Читать книгу The Secret to Falling in Love - Victoria Cooke - Страница 10
ОглавлениеSadly, by evening time I was still home alone and slightly tipsy. After attempting to spruce up some of my online dating profiles in an effort to sound like someone remotely interesting, I’d given up and settled on what I thought was a lukewarm offering.
I couldn’t seem to determine who my Mr Right should be. If I knew that, I could at least tailor my profile. But it was hard to figure out who the man of my dreams was, when I didn’t even really know who I was. I sometimes felt like I was just pretending to be a grown-up, playing at real life while time kept passing by.
Without any conscious awareness I was soon on Facebook, instantly greeted by pictures and updates, from people I used to work with; went to school, college or university with; or met a few times through friends. My real friends are on there too, but I only have about seven or eight of them – on Facebook they’re lost in the abyss of my five hundred-odd virtual friends.
A notification pops up: Tracy Southern likes your picture. Last time I saw Tracy was at the college leaver’s ball; she was throwing up in the car park as my friends and I were tumbling into a rather hideous pink limousine. Still, for some strange reason it was nice to know she liked my breakfast picture.
Scrolling down the page, I was staggered by how many of these people had kids, husbands, dogs and houses, the full package. People had grown up around me . . . without me. I was an ‘inbetweener’ at a point in my life where people really were becoming adults, leaving me merely on the cusp.
It wasn’t like turning twenty-one and thinking you were an adult but still feeling it was okay to live at home. Having your mum do your cooking, cleaning and laundry whilst still partying three times a week and sleeping in until noon. This was real shit: bills, mortgages, responsibility for other mini-people, marriage and – in some cases – divorce. Those people on Facebook were doing it – they’d cracked it. They were ‘adulting’.
My thoughts were broken when a selfie of Gemma popped up. She was with a pretty blonde girl I didn’t recognise, and she’d used a filter that gave it the high-exposure look you’d expect to see on an old seventies’ photograph taken on Santa Monica beach – in reality it looked like they were in a bar somewhere having a great time, wide smiles, drunk eyes . . .
My stomach sank. Gemma hadn’t mentioned going out with any other friends; she’d never even mentioned being close to another friend, and we’d spent the afternoon together. It seemed so unlike her. I clicked Like on the picture so she’d know I’d seen it but quickly un-liked it. It seemed like a desperate bid for attention, and I scolded myself for being so childish. Gemma would probably have thought nothing of it either way.
To take my mind off Gemma, I flicked through my old pictures, stored in the virtual realms of Facebook, compiled over the nine years or so I’d been a user. Great memories of a fantastic summer returned – looking tanned and lean during the season I’d worked in Kavos with Amanda. Good times, parties, unfiltered fun. It all seemed so long ago.
I stumbled across a picture of me and my grandma. My throat ached as a lump formed. She’d died just two months ago, and I’d missed her ever since. She was my rock who I could talk to about anything; she knew me better than anyone else on the planet. I lifted my glass. ‘To you, Gran – I hope you’re raising hell up there.’ The last time I’d spoken to her, she’d told me to stop worrying about finding a man.
‘You’re not going to find anyone in there,’ she’d scolded, pointing to my laptop. ‘Do you think that’s how I met Grandad?’ I didn’t reply. Gran’s questions were usually rhetorical, which you discovered if you tried to answer. ‘No, I put on my make-up; made sure my best dress was darned, washed and pressed; and I went out and smiled at boys. It was easy to catch an eye or two.’ I’d chuckled at the time. Of course, things were different these days, but I enjoyed her stories so played along. ‘Grandad asked me if I wanted a drink. But I said a firm no.’
‘No?’ I’d queried, wondering if she’d not been attracted to him at first, if she was trying to tell me to just settle for someone.
‘That’s right. I said no. He was the most handsome man in the club. If I’d have let him buy me a drink, he’d have thought I was an easy catch, and he’d have lost interest soon enough.’
‘Ah, you played hard to get?’
‘Damn right I did. He practically begged me to court him.’ She’d chuckled.
I wiped away a small tear that had accompanied the memory.
