Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 6

  I look up to see Edward standing in the doorway. Back from the early morning yoga class that he takes before leaving for the office, he’s wearing his workout gear and a disapproving expression. Still in my dressing gown, I feel like a slattern.

  ‘It dulls the blades. You need to hand wash them separately.’

  He walks over to me and starts inspecting the contents of the dishwasher. ‘No, the wine glasses go on this side.’ He begins dismantling my stacking and rearranging things to his own strict rules, tutting all the while. ‘The smaller tumblers go here, see?’

  I glance at the chopping knife still in my hand with its six-inch blade. Trust me, I’m tempted. In fact, there have been many times this past month that I’ve come close to murdering my new landlord.

  ‘And don’t forget to put it on the economy setting to conserve energy,’ he instructs, before going upstairs to take a lukewarm twenty-second shower.

  ‘Gotcha.’ I smile tightly.

  Though quite frankly, considering the endless provocation, I’d call it manslaughter.

  An Obituary

  Monty Williamson, London’s legendary playwright,

  who inspired a generation and the love of his wife.

  My first obituary is in the newspaper! I ring Mum excitedly.

  ‘Do you remember Monty Williamson, the famous playwright and theatre director?’

  ‘Hmm, the name doesn’t ring a bell.’

  ‘He wrote No One Is Listening?’

  ‘To be honest, your father and I don’t go in for the theatre much. Not since he fell asleep that time at The Lion King and started snoring—’

  I persevered. ‘You must know him. He was a bit of a playboy, and went out with all those famous models in the Swinging Sixties before he got married to an actress called Catherine Farrah.’

  ‘Did he? Honestly, my memory’s like a sieve these days. Hang on, let me ask your father . . . Philip! Phi-LIP!’ After much calling in the background, I hear her explaining to Dad, then: ‘No, he doesn’t know either. Why?’

  Only at this point do I realize I have spent the last five minutes telling her about someone she doesn’t know, has never met, who went out with someone she doesn’t know either and wrote a play she has truly never heard of, who has died. It’s true what they say. I have actually turned into my mother.

  Luckily Mum doesn’t hold it against me, but instead rushes out and buys several copies and proudly shows all the neighbours. Meanwhile I suddenly get an attack of the guilts. Is it wrong to be excited about writing an article which effectively is about someone dying? Making money from someone else’s sorrow. I mean, it’s a bit messed up when you think about it.

  But then I get an email from Cricket telling me how much she loves it, how I’ve captured the essence of him wonderfully, and what a lovely tribute it is to her beloved Monty. So I feel much better. Dare I say it, I even feel a glow of pride.

  Unconsciously Uncoupling

  Initially when I decided to leave LA and move back to London, I was worried I’d regret my decision. I had images of me crying a lot and stalking my ex on Facebook. Well, bollocks to that. I haven’t cried once and I rarely use Facebook.

  OK, so that’s not exactly true. I’ve welled up a few times and glanced at his page, but he never updates it anyway, so there really is nothing to be gained by looking at an old photo of him scuba diving in Thailand in 2009. Apart from cheering me up by reminding me just how ridiculous he looks in a wetsuit and how much hair he’s lost since then.

  As one can see, I’m not of the consciously uncoupled mindset just yet. I don’t know how all the Hollywood celebs do it. But then, does anyone really believe those press statements? All that stuff about still being besties and very much in love and excited to continue cherishing and adoring each other, only this time from afar. When everyone knows they should really read: he shagged the nanny or she’s addicted to plastic surgery or when we finally stopped taking selfies we realized we can’t stand each other and no filter could save us.

  Or what about: he stopped loving me so I left. That would have been our press statement. Only in our case, it was true. And completely depressing. Now I see why they talk about sharing wonderful adventures, just not with each other. It’s because everyone wants a happy ending, even if you’re splitting up. No one can admit they’re sad and angry and heartbroken. That life is complicated.

  It’s late. Lying in bed, I log on to Facebook and stare at his photo.

  That even in that ridiculous wetsuit that makes him look like a pregnant seal, part of me still loves him.

  Shit.

