Fifty Is Not a Four-Letter Word (36 page)

As we walk our final few hours back to where we began, my thoughts have turned toward Jack again. If I can’t confront Sally,
the time surely has come to confront Jack.

I know a lot of what’s gone wrong between me and Jack has been my fault. And yet I’m not prepared to take all the blame. My
so-called brilliant career, before it slipped away from me, afforded us the kind of lifestyle that Jack’s laid-back physio
practice never could have supplied. And it’s not as if Jack didn’t enjoy the luxuries my job allowed us. Holidays wherever
we wanted, dining out in the top restaurants without having to select the cheapest items on the menu, the best seats in the
house at the theater. I’m not saying Jack needed all this stuff, but he did participate with enthusiasm.

For me, it was always about so much more than the money and what it could buy. I loved my work, looked forward to it almost
every single day until my year of approaching fifty. And there was something about being economically independent, mistress
of my own purse strings, that I never wanted to let go of. The thought of having to ask a man for money, even now, makes me
shiver. Early feminist imprinting, I guess.

A high-powered full-time job, a small child, a home to run. Is there any way in those circumstances that a relationship isn’t
going to become a victim of neglect? It’s so easy to simply stop paying attention to each other. I was so busy I didn’t care.
Jack was so easygoing, he didn’t seem to mind. Except he did. And as I became ever more anxious, more manic, more self-absorbed,
more wrapped up in what I regarded as the hideous notion of turning fifty, the more the distance between us grew.

Maybe I should have been less honest about the sense of loss I’ve been feeling about Olly leaving home. How would I feel if
it were the other way round and Jack were acting like it was a death in the family? Wouldn’t I be thinking,
Yes, it’s natural to feel it as a wrench, but hey, you’ve still got me. Me, your wife, remember her?

I still won’t accept that to have a truly strong marriage, you have to put your partner first, above everyone and everything
else. Like my mother, for example, who always favored my father over me and Sarah, and over me in particular. At least I’ve
learned something. I’ve learned from my mother’s mistakes, rather than fallen into the trap of repeating them. And if I’ve
overcompensated with the love I’ve lavished on Olly, and overreacted about his growing up and going away, then at least he
knows he’s truly cherished. Even if Jack and I are finished, I’m not going to regret the attention I’ve paid to Olly. Of that
I am certain.

• • •

We’ve touched down at Heathrow just after midnight. There’s much hugging and kissing and promising to stay in touch between
people who only a week ago were complete strangers. I wasn’t expecting a hero’s welcome with banners and bunting, but there’s
a second or two as I walk through the corridor marked
NOTHING TO DECLARE
when I wonder, or rather hope, that Jack might turn up. Sally and Nick maintain their usual masks, expressing their gratitude
to everyone for taking part, looking absolutely united. Rather than face the prospect of sharing a train car with them on
the express to Paddington, I slip away quietly.

The last thing I do before falling into bed is send a text. “Ain’t no mountain high enough . . . I’m back. Love, Hope.” Jack
will appreciate the lyric, and he’ll know that what follows are the words “to keep me from getting to you.” But will he, I
wonder as consciousness falls away, appreciate the sentiment?

I
’m woken by the sounds of a doorbell ringing and a dog barking. Susanna! I look at my alarm clock. My watch says ten a.m.
I throw back the duvet and fail to leap out of bed. Every bit of me is stiff from six days of trekking. It’s not helped by
the fact that I’ve been sleeping on the ground inside a zip-up bag, suffering Jewish Princess and the Pea syndrome. So instead
of leaping, I hobble. With a struggle and much huffing and puffing, I raise the ancient sash window.

“Stanko! Susanna! Be with you in a tick.”

I try to run my fingers through my hair, but they get stuck in the tangle. It makes me think of Sally and her unfair advantage
over me. Not that it will make much difference to Stanko or Susanna.

When I open the door, still in a pair of flannel pajamas, Susanna practically mows me down with excitement. “At least someone
loves me,” I say, laughing as she licks my face.

Stanko, laden with dog paraphernalia, is looking more handsome than ever. “Come in, come in,” I say, relieving him of a large
bag of dog food and a dog bed. “No one has the right to be as good-looking as you.”

