Читать книгу Dancing Over the Hill: The new feel good comedy from the author of The Kicking the Bucket List - Cathy Hopkins, Cathy Hopkins - Страница 13

I resolved to go to my computer when I got home, log in to Facebook and delete Tom’s request. We hadn’t even spoken yet and already he was making me anxious. I couldn’t stop thinking about his message, remembering our time together and the person I was when I knew him, plus I felt bad that I hadn’t told Lorna or Debs about him, and nor had I told Matt. I headed straight up to my study but, instead of going to Facebook, I called Lorna.

‘Hey, what’s up?’ she said. ‘Did you leave something at the restaurant?’

‘No. Er … have you got a minute?’

‘Course. Is something the matter?’

I hesitated.

‘Hey, come on, you can tell me anything. Is it about your job coming to an end?

‘Partly.’

‘Could you both retire? Make that work? You are of the age.’

‘I … it’s not just that. I … thing is, Lorna, an old friend got in touch …’

‘Old friend?’

‘On Facebook. A man I used to know … live with many years ago – when I was at university.’

‘Tim, or Tom somebody?’

‘Yes. Tom Lewis.’ I was surprised she’d remembered. I’d told her about him briefly, many moons ago, when we were talking about first loves. ‘I haven’t heard from him for oh … must be forty years.’

‘Are you kidding? Where’s he been all this time?’

‘Abroad I think.’

‘What does he want?’

‘I don’t know. He made contact on Facebook. I haven’t accepted him as a friend yet.’

‘And will you?’

‘Not sure. I’ve been thinking about it.’

‘Oh, Cait, you really don’t need something like this in your life at the moment. I’d say tread very carefully there. He was the love of your life, if I remember rightly from what you told me. OK, probably no harm in saying hi in cyberspace, but more than that will be playing with fire. I remember you telling me what he meant to you. I’d say do not contact him. You don’t need the complications, especially now.’

‘It might be a closure of sorts and good for my soul.’

‘I very much doubt it; more like opening Pandora’s Box. Have you told Debs? What does she think?’

‘I haven’t told her and I don’t want to, so please don’t. He is, was, very attractive. She’d probably want to meet him, you know what she’s like.’

‘Yes, probably not a good idea.’

‘And I can’t open up to her completely, not like I can with you.’

‘What can’t you say to her?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, but it’s not just Tom who’s bothering me, it’s also Matt, and you know Debs thinks the world of him. Things aren’t good; in fact some days I’m not sure why I’m still with him.’ This wouldn’t be news to Lorna. I’d talked to her several times in the last few months, before he was made redundant, about my doubts over our relationship.

‘You’re thinking about separating? Is it really that bad?’

‘It is, but thirty years of marriage is a lot of history to walk away from. The time it takes in the beginning for silences to become comfortable, adjustments made to find a way to live together in harmony and Christmases, birthdays, holidays, deaths of loved ones, my mother, his parents, the birth, early years of Sam and Jed, the madness of having teenagers in the house. So many memories, so many shared experiences, good and bad. It’s a lot to let go of, and we’ve muddled along together so far – plus even to think about it at the moment is bad timing.’

‘I agree, you can’t do it when he’s just been made redundant.’

‘Exactly. It would be like kicking a man when he’s down.’

‘So what’s changed, apart from him losing his job?’

‘Me. I can’t help asking if it’s enough to muddle on.’

‘And have you decided what to do about Tom?’

‘Not yet. I was about to delete the request to be friends but, and I know this might sound mad, part of me likes the fact that his request is there, like an unopened, unexpected gift. As long as it remains unopened, it offers all sorts of possibilities.’

‘You can’t be the only woman who’s had a secret fantasy, Cait. It’s not as if you’ve done anything, and I would have thought Debs would be sympathetic if you told her. You know how open-minded she is.’

‘Yes, but you heard her at the restaurant when she said I should be grateful that I at least still have a man. It’s true. I should be. Matt is one of the good guys. He’s dependable, hard-working, a gentleman in the true sense of the word. Maybe I’m an ungrateful old witch.’

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. No marriage is perfect and you’ve both been through a lot lately.’

‘It’s not just that, Lorna. Our marriage has gone stale. On the outside, it all looks normal, but is it? Do I have unrealistic expectations? Now he’s home twenty-four hours a day, I’m more aware than ever of the fact that we rarely talk about anything meaningful, never touch, not any more.’

‘Oh, Cait, I am sorry, but all marriages go through bad patches …’

‘This is a very long patch.’

‘And all relationships involve a degree of compromise. I very much doubt that Mr Perfect is out there – an older Darcy, in breeches and boots, aged like a dream. He doesn’t exist and for many couples, the passion wanes.’

