Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up

by Alexandra Potter

  ‘Fill her up!’ Holly holds out her glass as Fiona begins to pour.

  ‘Annabel?’

  ‘Well, perhaps just a tiddly bit more . . .’

  Fiona glugs the glass to the top, then fills her own and tops up mine.

  ‘Are these really unhealthy?’ asks Michelle, chewing on a red liquorice twist.

  ‘Not if you have it with avocado,’ I suggest.

  Someone snorts with laughter.

  ‘Fuck avocados,’ says Holly, playing catch-up and necking her wine.

  ‘That should be printed on a T-shirt,’ laughs Fiona, waving the bottle around. I can tell by the flush on her cheeks that she’s already quite drunk.

  ‘I’ll have another sparkling water,’ sighs Michelle, reaching for the bottle of San Pellegrino.

  Sympathetic looks flash across the table.

  ‘He’s gorgeous. You must feel very blessed,’ says Annabel.

  ‘Yes,’ she nods, taking a sip of water, ‘and exhausted.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask, catching her eye. We’ve exchanged a few texts, but I haven’t seen her since Tom was first born.

  ‘Honestly?’ Rocking Tom with one hand, she puts down her glass with the other to tuck a strand of hair back into her ponytail. ‘Overwhelmed. Old. Struggling to recognize my life any more . . .’

  There’s a slew of supportive comments and she smiles ruefully.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong – I love Tom so much it hurts.’ She glances at him now, asleep in his car seat, his small fists curled up to his face, and her eyes light up. ‘But this isn’t how I imagined it was going to be in my forties. I thought by now we’d be sorted out; the kids would all be at school, the mortgage would be almost paid off . . .’

  She turns back to me, but she’s got the attention of the whole table.

  ‘I was looking forward to getting my life back, using my brain again. I’d even got the application forms to retrain as a counsellor . . . Me getting pregnant again and Max losing his job was never part of the plan.’

  Tom gives a little whimper in his sleep and she strokes his head.

  ‘Now we’re back to nappies and sleepless nights, the house isn’t big enough, it’s never tidy enough – I would kill for a kitchen like this with surfaces you can actually see –’ she glances at Fiona, who looks suddenly guilty at having clean surfaces – ‘and we’ve had to remortgage so we’ll probably be a hundred before it’s paid off at this rate . . .’

  Having begun at a normal volume, Michelle’s voice is growing louder and increasingly more urgent, as if now she’s started talking she can’t stop.

  ‘More than that, I feel like if I do one thing I’m failing at all the other things, because no way am I going to get through my to-do list . . . it’s like I’m playing catch-up all the time, like somehow I’m back at square one whereas everyone else’s lives are all sorted out.’

  Flinging her arm out, she gestures animatedly around the table. ‘I mean, look at all you lovely ladies! You’re all so thin and gorgeous and in control of your lives . . . and look at me!’

  Her eyes are brimming now.

  ‘My husband’s unemployed, my kids are feral, my house is a tip, I’m going to be sixty when Tom leaves school . . . and I can’t even laugh about it all, rather than cry, because if I do I’ll pee myself!’

  Momentarily stunned after this outburst, we’re all silent, and then –

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want that glass of wine?’ asks Fiona.

  Michelle’s tears turn immediately to laughter. ‘You lot! Don’t make me laugh,’ she shrieks, then pulls a horrified expression. ‘See! What did I tell you!’

  ‘Come here, you.’ Leaning over, I give her a hug, while Annabel hands her a tissue and we all gather round her, offering words of support and back rubs.

  ‘You’ve got to listen to this podcast,’ says Holly. ‘A girl in my office was going on about it—’

  ‘Thanks,’ sniffs Michelle, blowing her nose, ‘but I really don’t need anyone else making me feel bad by telling me how I should be feeling grateful and blessed and happy right now.’ Shaking her head, she pulls a face. ‘I read something the other day about how I should be full of bliss, and I thought right, yeah, you be full of bliss when you’ve got a screaming baby and a house that’s a mess and you’ve had a massive row with your husband about the bloody dishwasher—’

  She breaks off as she sees Fiona’s concerned expression. ‘It’s OK, we made up – he’s promised to rinse first.’

  ‘No, but that’s why you’ll love it,’ insists Holly. ‘It’s about all that.’

