Dad groans. ‘You haven’t all been worrying, have you?’
‘Just a bit,’ I smile, and squeeze his hand. I’ve never felt so grateful to feel him squeeze mine back. ‘At least it makes a change from you worrying about me.’
His eyes meet mine and a look passes between us. It’s one I don’t think I’m ever going to forget.
‘What about you, Carol?’
He glances at Mum.
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she reassures him quickly. ‘Nell’s been taking care of me.’ She looks at me across the hospital bed. ‘I couldn’t have done it without her.’
‘We make a good team,’ I smile, and in that moment I realize that whatever barrier I’ve been putting up has long since fallen away.
Dad couldn’t look more pleased.
‘My two girls . . .’
‘Three now,’ corrects Mum.
‘So when am I going to meet my granddaughter?’ he asks. Mum must have already told him all about Evie.
‘They’re coming on Monday, after Edward’s left.’
‘Edward?’
I’m actually surprised it’s taken Mum this long to mention him. But instead of feeling annoyed with her, I can’t help smiling.
‘My flatmate,’ I explain to Dad.
‘He drove us here. He’s got a lovely car, Philip. Heated seats and everything.’
‘Well, where is he now?’
‘Waiting outside.’
Dad looks appalled. ‘The poor bugger’s driven all the way from London and you’re keeping him waiting outside? Invite him in!’
‘Are you sure? The doctor did say we mustn’t tire you out –’ But even as I’m protesting, I know resistance is futile.
I find Edward on a plastic chair reading a leaflet on strokes.
‘Dad’s asking to meet you . . . do you mind? You don’t have to be long, just say hello . . . I think he’s just curious . . .’
It’s funny seeing Edward and my dad meet. And in such circumstances. Edward is well mannered and gracious in the way that seems to come so easily to the privately educated middle classes, and Dad is jokey and gruff and rough around the edges, and tells an awful joke about heated seats that is frankly unrepeatable. But to my surprise, they really get along.
Later, when we’re driving home, I give Mum the passenger seat while I sit in the back, gazing out of the window. Thinking about it now, I don’t know why I was surprised. On the outside Edward and my dad might seem very different, but they’re actually very similar. When I’ve needed them the most, neither of them have let me down.
Now Dad is on the mend, I feel slightly embarrassed about my reaction to Edward’s arrival that morning in the car park. In the way you do when you’re vulnerable and reveal too much of yourself.
‘Sorry if I was a bit over-emotional,’ I say to him on Sunday afternoon.
He’s leaving in a couple of hours to drive back to London and we’re in my brother’s room, stripping the bed. I’ve told him I’ll do it after he’s gone, but he’s insisted on doing it himself.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he frowns, tugging off a pillowcase as I perch on the edge of my brother’s old desk. ‘It’s good you’re emotional.’
‘It is?’
He turns his attention to the duvet cover and begins trying to wrangle it free from the duvet. ‘Instead of being a deeply repressed public schoolboy like myself, yes,’ he says, then smiles when I catch his eye and realize he’s joking.
Well, sort of.
‘I’ve repressed some things,’ I say quietly.
He looks at me curiously, as if not quite believing this could possibly be true, then nods slowly. ‘Maybe from now on we should always say what’s on our minds. It doesn’t matter what it is.’
‘Even if it’s my murderous thoughts over the thermostat?’
‘Even if it’s your murderous thoughts over the thermostat,’ he nods.
‘OK, you’re on.’
‘Good.’ Elbow-deep in flowery cotton fabric, he meets my eyes and we both smile. ‘Now, are you going to just sit there watching or give me a hand with this duvet cover, or what?’
Auntie Nell
So I got to meet my niece today. I’ll be honest, beforehand I was really nervous about how I would feel. I was happy for Rich and Nathalie, but I was worried I might be sad for me. So when Nathalie handed me this tiny little bundle, I was prepared for all kinds of emotions.
Only when she gazed up at me unblinkingly, I realized there was one I hadn’t prepared myself for.