Back on my newsfeed, I saw that one of my other ‘real’ friends, Becky, who admittedly I rarely saw any more, had posted a picture of her family. They were out in the countryside somewhere; her handsome bearded husband had a young messy-haired child on each shoulder, and the three of them were laughing, probably at Becky, who I assumed was taking the picture. It was a perfect image.
My stomach muscles tightened. For the last four or five years that had been all I ever wanted – a husband and a couple of kids – but it just didn’t happen. I’d no idea where I’d been going wrong but I wasn’t the kind of girl to give up. There’d been dates, but few second or third ones. The closest I’d come was a guy called Paul; we’d been out a few times, he’d stayed over once or twice, and it was going well. Until I discovered he had a girlfriend. I’d been a lot more cautious since then.
I knew that the whole marriage-and-kids thing was a cliché. Women in 2017 did not need to feel as though marriage and children were their only destiny. I was old enough to realise that the Disney prince was just a fantasy, that the bumbling British buffoon who messes up and finally gets it right was not coming for me, or that my arch-nemesis would not actually be my true love.
In 2017, my dream could’ve been anything: a powerful politician, a world traveller or an ice road trucker if I wished (which I didn’t; I hated the cold). The truth was: what my heart and womb ached for was a family of my own. Don’t get me wrong, I’d always been happy on my own. I had a decent career, great friends and family, and a full life,( if you excused that particularly pitiful evening). But that’s the point of a dream – it’s something you don’t have already, something out of reach. Maybe it’s something unobtainable entirely.
I gave my head a shake and switched on the TV, flicking through the menu to find a film that would cheer me up – anything with eye candy would do. My TIVO came up trumps, and soon I was enjoying an image of perfection: Channing Tatum writhing around onstage in a thong.
I snuggled up in the corner of my big cosy cream sofa and tore open a packet of chocolate buttons. Perfect. I captured the moment by snapping a picture of my woolly-sock-clad feet, wine and Channing in the background and uploaded it to Facebook with the caption: ‘Perfect night in!’ Soon, I was grabbing for my phone frequently as it pinged to tell me that several people liked this. It wasn’t long before my group chat fired up:
AMANDA: Friday night in? Brilliant way to celebrate your last day of youth! ;)
I narrowed my eyes at the screen. I knew she was only joking, but the whole reason I was in alone was because she was working late and Gemma had gone out with some other friends. I swallowed my irritation and replied:
ME: I thought I’d test out old age whilst I’m still young. I’ll be out partying tomorrow night when I’ve actually turned ‘old’ – just to mix it up a bit. I’m a rebel like that! :-)
On the inside I was reeling at the thought of turning thirty-five.
I continued my evening by binge-watching Orange is the New Black on Netflix. About three episodes in (okay, maybe four), that annoying ‘Are you still watching?’ question popped up on the screen. The one reserved for people like me – sad and alone. ‘Yes I bloody am. Don’t judge me!’ I yelled, chucking a cushion at the screen.
***
The next morning, I woke up the same way as I went to bed: alone. My first instinct was to check my phone, for virtual company, I supposed. My screen was full of notifications from various social networking sites. I felt oddly excited as I snuggled back down into my warm duvet to read through them.
‘Happy birthday, Mel. Have fun!’ read the first post. I groaned. Ah yes, my birthday. I hated birthdays. Ever since I’d turned thirty I’d lost the will to celebrate. Thirty had been the year everything started popping: proposal questions, champagne corks at engagement parties and babies. Yet nothing had popped for me.
When I was young, each year I turned older had brought me one step closer to being a grown-up, or one step closer to being able to drink/vote/drive/gamble. Now, it was just one step closer to old age, not being able to go braless, sprint up steps or get asked for ID when buying alcohol in the supermarket.
Just before she died my gran had said: ‘Life is like reading a good book; at first you can’t put it down, eager to see what the next page will reveal, but by the last quarter you want to pace yourself, slow down, because you want to savour the final chapters.’ She’d said that my sister’s children were her final chapter and she was ready for the story to end.
