Page 8 of The Dolce Vita Divas
‘Happy hour. How marvellous,’ Susie said, hitching herself back into the sofa so her feet didn’t touch the floor, and she sat with her legs dangling like a child.
‘Actually, it goes on until seven o’clock,’ the girl murmured, ‘otherwise the people who arrive late start kicking off, so no rush.’
She returned a few minutes later with our drinks and a bowl of Doritos.
‘I’ll be just over there, ladies. I’m Lisa, just give me a nod if you need anything. Anything at all.’
‘I wonder if she would go back to my house and do the ironing,’ I said, ‘or water the pot plants on the patio.’
‘No need,’ Susie said, looking out of the window, ‘it’s raining again. Honestly, the weather this year has been terrible. What happened to the lovely spring days we used to have?’
‘This modern weather is rubbish. I blame the government. Anyway, here’s to us.’
We clinked our glasses in a toast. It felt really marvellous to be doing something different, just for us. To be with my friend not having to anticipate another quiet evening on my own.
‘Thank you for thinking of this. It was a great idea,’ I said.
‘It was, wasn’t it, and it’s your birthday tomorrow too. What would you like to do? There are lots of activities,’ Susie said, rummaging around in her handbag. She brought out a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve written everything down because otherwise I’ll forget something. The story of my life at the moment. I’ve already booked us into the spa for facials, my treat. And then in the afternoon there is a mixology class. We can learn how to make three cocktails with head mixologist Tim, who apparently learned his trade in the world renowned Hôtel de l’Excès in Scarborough. Then every evening there is dancing in the Lady Mary ballroom, followed by a show with St Vincent and the Grenadines. Marvellous name. Easy listening and pop, so no head banging or crowd surfing. It says they are just back from a successful gig in Latvia.’
‘Well, we can’t miss that,’ I said.
I sipped my cocktail, enjoying the sweet tang. It tasted dangerously drinkable. I wondered why I hardly ever had them, and then realised there wasn’t much fun to be had making cocktails on my own. Still, tomorrow was my birthday, and I was looking forward to it tremendously. Probably more than I had for years. Even though it would mean that I would then be hurtling towards the next significant milestone of seventy. Crumbs, that really did sound noteworthy. But then I remembered what Juliette had said, and she was so full of enthusiasm and spirit that I thought perhaps I should take a leaf out of her book.
‘We are booked in for dinner at six thirty,’ Susie said. ‘The early sitting at five o’clock was full, but that’s okay, isn’t it?’
I agreed it was and insisted I wouldn’t want to eat that early anyway.
I didn’t like to admit that many times I had eaten earlier than that, had sometimes skipped dinner altogether, didn’t often cook any sort of meal, and had recently become toast-reliant.
Toast had become a very quick, adaptable and reasonable substitute for actual food. It was like fast food without the drive or the queueing up. Or much washing up afterwards.
And yet, in the past when I had a houseful to deal with, I’d been a good cook, and I’d loved doing it too. Sourdough loaves, cake decorating and a freezer filled with meals ready for unexpected visitors. In this bit of my life, I missed being the provider of complicated curries, themed Italian or Greek nights and of course Sunday lunches. My Christmas dinners were still marvellous though; even I had to admit that. They were one of the few times of the year when everyone in the family seemed to be available at the same time.
My kitchen cabinets held a lot of gadgets I didn’t need any more, so many huge casserole pots, saucepans and roasting trays that once I had used all the time.
Why was I denying myself such a pleasure? Interesting food was one of the few indulgences left in life as far as I could see. Instead, I had got into the habit of just refuelling myself at odd hours with dull snacks. Eating something out of boredom or just so that I didn’t feel hungry rather than for enjoyment. I should do better in future, I resolved. In fact, at that moment, I almost felt in the mood to chop some onions or make some bread. Or a curry. I’d loved those.
There were jars of herbs and spices in a special drawer that I hardly opened. I made a mental note to go through them when I got home and throw out all the jars past their sell by date.
In fact, I had already made a half-hearted start doing the same thing to all the other rooms. Throw away the things that didn’t ‘spark joy’, wasn’t that what I was supposed to do? So far all I had thrown out was Greg’s old bank statements, a pile of gardening magazines and two uncomfortable bras.
Then there was all the other stuff that Greg hadn’t wanted to take with him, although he had taken the barbeque, the garden chairs and the television. Things that I had bagged up and dumped in the garage. The dozens of pairs of socks, bobbly sweaters that he had insisted on keeping for when he was gardening, although he’d never set foot in the garden when we were married unless he was carrying a bottle of wine and some glasses. A treadmill which he had used twice and dismissed as being faulty, wine-making equipment which had produced wine so acidic it could have stripped paint, not to mention tooth enamel. All those things were still languishing in my garage, home to spiders and probably mice if I looked too closely.
There was also the baggage our children had left behind in the attic and the garage. Shelves filled with books I would never read again. Apart from anything else, the size of the print seemed smaller than I remembered, or perhaps it was my eyesight?
I was reluctant to admit how far I had slipped in the Domestic Goddess stakes. Even to my closest friend. Was that pride? Foolishness?
‘I went to look at the menu,’ Susie said. ‘Sounds good although quite predictable. I don’t care as long as I don’t have to cook it. Do you know I hardly bother cooking these days. When Simon’s away and it’s just me, it doesn’t seem worth the effort. My signature dish these days is beans on toast.’
‘If I’d given Greg beans on toast he would think I’d gone mad, and now Alex has moved into the granny flat, I sometimes get the urge to cook something more exciting, but so far he’s hardly ever around.’
‘How’s his divorce going?’ Susie asked.
I shrugged. ‘Progressing slowly. I don’t ask too much these days. He seems okay about it all. He says they are going to sell the house and split the proceeds. Thank heavens there are no children involved. Still, it’s sad when it all started so well. Tallulah seemed very nice at first.’
We were now old enough not just to be divorced ourselves, but to have divorced children. A sobering thought.
Susie finished her cocktail and put the glass down on the table with a decisive clink.
