Dancing Over the Hill: The new feel good comedy from the author of The Kicking the Bucket List
Dancing Over the Hill: The new feel good comedy from the author of The Kicking the Bucket List
Cathy Hopkins
Praise for Cathy Hopkins:‘Warm, wise and full of heart’ Lucy Diamond‘Funny and feelgood’ Good Housekeeping‘Warm, funny and uplifting’ Reader’s DigestWhen a boxset of Broadchurch is more appealing than having sex with your husband, then perhaps it’s time to hide the remote…Cait and Matt have been married for 30 years. They are rock solid. An inspiration to others. Stuck together like glue. But Cait can’t shake off the feeling that something is missing. The whole world should be their oyster now that Matt has retired, so why does she feel shut up like a clam?Things get more complicated when Tom Lewis, the man who broke her heart at university, makes a reappearance – still as charming as ever. Her friends, widow Lorna and newly-single Debs, have their own views of what Cait should do – but she isn’t in the mood to listen.When Tom makes Cait an unexpected offer, Cait feels the pull of a different life. Has she got the guts to take the plunge, or does it take more courage to give her marriage another chance?Funny and thoughtful, this is a book for anyone who ever wondered . . . what if?
Copyright (#ulink_6d05ba90-a39e-5a0f-97fb-45fe9a95fa69)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Copyright © Cathy Hopkins 2017
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Cathy Hopkins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008202095
Ebook Edition © December 2017 ISBN: 9780008202088
Version: 2017-12-01
Epigraph (#ulink_8f466bda-23da-516d-9a42-b12a6338ca61)
Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be.
Robert Browning (1812–89)
Contents
Cover (#u79a07676-9e2a-5c68-a90b-d1f43747f777)
Title Page (#u3d1cd676-2554-59b2-b462-d27805244269)
Copyright (#u7d9fbbd4-43da-51d1-855d-8c6cb5f0f182)
Epigraph (#u504a32a9-7a0a-57d3-8c9b-c65a41f27fad)
Chapter 1 (#u80d3293f-3e3f-5b50-a8c7-51d8933c6e0f)
Chapter 2 (#ud70f24fe-b168-5f29-8e2c-ac4ef69e570e)
Chapter 3 (#u90b9055b-8dfb-521f-bc25-4a48d4ce47d8)
Chapter 4 (#u072ad74d-6f6a-5c0f-b02f-fe1b29f08011)
Chapter 5 (#ucc73e798-5d0b-5ab1-a196-f0e85aedbf02)
Chapter 6 (#u44690ecd-db72-5b1b-8ce5-ef5983d14fbf)
Chapter 7 (#u3ebb7443-d9dc-5306-bdf4-f2ce729d9c93)
Chapter 8 (#ua5317e9d-a44f-50f3-8dd4-ac40c7c5379f)
Chapter 9 (#u6e31683a-5d93-545f-b831-c6f88583fbf7)
Chapter 10 (#u83e8e97b-e34f-5f34-b5d6-2ace3bfa88c4)
Chapter 11 (#u963b2c5f-eff7-5338-9b0a-82b3b0692fdc)
Chapter 12 (#u4828b833-a576-5203-9b9c-8ec6138fcce2)
Chapter 13 (#ua336b03a-2d06-524d-a0ce-06ead26f724b)
Chapter 14 (#u3b471016-bf9d-5171-abcd-c5ac650c34a7)
Chapter 15 (#u8096b1d6-fce7-5206-a0cd-f4846f8bd76d)
Chapter 16 (#u7c5f9671-d689-5fc5-9aa5-893a5fa4e924)
Chapter 17 (#ubdd1aefb-02aa-5adf-b55b-a1c10407849f)
Chapter 18 (#u22e8e577-0f6f-508e-ace8-cfe6db5727fd)
Chapter 19 (#u647a18b9-a6db-5d79-a418-ef36b95f9774)
Chapter 20 (#u60e5b68d-87cb-59b4-9fcd-8d0accffd820)
Chapter 21 (#u008a7742-ab66-5945-ba7a-4424f3e32a92)
Chapter 22 (#ua9ba768f-de51-5af8-9fa8-b738d3a6331d)
Chapter 23 (#u5cbae54a-c690-5d91-abb5-ca4dc032bbc3)
Chapter 24 (#u85cb308f-a9f0-5f61-ba67-ce88d334d755)
Chapter 25 (#u95ecc856-c0c5-5122-8ced-43cab3adcbd6)
Chapter 26 (#u6c68be7a-f819-5da5-8438-620a04f48ab7)
Chapter 27 (#ud5a545c3-4c17-5e47-9515-0b042cc85f32)
Chapter 28 (#u6fc317c2-d9ca-5dee-9874-40fd152f4e17)
Chapter 29 (#u136713b4-4230-5498-89f2-cc6b5110cd31)
Chapter 30 (#u49b2f410-dff7-54fa-8daa-c5c3c4e3e2e2)
Chapter 31 (#ufc7760fa-494a-558b-9664-2f3a6b34dcb8)
Chapter 32 (#ufe456f64-5cf2-5f87-ae58-3bb712adb169)
Chapter 33 (#ucd8e1348-463c-59f4-9788-d299913e9019)
Chapter 34 (#u3a2ccb46-27a6-56f7-b537-daa42e225208)
Chapter 35 (#u76c27626-70c2-5aba-94a5-c6c267600799)
Chapter 36 (#ud13a4ccf-44ac-59f1-ad91-46df159d1f59)
Chapter 37 (#u2b11e406-1321-5b22-a099-b86dcea32289)
Chapter 38 (#u2038a3d8-76ac-56b7-926f-3a4427f9eb7f)
Chapter 39 (#u9c2a9ad3-91fd-5365-a7aa-3502a1bb477a)
Chapter 40 (#u249a658f-4338-5316-8ecd-e9345efd8fbe)
Chapter 41 (#uba2610c7-1786-5853-b77a-c569a9d491f1)
Chapter 42 (#u2ec0ea94-586d-522b-b517-3f513a8b58a4)
Chapter 43 (#u19e34d2f-93e6-50d4-a782-efff12253c62)
Chapter 44 (#ud383ba3b-cd96-5874-96d4-e11e6ae9bc6a)
Chapter 45 (#u3b1c04ce-a119-5acf-843b-1e54f3636432)
Chapter 46 (#ueaec1bfa-2ccd-5e70-935f-fd3a8689cd85)
Acknowledgements (#u68f60709-348a-5a2c-917d-f818bc32c265)
Matt’s A – Z of Activities for Retirement (#u6cc459d7-6e70-556a-b0ca-c1bc7c76f09a)
It’s never too late! (#u3b52afb3-146f-5e9c-bcaa-d0a0aca165e1)
Keep Reading … (#u546b38aa-1e59-51ee-8eab-529a2c6784a3)
About the Author (#u52bebe75-1488-517c-a75b-7360eebfc7b1)
Also by Cathy Hopkins (#ub52a9678-4dc3-506c-9137-1575477fc395)
About the Publisher (#u69497ac3-cc41-58ff-b5c4-3894bd95efba)
Cait
Friday night (thirty years ago):
Our passion spent, we lay back on the grass, satiated, our limbs entwined, the sun shining down on our naked bodies. It was one of those times, I would remember and cherish forever.
After a few moments, we sat up and surveyed the valley below and fields stretching out in front of us.
Matt turned to look at me. ‘Forever,’ he said as he looked deeply into my eyes.
‘For—waaargh! Ants!’ I cried as I leapt up and began to brush the invaders off my legs.
‘And … Cait, get dressed! Fast. We have to leg it now!’ said Matt as he pointed to the bottom of the hill where two walkers could be seen advancing up the lane towards us.
‘No!’ I grabbed my dress from where it had been thrown over a fence and dived into it as Matt jumped up and began to scramble into his jeans. Stumbling and laughing, we ran off before the intruders spotted us and realized what we’d been up to.
*
Friday night (now):
‘Fancy an early night?’ I asked. I knew he’d get the subtext, we’d been married long enough not to have to spell it out; plus ‘have sex’ had been on my to-do list for weeks.
‘We could, or …’ Matt replied.
‘Or what?’
‘Glass of wine and a box set?’
‘What have you got?’
‘Latest series of Game of Thrones.’
‘No brainer. I’ll get the glasses, you open the bottle.’
1 (#ulink_478405b1-3c8a-5aa3-a033-58390a37662e)
A year later: Cait
Items mislaid:1) Reading glasses.2) Book (it was by the bed).3) Bottle of Ginkgo biloba (it’s supposed to improve memory but I can’t remember where I put that either).4) Mobile phone.
Chin hairs plucked: 4
‘Matt, Matt. Are you OK? Matt.’
No response. I’d just got home from work to find Matt, stretched out and snoring softly on the sofa in the sitting room. He’d taken off his suit jacket, tie and shoes and cast them onto the nearest chair. An empty bottle of red wine and glass were on the coffee table in front of him, together with an open dictionary. Something must have happened. Matt was never here on a weekday, he was in Bristol, working, usually back on the train which got in around 8.30 p.m. He wasn’t a big drinker, either.
Maybe I shouldn’t wake him, I thought. Should leave him to sleep it off. But … he’s never home in the day. What’s happened? I gave him a gentle shove, then a more persistent one, but he was dead to the world. I checked he was still breathing. He’d been snoring a moment ago – of course he was.
Reassured that Matt was still in the land of the living, I tiptoed out and into the kitchen to search for my mobile to see if it offered any clues. I’d forgotten to take it out with me, so didn’t know if he’d been trying to reach me. I found the phone in the fruit bowl and turned it on to see if there were any messages. There were four missed calls and one text. All from Matt. The text said: When r u back? Need 2 talk.
Two minutes later, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to my two closest friends, Lorna and Debs. They had said they’d drop in on their way back from a trip to the garden centre.
‘Spring flowers,’ said Debs, and handed me a bunch of white tulips.
‘Thanks, but shh, Matt’s home, asleep on the sofa,’ I said as I ushered them through the hall and into the kitchen diner, where I shut the door after them. They made an odd pair. Debs, a curvaceous bohemian, forty-seven years old, with a mop of dark hair piled on top of her head and kept in place with a chopstick, was wearing a kingfisher blue silk top, green harem trousers and a big emerald amulet fit for an Egyptian high priestess. Although British born and bred, with her olive skin and brown eyes she looked Spanish, a throwback to her Andalusian great-grandmother, she’d told us. Next to her, Lorna was small and slim, in her fifties, and was in jeans and a blue shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, her silver-white hair cut neatly to her shoulders. I was the oldest of the three of us, but often felt like the youngest, a twenty year old trapped in an old body. Matt called my friends the S and S, the silly and the sensible, Debs being the first, Lorna the latter; he said that each of them represented a different side of my nature. ‘There’s more to me than that,’ I’d told him. ‘I have many sides – I’m multifaceted, like a diamond.’ He’d laughed. Cheek.
‘Matt? What’s going on?’ asked Debs, and was about to go barging in to see him but I pulled her back.
‘I don’t know, but he’s clearly had a skinful. Best leave him for now.’
‘Not like him,’ said Lorna as she settled on a stool at the island.
‘Why don’t you wake him?’ asked Debs. ‘Find out?’
‘I thought I’d let him sleep whatever it is off first.’
‘Wise,’ said Lorna and stood up. ‘Should we go?’
