Fifty Is Not a Four-Letter Word (39 page)

Outside our four-poster canopied bed on the sand, with its gauzy muslin curtains billowing gently in the breeze, a waiter—who
was already standing on the shore ready to greet us when we arrived—has set up a table for dinner on the sand with a white
cloth, gleaming silver and glass, candles in glass lanterns, and frangipani flowers floating on water in glass bowls. A champagne
bucket sits on a silver stand in the sand next to us.

As I raise the glass to my mouth, Jack says, “Since you’ve arranged all your birthday treats yourself so far, it’s my turn
to surprise you.” He pulls an airline ticket out of the back pocket of his trousers. “Your return ticket,” he says.

“Thanks, Jack, but I’ve already got one of those.”

“Yes, but I’ve changed it.”

“What do you mean? We’re going home tomorrow.”

“I am. But you’re not.”

“Don’t tell me you’re shipping me off to Australia like a convict?”

“Not quite so far. You’re going home via Colombo.”

“Sri Lanka? Whatever for?”

“For a few days. There’s someone who wants to see you.”

“Jack, I don’t get it.”

And then I do. “You mean Olly? You mean I’m going to spend a few days with Olly? Oh, Jack, that’s the best birthday present
in the world.”

“I thought you’d think that. Olly was about to leave India for Sri Lanka anyway, so it just meant a bit of juggling with the
dates.”

“But why aren’t you coming, too?”

“I wasn’t sure how it would work out, the two of us being away together.”

“And how has it worked out, do you think?”

“Shall we do it rather than talk about it for the time being?”

“Yes, a good idea. Thank you so much for this, Jack.”

Our waiter has departed. It’s only the two of us on the island. There was a brilliant moon before, but it seems to have disappeared.
The gentle breeze has turned into a succession of gusts, coming closer and closer together like labor pains, until they join
together in one long agonizing blast. Then the first plop of rain settles on my head. And then another. And another. Soon
it’s torrenting down, and we’re running for the refuge of our canopied bed with its wooden roof. Our candle snuffs out, and
we’re plunged into darkness. The curtains, designed more to keep the mosquitoes out than the rain, are protecting us from
neither. The sea and the wind are roaring now, and I’m really scared.

“Jack, I think the sea’s getting closer.”

“It’s bound to, a bit, with all this wind and rain.”

“When will it stop?”

“You’re asking me?”

“I’m scared. You need to investigate.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the man.”

“Oh yes, I forgot.”

“Here, take the torch, which they so kindly left. This is madness, it must happen all the time—why didn’t they warn us?”

“Calm down, Hope, I’m sure it does happen all the time, and nothing bad ever results. I’m sure it sounds much worse than it
is.”

Jack goes to investigate. I’m too frightened to move. He comes back, looking deadly serious. “Close. Incredibly close.”

“What, the sea?”

“Of course the sea, what else? We may have to try to swim back to the main island.”

“In this? Are you kidding? We’d both drown.” I’m starting to whimper.

“Only kidding, Hope. It’s blowing over. Half the sky is filled with stars. It’s going to stop any second.”

“I’m a wreck. Come back to bed,
please
.”

Jack’s laughing now, and he pulls back the covers and sits on top of me, pinning my arms above my head. “Whose idea was this,
anyway?”

“Okay, okay, I admit it. I give in.” I’m laughing, too.

Jack leans over me and kisses me on the tip of my nose. And then on my forehead, and my eyelids, then my cheeks and mouth
and neck and down and down. He lifts the hem of my short nightdress, which I’ve been wearing because I felt shy of exposing
my scar. He hasn’t seen it yet.

“It’s not pretty, Jack, it’s really not pretty.”

“No, Hope, but it’s you, it’s still you, Hope Impossible Lyndhurst-Steele.”

Soon we are making love, gently, playfully, tenderly, and I don’t mind so much about the scar. And it feels good. And it feels
right. But there’s something missing. I can sense that Jack is close to coming, but not me, I’m way off. I think of Dan and
of Paris and my back against the door and his hands all over me, and I’m suddenly so hot I cry out, and now I’m as ready as
Jack is, and when the surge overtakes me, I don’t know who I’m making love to and it doesn’t really matter anymore. Afterward,
I lie there wondering. Is thinking of another man when you make love to your husband as much of a betrayal as actually making
love to another man? Or is it an acceptable way to keep passion alive? Are there any rules anymore? Or do we simply make them
up as we go along?

“Hope, my love,” says Jack sleepily, “I think it’s time I came home.” I don’t reply.

• • •

On the flight to Colombo, I ponder the decisions still to be made. Do I go to work for Craig as
le grand fromage
in a glossy, high-profile job? Or do I work for a relative pittance at Sally’s charity and help get Cat’s Place the support
it needs? Do Jack and I make a go of it? Or do I take a chance on Dan or some other man I’ve not yet met? Or could I contemplate
a life with no man at all? Actually, I’ve already made my decisions, but I’m on my way to see my son, and everything—and everyone—else
can wait.

