Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 2

  ‘So, do you have any questions?’

  Edward looked older than me, with dark wavy hair that was greying at his temples and square-framed glasses, but I had a sneaking suspicion he was about my age. This keeps happening to me now. It’s the weirdest thing. I read articles about middle-aged people as if they’re my parents or something, and then I suddenly realize – hang on, we’re the same age! But how can this be? I don’t look anything like that. At least, I don’t think I do.

  Do I?

  ‘Um . . . any other rules?’ I joked weakly as I followed him back through to the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, I’ve printed them out for you to have a look through . . .’ Reaching into a drawer, he pulled out a ring binder and passed it to me.

  ‘Oh.’ There were about twenty pages, with lots of highlighted sections. ‘Gosh, that’s a lot of rules.’

  ‘I find it better to be clear about everything, don’t you? Then there’s no room for miscommunication.’

  My eyes scanned over a few. It was just the usual stuff about loud music, being tidy and respectful, making sure to lock doors.

  ‘There’s also a section about being environmentally conscious and conserving energy.’

  ‘Right, yes, of course.’ Now this bit we were in agreement about. I’d spent the last five years living in California. I drove a Prius. I bought organic (when I could afford it). I had a nice selection of reusable bags made from bamboo for my groceries. ‘I’m all about saving the environment,’ I told him.

  ‘So, turn the lights off when you leave a room, take showers instead of baths—’

  ‘No baths?’ My chest tightened.

  ‘A five-minute shower uses about a third of the water of a bath, so it’s much more eco-friendly.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I nodded, and he was right, of course he was, but we weren’t in California any more, where there was a drought. We were in England, where it never stops raining. Last year my parents’ house flooded twice.

  ‘And I’d prefer it if you didn’t touch the thermostat for the central heating.’

  Instinctively I pulled my coat tighter around me. It was freezing, even inside. I touched a radiator. It was stone cold.

  ‘Even in January?’

  I mean, FFS. Who doesn’t have the heating on in January?

  ‘It’s set to 12.5 degrees, which is the most efficient setting.’

  It was at that point I thought Sod This. Since breaking up with The American Fiancé, Sod This has become my new approach to life. It’s actually better than Fuck It. It requires less effort.

  ‘Well, thanks very much. I’ve got a few more rooms I’m going to look at . . .’

  Enough was enough. OK, so my life was a mess. Nothing had worked out. Time was running out and it just hadn’t happened for me. I was still on the outside, waiting for my happy ever after, whatever that may be. I wasn’t a wife or a mummy. Neither was I some high-flying career woman, which, according to a newspaper Whose Name I Refuse To Mention, is the reason all women of a certain age have got themselves into this position. I was an out-of-work book editor who sank all her savings into a business that went bust, along with her relationship. (On that topic, can someone please tell me why there is no such thing as a career man?)

  I didn’t juice, or bake, or cook healthy nutritious meals in my lovely kitchen, most probably because I currently didn’t have a kitchen or my own home and, frankly, I’m useless anyway. I hadn’t a fucking clue what was going on with Brexit and, more so, I didn’t care. I didn’t practise mindfulness. Or do yoga. Hell, I couldn’t even touch my toes. And I did not have any social media accounts filled with thousands of liked photos documenting my perfect life.

  ‘It was nice meeting you.’ I made a move for the door.

  ‘Actually, there was one more thing . . .’

  I braced myself.

  ‘I’m not here at the weekends.’

  I paused. ‘Excuse me?’

  At which point Edward proceeded to tell me that he was married with twin boys. Married? He must have noticed my eyes shoot to his bare ring finger as he said something about having left it on the bathroom sink at home. Home being the countryside, where they’d moved ‘for the schools’, but during the week he stayed in London to save on commuting. ‘I leave on Friday morning and am not back until Monday evening, so you’d have the place to yourself.’

  Hang on – I quickly did the maths. That meant I only had to share with him for three days? For four whole days I had the flat to myself?

  ‘Except for Arthur.’

  ‘Arthur?’