  Death by Pancake

  February is a bit of a dismal month. What with the constant drizzle, wind and never-ending grey. My sweaters going all bobbly as I never take the bloody things off. Scrolling through a certain supermodel’s bikini selfies on white sandy beaches as I try to shelter at the bus stop.

  ‘The woman’s over fifty! How does she do it?’ I demand of Michelle, when she calls me later to ask if I’ll babysit next month as it’s Max’s birthday.

  ‘I don’t know, but she’s an inspiration. Maybe she’s eating lots of salad?’

  ‘Who wants to eat a lettuce leaf when it’s freezing cold? I’m craving comfort food!’

  Which explains right there why I am not, and never will be, taking a bikini selfie.

  ‘Me too! I’m going to be eating my fair share of pancakes tonight.’

  ‘Pancakes?’

  ‘It’s Pancake Day today. Had you forgotten?’

  Yes I had, completely, but now I feel a surge of hot-battered, lemon-sugared joy. This is one of the things I do love about being in the UK in February.

  ‘Thanks for reminding me. I wonder if my landlord has a frying pan?’

  ‘How is your new landlord? Is he nice?’

  ‘We’re currently battling over the thermostat and the dishwasher.’

  ‘It sounds like being married,’ she laughs, then catches herself. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be tactless—’

  ‘You’re not, it’s OK.’ I reassure her as much as myself.

  I hear children’s voices in the background. ‘They’re so excited about getting to flip the pancakes,’ confides Michelle. ‘They’re drawing straws to see whose turn is first. Freddy is having none of it, of course. I just hope I’ve made enough batter. Last year he ate five pancakes—’

  She’s interrupted as Freddy yells, ‘SIX!’

  ‘I reckon I’m going to beat him this year. That’s one of the best bits about being pregnant. Being able to eat as many pancakes as you want,’ she laughs.

  ‘So what’s my excuse?’ I joke, but inside I feel a sudden ache. Our lives couldn’t be more different. There’s Michelle, with her scene of domestic bliss. Happily married and heavily pregnant in her lovely home. Abruptly I feel more alone than ever.

  ‘So you’re sure you’re OK to babysit?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Get to spend time with my godson—’

  ‘Thanks again, Nell, speak soon.’

  After we hang up I go on the hunt for a frying pan. So what if it’s just me. More pancakes for yours truly. I find it in the back of the cupboard, then nip out to the corner shop for ingredients and start making the batter.

  As a child, Pancake Day was one of my favourite times of year. Mum used to fire up the frying pan and we’d take turns trying to toss them. My brother Rich would do these perfect pancake double backflips. Mine would end up everywhere but back in the frying pan. It was a running family joke.

  ‘Where will Nell’s end up this year?’ Dad used to laugh, as they went splat all over the kitchen. I think the all-time winner was the one that got stuck on the ceiling and fried by the overhead lights, to much shrieking from Mum who thought it would set the house on fire. Just imagine. Death by Pancake.

  But it turns out Pancake Day isn’t that much fun when it’s just me and Arthur, who watches my every move, willing me to fail so he can gobble them off the kitchen floor. Still, I persevere, and am just
undoing the top button of my jeans and wondering whether or not to go for a fourth, when I hear the key in the latch and Edward arrives home from work.

  I feel a sudden panic. The kitchen is a bombsite. I brace myself as he appears in the kitchen in his hi-vis cycling jacket, carrying his fold-up bicycle and sniffing like a bloodhound. ‘What are you cooking?’

  ‘Pancakes . . .’ I gesture to the frying pan.

  ‘Of course. Shrove Tuesday.’ He puts down his bicycle and takes off his helmet. ‘Mmm, I haven’t had those for years.’

  Expecting to be reprimanded about the state of the kitchen, I’m slightly thrown.

  ‘Don’t the French have Pancake Day?’ I think about his wife, Sophie.

  He nods. ‘La Chandeleur. Only it’s crêpes, of course.’

  So that’s how French women don’t get fat. They even eat skinny pancakes.

  ‘But Sophie doesn’t eat them. She prefers to watch her figure.’

  I decide against pancake number four.

  ‘Would you mind if I –?’ He gestures to the large bowl of batter. ‘They smell delicious.’

