Chapter Thirty-Nine
Just some middle-aged woman
The following day is my last day at Devon’s. After gaffer-taping shut the last box (there aren’t many, I didn’t bring that much), I write a note apologising for breaking one of the deckchairs and leave the Fuchsia Frenzy bodysuit for her. This could possibly be construed as a strange thank-you present (especially as I put it in the only gift bag I can find, which has SANTA HAS BEEN! written on it), but it doesn’t fit me anymore and it still has the gusset sticker on so I think it’s okay. I’m also skint, so at this point it’s the best I can do. Merlyn is arranging to have all the filming equipment collected, and for the boxes to be taken down to Wiltshire, so apart from that, and a desperate attempt to resuscitate the wilting monstera, I don’t need to do anything, just leave the key on the kitchen island and make sure everything is switched off.
And then, finally, thankfully, I can get back home and see Mother Pells. I’m not going to visit her in hospital because tomorrow, she is moving into the new retirement flat, the one Simon and I went to view with theverylow walk-in shower threshold. I can’t wait. I don’t remember ever feeling like this before about seeing my mother: it’s strange, and new. But I want to hug her, and make her feel safe, and loved – which is how she has always made me feel, I was just too much of an idiot to notice. That goes for a lot of other things too.
Merlyn has also arranged for her driver to take me home. She’s been messaging me a lot to make sure I’m okay, which has got me wondering what she and Cassia thought of me to encourage me to have the treatment. They must have seen meas so lost and sad, so desperate, so unhappy. But then I think back to the me that would rather wear an omelette to a party than show her face, and realise that’s exactly what I was – all those things. But I didn’t see it. Who would I go as to that party now, I wonder as I Dyson cracker crumbs from under the couch cushions. I know just the person: I’d go as Margot fromThe Good Life, and who cares if the twenty-five-year-olds didn’t even know who I was.
The interesting email was a reply from Maxine, Gabe’s friend, who heard I was ‘a hoot’ and would love to meet up about ‘collaborating on some ideas’. The timing of this couldn’t be better as I needed some good news. Even though the reversal has been successful, I have no work coming in, and have no idea what I’m going to do when I get back to Wiltshire. But I can’t help wondering if she knows anything about me and Gabe. Or maybe there isn’t much to know, which is even more depressing. But it’s realistic: not a lot had even happened between us – he’s probably forgotten about me by now.
I take one last look out across the view, still unsure which is the Gherkin and which is the Shard, pick up my bag and head for the door. I’m wearing some clothes that Cassia dropped off, clearly ones that she didn’t want as they’re quite big and not that interesting – an M&S grey jumper and some Free People rust-coloured trousers with an elasticated waist. I’m glad of them though, partly because it’s feeling autumnal, and partly because the alternative would be a floral shorts co-ord that nobody, including me, wants to see on a forty-eight-year-old woman with cheese curd thighs.
Walking past the hall mirror, I spot a new chin hair. How did that sprout up so quickly? JEEZ. I look like a nanny goat. I remember that hair – it used to be a regular. I might have to name it. Maybe Portia, for old time’s sake? I try to pluck it with my fingers, which never works, so decide it’s definitely one forthe GripMaster Pro Tweezers when I get home. Then I look at my whole face –reallylook, something I’ve been avoiding ever since the reversal was complete. Of course I liked looking young. Who wouldn’t? But this face and I – we’ve got history. And from now on, every time I see bits I don’t like – the jowls, forehead lines, crepey lids… that long list I used to obsess about – I’m going to remind myself that this is what I am meant to look like. These things are not ‘wrong’, or in need of ‘fixing’, in fact, I now see they come with benefits. Belly laughs with friends, and a family who loves me – needs me, even. Could this be actual wisdom? I don’t feel ready to call myself a Wise Woman, but I’m definitely wiser.
