Page 34 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

‘Oh my God,’ I tell her. ‘You’ve just had an Unexpected Wave of Sadness!’

‘A what?’ she asks. ‘Wise up. I’m not sad. I’m fine. Just fine. There’s no wave of anything. Just a moment which was perfectly justifiable and understandable given that I’ve just put a top with the slogan “Sassy” on it in my trolley for my seven-year-old. But it’s done. I’m fine. Now let’s go to the toys and see if they have the Bluetooth karaoke mic she has my heart broken asking for. And before you say anything else, you will be coming over on Boxing Day so she can perform the entire set list from Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour for your listening pleasure.’

‘I don’t mind,’ I say. ‘As long as she lets me join in to “Cruel Summer”.’

‘I’ve already told her that you and I will be her backing singers. She didn’t take that news well.’

With that, Niamh marches off towards the toy section. I can hear my mother shout, ‘Rebecca, would you like a thermal vest?’ as I add worry about Niamh to my to-do list. Something is not right in her world and it’s not just Fiadh getting older. I know Niamh, and this is something more than that.

24

A WOMAN’S TOUCH

Niamh is back on form when we arrive at Sonas Spa and is happy to take the lead while I eye the price list on the wall and try not to suffer a myocardial infarction. (I’ve checked, by the way and Dr Miranda Bailey was in her early forties when she had a heart attack in Grey’s, so it’s entirely possible that one might befall me too.) While Niamh chats to the receptionist, who she apparently taught five years ago, Laura explains the different arrays of facials to me. It seems our Laura is no stranger to pampering sessions. That’s probably why she looks a good five to ten years younger than both Niamh and me. I’d been putting it down to the fact she only has one child whereas I’ve endured twin boys and Niamh has four of the little darlings. Given the fact Niamh works with teenage children all day every day too, it’s a wonder she doesn’t look as if she’s in her nineties. I’m convinced young people thrive through sucking the life force directly out of surrounding adults.

Laura is explaining something to me about how collagen and skin elasticity should be key areas of focus for menopausal women but I’m only half listening. My skin care regime, if I could be so bold to call it that, has only recently moved on from baby wipes and the occasional sweep of moisturiser. I only switched up my routine because I’d noticed my skin was suddenly drier than the Sahara desert in the middle of a heatwave – and when I say ‘switched up’, I switched to Dove soap and a regular sweep of moisturiser. I’ve never had a proper facial in my life and the last time I had a full manicure was just before my wedding when I went all out and got false nails with a French Polish. They had felt so alien on my hands that I’d hauled them off on the plane to our honeymoon and it had taken months for my natural nails to recover. Not realising I was only peeling off falsies, Simon also took months to recover from thinking I had lost the run of myself and was tearing my actual nails from my fingers.

I probably should have realised then that Simon Cooke did not have the stomach to spend a lifetime of forevers with me.

I’m pulled from my reverie with the arrival of what looks like a literal child carrying a tray of tall-stemmed glasses, filled to the brim with Prosecco, and a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries. I could get used to this kind of pampering, I think, wondering if I could just request that I be allowed to lay on a chaise-longue, drinking fizz and eating chocolate-covered fruit while Niamh and Laura get all their treatments done without me.

The childlike figure, who it turns out is the salon owner, speaks in a soft, angelic voice as she welcomes us to her spa and the City Girl experience. Combined with the soft background music and the sweet smell of essential oils in the air, her voice actually has quite a soothing effect. And as I drink more of the chilled-to-perfection Prosecco, I start to think this sweet angel child could convince me to try anything. Even hot wax.

Thankfully for me, her and my unkempt pubic region, she doesn’t.

Instead she tells us that we will each enjoy a soothing rejuvenating facial, perfect for menopausal skin.

‘Does it have collagen?’ Laura asks and the salon owner, whose name is Gabby according to the shiny badge on her tunic, nods that it does. She adds, ‘Gold star for you!’ and Laura beams with pride while I feel a little jealous that I don’t appear to be Gabby’s favourite.

‘Along with your facial, you will each enjoy a hot stone massage to ease any tension from your bodies and a luxury manicure with gel polish.’ It sounds quite lovely.

‘And the makeover part?’ I ask, wondering how on earth Gabby and team of angels can fit all those treatments into our three-hour slot.

‘Well I hope you won’t be too disappointed,’ Gabby trills. ‘But your friend Niamh here explained you were a little nervous at the thought of a transformation and maybe could benefit more from our rejuvenation and relaxation package so we did a little rejigging and poof – no need to fear we’ll go in heavy handed with the foundation and blusher. Although, don’t worry, you’ll still get your Prosecco and snacks!’ She smiles but I’m wondering just how awkward it was for Niamh to explain my reticence. Could that be why she was in a funny mood earlier?

‘Well, that sounds like exactly what the doctor ordered,’ Laura says.

‘Yes,’ Gabby replies in a tone of voice that oozes empathy and sympathy, ‘Niamh tells me it has been a tough time for you. Don’t worry, we’ll help ease some of that tension in your body and have you floating out of here a new woman.’

‘Thank you,’ Laura says a little tearfully. I look at Niamh to thank her too and see she’s also a little tearful, but when she sees me looking she quickly adopts a smile and claps her hands together to attract all our attention. ‘Right then,’ she says, in her best teacher voice. ‘We should get going with all this carry on, shouldn’t we?’

‘Thank you,’ I tell her. ‘For organising this. You’re a star.’

‘Sure, I know,’ she says. ‘And when I thought about it, the last thing any of us need is a massive makeover. Before you know it, we’ll lose the run of ourselves and dye our hair Menopause Magenta, start wearing really thick glasses frames and dungarees with DM boots.’

‘Menopause Magenta?’ Laura asks.

‘It’s a thing,’ Niamh says. ‘I’ve seen it. You must have seen it. Women having mid-life crises start dying their hair wacky colours and experimenting with different looks and, you know, fair play to them if it makes them happy. But it’s not you, girls. It’s not what you need and it’s not what sixteen-year-old you would have wanted either. Sixteen-year-old us would want us to feel good and look good and put ourselves first for a bit. So get your holes into those treatment rooms and get pampered for Christ’s sake.’

There’s something a little manic about how she’s talking but I’m certainly not crazy enough to pull at this particular thread any further just now. I sense that my darling Niamh might just be on the edge. So I nod, say, ‘Yes, miss,’ like the good girl I am and get my hole – as she so delicately put it – into the treatment room where Gabby hands me a dressing gown and instructs me to strip down to my knickers and get ready for stage one of my pampering, the hot stone massage. I start to reluctantly do exactly as she tells me, even though it’s been at least ten years since anyone has seen me without a bra.

‘I’ll just leave the room while you get ready,’ she says before I have my top lifted enough to reveal that I opted for comfort not fashion with my underwear today. ‘You can put your clothes on that chair and then lie down on your tummy on the table and I’ll be in shortly. I’ve left you a little blanket there to pull up around yourself to make you feel more relaxed. The massage is concentrated on your neck and back. It’s all very discreet.’

I breathe a sigh of relief. Thank God. No enforced nudity.

Gabby looks at me. ‘It’s okay to find this a bit unsettling,’ she says. ‘Especially if you’re not used to pampering yourself – and you’d be surprised the number of women who are not at all used to pampering themselves. Some even find it very emotional. It can be a form of release.’

I feel a little bubble of something I can’t quite name rise up inside me and I immediately try to dampen it down. I don’t want to be feeling ‘feelings’ in front of a virtual stranger. I don’t want any form of ‘release’ – whatever that means. A fart, after all, is a form of release.

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