Page 40 of A Midlife Marriage

Because although he was an expert in his chosen subject, Craig was also young, born in a world where he’d learned to take a selfie before he could write his name. Offering himself into this human version of the pet-shop window wasn’t a giant step forward for him, not like it had been for her. And not, she was thinking, like it obviously was for Goose, who with his self-deprecating humour she suspected was as scared of being the puppy left on the shelf as she was.

Thinking this, she opened the chat window.

Morning,she typed, now.Hope you have good day today.

Unimaginative,but genuine. She did hope that he would have a good day, she did enjoy ‘talking’ to him, and if that was all it was, then compared to what else was on offer, it was enough.

Downstairs she flippedthe kettle on and read Alex’s note.

Out tonight, don’t make dinner for me.

She putthe note down and opening the fridge for the milk, found herself staring at the macaroni cheese she’d taken out of the freezer last night. Along with half-completing one module of an on-line course inThe Psychology of Fitness,and completing another season ofReal Housewives,this was how she had spent her first full week of retirement: making dinners that no-one wasaround to eat. Her freezer was full of them. She’d even idled an hour away looking at smallholding properties in the North of Scotland, after which she had started digging a vegetable patch. She was meant to be flying to Cyprus. Every day Marianne texted for details of a flight Kay couldn’t bring herself to book, and although the desire to make a change was real, she just couldn’t work out how to take the first step. She was stuck; a fly caught in the web of a life years in the making. Superglued to her house and her garden, this tiny island that was beginning to feel as if it was all she had left.

She made tea, put the milk back and clutching her cup walked to the window. Once upon a time she had been a teacher, a wife, a daughter and a mother. Twenty-four years of full days, a child to care for and nurture, and then a mother to care for and comfort, students to educate, a husband to laugh and share with … a life. What, really, did she have now?Who,really, was she now? An ex-wife? An ex-teacher? Just about an ex-mother? Even her father’s social life was busier than her own. Last week he’d started a local-history course at the library. Which, after all the housebound years of looking after her mother, was wonderful. But he hadn’t told her. Craig had. And it seemed to Kay as she stood and watched the world go by, that if even her father didn’t need her anymore, she might as well label herself an ex-daughter as well.

Outside, a well-dressed woman carrying a shiny handbag had stopped to let her dog pee against the corner post of Kay’s driveway. She watched as the dog lifted its leg, and the woman got out her phone. Of course she did. Mobile phones, she thought as she sipped her tea, have destroyed the pause. Those moments in which nothing but a quiet patience is needed. She took another sip and frowned. The dog – in a change of toilet needs – was now squatting, the woman still scrolling.Poop bag,she thought as finally the woman looked down. But no poopbag appeared. The woman simply popped her phone away, did a double take along the street and, tugging at the lead began walking away.

Oh no! No No No No No!Kay slammed her cup down, flung the kitchen door open, and marched down her drive.

‘Excuse me!’ she shouted.

The woman turned.

‘I think,’ she said, pointing at the pile of steaming poo, ‘that you’ve forgotten something.’

The woman froze, her dog looking up at her. ‘It’s not mine.’

It’s not mine! Kay threw her head back and laughed. So, her son didn’t need her anymore, and her father was busy every day talking to a secret admirer, and almost every conversation she had had on Tinder had led to a dead-end, but she would not stand by and let the world shit on her. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. ‘I know it’s not yours,’ she said, ‘but it is your dog’s, and if you don’t come back and clear it up, I swear I will pick it up with my bare hands and stuff it in your handbag.’

The woman didn’t move.

‘Don’t test me,’ Kay seethed. ‘I’ve tested me for the last twenty years and I haven’t failed yet. Do. Not. Test Me!’

And she watched as, avoiding eye contact, the woman turned back, fished out a poop bag and set about cleaning up the mess.

Only when it had been cleared and they were on their way again, did Kay start back up the drive, slowly at first and then, as she heard her phone ringing, a little faster. Someone was calling. Someone still needed her.

