Page 50 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

‘It feels that way,’ she says. ‘The world isn’t designed for middle-aged women. Try going clothes shopping and it’s either the option of dressing like a young one with a bare midriff and arms fully on show – as if we don’t all struggle with our bingo wings – or dressing like an auld doll – all knee-length skirts and twin sets, or jeans with elasticated waists.’

‘I love an elasticated waist,’ I say quietly.

‘Yes, well, so do I, but they make me feel old. Everything makes me feel old and I worry about what there is to look forward to. The best days are behind me. The kids being small, Paul and me being in that can’t-keep-our-hands-off-each-other stage – that’s a dim and distant memory.’

‘It’s not that distant a memory considering you just thought you were preggers,’ I tell her.

‘Well, maybe. But it’s not the same. And my career has reached the stage where I’m starting to look forward to retirement. I don’t want to continue to climb the career ladder. I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than become a head teacher. Paul wants to take up golf. He wants me to come with him. Me! Playing golf? I’ll have to start wearing slacks and pastel-coloured jumpers!’ Niamh pulls a face which lets me know just how disgusted with that particular idea she is. ‘When did we go from being the first on the dance floor to being afraid of putting our backs out, or thinking that slut drops are a recipe for a trip to A&E? I feel as if I’m drying up, Becca. As if I’m already in the “and unto dust you shall return” stage of life.’

I’m so used to Niamh joking about just about everything that I hardly recognise this emotional woman in front of me – this person so lacking in confidence.

‘You are one of the most full-of-life people I know,’ I tell her. ‘Menopause isn’t going to change that. You could live for another forty years. That’s almost the same as you’ve already lived. So don’t give up on it all now. You’ve ages yet to turn into dust, and I’m not planning on letting you any time soon. Sure, aren’t we going to have some grand big adventures? You, me, and Laura?’

It strikes me that Laura may not actually be a part of our plans after our set-to at her mum’s house earlier. I’ve not even had a chance to tell Niamh that yet and I don’t think now is the right time to start. I feel that familiar lead weight in the pit of my stomach.

‘We might have forty years, but what if we’re like Kitty and only have twenty? Or what if we get ill or infirm, or lose our marbles? What if I get Alzheimer’s or something? You can’t compare the later years of your life with the first half. Why do you think I’ve not read that damn letter? It’s because I don’t want to look back at the young woman I was, with my whole life ahead of me, and realise that where I am now is on a downward spiral.’

I take her hand. I’m beyond feeling a bit woozy and am feeling remarkably chilled out in spite of her highly emotional state.

Maybe this is what it feels like to smoke weed? Maybe we should add a trip to Amsterdam to our to-do list and go and get legally wasted on some weed brownies?

I become aware that Niamh is still talking, while I’m now sitting with a vaguely cheesy smile on my face imagining getting stoned in some cool Amsterdam cafe with my friends – doing the kind of thing young Becki would never have dreamt of. I was terrified to drink before I turned eighteen, never mind consume drugs. I’m still terrified of drugs to be honest. My generation had the ‘bad batch’ warnings drummed into us. But can you get a bad batch of weed? If a cafe is openly selling it, surely there must be some form of quality control?

‘We should get stoned,’ I tell her and that seems to jolt her from her misery monologue.

‘We should do what?’ she asks, her face a picture of incredulity.

‘We should get stoned. We should go to Amsterdam and enjoy the full Amsterdam experience. Without the hookers, obviously. Unless you’re into that kind of thing. I wanted to go to the Yorkshire moors and pretend to be Cathy from Wuthering Heights but I’m skint. I mean I’m too skint for Amsterdam too, probably, but maybe we could get a bargain? Don’t you think that would be fun?’ I rattle these words off at the speed of light.

‘Are you stoned right now?’ Niamh asks, one eyebrow raised. ‘Because this is very un-Rebecca type behaviour.’

‘I think that maybe I am a little stoned on those pain pills for my broken arse,’ I say with a hint of a slur. I try to turn over to point to my tailbone and Niamh stops me. ‘I don’t need to see it to know it’s sore,’ she says.

‘I wasn’t going to show you,’ I say. ‘I was just going to point to it.’

‘I know where your arse is,’ Niamh says, but I’m not that stoned that I can’t sense she is amused. I’m glad of that. Even in my hazy state. I’m glad she’s smiling because I really don’t like sad Niamh. When she is sad it makes me feel as if my entire world is off-kilter. It’s very disorientating.

‘I know you do,’ I tell her. ‘I’m trying to make you smile, although I am really serious about Amsterdam. We need to go. It would be a laugh. If you want something to prove that you’re not hurtling towards death then going to Holland and getting off your baps on weed is a good start. I’d think. My boys would be scandalised. That’s almost a good enough reason in itself.’

‘And I suppose since I’m not pregnant I can go all out on booze and narcotics anyway,’ Niamh says with a sad smile.

‘Exactly,’ I tell her. ‘It’s all going to be okay, you know. We’ve got this. This getting older thing. We’re knocking it out of the park and we’re going to pack a lot in to this second half. I promise. And, I’m going to pitch some columns to Northern People. You know, about being our age and also being amazing. There’s a thought – I could write Ten Ways to Be Amazing With a Broken Arse in Your Forties! What did you call that girl we went to school with who edits that magazine now?’

‘Grace Duddy? Although she’s married now. Adams I think is her surname,’ Niamh says. ‘And you absolutely should pitch a column. Maybe not about your arse, but I’m sure you’ve loads of ideas.’

‘I do!’ I tell her. ‘I really do. See, we’re going to be okay, you and me. We’ve a lot left to do.’

She lies back on the bed and rolls towards me to give me a big hug. ‘I hope you’re right,’ she says, as I stiffly roll onto my side and she spoons me.

‘Sure, I’m always right,’ I tell her, my eyes growing heavy as I enjoy someone who isn’t a hairy, slobbery dog, lying beside me.

‘And we’ll go to the doctors and to Amsterdam,’ Niamh says, but her voice already feels a little distant. Whether or not I want to, I’m going to have a nap. I can fill Niamh in on what happened with Laura, and ask her about Jodie being over in England with my boys and… and…

It’s dark when I wake up, and I’m immediately aware that I am not alone in my bed. And that whoever else is here is not Daniel, because he is currently standing on the floor beside my bed, licking my face to wake me. My eyelids feel so heavy that even with the threat of imminent murder by a stranger, I contemplate just going back to sleep anyway. Let’s face it, if someone has come into my house to murder me, I’m not really fit to put up any kind of meaningful fight, so if they can kill me while I’m sleeping, that seems preferable all round.

As I move a little, trying to get comfortable, I feel a shock of pain in my lower back, which hauls me from my drowsy state and makes me swear loudly. My shouting startles poor Daniel who erupts into a volley of barks, which in turn wakes the murderer behind me. Who just so happens to be Niamh.

‘Holy mother of God,’ she says, sitting bolt upright ready to fend off whatever threat has scared the heart from her. Daniel, delighted to lay eyes on her, jumps onto the bed, running full force in her direction while I try and ease myself out of the bed – now aware I need to pee very urgently.

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