Turning Forty (4 page)

‘You know we need to talk about this, and I don’t understand why, every time I bring it up, you run a million miles. We’re supposed to be separated, Matt, we both agreed that it’s over. And yes it’s sad, and heartbreaking, but we’ve cried our tears and now we need to move on.’ Raw emotion worked its way into her voice. ‘Just give me one good reason why tonight shouldn’t be the night that we finally cut the cord.’

‘One reason?’ Lauren glared at me, daring me to start off all the turning-forty stuff again. But that was the real reason I was hanging on. If I could just get past my birthday on 31 March, then I was sure I’d be OK.

‘I mean a proper grown-up reason, not a made-up half-reason that you’ve conjured up for the sole purpose of dragging this situation out even longer.’

‘Well in that case I haven’t got one.’ I picked up my plate and took it to the kitchen table in the hope that I had bought myself some extra time. Less than a minute later she was standing in the doorway.

‘Is it that you want me to be the one to go?’ she asked.

My food was suddenly as unappealing as it was cold. I’d overcooked it a bit and the pasta had gone all rubbery.

Lauren sat down opposite me and looked around our kitchen-diner as though seeing it for the first time. ‘Do you remember when we first viewed this place?’

Even though she was simply trying to lull me into a false sense of security I decided to play along. ‘How could I forget? You got me here under false pretences!’

Lauren smiled and I half expected her to go all soft focus like they do on TV just before a cheesy flashback. ‘It was awful of me to swap the house details round like that! You walked in expecting to see a hallway out of
Elle Decoration
and got something more akin to a junk shop. The expression on your face was priceless!’

‘Still,’ I replied, ‘if you hadn’t done then we wouldn’t be here would we?’ The irony was unintentional but now it was out there it was impossible to escape. ‘I mean that in a nice way,’ I said, backtracking.

‘But it’s true whichever way you look at it, isn’t it?’ she said, lifting her gaze to meet mine. ‘We’re in a mess and we don’t seem to be able to find our way out . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘You must know we can’t go on like this.’

‘Now’s not a good time for me.’

‘Is there ever a good time to end a marriage? Don’t you get it, Matt? We’ve done the hard bit already, all we need to do now is push on through.’ Lauren’s use of business-speak cliché didn’t go unnoticed by either of us.

She apologised straight away. ‘I forgot where I was for a moment.’

‘Really, it’s fine. I get it and to be fair you’re not wrong. We’ve been treading water for too long.’

‘We’ve been fighting just to stand still.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘For better or worse we make a change. I’ve been offered first refusal on a work colleague’s flat and I’m going to take it.’

I couldn’t believe this was happening. She’d sorted something out knowing full well that I was broke. My entire life savings, the money I made from the sale of my apartment in Oz, the cash from all the stocks and shares I’d owned and every last penny I had saved was tied up in the house. And what little I had in the bank had been eaten up by my share of the mortgage and paying off the huge loan we’d taken out to do up the house. Right now I couldn’t have been any less liquid if I had been carved out of solid granite.

‘But you know I can’t afford to keep this place on by myself!’

‘Which is why I told you not to quit your job. The doctor said he’d sign you off sick for three months. But no, you’ve got to be a drama queen and quit! If you’d hung on a bit longer you would have had more options.’

‘You know I hung on for as long as I could!’

‘All I know is that everything’s been on my shoulders for over six months. Well, it stops now. One way or another, Matt, one of us is leaving next week.’

For the next few days I walked around in a total daze. I couldn’t believe how unlucky I’d been. Just over five months left before I turned forty, Lauren had made a terrible situation even worse. From the day she told me she no longer loved me I’d been resigned to turning forty without a wife, but now thanks to her I was facing the prospect of waking up on the big day without a roof over my head. I’d be screwed for life! The next stop would be a park bench with a can of Special Brew and me yelling obscenities at passing strangers.

After spending what remained of the week with my head in the sand on the day of Lauren’s deadline I went for a run to try and clear my thoughts. I must have overdone it a bit because when I came to a halt my chest tightened and my head began to spin. Fearing I was about to have another panic attack I pulled out my earphones and sat down on the wall outside the house to get my breath as one of Bryan Adams’ greatest hits spilled into the world.

Inside the house I called out Lauren’s name even though I was pretty sure she wouldn’t be back from work yet. Upstairs, I shed my running gear on the floor of the bathroom ready to shower. Passing by the mirrored wall cabinet above the sink I caught a glimpse of myself and stopped. Did I look like a man in his late thirties? The flecks of grey in my stubble and by my temples seemed to answer that question, but I ran once or twice a week and although I’d had to let my gym membership slide since I gave up work I still felt pretty fit. But did I look like I was about to turn forty, like a man who was statistically over halfway through the only life he was ever going to live? I shuddered at the thought and from that point on did my best to stop thinking.

After I showered I made myself a cheese and ham sandwich and plonked myself in front of the TV where I remained until I heard Lauren’s key in the front door.

‘Are you hungry?’ I called. She was still wearing her black winter overcoat and boots. Her hair was tied away from her face, and with her tightly pursed lips she looked every inch the business professional.

‘I ate earlier but thanks anyway.’

‘How about a drink? I bought a bottle of that Shiraz you like. You know the one—’

‘Have you thought any more about what we spoke about?’ she said, talking over me.

I set down my sandwich.

‘You’re right,’ I said, ‘one of us should move out and I think it should be me.’

She looked relieved. I don’t think she’d ever dared imagine that getting me to move out would be this easy after all this time.

‘That’s really good of you.’

‘It’s not like I have much choice.’

‘Well no . . . but even so . . . it’s appreciated.’ She looked down guiltily. ‘Have you any idea where you’re going to go?’