I was heartbroken at the time but came to realise she’d fulfilled her life’s ambitions and that was a good thing. It’s all I wanted for myself. I hit Like on all the comments and decided it was too early to write any kind of update or reply to personal messages from actual friends and family. People would think I was sitting there alone and present-less. Which of course I was, but they didn’t need to know that.
As I scrolled through the messages, my phone began to vibrate vigorously – I knew straight away it was my mother. I was sure my phone had adopted a specific kind of tremor just for her calls, designed to make me answer immediately or suffer a mother-administered inquisition later. I answered.
‘Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, Melissa, Happy Birthday to you,’ she sang down the phone in her high-pitched yet tuneful voice, honed by countless school assemblies. Mum had been the headmistress at an all-girls secondary comprehensive in Manchester. ‘Are you having a good day, darling?’ she chirped.
‘Morning, Mum.’ My voice croaked into action as I realised it’d been almost twenty-four hours since I actually spoke to a real-life person. ‘Yes, I’m still in bed, so it’s been lovely so far.’ I treated myself to a catlike stretch.
‘Did you get anything nice?’
‘Not yet. I haven’t seen anyone yet, but I’m catching up with my friends later on tonight.’
‘Oh, that’s nice, love. Should we go out for a spot of lunch later? You know Dad and I aren’t too familiar with the city centre, so you can pick somewhere?’ Alarm bells rang. If I suggested a place to eat she’d be on TripAdvisor immediately, looking at all the one-star reviews and compiling a list as to why we should find another establishment, giving little or no regard to my opinion. I was in no mood for the stress.
‘Actually, Mum, it might be nice if you just came here. We could just have some homemade sandwiches or something.’ I wracked my brain for a sandwich recipe that involved a mere dribble of Pinot Grigio and a shrivelled up tomato.
‘Great idea! Well, I’ll let you go and open your presents, and Dad and I will pop round at midday. I’ll bring a special birthday lunch.’ Typical Mum, not paying any attention to the fact I’d already said I didn’t have any bloody presents. Still, I’ve learnt over time to keep my mouth shut, and she’d be bringing lunch, which sounded good. I didn’t want to jeopardise that. ‘Oh, has Amanda been round?’ Mum asked before I had time to say anything.
‘No, like I said, I haven’t seen anyone yet.’ I maintained my cool.
‘I saw on The Facebook that she’d won a fancy lawyer award,’ she cooed. The Facebook? I shook my head. As for the award, she had no bloody idea it was from the piss-take awards ceremony Amanda’s company held each year, and she’d won Lawyer Most Likely to Turn Up in Last Night’s Clothes. I bit my tongue.
‘Yes, that’s Amanda. Career woman of the year!’ Mum didn’t seem to pick up on my sarcasm.
‘Ah, she’s a star.’
‘She is,’ I replied through gritted teeth.
‘Anyway, lunch sounds wonderful. I’ll see you later, darling. Love you.’ She hung up before I had chance to say goodbye, probably already mentally preparing lunch and planning which shops she needed to drag Dad into.
I finished checking my messages and jumped into the shower – my mother would not appreciate being greeted by greasy hair, plus, it would only give her some ammo to add to her ‘why Mel’s still single’ arsenal. Afterwards, I scanned my wardrobe for something decent to wear. I always wanted to look my best on my birthday, like I was subconsciously (okay, consciously) trying to defy the age gods by scrubbing up well, almost like sticking two fingers up at them. I wondered how many more birthdays I could actually get away with feeling like this.
I decided on some smart dark blue skinny jeans and a cream cargo shirt – perfect for a smart yet casual look. A great pair of Kurt Geiger boots and a gold Michael Kors strand necklace completed the look. The necklace had been a Christmas present from Gemma last year. As I put it over my head, I started to think about how ridiculous it was to have felt jealous that she’d gone out with other friends and didn’t invite me. It must have been the wine and pre-birthday-blues cocktail. Anyway, Channing Tatum played a blinder in cheering me up, so all was good.