27

Helen sat at the tiny table, in the tiny kitchen, in Libby’s tiny flat, watching her daughter stir a pan of minced beef. The baggy jeans and sloppy t-shirt didn’t disguise the extra weight Libby carried. And the way her hair had been scraped back into a thin, sad ponytail was a contradiction to the forced cheerfulness Helen had noticed her daughter had fallen into. The bossy confidence of Libby’s teenage years had been replaced by this chippy,I’m fineattitude, which didn’t fool Helen. It was, she understood, a riposte, Libby’s defence against the world for having the temerity to think that she couldn’t cope. For even considering that having a baby so young, with no resources, might not have been the smartest idea. And as Helen watched, she remembered the young men and women she’d met in the offices of Stronger Together just two days ago. They had been full of plans, full of ideas, shiny, confident, happy, and she had thoroughly enjoyed the hour long ‘break-out’ session she had spent with them, (the noodles were good too). Her heart ached. Almost the same age, Libby’s stooped shoulders and tired eyes were the polar opposite, and thinking this Helen felt scared. She’d also met Dr Fiona Chambers, a smart, wittyand formidably intelligent woman who had spoken to Helen as if she too were smart, witty and formidably intelligent. Her second interview had been interesting, thought-provoking and challenging. She’d kept her cool, answering questions that she’d prepped for and, knowing that this was her last chance, had tried hard to make sure that, if not exactly selling herself, she wasn’t hiding under a bush either. Because wasn’t that the best kept secret in life? Having the insight to understand when a never-to-be repeated opportunity has presented itself? And then possessing the courage to grab it? The interview had finished with Fiona standing up, shaking her hand and saying: ‘Welcome to the team,’ and Helen feeling supremely confident that she could do this job. More, she desperately wanted the opportunity to prove it.

Walking away, she had been walking on air, a feeling that had only inflated when the formal offer had come through. Terms and conditions. A list of vaccinations, visa requirements. Salary: for something she would have done for nothing. It had been an extraordinary couple of days in which she had struggled to keep the news to herself. With references still to clear she had held off from talking to either Caro, or Kay, wanting to present her achievement only when it was beyond doubt, afait accompli.And maybe, like a child hiding a painting until completion, this was silly, but she couldn’t help it. For years she had watched her friends’ careers bloom, seen their professionalism, admired their achievements. Now that it might be her turn, she wanted to be sure. She picked up her cup and took a sip of lukewarm tea. It wasn’t only the references that had stopped her calling Caro or Kay. It was Libby. She needed to tell Libby first. Ironic as it was, in a direct reversal of roles, she felt she needed her daughter’s blessing before she could accept a job, halfway across the world.

‘Won’t be much longer,’ Libby said turning from the pan.

‘Don’t worry.’ Helen’s stomach grumbled. She’d been here forty minutes, and she was hungry and hot. The windows were open, but it hadn’t made a difference and with Libby so caught up in changing Ben and checking her schedule, she’d only just started on a dinner that Helen knew would take at least another half hour. Legs sticking to the back of the plastic chair she sat on, she watched her daughter move around the cramped kitchen, rinsing and stacking Ben’s plastic cups, chopping carrots for himto snack on. ‘Can I do anything?’ she said. It must have been the third time she’d asked.

‘All under control.’ But Libby looked as if she’d lost something.

‘Tomatoes?’

‘Oh yes!’ Libby grabbed a can of own-brand tomatoes. ‘Ouch!’ She yelped, pulling her finger back and dropping the tin in the sink.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine, mum.’ Libby grimaced. ‘I just cut myself. It’s all under control.’

‘OK.’ Every minute she could feel herself deflating. How on earth was she going to start the conversation? She’d felt guilty enough accepting the job, which she hadn’t. Not officially. Yes, she had shaken Dr Chamber’s hand and beamed and said,‘thank you’,but she hadn’t signed the contract. Not yet. She watched as Libby held her hand under the cold tap, a thin stream of blood escaping. How many times had she done that for Libby? Held a cut thumb or a cut finger under a cold tap, made it all better and safe again? They were, surely, in the wrong positions. It should be her making dinner and Libby sat, drinking tea at the table. Helen put her hand to her heart and held it there. It might as well have been yesterday that Libbyhadbeen the oneat thetable, still in her school uniform, while she peeled and chopped by the sink. Those afternoons,looking out of akitchen window to a garden burnished by the last rays of a winter sun had been special, and she had felt the grace of them as she had lived them. Her nearly grown daughter munching on carrots, divulging gossip from school. Her boy, still a boy, safe upstairs.How did it go so fast? Where were those people?

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