Fifty Is Not a Four-Letter Word (21 page)

“And how have you come to be dumped in Venice?”

”I’m here teaching English until Christmas. Then I’m going back to school myself to become a physiotherapist. I did drama
at university the first time round, but the acting profession doesn’t seem to be inclined to recognize my skills. So after
too many years ‘resting,’ with the odd—very odd—part in rep, and mostly working in bars and teaching, I’ve at last decided
to grow up.”

“Good for you, that makes me very proud,” I said in a mock motherly tone that made us both laugh.

I didn’t feel at all as though Jack and I had just met, but then foreign places always do weave a particular magic round me.
I could pick up men in foreign parts far more casually than I’d ever do at home. So it could have been Venice or the almost
full moon or the second Bellini rather than the Jackness of Jack that was making me feel I was on the brink of something important.

• • •

Maddy was on the same flight home as me. We checked in together so we could get adjacent seats, and I spoke nonstop about
Jack all the way to Heathrow. About how he’d magically cured my twisted ankle; about how the day after we met, we shared a
bowl of spaghetti at lunch that somehow he managed to spill onto my lap. Instead of being embarrassed, he’d said, “I really
am sorry, but it’s too delicious to waste, so unless you object, I’m going to carry on,” then proceeded to twist the spaghetti
expertly round his fork from its new position on my skirt. Jack had a kind of childlike spontaneity about him that was perhaps
the result of his own peripatetic childhood. I told Maddy how he’d escorted me back to my hotel room after the spaghetti incident
and asked, “Do you mind if I watch while you change?” And how that comment had sent a shiver right through me. How he’d not
tried to touch me, though I’d been hoping he would, and how exposed, but also turned on, I’d felt as he sat on the edge of
the bed watching me step out of my stained skirt before I disappeared into the bathroom for a shower.

I told Maddy how Jack had asked me about the men in my life and I’d talked about Finlay, with whom I’d had an on-off relationship
for five years, and who wanted me to go to Tokyo with him when his company transferred him there, which was when I realized
I didn’t love him enough to move countries for him. And how Jack had said, “I’m so glad you didn’t go to Tokyo, and especially
glad you didn’t go with Finlay.”

Then I told Maddy how Jack had suddenly announced that I would love his mother, which for an instant had made me worry that
he might be too much a mother’s boy, prattling on about her so soon after we met; but then a moment later, I’d thought how
unusual it was for a man to be so openly and uninhibitedly affectionate about his mother, and it was probably a very good
sign indeed. So then I’d said he’d probably hate my mother, and we’d laughed and moved on from mothers to a million other
things. He wrote down my number and promised to call as soon as he was back in England at Christmas.

Poor Maddy must have wondered what she’d let herself in for, becoming friends with me. I was so excited, so very high, that
I hardly gave her the chance to say a word. But it clearly didn’t trouble her, because we’ve been best pals ever since. And
I think Jack loves Maddy as much as he loves me. I should say loved, because now he probably loves her a great deal more than
he loves me.

• • •

“Well, that wasn’t too difficult, was it?” says Vanessa.

“I’m so sorry, I got completely carried away. I’ve no idea how long I’ve been rambling on. You know, I haven’t thought in
ages about what it was like when Jack and I first met. All the good things that brought us together. I seem to only ever focus
on the bad.”

“Yes, I remember some good beginning bits of my own. I’ll tell you about them sometime. Your tea’s gone all cold, let me make
another pot.”

“Thanks, Vanessa, you’re very kind.”

“Did Olly tell you I’m thinking of becoming a psychotherapist—marriage guidance, couples counseling, that sort of thing? I’ve
enrolled in a course starting in September.”

“Olly and I don’t talk. And we especially don’t talk about you.”

“No, of course not.” Vanessa, without her usual eight layers of makeup, is extremely pretty. “But I’m a bloody good listener.
Which is half of what it’s all about. And I’ve been through the mill myself a few times, which is important. I get so pissed
off by all these rich women with perfect husbands and perfect children who get themselves trained up as counselors because
they’re bored with themselves. I mean, what do they know about life?”

“Mmm, you’re right about that. But it’s a serious slog, isn’t it? There’s a lot of long, hard study involved.”