  We each turn to look at her.

  ‘It’s about how life just isn’t how you imagined it was going to be, and how we’re all struggling with the pressure of this perfect life that doesn’t exist . . . I mean, we see it on social media, but it’s not real.’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s so funny and real, I’ve found myself laughing out loud at some parts. Seriously, it’s SO my life.’

  Reaching into her bag, Holly pulls out her mobile.

  ‘Actually, I think a couple of women at my Pilates class mentioned it,’ Fiona is saying now. ‘There was some reference to being in your forties and realizing it’s time to start wearing a bit of a sleeve—’

  ‘Now that is me,’ laughs Michelle, waggling an arm as if to prove it.

  Watching this unfold from the end of the table, I feel myself freeze. No. Surely not. They can’t be talking about my podcast. It must be a coincidence.

  ‘Hang on, I downloaded it to listen to on the treadmill, but I only heard the first couple of minutes as my phone died . . .’ Punching in her passcode, Holly presses play.

  ‘Hi and welcome to Confessions of a Forty-Something F##k Up, the podcast for any woman who wonders how the hell she got here, and why life isn’t quite how she imagined it was going to be.’

  Oh my God. I can’t believe it. It is my podcast.

  As Holly turns up the volume, I listen with disbelief and embarrassment – do I really sound like that? I wish I didn’t do that weird telephone accent. It’s awful. It sounds nothing like me. I listen to my voice filling the kitchen and glance around at everyone’s faces, waiting for them to realize it’s me, but they’re all focused on Holly’s phone. This is completely surreal.

  ‘. . . ever looked around at their life and thought this was never part of The Plan. Who has ever felt like they dropped a ball, or missed a boat, and is still desperately trying to figure it all out while everyone around them is making gluten-free brownies—’

  ‘Oh yes, you’re right. That is me,’ cries Michelle with delight.

  ‘Gluten-free brownies!’ snorts Fiona, clamping her hand over her mouth.

  But it’s not just listening to this that’s surreal; it’s the reaction of Holly, Fiona and Michelle. They don’t realize it’s me talking, that it’s my voice, and they’re not just listening. They’re identifying.

  ‘. . . struggling to recognize their messy life in a world of perfect Instagram ones and feeling like a bit of a fuck-up. Even worse, a forty-something fuck-up. Someone who reads a life-affirming quote and feels exhausted, not inspired. Who isn’t trying to achieve new goals, or set more challenges, because life is enough of a challenge as it is. And who does not feel #blessed and #winningatlife but mostly #noideawhatthefuckIamdoing and #canIgoogleit?’

  ‘I googled how to find my house keys yesterday!’

  ‘That’s me! I have no idea what I’m fucking doing either.’

  ‘Don’t we all feel like that?’

  ‘Does that mean I’m a fuck-up?’

  ‘Nobody’s a fuck-up – if you listen that’s the whole point of what she’s saying,’ Holly is explaining loudly above the rowdiness. ‘It’s just sometimes we can be made to feel like one.’

  ‘I’m a fuck-up,’ says Annabel, taking a large glug of wine.

  ‘. . . about what happens when shit happens and still being able to laugh in the face of it all. It’s about being honest and telling the
truth. About friendship and love and disappointment. About asking the big questions and not getting any of the answers. About starting over, when you thought you would be finished already . . .’

  ‘Yep, that’s me again,’ Michelle is nodding. ‘I thought I’d be done asking all the questions by now, but it’s the opposite. Now I just lie in bed at night, unable to sleep, worrying about everything—’

  ‘But does anyone really have the answers?’ cries Fiona. ‘When I was a child I thought my parents knew all the answers; in my twenties I was adamant I knew all the answers; now the older I get, I realize no one knows the answers. Everyone’s just faking it! No one seems to have a clue what they’re doing. Just look at the politicians—’

  ‘Fuck,’ groans Holly, ‘do we have to?’

  ‘. . . about feeling flawed and confused and lonely and scared, about finding hope and joy in the unlikeliest of places, and how no amount of celebrity cookbooks and smashed avocados are going to save you—’

  ‘I’m serious, I think we should do that T-shirt!’ enthuses Holly, topping up her wine glass.

  ‘The exercise videos are worse than the avocados,’ groans Fiona. ‘They don’t motivate me, they just make me feel guilty I’m not doing the plank every day.’

