Page 58 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

Why have I never noticed before now just how sexy his smile is?

By the time I get home I am exhausted, and sore, and most likely dehydrated from all the crying. The cup of tea Conal made was good, but it wasn’t that good. I have cried more today than I have since the weeks after my dad died.

As Daniel snakes his way around my legs, doing his very best to make sure his body is touching mine at all times, I run a tall glass of water at the sink and drink it all in one go before filling it again. Daniel looks up at me as if to say I’ll regret this when I have to get up seventeen times in the night for a wee, but I’m confident that my haggard husk of a body will hold on to what moisture it can so that it’s able to continue doing all the things a body should do.

My house is quiet. The kind of quiet I used to long for. There’s just the gentle hum of the fridge, the ticking of the kitchen clock and the occasional ‘boof’ of disgust from the dog who is raging that I’m not feeding him chicken or ham from the fridge. He’s definitely starting to get a little demanding – then again I have perhaps been lavishing too many treats on him since Adam and Saul left for university.

‘There are no more treats tonight,’ I tell him. ‘But I promise I’ll get you a Jumbone tomorrow if you’re good.’ I swear he shrugs in a kind of ‘it’s a deal’ gesture and pads away from me towards the bottom of the stairs. Clearly, he has decided he wants tomorrow to come as quickly as possible so a good sleep will make that happen.

As I’m finishing my water, I look to where the time capsule is still resting on the worktop, the lid sitting loosely on the top.

I can’t help but go and have another nosey through it. Those were such innocent times, and no, things hadn’t worked out the way we thought they would, but we are still here. We are all speaking again. Life has kept us weaving in and out of each other’s stories. Maybe that’s as much as any of us can hope for.

Finishing my drink, I rinse the glass and sit it on the drainer before making my way upstairs, much to Daniel’s delight. Of all the things that were on my to-do list at the start of the day, I appear to have ticked off some of the bigger items. For now, I’m going to climb under my duvet and get a good rest before round two with the GP appointment Hunger Games in the morning.

I’m plugging my phone in to charge when it beeps to life with a message from an unknown number. I click to open it, half expecting it to be some dodgy scam about a parcel that couldn’t be delivered or the like but it isn’t. It’s something altogether more pleasant.

Becca, it’s Conal. I hope you don’t mind that Laura gave me your number. I just wanted to check you were okay after earlier? You were so upset. Look, I’m fifty years old and that means I’m beyond playing games. That’s even more the case after Mum passing. Life is too short to drag the arse out of things. So I’m just going to say this. I’d very much like it if I could take you out for a drink sometime. If that’s something you would like, just say the word.

It’s a long time since I squealed with excitement. But that’s what I do. I can’t hold it in. I let out a little, high-pitched yelp as I feel my nerve endings fizz. My body floods with endorphins and dopamine and, yes, a little desire too. I think of Conal and how he hugged me. It wasn’t just the warmth of his body that felt so good. He offered the full sensory experience. He knew just how tight to hold me. He knew just how to soothe me with his words. He knew that I needed that soft brush of his lips on the top of my head. He looked, and felt, and smelled delicious and manly and yes, I want to learn what it’s like to kiss him. I want to know what he tastes like too. I shiver with pleasure at the thought then squeal again when I realise that I don’t feel scared of it. I don’t feel like I want to run from him. I want this. I want him. I reply:

I would like that very much indeed

My cheeks are already hurting from smiling so widely. I feel like getting up and dancing around the room when my phone pings to life again with a smiley faced emoji and a message asking if I am free on Friday night.

While my internal soundtrack starts blasting ‘I’m Free’ by the Soup Dragons, I reply with a smiley face and a winking smiling face to show that I too have no interest in playing games and that I am, indeed, free.

Grinning, I hug my arms around myself. I did not have scoring a date with Conal O’Hagan on my to-do list but here I am, having done it. And I already know he likes me. I’d call that a win of epic proportions.