‘I … maybe. In case … I don’t know, something’s clearly happened and, until I know what, I don’t … Probably best you’re not here to see him in whatever state he wakes up in.’
‘No clues at all?’ asked Debs.
‘No, apart from a dictionary on the table. He must have been working on something.’ He always had his nose in a book, researching something or other for his job as a TV programme developer.
Lorna handed me a pot; in it was a wild geranium, its white flowers tinged with the faintest pink blush. ‘It’s a Kashmir White. If you like it, we can get more,’ she said as she headed for the front door, where she pulled out a leaflet and handed it to me. ‘And this lists the gardening classes on locally. We could go together, but we can talk about that another time. Come on, Debs. Call us if you need.’
‘Call us anyway,’ said Debs.
‘I will,’ I said, and saw them back out. I was sorry to see them go. I’d been looking forward to an hour catching up with them with a bottle of rosé on the decking outside in the warm May sunshine, plus Lorna had promised to help me make a start on the long overdue task of designing the garden borders. ‘And thanks for the plant, Lorna. It’s lovely.’
Lorna stepped forward and hugged me. ‘Keep calm and carry on, as they say.’
‘Ditto,’ said Debs, and hugged me as well.
After they’d gone, I went back to the kitchen and put the kettle on. My mind had gone into overdrive. What’d happened? Need 2 talk? That wasn’t like Matt. Over the years, he’d become Mr Incommunicado. He never needed to talk, unless it was to discuss what to get from the farmers’ market for Sunday lunch, or to ensure I recorded some history or sci-fi programme for him while he was out.
I glanced at our wedding photo on the dresser. Thirty years ago. Matt, handsome in his wedding suit, was smiling at the camera, his brown hair worn longer back then. Although padded out around the middle now, with grey flecks through his hair, he looked younger than his sixty-three years. Beside him in the photo frame, I was two sizes smaller, my hair long and chestnut brown, worn straight and loose, and topped with a wreath of white gypsophila to complement a medieval-style ivory velvet dress. I’d wanted to look like one of the Pre-Raphaelite heroines; I was such a romantic back then. My bridesmaids, Angie and Eve, stood to my right. Both were in pale mint velvet: Eve, a waif with long Titian hair; Angie not much taller. She had short dark hair and looked uncomfortable in her dress, much preferring jeans and a T-shirt to anything remotely girlie. So much had changed, of course it had. My hair was now three shades of blonde and shoulder-length, and I was no longer a size ten. Angie had moved to New Zealand over twenty years ago and Eve was dead. I missed both of them sorely. And Matt and I … We looked so happy in the photograph: in love, full of hope for the future. It had been a great wedding, a sunny day in a picturesque church in Dorset, then sausage and mash at the local pub with close friends and family, followed by a honeymoon exploring the Cornish coast. We hadn’t had the money for exotic locations – not that we minded. We’d set off in Matt’s Golf convertible, top down all the way, stayed at B & B’s along the route, eaten chips on windy beaches, stuffed ourselves with cream teas in roadside cafés and relished every minute of it.
At what point had we given up on each other and settled for what we had now? A relationship where we muddled along, taking each other for granted and barely communicating beyond the mundane everyday necessities of what we were going to eat, who was picking up the dry cleaning or going to plant the spring bulbs. Was it after our two boys, Sam and Jed, had left home? Or later? A slow fading-away of passion, to the comfortable stagnancy of familiarity and death of desire. Although we’d been together a long time, ridden the rollercoaster of marriage with good and bad times, more recently we’d become like lodgers sharing the same house. We had two TVs (one in the living room, one in the bedroom), we had two bathrooms, two cars, and occasionally slept in separate beds because sometimes Matt snored like a bear with a blocked nose.
I glanced at the booklet Lorna had left me. Gardening classes – they would be good, but when would I fit them in? I found a piece of paper and pen and began to outline my week to see if I could find a space.
Monday
Day: Receptionist job at the local doctor’s (temporary). I am really a global, bestselling children’s author (undiscovered due to the fact I haven’t finished a book yet).
Evening: writing class (learning how to be global, bestselling author and how to get published).
Tuesday
Day: Writing. Yoga class.
Evening: Film club or book club (alternate weeks).
Wednesday
Day: Receptionist job again.
Evening: Choir.
Thursday
Day: Receptionist job.
Evening: Supper with friends Debs and Lorna or Zumba.
Friday
Day: Supermarket shop. Writing my bestselling children’s novel. (Hah, that’s a joke, I thought. So far I have several abandoned attempts in a drawer in the desk in my study, and have written Chapter One of a new book on my laptop. I mean the words, Chapter One, not the actual chapter one with sentences and the beginning of a plot line and all.)
Evening: Pilates then drink with the group.
Saturday
Household chores. Walk with walking group.
Sunday
Day: Visit Dad in Chippenham.
Evening: New Age therapy course with Debs (i.e., couple of hours of clearing chakras, waving crystals and acting like a pair of lunatics).
No space for gardening classes unless I let something go, I thought. Not wanting to disturb Matt, I began to outline his week too.
Monday–Friday: Work 8 a.m.–8.30 p.m.
Evenings: Home. Occasionally has a work-related dinner; otherwise home for supper and he watches the news, history channel, sci-fi or a war film.
Saturday
Day: Chores. Sometimes watches the rugby or football.
Evening: Sometimes pub with brother Duncan.
Sunday
Reads the papers, front to back. Catches up on emails and work. Dozes in front of the TV.
Hmm. I know what anyone reading this would conclude, I thought as I compared our weeks. Here is a couple who don’t spend a lot of time together. Exactly. We don’t. We co-exist. Not that we don’t spend some evenings with each other, of course we do. That’s when we watch box sets or whatever’s new on Netflix. We’d worked our way through The West Wing, The Wire, The Sopranos, Orange Is the New Black, Boardwalk Empire, Mad Men and many more. We were polite to each other, kind even, but we don’t talk much beyond everyday necessities, not any more, not to each other. Who needs to talk when there’s a new series of House of Cards to watch? Our arrangement had worked, but lately I’d been wondering: was it enough?
I’m having an existential crisis, I thought. My friends, Debs and Lorna would say: Not again, Cait. You had one of those last year, and the year before, but this is different because of a few major things that have happened.
My mum died a year ago.
My oldest and best friend, Eve, died eight months ago.
Lorna’s husband, Alistair, died last year, a few weeks before Eve.
My youngest son, Jed, moved to Thailand.
My eldest son, Sam, moved to LA with his wife and my grandchildren.
All of this has made me very sad and has reminded me that no one knows what’s round the next corner, so I’ve taken the ‘seize the day’ attitude. I’ve been trying to make the most of life by filling my days with things to do, people to see, places to go. If I keep busy, busy, busy, I don’t have to think about loss and I can get by. However, the recent events have made me question many aspects of my life and my relationship.
Is this it?
Should I accept that my marriage has gone stale and carry on as we are?
What could change things?
Do I want to change things?
How would I change things?
Should I get some Wonderbrow paste to dye my grey eyebrows?
As I said, all existential stuff.
With those happy thoughts, I made tea and wondered again what Matt had to tell me. I mentally made a list of possibilities.
An affair?
He was ill?
Someone had died?
I liked a list. Some women of my age are ladies who lunch. I am a lady who lists. It’s just the way my brain works, it makes an inventory of everything; lists always make me feel calmer. Debs said that’s because my star sign is Virgo and they like things to be ordered and in the right place. She also said I had Aquarius rising, which was at odds with the Virgo part and accounted for my slightly eccentric and split personality and tendency to surprise people by doing or saying something out of the blue.
When I was younger, my lists looked like this:
Look for God.
Find a way to change the world for the better and bring about world peace.
Find my soul mate.
Live happily ever after.
Now the lists looked like this:
Check blood pressure.
Buy supplement for arthritis.
Google best anti-wrinkle cream.
Buy over-the-counter sleep remedies.
2 (#ulink_43769068-ab66-5247-a17e-b4e3899b8950)
Cait
After half an hour, I fetched my laptop from the top floor and went into Facebook for my daily fix of animal rescue clips. There was one of a baby orang-utan playing with a monkey. Cute. Orang-utans are my favourite animal. Now … what else had people posted that was essential viewing and part of life’s rich tapestry? I’d just opened footage of a bunch of Yorkshire men singing ‘Mi chip pan’s on fire’, when I heard a groan from the sitting room. I was about to close the page when I noticed a new friend request from a Tom Lewis.
‘Cait, are you back?’ I heard Matt call.
Tom Lewis. The Tom Lewis? It couldn’t be, I thought, as I abandoned the laptop and went through to the sitting room. I used to know someone of that name, but it couldn’t be him, surely? I hadn’t heard from him in over forty years. He had been the love of my life many, many moons ago. No. Couldn’t be him. Probably some random request. I got a number of those from men, mainly in the military, I didn’t know. Everyone on Facebook did. Spam. Couldn’t be my Tom Lewis. Either way, I’d have a proper look later.
Matt opened his eyes, usually conker brown and focused, now red and blurry. ‘Ah, there you are.’ He smiled at me. On the rare occasions that Matt drank too much, he was a nice drunk – affectionate and sleepy, no trouble.
‘So what’s happened?’ I asked.
He looked over at the dictionary. ‘Was looking up words.’
‘Words?’
He reached over, picked up the book and read from a page. ‘Redundant – no longer needed or useful, superfluous. Retirement – to recede or disappear into seclusion. I am sorry, Caitlin.’
Ah. So that was it. ‘Seriously?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘Seriously as in not funny.’
With that, he lay back, closed his eyes and nodded off again. I noticed that his left sock had a hole in it and his big toe was poking through. He was usually so perfectly turned out in his spotless shirts and well-cut suits for work, and this vulnerability endeared him to me.
I need a drink too, I thought.
I went back into the kitchen and found a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the fridge as the implications hit me. I opened the French doors and went to sit on the bench in the sunshine on the decking outside. I got out my mobile and called Lorna.
‘Matt’s been made redundant.’
‘Shit.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Will he get a pay-off?’
‘Maybe but it won’t be much. He was there as a freelancer though he’d been with the same company for a long time. He’s still out for the count so I don’t know the details yet.’
‘Is it definite?’
‘Think so. Hell, Lorna, how are we going to get by? We don’t have savings, or any cushion money, in fact.’
‘Don’t panic,’ said Lorna. ‘At least you have your job at the surgery.’
‘Only until Margaret Wilson is back from her maternity leave.’
‘What about your writing?’
I laughed. Despite time spent at my laptop, my ideas were sparse. ‘Nothing happening at the moment.’
‘You need to get an agent.’
‘I need to get a good idea first, and getting an agent is as difficult as getting a publisher.’
‘Something will come.’
‘Maybe. Hope so.’
‘In the meantime, at least you’re earning something.’
‘I guess.’ My job didn’t pay a lot. Matt and I had an agreement. I paid for the fun stuff. I earned enough to keep us in wine, the occasional meal out, and holidays once a year – and those to Devon or Cornwall, nowhere too expensive. Matt paid for the boring stuff – gas, mortgage, electric, phone, car, insurance. In short, he was the breadwinner.
‘He could always look for another job,’ said Lorna.