  ‘Oh . . . no, no of course, go ahead. I’d offer to make one for you, but I’m afraid I’m hopeless at flipping them.’

  ‘Ah well, that was always my strong point. All my years of tennis. Good reflexes.’ Rolling up his sleeves, he ladles in the batter, carefully rolls it around the edges until it’s covering the bottom and has turned golden brown, then with an expert flick of his wrist tosses it in the air. It lands perfectly. ‘Ta-dah!’ He flashes a broad grin, his face lit up. I’m taken aback. I’ve never seen this side to him.

  ‘Wow, amazing.’ I give a little round of applause, and he takes a bow.

  ‘Here, why not have a go—’

  ‘No, honestly. I don’t think you want pancakes on your ceiling.’

  ‘I used to coach tennis. Look, I’ll show you . . .’ He pours in another ladleful, and then before I know it he’s giving me a lesson in pancake-flipping, and after a few false starts – one somehow manages to wrap itself around the kettle – lo and behold, I actually get one to land in the pan. First time ever! Who would’ve thought?

  I’m grateful for:

  Jesus, for giving me pancakes.

  My landlord Edward, for not only being my Pancake Day plus one but also suggesting Nutella and marshmallows as a topping; SO much more delicious than all those gluten-free versions with blueberries, low-fat yoghurt and chia seeds clogging up my feeds.

  Not having to clear up Michelle’s kitchen which, in the photo she texted me later, looked less like a scene of domestic bliss and more like a scene from the horror movie Putney Pancake Massacre.

  Never having to take a bikini selfie – in the end I ate seven and am officially a pig.

  Elasticated pyjama bottoms.

  Valentine’s Day

  I think under the circumstances, this year I’m going to ignore it. Pretend it’s not even happening. Which can only mean one thing:

  TOTAL SOCIAL MEDIA BLACKOUT.

  Thankfully, I’ve never been that into Valentine’s Day. At school I was a bit of a late developer so I didn’t have too many admirers, secret or otherwise. But what I did have was my dad, who every year would send me a card signed S.W.A.L.K in his handwriting, and every year I would pretend not to know who it was from.

  As I’ve got older, I’ve had my fair share of cards and bouquets but I’ve always felt it’s all too contrived. Surely romance isn’t about overpriced flowers and an expensive restaurant?

  Luckily The American Fiancé was of the same mindset, so one year we made a pact to ignore it. We loved each other. We didn’t need to prove it on a specific day. But then he really did ignore it.

  ‘Why are you upset? You said it was commercial nonsense.’

  ‘It is, but I can’t believe you didn’t even get me a card.’

  ‘But you told me to ignore it.’

  ‘Yes, but you weren’t really supposed to ignore it.’

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me that?’

  ‘Because I thought you knew!’

  ‘Knew what? That my girlfriend talks in riddles!’

  ‘Stop shouting!’

  ‘I’m not shouting. You’re the one that’s shouting!’

  Honestly, no wonder men and women have difficulty communicating. Just because a woman says something, it doesn’t mean she actually means it. If that were the case, when a man asks a woman what’s wrong and she says ‘nothing’, she would actually mean nothing, and not, in fact, that she is furious with him for a variety of reasons and he’d better work out quickly what they are, otherwise there’s going to be trouble and lots of banging of pots in the kitchen.

  Anyway, like I said, this year I’m on Valentine’s Day lockdown. Which is relatively easy, considering I work from home and not in an office. But it’s queuing at the bank that proves to be my downfall. Have you ever tried to do a Total Social Media Blackout while waiting in line? I try practising mindfulness for, like, two minutes, then cave in and scroll through endless photos of gorgeous bouquets, ‘cryptic’ celeb tweets and love messages scrawled in the sand.

  In the end I feel thoroughly depressed. But I’m being silly. So what if I have no one to send me flowers; I am a strong independent woman! So in the spirit of Sod This I decide to go to the pub. No doubt it will be full of romantic couples and I will be on my own, but I refuse to hide away like some character in a Victorian novel. I’ll take Arthur with me.

  And a book. Things are always better with a book.