It was a lovely feeling to have a whole morning to laze about and get ready. I’d seen lots of buzz around contouring on Facebook and decided to give it a whirl. I found a YouTube tutorial that looked promising, where the poster looked like Kim Kardashian. Two minutes in and I realised you apparently needed an awful lot of make-up to get the ‘natural, make-up free’ look of a flawless celebrity. I dug out an old pan stick that was about five shades darker than my skin (a flashback to my tantastic twenties) and gave it a whirl.
The results were terrible – my face looked like it would camouflage brilliantly in a sea of Oompa Loompas. I washed it off, opting instead for just a touch of base to hide some red blotchy skin that seemed to have a knack for appearing when I least wanted it to, a bit of highlighter, mascara and a slick of nude lipstick. Not quite a Kardashian, but definitely polished, and natural enough to pass the ‘Mum test’.
I’d never quite felt good enough for Mum. It seemed like whatever I did I couldn’t please her, that she enjoyed disapproving of me. When I was younger, I’d never cared that she loved Amanda so much. In fact, I’d thought it was great, because she always let her come for dinner or stay over, and she never minded me going to her house. But as I got older, I started to feel inadequate, paling in Amanda’s shadow.
Mum never approved of my ‘little writing job’ as she called it, despite the fact it afforded me a pretty good life in the city – my own flat and the odd designer splurge on payday. She’d never said it, but I knew she’d had higher hopes for me. Amanda would have been her dream daughter – the career girl climbing the rungs of the ladder in a good old-fashioned legal company, a true brag-worthy offspring. My sister Lizzie was off the hook because she’d had the fairy-tale wedding and had so far produced one hundred per cent of Mum’s cute grandkids. (She earned extra brownie points for doing marriage and kids in the correct order too.)
Gran used to say it was Mum’s way of pushing me to do the best for myself. ‘She sees something in you,’ she’d say. ‘Imagine watching your child dream but never achieve, to watch them have a talent that’s wasted.’ I always wondered if Gran was talking about Lizzie not pursuing her art. Once she’d met her husband, Ben, she sort of lost her own ambition.
‘Why is she so desperate to marry me off then? Surely she wants me to be this super career girl?’ I’d sulked.
‘Because you are a super career girl, Melissa. Now she wants you to achieve your other dream.’ Gran had made me feel better, even though I hadn’t believed her. Mum was her daughter after all, and I was sure she just wanted to die knowing we were all happy.
The buzz from the intercom surprised me; I’d not realised the time. I put my phone down and bounced across the carpet to the intercom to let my parents into the building, opening my front door ready to greet them.
‘Ooh, you look nice, love. Have you had friends round?’ Mum waltzed straight in and planted a kiss on my cheek.
‘Thanks, Mum, and no, my friends haven’t been round. Like I said on the phone, I’m seeing them later on tonight.’ I bit my tongue and pushed the niggling frustration to the darkest depths of my brain.
‘That’s nice, love,’ she muttered, heading to the kitchen. I noticed that she was carrying a brown paper bag from Patisserie Valerie, and a pang of guilt hit me. It was my favourite place to lunch, and Mum had remembered.
‘Ooh, my favourite. Thanks, Mum.’ My voice cracked.
‘Happy birthday, love.’ My dad walked in carrying several bags, all brightly coloured and oozing with an indiscreet air of ‘generic female birthday gift’.
I followed them into the kitchen. Mum was already busying herself putting out some homemade Moroccan lamb sandwiches; they had been cut into triangles, just how I liked them. I stood for a moment, watching Mum cheerfully taking pride in her platter, arranging the triangles neatly and adding a salad garnish.
I hadn’t noticed before how much she had aged recently. The lines on her forehead had deepened, along with her crow’s feet and the lines around her mouth – a telltale sign of years of laughter. The afterthought makes the corners of my mouth turn up into a small smile. Despite my grumblings, she had always been so full of merriment and now wore the evidence proudly. I could still see her younger self beneath her creases; her bright cornflower-blue eyes a window to her youth.
People had always said we looked alike, but I’d never seen it. The thought had horrified me when I was younger, but at that moment, I suddenly saw myself – it was those eyes. Seeing myself like that scared me. Mum had Dad. Who would I have?