‘Maybe, but will he be able to get one at his age? It may be time to sell the house.’ It had always been on the cards that we might have to sell up one day, in order to release money for our non-existent pension pot because, like so many of my generation, we didn’t think we’d get old. ‘Matt didn’t just say redundant. He used the word retirement too.’
‘Big change for you both,’ said Lorna.
‘Wasn’t part of the plan just yet.’
‘Never is. Sometimes we chart the course of our lives internally with our choices, decisions and plans for the future, and think we’re in control. Sometimes change comes from unforeseen and unexpected external forces, and we realize that we’re not in control at all. Sounds like today is one of those days and you have no choice but to go with it.’
I got the feeling she was talking about Alistair’s short illness, as much as what had happened to Matt. Her husband had died last year of pancreatic cancer, eight weeks after he got the diagnosis. ‘So what should I do?’
‘Stay calm. Have a glass of wine. See how things unfold. Not all change is bad.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Call if you need to.’
‘Will do.’
After she’d hung up, I began to think how this change might affect us. Losing his job meant Matt would probably be at home all day. How would that be?
We had our lives worked out perfectly to avoid each other, without actually admitting that was what we were doing. When he got in from work late in the evening, I gave him space and let him retreat into his cave (as advised in the book, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus). If I wasn’t out at one of my classes, I’d have a brief chat when he got home, and then I usually went up to bed to read. He came up around twelve when I was asleep and, if I wasn’t, I pretended to be. He got up early and was gone by the time I rose in the morning, and so it went on until the weekend. I hardly knew what went on his head any more, nor he in mine, but this never troubled us because we were both so busy living our separate lives that we had never had to confront the fact we’d grown apart.
Will we need to sell the house if he can’t find other work? I asked myself. Probably. I liked our home. It was a five-bedroom semi-detached Edwardian in a quiet tree-lined street in Bath, with a south-facing, level garden at the back – hard to find because so much of the city is built on hills, so most gardens are sloped or terraced. We’d moved here over fifteen years ago after a weekend trip when we’d fallen in love with the area with its Georgian architecture, crescents and houses built with honey-coloured stone. We could walk into town in five minutes and be in the countryside in ten. I looked around at the wooden floors, which were scuffed and in need of sanding, and the magnolia walls, which I noted were overdue a lick of paint. I didn’t mind. It had a cosy, lived-in feel from when the boys were teenagers with a hundred interests and hobbies, hence shelves and cupboards in every room that were full of books, DVDs, games and sports equipment. I’d even found a snorkel and pair of flippers the other day, under the bed in Jed’s old room.
The house was too big for just the two of us now, but I loved having the extra space, even though the whole place needed a clear-out to really take advantage of it.
Although Jed had moved out when he went to university, he had still come back from time to time, and had only gone properly when he’d moved to Thailand over a year ago. I know other mothers who mourned when their kids finally left home, empty-nesters, and I did go through some of that when they disappeared. For a while the house seemed so empty and silent, but in time I found it liberating. I’d paid my dues; had the house full of noisy boys, sleepovers, cooking endless meals, laundry, ironing, never being able to get near the TV remote, shelling out money for all sorts, not being able to sleep until I knew they were home, safe and in their beds. Of course I missed them, but not their mess and the worry when they were out late. Now I had peace and quiet, two rooms to spare for storage, food in the fridge that didn’t get eaten within twenty-four hours of being bought, time for my friends, and beds down the corridor to go to if Matt was snoring. I went to my part-time job and worked on book ideas with no pressure. It hadn’t mattered that I wasn’t a high earner. Hadn’t mattered. It would now.
A text came through from Debs. Everything OK?
I texted back. Matt’s lost his job. Details l8r when I get them.
Debs texted back. Take Star of Bethlehem flower remedy for shock, both of you. Want me to send some over?
She had an alternative cure for all ills and, over the years, I’d been given all sorts of concoctions to apply or ingest, though I quite liked the flower remedies, probably because they came in brandy.
She texted again a moment later. We’ll sort it this evening.
Will have to take a rain check. Want to see how Matt is.
We had a supper night when we could all make it. It was our private counselling session. Debs had suggested it last year as an excuse to get together, and she’d made up rules. We took turns in choosing where to go. It had to be somewhere we hadn’t been before. We put our troubles on the table and offered each other support and advice. It had been a life-saver, an evening to laugh, cry, try out a new place and air any problems. I’m not sure I’ll be able to afford supper nights for a while, I thought as I decided to opt for Lorna’s advice, poured myself a second glass of wine and wrote a list of things to do.
Check out local house values on Rightmove.
Check out properties for sale in areas we could afford.
Stop worrying. It’s only stuff.
Cue the mini princess from Frozen singing ‘Let It Go, Let It Go’ in my head. Cue visualization of smashing her in the face with a frying pan.
3 (#ulink_51236e68-11ec-58f0-ad50-a95a1e9b58a9)
Cait
Chin hairs plucked: 1
Nose hairs trimmed: 3
Items lost: my space
3 a.m. Bedroom. Yoda, our cat, decided he needed to declare his undying love. He’s a honey-coloured Persian chinchilla, named because he resembles Yoda from the Star Wars movie, only furrier. He jumped on the bed, onto my chest and began kneading and purring loudly. I got out of bed and put him outside the door.
3.05 a.m. Banshee howling loud enough to wake the dead. Desperate scratching at the door. Not a spirit from beyond the grave, it was Yoda again. Got up and let him back in.
3.10 a.m. After more chest-kneading, Yoda wrapped himself around my head and fell asleep, but my mind was wide awake, thinking about our future. It had been almost ten days since Matt lost his job. What if we ran out of money? Should we sell the house? Stay? Should Matt try and find another job? What? Anything? Should I try to go back into teaching? It paid better than the temporary part-time jobs I’d been doing for the last five years.
Dad. He’s lonely. Care home? Not necessary. He doesn’t need care, just company. Maybe he’d consider sheltered accommodation for that. He wouldn’t be alone there. Maybe he’d like Yoda.
4.07 a.m. Matt was snoring away.
I gave him a nudge and he obediently turned over, and after five minutes resumed his snoring.
Nudged him again.
Finally started drifting off to sleep when Matt did one of his spectacular snort-snores. Very loud. Almost leapt out of my skin. Nudged him and he turned over and continued snoring softly.
Debated whether to thump him in the kidneys, suffocate him with a pillow or nudge him again. Grrr.
Got up and climbed into the bed in the spare room. Peace at last, but sleep still escaped me as it has done for the past year or so.
Finally dozed off. Zzzzz.
5 a.m. Yoda found me. He patted my cheek gently with his paw. I ignored him. More gentle patting, which I ignored.
5.05 a.m. Yoda inserted a claw into my nostril and pulled. Ow! That hurt. Wide awake now. Where has he learnt to do that? Do cats come with a built-in manual of instructions on how to wake your owner? Advanced technique no. 3: locate hole in middle of human’s face. Flick out claw. Insert into hole and pull.
5.10 a.m. Got out of bed, went downstairs and fed Yoda, who was now purring like an old bus. Back to bed in spare room. Can hear Matt still sleeping and snoring in our bedroom. Grrr.
6 a.m. Finally drifted off. Zzz.
8 a.m. Matt came into the room and nudged me awake.
‘Cup of tea, Cait?’
I turned over and opened my eyes. ‘Uh. No. I’m fine, thanks. I’ll get one when I’m up.’
He put a mug on the bedside cabinet. ‘Made you one anyway.’
8.05 a.m. Drifting back off to sleep, just for another half-hour …
Matt came back into the room. ‘I’ve fed Yoda so you don’t need to.’
‘Mmm. Right. Thanks.’
‘Are you getting up?’
‘No. Yes. Didn’t sleep too well. You were snoring.’
‘Sorry. You should have nudged me.’
Kitchen. 9 a.m. ‘What shall we have for breakfast?’ asked Matt. He was still in his blue towelling dressing gown.
‘We? Uh. Oh. Right. I don’t usually have much in the week. I usually just grabbed something quick after you’d gone to work. A Nutribullet or something.’
‘Oh. What’s in that then?’
‘Kale, seeds, fruit.’
Matt pulled a face. ‘OK. I’ll fix my own.’
He seemed miffed.
10 a.m. Top floor. Study. Stared at screen which was blank apart from two words. New ideas.
Clicked on Facebook. Watched a clip of a panda with no eyes that is befriended by a puppy. Aw.
Must start work, but I see someone’s posted a clip of a baby elephant playing in the sea for the first time. Crucial viewing I’d say.
Stared out of the window at the fields at the back of the house. It’s misty out there.
Back to blank screen.
Matt, still in his dressing gown, popped his head round the door. ‘Cup of coffee, Caitlin?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Did I hear the phone go earlier?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Dad.’
Matt came in and settled himself on the chair opposite my desk. ‘What did he have to say?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘He must have said something.’
‘Usual stuff. How my brother’s doing. How his dentist appointment went. He’s lonely, I think.’
‘How is your brother?’
‘Fine.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to work.’
Matt got up. ‘Sorry. I can see I’m interrupting you.’
He seemed miffed.
10.30 a.m. Sent email to my friend Lizzie, a retired literary agent in London, asking her to call.
Post arrived. I went downstairs to pick it up.
Into kitchen to open post. Matt was sitting on a stool at the island.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Post.’
He got up and hovered behind my shoulder. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?
‘Well yes, but it’s addressed to me.’
‘Since when has your mail been private?’
‘It’s not. Junk mail,’ I said as I opened the first envelope. ‘See, nothing important.’
Matt looked out of the French doors to the garden. He seemed miffed.
10.45 a.m. Matt appeared at the study door.
‘Anyone call for me? I thought I heard the phone go.’
‘Dad again. He forgot to tell me to listen to something on the radio.’
‘Oh. What was that?’
‘Some programme about children’s writers.’
‘Anything else in the mail?’
I picked it out of the bin and handed it to him. ‘Here. Only catalogues we don’t really want. You can take them if you like.’
He did.
He seemed miffed.
11 a.m. Bathroom. ‘Caitlin, where are you?’ Matt called.
‘On the loo.’
I heard footsteps in the corridor. ‘Where do you keep the Sellotape?’
‘Desk drawer in my study, second one down.’
‘Righto.’
11.15 a.m. Hall. Matt appeared on the stairs, still in his dressing gown. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Out.’
‘I can see that. Where?’
‘Supermarket.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Car keys. Have you seen them?
‘No. What time will you be back?’
‘Not sure. I might go for coffee afterwards.’
‘Oh. Who with?’
‘Matt, when have you ever taken an interest in who I go for coffee with? And when are you going to get dressed?’
‘No need to be prickly.’
‘Sorry. Sorry. I’m going for coffee with Carol from my yoga class.’
‘Do I know her?’
‘No. She’s new to the group.’
‘What time will you be back?’
‘About one.’
1 p.m. Home. Hall. ‘How was the supermarket?’ asked Matt. He’d dressed but not shaved.
‘Same as ever.’
‘Good. Good. So. What’s for lunch?’
‘Lunch? I …’
Matt sighed. ‘I get it. You just grab something quick. Don’t worry. I’ll fix myself something.’
He seemed miffed.
2 p.m. Study. ‘Who was that on the phone?’ asked Matt from the corridor.
‘Lizzie.’
‘Anything interesting to say?’
‘Not really. Just chatting over whether I’d got any new ideas. She promised she’d look over anything I write.’
‘And have you got new ideas?’
