Page 39 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

Adam

What do you mean?

Me

Well, the last I knew you were both very firmly in each other’s friend-zone. Has that changed? Or has it changed with Saul?

Immediately I’m imagining Niamh and me together, proud mothers of the bride and groom in clashing hats and fancy frocks at their wedding.

Adam

Saul? Get a grip, Mum! Jodie has more sense than that.

Me

But you haven’t answered my question. Is there something going on between you and Jodie?

Adam

If I tell you will you promise not to go all Rebecca Burnside on me and completely overreact?

Me

Go all Rebecca Burnside? Whatever could you mean? *curious face emoji* But that means there is something going on, doesn’t it?

Adam

Mum! It’s new. It might be nothing. Please don’t overplay it. We’re friends – and we both think maybe we could be more. But we don’t want to jinx it, so please, keep it quiet. Don’t tell Dad. Or Granny. Or Niamh. Not yet, anyway.

My boy sounds so mature and sensible that I am both very proud of him and also sad for him that he can’t just enjoy himself without worrying about all the possible ways things could go wrong. Sadly, he did not lick that particular trait off the stones and I must accept the blame for passing it on.

Me

I won’t. Promise. Go and have a lovely day together, son. And tell Saul I’ll talk to him later when he isn’t hanging out of his arse as much. Love you.

Adam

Thanks, Mum. Love you too xxx

I instinctively touch his words on the screen with my fingers before kissing them. It’s the closest I can get to giving him a hug just now, and it will have to do until he comes back in two weeks and I get to spoil him for real.

Of course, now what I really want to do is call Niamh and discuss this latest development but Adam has asked me not to get overexcited about it, and Niamh isn’t answering her phone or reading my messages anyway. Feeling the need to distract myself, I start cleaning. We’re in December now and I suppose I should be thinking about putting the Christmas tree up – it would be nice to have it in situ for the boys coming home. The only problem with that is the fact the decorations are all in the loft and it’s normally my very tall, very fearless boys who climb the ladder to get them down for me. I don’t do well with either ladders or lofts. Ladders immediately engage my fear of heights and lofts immediately engage my fear of dark spaces, insects, ghosts or creepy mass murderers who have been watching me sleep for months. No. I will not be retrieving my Christmas decorations myself. And yes, I do feel embarrassed by that – especially when I conjure the image of my seventy-seven-year-old mother dangling out of her own loft just over a week ago and wish I was half as fearless as she is.

Abandoning the plan to decorate the house for Christmas, but still not having heard from Niamh, I pull on my thickest, most unfashionable but exceptionally warm coat and lead Daniel out into the sleet and cold of a wet December day so that he can get some exercise.

I’m hopeful that by the time we have walked around the park and back home Niamh will be ready to chat or that if she isn’t then I’m too busy trying to warm up my frozen and saturated limbs to be able to go into full-on panic mode about it.

Because it is cold. And wet. And windy too for that matter. Where are the crisp, bright winter days that I’ve read about? The kind where the frost twinkles on the branches and my breath mists in the cool air. Where is the kind of weather I’ve seen in Hallmark Christmas movies where everyone can dress in non-waterproof clothes and return from their walks with their hair and make-up still perfect?

This is head down, shoulders hunched, collar up and hands firmly in pockets kind of a weather. Not that Daniel minds. He’s in his element by the time we reach the otherwise deserted park. With no one else around I unhook his leash and let him enjoy burning off some of his copious energy with a dose of the zoomies up and down the pathways. As I watch him frolic in the long grass, I think to myself that at least someone is having a good time.

I’m still battling the elements with my trusty companion never too far from my feet as we turn the corner into a more densely wooded area. Clearly catching the scent of something most likely disgusting, Daniel takes off like a rocket. Within seconds he is out of my sight but as I start to call his name, the wind seems to pick up speed and I’m now really quite worried that my voice might be carried away on the breeze and he won’t hear me. Honestly, with the increase in the wind strength, I’m also a little worried Daniel himself might get carried away on the breeze.

‘Daniel!’ I call, doing my best to make it sound sing-songy and appealing but unable to hide the underlying panic in my voice. ‘Daniel!’ I yell louder as I start to tramp between the trees looking for him. I wore comfortable shoes but not suitable-for-wading-through-mud shoes and my feet start to squelch and stick in the muddy woodland ground. I keep calling and looking while ten minutes pass and there is still no sign of my dog or anyone else.

I’d like to tell you I’m not hysterical by this point, but I’m pretty much hysterical by this point. ‘DAN-IEL!’ I scream with all my might, not caring if anyone does hear me although there still doesn’t seem to be another being around.

Daniel has never disappeared from my view for this amount of time before. He always comes when he is called. Being the kind of person I am, I am starting to panic that while it’s relatively unlikely he will have been carried off to Kansas, Toto style, he might have been injured by a falling branch, or stuck in the mud like the sad horse was stuck in the Swamp of Sadness in The Neverending Story. Every single person who was a child in the eighties knows that particular scenario doesn’t end well.

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