‘But maybe she wasn’t old at all? Maybe she was just our age, and menopausal? I’m tempted to try and find out if she’s still alive and call round to apologise personally to her.’ Niamh punctuates the end of her sentence by stuffing another chocolate biscuit – in one bite – into her mouth.
I let her eat her biscuit before I answer, not wanting to try and speak over the din of crunchy digestive topped with chocolate.
‘If it helps, I’m freaking out a bit too. This was not on my bingo list for the latter half of my forties. I’m grateful I don’t have Year 11, or any year group for that matter, to stand in front of because I can tell you now that Iwouldgo full Mrs Martin. All you teachers have the patience of saints.’
Niamh gives a small smile, but it doesn’t last long and I know she is well and truly down in the dumps.
I proffer her the plate of biscuits but she shakes her head. ‘If I eat any more biscuits, I’ll barf. I swear I’m 90 per cent biscuit at the moment. I’ve no stomach for anything else and I’m so tired all the time that I just want as many sugar hits as I can get. We went and got the patches, Becs. Should they not be tackling all this hormonal depression-laden nonsense by now? I don’t feel any different, except that my boobs hurt like a motherfucker. It reminds me of when I was pregnant, which I’m absolutely not. I’m not going down that rabbit hole of madness again.’
The ‘madness’ being the not too distant past where she was convinced she was indeed pregnant, until a negative test and a subsequent visit to the doctor assured her she was not. She was, instead, in perimenopause. As am I. We were both prescribedHRTpatches to wear, and while I have found them to be a great boost to both my mind and body, Niamh is still accursed with menopausal woes – including the aforementioned sore breasts.
‘MaybeHRTjust doesn’t work for me?’ she says. ‘I had such high hopes that I’d get the Davina McCall effect and get all snatched and super healthy, but instead I’m suffering through yoga, sweating buckets all the time and my mood – God, my mood, Becca! I’ve become a complete shite-craic cry-baby. How am I going to find the patience to help Jodie through her pregnancy when I just feel so pissed off all the damn time?’
I let her speak because, to be quite honest, I’m now quite scared to interrupt her but I know she needs my help.
‘Maybe yourHRTjust needs a wee tweak? The doctor told me it’s not one size fits all, and it’s a matter of playing around with it until you hit that sweet spot.’
‘You make it sound like a sex toy,’ she says with a bit of a smirk. There’s a flash of the old, happy, not-afraid-to-make-inappropriate-jokes Niamh still there after all.
‘Well, maybe it is a bit like that,’ I say, a blush creeping over my face. That’s the problem with being a born-again virgin who hasn’t actually had any sex in the ten years since her marriage broke down – I get ridiculously embarrassed talking about anything remotely sex adjacent. It’s something I’ll need to get over if I’m to write the column I’m pitching to Grace Adams. Or, more importantly, if I’m to get things back on track with Conal. ‘Look, make an appointment to see the doctor again. I’ll go with you. We’re not giving up and giving in just because we’re going to be grandmothers. Didn’t we say when we found those letters that we were going to grab life by the balls and do the things we’ve always wanted? That means getting ourselves in the right place, physically and emotionally, to do that. Make the appointment. We’ll make this work.’
‘If we’re not babysitting instead,’ she says, glumly. ‘Ach, listen to me, I’ve become such a long streak of misery. I can’t even stand listening to myself.’
‘You’re grand,’ I reassure her, secretly worrying that yes, we might just be babysitting all the time and not able to do all the things we promised our younger selves we would. Younger me wanted to travel more. She wanted to write because she loved it. She wanted to fall in love and dance under the stars and do all the things that would be difficult if there was a baby on her hip.
Niamh brushes the crumbs from her biscuit off her trousers and into her hand, where Daniel dutifully licks them up. ‘So, forgetting about the babysitting and going back to grabbing life by the balls… what’s the sitch with Conal? Any… you know… ball-grabbing action going on in that regard?’
‘Sadly, no. We still seem to be stuck on pause. I haven’t wanted to not be there for Adam, and then I’ve been working on this pitch for Grace – which is happening tomorrow, by the way. I don’t want to spend time with him when I’m distracted by everything else and then he has been busy at work too…’
She shakes her head. ‘The course of true love doesn’t run smooth.’
‘Except for you and Paul,’ I say. ‘As the young ones would say, hashtag couple goals.’
‘I’m not sure the young ones would say that right now,’ she says, slouching back in her seat, defeated. ‘If I’m grumpy, he’s grumpier. We’re like Statler and Waldorf fromThe Muppets. Only more crabbit. Jodie’s news has knocked him for six.’
‘It has knocked us all for six,’ I say.
‘Yeah, but Paul, I don’t know, he seems only able to see the negative. He’s wallowing in it and I’m bearing the brunt of his frustration and sadness and I have enough of my own frustration and sadness to be coping with. I don’t have the mental or physical energy to lift him up too. He looks at me as if it’s my fault, somehow. Or something. I don’t know. But I don’t like this side of him. I’ve never seen him this way.’
It’s certainly not the case that Niamh thinks the sun rises and sets in Paul Cassidy’s eyes. She is not blindly in love with the man, and they have had their share of ups and downs over the years, but for the most part they have been on the same side when it comes to the big issues. Their clashes have been minor and infrequent. So I can totally understand why this is worrying to her.
‘He’ll come round though,’ I say, hoping that I’m right. ‘He’s not an arsehole. There’s no way he would’ve been able to hide his arseholey ways from us all these years. He just needs to process it all.’
Niamh shrugs. ‘I just wish he would process it faster, or in a less grumpy fashion. God knows how he’s going to react to this decision of theirs. Jodie is insisting on talking to him herself, but what if he says something he can’t take back?’
I nod and listen as she continues venting.
‘I’ll be stuck in the middle between them. And it’s not like this is easy for me either. I feel awful saying that. That’s my grandchild in there, after all. Ah, fuck, Becs. It’s all a mess. Maybe Paul is handling it the right way and being honest about his feelings. Maybe it’s me that’s the problem.’
Shaking my head, I grasp her hand. ‘Darling, you could never be the problem. Even at your worst, you’re still not a problem. You might have an unhealthy yoga addiction?—’
‘It’s the only thing that stops me losing my shit!’
‘I know that. And I know it’s good for you, and me. It’s just really, really hard.’
‘It will get easier,’ she tells me. ‘I promise.’
‘Hopefully that’s true for all our worries. Things have a way of working out, and if I have to give Paul a stern talking-to, then I will. Just tell me when.’