Thinking about Cassia, I dig my phone out of my bag and look at Instagram, realising I haven’t opened it all day. She’s doing a ‘Live’: her weekly vintage cocktail, which this week is in the ‘library’ (three shelves of self-help books and from what I can see a user manual for a robot vacuum). I know for a fact she lives in a new build in Sidcup, so I feel this is disingenuous. But isn’t all social media? The cocktail itself is a Last Word, apparently gin-based and from the Prohibition-era. I don’t know if Cassia sees me join, but suddenly she says that her ‘last word on a certain matter’ is that getting older isn’t easy, some of us find it easier than others – and that the best thing we can do as women is stick together. So, for the first time ever, I leave a comment: ‘#wisewomenlook after each other’. Who even am I? She likes it straightaway, and replies, ‘That’s my mantra, Erica!’ Yes, Cassia, that’s why I said it. Anyway, that’s enough Cassia for a while I think…
Merlyn’s driver messages to say he’s outside, so I pull the front door shut behind me for the last time, then get in the lift. Two floors down, Zoe and Jamal get in. They’re deep in conversation talking about a game and don’t acknowledge me. I’m pretty sure it’s because they don’t recognise me, or even bother to lookthat closely. Or both. Why would they? I’m just some middle-aged woman. After feeling invisible for so long, I’m realising that perhaps I was only invisible to those I didn’t need to be seen by.
As I get in the car, Merlyn messages me.
Safe travels back home, Erica my dear.
Thanks Merlyn.
I wanted to let you know that Dr Marcus was tracked down in Mauritius and is handing the patent over to Professor Brandt. She’s settling out of court. And as Yuvana Labs has gone into liquidation, the technology can now hopefully be put to its intended use.
That’s good news.
I believe it is, my dear.
I know it can help a lot of people now but
But what?
I also want you to know… that it helped me.
I am so pleased to hear you say that. Oh and Erica… one last thing: my driver just gave Nandita a lift to the pub – I believe Slay PR are having leaving drinks for Saskia. I just thought I’d let you know. Baci!
We pull out of the small car park in front of the block of flats, and I see another car coming in. A girl gets out with three huge suitcases. She’s tall, with honey-coloured hair in a high ponytail and looks like Blake Lively. I know immediately it’s Devon. The old me would have looked at her with envy. But this me, the new me? Well, there’s a bit of envy, come on, I’m only human, and she is stunning. A snack, even. But for the most part, I smile, and I think, it’s her turn. We get one go at youth each. Just one, if we’re lucky. Same goes for middle age – if we’re even luckier. And if we’re really, really lucky, we get to stay till the end of the night. And yes Keith, that’s when we have the best stories to tell.
Twenty minutes later, Merlyn’s driver pulls up on Old Compton Street and calls out that ‘this is the place, Miss’. He tells me he’ll wait for five minutes, and I thank him and get out.
It’s anaperitivobar with seats on the pavement and loud music coming from inside. It’s rather too cool for an M&S jumper, but I’m here now. I feel like I haven’t really prepared for this though. As much as I can’t wait to see Nandy, I’m worried she’ll tell me I’m a twat. She’s not generally shy of calling people that.
I stand outside the bar, trying to build up the courage to go in, watching passers-by. Two young women walk past in trench coats and baseball caps. A man stands vomiting in a doorway, and when he sees me, shouts, ‘What are you looking at, grandma?’
I take a deep breath and go in. The doors to the bar are open and I can see Nandy before I even cross the threshold. She’s sitting on a high bar stool with a purple leather seat, one of many lined up along a wide shelf along one wall, and chatting to Mei-Ling, one of the beauty assistants from Slay PR.
I feel a rush of love when I see her. It’s been so long, and I have so many things to tell her: about the Gen Zs, the gaming and the toys, and the club I went to with Channing, about Simon and the microdosing, about Kofi and what he told me, Cassia, what happened in Geneva, about Mother Pells… so many things. And I want to tell her how much I’ve missed her. And that I’m sorry I was stupid enough to put looking young before any friendship, but especially before ours.
I walk slowly towards her, and she looks up.
It takes a second, then her expression changes, from confusion, to disbelief, and then that huge smile I know so well spreads across her face.
‘Evening mofo,’ she says, looking me up and down, taking in the cardi, the grey hair, the face sliding down my neck like a Salvador Dali clock. ‘So, the rumours are true. You came to your senses?’
I nod.
‘You look fucking brilliant,’ she says. And she stands up, and she throws her arms around me.
