Page 36 of A Midlife Gamble

‘Ouch!’ Marianne yelped. She dropped forward and stuffed her arms through the sleeves, then stood, resplendent in cheap white satin that had bunched and strained across her belly. ‘How do I look?’

‘Awful,’ Kay said, pushing the roses into her hand.

And before Marianne could respond, Helen plonked a veil on her head. ‘Ta dah!’ she laughed, her head tipping back.

Caro smiled. The dress was hideous, the roses were hideous, even George himself was hideous. Alongside the cheap curtain was the type of large urn, adorned with plastic flowers, that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a high street undertakers. The whole scene was absurdly ridiculous, and as she watched, she had the idea that she might, finally, see the point of it all. Her face broke into a wider smile. ‘It’s awful,’ she said nodding. ‘Perfectly awful!’

Thrusting her elbows back, Marianne puffed her way to George. ‘Come in,’ she waved to Kay and Helen. ’I need some bridesmaids. Caro?’

‘Oh no.’ Caro took a step back. ‘I’ll take the picture.’

It took less than a moment for the wedding party to accept this and arrange themselves accordingly, and as they did, Caro was filled with a regret that surprised her. Why hadn’t she just said yes, and dashed in to join the group? Then again, why hadn’t they insisted she join them? She lifted her phone to frame the photo and was struck by the image it captured; three middle-aged women, giggling like teenagers. Hadn’t that once been Kay and Helen and herself? Wasn’t there something wrong with this picture? The answer hit, winding her like a fist in the stomach. She was out now, and Marianne was in. And suddenly all her latent childish feelings of inadequacy roared into life. She was as she’d ever been, a nervous and too eager-to-please girl, in awe of all those other girls, the ones who laughed so easily, whose mothers laughed easily too, who dreamed of white weddings and got them, whose lives didn’t haunt them…

‘Caro!’ Helen yelled. ‘Take the picture! I can see a tall, beautiful human rights lawyer coming around the corner!’

Marianne and Kay tipped their heads back, roaring with laughter. Caro snapped the picture. And there it was. The three of them. Helen, Kay and Marianne.

At fifty-one, feeling as lonely and misunderstood as she ever had, her words fell like bombs upon this happy landscape. ‘Shook,’ she said, ‘has asked me to marry him.’

The wedding party froze.

Or did Caro just imagine they had?

Because in the next moment Kay had disentangled herself from George Clooney and was bringing her hand to her mouth, a look of amazement on her face. Marianne too had lowered her flowers.

But Helen, and this Caro knew she hadn’t imagined, Helen hadn’t moved. She was stood staring at Caro, as if she had seen a ghost.

‘It’s complicated,’Caro said in answer to Kay’s tentativeWell?She pressed a glob of hand sanitiser into the palm of her hand. It felt cool.

They had reached the exit of the museum, where the music level was slightly more tolerable. It hadn’t been inside. It simply hadn’t been possible to have any kind of coherent conversation and she’d used this as an excuse to carry her through the rest of the very few exhibits left, her blurted confession ushering a sobering reality into the experience.

Concentrating on the sanitiser, she didn’t add anything else, and as no one else did either, Kay’sWell?drifted away. She hadn’t meant to blurt it out, she hadn’t meant to say a word, not until she’d come to a decision, which she hadn’t. Firstly, because there really hadn’t been many quiet moments in which she had had time to herself. And secondly, the few moments there had been, before bed, after a shower, when she’d run it through in her head and reached a point where she was ready to say yes to what she thought she was being asked, she had been overwhelmed by fear. Life, in this last year, had plunged depths Caro hadn’t known existed. Had shown, with a clarity she could not have imagined, what loneliness really looked like. This side of fifty, it was ugly. The scenery had been pushed aside, the veil lifted, and she had seen, had briefly known, what it was to be old and to be alone. And it was nothing like the flimsy notions she’d carried around in her late thirties or early forties, as everyone else had partnered off and married. It was nothing like those days, because then she could still turn a head with her slim figure, then she still had the respect of her work colleagues, and the purpose of a career. Recovering from the miscarriage, the fallout with Helen, saying goodbye to her mother, coming to terms with the fact that she was going to lose Kay, was walking a tightrope across a volcano. She’d only just kept herself upright. So what if she accepted Shook’s proposal and it all went wrong? If he proved to be crushingly disappointing to her, or she to him? Then she’d fall, and this side of fifty she wasn’t sure she could find the strength or the energy to climb back out, to stop herself becoming engulfed in a loneliness as premature as it was profound, and from which there might be no escape. So she didn’t know. And she didn’t know how she would know. And turning now to see Kay’s expectant face, Caro was filled with conflicting emotions. Why had she said anything at all? On the other hand, who would she have spoken to if it wasn’t Kay and Helen… if Helen would only just look at her… These were her friends. Still, just about, her friends. ‘It’s complicated,’ she repeated. 'I’m not even sure how I feel…'

And at this, Helen turned and walked away a few paces.