‘How does it feel to hold your new niece?’ my brother asked.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
‘Love,’ I replied. ‘It feels like love.’
Breathing Space
It’s over three weeks since the accident and Dad keeps improving every day. As soon as he was strong enough to leave ICU, he had the operation to pin together his fractured fibula and tibia. Today he’s coming out of hospital. It’s a miracle really. When I cast my mind back to those first seventy-two hours, it’s a day I never thought I’d see.
Mum’s sister, Auntie Verity, has come to stay. She used to be a practice nurse before she retired and moved to Spain, but she’s flown over to help look after Dad.
‘And drive me bloody crackers,’ he grumbles, when we go to pick him up from hospital.
‘Verity’s going to be a great help,’ says Mum firmly, as I push his wheelchair out into the car park. ‘She knows how to change dressings and everything.’
‘She’s not changing my dressings—’
‘Philip—’ Mum’s voice is sharp.
We’ve been warned by the doctors that patients can often suffer depression and low mood after a head injury, and that it could take some time for Dad to feel like himself again.
‘Now, Dad, if you take these crutches I can help you into the car,’ I interrupt.
‘She’s so bloody bossy – you’ve said it yourself,’ continues Dad, shifting himself into the front passenger seat where he can stretch out his leg, which is encased in a cast. ‘A week of your sister and I’ll be wishing I was back in a coma.’
Climbing into the back seat, Mum lets out a gasp.
‘Philip! Don’t you dare joke about that! It’s no laughing matter!’
She slams the car door and I begin reversing the car out of the space. But as I look in my rear-view I hear Dad chuckling and catch her smiling. I don’t think we need to worry too much about things getting back to normal.
With everything that’s been happening with Dad, I’ve lost track of the days, but I surface to find myself at the end of November. Less than four weeks to Christmas. Or, as I’m constantly reminded, ‘Only twenty-five shopping days left!’
Even worse, yesterday when I went into town to run errands for Mum, I noticed all the stores have their decorations up already. Then, as I was driving back, I turned on the car radio to hear Mariah Carey blasting out at me, and started yelling ‘Too soon! Too soon!’ and quickly switched it off.
I like Christmas and I actually love that song, but come on, people: can we please wait until the first of December?
(Of course, the answer to that is a very festive ‘fuck off, no we can’t’.)
But maybe it’s just me and I’m not ready yet. London has already officially turned on all its Christmas lights, so I’ll be seeing them tomorrow as I’ve booked my ticket back. It feels like the right time. Friends have sent lots of texts and messages of support, but I’ve missed them and I’m ready to return. It feels like I’ve been gone forever.
The one good thing about being out in the wilds of Cumbria is the time and space it’s given me to focus on finishing Monty’s play. There’s not much else to do in freezing cold November when it gets dark at three o’clock – and trust me, Auntie Verity hasn’t just been driving Dad mental. It’s been a good excuse to lock myself away in my room and get a lot of editing done.
Cricket is excited to read it. She’s been sending me lots of lovely messages while I’ve been awa
y and keeps telling me she can’t wait for me to return – ‘Not just because I can’t wait to read the new play and give you an update on the little library plans, but so you can see what I’ve done with my new flat.’
I also heard from Ethan. A few days after that telephone conversation in the hospital, I got an email from him asking how Dad was. It was short but friendly, the kind of email you write when you don’t want the person reading it to infer any extra meaning. A few lines that take about twenty careful minutes to write. But I appreciated him getting in touch, so I wrote back – the same kind of email, short and friendly, telling him Dad was on the mend and thanking him for the fruit basket.
A brief blip of a connection that came and went. I haven’t heard from him since.
But that’s OK. This month has taken me to the edge and back. We nearly lost Dad. I fell in love with my niece. After everything that’s happened, I want things to get back on an even keel. No more life-and-death moments. No more shocks. No more drama.
I’m grateful for:
The NHS, and all the amazing doctors and nurses who saved Dad’s life, and with him a whole family.