“What, you think I’m not smart enough? Not got the right accent?” Vanessa narrows her eyes at me as if issuing a warning.

“Oh, Vanessa, that’s not what I meant, not at all. It’s just that being a single mother with two young children and a part
time job, you must already have your work cut out. And don’t you have to go into therapy yourself to become a qualified psychotherapist?”

Vanessa’s face softens again. “I’m ready for it, and I reckon it would do me good. I’m a good listener, as I said, but I can
also talk the hind legs off a donkey.”

I smile at her pragmatic appraisal of herself. She smiles back at me, and for the first time, I can begin to see what Olly
sees in her.

“Look, Vanessa, there’s something I need to say to you.”

“I thought you’d said quite a lot already.” She grins. “But go on, spit it out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Is that it?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being a snob. I’m sorry for being patronizing. I’m sorry for trying to break you and Olly up.
I’m sorry for being jealous. And I’m sorry for not realizing what an excellent person you really are.”

“Well, in that case, Mrs. Lyndhurst—or should I say Mrs. Lyndhurst-Steele?—your fifty minutes are up, that will be eighty
quid, please, and I’ll see you the same time next week.”

I look at her, startled.

“God, you are in a bad way. I do hope you have a sense of humor lurking somewhere. And think about this. You may need to do
a bit more than chat with me. I don’t know, proper counseling, perhaps, to get you through the worst of it. Or pills. Speak
to your friend Maddy, she knows about all that stuff. But now I have to go and get the kids from school—Damien’s finding it
hard to adjust to big school, and he goes mental if I’m even thirty seconds late to pick him up. And I have to get Poppy from
nursery before I get Damien, so the timing’s pretty tight.”

“Of course. I should have thought. Off you go. Look, we don’t have to mention this to Olly, do we? I don’t want him to know
what a state I’m really in.”

“That might be one of your problems, Hope: keeping it all to yourself.”

“I really would like to talk some more.”

“We’ve hardly begun. I love a good ‘how we met’ story, but it’s the ‘how in the hellhole that is marriage we stayed together’
that’s the really interesting bit. You’re on. It will be good practice for when I sign up for the real thing.”

“I like your perfume, by the way. It’s JLo, isn’t it?” Actually, I find it totally overbearing, but Vanessa deserves to be
appreciated.

“Yes, Olly bought it for me. He’s such a sweetheart.”

Olly bought it for her! So that’s why he’s always running out of pocket money. And me paying for it.
Me!
Funding his unsuitable mistress’s lavish lifestyle. I can’t help it, I’m back to being furious.

“He is a sweetheart, yes,” I manage to utter unconvincingly.

“Maybe he’s inherited his generosity from you,” says Vanessa cheerily.

“On that, Vanessa, you’re seriously wide of the mark. But thank you for thinking it.”

I shuffle home, shattered from the day’s events. From my scene in the supermarket, from my therapy session in Vanessa’s kitchen,
from the sheer effort of not collapsing in a heap and staying there for the rest of my life.

In the shower, I run through the business of Olly blowing his pocket money on perfume for Vanessa. I’m like a windscreen wiper
at full speed, veering wildly in my opinions from one extreme to the other. I can see Olly’s generosity in buying Vanessa
perfume with his paltry pocket money. Vanessa’s generosity in coming to my rescue after I’ve been so rude to her. My lack
of generosity toward absolutely everyone. It all looks different now. Once I’ve handed over the money to Olly, it’s his to
do whatever he likes with. It’s so obvious, I shouldn’t have to think about it. But why didn’t I see that right away? Why
didn’t I go straight to that conclusion? Telling Vanessa that I’m sorry for having been jealous doesn’t seem to have killed
the green-eyed monster. It didn’t even send it to sleep.

No wonder Jack left me and Olly would leave me if he had the chance.

After showering and tidying myself, I psych myself up to ring my father. “How’s Mummy?” I ask.

“Not so good. She was pleased that Jack popped in yesterday, cheered her up. She’s so fond of him.”

“How’s Jack?”

“What do you mean, how’s Jack? You live with him, don’t you?”

I haven’t told my parents about Jack and me separating. I wouldn’t be able to take my mother’s admonitions or even my father’s
gentle sympathy. Jack and I agreed not to say anything for the time being.