Stanko doesn’t register my remark. “First you look my new van, then I come,” he says, grinning.

“Give me two minutes to pull on some jeans. I’m sure your new van wouldn’t want to see me looking like this.”

Susanna bounds up the stairs on my behalf as I trail behind, my thighs resisting every painful step.

The van, a gleaming white Ford Transit, is every bit as gorgeous as Stanko’s beaming face suggests. Emblazoned on the side
in black is the name of his new company, Walkin’ the Dog, and a mobile-phone number.

“Congratulations, Stanko. Looks like you’re in business.”

Over black coffee, because there’s no milk in the house, and toast made with some old sliced bread stored in the freezer for
emergencies, we chat about Susanna’s behavior—impeccable, of course—during my absence, and Stanko’s plan to become a dog trainer
as well as walker, all while continuing to search for premises for his café restaurant.

“When I get restaurant, I make yard for dog playground. Special sell point.”

“I like it. That would be a genuine first—and great for publicity purposes. Are things good with you and Mike?”

“The best. How you say? True love. When I come to England, I think I be unhappy always. Now only when I think the war and
my parents. I have good friends. You are my friend, like my mother.”

“Thank you, Stanko. But do you mean that I remind you of your mother, or that I’m a friend, just as your mother was your friend?”

“I no understand. You make me think my mother because you love your son very strong. Jack is stupid man to go away. You clever
and kind. Mike say, I say also.”

“Stop right now, Stanko, before I crumple.”

“I go quick. Maddy waiting for me take Mozart.”

The mention of Maddy deflates me instantly. “Tell Maddy . . . no, don’t bother, there really isn’t any point,” I say glumly.
But instead of the usual surge of guilt that floods over me at the thought of Maddy, a new thought pops into my head that
perhaps this isn’t entirely my fault. That in depriving Emma of both a father and a godmother, both of whom would cherish
and love her, she is giving her precious daughter, the child she longed for and never thought she’d have, the worst possible
start in life. Maddy is thinking only of her shame in sleeping with her dying sister’s husband, and not at all of what’s best
for Emma. Me not to blame! Or at least not completely. Not all my fault! What’s happening here?

Susanna and I escort Stanko to the door and wave him off. He waves out of the window and smiles into his rearview mirror.

I haven’t showered or unpacked, there’s shopping to do, and I need to check my phone and e-mail messages. The old anxiety
is hovering around me, like dust that’s been disturbed by movement but is slowly starting to settle itself again. I will not,
must not, allow it to take hold. In the mountains of Morocco, I seemed to refind my spirit. What will it take to hang on to
it now I’m home?

Under the shower, I turn the water on full blast, wash my hair for the first time in ten days, slough off the dead skin with
a loofah, and note that my newest scar is looking slightly less angry than before I left. I finish with a blast of icy-cold
water that makes me scream as loudly as if I’d discovered a black-widow spider scurrying across the tiles. It’s a trick learned
from
Jasmine
—providing the shock doesn’t send you into cardiac arrest, the bone-chilling finale will boost your blood circulation and
make your skin glow. Maybe.

I emerge energized, with another of my immaculately thought-through plans. Or, depending on your point of view, a typically
rash and instinctive decision that’s likely to land me in the mire.

• • •

“Hi, Hope, how was the trip?”

“Oh, Jack, you’d have loved it. The Berbers who looked after us were incredibly gracious. The landscape was stunning, the
night skies awesome, even the painful bits going up and up for what seemed like forever were mostly pleasure. Remind me sometime
to tell you my toilet-tent story.”

“I’m sure it will be fascinating. So, no broken bones for me to fix?”

“Just a couple. Nothing serious.”

“You sound great.”

This is my cue. My sounding great is what I need for what’s coming. “Jack . . . are you busy on Boxing Day?”

“I’ve not given a second thought to Christmas. Nothing planned so far.”

“Will you come away with me?”

“ ‘Come Away with Me’? That’s the title of a song by Norah Jones. She’s my new heroine.”

This sounds more like the Jack I know and think I still love. The one with an annoyingly appropriate lyric for every occasion.