‘No. That’s what I’m trying to do now, so that Lizzie and I have something to discuss next time I see her.’
‘Right. OK. I’ll let you get on.’
Back to new ideas, but first a quick look at Facebook. Oo. Someone had posted a new clip demonstrating The Art of Mongolian Flute Singing. Felt compelling need to watch all four minutes of it.
4 p.m. Study. Deleted all the rubbish I’d written after the words ‘New Ideas’.
Opened new page. Wrote ‘Options’.
Write brilliant, mind-blowing and original children’s book.
Sell our house, downsize, have some money in the bank.
It’s a no-brainer. Called two estate agents to come and value the house.
‘Want a cup of tea?’ Matt called up the stairs.
‘Sure, but I’ll make it. I need a break.’
I went down into the kitchen, where Matt had parked himself again, on the stool at the island, looking at his laptop. I put the kettle on. He got off the stool and came up behind me and reached into the bread bin.
I stepped back as he stepped forward.
‘Oops, sorry,’ we both said.
I found the teabags, then moved cups onto the island at the same time he opened the fridge door, which banged my knee. We stepped into each other again. ‘Oops, sorry.’
I reached into the bread bin and got out crackers.
‘Oh, what are you having?’ he asked.
‘Snack. Bit of cheese on a cracker.’
‘Make me one, will you?’
‘What do you want on it?’
He sighed. ‘I’m getting in your way, aren’t I?’
‘No, not at all,’ I lied.
5 p.m. Bathroom. I could hear shuffling outside the door. ‘Where are you?’ called Matt.
‘Loo. What do you want?’
‘What’s for supper?’
‘Supper? Oh, I hadn’t thought about it yet. Sea bass, green beans OK?’
‘We had fish last night.’
‘Can we talk about this when I’m out of the bathroom?’
‘Oh. Course.’
I finished what I was doing then opened the door. Matt was leaning against the wall.
‘OK. Supper,’ I said. ‘Tell me what you want. I tended to eat light in the week when you were away. Something healthy.’
‘Light? OK. No, don’t bother about me then. I’ll see what’s there and sort myself out.’
5.45 p.m. Bathroom. ‘Caitlin, are you in there again?’
‘Yes. I’m having a shower.’
‘I’ve just found a good website about downsizing. I’ll send you the link.’
‘Right. OK. Thanks.’ A minute later. ‘Are you still out there Matt?’
‘Erm yes, just—’
‘Go away.’
6 p.m. Bedroom. ‘Cait?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘My mindfulness exercises. Ten minutes. Just give me ten minutes.’
‘Right. Just I can’t find the frying pan.’
‘It’s where it always is. Left cupboard by the sink.’
‘Right.’
And breathe in, one two three. Out one two three. Let go of tension. Stop grinding teeth.
6.10 p.m. Sitting room. Must make an effort, it can’t be easy for him, I thought as I went and sat on the chair opposite Matt, who was stretched out on the sofa watching the TV.
‘How’s your day been?’ I asked.
He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Fine.’
‘Maybe we could have a chat about what we’re going to do, you know, finances; maybe do a budget.’
Matt sighed. ‘Can we do it another time?’
‘Sure. You OK? You know I’m here if you want to talk about what happened.’
‘Happened when?’
‘You lost your job.’
‘Do I want to talk about it? Relive it? Let me think. No. No, I don’t. Erm …’ He glanced over at the TV. ‘Just want to catch the news.’
‘News. Right. Of course. OK. Good. And, just to let you know, I’ll probably be going to the loo in another half-hour. Just so you know where I am.’
He gave me a puzzled look.
I felt miffed.
8.00 p.m. Opened my laptop to look for emails. None.
Quick look on Facebook to see if there are any new compelling clips that I must watch as part of my essential education on life and all its aspects.
‘Want to know who you were in a past life?’ Well, yes, I think I do, Mr Facebook. Did the questionnaire. Ah. Apparently I was a Turkish fortune-teller in the fifteenth century. Well, I never saw that coming. Must tell Debs. She’ll believe it.
I was about to exit Facebook to go down to prepare supper when I remembered that I’d had a friend request from a Tom Lewis. In all the drama of Matt losing his job and me adjusting to being followed around the house, I’d forgotten about it.
I noted that whoever this Tom Lewis was, he’d also sent a private message. Hmm, the spam requests don’t usually do that, I thought, my curiosity aroused as I clicked to see what I’d been sent.
‘Hey Caitlin. Found you! Would love to see you, remember old times, plot new times and check we’re both still on track re. our promise to never give in and grow old, to always seek adventure and take the road less travelled. Never forget, you were always one of the cool ones. Tom X’
I clicked his profile photo up. Christ! It is. TOM Lewis. THE Tom Lewis.
Cue violins, time slowing down, a flock of white doves being released into the air, rose petals falling from the sky. TOM LEWIS. I took a deep breath and reread the message, then reread it again. He’d gone abroad. I thought we’d lost each other forever, but there he was in the photo on my laptop screen, older, still handsome as hell, still got his hair though no longer black, still capable of making my post-menopausal heart skip a beat.
I remembered the first time I saw him. I was twenty years old, in my second year at university in Manchester, and he was post grad at the art college. Ours was the love and peace generation. John Lennon had released ‘Imagine’. Joni Mitchell’s version of ‘Woodstock’ played on the radio. I knew all the words by heart. The Pyramid Stage was built at Glastonbury. There was a rush of gurus to choose from: Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, the Maharishi, Sathya Sai Baba, Sri Chinmoy, Ram Dass – to name but a handful. Friends in the know swapped their cornflakes for muesli, potatoes for brown rice; green was a buzzword. My head was full of dreams: we were going to change the world and I was going to be a part of it.
I’d heard of Tom’s bad-boy reputation and the trail of broken hearts, though I’d never met him. One night, Eve and I had gone to see a band at a pub in town, a place where all the students went. I knew as soon as I saw him that it was him. In a time when the other men we encountered were about as sexy as an Old English sheepdog, with their open-toed sandals, duffel coats and pale, hairy legs, Tom stood out a mile. He was leaning against the bar, elbows back on the counter, his body turned to the room, hips slightly thrust out. He was wearing cowboy boots, Levis, a leather aviator jacket. His mane of shaggy dark hair reached to his shoulders, and those crinkly eyes, navy blue, surveyed the territory with that look he always had back then, as though he knew more than the rest of us and the whole world amused him. I was coming down the stairs and could feel him watching me. I descended slowly, my hand on the banister, trying to appear cool, not looking at him, missed the bottom step and landed in a heap. He had come over to help me to my feet, asked if I was OK. I’d nodded, said I liked to make an entrance and he laughed, so easily. I could always make him laugh.
I felt a rush as I looked at his photo on my computer screen and remembered afternoons and nights we’d spent on his mattress on the floor in his room at his digs. I even remembered the bedspread; it was from India and had a green and red paisley pattern. We’d spent a lot of time on it or under it, a whole week just after we met, locked away in a fusion of lust. There was a poster of Che Guevara on the wall, the scent of patchouli oil and sandalwood joss sticks in the air, the sound of Crosby, Stills & Nash on the record player. He used to play their track, ‘Guinnevere’, over and over to me, the one where they sing about her green eyes. I had green eyes. Still have them. He said they were beautiful, that I was beautiful. I was his lady with my long hair, ankle-length dresses and velvet cape.
We prided ourselves on being open-minded about other cultures and beliefs. We read Buddhist scriptures, tried transcendental meditation, did yoga, went to meetings where we chanted Hare Krishna, ate curry and rice and listened to readings from the Bhagavad Gita, then would go home, get stoned and talk about our newfound discoveries until the early hours of the morning. Some nights we’d put on ‘Hot Rats’ by Frank Zappa and dance like mad things before bed, love and sleep. Other nights, we would lie on the floor in Tom’s room in the dark and listen to music: The Grateful Dead, Hendrix, Van Morrison, The Eagles, The Stones, The Doors, Pink Floyd, Velvet Underground, Joni Mitchell, Miles Davis. We floated around in a haze of marijuana, and the world felt full of hope and the promise of new experience. ‘We must never grow old, Cait,’ he’d said. ‘We must stay curious. Promise me that, whatever happens, we’ll always stay in touch and remind each other to always seek adventure and take the road less travelled.’
It had been a magical, mystical time that had ended just after he’d finished his degree and Chloe Porter, a Jean Shrimpton-lookalike in a micro-skirt had arrived on the scene. She was attending her brother’s degree ceremony and, two weeks later, Tom left Manchester and went to be with her in London. All I got was a note left on our bed. ‘Adventure calling, Cait. I know you’ll understand.’ I didn’t. I was gutted, heartbroken. I’d thought we were soul mates, that he was The One. He was supposed to have been my knight in shining armour but he rode off into the sunset with another lady, leaving me the damsel in distress. I threw out my Crosby, Stills & Nash LP and played ‘Hey, That’s No Way To Say Goodbye’ by Leonard Cohen over and over again until Eve, who shared the student house where I lived, called it ‘music to slash your wrists to’ and threatened to smash all my records.
A month later, I’d received a letter from Tom. ‘Dearest Cait. Timing. You know we were too young to have found each other when we did. There’s too much experience still to have on this journey through life for both of us. But we’ll meet again. You know we will, we are meant to be in each other’s lives. Get out there. Have love affairs. Travel. Give your heart. I miss you but that’s how it is for now. Seek adventures. Remember the promise. I will be in touch from time to time to check you haven’t taken the easy option. Love always, Tom.’
What a pile of crap, I’d thought, and ripped up the letter. I’d known what he was like and cursed myself for falling for his easy charm and honeyed words for so long. I should have known better. We hadn’t stayed in touch. After I’d finished university, I decided to give up on men and look for God instead, to seek a higher, unconditional love as opposed to romantic and limited. I joined the hippie trail and went to India, where I learnt to view life, its highs and lows, as a dream, a temporary illusion. I came to believe that attachment to worldly possessions and people was what caused pain. On my return from the East, I heard from an old university friend that Tom had gone to live in the States and settled in LA. I didn’t take his address. No point. He hadn’t bothered to let me know himself where he was going, and any thoughts of him still hurt, despite my aspiration to detachment. I wasn’t going to chase him. I drifted for a few years, worked in a co-operative shop that sold organic food and vegetarian meals, did dance and drama classes and a bit of acting, sang in a band as a backing singer, but nothing that came to much. In my late twenties, I decided it was time to get real and put down some roots. I put my degree to use and got a job as an English and drama teacher. When I was thirty, I met, fell in love and married Matt and for the first time in years felt settled We set up house, Sam came along then, five years later, Jed, so I had a family to care for and no time to indulge in the youthful notion of taking the road less travelled. Bringing up two boys was enough of an adventure into uncharted territory.
And now, after all this time, Tom wants to be my friend on Facebook. Well …
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/cathy-hopkins/dancing-over-the-hill-the-new-feel-good-comedy-from-the-auth/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Cathy Hopkins
Praise for Cathy Hopkins:‘Warm, wise and full of heart’ Lucy Diamond‘Funny and feelgood’ Good Housekeeping‘Warm, funny and uplifting’ Reader’s DigestWhen a boxset of Broadchurch is more appealing than having sex with your husband, then perhaps it’s time to hide the remote…Cait and Matt have been married for 30 years. They are rock solid. An inspiration to others. Stuck together like glue. But Cait can’t shake off the feeling that something is missing. The whole world should be their oyster now that Matt has retired, so why does she feel shut up like a clam?Things get more complicated when Tom Lewis, the man who broke her heart at university, makes a reappearance – still as charming as ever. Her friends, widow Lorna and newly-single Debs, have their own views of what Cait should do – but she isn’t in the mood to listen.When Tom makes Cait an unexpected offer, Cait feels the pull of a different life. Has she got the guts to take the plunge, or does it take more courage to give her marriage another chance?Funny and thoughtful, this is a book for anyone who ever wondered . . . what if?