38

LIFE IN THE OLD GIRL YET

I am in incredibly good form this morning. Even though my arse still feels as if it has been battered with a sledge-hammer and walking is painful, I can’t stop smiling. I have put Magic FM on and am doing my level best to bop around the kitchen to Kelly Clarkson’s ‘Stronger’, safe in the knowledge neither of my sons will walk in and look at me as if I’ve lost the run of myself, or complain about the music I’m listening too.

I’m in such a good mood that I don’t even mind that it’s so far taken me thirty-seven attempts to get through to my GP surgery and none of them have been successful. The anticipatory high of my forthcoming date with Conal is clearly having a better mood-altering effect than any amount of HRT or anti-depressant could ever have. My patience this morning is unlimited. I am unfuckwithable today.

I’m rewarded for my good mood by the phone finally connecting to a very stressed sounding receptionist who immediately apologises for the difficulty in getting through. With immense magnanimity, I tell her not to worry and that it can’t be helped. We chat amiably about the pressures on the system while she helps me arrange appointments for both Niamh and me to pop in together to discuss the menopause. I have to hold myself back from explaining how we’re morphing into witches and this is our wise woman era in case she decides to have me sectioned.

With the two appointments under my belt, I’m free to get on with my work for a few hours, while still in my joyous little bubble of imminent dating.

All is good in my world.

I’ve already made the decision that I will be decorating the Christmas tree tonight, so while I’m working, I put Michael Bublé’s Christmas album on and light a cinnamon-scented candle. The world of business-to-business marketing may not traditionally form a large part of seasonal festivities but today I am making the most of my good mood and channelling it into to some light-hearted content.

While it’s not exactly the job young Becki dreamt of, it does allow me the occasional flourish of creativity and that’s probably a large part of why I hang in here. If I do get the chance to write my own column for Northern People as well, then I’ll really get to go to town with my creative voice. The thought makes me almost giddy.

It’s quite impressive what a good mood can do when you’re writing your top ten office Secret Santa gifts, or a list of dos and don’ts for the Christmas party. Yes, I have to sprinkle in more than a little soupçon of wanky corporate speak and plug some really boring/morally questionable sponsored ideas (a ‘fun’ app that monitors your productivity which I’m pretty sure can relate it back to your boss, anyone?) but I still get to add a little heart and yuletide warmth into the article. Businessmen and women everywhere will be weeping happy festive tears into their morning coffees after reading it.

Wired by my writing buzz, I do what only a fortnight ago would have seemed impossible. I attach two draft columns, and a list of six further ideas and I pop them in an email to Grace Adams at the magazine. I may never hear back from her, but at least I’ve tried. Becki would be proud that I tried.

Just before lunch, my mother calls and for once I don’t immediately panic at seeing her number on my phone screen. It’s a sad reality that ever since my father died, my heart threatens to beat out of my chest every time I see her name and number light up. I live in fear of answering only to hear the voice of a paramedic or doctor on the other end breaking the worst news – but not today. Today I just feel in my bones that everything is okay. This is just my mother calling me for a chat in the way that mothers often call their children to catch up. The worst that will happen, I tell myself, is that she will refer to Daniel as ‘that dog’ again or tell me she’s stuck in the attic. If it’s the latter, I will arrange a rescue and then tell her of my own attic escapades and use it as a warning story to stop her trying any of her tricks again. I broke my arse which is bad enough. She could break a hip and have to stay in hospital for months sharing a room with people who snore and break wind in the wee small hours. She would not like it.

‘Mum, hi,’ I say, wondering if I should let her know about my impending date or if I should leave it ’til after when I can tell her how it went.

‘Rebecca Louise Burnside, I want to have a word with you,’ she answers.

Shit. I’m in trouble. I know that voice. I fear that voice. It has the ability to reduce me to a ten-year-old version of myself knowing I have just sailed up Shit Creek and subsequently dropped my paddle by sneaking open my Easter eggs on Good Friday. I thought I’d get away with my criminal endeavours by eating the back half of the egg, and propping the front against the box to look unsullied, only for Ruairi to rat me out before Peter had even denied our Lord for the first time.

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