  ‘But you do Pilates!’ cries Michelle.

  ‘Only about once a week. I put on leggings every day with the intention of doing Pilates, but mostly I just go to Waitrose.’

  ‘Because feeling like a fuck-up isn’t about being a failure, it’s about being made to feel like one. It’s the pressure and the panic to tick all the boxes and reach all the goals . . . and what happens when you don’t. When you find yourself on the outside. Because on some level, in some aspect of your life, it’s so easy to feel like you’re failing when everyone around you appears to be succeeding.’

  ‘The other mums at nursery terrify me!’ cries Holly. ‘You know, one of them hand-painted all their Christmas cards last year and she’s the CEO of some major company.’

  ‘But you’re like Wonder Woman—’

  ‘No, I’m not! I didn’t even send Christmas cards last year.’

  ‘I’m a terrible daughter,’ confesses Michelle. ‘My sister is always going to see my parents, especially now Dad’s got arthritis, but I haven’t been for ages.’

  ‘I got invited to a reunion at my university department,’ reveals Fiona, ‘but when I looked on Facebook everyone else in my year was heading up their own department, or doing these important research projects . . . one girl I knew had even published several bestselling books on Greek mythology!’

  ‘So did you go?’

  ‘No,’ Fiona shakes her head, ‘they were all so successful it was intimidating.’

  ‘That’s how I feel when I look at all those celebrity mums with their bikini bodies, three weeks after giving birth,’ admits Michelle. ‘It doesn’t inspire me; it does the total opposite.’

  ‘The no-make-up selfies are worse,’ groans Holly, ‘the ones where they’ve just woken up and are still lying in bed. I wish I looked like that when I’ve just woken up.’

  ‘No one looks like that when they’ve just woken up,’ says a loud voice from the other end of the table, and we all turn to see Annabel waving her wine glass. ‘Trust me, I should know. It’s called “filters”, ladies.’

  Through all this I’ve been listening, completely silent. I’m in a sort of daze. Until now it’s never dawned on me that my friends might be feeling some of this too. Their lives aren’t a mess, they haven’t screwed up or taken a wrong turning, they have wonderful husbands and adorable children and gorgeous homes with underfloor heating (Fiona’s kitchen really is something else). They can’t be scared and confused and feeling like they’re failing somehow, like life didn’t turn out how they imagined and they have no idea what on earth they’re doing half the time.

  Can they?

  ‘She sounds a lot like you, Nell.’

  I snap back to see Annabel staring at me. To be honest, I’m surprised it’s taken this long.

  ‘No, Nell has a much broader accent,’ disagrees Holly, shaking her head.

  The podcast keeps playing, but my mouth has gone completely dry and my heart thumps hard in my chest. I suddenly feel absurdly nervous. I take a mouthful of wine and swallow hard.

  ‘Well, actually . . .’

  I look up and meet Fiona’s eye. There’s a pause and I clock the expression on her face as it registers.

  ‘Oh my God, it is you!’

  Holly frowns in drunken confusion. ‘Who? Nell?’

  Everyone suddenly swivels to face me, glasses in their hands: Fiona, Michelle, Holly, Annabel – four pairs of eyes staring at me. Five, if you include Annabel’s French bulldog, Mabel, who’s also staring me down.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ I nod, and let out a nervous laugh.

  There’s a long pause, then –

  ‘Oh my God! Nell! You’ve started a podcast? When? How? You clever girl! Why didn’t you tell us? Can I be on it?’

  Their reaction is one of astonishment and excitement and delight, and, like a dam bursting, their questions begin rushing at me thick and fast.

  ‘It was a few months ago . . .’ I trail off, my mind casting back to that moment in my old bedroom at my parents’, and all the frustration and despair at my life. I felt so inadequate and so alone.

  And yet, all this time I wasn’t.

  ‘I thought I was the only one who felt like this,’ I confess.

  ‘You?’ Michelle looks at me, incredulous. ‘But how can you feel like a fuck-up? You’re amazing, Nell! I look at you and see someone clever and talented and kind.’

  She smiles at me now and I almost feel like I’m going to cry.

  ‘And you got to live in New York,’ she continues. ‘I always wanted to live in New York! And you’ve travelled the world . . . I remember when I was stuck in the house breastfeeding Freddy and you were in Indonesia. I was so envious—’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t have what you have,’ I protest, looking at Tom, fast asleep.