‘It certainly has for us. Our sex life? Non-existent. These days, good in bed to me is to be tucked up with a book, and the only hot stuff I experience between the sheets is a cup of tea. I don’t like to ask friends how often they do it and is it worth it when they do.’

Lorna chuckled. ‘Most of us swapped those kind of conversations years ago for discussions of our and everybody else’s health.’

‘Yes, but I get the feeling from the occasional remark made by married friends that Matt and I are the only ones who don’t do it at all any more. I can barely remember the last time we made love. I feel I’m missing out.’

‘Which is why Tom Lewis getting in touch couldn’t have come at a more inopportune time?’

‘I suppose. I can’t help but wonder how he is, how his life has been in the last forty years. He looked good in his profile photo.’

‘In a fantasy, you can imagine him as perfect, but spend a bit of time with him and you’ll probably find he’s as flawed as the rest of us.’

‘Maybe. And not only him – me too. Sorry, I know it’s a silly dream. I just wanted to talk to you about it. I know I’m older now, no longer the young girl he’d remember me being. I’ve changed, and not only appearance-wise.’

‘Cait, you look great, always do.’

‘He might be disappointed if we met up. I couldn’t bear that. No. I know, better to leave the past in the past where it has the rosy glow of nostalgia, though sometimes I can’t help but wonder what might have happened if Chloe Poshgirl Porter hadn’t appeared.’

‘Who was she?’

‘The woman he left me for. Sorry. I know, it’s going over old ground. What could possibly be gained by accepting his friend request but trouble? Deep inside, I do know that, but I don’t know what to do to improve things with Matt. Any advice?’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘OK. Here’s the ex-GP speaking. Work on your marriage. Do what you can to improve things. Delete the request from Tom. Come over soon and we’ll have a proper chat. In the meantime, stop acting like an idiot and get on with your life.’

‘Advice noted,’ I said. She was right, and talking to her had helped clarify my thoughts.

After our call, I was about to log into Facebook to delete Tom’s request, but first got up and went to the window to pull the curtains. As I did, I noticed a man zigzagging his way up the middle of the road, clearly very drunk. He looked vaguely like Matt. Christ, that is Matt, I thought as he got closer. What the hell is he doing?

I ran downstairs, grabbed the door keys and went out into the street. ‘Matt, Matt,’ I called. ‘Are you OK?’

He didn’t hear, and continued to stumble his way up the road, then he saw me and waved.

‘Harro, Cait,’ he called as he managed to get on the pavement then half fell into a laurel hedge next door.

‘Where have you been?’ I asked as I went to pull him out and back onto his feet.

‘Duncan. Drink. Cheer m’up,’ he slurred and laughed. ‘Bit pissed.’ He stank of red wine and beer.

‘Did you walk home?’

‘Nhh. Think so. Not. Taxi,’ he said, as he swayed back towards the bushes.

I hauled him back again. ‘Why didn’t you get the cab to drop you at our door?’

Matt grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry. Dunno. Dropped me at end of road … ’membered live near here.’

I opened our gate, put his arm round my shoulder and walked, half carrying him, to the porch, where I leant him against the wall while I put my keys in to open the front door. ‘Harro, Cait, I bloody love you,’ he said with a big smile. ‘Lovely lovely Cait. Poor Cait. Sorry.’

He slid down onto the porch floor, then keeled over so that he was lying on the ground, where he turned on his side and curled into a sleeping position. In all the time we’d been together, I’d never seen him so drunk.

‘Not yet, you can’t sleep there,’ I said, and tried to lift him. He was too heavy so I grabbed his wrists and, with some effort, dragged him inside.

‘Wheee,’ said Matt as I pulled him in over the threshold. ‘Oof. Back. Mind my back.’

Once inside, I let go and caught my breath. ‘Come on, Matt, let’s get you to bed.’

‘Okee dokee. Bed.’

‘You have to get up.’

Matt looked bewildered at this request. ‘Up? How?’

‘Roll onto your side, push yourself onto your knees and get up.’

Matt attempted to do this but failed. ‘Woo, bit wobbly,’ he said as he tried again. As he floundered about, he let out a loud fart.

‘Urgh, Matt,’ I groaned and wafted the air.

Matt seemed to find this hilarious and lay back on the floor laughing. ‘Sorry, sorry, oops.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Smell. Sorry.’ He turned on his side. ‘OK. Going to sleep now.’

‘Fine, you do that.’ I went into the sitting room and found a blanket, which I took back and threw over him.

‘I bloody love you,’ said Matt, then promptly fell asleep.

‘Don’t forget you’ve got a doctor’s appointment in the morning,’ I said.

But he was gone.