My thoughts were interrupted by the crumpling sound of a paper bag. I glanced down and saw the delicious selection of treats that Mum had brought, which cheered me up somewhat. A scrumptious-looking chocolate éclair filled with whirls of cream; an exotic fruit tart, piled high with sumptuous strawberries, juicy peach and star fruit, all topped with bright red cranberries; and finally, my favourite: a deep-filled millefeuille topped with decorated fondant icing. A single golden candle was placed in the centre of the latter.
Mum spotted me staring (okay, practically drooling). ‘I got your favourite, love, for your birthday. I thought you were a bit old for a big cake now.’ I appreciated it, though I didn’t think I’d had a ‘big’ birthday cake since my twenty-first.
We took our seats around my small kitchen table, and we chatted. My dad had taken up squash and my mum had joined a book club at the library. I was glad to hear that they were getting out and doing something with their retirement years. It was nice to just talk in such an adult, carefree way, with none of the parental bullshit that normally cropped up, like: ‘Have you sorted out your contents insurance yet?’
Just as I was devouring the last messy mouthful of my millefeuille – I was on the hunt for a more dignified way to eat them – the dreaded question came, fist-punching frustration back into my chest with a G-force to rival Rita at Alton Towers. ‘So, have you been courting anyone?’ Mum adopted a rather silvery tone especially for this question, a paltry attempt at trying to conceal her desperation for an answer.
My face twisted involuntarily, and I wiped my sticky hands on a napkin as a groan escaped me.
‘Look, Melissa, you’re a pretty girl, but you aren’t getting any younger. I can see a frown line as we speak, and you aren’t even frowning.’
I wasn’t frowning because my eyes were burning with rage and embarrassment. I couldn’t even speak.
‘I know you’d love children like your sister.’ She prodded the table with her finger whilst I sat in exasperated frustration – for the record, by that point I was frowning. ‘Dr Phelps has been on the TV this week warning women to conceive before they’re thirty! Apparently your chances drop quite rapidly after that, and it’s been half a decade since you turned thirty. By my calculations . . . thirty-five now, say six months to meet someone . . .’
She glanced at Dad, who was pretending to study the intricacies of my plain white coffee mug. ‘Maybe even a year to meet someone, a year of courting before a proposal at least, eighteen months to plan a proper wedding, and then a year of marriage before even trying to conceive, you’re going to be . . .’ There was a pause as she finished wittering and ran her mental calculations. Her face paled, so I put her out of her misery.
‘Old. I will be old!’ I cut in, tightly. Of course I’d already run those calculations myself, though I generally used a six-month figure to actually meet someone. I knew that I’d be old; I just didn’t need reminding, especially by my mother, who was supposed to love me unconditionally and not judge me.
There was short silence before she continued. She reached her hand across to mine. ‘I’m sorry, love. I just don’t want you to be . . . well, disappointed if you don’t get what you want.’ She softened her tone, the same soft tone she’d used when I was a poorly child. ‘Your dad and I, we’ve had such a wonderful marriage.’ Dad raised his eyebrow in mini protest but ensured that only I saw. I winked back. I knew he was joking, but Mum would’ve held a seven-day grudge if she’d caught him.
‘I know. For your information, I actually went on a date on Thursday with a lovely man.’ As soon as I said it I regretted it; I knew that a barrage of questions would ensue.
‘Oh that’s wonderful news, love! Tell me what he’s like. Will you be seeing him again?’ She struggled to conceal the eagerness in her voice and even did a mini clap, but this I could deal with, since it was nice that she was actually listening to me. I was just glad she didn’t ask if she needed a new hat for the wedding or if my widowed Uncle Bernard could bring a plus-one.
‘He was nice, pleasant enough, but I doubt I’ll see him again. I just thought you’d like to know that I am not avoiding men. I just want to meet the right one for me.’ My skin prickled uncomfortably; I hated having these conversations with my parents, but if divulging details helped to get me through the conversation quicker, then I was all in. Well, nearly all in – certain details were better left private.
