Page 27 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

I glare at her and she stops talking but I can’t help but smile all the same. I love this banter and I have missed that Laura hasn’t been a part of it for so long. There’s something to be said for the kind of friendships where you know each other so well that you understand instinctively what lines can be crossed in the name of a good slagging.

‘So,’ Laura says. ‘Are you going to keep us wondering or are you going to share just what is going on in that beautiful mind of yours?’

I take a deep breath and try to think of the best way to put into words the jumble of half-formed ideas darting around inside my head. ‘It’s what Laura said – we keep putting things on the long finger and thinking we’ll get round to it, but we never do because, you know, life. And I was thinking about that and how I’ve been feeling that I have let young me down. I haven’t achieved what she wanted. Nowhere near in fact. She certainly didn’t expect to be sitting in her late forties, divorced, with an empty nest.’

Laura shifts a little in her seat. That’s something we shouldn’t put off too much longer either. Talking about my divorce and what happened. But not tonight. Not now. And anyway, I meant it when I said it’s in the past. Didn’t I?

I break my gaze, look down to my notepad page, where I wrote my list in the late hours of Saturday night, and then back up – and I will myself for this all to come together in my head in a way I can easily explain. Younger me would probably be firing ideas all over the place, older me – with depleting oestrogen levels and brain fog – needs a little more time. I want this to be my Jerry Maguire moment. I want to say it properly.

I straighten my back. ‘Sometimes I feel like I’ve given up. That I’ve lived my young years and surely they are everyone’s best years? You know, when you have energy and don’t get three-day hangovers. When you aren’t tied down to mortgage payments or university fees? I think I sort of thought to myself “Well, you’ve had your chance, girl, and you blew it. It’s time for the next generation to come through.” I thought I’d made my peace with that,’ I say. ‘I mean, I have with a lot of things. I know, for example, I’m never going to marry Michael Bublé and as much as it pains me to accept that, I have.’

‘Ah now, you never know,’ Niamh says. ‘You might. I mean, maybe it’s the case that he just…’

‘Don’t say it,’ I warn, my eyebrow raised.

‘…hasn’t met you yet.’ She grins, delighted at her all too predictable reply.

I smile. ‘Very funny, but believe me, even if he did, we’re not getting married. Have you seen his wife? Stunning. Argentinian. I’ve seen pictures of her modelling lingerie. If I was faced with a choice between her toned body and sultry Latin vibes, versus my M&S multipack knickers, hot flushes and Derry accent, I know who I’d pick. And as I said, I’ve come to terms with that particular tragedy in my life. But I don’t think I’m as okay with fading into the background or taking it easy for the rest of my days as I thought.’

They sit in silence for a moment. I can tell by the expressions on their faces they are thinking about what I’ve said.

‘So when I read my letter, I wrote a list. Because, yes, I am a Monica as you pointed out. I was really bloody sad at first when I read it, and then I asked myself if I could change anything? Because in my letter I wrote about what I wanted to have experienced and achieved by the time I turn forty-seven and well, I’m not forty-seven yet. I know I’m not a kick in the arse off it, but I have time. We have time. Life isn’t just for the young ones. Nights out and good times shouldn’t be in our past.’

The girls look at me, rapt. To my surprise they aren’t telling me to stop blethering on or to stick my notebooks where the sun doesn’t shine.

Laura is the first to speak. ‘So, what are you suggesting exactly? You’re not suggesting we go out clubbing again because I’m going to be real with you, I would rather nail my boobs to the wall than set foot in a club.’

‘Christ,’ Niamh says. ‘Me too! There is not enough alcohol in the world to make that feel like a good idea. Plus, our children are old enough for clubs now. Including the little darlings I teach. Can you imagine me giving it the full dance routine to “Spice Up Your Life” and my Year 13s or 14s watching.’ She shudders.

‘I hate to break it to you,’ Laura says. ‘But there are no clubs, except perhaps the very odd gay bar, that are playing “Spice Up Your Life” these days. You’d have to be giving it your everything to “Wet-Ass Pussy” instead. I’m sure Year 13 would love that.’ She starts humming the tune to the Cardi B hit and to my shame I blush even thinking about the lyrics. Once again, the memory of me thinking I would die of embarrassment for being caught dancing to ‘Like a Virgin’ comes back to me. Meanwhile the youth of today think nothing of declaring how aroused their vaginas are. And they throw around the word pussy like it isn’t the most cringe-making word in the history of words. What’s wrong with referring to it as my generation did, with a simple ‘down there’?

‘You’ll have to find space on the wall beside you for me to nail my tits as well,’ Niamh says to Laura. ‘Because there is no way in hell that I’m using the word pussy in front of Year 13. Not even if I am talking about an actual cat.’

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I think we’re all agreed that clubbing is never going to be on the agenda. No one needs to nail anyone’s boobs anywhere, or show anyone their vulva, or cat. But there has to be something? God, when we were teenagers we had all the plans in the world.’

‘And they were plans that suited young, free and single types,’ Niamh says. ‘Like interrailing. Brilliant craic when you’re eighteen. But when you’re heading towards fifty, hostels and travelling with just a rucksack loses its appeal.’

‘I don’t know,’ Laura says. ‘I’m with Niamh on the hostels thing, but then again they gave me the heebies even when we were younger. I don’t want to sleep in a room with strangers. I don’t care how cheap it is – I wouldn’t even do it for free. But I do kinda like the idea of packing a rucksack, or a weekend case on wheels, and going wherever the road or air or train track takes us. Sounds better to me than another fortnight in the Costa-del-all-inclusive-kid-friendly-waterpark-resort-from-hell.’

‘Not a fan then?’ I ask, with a smile.

‘With Robyn as an only child, you can’t imagine how many times I was hauled onto the stage at the kids’ disco to accompany her. Aidan would be sitting there drinking his generic beer, laughing his legs off while I was left dancing to “The Ketchup Song” and “La Bomba”.’ She shudders. ‘I’d love an adults-only holiday. We always swore we’d do a girly break at some stage but we didn’t, did we? The furthest we got was your hen weekend in Bundoran, Becks, and if I remember correctly it poured from the heavens the whole time.’

Laura is not wrong. It had rained from the moment we arrived in the Donegal coastal town until the moment we left. Despite it being June, it was freezing and the heating in the self-catering apartment was on the blink. The whole thing was memorable for sure, but for all the wrong reasons.

‘I should have read the signs from the universe,’ I sigh. ‘Between that and the thunderstorm on the day of the actual wedding, I’m wondering how I didn’t cop on that the whole union was cursed from the start.’

There’s a pause. Slightly awkward. Laura looks at her feet and I’m trying to think of something to say to take the awkward away but for the life of me nothing is coming to mind because it wasn’t really me who made it awkward, was it?

‘But sure, if you hadn’t married him, you wouldn’t have the boys and you wouldn’t be without them for the world,’ Niamh says, voice light and teacher-like in tone. It’s a voice that says, ‘We are moving on and let’s just leave that elephant over there in the corner where she is perfectly comfortable.’

‘True,’ I say.

‘So,’ Niamh says. ‘I think we can all agree that the first thing we are going to do to redeem ourselves to our younger selves is to plan a girls-only trip somewhere off the beaten track, but not too far off it. Because we want nice beds and clean bathrooms.’

‘And cocktails!’ Laura says and I see her look at her me, her eyes pleading with me to say everything is okay and keep the chat light.

‘Sounds like a plan!’ I say, because the great unmentionable aside, it actually does sound like a great idea. ‘Now, let’s start on the rest of your lists.’

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