  The pub is relatively quiet. It turns out most couples have gone to the overpriced restaurants, and there are just a few scattered here and there. Apart from a couple of heart-shaped balloons behind the bar and a special Valentine’s Day champagne cocktail, I’m in pretty safe territory. Emboldened, I even order the cocktail in a defiant spirit, then go to find a seat.

  I’m just sitting down when I spot a familiar face in the corner. It’s the Hot Dad I saw here before. I feel both a frisson of excitement and relief that I’ve actually put on some make-up and dragged a comb through my hair for once. Obviously he’s taken, but I still have a certain pride. Old feelings of embarrassment that I’m on my own on Valentine’s Day surface, but I push them down determinedly. There is nothing to be ashamed of.

  I focus on my book and start reading, but it’s hard to concentrate when Hot Dad is only feet away. He’s sitting at a table, but his companion is hidden. It must be his wife. I try surreptitiously to crane my neck to get a look. I’m curious to see what she looks like. I’m sure she’s completely lovely. He looks like he’d have a lovely wife, and their little boy is gorgeous. He glances over – oh shit – and I turn quickly away.

  ‘Here’s your Valentine’s Day cocktail,’ says the barman, bringing it over.

  ‘Thanks,’ I smile. It has a cocktail stick with a big strawberry cut into the shape of a love heart.

  Only now I feel like a total loon and not a single, empowered woman. I quickly eat the strawberry and lean forwards to try and move out of view. A text beeps: S.W.A.L.K. I smile. It’s my dad wishing me a happy Valentine’s Day like always.

  I think about last year’s Valentine’s Day. After the ignoring debacle, The American Fiancé made me a puttanesca. Which might not sound like much, unless you’ve tasted a really good puttanesca, and his was the best. His Italian grandmother gave him the recipe and it was as salty as it was sweet, with the kind of al dente pasta that walls are made for. I smile at the memory.

  God, I miss him. It hits me, hard and fast in the pit of my stomach. I wonder if he’s thinking about me. If I come into his head randomly throughout the day, like he does in mine. Or has he moved on already, and I’m just a distant memory?

  But let’s not be gloomy.

  Cricket’s voice sounds in my ear and I wonder if she’s finding today difficult too. Since the interview we’ve begun emailing, and I resolve to send her a quick note when I get home. Speaking of. I quickly glug back my Valentine’s Day coc
ktail. Time to go. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone. Least of all to myself. I get up and tug on Arthur’s lead, then turn towards the door—

  ‘Excuse me—’

  And bump straight into the Hot Dad.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  Or did he bump into me?

  ‘Sorry, did I get you?’

  He’s carrying a pint and a glass of wine. I notice he’s spilled some.

  ‘No, not at all, it’s fine, totally, it’s just this old thing . . .’ I’m gabbling. I’m actually gabbling.

  ‘It’s King Arthur, right?’

  ‘No, Nell.’

  Oh crap, that cocktail was really strong. It’s gone straight to my head. ‘Sorry, I thought you meant—’ I stop talking. It’s safest.

  ‘Well, pleased to meet you, Nell. I’d better go . . .’ He gestures towards his table in the corner.

  ‘Yes, me too.’

  ‘Maybe see you around.’

  ‘Yes, maybe.’

  ‘Bye, King Arthur,’ he smiles, and the corners of his eyes crinkle up. He really does have the most gorgeous eyes.

  I smile back, and it’s as I turn to leave that I notice his hand around the pint glass. He’s not wearing gloves.

  He’s also not wearing a wedding ring.

  I’m grateful for:

  Do I really need to spell it out??? Hot Dad must be single!

  The Day After

  Or B) Having an affair.

  Shit. I wonder if he is? I wonder if that’s why he was tucked around the corner where no one could see him. No, he can’t be. Not with those eyes.

  Or C) Maybe he’s like the royal family and doesn’t wear a wedding ring (unless of course you’re Harry).

  Or D) I looked at the wrong hand entirely as I was actually quite drunk.

  A Moment of Truth

  ‘He could be divorced and having dinner with his ex-wife.’ Liza calls me a couple of days later, when I’m out walking Arthur.