Page 18 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

‘Everyone should have a go-bag,’ she says, her face serious. ‘You never know when you might find yourself in dire straits. It just means I’m prepared in case of emergencies. You never know what might happen in the world in this day and age. It could be anything.’

‘What, like the zombie apocalypse or an alien invasion?’ I ask, partially intrigued and impressed, and partially just very amused that Niamh has this secret survivalist side to her.

‘Mock all you want,’ she says, ‘but come the day of the revolution I’ll be chatting on my fully charged phone, wearing my new knickers and you’ll be there with not so much as Candy Crush to distract you nor a clean pair of pants to wear. You know it makes sense.’

The depressing things is, she’s not wrong. There’s another thing to add to the list of worries that come with middle-age. Having to be the most adult adult in the room and be prepared for all eventualities.

‘A shower would be nice,’ Laura says, drawing us back to her. ‘Fresh clothes would be nice. I think I might burn this dress. I don’t see me ever wearing it again.’

‘We can totally do a ceremonial burning of your frock if you want,’ I say before remembering the black dress and jacket I still have hanging in the wardrobe from my dad’s funeral and which I have not worn since. Every time I so much as see them, I come out in hives. ‘And I’ll burn my clothes from Dad’s funeral too,’ I add.

‘That sounds like an idea,’ she says, with the smallest hint of a smile. Even though it’s sad and doesn’t quite reach her eyes, I know she feels marginally better than she did first thing and that is a good thing. I give her shoulder a little squeeze and she reaches up to squeeze my hand back.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘You come with me and we’ll get you organised. Niamh – go fetch your go-bag and the new knickers.’ They both nod and we don’t so much as spring into action as gently amble in the vague direction of action. Hangovers never used to be this bad.

By mid-afternoon, I’m done in. It has taken all of my energy today to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Laura had showered and dressed while Niamh and I had hammered together an artery clogging concoction that thankfully didn’t kill us. I won’t say it cured us either, but it aided the start of our recovery.

Once they’d left, I’d taken Daniel for a walk which I’d hoped would blow the remaining cobwebs away. It had almost blown Daniel away, never mind the cobwebs. I was worried he’d turn into some sort of kite/dog hybrid.

After battling to dry him off when we got home, I’m trying to gather strength enough to shower and change into my pyjamas even though it’s not long dark and there are hours to go until bedtime. Drinking a well-earned mug of tea, my mind wanders back to the list I’d written in the wee small hours after reading the letter from the time capsule.

I wish I’d had the chance to discuss it with the girls but it didn’t seem appropriate. Not when Laura was clearly struggling with the aftermath of all that had happened this week. We didn’t even get the chance to burn the blasted clothes of doom – as we decided to call them – thanks to a pretty non-stop deluge of November rain making it impossible to set fire to anything successfully in the garden. Sadly, the fire in my living room is gas and enclosed, and useless for burning cursed items so we have decided to wait until another day.

So for now, the first part of my adventures will fall to me. Obviously, I’m quite limited as to what I can do on a rainy night in late November but I suppose it won’t hurt to have a quick look at some of the dating apps.

I don’t know much about online dating. I’ve heard it talked about on TV of course, and on social media. I know Tinder is viewed as a bit of a hook-up site. Bumble and Hinge are the two others I’ve heard talked about but are any of them suitable for a woman of my age and appearance? As I look at the pictures of fresh-faced, bubbly and no doubt sexually adventurous young things looking for love, I start to feel like I haven’t a chance of getting noticed, never mind asked out.

If these apps were like Pet Rescue Centres, the gorgeous young things would be the cute labradoodle puppies that look like lead characters in Disney animations and everyone wants. Meanwhile I’d be the oldest, most cantankerous mutt in the pound. I can imagine the wording of my appeal:

Can you give this old girl a loving home?

Due to no fault of her own, this friendly, if a little skittish at times, mutt, has found herself without a forever family.

All Becca wants to be happy is a warm bed, regular exercise (not too much exercise) and toys to entertain herself. (Get your mind out of the gutter!)

Is good with other dogs but can be possessive about her food.

Mostly continent but given her age can have the occasional accident. Especially when she coughs or sneezes.

Are there dating sites for more mature ladies? I type in ‘mature lady looking for love’ and hit the search button. The first thing I see is an ad for one of the big-name dating sites. This encourages me, but the fee they charge puts me off. I’ll keep it in mind though.

As I scroll, the options get worse, or I suppose better depending on your outlook. There’s a site for cougars promising hot young men for ‘thirsty’ older women. A vision of some manchild who the twins went to school with showing up for a blind date with me is enough to keep me scrolling. I don’t want a hot young man. I’ll settle for a lukewarm, middle-aged man with a dad bod and a sense of humour. Actually I wouldn’t even consider it settling. That would be ideal.

Next to pop up is a site for ‘sugar mamas’ which seems to have a similar premise to the cougar site, except it likes its female members to be rich. I know rich is relative, but a sum total of less than a thousand pounds in my bank account even on payday would not be considered rich by anyone’s standards. And I’ve bills to pay out of that!

By the time I reach ‘OldieGoldies’, I’m losing the will to live. Their pitch could easily be adapted to match me with my undertaker of choice, or a carer to make sure I take my dementia pills. It’s all ‘twilight of life’ and ‘someone to warm your slippers’ and pictures of couples in matching slacks with lap blankets and those little tray tables beside their matching lift-and-rise chairs.

There has to be some option out there. One that doesn’t cost the earth or operate as an open invitation for scam artists to come and prey on elderly, rich, dementia-addled women. Maybe I’ll get Niamh to ask some of her teacher friends which sites they use. Surely there are some single folks in her school.

Deciding that searching for love is making me quite depressed, I decide to work on another one of my goals. Scanning last night’s list for inspiration, I decide to look at trips to Yorkshire. I’m not sure who I will be able to talk into coming with me, but I’m not averse to going on my own. I could even factor in a visit to the boys in Manchester. This is doable, I think. I can easily plan this and it will give me something to look forward to in the new year.

I’ll visit Haworth and the parsonage, and of course the moors. I might even go all Kate Bush. I wonder whether I’ll need a cloak. And even if I don’t strictly need a cloak, might it just be fun to buy one anyway? I’ll have to plunder my not-too-impressive savings but this isn’t just for me, it’s for sixteen-year-old Becki who was obsessed with Wuthering Heights to the level that she even went to see a production of it, on her own, in Belfast. While all her friends were sneaking off to pubs and concerts, she was sneaking off to go to the Grand Opera House to watch a play. Doesn’t she deserve to have her moment on the moors?

I swear I can feel her in the room with me, vibrating with excitement as I research hotels and activities and oh my God, you can even stay in Ponden Hall – the house that inspired Emily to write Wuthering Heights!

I can feel my heart start to race, and my skin prickle with excitement. I can do this. I don’t need to be a cougar, or a sugar mama or have a man at all to go and see a little part of the world that meant so much to me then, and still can now.

I’m taking notes, totting up costs and promising myself I will re-read Wuthering Heights for the umpteenth time when my phone rings. I smile when I see Saul’s name flashing up on the screen. Of my two boys, he is the wildest of the pair and always has been. When he was young, I used to joke he had his own seat in the A&E waiting room due to the frequency of our visits. So far, he has managed to navigate his time at university without any major disasters but that doesn’t stop me from living in fear that there is a catastrophe looming around the next corner. But even though he’s fairly lax at calling me usually, this unexpected call on a Sunday night doesn’t necessarily herald that bad things are afoot.

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