Copyright (#ulink_6d05ba90-a39e-5a0f-97fb-45fe9a95fa69)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Copyright © Cathy Hopkins 2017
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Cathy Hopkins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008202095
Ebook Edition © December 2017 ISBN: 9780008202088
Version: 2017-12-01
Epigraph (#ulink_8f466bda-23da-516d-9a42-b12a6338ca61)
Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be.
Robert Browning (1812–89)
Contents
Cover (#u79a07676-9e2a-5c68-a90b-d1f43747f777)
Title Page (#u3d1cd676-2554-59b2-b462-d27805244269)
Copyright (#u7d9fbbd4-43da-51d1-855d-8c6cb5f0f182)
Epigraph (#u504a32a9-7a0a-57d3-8c9b-c65a41f27fad)
Chapter 1 (#u80d3293f-3e3f-5b50-a8c7-51d8933c6e0f)
Chapter 2 (#ud70f24fe-b168-5f29-8e2c-ac4ef69e570e)
Chapter 3 (#u90b9055b-8dfb-521f-bc25-4a48d4ce47d8)
Chapter 4 (#u072ad74d-6f6a-5c0f-b02f-fe1b29f08011)
Chapter 5 (#ucc73e798-5d0b-5ab1-a196-f0e85aedbf02)
Chapter 6 (#u44690ecd-db72-5b1b-8ce5-ef5983d14fbf)
Chapter 7 (#u3ebb7443-d9dc-5306-bdf4-f2ce729d9c93)
Chapter 8 (#ua5317e9d-a44f-50f3-8dd4-ac40c7c5379f)
Chapter 9 (#u6e31683a-5d93-545f-b831-c6f88583fbf7)
Chapter 10 (#u83e8e97b-e34f-5f34-b5d6-2ace3bfa88c4)
Chapter 11 (#u963b2c5f-eff7-5338-9b0a-82b3b0692fdc)
Chapter 12 (#u4828b833-a576-5203-9b9c-8ec6138fcce2)
Chapter 13 (#ua336b03a-2d06-524d-a0ce-06ead26f724b)
Chapter 14 (#u3b471016-bf9d-5171-abcd-c5ac650c34a7)
Chapter 15 (#u8096b1d6-fce7-5206-a0cd-f4846f8bd76d)
Chapter 16 (#u7c5f9671-d689-5fc5-9aa5-893a5fa4e924)
Chapter 17 (#ubdd1aefb-02aa-5adf-b55b-a1c10407849f)
Chapter 18 (#u22e8e577-0f6f-508e-ace8-cfe6db5727fd)
Chapter 19 (#u647a18b9-a6db-5d79-a418-ef36b95f9774)
Chapter 20 (#u60e5b68d-87cb-59b4-9fcd-8d0accffd820)
Chapter 21 (#u008a7742-ab66-5945-ba7a-4424f3e32a92)
Chapter 22 (#ua9ba768f-de51-5af8-9fa8-b738d3a6331d)
Chapter 23 (#u5cbae54a-c690-5d91-abb5-ca4dc032bbc3)
Chapter 24 (#u85cb308f-a9f0-5f61-ba67-ce88d334d755)
Chapter 25 (#u95ecc856-c0c5-5122-8ced-43cab3adcbd6)
Chapter 26 (#u6c68be7a-f819-5da5-8438-620a04f48ab7)
Chapter 27 (#ud5a545c3-4c17-5e47-9515-0b042cc85f32)
Chapter 28 (#u6fc317c2-d9ca-5dee-9874-40fd152f4e17)
Chapter 29 (#u136713b4-4230-5498-89f2-cc6b5110cd31)
Chapter 30 (#u49b2f410-dff7-54fa-8daa-c5c3c4e3e2e2)
Chapter 31 (#ufc7760fa-494a-558b-9664-2f3a6b34dcb8)
Chapter 32 (#ufe456f64-5cf2-5f87-ae58-3bb712adb169)
Chapter 33 (#ucd8e1348-463c-59f4-9788-d299913e9019)
Chapter 34 (#u3a2ccb46-27a6-56f7-b537-daa42e225208)
Chapter 35 (#u76c27626-70c2-5aba-94a5-c6c267600799)
Chapter 36 (#ud13a4ccf-44ac-59f1-ad91-46df159d1f59)
Chapter 37 (#u2b11e406-1321-5b22-a099-b86dcea32289)
Chapter 38 (#u2038a3d8-76ac-56b7-926f-3a4427f9eb7f)
Chapter 39 (#u9c2a9ad3-91fd-5365-a7aa-3502a1bb477a)
Chapter 40 (#u249a658f-4338-5316-8ecd-e9345efd8fbe)
Chapter 41 (#uba2610c7-1786-5853-b77a-c569a9d491f1)
Chapter 42 (#u2ec0ea94-586d-522b-b517-3f513a8b58a4)
Chapter 43 (#u19e34d2f-93e6-50d4-a782-efff12253c62)
Chapter 44 (#ud383ba3b-cd96-5874-96d4-e11e6ae9bc6a)
Chapter 45 (#u3b1c04ce-a119-5acf-843b-1e54f3636432)
Chapter 46 (#ueaec1bfa-2ccd-5e70-935f-fd3a8689cd85)
Acknowledgements (#u68f60709-348a-5a2c-917d-f818bc32c265)
Matt’s A – Z of Activities for Retirement (#u6cc459d7-6e70-556a-b0ca-c1bc7c76f09a)
It’s never too late! (#u3b52afb3-146f-5e9c-bcaa-d0a0aca165e1)
Keep Reading … (#u546b38aa-1e59-51ee-8eab-529a2c6784a3)
About the Author (#u52bebe75-1488-517c-a75b-7360eebfc7b1)
Also by Cathy Hopkins (#ub52a9678-4dc3-506c-9137-1575477fc395)
About the Publisher (#u69497ac3-cc41-58ff-b5c4-3894bd95efba)
Cait
Friday night (thirty years ago):
Our passion spent, we lay back on the grass, satiated, our limbs entwined, the sun shining down on our naked bodies. It was one of those times, I would remember and cherish forever.
After a few moments, we sat up and surveyed the valley below and fields stretching out in front of us.
Matt turned to look at me. ‘Forever,’ he said as he looked deeply into my eyes.
‘For—waaargh! Ants!’ I cried as I leapt up and began to brush the invaders off my legs.
‘And … Cait, get dressed! Fast. We have to leg it now!’ said Matt as he pointed to the bottom of the hill where two walkers could be seen advancing up the lane towards us.
‘No!’ I grabbed my dress from where it had been thrown over a fence and dived into it as Matt jumped up and began to scramble into his jeans. Stumbling and laughing, we ran off before the intruders spotted us and realized what we’d been up to.
*
Friday night (now):
‘Fancy an early night?’ I asked. I knew he’d get the subtext, we’d been married long enough not to have to spell it out; plus ‘have sex’ had been on my to-do list for weeks.
‘We could, or …’ Matt replied.
‘Or what?’
‘Glass of wine and a box set?’
‘What have you got?’
‘Latest series of Game of Thrones.’
‘No brainer. I’ll get the glasses, you open the bottle.’
1 (#ulink_478405b1-3c8a-5aa3-a033-58390a37662e)
A year later: Cait
Items mislaid:1) Reading glasses.2) Book (it was by the bed).3) Bottle of Ginkgo biloba (it’s supposed to improve memory but I can’t remember where I put that either).4) Mobile phone.
Chin hairs plucked: 4
‘Matt, Matt. Are you OK? Matt.’
No response. I’d just got home from work to find Matt, stretched out and snoring softly on the sofa in the sitting room. He’d taken off his suit jacket, tie and shoes and cast them onto the nearest chair. An empty bottle of red wine and glass were on the coffee table in front of him, together with an open dictionary. Something must have happened. Matt was never here on a weekday, he was in Bristol, working, usually back on the train which got in around 8.30 p.m. He wasn’t a big drinker, either.
Maybe I shouldn’t wake him, I thought. Should leave him to sleep it off. But … he’s never home in the day. What’s happened? I gave him a gentle shove, then a more persistent one, but he was dead to the world. I checked he was still breathing. He’d been snoring a moment ago – of course he was.
Reassured that Matt was still in the land of the living, I tiptoed out and into the kitchen to search for my mobile to see if it offered any clues. I’d forgotten to take it out with me, so didn’t know if he’d been trying to reach me. I found the phone in the fruit bowl and turned it on to see if there were any messages. There were four missed calls and one text. All from Matt. The text said: When r u back? Need 2 talk.
Two minutes later, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to my two closest friends, Lorna and Debs. They had said they’d drop in on their way back from a trip to the garden centre.
‘Spring flowers,’ said Debs, and handed me a bunch of white tulips.
‘Thanks, but shh, Matt’s home, asleep on the sofa,’ I said as I ushered them through the hall and into the kitchen diner, where I shut the door after them. They made an odd pair. Debs, a curvaceous bohemian, forty-seven years old, with a mop of dark hair piled on top of her head and kept in place with a chopstick, was wearing a kingfisher blue silk top, green harem trousers and a big emerald amulet fit for an Egyptian high priestess. Although British born and bred, with her olive skin and brown eyes she looked Spanish, a throwback to her Andalusian great-grandmother, she’d told us. Next to her, Lorna was small and slim, in her fifties, and was in jeans and a blue shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, her silver-white hair cut neatly to her shoulders. I was the oldest of the three of us, but often felt like the youngest, a twenty year old trapped in an old body. Matt called my friends the S and S, the silly and the sensible, Debs being the first, Lorna the latter; he said that each of them represented a different side of my nature. ‘There’s more to me than that,’ I’d told him. ‘I have many sides – I’m multifaceted, like a diamond.’ He’d laughed. Cheek.
‘Matt? What’s going on?’ asked Debs, and was about to go barging in to see him but I pulled her back.
‘I don’t know, but he’s clearly had a skinful. Best leave him for now.’
‘Not like him,’ said Lorna as she settled on a stool at the island.
‘Why don’t you wake him?’ asked Debs. ‘Find out?’
‘I thought I’d let him sleep whatever it is off first.’
‘Wise,’ said Lorna and stood up. ‘Should we go?’
‘I … maybe. In case … I don’t know, something’s clearly happened and, until I know what, I don’t … Probably best you’re not here to see him in whatever state he wakes up in.’
‘No clues at all?’ asked Debs.
‘No, apart from a dictionary on the table. He must have been working on something.’ He always had his nose in a book, researching something or other for his job as a TV programme developer.
Lorna handed me a pot; in it was a wild geranium, its white flowers tinged with the faintest pink blush. ‘It’s a Kashmir White. If you like it, we can get more,’ she said as she headed for the front door, where she pulled out a leaflet and handed it to me. ‘And this lists the gardening classes on locally. We could go together, but we can talk about that another time. Come on, Debs. Call us if you need.’