• • •

I walk through the arrivals gate at Colombo. Behind the barrier, there’s a tanned and long-limbed boy in khaki shorts and
flip-flops and a sleeveless vest that’s seen better days, waving and smiling. My heart soars. And then I notice the girl next
to him. She’s holding Olly’s other hand, the one that’s not waving at me. She has long dark ringletted hair and comes barely
to Olly’s shoulder. She’s skinny, like him, and she’s also wearing shorts and flip-flops and a vest—and a nervous smile. This
I wasn’t expecting.

Olly and I hug. “Olly, you look amazing. I don’t need to ask, I can see you’re having a wonderful time.”

“Happy birthday, Mum. I should have told you in advance that I wouldn’t be alone, but it was all so last-minute. This is Alicia.
We were at the school together. She’s . . .”

I swallow. This was supposed to be the two of us. I swallow again. Olly wants me to meet this girl. It’s important to him.
He wants me to like her.

“She’s far too beautiful for you, Olly. Delighted to meet you, Alicia.”

Olly’s shoulders visibly relax. He grabs my bag, and the three of us head for the exit.

“Where to?” I ask Olly. “You’re in charge.”

“Me in charge? As you will discover, Alicia, there is only one person in charge when my mother’s around.”

I say, “That was then, Ols. People can change, you know. You’d be amazed what happens when a woman gets to the age of fifty.”

“You’re not fifty, I don’t believe it,” says Alicia.

“You’re right. I’m fifty-one. Let’s go and celebrate.”

1
. What do you make of the title of this book? Is it hopeful? Sarcastic? A little bit of both?

2
. Throughout the book, Hope gives us a lot of background about her and her family and launches into the past in several sections.
Why do you think she does this? Do you feel any sense of resolution after her mother’s death?

3
. At first this book may seem like a light-hearted romp. Were you surprised by how the story darkened?

4
. What did you make of Hope’s trip to Paris? Do you think she made a mistake by leaving when she did?

5
. How did you feel about Hope’s infidelity? Did it bother you that the protagonist had an affair? How important is fidelity
in long-term relationships?

6
. Do you think it’s significant that Fifty is written in the first person? How does this affect your reading experience?

7
. Do you think that Hope acted appropriately in telling Vanessa to stay away from Olly? What would you have done in her situation?

8
. Are things better for older women today than they were in the last generation? Do we still live in an ageist society?

9
. Though Hope seems to have a very decent husband, she struggles a great deal with her relationship. Why do you think this
is? Do men and women expect too much of relationships today?

10
. This novel addresses the difficulties of being a high-powered working mother. Can women really have it all? What do you
think the author is trying to say about this?

11
. What do you think of the book’s structure, which covers an entire year in Hope’s life? Which years of your life have been
this significant and full of transitions? What kinds of transitions were they?

12
. Did you find yourself rooting for a particular ending or outcome for the story? What did you think of the ending?

B
y and large, I’ve had a great life. There’ve been a few major blips along the way, but show me a woman who hasn’t had blips
and I’ll show you a woman who hasn’t lived a life worth recounting. What I never expected was to reach my fifties and find
how much more living, health willing, I have to do. Fifty, it has become my mission to inform anyone who’ll listen, is not
the new thirty. Despite what the glossy magazines tell you—and probably what I’d have told you, too, back in the days when
I was editing a glossy magazine—fifty is not even the new forty. What I’ve discovered, after a long and somewhat tortuous
journey, is that fifty is the new fifty, and it finally feels like something to celebrate.

I never set out to become a novelist; for my first fifty years, I wasn’t one. I carved out a career in the magazine business
after dropping out of college at eighteen and starting as a typist on
Good Housekeeping
. By thirty-two, I’d reached the heady heights of editor of
UK Cosmopolitan
. I used to fly over to the States for meetings with the legendary Helen Gurley Brown, my editor in chief. I felt such a klutz
by comparison, but she was never less than charming and inspirational.

I grew up a in a conservative, loving family. What I wanted was to be a rebel, but I never quite figured out how. The most
acceptable way to leave home was to get married, which I did when I was nineteen. No, it didn’t last. Not once feminism and
the
Cosmo
-girl ethic got under my skin. But later, I met a lovely man and had my precious son and did my best to juggle career and
family, which I’m still doing today.

M
y promise to myself, since turning fifty, has been to challenge myself to do one new thing a year until I keel right over.
So far I’ve stuck to my word. Here are the five new things I’ve done so far. Why not enjoy your own journey of discovery?

1. I wrote my first novel and saw it published.

2. I took up private singing lessons to rid me of a lifetime of tuneless warbling.

3. I got myself a dog to cure myself of canine phobia.

4. I signed up for a weeklong trek over the mountains in Jordan to Petra to raise funds for the Teenage Cancer Trust, a charity
I have long supported.

5. I learned to bake bread.