20
IT’S NOT RIGHT, BUT IT’S OKAY
Becca
There’s a very good chance that I could scare small children today. Not intentionally of course. It’s just I have the look of the undead.
I have not slept well. The night passed in a series of existential crises, hot flushes, doomscrolls on TikTok and frequent trips to the loo for a wee. I think I might have a UTI – which is the cherry (or cranberry) on top of the overcooked but soggy-bottomed cake.
My morning walk with Daniel was not my best. My legs leaden and my head heavy, I cheated and brought his beloved ‘chucker’ to the park and stood on the same spot launching a tennis ball across the grass over and over again.
In my tired mind, this was the perfect way to exercise Daniel with minimal effort on my part. I’d have skipped going out at all if Daniel wasn’t a wee bit precious about his ablutions and refuses to do his morning poo on the perfectly good grass at home.
No, it has to be the perfectly manicured lawns of Brooke Park or else he will remain stubbornly full of poop until he develops chronic levels of constipation. If you have ever had to give a dog a laxative, you will know that you will do anything – anything at all – to avoid having to do that again.
Conal has not been in touch. I don’t expect him to be. Niamh says I have to tough it out. Focus on work. On the choir. Use the enforced space wisely and try not to think about what he might be thinking about. ‘Men really are just cavemen at heart still. Let him go off into the wilderness and do his man thing, and he’ll come back to the cave when he is ready with the spoils of his labour. Meanwhile, go get some spoils yourself.’
I spent the morning writing more of my article for Grace, and ignoring the email from her in my inbox asking for pitches for the February edition. One of the quirks of working for so-called long-lead publications is that while the rest of the world is thinking about Halloween, the magazine world is all hearts and flowers, and sometimes even thinking about the following summer. Time sure moves strangely in publishing.
‘Valentine’s Day isn’t as far away as you’d think,’ Grace had written. ‘Maybe there might a romantic story you want to share?’
I had laughed, somewhat hysterically, and then gone back to working on my current article which, it has to be said, felt a little like pulling teeth. The words were simply not wording. My usual easy slide into writing confessional, witty takes on what it is to be a woman in midlife, was reading more like misery lit. The delete button became my very best friend.
By lunchtime I had given the task up for the day, knowing that I would get nowhere. Instead I switched my attention to some of my less enjoyable, but actually quite brain-numbing and comfortable, copywriting work. There’s a familiarity to writing more listicles for my business-to-business clients on howto create a positive working environment. I could do it in my sleep, which is handy given that I feel as if I could drift off at any stage.
It’s now teatime, and I’ve switched on the lamps around the living room and put the heating on. I could quite easily, and happily, curl up and hide away from the world – Conal included. But of course I can’t do that because I have to take my grumpy, worried self to choir practice.
I am in a state of deep regret that I agreed to it, and even more so that I mentioned it to Grace who immediately said she’d love an article on music therapy and group-singing as a way of reducing stress, increasing socialisation and having a bit of craic to boot.
I cannot back out, no matter how much I want to. Grace would be raging, but her rage would be nothing in comparison to the rage Niamh, and possibly Laura, would feel. It’s not something I can risk, especially not when I’m really quite concerned that Laura is already annoyed with me.
In about an hour, I will have no choice but to come face to face with her and with our fellow Fabulous Forties ladies, and possibly Kevin/Roy Cropper while we sing our hearts out to the eighties banger ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’ by Whitney Houston. So all I can do right now is get myself up off my arse and get dressed into something more suitable for public consumption than my favourite Tired and Needy hoodie and threadbare leggings. These leggings are worn purely because they are perhaps the most comfortable item of clothing I have ever owned – and I have owned them for a very, very long time. In fact, I’m pretty sure they are maternity leggings bought while I was heavy with child(s) more than twenty years ago. They are so threadbare at this stage that if I don’t shave for a week my legstubble pokes through all too easily. It goes without saying that I dare not crouch wearing them lest their see-through-ness be exposed to the world, along with my very comfortable belly-warming knickers.
I can’t walk into the hall like the emotional mess I am. I have to be happy and encouraging and welcoming to the Fabulous Forties ladies and also to the existing members of Just Sing! who might be a little terrified at the thought of being overrun by a, admittedly small, pack of wild menopausal women. Not that I blame them.
I change out of my comfies into a pair of jeans and a sweater. Deciding it would definitely not be cool to wear Crocs to the rehearsal even if they are exceptionally comfortable, I put on my trainers, brush my hair and even dab on some make-up.
It’s not lost on me that ten years ago I used make-up largely to accentuate my favourite features and make me feel beautiful; now I use it to cover up the cracks and make me vaguely presentable. It’s not a case of contouring and adding some mascara to make my eyes pop any more, not that my generation were ever really the kind to contour. For long enough we relied on Pan Stick and Heather Shimmer lipstick from Rimmel. There were no serums, or layering, or ‘baking’ your make-up when I was young. You slapped it on. Quick and easy and you were out the door and in the pub before you could say ‘Watermelon Bacardi Breezer, please’. I tried to get into the whole make-up scene during the pandemic. Some people baked sourdough bread; some redecorated their houses from top to bottom, or learned a new language. Me? I spent hours watching make-up tutorials on YouTube, spent an absolute fortune on products that I had been promised I would become ‘obsessed’ with and bought more brushes than I could keep count of. It didn’t lastlong – not just because I wasn’t very good at it, but it all just felt like such an incredible faff. Especially during the pandemic when I had nowhere to go, and when I did go, my face was covered by a mask anyway.
But today, I do not have the energy for any level of beautifying. I’d not bother at all but I figure I should at least look as if the mortician has tried to warm me up before pushing me out of the morgue into the real world. It’s not great, but it will do. Besides, I don’t have time to do anything else if I’m to make it on time.
Daniel is now in full huff mode. We have not left the house all day apart from that very short but necessary poo walk in Brooke Park first thing. I’m not proud of myself for it, but I did treat him to a lunch of cooked chicken breast by way of a peace offering. It seemed to work at the time, but now as I grab my coat and my keys, and it becomes increasingly obvious to my doggy companion that he will not be accompanying me, I sense any goodwill I amassed during a day of cuddles and treats on the sofa now evaporating. Going out two nights in a row and not bringing the dog? How could I be so cruel? If he could call the RSPCA himself he would.
‘I’m sorry, Daniel,’ I tell him. ‘But it’s a work thing. Sort of. And it probably won’t be any fun. In fact, I’d not go if I didn’t have to.’
He turns his head to the side, looking at me with a mixture of disgust and the kind of sorrowful face only a dog can pull. The expression ‘puppy-dog eyes’ doesn’t come from nowhere.
‘I know,’ I tell him. ‘I know. But look, I won’t be late and I’ll bring you back a treat. I promise we’ll have an extra-long walk tomorrow.’
Even as I’m saying it, I’m regretting it. I don’t know whatmood tomorrow will bring. It’s entirely possible, and maybe even likely, it will be worse than today. With a loud ‘boof’, Daniel turns and walks away from me, sashaying with a spectacular swing of his tail. I have been dismissed.
21
MEET KARL
Becca
Fifteen minutes later I’m outside the church hall, willing myself to just get out of the car and get on with it. I spotted Laura’s car as soon as I drove into the car park so I know she is already here. I’m regretting not being in touch with her before now. It would be nice to know exactly what I’m walking into. Or maybe it wouldn’t.
