Page 50 of Beautiful Losers

‘Not all of us are cut out to be a mother. It’s better for everyone involved when we stop pretending.’

She put a hand on my right cheek. Stared at me with her watery-blue eyes. My eyes.

‘You’re a lot like me, you know,’ she said softly.

I realised this would be the last time I’d see my mother. She had come here to give me the ring, the only piece of herself she could offer. So much and nothing at all.

I’d love you to come visit some time, she lied. Definitely, I lied back. We hugged. She was wearing a scent I didn’t recognise. Something exotic. Expensive. Underneath, there was the slightest hint of her skin the way I remembered it. She went inside. I stood on the street a while longer, the smell of Mum’s perfume lingering in the air, the downpayment for a flat in my pocket.

It’s a shame my mother never made it as an actress. She could play any role she wanted. The only role she didn’t want was me.

28

Today is my fortieth birthday. I thought I was relaxed about the ageing process. It’s what happens when you don’t die, and I can say with a degree of confidence that I’m happy not to be dead. But now there’s a man on the scene, a man with whom I’d like to have sex, probably more than once, probably for an extended period of time. Although I haven’t figured out what, exactly, it is I feel for Jack, I reckon sleeping with him would provide greater clarity.

My point is, lately, I’ve become more aware of getting older. Cillian once said, ‘What you resist, persists’, instructing me to write down this thunderbolt of inspiration and pin it to the fridge. I appreciated the profundity of the advice, until I discovered it was Carl Jung who said it. No offence to Jung, but he’d clearly never met a woman on the cusp of middle age. Every time I look in the mirror these days, I resist. I see a lifetime of choices staring back at me, every freshcrease a reminder of an opportunity not taken, a full stop to the run-on sentence of life in your twenties.

At the paper, an older colleague confided in me that she’d had work done on her lunch break. (This was before having work done on your lunch break was as quotidian as choosing between a triple club or a goat’s cheese sourdough in O’Brien’s.) She said she wanted to look less tired/angry/invisible.Yiv says she hates that cosmetic work is being presented as a legitimate feminist choice, another way for women to achieve confidence and feel empowered, instead of what it is – an opportunity for the beauty industry to cash in. That while women have narrowed the pay gap, beauty standards have gone up. That our achievements are less without a full pout and a thigh gap. It’s easy for Yiv to say – she looks like a foetus. She says it’s because Asians don’t raisin. They have a thicker dermis than white skin, meaning more collagen, so they age less rapidly.

Ultimately, I’m too lazy to pursue the new beauty ideal, but I get it. The desire to resist. To smooth over life’s creases, feel like you’re hitting the reset button on all those bad decisions made and paths not taken. Pretend that the world is still full of infinite possibilities.

I’mforty. Christ.

I check my phone. There’s a message from Yiv, telling me she’s about to fire someone, but will call me later. Has my present arrived? She’ll go nuclear at An Post if not as that’ll be the third time in as many months they’ve lost a parcel on her. I also have two emails: a booking for next month (They found us via one of our online partners. Finally, the work I’ve been doing is paying off. Not that it matters. We won’t be around long enough to see this place grow) and a happy birthday fromMilano with a voucher for a complimentary soft drink if I spend sixty euros on my next visit. I’m about to unsubscribe from their mailing list when my phone rings.

Dad.

I toss the phone on the bed at the shock of seeing his name flash across the screen. I haven’t seen my father in twelve years. He tried to get in touch after the funeral. I was too mad to talk. I knew he’d never acknowledge his part in what went down. The anger subsided eventually, but by then Dad had stopped trying to reach me and every day that passed didn’t feel like a deliberate choice not to have him in my life. It was just another day I didn’t talk to my dad.

I head downstairs. Ari and Myriam are in the kitchen, making banana crepes.

‘Happy birthday, Mummy!’ Ari charges towards me and throws his arms around my stomach.

‘How did you know it was my birthday?’ I say, picking him up for a hug.

‘Daddy told me. He says I have to do lots of special things for you today, so I made you this beautiful treasure chest.’

He hands me an empty chocolate box covered in heart stickers. Inside, there’s a twenty-cent coin, a sprig of lavender, two crocodile jellies and a Lego Spiderman.

‘Oh wow, is this all for me?’ I say.

‘Yes, except the crocodiles and the money.’

‘Well, lavender is one my favourite plants and I think Spiderman is the best of all the superheroes, so I’m thrilled. Thank you, baby.’

‘Actually, I’m going to keep these too,’ he says,snatching the remaining treasure out of my hand. ‘But you can have the box!’

Myriam laughs and hands me a plate of pancakes covered in maple syrup.

‘Joyeux Anniversaire.I can pick Ari up from school today if you like? You should do something nice for your birthday. Lautrec’s annual garlic festival starts today.’

I hadn’t planned on doing anything. It’s been relentlessly hot all week. The only item on my agenda was straddling the fan in the living room and reading a Jilly Cooper I picked up in the phone-box library. Still, it’s kind of Myriam to offer and, come to think of it, I’ve hardly done any exploring since we arrived, the work on the guesthouse taking up all my free time. A garlic festival wasn’t top of the must-see list, but it’s a handy seasoning to have around the house. I thank Myriam and tell her I’m in.

~

I’m about to jump in the shower after dropping Ari off to school when Cillian calls. I put him on speaker as I undress.

‘Happy Birthday, Fifi!’

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