‘Call us anyway,’ said Debs.
‘I will,’ I said, and saw them back out. I was sorry to see them go. I’d been looking forward to an hour catching up with them with a bottle of rosé on the decking outside in the warm May sunshine, plus Lorna had promised to help me make a start on the long overdue task of designing the garden borders. ‘And thanks for the plant, Lorna. It’s lovely.’
Lorna stepped forward and hugged me. ‘Keep calm and carry on, as they say.’
‘Ditto,’ said Debs, and hugged me as well.
After they’d gone, I went back to the kitchen and put the kettle on. My mind had gone into overdrive. What’d happened? Need 2 talk? That wasn’t like Matt. Over the years, he’d become Mr Incommunicado. He never needed to talk, unless it was to discuss what to get from the farmers’ market for Sunday lunch, or to ensure I recorded some history or sci-fi programme for him while he was out.
I glanced at our wedding photo on the dresser. Thirty years ago. Matt, handsome in his wedding suit, was smiling at the camera, his brown hair worn longer back then. Although padded out around the middle now, with grey flecks through his hair, he looked younger than his sixty-three years. Beside him in the photo frame, I was two sizes smaller, my hair long and chestnut brown, worn straight and loose, and topped with a wreath of white gypsophila to complement a medieval-style ivory velvet dress. I’d wanted to look like one of the Pre-Raphaelite heroines; I was such a romantic back then. My bridesmaids, Angie and Eve, stood to my right. Both were in pale mint velvet: Eve, a waif with long Titian hair; Angie not much taller. She had short dark hair and looked uncomfortable in her dress, much preferring jeans and a T-shirt to anything remotely girlie. So much had changed, of course it had. My hair was now three shades of blonde and shoulder-length, and I was no longer a size ten. Angie had moved to New Zealand over twenty years ago and Eve was dead. I missed both of them sorely. And Matt and I … We looked so happy in the photograph: in love, full of hope for the future. It had been a great wedding, a sunny day in a picturesque church in Dorset, then sausage and mash at the local pub with close friends and family, followed by a honeymoon exploring the Cornish coast. We hadn’t had the money for exotic locations – not that we minded. We’d set off in Matt’s Golf convertible, top down all the way, stayed at B & B’s along the route, eaten chips on windy beaches, stuffed ourselves with cream teas in roadside cafés and relished every minute of it.
At what point had we given up on each other and settled for what we had now? A relationship where we muddled along, taking each other for granted and barely communicating beyond the mundane everyday necessities of what we were going to eat, who was picking up the dry cleaning or going to plant the spring bulbs. Was it after our two boys, Sam and Jed, had left home? Or later? A slow fading-away of passion, to the comfortable stagnancy of familiarity and death of desire. Although we’d been together a long time, ridden the rollercoaster of marriage with good and bad times, more recently we’d become like lodgers sharing the same house. We had two TVs (one in the living room, one in the bedroom), we had two bathrooms, two cars, and occasionally slept in separate beds because sometimes Matt snored like a bear with a blocked nose.
I glanced at the booklet Lorna had left me. Gardening classes – they would be good, but when would I fit them in? I found a piece of paper and pen and began to outline my week to see if I could find a space.
Monday
Day: Receptionist job at the local doctor’s (temporary). I am really a global, bestselling children’s author (undiscovered due to the fact I haven’t finished a book yet).
Evening: writing class (learning how to be global, bestselling author and how to get published).
Tuesday
Day: Writing. Yoga class.
Evening: Film club or book club (alternate weeks).
Wednesday
Day: Receptionist job again.
Evening: Choir.
Thursday
Day: Receptionist job.
Evening: Supper with friends Debs and Lorna or Zumba.
Friday
Day: Supermarket shop. Writing my bestselling children’s novel. (Hah, that’s a joke, I thought. So far I have several abandoned attempts in a drawer in the desk in my study, and have written Chapter One of a new book on my laptop. I mean the words, Chapter One, not the actual chapter one with sentences and the beginning of a plot line and all.)
Evening: Pilates then drink with the group.
Saturday
Household chores. Walk with walking group.
Sunday
Day: Visit Dad in Chippenham.
Evening: New Age therapy course with Debs (i.e., couple of hours of clearing chakras, waving crystals and acting like a pair of lunatics).
No space for gardening classes unless I let something go, I thought. Not wanting to disturb Matt, I began to outline his week too.
Monday–Friday: Work 8 a.m.–8.30 p.m.
Evenings: Home. Occasionally has a work-related dinner; otherwise home for supper and he watches the news, history channel, sci-fi or a war film.
Saturday
Day: Chores. Sometimes watches the rugby or football.
Evening: Sometimes pub with brother Duncan.
Sunday
Reads the papers, front to back. Catches up on emails and work. Dozes in front of the TV.
Hmm. I know what anyone reading this would conclude, I thought as I compared our weeks. Here is a couple who don’t spend a lot of time together. Exactly. We don’t. We co-exist. Not that we don’t spend some evenings with each other, of course we do. That’s when we watch box sets or whatever’s new on Netflix. We’d worked our way through The West Wing, The Wire, The Sopranos, Orange Is the New Black, Boardwalk Empire, Mad Men and many more. We were polite to each other, kind even, but we don’t talk much beyond everyday necessities, not any more, not to each other. Who needs to talk when there’s a new series of House of Cards to watch? Our arrangement had worked, but lately I’d been wondering: was it enough?
I’m having an existential crisis, I thought. My friends, Debs and Lorna would say: Not again, Cait. You had one of those last year, and the year before, but this is different because of a few major things that have happened.
My mum died a year ago.
My oldest and best friend, Eve, died eight months ago.
Lorna’s husband, Alistair, died last year, a few weeks before Eve.
My youngest son, Jed, moved to Thailand.
My eldest son, Sam, moved to LA with his wife and my grandchildren.
All of this has made me very sad and has reminded me that no one knows what’s round the next corner, so I’ve taken the ‘seize the day’ attitude. I’ve been trying to make the most of life by filling my days with things to do, people to see, places to go. If I keep busy, busy, busy, I don’t have to think about loss and I can get by. However, the recent events have made me question many aspects of my life and my relationship.
Is this it?
Should I accept that my marriage has gone stale and carry on as we are?
What could change things?
Do I want to change things?
How would I change things?
Should I get some Wonderbrow paste to dye my grey eyebrows?
As I said, all existential stuff.
With those happy thoughts, I made tea and wondered again what Matt had to tell me. I mentally made a list of possibilities.
An affair?
He was ill?
Someone had died?
I liked a list. Some women of my age are ladies who lunch. I am a lady who lists. It’s just the way my brain works, it makes an inventory of everything; lists always make me feel calmer. Debs said that’s because my star sign is Virgo and they like things to be ordered and in the right place. She also said I had Aquarius rising, which was at odds with the Virgo part and accounted for my slightly eccentric and split personality and tendency to surprise people by doing or saying something out of the blue.
When I was younger, my lists looked like this:
Look for God.
Find a way to change the world for the better and bring about world peace.
Find my soul mate.
Live happily ever after.
Now the lists looked like this:
Check blood pressure.
Buy supplement for arthritis.
Google best anti-wrinkle cream.
Buy over-the-counter sleep remedies.
2 (#ulink_43769068-ab66-5247-a17e-b4e3899b8950)
Cait
After half an hour, I fetched my laptop from the top floor and went into Facebook for my daily fix of animal rescue clips. There was one of a baby orang-utan playing with a monkey. Cute. Orang-utans are my favourite animal. Now … what else had people posted that was essential viewing and part of life’s rich tapestry? I’d just opened footage of a bunch of Yorkshire men singing ‘Mi chip pan’s on fire’, when I heard a groan from the sitting room. I was about to close the page when I noticed a new friend request from a Tom Lewis.
‘Cait, are you back?’ I heard Matt call.
Tom Lewis. The Tom Lewis? It couldn’t be, I thought, as I abandoned the laptop and went through to the sitting room. I used to know someone of that name, but it couldn’t be him, surely? I hadn’t heard from him in over forty years. He had been the love of my life many, many moons ago. No. Couldn’t be him. Probably some random request. I got a number of those from men, mainly in the military, I didn’t know. Everyone on Facebook did. Spam. Couldn’t be my Tom Lewis. Either way, I’d have a proper look later.
Matt opened his eyes, usually conker brown and focused, now red and blurry. ‘Ah, there you are.’ He smiled at me. On the rare occasions that Matt drank too much, he was a nice drunk – affectionate and sleepy, no trouble.
‘So what’s happened?’ I asked.
He looked over at the dictionary. ‘Was looking up words.’
‘Words?’
He reached over, picked up the book and read from a page. ‘Redundant – no longer needed or useful, superfluous. Retirement – to recede or disappear into seclusion. I am sorry, Caitlin.’
Ah. So that was it. ‘Seriously?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘Seriously as in not funny.’
With that, he lay back, closed his eyes and nodded off again. I noticed that his left sock had a hole in it and his big toe was poking through. He was usually so perfectly turned out in his spotless shirts and well-cut suits for work, and this vulnerability endeared him to me.
I need a drink too, I thought.
I went back into the kitchen and found a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the fridge as the implications hit me. I opened the French doors and went to sit on the bench in the sunshine on the decking outside. I got out my mobile and called Lorna.
‘Matt’s been made redundant.’
‘Shit.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Will he get a pay-off?’
‘Maybe but it won’t be much. He was there as a freelancer though he’d been with the same company for a long time. He’s still out for the count so I don’t know the details yet.’
‘Is it definite?’
‘Think so. Hell, Lorna, how are we going to get by? We don’t have savings, or any cushion money, in fact.’
‘Don’t panic,’ said Lorna. ‘At least you have your job at the surgery.’
‘Only until Margaret Wilson is back from her maternity leave.’
‘What about your writing?’
I laughed. Despite time spent at my laptop, my ideas were sparse. ‘Nothing happening at the moment.’
‘You need to get an agent.’
‘I need to get a good idea first, and getting an agent is as difficult as getting a publisher.’
‘Something will come.’
‘Maybe. Hope so.’
‘In the meantime, at least you’re earning something.’
‘I guess.’ My job didn’t pay a lot. Matt and I had an agreement. I paid for the fun stuff. I earned enough to keep us in wine, the occasional meal out, and holidays once a year – and those to Devon or Cornwall, nowhere too expensive. Matt paid for the boring stuff – gas, mortgage, electric, phone, car, insurance. In short, he was the breadwinner.
‘He could always look for another job,’ said Lorna.
‘Maybe, but will he be able to get one at his age? It may be time to sell the house.’ It had always been on the cards that we might have to sell up one day, in order to release money for our non-existent pension pot because, like so many of my generation, we didn’t think we’d get old. ‘Matt didn’t just say redundant. He used the word retirement too.’
‘Big change for you both,’ said Lorna.
‘Wasn’t part of the plan just yet.’
‘Never is. Sometimes we chart the course of our lives internally with our choices, decisions and plans for the future, and think we’re in control. Sometimes change comes from unforeseen and unexpected external forces, and we realize that we’re not in control at all. Sounds like today is one of those days and you have no choice but to go with it.’