‘Okay, well that’s good news . . . You know, Jean next door has a son who is just going through a divorce. A nice young man, he is. I’ve not asked Jean why he’s getting a divorce yet, but I’m sure she said something about an affair on his wife’s part. Luckily there are no children involved – break-ups can be so hard for kiddies. No doubt he’ll be looking for female companionship soon.’
Mum’s attempt at sounding nonchalant failed miserably. Her eyes glowed with eagerness, and my cheeks start to burn; I could feel the warm pink searing through my earlier, largely abandoned, attempt at contouring. The notion that my mother, thinking I was such a hopeless lost cause, felt the need to set me up with her neighbours’ divorcee son was, quite frankly, horrifying.
‘Mel, love, don’t you want to open your presents?’ my dad cut in before I had a chance to answer. Thank goodness. I wasn’t sure if he was being insightful, or if he had just got bored with the din of female gabble; either way I was relieved.
The boyfriend conversation was soon forgotten – for the moment, at least – as I opened floral gift bags and unwrapped delicate pink tissue paper to reveal some truly wonderful presents. Mum and Dad had booked me a spa day, which couldn’t have come at a better time. My merriment was subdued when my mum handed me a card from my gran. A tear pricked my eyes. ‘You know how organised your gran was. She’d got this in November.’ Mum smiled; tears were pooling in her eyes too.
I opened the card, and in it was a gift card for Selfridges. She knew me so well. Mum patted my hand.
‘She was organised. It’s perfect,’ I said, breathing in hard to stop any stray tears.
The last gift bag was from Lizzie. Inside was a gorgeous chunky gold Marc Jacobs watch. A warm feeling gushed over me. I felt blessed to have such a generous and caring family.
As Mum and Dad left, I heard a high-pitched shrill coming from my tablet, indicating someone was trying to Skype me. The sound seemed to be coming from my bedroom; as I dashed in, it grew louder, but I couldn’t find it. I rummaged through drawers and under piles of clothes, the sound and vibration making me feel stressed, until I spotted it, hiding underneath a discarded blouse. Of course – where else? I dashed over and pressed the answer button to connect the call without even noticing who it was.
‘Hey, sis, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!’ Lizzie shouted excitedly. In the background, a chorus of toddlers was also yelling for ‘Anti Lissa’ to have a happy ‘birfday’. It was too loud for me to answer so I animatedly stuck my fingers in my ears in mock-revulsion. The children fell into fits of giggles and then screamed higher and louder until my sister encouraged a more appropriate noise level, presumably through bribery. I giggled.
Lizzie has two-year-old twin boys and a three- – and a half, because I have to say that – year-old girl, who are all boisterous and scrumptious in equal measure. I didn’t see my sister much as she had a busy family life and ran an eBay shop selling craft items she made between nursery runs and grocery shopping, so we tended to catch up via Skype when we could, which had the added bonus of volume control. The image of a winky emoticon popped into my mind – too much time spent online!
After twelve minutes and thirty-four seconds of mainly noise, one of the twins announced that he needed a poo, and my sister hastily announced that she had to go, as his warnings were about as useful as a fire alarm is at detecting an oncoming flood. I began to ask her if she could make it into town for a few birthday drinks tonight, but halfway through, everything went silent and I realised I was just shouting at my own face. I half considered calling back or sending a text, but I knew she wouldn’t come out; she never did.
I decided I might as well spend the afternoon having a good old-fashioned pamper session, with a glass of wine thrown in for good measure. In the corner of my room were some ‘so last season’ (literally) gift bags covered with festive imagery: a jolly red Father Christmas placing a brightly coloured present under a traditionally decorated tree, a silver glittery bag with a gold pop-out tree and another that simply said Joyeux Noël.
I’d completely forgotten about them but was sure there would be some pamper-worthy smellies in one of them. I rummaged through and unloaded the spoils of Christmas: face masks, scrubs, bath soaks – perfect! A feeling of excitement washed over me as I gathered everything up and headed to my bathroom.
