Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up

by Alexandra Potter

  Personally I’m not convinced anything can help on that score, and I’m not about to go into paid partnership with something I don’t believe in. Now, if it was a coffee company, that would be different. There are many days when coffee is my morning motivation. Or, even better, what about the makers of those little cans of G&T? After all, there was a time earlier in the year when frankly I think I owed my life to those little cans. Yes, I can totally believe in gin and tonic.

  But I’m getting carried away. Still, it would be amazing if one day I could get paid for doing something that I love. Because I do love doing my podcast, and I love all my listeners and I’d love to keep doing it, only bigger and better. Because if what started out as me just trying to be truthful and tell it like it is has struck a chord with other people feeling just as flawed and confused as I do – and if in some small way it’s helped by showing them they’re not alone; that I’m here and I hear them – then that’s the biggest bonus of all.

  The mirror is surrounded by light bulbs, like those ones you always see in Hollywood, and I look at my reflection. It’s so funny, I hardly recognize myself with all this make-up and my hair blow-dried. It’s true what they say about smoke and mirrors. I hardly recognize my life right now either. I used to think it was supposed to look a certain way; I had no idea all this could be waiting for me instead. I keep thinking that any minute now someone is going to say there’s been a mistake, they’ve got the wrong person.

  ‘OK, all done,’ the make-up artist smiles.

  ‘Thank you so much!’

  But that hasn’t happened yet, so I’m going along for the ride.

  ‘Just one last blast.’

  I hold my breath as she starts squirting. That’s if I don’t suffocate in a cloud of hairspray first.

  I’m grateful for:

  All the forty-something fuck-ups (or thirty-somethings, or fifty-somethings, or whatever-you-want-to-be-somethings) who keep downloading and listening and blogging and tweeting and posting.

  The good news we got from Dad’s recent check-up at the hospital.

  Sadiq’s offer of my own column about feeling like a forty-something fuck-up.

  This life, which looks nothing like I expected.

  All of it.

  New Beginnings

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘It’s very different.’

  ‘You don’t like it.’

  ‘No, I do like it, it’s just . . .’ I search around for the right word, but none of them seem to do it justice. ‘It’s kind of . . . outrageous.’

  It’s as if I just paid her the highest compliment. Cricket’s face lights up like her Christmas tree. ‘Why thank you, Nell, that’s so very kind of you to say.’

  It’s Wednesday evening and we’re standing in the doorway of her living room, surveying the newly painted walls of her new flat. A dark inky shade covers the far wall and chimney breast, highlighting the white marble fireplace and crimson velvet sofa, while the ceiling is painted a burnished copper.

  It’s not how you’d expect an eighty-something to redecorate her flat, but then Cricket isn’t exactly your typical eighty-something.

  ‘I wanted something completely different to the old house.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly that.’

  ‘Top up?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She reaches for the bottle of champagne I brought over as a flat-warming present, and refills our glasses. I did think about prosecco; even with the extra money from the play I can’t really afford champagne, but there are certain times in your life when only champagne will do, and this is one of them. I’m so proud of my friend and the courage she’s shown in navigating this new chapter of her life, and it needs to be celebrated properly with Veuve Clicquot.

  ‘I think Monty would’ve approved,’ she says, as we make ourselves comfortable on the sofa.

  ‘Of the paint or the champagne?’

  ‘Both,’ she smiles, taking a sip of the ice-cold bubbles. ‘Oh, did I tell you Christopher is wildly excited about staging his new play?’

  ‘Only about half a dozen times,’ I grin, and she laughs.

  Christopher is a revered theatre director and was one of Monty’s oldest friends and colleagues. Cricket sent him my finished script a few days ago, and within hours he was on the phone to her, ‘begging’ to cast it. I think ‘begging’ is a bit of an exaggeration on Cricket’s part, but still, it’s very exciting news. Not to mention a huge relief on my part.

  Ever since Cricket asked me to edit Monty’s play, I’ve been so worried that I wasn’t up to the job. With most of the third act just a mass of scribbled notes, I’ve had visions of this being a complete disaster. Letting Cricket down would have been one thing, especially when she’s put so much faith in me, but I certainly didn’t want to damage Monty’s reputation as a playwright by not doing this play justice. Not to mention making a complete fool of myself.

  But apart from a few suggested edits from Christopher, he’s been thrilled with the result. And it’s made me realize that I underestimate myself. I think so many of us do. When Dad nearly died, it made me realize I’m a lot stronger than I ever thought I was. It’s just a shame it’s taken me this long to find out.

  ‘He wants to secure funding so he can start casting in the New Year.’

  ‘Wow, that’s fantastic!’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Her face is animated, and then her mind goes somewhere else and her smile slips. ‘Oh, I do wish Monty were here to see all of this.’

  It comes out, loosened no doubt by the champagne, but I know she thinks this a dozen times a day. Mostly it just goes by unspoken. I knew it before, but since we came so close to losing Dad, her loss has an added resonance.