I got the feeling she was talking about Alistair’s short illness, as much as what had happened to Matt. Her husband had died last year of pancreatic cancer, eight weeks after he got the diagnosis. ‘So what should I do?’
‘Stay calm. Have a glass of wine. See how things unfold. Not all change is bad.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Call if you need to.’
‘Will do.’
After she’d hung up, I began to think how this change might affect us. Losing his job meant Matt would probably be at home all day. How would that be?
We had our lives worked out perfectly to avoid each other, without actually admitting that was what we were doing. When he got in from work late in the evening, I gave him space and let him retreat into his cave (as advised in the book, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus). If I wasn’t out at one of my classes, I’d have a brief chat when he got home, and then I usually went up to bed to read. He came up around twelve when I was asleep and, if I wasn’t, I pretended to be. He got up early and was gone by the time I rose in the morning, and so it went on until the weekend. I hardly knew what went on his head any more, nor he in mine, but this never troubled us because we were both so busy living our separate lives that we had never had to confront the fact we’d grown apart.
Will we need to sell the house if he can’t find other work? I asked myself. Probably. I liked our home. It was a five-bedroom semi-detached Edwardian in a quiet tree-lined street in Bath, with a south-facing, level garden at the back – hard to find because so much of the city is built on hills, so most gardens are sloped or terraced. We’d moved here over fifteen years ago after a weekend trip when we’d fallen in love with the area with its Georgian architecture, crescents and houses built with honey-coloured stone. We could walk into town in five minutes and be in the countryside in ten. I looked around at the wooden floors, which were scuffed and in need of sanding, and the magnolia walls, which I noted were overdue a lick of paint. I didn’t mind. It had a cosy, lived-in feel from when the boys were teenagers with a hundred interests and hobbies, hence shelves and cupboards in every room that were full of books, DVDs, games and sports equipment. I’d even found a snorkel and pair of flippers the other day, under the bed in Jed’s old room.
The house was too big for just the two of us now, but I loved having the extra space, even though the whole place needed a clear-out to really take advantage of it.
Although Jed had moved out when he went to university, he had still come back from time to time, and had only gone properly when he’d moved to Thailand over a year ago. I know other mothers who mourned when their kids finally left home, empty-nesters, and I did go through some of that when they disappeared. For a while the house seemed so empty and silent, but in time I found it liberating. I’d paid my dues; had the house full of noisy boys, sleepovers, cooking endless meals, laundry, ironing, never being able to get near the TV remote, shelling out money for all sorts, not being able to sleep until I knew they were home, safe and in their beds. Of course I missed them, but not their mess and the worry when they were out late. Now I had peace and quiet, two rooms to spare for storage, food in the fridge that didn’t get eaten within twenty-four hours of being bought, time for my friends, and beds down the corridor to go to if Matt was snoring. I went to my part-time job and worked on book ideas with no pressure. It hadn’t mattered that I wasn’t a high earner. Hadn’t mattered. It would now.
A text came through from Debs. Everything OK?
I texted back. Matt’s lost his job. Details l8r when I get them.
Debs texted back. Take Star of Bethlehem flower remedy for shock, both of you. Want me to send some over?
She had an alternative cure for all ills and, over the years, I’d been given all sorts of concoctions to apply or ingest, though I quite liked the flower remedies, probably because they came in brandy.
She texted again a moment later. We’ll sort it this evening.
Will have to take a rain check. Want to see how Matt is.
We had a supper night when we could all make it. It was our private counselling session. Debs had suggested it last year as an excuse to get together, and she’d made up rules. We took turns in choosing where to go. It had to be somewhere we hadn’t been before. We put our troubles on the table and offered each other support and advice. It had been a life-saver, an evening to laugh, cry, try out a new place and air any problems. I’m not sure I’ll be able to afford supper nights for a while, I thought as I decided to opt for Lorna’s advice, poured myself a second glass of wine and wrote a list of things to do.
Check out local house values on Rightmove.
Check out properties for sale in areas we could afford.
Stop worrying. It’s only stuff.
Cue the mini princess from Frozen singing ‘Let It Go, Let It Go’ in my head. Cue visualization of smashing her in the face with a frying pan.
3 (#ulink_51236e68-11ec-58f0-ad50-a95a1e9b58a9)
Cait
Chin hairs plucked: 1
Nose hairs trimmed: 3
Items lost: my space
3 a.m. Bedroom. Yoda, our cat, decided he needed to declare his undying love. He’s a honey-coloured Persian chinchilla, named because he resembles Yoda from the Star Wars movie, only furrier. He jumped on the bed, onto my chest and began kneading and purring loudly. I got out of bed and put him outside the door.
3.05 a.m. Banshee howling loud enough to wake the dead. Desperate scratching at the door. Not a spirit from beyond the grave, it was Yoda again. Got up and let him back in.
3.10 a.m. After more chest-kneading, Yoda wrapped himself around my head and fell asleep, but my mind was wide awake, thinking about our future. It had been almost ten days since Matt lost his job. What if we ran out of money? Should we sell the house? Stay? Should Matt try and find another job? What? Anything? Should I try to go back into teaching? It paid better than the temporary part-time jobs I’d been doing for the last five years.
Dad. He’s lonely. Care home? Not necessary. He doesn’t need care, just company. Maybe he’d consider sheltered accommodation for that. He wouldn’t be alone there. Maybe he’d like Yoda.
4.07 a.m. Matt was snoring away.
I gave him a nudge and he obediently turned over, and after five minutes resumed his snoring.
Nudged him again.
Finally started drifting off to sleep when Matt did one of his spectacular snort-snores. Very loud. Almost leapt out of my skin. Nudged him and he turned over and continued snoring softly.
Debated whether to thump him in the kidneys, suffocate him with a pillow or nudge him again. Grrr.
Got up and climbed into the bed in the spare room. Peace at last, but sleep still escaped me as it has done for the past year or so.
Finally dozed off. Zzzzz.
5 a.m. Yoda found me. He patted my cheek gently with his paw. I ignored him. More gentle patting, which I ignored.
5.05 a.m. Yoda inserted a claw into my nostril and pulled. Ow! That hurt. Wide awake now. Where has he learnt to do that? Do cats come with a built-in manual of instructions on how to wake your owner? Advanced technique no. 3: locate hole in middle of human’s face. Flick out claw. Insert into hole and pull.
5.10 a.m. Got out of bed, went downstairs and fed Yoda, who was now purring like an old bus. Back to bed in spare room. Can hear Matt still sleeping and snoring in our bedroom. Grrr.
6 a.m. Finally drifted off. Zzz.
8 a.m. Matt came into the room and nudged me awake.
‘Cup of tea, Cait?’
I turned over and opened my eyes. ‘Uh. No. I’m fine, thanks. I’ll get one when I’m up.’
He put a mug on the bedside cabinet. ‘Made you one anyway.’
8.05 a.m. Drifting back off to sleep, just for another half-hour …
Matt came back into the room. ‘I’ve fed Yoda so you don’t need to.’
‘Mmm. Right. Thanks.’
‘Are you getting up?’
‘No. Yes. Didn’t sleep too well. You were snoring.’
‘Sorry. You should have nudged me.’
Kitchen. 9 a.m. ‘What shall we have for breakfast?’ asked Matt. He was still in his blue towelling dressing gown.
‘We? Uh. Oh. Right. I don’t usually have much in the week. I usually just grabbed something quick after you’d gone to work. A Nutribullet or something.’
‘Oh. What’s in that then?’
‘Kale, seeds, fruit.’
Matt pulled a face. ‘OK. I’ll fix my own.’
He seemed miffed.
10 a.m. Top floor. Study. Stared at screen which was blank apart from two words. New ideas.
Clicked on Facebook. Watched a clip of a panda with no eyes that is befriended by a puppy. Aw.
Must start work, but I see someone’s posted a clip of a baby elephant playing in the sea for the first time. Crucial viewing I’d say.
Stared out of the window at the fields at the back of the house. It’s misty out there.
Back to blank screen.
Matt, still in his dressing gown, popped his head round the door. ‘Cup of coffee, Caitlin?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Did I hear the phone go earlier?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Dad.’
Matt came in and settled himself on the chair opposite my desk. ‘What did he have to say?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘He must have said something.’
‘Usual stuff. How my brother’s doing. How his dentist appointment went. He’s lonely, I think.’
‘How is your brother?’
‘Fine.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to work.’
Matt got up. ‘Sorry. I can see I’m interrupting you.’
He seemed miffed.
10.30 a.m. Sent email to my friend Lizzie, a retired literary agent in London, asking her to call.
Post arrived. I went downstairs to pick it up.
Into kitchen to open post. Matt was sitting on a stool at the island.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Post.’
He got up and hovered behind my shoulder. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?
‘Well yes, but it’s addressed to me.’
‘Since when has your mail been private?’
‘It’s not. Junk mail,’ I said as I opened the first envelope. ‘See, nothing important.’
Matt looked out of the French doors to the garden. He seemed miffed.
10.45 a.m. Matt appeared at the study door.
‘Anyone call for me? I thought I heard the phone go.’
‘Dad again. He forgot to tell me to listen to something on the radio.’
‘Oh. What was that?’
‘Some programme about children’s writers.’
‘Anything else in the mail?’
I picked it out of the bin and handed it to him. ‘Here. Only catalogues we don’t really want. You can take them if you like.’
He did.
He seemed miffed.
11 a.m. Bathroom. ‘Caitlin, where are you?’ Matt called.
‘On the loo.’
I heard footsteps in the corridor. ‘Where do you keep the Sellotape?’
‘Desk drawer in my study, second one down.’
‘Righto.’
11.15 a.m. Hall. Matt appeared on the stairs, still in his dressing gown. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Out.’
‘I can see that. Where?’
‘Supermarket.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Car keys. Have you seen them?
‘No. What time will you be back?’
‘Not sure. I might go for coffee afterwards.’
‘Oh. Who with?’
‘Matt, when have you ever taken an interest in who I go for coffee with? And when are you going to get dressed?’
‘No need to be prickly.’
‘Sorry. Sorry. I’m going for coffee with Carol from my yoga class.’
‘Do I know her?’
‘No. She’s new to the group.’
‘What time will you be back?’
‘About one.’
1 p.m. Home. Hall. ‘How was the supermarket?’ asked Matt. He’d dressed but not shaved.
‘Same as ever.’
‘Good. Good. So. What’s for lunch?’
‘Lunch? I …’
Matt sighed. ‘I get it. You just grab something quick. Don’t worry. I’ll fix myself something.’
He seemed miffed.
2 p.m. Study. ‘Who was that on the phone?’ asked Matt from the corridor.
‘Lizzie.’
‘Anything interesting to say?’
‘Not really. Just chatting over whether I’d got any new ideas. She promised she’d look over anything I write.’
‘And have you got new ideas?’
‘No. That’s what I’m trying to do now, so that Lizzie and I have something to discuss next time I see her.’
‘Right. OK. I’ll let you get on.’
Back to new ideas, but first a quick look at Facebook. Oo. Someone had posted a new clip demonstrating The Art of Mongolian Flute Singing. Felt compelling need to watch all four minutes of it.
4 p.m. Study. Deleted all the rubbish I’d written after the words ‘New Ideas’.
Opened new page. Wrote ‘Options’.
Write brilliant, mind-blowing and original children’s book.
Sell our house, downsize, have some money in the bank.
It’s a no-brainer. Called two estate agents to come and value the house.