The quietness of the bathroom and the feel of the soft bubbles completely relaxed me. Laying my head back on the cool surface of the bath, I felt as if I hadn’t a care in the world. Except I had. A huge sinking feeling hit the bottom of my stomach. Mum was right; I did need to start thinking about a future. I wasn’t getting any younger. I lived alone and partied too much, while most of my friends seemed to be settling down, getting married and having babies.
I had thought that the real toughie in life would have been the career; get that right and everything else would fall into place, I’d thought. I’d gone to university, worked (and played) hard. I’d secured a low-paid admin job at a magazine, and genuinely fought for several years to get to the point where I wrote my own column. After that I’d scored some regular copywriting work for an agency.
Would I have got that far if I had been distracted by a partner? I doubted it. By the time I’d achieved my goal, I’d been so excited at becoming financially secure I focused on the joys that could bring: my own city-centre apartment, the odd splurge on Mulberry handbags, Jimmy Choo shoes, holidays. I hadn’t even cared about being single.
A couple of my friends were married in their mid-twenties, and I’d thought why? Why would they settle down when they were still so young? Now they had children and had been married for seven or eight years, and I was there sitting on the proverbial shelf with little more than Selfridges swag and a frown line to show for it.
It’s not that I was suddenly unhappy being alone; I wasn’t, but I couldn’t help but feel like the clock was starting to tick. Apart from meeting someone through an online dating site, I had no idea how to meet The One – that sounded so cheesy, even in my head – but I’d be damned before I let my mother matchmake.
I opened my eyes and examined my fingertips. They were all wrinkly, indicating I’d spent long enough in the bath – I definitely didn’t need any more wrinkles.
Grabbing a towel, I hopped out of the bath and headed over to my bed, snatching a notebook and pen on my way. If I really wanted a man in my life, I needed to think about the kind of man I was looking for. I sat down and started to write.
He must:
1. Look after himself/take pride in his appearance
2. Have a good job/be financially secure
That was a very short list. What more did I want? It was ridiculous; Gavin would have been one hundred per cent perfect for me based on those criteria. There had to be more, something else that I needed in a man. My thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of the intercom. I am popular today! Gemma and Amanda had arrived early. ‘Hello, ladies, come on up,’ I chirped, quickly stashing away my notebook on my bookshelf.
‘Hi there, gorgeous birthday girl.’ Amanda walked in and kissed me on the cheek.
‘Happy birthday, beautiful,’ Gemma said and pulled me into a hug.
‘Hi, girls, thank you!’
As they walked to the sofa, I noticed they were already dressed for our night out. Amanda looked fabulous in a tartan swing dress and black tights – it set off her pale skin and long wavy red hair nicely. Gemma always sported the trendiest looks and today was no exception; she looked hot in a risqué black body-con dress teamed with a leather biker jacket and chunky platforms.
‘We thought we would make an afternoon of it.’ Amanda grinned as she produced two bottles of pink champagne.
‘Ooh! Happy birthday to me indeed.’ I beamed at her.
‘I’ll get the glasses.’ Gemma clapped with excitement as she hopped up and headed to the kitchen.
‘So, how do you feel about turning thirty-five?’ Amanda asked quietly once Gemma was out of earshot; she too envied Gemma’s youth.
‘To be honest, I thought I felt fine, but last night it hit me. Well, last night, plus my bloody mother stating the obvious about me being old and single earlier today. I do feel like time might be running out for the whole nuclear family thing.’
‘Wow, that’s a bit of a gloomy proclamation on your birthday,’ Amanda said before softening her tone when she caught sight of my expression. ‘Aww, Mel, don’t feel that way. You’re only as old as you feel. It means nothing nowadays.’
‘I know, but deep down I feel like I’ve wasted time a bit, having fun but not actually doing anything, y’know, meaningful, I guess.’
‘Don’t you have any champagne flutes?’ Gemma yelled from the kitchen.
‘Sorry, no. And I only have one wine glass left so we’re going to have to use mugs.’
‘What a heathen!’ she shouted back.
‘A mug of champers is the new flute, don’t you know?’ I retorted, and she giggled. ‘In fact, there’s probably an edgy bar in the Northern Quarter serving it that way. It’s the new cocktails-in-jam-jars.’