  ‘You know, I was worried how I was going to feel, leaving the old house,’ she admits, looking across at me now. ‘When the removal van left, I walked around all the empty rooms remembering how Monty and I had walked around those empty rooms together when we first moved in . . . and it didn’t feel like thirty or more years had passed . . . it felt like the blink of an eye . . .’

  I see her fingers tighten on the stem of her glass, the light catching the bubbles that are fizzing to the surface.

  ‘The estate agent was waiting outside, and I gave him the keys and got in a cab . . . and as I drove away, I actually felt fine. And I kept feeling fine. Even when I spent my first night alone here in the flat. I kept expecting this wave of grief to hijack me, but . . . no . . . nothing.’ She gives a small shrug of her shoulders. ‘I put it down to being so busy, what with my meetings with the council for the new little library scheme, and Monty’s play. I didn’t have time to feel sad—’

  For a moment her words seem to hang there as she contemplates them.

  ‘Then a few days later I went to get a Christmas tree. I wasn’t going to bother. After all, it’s only me and it seemed a terrible fuss . . . but Monty loved Christmas, especially getting the tree.’

  She smiles now. It’s one of those vague smiles of affection when you remember something amusing from the past.

  ‘He’d spend an entire evening carefully positioning the baubles and lights, standing back each time to check and admire his work . . .’

  ‘You didn’t help?’

  Cricket gives a look of mock horror. ‘Goodness no, I was never allowed to touch it. Once I made the fatal mistake of adding a bit of tinsel . . .’

  I laugh as she mimes Monty having a fit of panic.

  ‘So anyway, like I said, I got a tree.’

  We both look across at the six-foot Christmas tree, heavily decorated and sparkling with lights.

  ‘It’s a very nice tree,’ I enthuse.

  Cricket tilts her head to one side as if weighing it up. ‘I was determined I was going to make this the perfect tree. I wanted to make Monty proud . . .’ She pauses, and I notice that her eyes are glistening.

  ‘So I started with the lights, just like he showed me, but they were all tangled . . . and the harder I tried,
the more knotted they got . . . and I couldn’t unravel them –’ and now her voice is breaking – ‘and I raged against him for leaving me with these bloody tangled Christmas tree lights . . .’

  A tear escapes and rolls down her cheek.

  ‘And then I started crying in frustration, and once I started I couldn’t stop . . . not because of those stupid lights but because he’s gone and I’m still here, and this isn’t how it was supposed to be, this isn’t what we planned.’

  She sniffs hard, rubbing her cheek, and it’s so difficult not to try and offer up some well-meaning words of comfort, but I don’t want to offend her by trying. Because nothing is going to give her comfort and nothing is going to make it better, and I’m not going to insult her by pretending otherwise.

  ‘It fucking sucks,’ I say.

  Because that’s the truth. Because she needs her grief to be acknowledged. And because as a friend that’s all I can hope to do.

  ‘It fucking sucks,’ she nods.

  I might not have lost my husband, but I know about loss and having to start over.

  ‘It’s going to be a year in January.’

  Cricket is talking about Monty’s death, but at the mention of the date I’m reminded of its significance in my own life. Has it really been nearly a whole year since I moved into Edward’s flat? Since I sat on my bed, surrounded by suitcases, and swore to myself that by this time next year I’d turn my whole life around?

  ‘It’s true what they say: life does go on and joy does return, and often it’s in the most unexpected of places,’ she continues, ‘but you never get over losing someone; you just get better at coping with it.’

  I gesture towards the tree. ‘You untangled them in the end,’ I say, thinking how symbolic this is.

  ‘Like hell I did,’ she snorts, and flashes me a smile. ‘I threw the bloody things away and bought new ones.’

  I’m grateful for:

  Christopher’s reaction to the finished play and the unbelievably exciting news, just in, that he’s secured funding for it to go into production, with a famous actor reading for the lead.

  The unexpected joy that my friendship with Cricket adds to my life.

  She didn’t ask me about my drink with Ethan.

  Things I’ve Learned from Cricket

  Don’t let perfect be the enemy of good.

  Take risks.

  Forty-something is very young when you’re eighty-something.

  These are your good old days.

  Most people are good; it’s just that it’s the bad people who make the news.

  If those shoes aren’t comfy in the store they’re never going to be comfy.

  When it comes to money, only think six months ahead: any more and you’ll panic; any less and you’ll buy that dress you’ll never wear.

  How someone deals with a parking ticket, stepping in dog shit, a delayed train and a dying bee says a lot about them. The same goes for what they do with their supermarket trolley.

  Be anything, but always be outrageous.

  Find your tribe.

  Never join the Blue Rinse Brigade.

  Some things can’t always be untangled.

  Don’t worry too much about people liking you; liking yourself is far more important.

  You can never have too many hats.

  Drink that bottle of red.

  Friendship is family.

  Rubber gloves and determination can solve anything.*

  You will regret those heavy earrings.

  You never really know what you’re doing, so do it anyway.

  The best anti-ageing secret is to stop looking in mirrors.

  Take videos of those you love.

  No one ever died of cellulite or wrinkles.

  You never own a book; you just get to look after it until you pass it on to the next person.

