‘Never stopped Mick Jagger.’
‘Mick Jagger’s in his seventies. What’s he got to do with anything?’
‘You’re very peculiar sometimes. Eternal youth is what everyone dreams of. Take it from an oldie. Imagine if I could rewind to being twenty-nine. Wonderful,’ she says, with a wistful sigh.
As she passes back the flask, I can’t help noticing the liver spots on her hands. The way they quiver now, ever so slightly. How she keeps clearing her throat, as if the years have somehow lodged there.
‘Why don’t you try dating someone in their fifties?’ The edges of Mum’s eyes crease up with affection. ‘You’re such a catch, darling. I’m sure there would be ladies queueing up to—’
I raise a hand. ‘Can we not.’ I appreciate the sentiment, but I am very keen never again to hear my own mother describe me as acatch.
Mum looks crestfallen, so I attempt to explain. ‘I look as though I should be dating twenty-somethings. But in reality, yes – I should be with someone closer to fifty. Even you must understand how messed up that is.’
Navigating this stuff is only becoming more challenging as the years go by. Because the truth is, just as sleeping with a twenty-something would feel too weird these days, so would undressing someone of my own chronological age. I’d find the physical disparity too hard to get over. Nor could I bear to think of people assuming that was my particular kink.
And this was always Rachel’s big fear. She refused to accept that I wouldn’t eventually start to think of her that way. But, with us, it was different. I knew her too intimately. She was wrong, when she concluded I’d one day become uncomfortable with being married to her.
Her next big birthday will be fifty. But I have never thought of her as anything other than the girl I fell in love with.
69.
Rachel
June 2020
On the night I turn fifty, I am taken aback to see Josh’s name flash up on my phone.
It’s getting on for three years now since the day I went to his flat after my father’s funeral, to tell him we should probably stop seeing each other. When he answered the door with his top off, I felt my breath break to pieces in my chest. In that moment, it took everything I had not to step forward and try to kiss him. The feeling was so strong, I knew my entire world depended on me staying rooted to that doorstep.
‘Come in,’ he said.
‘I can’t.’
A silence followed. It was crushingly loud.
‘He’s making you choose,’ he said eventually.
I bit down on the insides of my cheeks, so hard I tasted blood. ‘Thank you for coming to the funeral. I really do appreciate it.’
He pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. ‘You don’t have to speak to me like I’m your half-cousin twice-removed.’
‘Oliver and I—’ I began, then broke off.
‘Oliver and you what?’
‘We’re a family,’ was all I said.
I’ve encountered Josh maybe once every six months since then. But on each occasion he’s averted his gaze, kept his distance, barely looked in my direction. And, each time, the pain has been like nothing I’ve ever known. But I’ve had something toprove to Oliver. Or maybe it’s more that I’ve had something to prove to myself.
Now, though, I dash into the garden to take his call. The air buckles with humidity, a simmer of summer thunder.
‘Hey,’ he says tentatively. ‘Just wanted to say... happy fiftieth.’
I am not about to give him a hard time for calling. I’m just excited to hear from him. ‘Happy fiftieth,’ I whisper back.
‘How are you celebrating?’
‘A little party for three. Emma’s been working on it for weeks. She’s bought banners and balloons and stuff. There’s a piñata and a playlist. It’s all very sweet.’