Mum, who when I finally told her what happened with Ethan, simply said she had never been more proud of me, and that the best was yet to come.
The funny cat videos Liza keeps sending, of the big fat ginger tom she and Tia have adopted from their local shelter.
My noise-cancelling headphones, because it’s true what Dad says: Auntie Verity’s voice really is louder than a foghorn.
Being stronger than I ever thought I was.
Boring. I think it’s seriously underrated.
To: Penelope Stevens
Subject: Your Dad
Hey Nell,
I’m so glad to hear your dad is out of hospital. That’s amazing! You must be so relieved. I told you he was a fighter!
So I have some news – it looks like I’m coming to London next week. The owners of my restaurant are opening a sister restaurant over there, and I’m being sent to oversee the kitchen and menu. They’re putting me up in a hotel in Soho for a few days. Do you want to meet? It would be good to see you.
Ethan.
DECEMBER
#thingsgettangledanditsnot justthechristmastreelights
A Christmas Drink
Beep beep beep beep . . .
Covent Garden tube station is packed. As the doors of the elevators slide open I’m greeted by crowds of people. Tourists, office workers, theatregoers, revellers . . . it’s as if the whole world has descended here.
I spill out amongst them and am propelled along by the throngs behind me, through the turnstiles and out into the freezing cold night air. A steel band is playing ‘Jingle Bells’, giving the festive atmosphere a Caribbean feel, and I’m tempted to pause a while to listen. I check my watch and change my mind. Better not, I don’t want to be late.
I turn and make my way across the cobblestones, weaving through the mime artists and drunken partygoers. I look again at the address I’ve punched into Google Maps. If I take the next left it should be just down on the right . . .
My breath makes little clouds as I navigate the pavement. I like to walk quickly, but tonight I’ve worn heels and I’m not good in heels. Fiona can run the hundred metres in five-inch stilettos. Not me. I totter and sway, ankles always on the verge of rolling. Still, it’s a small price to pay to look taller and slimmer, and tonight it’s very important that I look taller and slimmer.
Shame heels don’t also make me look younger, but hey, two out of three ain’t bad.
I see the hotel ahead of me and, reaching the entrance, I pause to check my reflection in the large glass doors, smoothing down my hair, taking off my winter coat, fiddling with my blouse, adding a bit of lip gloss then wiping it off again.
I’ve come to meet Ethan.
I’m not sure why I agreed. I told Fiona it was because I’m curious. Liza, because I wanted closure. Cricket, because it’s only a drink.
What I didn’t tell anyone is that I also want to see if I still love him.
Oh, Nell.
Yup. I know.
He’s already sitting at the bar. I see him before he sees me and, for a split second, I get to observe him. His dark hair is cut short and he’s wearing a white shirt. He looks unusually smart; at home he was always in T-shirts. He also looks ridiculously tanned and healthy compared with the rest of us pasty Londoners. Nursing a beer, he’s looking at his phone and rubbing his chin with his thumb in that way he always does when he’s concentrating.
It’s so weird to see him again. I was going to spend the rest of my life with this man. He’s so familiar. Yet it’s like looking at a stranger.
‘Hey.’ He looks up as I near him and smiles. It reaches his eyes. Dark, almost black, I used to think I could look into them forever.
My stomach twists. ‘Hi,’ I smile back.
‘I’m glad you came.’
‘Well, I couldn’t not . . . when you’re in the same city.’
‘You look well.’
‘Thanks, you too. Very smart.’ I gesture to his shirt.
‘Oh, I’ve come straight from a meeting – here, sit down.’
He pulls out the barstool next to him and I slide onto it.
‘How’s all that going?’
‘Yeah, good.’
Oh, the joys of well-mannered small talk with an ex, when the last time you saw them you were puffy-eyed and snotty-nosed and your heart was breaking. It’s like we’re performing a respectful dance around the jagged edges of our break-up, for fear we might slip and pierce ourselves on one of the shards and bleed to death.
‘You?’
‘Great . . . thanks.’