  At the sound of his name a huge, hairy animal barrelled into the kitchen, nearly knocking me sideways with his enormous wagging tail.

  ‘Arthur, sit. Sit!’

  Arthur took absolutely no notice and continued excitedly jumping up and slobbering all over me, while his owner tried to wrestle him into some kind of sitting position.

  ‘My wife Sophie has allergies, so he stays here with me,’ he panted. ‘But at weekends he would stay here with you . . . hence the rent has been adjusted accordingly.’

  I looked at Edward. His glasses were askew and his sweatshirt was covered in a fine smattering of white fuzz, which was flying around the room, transforming the kitchen into a giant dog-hair snow globe, while his sleeve was fast disappearing into Arthur’s jaws.

  ‘OK, great. When can I move in?’

  4. I am not dead of hypothermia.

  Small mercies and all that, but my landlord has gone skiing. He drove up from Kent to meet me at the weekend with the keys and Arthur, then hotfooted it to Heathrow to celebrate New Year’s in Verbier with his family. As soon as he left I cranked up the thermostat to twenty-four degrees. So now it’s lovely and toasty and I’m lying on my bed in just my underwear. I can almost pretend I’m back in California.

  On cue my eyes well up. No, I don’t want to think about it. I haven’t cried for a few days and I don’t want to start.

  I sniff hard and look at Arthur, who’s asleep on the rug by the window, then back at my notebook. I’ve still got one more thing to write on my gratitude list to make it to my five-a-day, but I’m tired. I’m still battling jet lag. Nothing’s springing to mind. I put it back on my bedside table. That’s why they call it a daily practice. Tomorrow I’m sure I’ll feel much more positive and inspired.

  Yes, this year I’m going to completely turn my life around. New Year, fresh start and all that. In fact, by this time next year my gratitude list is going to go something like this:

  I’m grateful for:

  My loving husband, who tells me every day how much he loves me with fresh flowers and mind-blowing sex.

  Snuggles with our own little miracle, who showed her proud grandparents that Mummy was not a forty-something fuck-up for whom time finally ran out.

  A successful, high-flying career that provides both satisfaction and a six-figure salary, which I will spend on lovely clothes I see in magazines, and not spend hours trying to find a cheaper version on eBay.

  A Pinterest-worthy home in which to host lots of lovely grown-up dinner parties for all my friends, who are amazed by my flair for interior design and conjuring up delicious, nutritious meals, and teasingly call me the Domestic Goddess.

  This feeling of strength and calm that comes from doing yoga in my new Lululemon outfits, and knowing I am finally where I want to be and am not going to die alone in newspaper shoes.

  The Following Friday

  Oh God, it’s my birthday.

  Remember when you used to actually look forward to your birthday? When you’d wake up feeling all happy and excited and planning your barely there outfit? And the celebrations ended at 2 a.m. in a club somewhere, drinking vodka with all your mates and drunkenly yelling in some random bloke’s ear, ‘Fuck me, I’m twenty-six! I’m so old!’

  Now I really am old.

  Today when I wake up I feel like I already drank all the vodka. And as I reach for my ringing phone, I catch sight of my arm in the full-length
mirror next to my bed and it hits me: This Is It. It’s happened. It’s time for a bit of a sleeve.

  Everyone goes on about the big Four-O, but in reality turning forty is no big deal. Forty is easy. Forty is a big party and a new dress. Forty, you’re still in finger-reaching distance of your thirties and nothing feels or looks any different. But then something happens overnight and suddenly you’re forty-something and things have started to . . . how shall I put it?

  Sag would be one word. Crinkle would be another. Crinkle and Sag. It sounds like a new flavour of crisps or a favourite pub, except it’s neither. It’s this strange thing that’s happening to your body and you don’t like it. You pull out your trusty bikini for the summer holidays and start seriously wondering about a one-piece. You find a grey hair and it’s not up there. It’s the weirdest thing.