  ‘But you’ve got a pelvic floor,’ she fires back, and despite myself, I can’t help laughing. ‘And freedom! Don’t underestimate that. I’m looking at another four years of Peppa Pig, maybe three for good behaviour.’

  ‘And you’ve never had to go to soft play,’ Holly grimaces.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ shudders Fiona, ‘it’s like a human petri dish.’ But a look passes between us that makes me think I’m not the only one that’s been guilty of making assumptions about others’ lives.

  ‘You even set up your own business!’

  ‘And it failed,’ I remind them. ‘I lost all my money.’

  ‘So? Loads of businesses fail,’ says Michelle supportively.

  ‘Money’s not everything.’ Fiona shakes her head. ‘I know lots of rich people and trust me, a lot of them are miserable.’

  ‘And you haven’t settled for the wrong man,’ cries Holly, waving her glass so the wine sloshes over the sides. ‘You’ve never compromised when it comes to relationships and ended up in an unhappy marriage where all you do is argue.’

  We all turn to look at Holly.

  ‘Adam’s the wrong man?’ asks Michelle, as the table suddenly falls silent.

  Seeming to realize she’s spoken out loud, Holly hesitates, then –

  ‘It’s been pretty awful for a long time,’ she confesses. ‘I can’t even remember the last time we had sex—’

  ‘Oh God, who can?’ says Fiona supportively. ‘By the time David rolls in from work he’s always so knackered and I’m usually asleep.’

  ‘No, but it’s more than that. I don’t even think we like each other any more.’ Holly’s face seems to crumple. ‘The only reason I’m doing the triathlon is to try and get some control over my life . . . and so I don’t have to sit at home in that horrible atmosphere.’

  ‘But you guys used to be so good together,’ says Michelle quietly.

  �
�I know,’ she nods, ‘but things have changed, we got lost somewhere . . . Adam says he wants another baby so Olivia isn’t an only child, but that just makes it harder to leave, doesn’t it?’

  She looks around at each of us in turn.

  ‘And I know that makes me a horrible person, even thinking like that, and I know I’m denying my daughter a sibling—’ She breaks off, shaking her head and draining the rest of her glass. ‘But I’m just so bloody scared and confused. I have no idea how I got into this mess and what I’m going to do . . .’

  Reaching over, I squeeze her hand.

  ‘You’re not a horrible person, you’re just normal.’

  Wiping away a tear that’s rolling down her cheek, she smiles bravely and nods, but I know she’s not convinced.

  ‘Sometimes when I go with Clementine to feed the ducks, I look at them on the pond and think we’re all just like them.’

  It’s Annabel. The whole time she’s been listening, not saying much, but now she starts talking.

  ‘We’re gliding along on the surface, but underneath our legs are paddling furiously, trying to keep afloat.’

  I don’t need to look at my friends to know we’re all identifying with the image. Seriously. I’m a bloody duck.

  ‘Do you know how many photographs I had to take of myself in my swimsuit to get the one you saw online?’ she continues. ‘Twenty-eight. I counted them. It was exhausting.’

  She twiddles the large diamond on her finger. It glitters like a disco ball.

  ‘I wanted everything to be perfect. I thought if I could present this image to the outside world, it would be like that at home. I got to look at my life on social media and pretend it was my life.’ She shrugs her tiny shoulders.

  ‘But it was all bullshit. All those happy family photographs to show how perfect everything was?’ She snorts with contempt. ‘Clive was fucking his secretary. My daughter was so desperate for attention she was bullying. And me?’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m on anti-depressants and yet another diet. I swear, I think I’ve been hungry since 1998.’

  As Annabel makes this final admission, I realize it’s been quite some evening. As revelations go, I didn’t think anyone would be able to top Holly’s, but it just goes to show. For all of us, it seems, life isn’t always easy, and the lesson I’ve learned is that you’re not fucking up if life hasn’t worked out how you expected. Because real life is messy and complicated. Shit happens. One size doesn’t fit all. Remove the filters and the hashtags and the motivational messages and we’re all just as scared and confused as the next person. We’re all just living our life, and it might not tick all the boxes or look Insta-perfect, but that’s OK.