‘Perfect for you then! Might help you get that knot out of your knickers.’
I’m about to ask her what on earth she means by that when my inner voice reminds me that I’m currently existing on two Diet Cokes and cortisol.
‘I’m not sure. Singing wouldn’t be my number one talent,’ I opt for. It’s an understatement of course. What’s that old saying? I sing all the right notes, but not necessarily in the right order.
‘Nonsense. You’ve a lovely voice. You should totally join, and then maybe Mrs Bishop and I could come along and make a video for TikTok.’ My mother, the clout chaser, is delighted with herself. She can sense a viral video in the making – no doubt – and she’s happy to sell my dignity down the river for a few thousand views.
11
NEEDY IS AS NEEDY DOES
Becca
I manage to leave my mother’s house without revealing my relationship worries, and without making any arrangements for her to come along to any choir rehearsal in the future to make a video.
But I have resigned myself to going to the session with Just Sing! to see if I like it, and to test the boundaries of their ‘all ability’ ethos. They will never have heard a voice quite like mine before, and that’s definitely not in a ‘Wow! Little did we know we had the next Beyoncé living right in our very home city’ kind of a way.
Still, my mother and Niamh are right that I should give it a go. There won’t be any diva solos to worry about and I can always hide in the back row. It might even help, as my mum so delicately put it, to get the knot out of my knickers.
Not to mention that as part of my Fabulous Forties plan, I vowed to my sixteen-year-old self to do the kind of things thatwould normally be resoundingly outside of my comfort zone. I vowed to try new things and this is very much a new thing.
I’m well aware sixteen-year-old me might not think it particularly cool. I can almost see her rolling her eyes at the very thought and telling me this is the not the kind of exciting life she was dreaming of. But sixteen-year-old me had still to learn some of the facts of life and that ‘cool’ is very individual and never static. It changes with each passing year.
Sixteen-year-old me could never have imagined ever having actual sex with Conal O’Hagan. Yes, there was a teeny tiny crush-like thing but it wasn’t one I gave all that much thought to. Not like my David Duchovny obsession.
I don’t imagine sixteen-year-old Laura would ever have imagined being back in a classroom at this age, either. She and school were not best mates.
I can’t imagine how it must feel for her to be facing a classroom after all these years. I wake up in a cold sweat if I dream of being back at university – the feeling of relief when I wake up and discover none of it is real carries me through the following day on a little dopamine high. So I know I couldn’t ever, personally, put myself through a real-life back-to-school experience.
But here’s Laura just out there doing that. Even with her fears and her negative experience of the past. She’s come across as being very excited by it all. Having never gone to university, this is a big first for her. She has a real passion for her studies, and watching her delve into what it means to be a woman across multiple cultures and timelines has been just so inspirational. If that doesn’t sound too wanky of me.
I hate the overuse of the word ‘inspirational’, but at the same time fully accept that we don’t use it enough in relation to the people who it really fits. The ordinary people pickingthemselves up after extraordinary struggles and kicking ass. That’s exactly what Laura has done and I love her for it.
I have enjoyed every minute of seeing that fire ignite in her, especially after witnessing the devastation she experienced when Kitty died. I hope she knows that. I hope she knows and feels in her soul just how bloody amazing she is. At the same time I hope she isn’t secretly completely overwhelmed by it all because it has to be completely overwhelming. Doesn’t it? And it’s no wonder she hasn’t been jumping on the phone to discuss my relationship drama. God, I’m such a self-centred dick sometimes.
Grabbing my phone, I tap in a quick message to her. Daniel looks up at me dolefully. He might as well shake his head and sigh deeply.
‘I’m not texting her to ask about Conal!’ I tell him. ‘I’m only letting her know I’m happy for her and thinking of her and her new course, and I hope it’s not all too overwhelming.’
I don’t think he believes me. As he stares at me, I can feel judgement coming off him in waves.
‘Oh, stop!’ I tell him. ‘It’s okay for me to worry about Conal. You know this affects you as well. If Conal dumps me, then you may forget about your park dates with Lazlo. They will stop too, you know! But, anyway, this message isn’t about that.’
Daniel’s ears prick up at the mention of Lazlo and he looks towards the door as if expecting his furry friend to come bounding in.
‘No, Daniel. He’s not here. He’s with Conal and they will come later and have the big talk that I’m not supposed to spend the entire day worrying about.’
He pads over to me and lifts his head, a sure and certain sign he wants a head rub and a little reassurance. ‘I’m sure it will be fine. Why wouldn’t it be?’
He treats me to a flurry of warm doggy licks on my hand, and I can sense a change in his mood. Daniel is worried now too. If he had the fingers and thumbs instead of just his adorable chonky paws, he’d be texting too. But it would be really, really immature of me to say ‘told you so’ to a dog, wouldn’t it?
Instead, I decide to distract myself with work – or at least, attempt to distract myself with work. Two hours later and my word count is still only in double figures. Low double figures.
My editor atNorthern People, Grace, emailed me last night to check on the status of my latest think piece. Of course I told her it was ‘well on the way’ and would be with her asap. That isn’t strictly true, however. I have written a lot – hundreds of words – but I have also deleted a similar amount. It feels difficult this month, above all others, to make my observations and opinions read in a zingy and entertaining fashion. And funnily enough, it feels almost impossible to be witty and sharp when I am fighting the urge to vomit with nerves. I’m not proud of myself for feeling, and behaving, like this. It feels as if I’m letting the sisterhood down – mooning over a man and panicking about what I will do if the man doesn’t like me any more. This is not very Beyoncé-coded of me.
The thought of having to email Grace and tell her that I am broken because of a boy also makes me feel sick. And, yes, I would tell her because that is who I am as a person. As much as I promise myself on a regular basis that I will no longer overshare with just about everyone I meet, it seems to be impossible for me to keep my mouth shut. Grace is lovely. She’ll probably be very sympathetic to me, but she is also a kick-ass editor and it will be my ass she is kicking.
God, I do not like how this is making me feel.