I watched him for a few moments. And there he is, my husband, my partner, the man I have chosen, I thought as he let out another loud fart then started snoring. ‘Who said romance is dead?’ I said as I stepped over him and headed upstairs. Maybe I wouldn’t delete Tom’s request just yet after all.

Once up in my study, I opened my laptop, found the Facebook page and the request area, where my fingers hovered over the choice whether to Confirm or Delete Tom as a friend. What harm would there be in just seeing how he was doing? Say hello, what have you been up to for the last forty years? That’s all. It would be impolite to ignore his request, wouldn’t it?

Confirm? Delete? Confirm? Delete? If I accepted him as a friend, Lorna might see him on my Facebook page, and she’d just advised me to delete his request. Worse still, Debs might see him, want me to hook her up. She’s on Facebook every day, sometimes twice.

No, I should delete, I told myself. I have a husband and, even though he’s lying downstairs in a drunken stupor, it’s not something he does often; in fact, I can’t remember him ever having done it to this degree before.

I was staring at the screen and suddenly realized that, although my privacy settings meant that friends only could see my page, Tom would have seen my profile picture. I groaned. It was a photograph of Debs and me, taken one evening last year at a Chinese restaurant. We’d thought it would be hilarious if we put chopsticks up our nostrils and take a selfie. Not the image I’d have wanted Tom to see after so long, but too late for that.

I scrolled down to my photos that could be seen by friends. There were lots of me acting the fool, cross-eyed in one, dressed as a nun and flashing a leg at a friend’s birthday in another, at a bad angle in another in my baggy gardening clothes and waterproof hat in the rain. Thank God he hadn’t seen those but, looking at mine, I was more curious than ever to look at his life now, look at any photos he’d posted.

I set about deleting the unflattering shots and downloaded a couple of me dressed up for various occasions, looking more glamorous. And why are you doing this? I asked myself. You’re going to delete his request, aren’t you? And if not, why do you even care how he sees you? Because he’d said I was one of the cool ones, that’s why, and it had made my day. I was cool once. I was romantic. I was idealistic, with a head full of plans to change the world. I hadn’t always dressed in comfortable clothes and shoes. I’d worn lace, velvet and silk. I was inventive. I bought colourful vintage clothes and scarves from market stalls and charity shops. I’d looked interesting, not unlike how Debs does now, in fact. I’d searched for meaning, tried different gurus, done yoga, smoked dope and Gauloises cigarettes, even though they tasted disgusting. I had been one of the cool ones.

No harm in cleaning up my photos, whatever I decide, I told myself.

Once I’d finished my new improved gallery, I went back to Facebook requests. Should I? Shouldn’t I? What had I got to lose? And since when did I begin to always take the safe option? Tom and I had believed in seeking experience. Getting back in touch with him might put me back in touch with my younger, more adventurous self. I could find the ‘me’ I’d lost. What would be the harm in a few messages passed in cyberspace? When I’d been younger, I had never been afraid to take a risk, go with the flow and see where it took me. I’ve become old, I thought, stuck in my ways.

I glanced over at my bookshelf and my eyes went to the spine of a book given to me by Debs last year for my birthday. Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. Exactly the sort of thing Tom would have said. Exactly the way I’d tried to live my life when I was younger.

I went back to the screen, found Tom’s request and pressed Confirm.

There. Done it. Felt the fear and done it anyway.

A moment later, I had access to his page. His last posting had been a few days ago. He had put Majorca, LA and London as his homes. There was a shot on his timeline outside Harrods in Knightsbridge. I looked at the date on it: 23 May. Ah. So he was in the country, or had been recently. I wondered who’d taken the photo. I scrolled to his photo area where there were a few pictures of him with people I didn’t recognize. He’d aged, of course he had, but he looked in good shape and still wore his hair longish, though it was mainly white now, a mane of it and swept back from his face, which was craggy and lined like a man who spent time outdoors. A silver fox. He’d weathered well, as Lorna would say, only she wouldn’t say that if she saw his photo on my page. She’d say: what the hell do you think you’re doing?

Sorry. Too late, Lorna.

In one photo, he was in a tropical garden, looking very chilled, wearing shades, in a casual shirt and shorts. In another with an attractive woman on a beach. Not Chloe Posh Girl Porter. What happened to her? I wondered. Another photo showed him with his arm around a young man who looked like him. His son? Another at a birthday party with a young woman. His daughter? Should I leave a message? Hi. Hello. Long time, no see. God. No. What should I say?

I took a deep breath. What was I thinking of? Madness. Tom was in the past. Matt was my present. We’d get by. We’d ridden hard times before. OK, so this was a bad patch. We’d get through. It wasn’t too late. Having satisfied my curiosity, I could always unfriend Tom and that would be the end of it. Yes, I’d do that, just not quite yet …