“Yes, I have heard of Norah Jones. I’ve even got her CD in the car. But will you come away with me?”

“Where to?”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“It’s a maybe. Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“Yes, I think it’s a good idea, or I wouldn’t have asked.” I can feel the irritation entering my voice, so I change tack.
“The truth is, I don’t know if it’s a good idea. In fact, it may be a terrible idea. But I’m prepared to take the risk.”

“Okay, girl, let’s go for it. But only if you’re paying.”

“Of course, darling. Wasn’t it ever the case?”

“Bitch! So where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise. To be honest, I haven’t even thought. Somewhere exotic. Somewhere to blow the last of my savings before
I’m obliged to apply for a job as a Waitrose checkout girl. They all know me in there, and most of them are at least as ancient
as me, so I should fit in, no problem. And the discount on shopping will be extremely useful.”

“Very funny.”

“Actually, not funny. The money is almost all gone.”

“You do sound a lot more cheerful than before you went away.”

“That’s because I am. Impending bankruptcy notwith-standing.”

This is the first conversation I’ve had with Jack in ages that hasn’t ended with a palpable tension in the air. After putting
down the phone, I go straight into the study. Just as soon as I’ve checked my e-mails, I intend to search for winter-sun deals
on the Internet.

• • •

I’m still logging on when the phone rings again.

“Hope, it’s Tanya. You’ll never guess what’s happened.”

“They’ve fired Mark, and they’re closing
Jasmine
.”

“You must be psychic. How on earth did you know?”

“I didn’t. It’s just one of those vengeful fantasises I’ve been having all year. Is it really true?”

“Apparently, sales have been plummeting issue by issue, the advertisers have lost all confidence, and rather than do a rerelaunch,
Simon has decided to cut his losses and shut the whole thing down.”

I’m sort of smiling, but not nearly as gleeful as I would have expected myself to be in the circumstances. “What are
you
going to do, Tanya?”

“Oh, I’m not worried. I’ll either get another job in the company or have enough savings to tide me over until I find something
new. Mark was becoming more and more of a monster, and I couldn’t have stuck it much longer anyway. Last week he sent me out—on
my
lunch hour, can you believe?—to buy all the food he needed for one of his soirees. And then he had the nerve to tell me off
for having been gone for too long. When I mentioned I hadn’t even had the chance to get myself a sandwich, he told me I’d
have to wait until later, as he had so much for me to do. It was pure abuse. And even I’ve been getting fed up with all those
articles on stain removal. To be honest, it’s the best news I’ve had in months.”

“Typical Tanya, you always did look on the bright side. Unlike your neurotic former boss.”

“Neurotic, maybe, and demanding, but always fair and always sensitive.”

“So has Mark already gone?”

“He seems to have disappeared into thin air, even though it was announced only half an hour ago. In theory, he needs to clear
out his office, but if yours looked like a vision of hell as painted by Hieronymus Bosch, his would make a Mondrian look cluttered.
Everything Mark requires in life is on his BlackBerry. So I’m rather hoping I may never have to see him again.”

“This is going to look pretty awful for Global. Firing editors happens all the time, but actually closing down a magazine
is something much more serious. To make the decision to close down what was at least still a profitable magazine when I left,
the sales must have seized up altogether. I’d like to see Simon wrangle his smarmy way out of this one.”

“Remember how everyone cried when you left?”

“Even what’s-her-name, who was only there to research her novel and was thrilled because it gave her something interesting
to write about for a change.”

“No one’s crying now. They’re all furious that it could be allowed to happen.”

“Thanks for calling me, Tanya. How’s James? When can I see you?”

“James is fine, which is the other thing I wanted to tell you. We’re getting married.”

“Hey, that’s wonderful news, congratulations. Mazel tov.”

“Mazel who?”

“It means good luck. It’s Hebrew. But it also means congratulations. James is such a mensch.”

“What’s going on here? Why are you speaking to me in tongues?”

“It’s weddings. I’m hopelessly sentimental about them. And when I get sentimental, I get incredibly Jewish. ‘Mensch’ is a
Yiddish word, from the German. It means a really good human being, someone to respect. Someone like James.”