  Time feels like it’s speeding up. And running out. You start looking back, trying to figure out how on earth you got here, instead of forwards, as frankly it frightens the living daylights out of you. You’re hurtling past the halfway mark if you’re lucky, and nothing is how you thought it would be when you were yelling in strangers’ ears in dodgy nightclubs.

  But then maybe that’s how everyone feels about their birthdays at this age. Though, judging by everyone’s photos on Facebook, of weekends spent celebrating in cosy cottages in the Cotswolds and family selfies where everyone’s wearing matching smiles and wellies – even the Labrador – I’m not convinced. They do not look shocked and bewildered at how this can be happening to them. They look like something from a J Crew catalogue.

  Mum and Dad are the first to call and wish me a happy birthday.

  ‘So have you heard from anyone else?’ asks Mum, after Dad has finished singing and gone to his allotment.

  Mum is fishing. I still haven’t gone into the details about what happened with The American Fiancé, only that the wedding was off and I was moving back to London.

  ‘Um . . . it’s seven thirty in the morning, it’s still a bit early.’

  ‘What time is it in California?’

  I knew it.

  ‘Half past eleven the night before.’

  ‘Is it really?’

  In all the years I lived in America, Mum and Dad never got the hang of the time difference. Conversations always started with, ‘What time is it there?’ complete with flabbergasted reactions when I told them, and I was forever getting woken up by FaceTime calls in the middle of the night. Because of course I couldn’t turn my phone off, in case something happens. Which is another thing that happens when you reach a certain age. It’s like the magnetic poles switch, and after years of your parents worrying about you, you start worrying about them. It’s like having children, only I skipped the cute baby stage and mine are seventy and seventy-two.

  ‘So it’s not your birthday yet there, then?’

  Poor Mum. I think she’s clinging on to the hope that this break-up isn’t permanent and the wedding will soon be back on.

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Oh good.’ She sounds relieved. ‘So what are you going to do to celebrate?’

  ‘I’m meeting friends for a drink.’

  ‘Well, that sounds nice.’

  ‘Yes, it’ll be good to see everyone and catch up.’

  ‘Because you know, your father and I are a bit worried about you—’

  ‘Mum, I’m fine – honestly, you don’t need to worry. As soon as I’ve sorted out a few things here, I’ll come home for a couple of days.’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  ‘OK Mum, bye—’

  ‘I know what I wanted to tell you!’

  You know how some words mean different things to different people? Well, the word ‘bye’ to my mum does not mean the end of the conversation. On the contrary, it means starting a whole new topic, usually involving telling me about someone I don’t know, who is related to someone else I don’t know, who lives next door to someone I truly have never heard of, who has died.

  I brace myself.

  ‘If you do want to come and visit, we just need a little bit of notice now that we’re doing Airbnb.’

  I stare at my phone, as if I’ve misheard.

  ‘Airbnb?’

  ‘Yes, didn’t I mention it? Your father and I watched a programme about it and decided to give it a go. We’ve been Airbnbing your old bedroom and we’ve been inundated with bookings.’

  So that’s what the new matching Laura Ashley lamps were about.

  ‘We’ve got a lovely young couple staying this week, on honeymoon no less!’

  And there you have it. Just when you think your life can’t get any worse, there’s always the discovery that a couple of newlyweds are shagging in your old bedroom to plunge you to new depths.

  ‘What about Richard’s old bedroom?’

  ‘Well, he comes home more often to visit.’

  I grit my teeth as the knife turns. Richard is my little brother and he can do no wrong. He lives in Manchester and has a craft beer start-up with some friends. Every couple of weeks he visits my parents with bags of dirty laundry and a different girlfriend. Rich is thirty-nine and says he’s not ready to settle down yet, but no one is worried, least of all Rich. He’s a man. It’s different. There is no BITL.

  ‘OK, well I really have to go.’

  ‘Of course, you must be busy. Speak later. Have a lovely day!’

  After I put the phone down I feel a bit guilty. I didn’t really have to go. It’s not as if I had a pressing engagement; like children to get ready for school or a job to go to. I think about my career, then try not to. It’s ten years since I moved from London with my full-time job as a book editor to my publishing company’s New York office. It was a great opportunity and the timing was perfect – a relationship had just ended and I was eager for a change of scene – and I threw myself into my new job, along with the New York dating scene.