Amanda giggled too before switching her attention back to me. ‘Age doesn’t bring class then, hon?’ she joked before her expression became concerned. ‘Seriously though, you’ve achieved loads in your work; we all love you – you’ve got plenty of time to meet someone. People have kids in their mid-forties nowadays.’
‘I know, but there’s the whole other issue of age rules. I read that at thirty-five, you’re perceived to be too old for certain things, like piercings. If I want my belly button or nose pierced, the general population would think I was mutton dressed as lamb. And, apparently, I have only five bikini-wearing years left in me.’ I was slightly mocking the research findings, but the thought genuinely depressed me. ‘I mean, can I still shop at Topshop and go clubbing? Or should I be arranging dinner parties after spending a day at the M&S sale?’ My shoulders flopped, and I realised Amanda was grinning. ‘What?’ I asked, confused.
‘You’re beautiful, you look as though you never left your twenties, you’re wrinkle-free—’ I scrunched up my nose in disagreement ‘—okay, except when you do that. You have no cellulite, and your hair shines like you’re on a bloody Pantene advert. You can wear and do what you like. Look at Elle Macpherson; she’s over fifty and still looks amazing.’ She cheerfully flung an arm around me and pulled me into a hug. ‘Come on. We’re having fun tonight, celebrating you and your Zimmer frame.’
Gemma walked in holding three mugs full of pink champagne above her head, pumping her arms to some imaginary beat. Champagne splashed out and landed on her hair. Amanda nudged me and whispered, ‘See, youth is wasted on the young!’
‘What are you two old bags whispering about?’ Gemma asked.
Amanda winked. ‘Just envying your youth.’
‘I was just saying how great it was to be seventeen and a half for the second time. I didn’t really appreciate it the first time around as I couldn’t handle my cider, nor could I afford this fab pink champers. Thank you, ladies.’ I smiled, grabbing them both in a big bear hug. ‘Time for a pre-night-out selfie, I think!’
I stood to the right of Amanda, and Gemma stood on her left. Amanda put her arms around our necks, and I held my phone at arm’s length and snapped a picture of us, our faces squashed together and smiling. I instantly uploaded it to all my social media accounts with the caption ‘Birthday fun’ despite the fact I was still in my dressing gown.
***
The cocktail bar was heaving, busy with groups of mixed-sex friends happily ignoring the other patrons, groups of single-sex friends who were – judging by their actions – aiming to change that fact, and us. I wasn’t sure about us. My mojito was just coming to its sugary end when Amanda appeared with a bottle of wine. ‘Thought we would try this. I’m assured it’s good stuff; 2010 was a good year, or so I’m told.’ The girls had really spoilt me tonight. I was lucky to have such wonderful friends.
Gemma was busy messaging someone on her phone and didn’t acknowledge the wine, which I thought was a bit rude, and out of character. I wondered if everything was okay.
‘Aww, thank you, Amanda,’ I gushed, overcompensating for Gemma’s indifference. As Amanda sat down, stumbling slightly on her heels, Gemma stood and wandered off without saying a word.
‘Where’s she going?’ Amanda asked.
‘Not sure, toilet probably?’ I guessed. ‘Let’s get cracking on this wine. You brought it just in time.’ I smiled, holding up my empty mojito glass.
By the time Gemma came back I felt too drunk to ask her where she had been. Instead I pointed at the wine bottle, which had about a quarter of the wine left in. ‘Get a drink,’ I slurred. I looked at my empty glass. ‘It must be very hot in here, as my wine appears to have evaporated!’ There was no way I’d drunk that much.
I excused myself and staggered into the cramped and clammy ladies’ toilet. I stumbled as the room began to spin. Clutching the sink for stability, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The unflattering neon lights highlighted the dark bags under my eyes and faint lines on the sides of my nose that had secretly etched their way across the bridge without me noticing. My blonde hair looked lank and yellow, but I was too drunk to care.
As I let go of the sink, the room spun by in a whoosh. It was too much for me. My stomach lurched. I ran into the toilet cubicle just in time to throw up before everything went dark.