‘Want a cup of tea?’ Matt called up the stairs.
‘Sure, but I’ll make it. I need a break.’
I went down into the kitchen, where Matt had parked himself again, on the stool at the island, looking at his laptop. I put the kettle on. He got off the stool and came up behind me and reached into the bread bin.
I stepped back as he stepped forward.
‘Oops, sorry,’ we both said.
I found the teabags, then moved cups onto the island at the same time he opened the fridge door, which banged my knee. We stepped into each other again. ‘Oops, sorry.’
I reached into the bread bin and got out crackers.
‘Oh, what are you having?’ he asked.
‘Snack. Bit of cheese on a cracker.’
‘Make me one, will you?’
‘What do you want on it?’
He sighed. ‘I’m getting in your way, aren’t I?’
‘No, not at all,’ I lied.
5 p.m. Bathroom. I could hear shuffling outside the door. ‘Where are you?’ called Matt.
‘Loo. What do you want?’
‘What’s for supper?’
‘Supper? Oh, I hadn’t thought about it yet. Sea bass, green beans OK?’
‘We had fish last night.’
‘Can we talk about this when I’m out of the bathroom?’
‘Oh. Course.’
I finished what I was doing then opened the door. Matt was leaning against the wall.
‘OK. Supper,’ I said. ‘Tell me what you want. I tended to eat light in the week when you were away. Something healthy.’
‘Light? OK. No, don’t bother about me then. I’ll see what’s there and sort myself out.’
5.45 p.m. Bathroom. ‘Caitlin, are you in there again?’
‘Yes. I’m having a shower.’
‘I’ve just found a good website about downsizing. I’ll send you the link.’
‘Right. OK. Thanks.’ A minute later. ‘Are you still out there Matt?’
‘Erm yes, just—’
‘Go away.’
6 p.m. Bedroom. ‘Cait?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘My mindfulness exercises. Ten minutes. Just give me ten minutes.’
‘Right. Just I can’t find the frying pan.’
‘It’s where it always is. Left cupboard by the sink.’
‘Right.’
And breathe in, one two three. Out one two three. Let go of tension. Stop grinding teeth.
6.10 p.m. Sitting room. Must make an effort, it can’t be easy for him, I thought as I went and sat on the chair opposite Matt, who was stretched out on the sofa watching the TV.
‘How’s your day been?’ I asked.
He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Fine.’
‘Maybe we could have a chat about what we’re going to do, you know, finances; maybe do a budget.’
Matt sighed. ‘Can we do it another time?’
‘Sure. You OK? You know I’m here if you want to talk about what happened.’
‘Happened when?’
‘You lost your job.’
‘Do I want to talk about it? Relive it? Let me think. No. No, I don’t. Erm …’ He glanced over at the TV. ‘Just want to catch the news.’
‘News. Right. Of course. OK. Good. And, just to let you know, I’ll probably be going to the loo in another half-hour. Just so you know where I am.’
He gave me a puzzled look.
I felt miffed.
8.00 p.m. Opened my laptop to look for emails. None.
Quick look on Facebook to see if there are any new compelling clips that I must watch as part of my essential education on life and all its aspects.
‘Want to know who you were in a past life?’ Well, yes, I think I do, Mr Facebook. Did the questionnaire. Ah. Apparently I was a Turkish fortune-teller in the fifteenth century. Well, I never saw that coming. Must tell Debs. She’ll believe it.
I was about to exit Facebook to go down to prepare supper when I remembered that I’d had a friend request from a Tom Lewis. In all the drama of Matt losing his job and me adjusting to being followed around the house, I’d forgotten about it.
I noted that whoever this Tom Lewis was, he’d also sent a private message. Hmm, the spam requests don’t usually do that, I thought, my curiosity aroused as I clicked to see what I’d been sent.
‘Hey Caitlin. Found you! Would love to see you, remember old times, plot new times and check we’re both still on track re. our promise to never give in and grow old, to always seek adventure and take the road less travelled. Never forget, you were always one of the cool ones. Tom X’
I clicked his profile photo up. Christ! It is. TOM Lewis. THE Tom Lewis.
Cue violins, time slowing down, a flock of white doves being released into the air, rose petals falling from the sky. TOM LEWIS. I took a deep breath and reread the message, then reread it again. He’d gone abroad. I thought we’d lost each other forever, but there he was in the photo on my laptop screen, older, still handsome as hell, still got his hair though no longer black, still capable of making my post-menopausal heart skip a beat.
I remembered the first time I saw him. I was twenty years old, in my second year at university in Manchester, and he was post grad at the art college. Ours was the love and peace generation. John Lennon had released ‘Imagine’. Joni Mitchell’s version of ‘Woodstock’ played on the radio. I knew all the words by heart. The Pyramid Stage was built at Glastonbury. There was a rush of gurus to choose from: Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, the Maharishi, Sathya Sai Baba, Sri Chinmoy, Ram Dass – to name but a handful. Friends in the know swapped their cornflakes for muesli, potatoes for brown rice; green was a buzzword. My head was full of dreams: we were going to change the world and I was going to be a part of it.
I’d heard of Tom’s bad-boy reputation and the trail of broken hearts, though I’d never met him. One night, Eve and I had gone to see a band at a pub in town, a place where all the students went. I knew as soon as I saw him that it was him. In a time when the other men we encountered were about as sexy as an Old English sheepdog, with their open-toed sandals, duffel coats and pale, hairy legs, Tom stood out a mile. He was leaning against the bar, elbows back on the counter, his body turned to the room, hips slightly thrust out. He was wearing cowboy boots, Levis, a leather aviator jacket. His mane of shaggy dark hair reached to his shoulders, and those crinkly eyes, navy blue, surveyed the territory with that look he always had back then, as though he knew more than the rest of us and the whole world amused him. I was coming down the stairs and could feel him watching me. I descended slowly, my hand on the banister, trying to appear cool, not looking at him, missed the bottom step and landed in a heap. He had come over to help me to my feet, asked if I was OK. I’d nodded, said I liked to make an entrance and he laughed, so easily. I could always make him laugh.
I felt a rush as I looked at his photo on my computer screen and remembered afternoons and nights we’d spent on his mattress on the floor in his room at his digs. I even remembered the bedspread; it was from India and had a green and red paisley pattern. We’d spent a lot of time on it or under it, a whole week just after we met, locked away in a fusion of lust. There was a poster of Che Guevara on the wall, the scent of patchouli oil and sandalwood joss sticks in the air, the sound of Crosby, Stills & Nash on the record player. He used to play their track, ‘Guinnevere’, over and over to me, the one where they sing about her green eyes. I had green eyes. Still have them. He said they were beautiful, that I was beautiful. I was his lady with my long hair, ankle-length dresses and velvet cape.
We prided ourselves on being open-minded about other cultures and beliefs. We read Buddhist scriptures, tried transcendental meditation, did yoga, went to meetings where we chanted Hare Krishna, ate curry and rice and listened to readings from the Bhagavad Gita, then would go home, get stoned and talk about our newfound discoveries until the early hours of the morning. Some nights we’d put on ‘Hot Rats’ by Frank Zappa and dance like mad things before bed, love and sleep. Other nights, we would lie on the floor in Tom’s room in the dark and listen to music: The Grateful Dead, Hendrix, Van Morrison, The Eagles, The Stones, The Doors, Pink Floyd, Velvet Underground, Joni Mitchell, Miles Davis. We floated around in a haze of marijuana, and the world felt full of hope and the promise of new experience. ‘We must never grow old, Cait,’ he’d said. ‘We must stay curious. Promise me that, whatever happens, we’ll always stay in touch and remind each other to always seek adventure and take the road less travelled.’
It had been a magical, mystical time that had ended just after he’d finished his degree and Chloe Porter, a Jean Shrimpton-lookalike in a micro-skirt had arrived on the scene. She was attending her brother’s degree ceremony and, two weeks later, Tom left Manchester and went to be with her in London. All I got was a note left on our bed. ‘Adventure calling, Cait. I know you’ll understand.’ I didn’t. I was gutted, heartbroken. I’d thought we were soul mates, that he was The One. He was supposed to have been my knight in shining armour but he rode off into the sunset with another lady, leaving me the damsel in distress. I threw out my Crosby, Stills & Nash LP and played ‘Hey, That’s No Way To Say Goodbye’ by Leonard Cohen over and over again until Eve, who shared the student house where I lived, called it ‘music to slash your wrists to’ and threatened to smash all my records.
A month later, I’d received a letter from Tom. ‘Dearest Cait. Timing. You know we were too young to have found each other when we did. There’s too much experience still to have on this journey through life for both of us. But we’ll meet again. You know we will, we are meant to be in each other’s lives. Get out there. Have love affairs. Travel. Give your heart. I miss you but that’s how it is for now. Seek adventures. Remember the promise. I will be in touch from time to time to check you haven’t taken the easy option. Love always, Tom.’
What a pile of crap, I’d thought, and ripped up the letter. I’d known what he was like and cursed myself for falling for his easy charm and honeyed words for so long. I should have known better. We hadn’t stayed in touch. After I’d finished university, I decided to give up on men and look for God instead, to seek a higher, unconditional love as opposed to romantic and limited. I joined the hippie trail and went to India, where I learnt to view life, its highs and lows, as a dream, a temporary illusion. I came to believe that attachment to worldly possessions and people was what caused pain. On my return from the East, I heard from an old university friend that Tom had gone to live in the States and settled in LA. I didn’t take his address. No point. He hadn’t bothered to let me know himself where he was going, and any thoughts of him still hurt, despite my aspiration to detachment. I wasn’t going to chase him. I drifted for a few years, worked in a co-operative shop that sold organic food and vegetarian meals, did dance and drama classes and a bit of acting, sang in a band as a backing singer, but nothing that came to much. In my late twenties, I decided it was time to get real and put down some roots. I put my degree to use and got a job as an English and drama teacher. When I was thirty, I met, fell in love and married Matt and for the first time in years felt settled We set up house, Sam came along then, five years later, Jed, so I had a family to care for and no time to indulge in the youthful notion of taking the road less travelled. Bringing up two boys was enough of an adventure into uncharted territory.
And now, after all this time, Tom wants to be my friend on Facebook. Well …
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/cathy-hopkins/dancing-over-the-hill-the-new-feel-good-comedy-from-the-auth/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Cathy Hopkins
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: Praise for Cathy Hopkins:‘Warm, wise and full of heart’ Lucy Diamond‘Funny and feelgood’ Good Housekeeping‘Warm, funny and uplifting’ Reader’s DigestWhen a boxset of Broadchurch is more appealing than having sex with your husband, then perhaps it’s time to hide the remote…Cait and Matt have been married for 30 years. They are rock solid. An inspiration to others. Stuck together like glue. But Cait can’t shake off the feeling that something is missing. The whole world should be their oyster now that Matt has retired, so why does she feel shut up like a clam?Things get more complicated when Tom Lewis, the man who broke her heart at university, makes a reappearance – still as charming as ever. Her friends, widow Lorna and newly-single Debs, have their own views of what Cait should do – but she isn’t in the mood to listen.When Tom makes Cait an unexpected offer, Cait feels the pull of a different life. Has she got the guts to take the plunge, or does it take more courage to give her marriage another chance?Funny and thoughtful, this is a book for anyone who ever wondered . . . what if?