  But five years later I was still single and fast losing hope of ever meeting anyone. So when I met a handsome, dark-eyed chef in a bar, I followed both him and my heart to the West Coast where we got engaged, quit both our jobs and moved to Ojai, a small town north-west of Los Angeles, to open our little cafe-cum-bookshop. My parents were delighted but worried. I was gaining a fiancé but giving up a good job, and my dad urged caution.

  But I was not in the mood for caution. I was in my late thirties. I had met The One. We were going to get married, have babies, and spend the rest of our lives together. Setting up our own business was the icing on the cake. It combined my love of books and his love of food, and we worked day and night to make it a success. So what if half of businesses failed in the first year? We would be in the other fifty per cent.

  And for a few years we were – but eventually rising rents, long hours, fast-disappearing savings and a whole bunch of other stuff finally took its toll, on both the business and our relationship. So, here I am.

  #singleunemployedandfortysomething

  My phone beeps. It’s my friend Holly. Holly is married to Adam and they have Olivia, who’s three.

  We can’t make it tonight. The babysitter’s sick! Sorry!! I’ll call you later. Happy birthday and have fun tonight! Xxxx

  My phone beeps again. This time it’s Max, who I met in a youth hostel in Rome when I was eighteen; we spent the summer backpacking around Europe together. He’s married to Michelle now, and has three children and another on the way, but we’ve remained good friends. I’m even godmother to his eldest, Freddy.

  Happy birthday Stevens! Totally forgot about this parent–teacher tonight. If I don’t go Michelle will chop my balls off. Come over for dinner next week instead. M

  Two down. One to go.

  Fiona calls an hour later. ‘You’re going to kill me—’

  In the end everyone cancelled. Which was fine. I totally understood. These things happen. Busy family lives and all that. It’s just, well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit disappointed.

  Oh, who am I kidding? I was totally bummed out. But
not with my friends; with my situation. So I went to therapy.

  Of the retail kind.

  As I hit the high street I feel immediately cheered up. Who needs a loving partner to take them for a romantic dinner in a lovely restaurant when there’s a hot pink jumpsuit with cute little cap sleeves? Or children to make me birthday cards that I’ll keep forever on the fridge, when I can actually find a pair of skinny white jeans that don’t make me look fat? And so what if I don’t have a job or my own home when there’s a gorgeous pair of candy-striped straw stilettos I can afford with the birthday money Mum and Dad sent me?

  Where exactly I’m going to wear skinny white jeans, hot pink jumpsuits and straw stilettos in the freezing cold weather that is January in London, I have no idea. Plus, I didn’t actually try any of it on as the queues were so long. But who cares about such niggling details, I decide later, as I head home from the high street on the bus, looking out of the window and merrily sipping one of those cans of pre-mixed gin and tonic. Birthday treat and all that.

  It does briefly cross my mind that maybe this is how it starts. One minute it’s your forty-something birthday, and you’re shopping at Zara for a bit of a sleeve and enjoying a celebratory little cocktail on public transport. Then, before you know it, you’re glugging whisky from a paper bag and it’s all over. I suddenly feel like the girl on the train, only on a bus.

  Oh God. Still, at least I’m not about to start murdering my exes.

  I think about The American Fiancé and dig out my phone. Nothing.

  And just like that my cheerful mood crumbles. Tears prickle my eyelashes and, blinking furiously, I stick my phone back in my pocket and reach into my shopping bag.

  Sod This. I pull out another can.

  I’m grateful for:

  My mum and everything she does for me, and I look forward to finding availability to stay in my old bedroom.

  Zara, even though I can’t get the jeans past my knees and the hot pink jumpsuit looks hideous on me.

  Whoever had the genius idea to pre-mix gin and tonic and put them in a nifty little can.

  The stranger, whose shoulder I fell asleep and drooled on, who woke me up before I missed my stop.