“I’m a bit doo-lally at the moment. I meant how are
you,
not how’s Jack.”

“Bearing up. When are you coming over?”

“Definitely later in the week.”

“I’ll give your love to Mummy.”

“Yes, you do that. Bye for now.”

That evening, when Olly comes in from school, I say, “Hi, Ols. Anything to report?”

“No, nothing,” he replies, heading straight for the stairs and his bedroom.

“Mind if we have a word?”

Olly sighs. “Look, I’m really tired, Mum. I’ve just had triple history with that idiot Elfenberger, and it did my head in.
Can it wait?”

“Yes, I guess it can. Are you in for dinner?”

“I did say yesterday that Ravi’s mum invited me round for a curry, and Ravi and I were planning on revising the Russian revolution
together. I did tell you.”

“Yes, you did. I forgot.”

“Look, how long will this take?”

“Two minutes.”

Olly drops his rucksack and coat at his feet, halfway up the stairs, and comes back down again, following me reluctantly into
the kitchen. “So . . .” he says.

“Can you sit down? It really won’t take more than a couple of minutes.”

Olly positions himself on the edge of the chair, as if ready to sprint out if he doesn’t like the way the conversation is
going.

“I owe you an apology, Ols.”

“For anything in particular? I mean, the list’s as long as my arm.” Olly attemps a wry smile, but he needn’t have bothered:
The arrow hits the target.

“About Vanessa.”

“Let’s not go there. All right, Mum?”

“Give me a chance, Olly. I want to say I’m sorry.”

“There, you’ve said it.”

“No, I haven’t. I want to say I’m sorry for being such a bitch. For interfering when I shouldn’t. For not trusting your judgment.
For being so shallow as to let the way someone speaks and the way she dresses influence my opinion of her. And, I suppose,
for being the crappiest mother in the universe.”

Olly is looking at me goggle-eyed. “Shit, man, have you been taking something?”

“Only a dose of common sense.”

“Do you really mean all that stuff you just said?”

“Want me to repeat it?”

“No.
No
. Please don’t do that. And anyway, there are far crappier mothers than you.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Look, that’s cool, Mum. Really cool.” Olly stands up and goes to the fridge.

“You won’t find anything in there. I didn’t feel too good in the supermarket this morning and had to leave without the shopping.
So it’s a good thing you’re going out for supper after all.”

“Are you okay? Your eyes are a bit piggy.”

“Yes, fine now.”

“Any chance of a biscuit?”

“Yup, they’re in the tin. I topped it up a few days ago.”

Olly opens the cupboard, grabs the tin, and heads out of the kitchen, leaving the cupboard door wide open.

“You know something?” he says as he disappears down the corridor. “I think the therapy’s working.”

“What therapy? I’m not having any therapy.”

But Olly and the biscuits are gone, Olly bounding up the stairs three at a time, crunching on double-chocolate-chip cookies.

• • •

Maddy’s five months pregnant, and she has some color back in her face. We’re in Lupa, a maternity shop, one of the few places
that make fashionable clothes for pregnant women. She buys great cargo pants and jeans with adjustable side panels for the
weekends, a couple of flattering jersey wrap dresses for work, and several tops, skirts, and trousers that will mix and match.

“It wasn’t like this when I was pregnant with Olly,” I recall. “The only things you could buy were hideous maternity smocks
and tents. It was fortunate that leggings were really fashionable at the time. I lived in them throughout my pregnancy. Leggings
with sweaters, leggings with T-shirts, or leggings with silky tops, depending on the occasion.”

“Yeah, I remember, but leggings were completely hideous, too.”

“True, but we didn’t know it at the time. Leggings, shoulder pads, big hair, what were we thinking?”

“I know what you were thinking. Storming the boardroom in your pin-stripe trouser suit. Becoming the most successful editor
in the universe ever. Having a baby on your lunch hour.”

“God, I sound ghastly. But what about you?”

“Oh, I was signing sick notes for people who weren’t sick, writing prescriptions to soothe the nerves of the very same working
mothers you said could have it all, and catching colds from my patients. Nothing’s changed.”

“Coffee?”

“Make sure you keep your eye on the time. I’m taking the twins out for tea later.”

• • •

“So how are things with you and Ed?” I ask over coffee and lemon drizzle cake.