is what you’ll get as soon as you walk through the door. It’s the same when you leave. His response to ‘bye, see you later’ can often be a goodbye. But it is just as likely to be ‘I think we’ve got a rat underneath the decking’ or ‘It’s a bloody disgrace!’ (With no reference to what exactly.)
I still haven’t got to the bottom of whether it’s because he’s such a deep thinker and is always so focused on what’s on his mind that he’s not aware of his surroundings, or it’s a deliberate attempt to drive me insane.
‘Here, let me help you with those bags.’
On the flipside, he can also be incredibly kind and helpful. And I’m being a total bitch after battling the aisles of the supermarket on a Friday afternoon, which is when fellow shoppers descend into a frenzy, as if there’s about to be an apocalypse in south-west London and it’s not merely the weekend.
‘You know, you really shouldn’t still be using plastic.’
‘It’s a bag for life,’ I say defensively, as he spots the one plastic bag I have amongst all my eco-friendly ones.
‘For the life of the planet, yes,’ he grumbles. ‘You know they’re even worse than the single-use ones? You’d need to use them at least twelve times because of all the extra plastic used to make them.’
‘I was caught short at the till,’ I snap, but of course I know he’s right, which is more maddening than ever. ‘What’s your excuse for having that huge gas-guzzling four-by-four you drive in the countryside?’
Which is a bit below the belt, considering he’s getting divorced and doesn’t live in the countryside any more, and it’s not exactly fair to remind him. But that’s how grumpy I am. Seriously, you didn’t see the salad aisle.
‘It’s actually electric,’ he replies evenly.
‘Of course it is!’ Dumping my bags on the counter-top, I snatch the envelope from him and tear it open.
It’s a letter from the bank. Scanning my eyes quickly over it, I see a miracle has somehow happened. I stare at it in disbelief.
‘Good news?’
‘I’ve been approved for a mortgage in principle!’
‘Oh . . . I see. Well, congratulations.’
‘I can’t believe it!’ I raise my eyes from the letter to look at Edward, who’s standing on the other side of the counter. ‘Well, it looks like you won’t have to suffer me and my bags for life much longer,’ I grin.
But obviously he doesn’t think it’s funny as he doesn’t even crack a smile.
‘That was a joke,’ I prompt.
But his expression remains deadpan. He really is angry about those bags, isn’t he. And now I feel bad.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap . . . it’s just, the supermarket was crazy and I was in a bad mood and—’
‘No, I’m not cross about that, don’t be silly,’ he interrupts before I can finish.
‘Well, what then?’
‘I had no idea you wanted to move out.’
He looks genuinely hurt. I feel suddenly wrong-footed.
‘You never mentioned anything,’ he continues.
‘Well, I just assumed I’d have to . . . what with the divorce and everything . . .’ My mind is scrambling. ‘I remember us having that conversation when we were walking Arthur, about having to sell your assets . . . needing rooms for the boys. There’s only three bedrooms here.’
Edward looks at me; his expression is unreadable.
‘I’m presuming they’re too old for bunk beds.’
He finally smiles, and I feel a beat of relief.
‘I’m sure we could work something out. You don’t need to move out . . .’
‘Thanks,’ I smile, ‘that’s really kind of you.’
‘I’m not being kind, I like having you here.’
‘And I like being here,’ I agree, and for a brief second it strikes me how much things have changed. ‘But I need to get my own place,’ I say firmly. ‘Before I could never afford it, but now . . .’ I wave the letter from the bank. ‘It’s long overdue, really. I mean, look at me, I’m in my forties and I’m renting a room—’
‘So? I’m in my forties and I’m getting divorced.’
Then we both smile and I feel the tension between us evaporating. Just in time for Arthur to make his appearance in the kitchen, sniffing around the skirting boards.
‘What about Arthur?’
We both turn to look at him doing his impression of a hoover. I’m going to miss him more than I can imagine.
‘What are my visitation rights?’
I look back at Edward and his eyes meet mine.
‘How about shared custody?’
I’m grateful for:
A friend like Edward.
Fiona, for getting me to email him about his room for rent, otherwise I would never have met him.
My bag for life, which I fully intend to use for my whole life, and not just the recommended twelve times.
Cricket, who makes me laugh by telling me that at eighty-something she feels a bag for life is a bit of a misnomer.
Someone in the bank thinking I’m responsible enough to lend all that money to.
Being able to look at flats for sale – who would’ve thought it?
Life Moves On
Cricket has accepted an offer on her house and is moving. But only around the corner. She’s found a two-bedroom flat that’s on the first floor, with tall windows and a small roof terrace off the back that overlooks a church.
‘So God can keep an eye on me.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in God.’
‘I don’t, but I like to keep my bases covered,’ she replies. ‘At my age I’m getting closer to the call-up—’
‘Cricket!’ I admonish.
‘What?’ she protests. ‘Talking about the D word isn’t g
oing to make me die any quicker.’
Walking back from viewing her flat, we’re wearing thick coats and boots. The weather has grown colder and the clocks have gone back. Leaves gather along the kerbs. Big red jagged ones, and small frilly yellow ones the colour of lemons. I look at them and think I must learn what trees they come from.
That’s another thing about mid-life. When I was younger I’d never notice such things, but maybe learning to appreciate the wonders of nature is the pay-off we get for ageing. If you think about it like that, then a bit of a sleeve isn’t much of a price to pay, is it?
‘I do love it when they rake them into huge piles.’
I look up to see Cricket gesturing to several large mounds of leaves ahead. Big heaps of them in the corners of the street.
‘Reminds me of when I was a child. I used to love jumping in them, didn’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’ I shake my head. ‘My mum always used to say they’d be full of spiders, so I never did.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they are,’ she nods cheerfully, ‘but there are many worse things to be scared of than spiders.’ And, breaking free of my arm, she promptly jumps in a big pile of them, sending them scattering and twirling as she stomps and kicks. She looks like she’s having so much fun.
‘Oy!’
Until a street sweeper yells at her, and I wave apologetically and hurry Cricket away.
She’s still smiling when we reach the house, where a teenage girl is putting a book on the shelf of the little library and exchanging it for another one.
‘It’s made me realize how much I missed reading,’ the girl confesses as we stop to say hello. She smiles warmly at Cricket. ‘It’s such a great idea. I hope you keep it going.’
‘Well, actually I’m moving, but the new owners have promised to.’
‘I hope so,’ she says, but I see a flash of disappointment across her face.
‘Do you think the new owner will?’ I ask a few minutes later, as we shrug off our coats inside. I fill up the kettle while Cricket goes through to the living room to make a fire. I can’t believe it’s time for fires already.
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 28