‘Helen,’ Kay called. ‘Wait up!’ Looking at Caro, she said, ‘It’s honestly not that complicated, Caro. Don’t overthink it,’ then, ‘Helen?’

But Helen didn’t respond. She’d reached a small table, with a lone empty chair. Hand resting on the chair back, she turned to face them. ‘I need some air,’ she said. ‘I just need some air.’ And without another word, she turned again and walked away.

‘What was all that about that?’Kay’s face was pale as she watched Helen melt into the flow of people. ‘What is going on?’

‘Kay…’ Caro paused, seemed as if she might speak. But she didn’t. She shook her head and she didn’t say a word.

Kay breathed in, nostrils flaring, weariness threatening. She wasn’t even surprised. She had, she found, almost been expecting it. It was clear that ever since they’d left the UK, Caro and Helen had been playing an odd game. A game that involved the continual passing between them of something fragile; a something that had obviously just been dropped. She had an idea it was Caro that had done the dropping, but why on earth Helen should have a problem with Shook asking Caro to marry him, she couldn’t guess. Caro knew. It was written all over her face, and surrounded by the glitz and pretence and heat of Vegas, Kay experienced an epiphany. She didn’t care. She wasn’t going to ask what the issue was, because she didn’t care, and she wasn’t sure she ever would again. Maybe it still led back to that August night, when Caro had taken Libby’s baby. Maybe they simply weren’t able to put it behind them, and in a small, but disappointed way, Kay thought now, she understood. Nothing in life stayed the same, let alone people. And it might have just been too much to hope that the friendship they’d shared as young women could be sustained now that they were all so much older and yes, uglier. Life had left them chewed up and storm damaged. Maybe it was inevitable that the distance forged by husbands and children and marriages would cement over, become impassable. Maybe, it was time to accept that an exchange of Christmas cards was the way they were heading. Trips together like this were perhaps better left to the 18 to 30 group, when loyalties hadn’t really been tested, the girth of forgiveness not yet been measured. She stuck her hand under her waistband and hitched up her shorts, shifted the strap of her handbag. Part of her wanted to ask Caro about Shook, but not a big enough part. Tussauds had been fun. Silly, easily achievable fun that she wanted only to keep going. She turned to Marianne, but anything else she might have said was pre-empted by Marianne’s huge snort of air.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ said Kay.

Marianne scowled. ‘Tony wants to play Blackjack again.’

‘Oh.’ Kay nodded. Her mood lightened, like blinds had been opened, like someone had come along and slapped the day a lovely lilac. ‘Is that bad?’ she asked lightly.

‘For me it’s bad!’ Marianne muttered. ‘I don’t want to play Blackjack! I don’t even want to know how to play Blackjack! Last night there is a drunk Korean guy, trying to explain me that numbers two to six are worth one point and tens are minus one. If I do this I have an advantage over the house of this.’ Exasperated, she threw her hands up in the air. ‘I don’t know. He plays a lot. Too much I think.’

Kay smiled. ‘He’s talking about counting cards. And the house advantage.’

‘Counting cards?’ Caro asked. ‘Isn’t that illegal?’

‘Think so.’ Kay nodded. She wasn’t thinking about the legality of it, she was thinking about how astonished she was she’d remembered. Because what Marianne now described, she could recall perfectly. It was a counting system, where low cards had a plus value and higher cards a negative value. Her father had taught her. Something she’d completely forgotten about until she’d perfectly remembered. The more high cards left in the pack, the greater the odds of going bust. Of a dealer going bust and a player winning. An itch began, starting in her fingertips, moving her toes. An itch that, although she’d been trying to ignore it, had started that first day in the games room with Tony and hadn’t ever really gone away. Because hadn’t it kept her awake these last couple of nights? The itch to go back and play this time. The constant calculations of how much she might walk away with. It wouldn’t be a fortune. But it would be a start. Maybe even the five thousand Caro had talked about, to start Alex’s pension fund. Maybe spare for a holiday, a last holiday with her dad and Alex, her mother. Nowhere fancy. Devon. Norfolk.

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