  The same story is different for everyone.

  Say yes to everything, unless it involves stand-up comedy.

  Ageing is not for sissies.

  Acknowledge everyone, from the person on the checkout to the driver of the bus to the barista who serves you your coffee.

  What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

  The view is great from the outside.

  Take an extra five minutes (especially when it comes to putting away Christmas tree lights).

  Always buy the bigger size.

  There are many ways to live a life.

  None of those creams work (much better to buy a hat).

  There is no age limit on adventure.

  You’re not too old, it’s not too late, and yes you can.

  Christmas Cards

  I left America and moved back to the UK because my relationship fell apart. Because I needed a fresh start. Because my visa ran out and my business failed. Because I was broke and broken-hearted. Because I was sick of the blue skies and sunshine when all I felt was grey inside. Because I missed my family and friends. Because I couldn’t bear to stay and be reminded of everything I’d lost.

  And because I didn’t know what else to do, and tea tastes better here.

  All of the above is true. But I should have added one more. Because of the Christmas cards.

  Christmas isn’t easy at the best times, especially if you find yourself single. Worse still, forty-something and single. We’re forever being told that Christmas is all about family, so if you haven’t managed to bag one of your own and a lovely home to put them in (along with a gorgeously decorated Christmas tree), there’s a chance you might feel like a bit of a fuck-up.

  But just to make sure, your friends will send you Christmas cards to prove it.

  Unlike the Brits and their packs of generic charity Christmas cards, Americans have a tradition of sending personalized cards with smiling family portraits on the front. A bit like our royal family do, only with much better teeth.

  And these photographs are lovely, truly they are, whether they’re professionally shot in black and white, or taken with a phone on a beach wearing Santa hats. And the kids always look cute and your friends always look happy, and when you read the update inside telling you everything they’ve been up to that year, how the kids are doing at school and news of any accomplishments, you think how proud they must be of their family and everything they’ve achieved.

  And then you put them on your mantelpiece and go to pour yourself another gin.

  No, but seriously.

  Actually, I am being serious.

  Because when everything fell apart last December, it was all too painful. As soon as the first one arrived, I knew I couldn’t sit around to open the rest, and went to stay with Liza. I loved seeing my friends happy in their lives but their family portraits only emphasized what I didn’t have. I looked at those cards and saw the ghosts of a future that I once thought was mine but now I’d lost.

  So, anyway, being back in the UK this year, I don’t have to worry. It’s all glittery reindeers and jokey cartoons about snowmen and carrots. Picking several off the doormat, I wander through to the kitchen, tearing them open. That one must be from Holly and Adam; it’s just his sense of humour. I look inside. It’s Holly’s handwriting but she’s signed it from Adam as well. Apparently they’ve started counselling. I got a text from her just last week saying it was the first time they’d really talked in years. I hope they make it.

  I stick it on the shelf, next to Mum and Dad’s snowy woodland scene; it’s one of their usuals from the National Trust. Some things never change. This year I’ve never been more grateful.

  But it looks like it’s going to take more than a transatlantic flight to shake off one particular Christmas card. I look at the envelope and recognize the handwriting. It’s from some friends in Houston. To be honest, they were Ethan’s friends really. He went to college with the husband and I met them once at a Thanksgiving dinner, but they always sent cards with family-photo montages and these mammoth updates on their children.

  A few months ago, the wife had emailed to ask me for my new address so she co
uld send a card. I tried to gently put her off, telling her it was fine, not to worry and save the postage. But she insisted. I tried again, saying I wasn’t sure if I was going to be spending Christmas with my parents or in London, but instead she’d asked for both addresses. ‘I’m sure it will find you eventually,’ she’d replied cheerfully.

  I DON’T WANT YOUR BLOODY CHRISTMAS CARD TO FIND ME! is what I’d wanted to type back, all in caps, and equally as cheerfully, but that would make me not a very nice person. She was only trying to be kind by chasing me down with her glad tidings. After all, it’s Christmas. Goodwill to all men and all that.

  So of course I emailed her both my addresses and said I couldn’t wait to receive her card, and Happy Holidays!

  On the front is a photo of them all in matching Christmas sweaters. Even the dog. And is that a rabbit too? I smile, then stick it behind the large vase that used to belong to Edward’s great-aunt.

  ‘Anything for me?’

  I hear the front door go, and Edward appears in the kitchen wearing a scarf and beanie. He’s holding a takeout flask and a yoga mat, and looking like people only look when they’ve been up since 6 a.m. doing a Bikram class.

  No, not smug. Healthy.

  ‘Christmas cards. Here, there’s one addressed to you.’ I hand him an envelope.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I turn my attention to my coffee pot.

  ‘Well, I’ve had better cards.’

  ‘It can’t be worse than the matching Christmas jumper one,’ I laugh, grinding my coffee beans.

  ‘Hmm . . . well, it’s less Merry Christmas and more Happy Divorce.’

  ‘Huh?’

  I turn around to see him holding a piece of paper instead of a card.

  ‘It’s my decree absolute.’