‘To Birmingham.’

Lauren looked horrified, probably because I’d always insisted that past the age of twenty-one moving back in with your parents is a guaranteed route to insanity.

‘Are you sure that’s the right thing to do? Couldn’t you just find a place here in London for a while and then start putting your CV out there? You’d walk into a job in no time and when the house sells you could move on.’

I’d done my thinking and I wasn’t about to be swayed by anyone. ‘I’ve told you a million times, Lauren, I’m never going back to that kind of work. It nearly broke me. I can’t do it again even if it will save me from having to spend the last days of my thirties living with my parents. I want my next job to be different. Something fulfilling. Something that doesn’t deaden my soul. So while I work out exactly what that might be I’m going to go home, see my folks, catch up with some old mates and . . . turn forty with as much dignity as I can muster. And maybe, by the time I’ve dealt with the big four-oh, the house will be sold, and you and I can finally . . . well, it’s like you said, isn’t? We’ve done the hard bit, we just need to push on through.’

She seemed to accept my speech at face value, which was a relief, because had I told her my real reason for going home she’d think that I was completely insane. In truth I was heading back to my home town because I was pinning all hopes for a brighter future on an old on/off girlfriend who I first kissed at a school disco when I was seventeen.

6

I would never have spoken to Ginny Pascoe if it hadn’t been for fellow student and lanky half-brained narcissist Dave Harriett pushing his tongue down the throat of Amanda Dixon (dressed that night in the garb of the day: black top, short denim skirt, thick black woollen tights, black ankle-length Doc Martens boots and cheap silver jewellery) thereby breaking my heart and completely crushing my dreams.

The sixth-form Christmas disco was the social event of the school year and the date I had been planning for since laying eyes on Amanda on day one of the new term. While the majority of my fellow students had come up through the ranks of Kings Heath Comprehensive to do their A levels, Amanda was only there because she had failed to attain the correct grades to stay on at the nearby grammar school sixth form and so was, in every sense, slumming it.

During the course of that first term I made it my mission to make Amanda mine. I made her laugh, made her compilation tapes and talked to her like she was a human being instead of the most beautiful girl in the school. And even though we never made it past this superficial level of intimacy I took comfort from the fact that whenever she saw me in the common room or in the corridor she would stop and chat as though we were good friends.

Having laid all this groundwork, the sixth-form Christmas disco, with its unparalleled opportunities for a slow dance in the darkened surroundings of the main school hall, was the obvious place to make my move. What I hadn’t factored into my plans, however, were the fickle desires of girls like Amanda Dixon.

Reasoning that it was pointless to stay at the disco a moment longer but barely able to stop tormenting myself with the sight that was currently offending my eyes, I mumbled in the direction of my friends Gershwin, Pete and Elliot that I was leaving. Even though there was still an hour before the night was over none of them tried to dissuade me. Wishing myself home to get on with my mourning in the relative privacy of the bedroom that I shared with my brothers, I zipped up my jacket and headed out across the vast, empty expanse of the playground towards the exit. Then I spotted a lone female figure sitting on a bench facing the main school entrance.

‘Pascoe!’

The figure looked up, momentarily unsure where the noise had come from. I walked over to her and she took off her headphones.

‘You scared the life out of me!’

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to. It’s just that I saw you sitting there and . . .’

‘And what?’

And what indeed? It wasn’t like Ginny Pascoe and I were friends or anything (at least not then). She was just a girl. One of many, neither over-cool nor over-pretty and given that I had eyes for no one but Amanda Dixon, to all intents and purposes Ginny had been invisible to me.

‘I just thought I’d see what you were up to,’ I replied, dousing my words in liquid nonchalance. I stared at her. She seemed different. For starters she was prettier and had that same air of confidence that all girls my age appeared to have been handed over the long summer break – along with proper breasts and womanly hips – that marked them out as being so much more complicated than us boys could ever be.

I asked her what she’d been listening to.

‘You won’t have heard of them.’

‘Try me.’

‘The Pinfolds.’

‘Never heard of them.’

‘Any good?’

‘They’re the best,’ she said.

I looked back at the school building. Through the partially drawn blackout curtains in the main hall I could make out the strobe effect lighting put on to accompany the opening drumbeats of ‘Blue Monday’. With a world-weary sigh that came from bitter experience I shook my head in embarrassment as half-a-dozen people who should know better failed to resist the temptation to do the Robot.

‘What are you doing out here anyway?’

Ginny checked to see if the coast was clear before producing a two-litre bottle of Coke from inside her coat. ‘It’s not mine,’ she said, offering me a swig, ‘it’s my friend Katrina’s and somehow I’ve ended up babysitting it.’

Desperate to maintain my cool I accepted the bottle she proffered and took an overzealous gulp, spraying the contents of my mouth over my jeans.

‘What’s in there?’ I spluttered. ‘Whiskey?’

Ginny grinned. ‘Jack D.’

‘You could’ve warned me.’

‘And miss out on that? You must be kidding.’

I wiped my mouth. I wasn’t about to be outdone by this girl. I put the bottle back up to my lips, took another swig and swallowed, blinking back tears as thousands of tongues of fire licked up my throat.

‘How rubbish was tonight?’ I croaked, handing the bottle back to Ginny.

‘On a scale of one to ten?’ she mused. ‘I’d give it full marks for crapness. The teachers really killed the mood: did you see Mr Woodman dancing to Kylie earlier? What was he thinking? The food was disgusting, and the music! Don’t get me started on the music!’ She took a sip from the Coke bottle and handed it back to me. ‘This place is such a let-down! I knew I should have gone to sixth-form college instead of staying in this crap-hole breathing the same air as bitches like Kate Barrett.’