But this is what we do when we’re grown-ups, isn’t it? We sidestep and skirt around and keep our feelings in check. We’re not hormonal teenagers at the mercy of our emotions (though, in my case, the hormones are still doing a number on me). We’re old enough now to know how to conduct ourselves, not to say everything we’re thinking, and that no good will come of that third Martini.
Of course, knowing and doing are separate things entirely.
‘Same again?’
‘Why not.’
It’s an hour later and we’ve moved to a booth. I’ve told him all about Dad and his accident, he’s told me all about his new job, we’ve asked after the health of each other’s families, and caught up with the goings-on of our respective friends. By rights the quick drink should be over and I should be standing up, putting on my coat and saying bye. I’d be home by nine thirty.
‘Remember those lychee Martinis we used to drink at Gillespie’s?’
‘Oh God yes, best Martinis ever!’
But instead of heading to the tube, we’re heading down Memory Lane. And I’m two drinks in. I ask for a glass of water.
‘I went there a couple of weeks ago when I was back in town. Billy the owner was asking after you.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘That you left me.’
I raise my eyes to meet his.
‘That I screwed up. That I lost the best thing that ever happened to me . . .’
I let his words hang there.
‘I think “she’s good” might have sufficed,’ I say finally.
Ethan looks at me and we both start to grin. This. This is what we had. This is what made me call him after we first met at that bar.
‘I’m sorry, Nell.’
‘Me too.’
And just like that, all the rage I felt towards him, all the loss and hurt and conflict that surrounded us like barbed wire, seems to disappear, and all that’s left is the two of us.
His eyes never leave mine, and when he asks, it feels inevitable.
‘Come home, Nell.’
Going Viral
Something quite bonkers has happened: my podcast has gone viral. Or, as Cricket would say, I’ve become one of those viruses.
Actually, being December, it’s both. I go viral and I get a nasty cold
virus that turns me into a seething mass of germs and snot.
Reaching for another tissue, I blow my nose, trying not to ruin my make-up.
‘It’s been almost a week now, so I shouldn’t be contagious,’ I apologize to the make-up girl, who’s aiming a can of hairspray at me.
I’m being featured in a magazine. Me! In a magazine! I know, I can hardly believe it either. But here I am in a studio in the East End, having a photo shoot done to accompany my interview. Full hair and make-up, the works. Music is playing. There’s a photographer. There’s even a stylist who brought in a rack of clothes, and we went through them all, trying them on.
Outfit of the day: a very expensive designer dress, provided by the stylist of the glossy magazine I am being featured in.
I mean, come on, are you kidding me?
Actually no one is kidding me, it’s happening, and I should probably act a bit cooler and not keep grinning excitedly at everyone, but sod it, I’m not going to.
‘So how did you get the idea?’ the twenty-something features writer cheerfully asked me earlier.
‘I think it was the moment I found myself broke, single and forty-something, and sleeping in my old bedroom back at my parents’,’ I replied, and watched as her face visibly paled.
Because that’s the thing: I think that’s still a frightening prospect for most people. Or versions of it. But actually, I’m here to tell you it’s not really. Because it’s not the end. On the contrary, it might just be the beginning.
After Dad’s near-fatal crash, I emerged blinking in the daylight to find a bulging inbox. When I finally got down to reading all my emails, I discovered that, as well as ones from estate agents and LinkedIn, there were several requests from magazines and other publications wanting to interview me. At first I thought it was some kind of weird spam. Until I checked the analytics of my podcast and discovered tens of thousands of new downloads.
It’s been surreal. People have been tweeting about it. It’s been mentioned on blogs. I’ve been given my own hashtag. Even my mother has listened to it! (For the record, she says she likes it, though can we have less of the swearing.) Once I started replying to all the emails everything snowballed, and since getting back to London I’ve done a couple of interviews, been asked to go on the radio, and even been approached by a big-name beauty brand offering sponsorship (apparently they can help improve my Crinkle and Sag).
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 33
