Page 14 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

We three sit in silence, processing what we have just discussed, and where we are in our lives, until Laura jumps to her feet.

‘Right, none of this crying and being miserable. Kitty O’Hagan would not be a fan of that!’ She scrolls through her phone until the opening bars of ‘Simply The Best’ by Tina Turner blare out. It was her mother’s favourite song.

‘Girls, you know I’ve not a note in my head so you better get on your feet and sing this with me, for my mammy.’

Without thinking, I’m on my feet and Niamh is too and while it’s fair to say none of us are exceptionally blessed in the vocal department, what we lack in talent we make up for in enthusiasm. We sing at the top of our lungs until the very last bars of the song, before plonking ourselves back on the floor and raising a glass to Kitty.

‘She should’ve lived a bigger life,’ Laura says. ‘Don’t you think? If she’d been born in our generation she probably would’ve travelled the world, gone to see Tina Turner in concert loads of times, been fabulous and eccentric and beautiful.’

‘Maybe, but she always seemed happy with you and Conal and your home was always a happy one,’ I tell her, thinking what use are ifs and buts at this stage of the game.

‘Oh, she was,’ Laura says. ‘She told me she’d no regrets about her life and I believed her. She seemed content but sometimes I wonder if she was content because it was all she knew?’

Niamh shrugs. ‘Possibly, but surely content is content. That’s all any of us can hope for at the end of the day.’

The word bubbles over in my mind. Am I content? Is this the life I thought I would live? The time capsule seems to call to me, and I can’t help but think of the sixteen-year-old version of myself, with all her hopes and dreams, and what she thought her life would look like when she reached my age. How she’d hoped to one day meet her own Clark Kent – which Simon most definitely was not. I don’t think sixteen-year-old me thought she’d be living alone with a dog who had a sensitive gut, and wondering when her offspring would get round to calling her next.

I dig through the box and the remaining trinkets until I reach the bottom and see what it is I’ve been looking for. It’s the girl I was all those years ago, speaking from the heart and sharing her hopes and dreams. Alongside the yellowed envelope are two more. One labelled with Laura’s name and another with Niamh’s. These are our love letters to ourselves, I think, as I pass them around, and this seems to be the perfect time to rediscover them. And it is almost 2024, after all, so we’re not cheating by sneaking a look now.

My heart thuds in my chest as I recognise my own handwriting on the envelope, the memory of sitting on my bed writing this letter all those years ago flashing into my mind as clear as if I am watching it on a TV screen. Each of us had written our letters on our own, in our respective homes and had placed them in the box already sealed. We did not discuss the contents, instead agreeing that what went in the letters was as private and confidential as could be and we were in no way obligated to share them with each other. Not then, and not whenever we would uncover them again. Which, of course, is now.

‘I’m not sure I’m emotionally ready for this,’ Niamh says, staring glassy-eyed at her envelope. Laura has gone very quiet too.

‘Me neither,’ she says. ‘And I think I definitely need to be sober.’

That isn’t the worst idea in the world. Doing a deep dive into where I thought my life would be around now is probably not a good idea on the day of a funeral when I’m feeling fragile anyway.

‘Tomorrow then, maybe,’ I say. ‘And we don’t have to read them in front of each other. We made a promise, remember. What goes in the letter is between us and our god.’

‘I think, actually, I need to get some sleep now,’ Laura says and yawns, still holding her letter close to her chest. Of course, her yawn sets off a domino effect and Niamh and I soon join in the yawn chorus too. It’s then I realise I’m already way past tired and that even climbing the stairs to bed will require significant effort.

‘We should call a taxi,’ Niamh says. ‘Neither of us is able to drive.’

‘You could stay here,’ I offer. ‘If you want. The boys’ rooms are available and they’re clean. I’ve been in with the hazmat suit on and gutted them after the lads went to university. There’s new bedding and everything on them – I know how gross teenage boys can be.’

Laura gives a small smile. ‘Teenage girls aren’t much better. Believe me.’

‘Seconded,’ Niamh smiles. ‘But yes, if you don’t mind, the thought of climbing up stairs and getting into bed instead of schlepping across town in a taxi and into the loving but extremely demanding embrace of my family sounds great. Laura, what do you think?’

Laura is already fumbling with her phone and I assume she’s calling a taxi, but she raises a finger to request we give her just one minute before she looks up. ‘That is my husband and child informed that I’m having a sleepover. Now, direct me to my resting place. Or is that too morbid a way to put it after the day we’ve just had?’

‘I think you get special dispensation for an inappropriate sense of humour on a day like this. Follow me,’ I tell her, before leading my friends upstairs where I hand them some of my oversized T-shirts, and spare toothbrushes from the bathroom cabinet and bid them goodnight.

The mess downstairs can wait until morning, I think, as I carry out my evening ablutions.

When I get to bed I find that Daniel has been performing his usual bed warming duties, making sure I have as little space as possible on which to sleep, but I don’t mind. It’s nice having a warm body to cuddle – even if it is just a dog’s.

If I expect to nod off straight away, I’m let down by my body’s refusal to play ball. The envelope, now on the nightstand, is calling to me and I know I haven’t a chance of sleeping until I’ve read it.

Frig it, I think. I’m going in.

10

DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 2024!!!!!

STAY AWAY!!!

TOP SECRET!!!

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